The Fly Guy (25 page)

Gregor turns and leaves the room, closing the door. Lucy hears the key turn in the door and his footsteps on the stairs. Another door closes. There is silence.

The lamp light doesn’t reach the edges of the small room. On the table are a small pouch and a deck of cards. She unzips the pouch. There is a small plastic bag, tied at the end, with powder in it. Between the pouch and the deck is a syringe. She picks up the deck. They’re tarot cards. They feel old. They have been used over and over and over. She moves to the mattress and puts it flat on the floor, curling up on top of it and pulling her dressing gown around her. There’s no sound, nothing at all.

She closes her eyes and cries and cries and cries. Months and months of tears flow from her and she sobs and heaves on the thin mattress. Time passes.

As she lies there, the silence pushes into her. She feels it forcing its way into her, through her skin. She tries to fight it. She tries to call up the memories of her father putting records on the turntable, dancing in the kitchen, singing along with the choruses, but the silence grabs them and tears them apart. Its force frightens her. She can’t follow a memory through. She concentrates again. She just starts to hear a voice singing
I’ve got you under my skin, I’ve got you,
and sees the shadow of her father taking his hat off and putting it on the kitchen table, when silence lunges in again, and the images and sounds are ripped to pieces as if by a savage dog. She curls up tighter. Time passes.

Later there is a single gunshot from downstairs which explodes inside her like a flash of blinding light, and then the silence rushes back like flood waters filling her.

***

Chapter Thirty-Five

Since that night thirteen months ago, Martin hadn’t considered Henry again. He had concentrated on work at Spiral, and true to his word, Ted had developed an arm of the company to deal with Special Interests. This meant publications which found their way into the self-help shelves or the new-age shops. The publishers of these books, which were mostly short runs, liked to think that every link in the chain cared about the books and the words on the page, and the message they were giving. Martin was happy to go along with that and was Spiral’s point of contact.

Ted was very happy with the progress and the amount of return trade Martin was building just by taking an apparently flexible and friendly position. And he agreed with the publishers when they said the best motivation is to create positive change in the world and he told them all he admired the work they did in helping people to know themselves better and ultimately love themselves and each other more.

Martin’s emptiness was something he had lived with for over a year; he had let the momentum of events push him along, like a paper bag in the wind. The hole inside him was never filled. He still couldn’t taste his food. The space that had appeared within him was old, like the darkness of the docks and the space beyond the New Acre fence; it had always been there, waiting to come back.

The year had been like a tunnel, and when Susan Purvis had approached with her proposition he sensed the end of it. He’d contacted Ted and suggested free proofs. Ted had given him free rein to do whatever he thought appropriate to nail the contract. Martin was sure that if he was able to act interested in contacting your angels by holding coloured stones, then he could do the Bible. Then Henry appeared.

* * *

On the way home, Martin stopped into The Bucket O’ Blood. He nodded to the few drinkers at the bar and ordered a whiskey and soda. Seated at the window table gazing out through the shadowy glass to the road and the derelict buildings beyond was Henry Bloomburg. His glass was empty. Martin ordered another whiskey and soda. He walked across, put the drinks on the table, and took the seat opposite.

Henry pushed the empty glass away and pulled the full one close. As Martin looked at Henry he thought how different he was to how he had imagined him. Henry looked older, less refined. His eyes sagged gently at the edges; his shirt cuffs protruded from his black suit jacket and were scuffed and grimy. His hat was tipped back, exposing a craggy lined brow and he took a long drink from his glass. The air around him was thick with defeat.

“Thanks,” he said, without looking up.

“Not at all,” replied Martin. He looked out the window at the crumbling docklands. When he looked back, Henry looked up from his glass. Their eyes met and locked. For a moment, as they regarded each other, they were perfectly still. The last sun of the day threw a weak golden wash onto their table. Henry’s glasses reflected the two of them, one in each dark frame, as they faced each other.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Henry said.

“That’s a good place to start,” Martin replied. “I’ve got a few of my own.”

Henry dug his hand in his suit pocket and pulled out his phone. “Do you know Anna White?” He showed the screen to Martin and there was a picture of a woman in her early twenties, slightly overweight and with limp brown hair, holding a Yorkshire terrier like a mother feeding a baby.

Martin shook his head. “Who is she?”

“She was your house mate in number nine Shale Terrace.”

Martin looked again at the picture. “Anna White?” Nine Shale terrace was the first place he moved into when he came to the city. There were five of them sharing a two storey terrace. Martin had spent most of his time hidden away in his room. “Was there an Anna in that house? There could have been, it was a while ago. That was ten years ago. And I don’t remember a dog. Why are you asking this?”

“I’m just curious to see what you remember.” He took the phone back and flicked some keys then held it out again. “How about her?”

It was Zoe. She was posing and taking her own picture at arm’s length. Her eyes looked out at him from dark make-up.

“No,” Martin said, “Don’t know her either.”

“Really. Don’t you want to know who she is?”

“Not really, not if this is just going to be you showing me pictures of girls on your phone.”

“How about her?” Henry asked and changed the picture again. There was Lucy, dressed in a short red dress, looking like she is about to go out on a date. There is an excitement in her face, her shoulders are lifted slightly, she has her hands in little fists, meeting in front. Her smile is so uninhibited, so natural, so full of life.

Henry said, “Julie Dray. You know her?”

“I don’t, I don’t know her. Julie? I’ve never seen her. Maybe, I … I’ve imagined her, but I’ve never seen her.”

The picture changed again. It was a woman in her thirties sitting at a table with a bundle of different coloured threads on spools, with an exasperated look on her face.

“No, I don’t know her. What is this about? Why are you showing me these?”

“All of these women are missing.” He changed the picture again. It was a young Alison. Martin leaned forward. No, it was a girl who looked just like her, but younger and slimmer. “She’s not missing, she’s dead. I found her in a shower with her stomach split open.” He changed the picture again. A blonde in green combat shorts and a t-shirt with braces brandishing a giant water gun.

“Come on. I don’t know these people. I mean how do I know they even exist?”

“Nicola Carson. Daughter of Stan Carson, the junior partner in the garage you lived above. Of course they exist, do you think I’d be here if they didn’t? They’re all missing and you, you’re the common link.”

“Do you know anything about me? Why do you think I might have anything to do with these girls? I don’t know them. I never knew them. Who do you think I am?”

“Come on, Mr. Tripp, I think I know who you are. The question is, do you? You say you can’t remember these girls. Let me try and jog your memory. Let’s start with Nicola Carson—” Martin grabbed Henry’s hand and pushed it and the phone to the table with a sudden aggressive force. Henry’s hand felt thin and bony, like an old woman’s hand as it slammed on the table top. Martin glanced around the bar, but no-one was paying them any attention.

“No, let’s start with you, Bloomburg. Let’s start with you. How long have you been following me and who sent you?”

Henry pushed his hat back further off his head and leaned forward.

“If I thought you had something to threaten me with, then I might answer you, but as it happens, you don’t. So I’m not going to reveal who I’m working for. As for the other question, I’ve been following you for a while now.”

“How about that scar? Under your eye? How did you get that? I’ve never seen it before, how did you get that?”

“The scar was given to me by someone who didn’t want their secret found out. I got away lucky. It’s funny, some people are happy to be found out, it’s like a relief, but some, they’ll do anything to keep it all hidden, even hidden from themselves.”

“What do you know about Lucy?”

“Who is Lucy?”

“I’ve never met her, but I know who she is. She doesn’t know me. What do you know? Where is she?”

“I don’t know where Lucy is, Martin. I don’t know where any of the girls are. If I did, they wouldn’t be missing. But these are some of the other girls you have met, in fact more than met, isn’t there? You and Anna got quite close a few times didn’t you?”

“I don’t know her. This is ridiculous.”

“Didn’t you go drinking with her on the May bank holiday? When she met up with Brian Venter? You two had started to go home when Brian rang her, and then she left you standing by yourself on the road? Asked you not to tell the others about her and Brian, then left you there on Walken Street?”

Martin leaned forward and spat out, “I’m leaving right now, you ridiculous piece of shit. You don’t know anything about me, you don’t even know where the fuck you’ve come from.”

“Like I said, it’s interesting to see what you remember.”

“Get fucked, I’ve got nothing to remember.” Martin stood and Henry looked impassively at him. Martin said, “You’ve never loved anyone. You’ve never lost anyone. You’ve always lived through other people’s stories, you haven’t got one of your own. Don’t turn up now and start fucking with mine.” Henry didn’t respond. Martin swigged back his drink, stood up, and purposefully walked out of the bar. He didn’t look back.

Outside it was dark and starting to rain. Martin got in his car and put the key in the ignition. For minutes he sat staring. The encounter with Henry had taken him by surprise. He had taken himself by surprise. He hadn’t expected any of what Henry had said. Henry was not how Martin had written him.

* * *

Martin took out his phone and dialled Alison. It rang and then went to her answering machine.

“Hi baby. Listen, I fancy stopping for a few, okay? I’ll get a taxi back. Okay, ’bye.”

The rain was getting heavier, and by the time he made his way across the car park he was soaked.

Henry wasn’t there, just the two empty whiskey tumblers. Martin went into the gents, it was empty. He looked around the bar one last time. The landlord was sitting behind the bar with a half empty pint glass chewing a pen and glaring at a crossword in a newspaper that looked about a year old, and the others in the bar were drinking silently with dull eyes.

Martin went back to his car. The river was dark and slow as he crossed over the bridge and drove out of the city. The rain was heavy and the car was noisy. The motorway was full of spray and headlights and brake lights. He was looking forward to the quiet of the house.

When he got in there were no lights on. He checked upstairs to see if Alison had gone to bed. The house was empty. He stood in the kitchen with the light off. Rain dripped from his jacket to the linoleum floor. After a while he took his coat off and hung it over a chair. He opened the fridge and took out a beer. He went into the front room, turned the TV on, and spent a while changing channels and drinking from the bottle.

He took out his phone to check if she had left a message. The phone looked blankly at him. He wrote,
Where r u?
and pressed Send.

As he changed the channels he saw people talking, running, sitting, laughing, fighting, singing, crying, hiding, falling, walking. Every new person he saw on the screen reminded him of how little he knew about anyone. He didn’t know where Alison had gone. Henry Bloomburg had questioned him. What did he know about Henry? What did he really know about Alison? He finished his beer and turned the TV off. He thought of waiting up until Alison got home. It was quiet. He went to bed. Martin went to sleep and the rain continued to fall.

* * *

Alison was watching the red numbers on the meter of a taxi and hoping they wouldn’t climb over fifteen. When it got to fourteen fifty she said, “This will do. Just leave me here, thanks.” She was only a few streets away. It had started to rain. She held her handbag above her head and ran across the road. In the rain people moved quickly through the city with their heads down.

She didn’t know this part of the city well. The big shopping streets were behind her and the roads narrowed; there were small restaurants and wine bars, couples were walking hand in hand, hurrying through the rain to their candlelit tables. There was Twin70. Martin had brought her here just after he got the printing job. She glanced in as she passed. It looked the same: plush décor, low lighting, a sense of time slowed down. That was the last time they had been out together like that, just the two of them; all dressed up and looking into each other’s eyes.

After the waiter had taken her second plate away Martin took her hand. She had thought he was going to propose. He didn’t. He was going to finish with the novel, one way or the other.
One last push, and if no-one will publish it, that’s it,
he said,
I will put it in the ground.
She had been disappointed and relieved; then disappointed again.
You are so good to me,
he said.
One last push.

Alison caught her reflection in the window of Twin70. She could have dressed up a bit more, but no, no this wasn’t a date. She was just seeing a band. A bit further down the road was The Blues Club. There was a small queue at the door. She was relieved when she saw that the people who were in the queue were about the same age or older than her.

The club was low-ceilinged with a bar against the wall on the left. At the end of the room was the stage. All along the walls were framed photos of blues and soul artists, smiling, holding trumpets, singing, peeping out from behind double basses, eyes closed, lost in song. Between the frames wall lights gave soft warmth to the room, and there were candle-lamps on the tables.

As she stepped in she saw him straight away, standing at the bar. He wasn’t looking over, he was ordering a drink, but she immediately started to feel nervous. He looked even younger without a suit. When she had been showing him round the properties earlier that day he had been wearing a dark, close-cut suit.

Andre had put her on this contact personally. This was a man who needed to set himself up, because he was planning to move his business interests to the city.
This is a guy with connections,
Andre said,
you can tell just by the way he talks. Treat him sweet,
Andre had said.

The properties were city centre apartments, at the top of the price bracket, so the fact that he was about the same age as her was unusual. He held himself straight and had seemed very serious until they started chatting, not about property but about reality TV. His shoulders relaxed and his smile opened. That’s when he said
There is a singer that was on one of those modelling shows playing in town tonight, singing with her band, she’s really very good. She wanted to be a model, but was voted off in the second round. Nisha Taylor. Oh, I remember her,
Alison had said,
she was gorgeous, I couldn’t believe they voted her out. Just wait till you hear her sing,
he had said.
Oh, I might pop in then,
she had replied. She looked in his eyes and she saw an intensity. There was some kind of destiny, as if they were characters in a classic novel, meeting for the first time. She felt like he was reaching into her with those eyes, that he was going to find something precious within her.