To Fight For (28 page)

I could make it to the gun, too, because Buck was busy with Glazer. So …

All I had to do was let Buck kill Glazer. That was fine, wasn't it? What did I care about Glazer? I'd come there to kill him myself, hadn't I?

Hadn't I?

Fuck.

I got up to my knees. Buck had Glazer tight in his grip. I couldn't understand what I was going to do, but I was going to do it anyway. It didn't make any kind of sense. Even Brenda would've understood if I'd let Buck kill Glazer so that I could get to my gun.

It was madness.

I ignored the gun and put everything into my legs, pushed and hit Buck at the knees. We went crashing down, all three of us. I had nothing to use against Buck. My fists weren't enough and the Makarov was out of reach. But then I remembered my knife. He was on his knees. If he got back to his feet I'd be finished. Glazer moaned and rolled over. Buck saw him, and smashed a right against Glazer's jaw. That was Buck's mistake. He should've left Glazer and concentrated on me. The punch threw him off balance for a second and I pulled out my knife and opened the blade with my thumb and jammed the thing into Buck's right leg, at the back of the knee, and tore it through with everything I had. He screamed and his eyes opened wide in shock. I rolled away, out of his reach. He tried to stand but his leg gave way and he fell, hamstrung.

I crawled away from him, away from the carnage and over to my gun. When I turned, he was standing, his right leg hanging uselessly, blood soaking the trousers. He looked down at his leg, then over to me, as if he was trying to work out how he was going to get over to finish me off.

Then he saw the gun and his face went white. He was stupid, but even he could figure out what was coming. I emptied the magazine into his body, the rounds making small black holes in his torso. Then, as he grappled with the small holes, his shirt stained with crimson and the blood spread out from all parts. He tried to come at me, death in his face, rage in the muscles of his body, his fists balled tight. He put his bleeding hamstrung leg out and collapsed.

I think, in that final moment, he tried to do the only thing he knew: hurt, kill. Maybe he finally understood what his nickname meant.

I rolled over onto my back and felt the pain start to overcome the shock. I don't know how long I lay there, waiting until I could manage to get enough strength to stand. I know I blacked out a few times because Brenda came to me, out of the darkness. I couldn't hear her or smell her or taste her. I couldn't see her. I couldn't touch her. I just felt her, as if she was behind me, maybe, or next to me in bed, her asleep and silent, me awake, staring into the space above my eyes, the night's dark upon us.

When I opened my eyes, I looked into that space and wondered if I was really with her.

Then pain screeched along my nerves and I remembered.

I forced myself up and saw Buck's body in a thick pool of his blood. Glazer was a few feet away, lying face upwards, staring with blank, dry eyes at nothing. He'd probably died while I'd been on my back staring at the same nothing. He'd died while I'd tried to save him, maybe wondering, as I had, what this madness was.

It took me half an hour before I could even roll onto my side. That was the easy part.

I spat blood, waited for my face to feel normal-sized again, then stood slowly and walked out of the place.

I got back in my car and drove to Tina's. I didn't know where else to go.

She was waiting for me. I stepped up to the front door and it fell open and she stood there in a pale dress, the light coming through it from behind. Her head was bowed and her hands were behind her back, like she was a child waiting to be told off. I moved inside and closed the door behind me. She took a step back. I wondered why that was. She still hadn't looked at me. She was trembling. I put my hands on her shoulders. She looked up then, with those wide, empty, washed-out eyes.

I could taste blood, my ears were ringing so that sound came muffled to me. I was fuzzy in the head – more so than usual. But I didn't feel much pain up there, and that was worrying me.

‘You're alive,' she said at last.

‘Just.'

She put a hand to my cheek.

‘My God, Joe. What happened?'

‘I found Glazer. I talked to him. Someone else was there. Someone dangerous.'

We stood there for a while, neither talking. I supposed I'd disappointed her. I could've given up on Glazer, stayed here, maybe started again. Instead, I left and more people were dead.

‘I was making something to eat,' she said.

Her hand dropped away and she turned from me, floated off, as if she was sleepwalking.

I closed the door, went into the lounge. I heard her in the kitchen.

I looked around, looked at the small, cosy world she'd made for herself in this small, cold house. I saw the photos she had on the wall, the windowsill, the shelves. There were pictures of her children and grandchildren. There was an old one of her in a bridal gown standing beside the man who would later leave her.

I opened a drawer in the cabinet, took out a photo album. I flipped it open, started to look through. The album told the same kind of story that all photo albums tell: a happy child, a holiday, smiling relatives, some of whom were now probably dead. There was a whole past life there; time was frozen forever, or, at least, until the fading colours faded away completely.

Tina said something, but I didn't hear it. I went into the kitchen. Her hands were on the counter, her elbows locked. There was an onion on the chopping board, half-diced, and a kitchen knife in her hand. I could see the tightness in her shoulders. I don't think she'd heard me come in. I put my hand on her neck and she flinched.

There were tears on her cheeks. She wiped them away with the backs of her hands. She pulled away from me and went back to chopping the onion. All that time she hadn't spoken, hadn't looked at me. Her actions were mechanical.

‘The onions,' she said. ‘They make me cry. Do you want something to eat?'

‘I'm okay.'

She chopped, and rested the blade of the knife on the wooden board.

‘Why did you come back? You left. Why did you have to come back?'

There was nothing I could say to that. I went into the lounge. Something had been in my mind, as far as anything could be in that swampy, floating mess. But it was there, clinging on and I had to seek it out. Then I remembered what it was: Tina's photos.

Seeing them had made me think again about the ones Brenda had in her flat, the ones that Compton and Bradley had taken. Why? Why were they taken? What value were they to anyone?

Tina put the radio on and I heard a thin, far-off voice talking.

The photos. What was it about them?

Compton and Bradley had been in Brenda's flat after she was killed. They hadn't taken the cash or the jewellery; Margaret Sanford admitted having taken those. But the photos had been missing. They must've been taken by Compton and Bradley.

I didn't understand that. Why would they take Brenda's photographs? Unless there was a picture of one of them in there. But I'd seen those photos. Brenda showed them to me. Compton and Bradley weren't in any of them. They were just pictures of her and her family and her friends – the few she'd had.

I opened Tina's photo album again, flicked the thick page over, saw a young girl with white blonde hair, saw a teenager who was too thin and wore too much make-up. I turned another page and another.

Why had Compton taken the photographs? And why all of them?

I turned another page and saw a woman with white skin, black hair, ice cream in her hand, smiling at the camera.

But then I thought, Suppose I take one of these pictures, one from Tina's book. If I do that, someone might know which one I'd taken. Then they'd wonder what it was about that particular picture that was so important.

I kept turning the pages hoping the answer would come to me from the images of a young, blonde, pale woman. Here was one of Tina with a baby, the bright sun making her hair shine. Here was one of a young couple, in a pub, the bloke, with a smile on his red face and Tina on his knee, her arm around his neck.

In other words, if Compton had taken one photograph, I might've known which one had been taken. Then I might start remembering something about that particular photo. To hide one, Compton had to take them all.

I stopped, and turned back a couple of pages and looked again at the woman with dark hair and an ice cream. I thought about Compton and one important photograph. And I thought, I've seen her before, that pale woman with dark hair. I'd seen her at the pub that time.

I turned. Tina was behind me, her hands behind her back again, her eyes looking down.

‘Who's this?' I said, pointing to the woman with dark hair. But even as I said it I could see who it was.

‘I'm sorry,' she said.

I opened my mouth to ask why but the only noise that came out was the sound of my pain as she pushed the knife into me.

‘Another scar, Joe,' she said.

The blood drained from her face as it poured from my wound. And all I could think, stupidly, was that I could smell onions.

She took the knife out as easily as she'd pushed it in. I know that because I watched her do it, watched the blade come out, watched my blood come out with it. You have no idea how red blood looks until you see it against steel and pale skin. I looked at its redness.

For a second I didn't feel anything. It was like watching it all happen to someone else. Then I felt it, the shock of it, the acid burn of it.

She backed away from me, still holding the knife in her left hand. Our eyes were locked together. I understood then what she'd done.

I put a hand onto the wound, tried to press as much as I could to keep the blood in. But the blood didn't stay in. I felt its hot wetness wrap around my fingers. She could've killed me at any time. All she had to do was walk forwards and plunge the knife in me again and again and again. It's funny that I, this monster, this Frankenstein-like creation of muscle and scarred tissue and sinew and massive bulk could be cut down by a small, thin, pale thing like her. Fuck, she was almost transparent. I could've destroyed her with the swipe of my hand.

Instead, as she backed and backed away, I staggered forward, trying to catch my own blood, trying to keep from crashing down. If I fell it would be for good. I couldn't let that happen.

So, I walked on soft legs and saw the room begin to spin and took deep breaths, in, out.

I grabbed one of Tina's cotton blouses, which had been hung on the back of her chair.

At least I understood, finally. I knew now what had happened. I knew it all – at last.

Then I was outside and the fresh air helped, but now my head was beginning to get hazy and things were fogging up.

All I had to do was make it to the car. I could do that, right?

The cut in my side was deep, leaking blood all over the place. But, on top of all that, there was a pressure inside my head. I thought Buck might've done something bad, something I wouldn't recover from. I had to end this now, while I was still able to walk and talk and know my name.

I was about out of strength.

I had an idea, though: maybe I could get them to finish it for me.

I stumbled out of Tina's house and aimed myself at the car which moved up and down, along with the rest of the street.

After a week, I made it to the car, got inside and pulled my jacket and shirt off. The blood looked black in the moonlight. I tore Tina's blouse into strips, then took a piece of it, wadded it up and packed it against the wound, holding it as firmly as I could while I wrapped the strips around my torso and, with difficulty, got them tied.

I fished Compton's card from my inside jacket pocket, called him.

‘Joe?' he said.

‘Yeah.'

‘What's wrong? Where are you?'

‘I know where Glazer is,' I said.

I told him about the industrial estate, Dunham's place there.

‘Is something wrong, Joe? You don't sound good.'

I hung up.

Next I called Browne. I told him I knew where Glazer was. I told him it was in a place owned by Dunham, a factory place off the North Circular. I told him I was meeting Compton there.

At the end of that, Browne said, ‘What the bloody hell are you on about?'

‘In case I don't make it back.'

Then I started the car and pulled out. The straight road snaked in front of me.

‘Poor old Joe,' Brenda said.

She was sitting by my side. She touched my hand.

‘That poor old ship,' she said.

‘I'm breaking up,' I told her.

‘Joe,' she said. ‘Watch out.'

A car horn screamed at me. I didn't know why. I moved the steering wheel and felt the world slide under my car wheels.

I pulled up, opened the window and sucked in cold air, felt it grate my lungs, felt the sweat on my brow turn icy. It cleared my head. I turned to the passenger seat, but Brenda was gone.

The pain in my side wasn't so bad now. The cut must've closed up a bit. Maybe I was bleeding inside, but I didn't think so.

I set off again, putting all my strength into my concentration. I had one thing left to do. One thing. I couldn't stop now, couldn't let my body crash when I was so close.

Keep it together, I told myself.

‘Not yet,' I said to no one. ‘Not just yet.'

When I saw the factory, I turned the car into its car park. This time there were other cars there, two of them.

They were waiting for me, scattered around the large factory room.

Their clobber was the same as always; shabby, grey, ill-fitting suits like you'd get off a rack at a discount shop in a retail park, and their faces were grim, tired, strained.

The room seemed thick with sweat and smoke and five-quid aftershave. They'd been there a while, waiting for me. Then, there was the smell of blood. And, underneath all that, there was a far-off stale smell, as if the air had died long ago and was hanging there, waiting to be chucked away. It made me want to smash a window open and ventilate the place, even if it was with that bleak, damp, fume-filled stuff that hung around London.