The Fly Guy (16 page)

They all laughed, and Ted said, “Got to keep something under my hat, and you know most of everything else, Andre. A man’s got to have some secrets.” They laughed some more.

“Well, it’s just a matter of time before you’re printing the works of this man here. Martin is a writer, a hot tip by all accounts.” Martin smiled and shook his head as the group turned to him.

“No, no, it’s all a front, I’m really just a daydreaming house-husband.”

There was more laughter, and Alison said, “No, that’s not fair, you’ve been part of
Noire
for a while,” and then to the others she said, “It’s an online magazine, very popular. He’s their top writer.” The others nodded and enthused, and as Alison spoke about fan mail and interest from publishers, Martin didn’t know where to look.

She was talking a good pitch, but Martin just saw clusters of words stuck in bundles of paper and a slow hard drive in the spare room. They were going nowhere. They had no weight, no consequence. They could be deleted and thrown away in a moment and nothing would change. Even if they did move beyond his room, he was sure they would never mean anything to these people, that he’d never contribute anything to this room, this exclusive club.

Casey started to talk about some hot young talent that she had just signed, some actor who should just shut up and pose, because that’s what he is best at. If he just concentrates on the pictures and stops being distracted by trying to act he could be everywhere this time next year, but what can you do when people won’t listen to you? Martin angled himself to talk into Alison’s ear.

“I’m not feeling so hot. I think I might have to go.” She looked at him with disappointment. “You can stay and get a cab home if you want, but I think I should try and get home.”

“No, I’ll come back with you, it’s getting late now.”

“Listen, I really don’t mind if you want to stay out with Andre. You know, if you think it’ll do you good, work wise. I understand.”

“No,” she said, “it’s good. Something’s already happened, so it might be a good time to leave.”

“Something’s already happened?”

“I’ll tell you on the way home.”

“You work fast.” Martin gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll get the car. Be outside in ten minutes, yeah?”

“I’ll just come with you now.”

“No, you stay and finish your drink, say your goodbyes.” He turned to Andre and the others. “Well, lovely to meet you, but I’m afraid we are going to go. I’m off to fetch the car.”

He extended his hand and Andre gripped it. “Martin, it’s been a pleasure to meet you at last. So enlightening. We must meet again, maybe some of your creativity will rub off on me.”

Martin promised they would indeed see each other soon and nodded to the others. Ted shook his hand and handed him a card as did Brian who said, “When you need a publicity shot, give me a call, we’ll sort something out for you.”

“Like sending through a shot of one of your best-looking models for the author shot?” Andre said. “It can’t hurt can it? I mean, no-one should really know what the author looks like.” They all laughed.

“Only prerequisite is that he’s got a six-pack and he’s not smiling,” Martin said, before saying goodnight again to their smiling faces and turning and walking out of the private members’ club.

The night air was warm and moist, and the lights of the cars passing on the busy road showed a curtain of tiny raindrops hanging in the air. It took him minutes to walk to the car park. The lift up to the level was brightly lit and stank of old urine. It rose slowly, and Martin thought that this was like a steel solitary confinement cell. The light would never be turned off, and the outside world would disappear. As he watched the numbers change, Martin’s nervousness grew.

When the lift door opened and he saw the car across the empty grey concrete parking bays, his gut tightened as if he had seen Zoe herself standing by the car, looking straight at him. By the time he got to the car, his stomach was churning and his back was sweating. He opened it and went to the passenger side.

There were the amber string of beads, some crumpled paper, and two laminated cards, with Zoe’s pale face looking up at him from behind the plastic. He picked them up. The card with her picture was an out of date student ID, and the other one was a loyalty card for ICE with which you could get discount drinks. He sat in the passenger seat and opened up the bits of paper. Two receipts, just looked like grocery stuff, and a voucher for discount beauty products. The beads were cheap, they had no weight to them. Martin went to the edge of the parking lot and threw them over. He didn’t hear them hit the ground. He threw the receipts and the voucher over too and the loyalty card.

Something stopped him from throwing the student ID. On one side was a barcode, on the other her name and a photo. He looked at Zoe’s face through the plastic. She looked happy. It must have been enrolment day. There would have been excitement in the air, an anticipation of beginnings. The enrolment halls would have been full of new students, brimming with a wealth of latent potentialities. This day would have marked the beginning of so many exciting futures, and as Zoe Hollander sat in front of the camera, she knew that this would be the picture that would be presenting her for the next three years. She smiled.
Click
.

Martin walked to the other side of the car park. The city lights blinked and blurred through the thin veil of rain and he threw the card over the edge. Like a leaf, it flipped and turned in the night air, face, barcode, face, barcode, face, and disappeared into the dark. Martin walked back to the car and turned on the inside light. He checked underneath the seats, in the foot wells and the dashboard drawers, again and again until he was sure that there was no trace of Zoe left.

As he stood by the passenger door, scanning around the seat, he glanced up and noticed the glowing red tip of a cigarette in the shadows of a car parked a few spaces down. He heard the lift doors behind him open, and Martin felt panic grab his neck and squeeze. He closed the passenger door and walked around to the driver side without looking around. In the car his hand shook as the key found the ignition. In his rearview mirror he saw a thin dark-suited figure pass, tossing a cigarette aside and heading for the ticket machine.

It was Henry. Martin froze. His hand stopped shaking. Henry took the ticket from the machine, and Martin saw his face clearly as he hurried back to his car. There was no doubt. It was Henry Bloomburg. The car pulled off and Martin looked again at this familiar face, focused and set in deep concentration, as it passed behind him. Then he was gone, and the car park was still. Slowly, Martin pulled out and followed the winding route down to the street.

By the time he pulled up outside the private members’ club and Alison got into the car and clicked her seat belt into place, his head was feeling clearer and in control, but separate from his body, as if he was looking calmly at himself from the outside, watching through the windscreen as Alison leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

They drove out of the city, and Martin asked what had happened. Alison leaned her head back against the head rest and took a deep breath. When Andre had introduced her to the deputy chief planning advisor, the talk had turned to the docklands.

On the motorway, the dusting of rain disappeared and Martin switched off the wipers. The sky beyond the hills was clear and stars were rising over the horizon.

The docklands was going to get a renewal, and only certain companies were going to be able to bid. So far it was looking like business and leisure contracts and some private high-end residencies. When they moved away from the deputy chief planning advisor, Andre had said that he wanted to be in on the residencies, and he wanted Alison to head up a team to make sure they secured the contracts.
What that meant,
she said,
was getting clients interested at the planning stages, even the pre-planning stages, creating perceived interest. Finding what they wanted and telling them it would be there for them, and keeping in contact with the authorities and keeping up with what the other companies were planning.

They turned off the motorway, around the roundabout, and started the slow incline to New Acre. The silhouettes of the houses behind the fence didn’t have any lights on. Martin looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was 0:47.

As they turned into the estate, Alison said, “You look a bit better than you did earlier”

“I feel a bit better, just tired now. It’s a late night for you, are you going to have a lie-in tomorrow? I’m sure Andre will understand.”

“No, I’m going to be first in the office tomorrow, researching potential clients.”

“Really?” Martin pulled the car into the drive and turned the engine off.

“Well, you’re going to be up for your morning run aren’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose.” They sat for a moment in the silence of the car. Through the windscreen a full moon looked down on them.

Alison said, “It’s nice to be out of the city, isn’t it? Where it’s quiet.” Martin agreed and they sat there together, just out of reach of the shadow of the house, quiet for a while.

***

Chapter Twenty-Four

When Henry dreams, he goes back to where he has been. He dreams of the reflection, the shadows, the back garden, the windows with the cobwebs, the gate. He retraces his steps, moves back along the streets he has driven down, etching the route deeper into his mind, following it back, back to the tree-lined estates, the university apartments, to Maya’s house, back to the city, and ending up at the filthy high-rise flats.

Then it starts again. Every corner he turned, every car he passed, every doorway and shop front, the cracks in the streets at every junction, all of the details of the face of city push themselves into his brain, making an imprint, and every time he dreams it, it’s pushed deeper like fossils under the weight of thousands of years of rock.

The same dream, over and over again. And every time he travels the route there is a heat he feels from the buildings, from the road. It’s the body heat of the city and he sweats in the bed, until the sheets are damp.

* * *

In the morning Henry takes the sheets from his bed and balls them up. He takes out the sheets from the washer/dryer and shoves the damp ones in. He pulls the clean sheets tight over the mattress, smoothing them out. He puts on an old set of overalls, faded at the knees and elbows. He combs his hair into a side parting, takes a tool bag from the cupboard, and goes to the car.

At the edge of the university he finds the building the Scorpion brought the woman to. From his glove compartment he selects a laminated card and puts it around his neck. He puts on a thin pair of glasses. Walking into the building and up the stairs he looks across at where he was sitting last night. He finds the door, and gives a knock. It’s answered by a beautiful young woman. It’s Maya’s daughter, Kayleigh.

She’s older than she was in the photograph; her dark hair cascades around her face and her eyes are deep and dark, just like her mother’s. She is dressed in a thick jumper and pyjama bottoms, with slippers that have bunny ears. Henry smiles and shows his card. As she looks at it, he looks beyond her into the room. There is the jacket that the blonde girl was wearing last night hanging on the back of a chair.

“It’s just a problem next door with the wireless Internet server, need to check if it’s affected the rest of this floor or not. Would you mind checking your computer for me, see if it’s online?”

“Okay,” says Kayleigh, and as she turns, Henry puts his hand into his tool bag and flicks a switch on a thick black box. It’s a signal jammer and a minute later Kayleigh comes back to the door carrying her laptop with a confused look on her face.

“It was working a minute ago,” she says, “but now it’s not.”

“Same thing was happening next door, the signal coming and going. It’s just a fault in the connection to the phone line, that’s all. It only takes a minute. Will I sort it out for you?”

“Oh, yes, please, come in,” she says, and Henry follows her into the apartment. It’s small, a few steps in and they are in the kitchen. It’s clean and on the table in the next room there is a pile of books, then a low sofa in front of a TV. Besides the jacket over the chair, there’s no sign of the blonde. The door to the bedroom is closed. She puts the laptop on the work surface in the kitchen.

“Do you know where the Wi-Fi adaptor is?” Henry asks.

“I think it’s over there on the other side of the sofa,” she says.

Henry looks and there is the Wi-Fi adaptor, going into the same port as the phone. Right above it at head height is a square mirror with the words “reality is overrated” in red cartoon italics at the bottom. To his left is another door, slightly open, to the small shower and toilet.

“Yeah, this is it, I’ve just got to replace the adaptor.” He bends down and keeps talking over his shoulder. “It looks like the whole building might need attention. Hopefully it’s just you and your neighbours.”

“Okay,” she says, and wanders back into the kitchen.

Henry takes the adaptor out of the wall and plugs it back in again. He flicks the switch on his signal blocker. He takes out a bug from his tool bag and undoes the adhesive from the back. He holds it in his hand as he sees she has her back to him, then straightens up and in one quick movement sticks the listening bug to the back of the mirror. He turns around.

“All done,” he says.

“Wow, that was quick.” She turns to her laptop and peers at the screen. “It seems fine now. Thanks.”

“You shouldn’t have any more problems,” Henry says as he walks to the door.

She walks him out, saying thanks again before closing the door. Henry walks a few steps before taking his earpiece from his pocket and fitting it in his right ear. He puts the receiver in his pocket and presses the call button. He can hear a tap running, someone filling something.

“Who was that?” It’s not Kayleigh’s voice. It’s the blonde. She must have been in the bedroom. Her accent is thick, Eastern European

“Just some guy to fix the Wi-Fi.”

“Oh. Have you heard from Spike?”

“No, do you want some coffee?”

“Oh yes, thanks.”

Henry starts to walk down the corridor, the two voices in his head.

“It’s an Italian roast. I’ll do some steamed milk, too. My mum got me this coffee maker and it’s been the most used thing since I moved in. It’s amazing.”

“I know, I know, good coffee is so important. Have you tried the flavoured range? The vanilla is addictive.”

“Oh, I know. I did have it, but I’m out. I went through it so quickly. I do have the hazelnut in here somewhere.” There is the sound of cupboards opening and things being moved about.

Henry wonders if last night was their first time meeting. If so, then they really have hit it off, the conversation is comfortable and familiar. He flicks the off switch and takes his ear piece out. It’s time to find Scorpion.

* * *

Maya sounds like she’s woken up from a deep sleep. Her voice is cracked and the words are coming out slow.

“She’s studying history and modern politics. But she hates him. What has she got to do with anything?”

Henry put a cigarette to his lips and lights it as he says, “Most likely nothing, I just need to know as much as I can about everyone, it makes it easier that way. Has he been home?”

“He was, but not for long.”

“Did he sleep?”

“I think so. He had been in bed.”

“Do you sleep in the same bed?”

“Yes, but I was asleep when he came in and then when I woke up he was gone, but I think I remember him being there in the middle of the night. I don’t know.”

“You’re a heavy sleeper. Do you take anything to help you sleep?”

“Mr. Bloomburg, you are in my employ to investigate my husband. I’m paying you to find out what I don’t know. I already know all about me.”

She’s talking like she’s leaning over. Her words are falling upon each other. Henry has reached his car. He stands next to it, smoking.

“Are you drunk now?”

“No, I’m not, but it’s a good idea.”

Her voice fluctuates in volume, like she’s swaying in and out of focus. Henry thinks, maybe benzodiazepine. If she’s got something like that, she would’ve had to get it on prescription at some stage. Anxiety or a panic disorder. He can imagine her spending money on seeing a counsellor, weekly outpourings of memories she’s not happy with, hoping that talking about them will change them. Picking apart memories, reliving them again and again, hoping for different outcomes, encounters and episodes that she just can’t let go of and have been forgotten by everyone else.

He reaches the end of his cigarette, the red tip burnt right down to the filter. He flicks it on to the road. Maybe Maya is paranoid and there’s no affair. Scorpion is just a dumb errand boy for some rich crime family, and Maya is a paranoid addict.

“Oh wait, no, he was in bed last night, for a while anyway I remember now. Or was that …”

“Okay, well I’ll let you know.” Henry hangs up, gets in the car, takes off his glasses, and unclips his ID card, putting it back in the glove compartment.

He turns on the tracker. Scorpion’s car is in the centre of the city. It’s stationary. By the time he gets to it, an hour later, it still hasn’t moved. It’s in a car park near the business sector, and the crowd of tall curved banking buildings looking in on each other in a conspiratorial cluster. Henry drives around and around up and down and back up the levels until a space appears on the same level as Scorpion’s car. From where he is he has a clean line of sight to the car. He leans his seat back and adjusts the rear view mirror so that he can see the pay station. He waits.

***