After the Fire (19 page)

‘Oh shit,’ I said, moving even though Dave was in the middle of a sentence. I couldn’t afford to be polite just at that moment. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Have you got a problem,
mate
?’ the man asked, beginning to shift from foot to foot, as if all he needed was the right angle to punch Derwent into the middle of next week. He didn’t stand a chance.

‘I don’t have a problem. Have you?’ Derwent demanded.

‘Did you get me a drink? I’m dying of thirst.’ I leaned in between the two men, facing Derwent. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot me.’

‘I couldn’t see you.’

‘I was in the corner with Dave Kemp.’

It was like waving a squeaky toy in front of a German Shepherd. Derwent frowned, distracted from the fight he’d been fully prepared to start. ‘What were you doing with him?’

‘Talking.’

‘Just talking.’

‘Listening,’ I admitted. ‘He was doing most of the talking.’

Derwent glowered in his direction. Dave was very conscious of his own good looks – not something that Derwent trusted, even though he had more than his fair share of vanity.

‘Why are you wasting time with him? Are you missing Rob?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘It’s absolutely my business if you’re going to start boring me with stories about Dave Kemp.’

I leaned back as far as I could go, which wasn’t very. The pub was heaving with Friday evening drinkers celebrating the end of the working week, and the crowd had swallowed the angry man. The noise level meant we might as well have been alone. ‘When have I ever told you anything about my love life? Willingly, I mean?’

‘Never.’

‘So why would I start now?’ Someone jostled me and I swayed towards Derwent, a little closer than I would have chosen to be. He looked at my mouth for a long moment, then took the glass out of my hand and sniffed it.

‘What’s this?’

‘The usual,’ I said tightly.

‘Gin and tonic.’ It wasn’t a question. He’d bought it for me himself more than once. He tilted the glass and drained it, pulling a face as he put the empty glass on the bar.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’

‘I’ll get you another one.’

‘Don’t bother, I—’

‘They put too much ice in it. I couldn’t even taste the gin.’ It was a throwaway remark, unless you realised he was watching my reaction in the mirror over the bar.

That was it. I had to go.

‘I’m going to the ladies.’ I walked away from him, pushing through the crowd until I fetched up by Liv’s side. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi yourself. What was that about?’

‘Getting between Derwent and an argument.’

‘That was nice of you.’

‘I don’t want to ruin Mal’s birthday.’

‘Ruin it? I think you made it. He was so pleased you came.’

‘I haven’t even had a chance to speak to him.’

‘You’re not the most sociable person on the team,’ Liv said. ‘It’s like seeing a white rhino when you’re on safari.’

‘A white rhino. Charming.’

‘Because they’re rare,’ she protested, pulling me in for a hug. ‘Seriously, it’s good to see you out. I’ve missed you.’

‘I haven’t been anywhere. You’re the one who was away.’

She shook her head. ‘You know what I mean. You’ve been missing. Present but not present.’

‘I’ve been doing my job.’

‘And that’s about it.’ There was real concern on her face. ‘If you need to talk—’

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘You don’t look well. Are you eating? Are you sleeping?’

‘Liv, I’m having a night out. A rare one, as you pointed out. Do me a favour and back off, will you?’ I went past her and pushed through the door that led to the toilets. I felt cold, numb, aware in an anaesthetised sort of way that the row with Liv had hurt – and would hurt more later. What else was I going to break? What else was I willing to sacrifice? And still I was dry-eyed, full of purpose. The ladies’ room was a symphony of patterned brown carpet and pink sanitary ware, most of it cracked or chipped. The lavatory in my cubicle was alarmingly stained. The air freshener was strong enough that I could taste it. I took out my phone and tapped in a status update on every social media site I could think of, then ransacked my bag. Hairbrush. Blister strip of pills. Make-up. Mirror. Perfume. Heels. A dress that was barely worthy of the name.

Nothing I would ever wear normally. Nothing I would ever wear in front of someone who knew me. I applied it to myself like armour, humming under my breath so I couldn’t hear the voice in my head that was shouting a warning.

I walked back out into the pub a few minutes later. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Liv falter and stop talking, her face set.

‘Fucking hell,’ Pettifer said as I moved past him. ‘I didn’t know you were the entertainment, Kerrigan. Bit of a tip for you. Usually the strippers start off dressed and then take their kit off, not the other way round.’

I ignored him, leaning in to kiss Mal on the cheek. ‘Sorry I have to go. Have a great night.’

He half said something, his eyes round. I couldn’t stand to look at him, or the other members of the team who were standing around him.

I couldn’t even stand to catch my own dark-rimmed eyes in the mirror behind the bar.

As I moved towards the door, I saw Derwent. I was completely unsurprised to see that he was talking to the girl who’d been with the man who’d called Derwent a wanker.
Insult me and I’ll take your bird. Whether I want her or not.

Then again, maybe Derwent did want her. She was sitting on a bar stool as he stood in front of her. He bent to say something into her ear that was only meant for her to hear, something that made her dip her head and giggle. His hand was on her thigh and as I watched he moved so his thumb slid between her legs, high up, and he was still talking, words spinning a spell, binding her to him. I saw her react, half-resisting at first, then giving in. He could do what he wanted with her.

He owned her.

I walked out of the pub and the cold night air was like a shot of adrenalin to the heart. I hailed a black cab and jumped into the back, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t look to see if anyone had followed. I wasn’t planning to wait anyway.

Later – much later – I stretched my arms above my head, not caring that it made the difference between my skirt being brief and indecent. My eyes were half-closed. The music pounded in my chest, blurring out my heartbeat, replacing it with something sharp and fast that made me think I might die there and then. I was hot, my hair damp, my dress sticking to my skin. Around me, bodies writhed, moving in time to the music, in thrall to the DJ. My feet ached, my head rang and I was barely aware of it. I couldn’t hear myself think, which was fine by me. My phone purred against my hip, vibrating with a message I should probably have read, but I decided it could stay in my bag for the moment. Half of the people in the club were high; the other half just hadn’t scored yet. They were blank-eyed, distant, part of a single organism that was totally devoted to hedonism, or as close to hedonism as you could get in a basement club in King’s Cross. I was attracting plenty of attention, which had been my intention all along. Even sweat-smeared mascara and lank hair didn’t put them off. I allowed one of the bigger men to grab hold of me around the waist for a second. Then I pushed him away, my eyelids lowered, my expression disdainful. It wasn’t him I wanted.

I closed my eyes completely for a second, imagining the man I did want, summoning him with so much concentration, so much desire that it was a genuine surprise when I opened my eyes and he wasn’t there. All of the men near me were wrong – their faces, their bodies. The way they held themselves. The way they looked at me.

Abruptly, I stopped dancing and elbowed my way off the dance floor with scant regard for anyone else. I made it past the ring of men who stood around the edge, watching the women with hungry eyes. I made it all the way to the sticky carpeted area by the bar where there was a smoked-glass mirror. I had time to see myself and appreciate for a moment the total transformation from policewoman to party girl. Legs forever, tumbling hair, sulky mouth. It was so convincing if you didn’t look into my eyes, at the weariness and self-loathing.
Time to go
. I took a step towards the exit before the big guy who’d grabbed me on the dance floor came up behind me and took hold of me, this time by the neck. He pressed me back against his body, against the damp blue shirt that clung to overdeveloped pectoral muscles. Rugby player, I thought, going limp so he didn’t feel he needed to put any pressure on my neck.
It’s all fun and games until someone dies of vagal inhibition
.

He said something, his voice a rumble that I felt more than heard. It was too deep for me to pick out actual words, the pitch identical to the bass that throbbed in my ears, in my blood. I locked eyes with him in the mirror and apparently that was enough to count as a yes, because he lifted me off my feet and carried me down the hallway to the men’s room.

I was protesting and wriggling, trying to get free as he shoved the door open. The bathroom stank of stale urine, harsh pine air freshener and cheap aftershave. There was an attendant, tall and dark-skinned, Indian at a guess. He threw a single glance in our direction, then turned to rearrange the hand towels, affecting not to see anything.

No help.

‘Get off me,’ I snarled. My voice seemed too loud in my ears and yet no one reacted. The music throbbed outside but the bathroom was quiet: flushing lavatories, running water. Men, ignoring me. Ignoring the man who held me. Deaf and blind, witnesses to nothing. The ones who did look had a confused, wary expression.
I don’t want to get involved. I don’t want to get hurt.
Maybe one of them would man up, find a bouncer and mention what was going on.

Or maybe not.

‘Fucking let go of me, you twat,’ I hissed.

Mr Blue Shirt elbowed a cubicle door and shoved me through it, which was a mistake because I got hold of the edge of the door and whipped it back into his face, slamming it over and over against his arm, his shoulder, his head. He lost his grip on me completely and for a second I was winning, but then he lowered his shoulder and charged the door and I had to jump back or risk getting flattened. I knew a lot about fighting in confined spaces, and I was trained in unarmed combat, but the main bit of relevant training was no help to me. Don’t let yourself get trapped. Don’t go out without back-up. Don’t take on anyone bigger than you. Don’t, in short, do any of the things I had done. And I still didn’t feel scared, which was stupid. He was a distraction, not the main event. I couldn’t quite believe that he was going to get in my way so comprehensively.

I had a fair idea of what Mr Blue Shirt intended to do to me, and I could see from the way the tendons were standing out in his neck that a simple ‘no’ wasn’t going to be enough. I stamped on his instep. He staggered back a pace or two, breathing heavily.

‘Bitch.’

‘Leave me alone. It’s not worth your while.’

‘Shut up.’ He came towards me again and I punched him in the neck, thinking of Dr Early. It was true, most women didn’t punch. Men didn’t expect it. This man, his reactions dulled by alcohol, had not expected it in the slightest. He coughed, holding on to his throat, and I worried for a second that I’d fractured his larynx, imagining the 999 call, the ambulance crew, the hospital, the response officers’ questions, the possibility that he might actually die, and what an enormous fuck-up that would be. Then he squared his shoulders and came back at me, and this time he slapped me hard enough to make my ears ring. My lower lip stung and I tasted blood.

‘I didn’t want to have to do this but now I don’t have a choice.’ I took my warrant card out of my bag.

Mr Blue Shirt saw it, read it, read it again and faltered. ‘What the—’

‘Don’t make me arrest you,’ I hissed. ‘Believe me, I’d like to, but I’m part of a much bigger operation, and I’m not going to fuck it up so I can spend four hours processing your arrest.’

He backed away, out of the cubicle. I followed him, keeping within a couple of feet of him. It gave me a certain amount of satisfaction to turn the tables on him.

‘A bigger operation?’ He had walked backwards all the way to the sinks and now he was edging along them, towards the door.

‘Drugs and vice.’ I nodded to the pocket of his shirt which was transparent with sweat. ‘I’d dump those pills for starters. Unless you want to find out what it’s like to be locked up with a load of drug-dealers.’

He swallowed, hard, sobering up. ‘Can I go?’

‘I wish you would.’

For a big guy, Mr Blue Shirt moved fast. He turned, colliding with a man who was coming in and there was something inevitable about the new arrival being there, something that made it impossible for me to be even slightly surprised, even though he was the last person who should have been there. Derwent’s eyes fell on me looking dishevelled, my cheek flaring red where the man had hit me. His reaction was instant. He dropped his shoulder and rammed it into Mr Blue Shirt’s chest, pinning him back against the sinks at an awkward angle, with enough force to make Mr Blue Shirt grunt in pain. He braced a forearm high on Mr Blue Shirt’s chest and grabbed his right arm, pushing it back against the mirror. Elegant, economical, a masterclass in controlling a difficult prisoner.

‘No!’ I said. ‘Let him go.’

Derwent turned his head far enough that I could see his profile but not far enough to lose sight of the man he was holding down. ‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’

With obvious reluctance he stepped back, away from Mr Blue Shirt, who fell away from the sinks and by the greatest good luck staggered in the direction of the door. This time, he made it all the way out.

Derwent straightened his suit jacket and smoothed his hair. He scanned the bathroom for cameras, then pointed at the bathroom attendant.

‘You saw nothing.’

‘Nothing.’ A note changed hands, disappearing at the speed of light. Then Derwent turned to me. He walked over, reached into my cleavage and tweaked a crumpled cloakroom ticket out of my bra.

‘How did you—’