Death & the City Book Two (40 page)

Connor leaves for work, after first checking what I pretty much expected him to – am I taking my tablets, am I going to keep my phone on me, and quite honestly, that I'm not wearing anything revealing on my trip into town to meet up with Crank. I show him my daily jeans-and-t-shirt collection, and how it outnumbers anything in my wardrobe remotely low-cut or mini-skirted. Once he's gone to catch his lift back into town with a uniform patrol, I get under the shower and watch my feet closely for any signs of a fish-tail appearance, and am quite satisfied. If only a little disappointed that I still seem to be virtually all human, despite the alternative concepts of the brain.

Oh well, I think, reminded of a quote from Buckminster Fuller, geodesic dome engineering architect, who I read about for one of Junior's schoolwork projects:
There's nothing in a caterpillar that says it will become a butterfly,
or words to that effect. I'll surprise myself yet. Wake up one day able to disappear into the foreground, like a chameleon. That would be cool.

I find myself deliberately vague on any recall of what happened when we got back to my house last night. There were probably cups of tea and a bit of conversation, and I remember asking Connor how his day went at Forensics, and he didn't seem to think it was anything important. Just that I got the impression he felt justified in having been concerned about my sleeping before now, and he mentioned he wished he had some sleeping pills on him to knock me out with. Nice approach, if that was any other guy on a date, early in the relationship.

But he wasn't in a teasing mood for once, and after that, I just remember going to bed to sleep. My brain doesn't seem to want to analyse anything related to it, and the focus of my attention slides off the memory and onto more immediate distractions, like the toothpaste and shower gel running out, and I should write a shopping list before I go into town. Maybe that's what getting adequate sleep does for you. Means you can step off the obsessive Wurlitzer of analysis, and just buy toothpaste.

As I drive into town, I recall the mermaid dream was probably linked to Ryan and Olivia's engagement party pub-crawl, where I ended up sporting the
Little Mermaid
outfit in public. Could be that the part of my psychosis which used to believe people only went out dressed as themselves for the night on Halloween once a year, managed to convince the dreaming part of me that everyone else drew their conclusions about me in the same delusional way.

"We're giving you a bit of a different job today," head office greet me when I answer, just as I was wondering for the first time since yesterday why there's no music in the car, and what Yuri has disconnected and hooked up instead. "Thought we'd get you to hang around the hospital for your own convenience."

"Oh, cheers," I say, finding the front stereo panel not quite locked and clicking it into place, initiating the CD player. Yuri's probably not so keen on a Ministry backing track while he's working. When I open the glove-box, White Zombie and Paradise Lost have gone, so I'm guessing they were his. "Is it Adam Grayson's day off or something?"

"Not like that," they reply, as I notice the stereo now has a second USB port - one for music and one for remote control, I think. Hope they're interchangeable like on a laptop. I try to imagine what's on Yuri's MyTunes memory stick. The Moscow opera or something like that, if he was a Hollywood Russian stereotype Cold War hit-man. And Paradise Lost. Hmmm. Not so stereotyped. "You can pop in and say hello to Terry Dyer - his son's visiting as well, should be a nice little reunion. Make sure Ian's happy, let us know of any work concerns if you pick them up from him - and you're also doing a bit of Social Work for us. Dingo Boy is going home today. You're his security escort back to Mr. Harte's house."

"Oh. Okay."

"Just report to the Maternity unit when you get there, and you'll meet up with W.P.C. Drury. You two can then conference your conclusions about Scarecrow
Dorothy
from yesterday and give us your feedback. She's still doing the round of the coffee shops like Rowling, working on her
Opus Dei
, by the look of things."

"
Magnum Opus
," I correct them, laughing. "Her great work. Not work of God."

"Same thing, according to her," they remark. "By the way, suggest to D.J. Crank that he asks about a winner's Security Screening upgrade for any marketing publicity - official product placement and shots for the sponsors, venues and organisers only. Means they'll make sure his private party times stay private, if you know what I mean. Otherwise he's giving them twenty-four-hour access. If they're allowed, they'll just exploit his every move, good or bad, to get publicity for their poker and casino venue websites. But if he specifies a certain level of privacy they'll respect it for the same reasons - more winning high-rollers who like their privacy will come their way for business."

"Supposing he likes a bit of twenty-four-hour drama?" I ask.

"We reckon there's enough in his past he'd like to keep out of the tabloids," they chuckle. "It's not just the footballers who play away - sometimes the WAGs do as well."

After they hang up, I wonder how D.C. Alby Flynn's WAG is doing with her current away games, and whether she's managed to bluff her way back into his good books yet.

D.J. Crank's real name is Colin Willard. Colin Dennis Willard, to be exact, on his passport, as he gives his details in the booking office at the travel agents. He confides in me that his friends and family all call him 'Wilf' for short.

"I've heard of MILF, on a Britney t-shirt," I tell him. "I dread to think what they make out of WILF."

"I used to have big sideburns, like Wolverine," he says wryly. "So it used to be Wolfman I'd Like To… etc. Nowadays the best I get is Wanker."

"They're just jealous," I grin at him.

The travel agent, a sturdy Oriental girl I can't guess the background of by the name Susie Smart on her name badge, double-checks both of our I.D.s and passports as she enters the details.

"We have two seats in First Class for Sunday," she confirms, after taking Crank's preferred travel dates. "And I can book your V.I.P. hotel transfers from the airport in Las Vegas… the hotel has a suite in reserve for you. I have a copy here of the email from them confirming your request for this week's availability. They would like to have a photographer join you for publicity purposes, there is a check-box on the form for your consent to have your image used in marketing material required - full copyright release and V.I.P. access permission including radio interview and newspapers, or limited to documenting your stay in Las Vegas in online and print format through local nightlife magazine coverage, or limited to official shareholder product placement photography in publication of this month's online tournament winner results?"

She turns the screen for Crank to read the small print better.

"I've looked at previous winners on the net, and I think the option with the most privacy is fine," says Crank, without needing my advice. "Ten or so years ago I was more of a party animal, now I'm quite happy just wearing the t-shirt for a promo shot. Besides, wouldn't do anything to embarrass my lady friend here. Specially seeing as she's going to be looking after my money."

Susie the travel agent smiles, and checks the third option, giving me an approving nod.

"We can arrange your transfer to the airport here as well, unless you already have arrangements?" she says.

"I've got that covered," Crank tells her. "Less fuss before we get there, the better."

I stop off at Cobbler's Shoes on the way back to my car, which I've left in Elaine's spare space outside Crypto, abusing my old staff permit. I find the red Mary Jane stiletto platforms are already in the final reductions, another 70% off since yesterday. So I buy the last pair in my size for a fraction less than it would cost me to park in Lighthouse Mall multi-storey for three hours. They'll make good Vegas foot fodder for the mileage, at that price.

As I sling the Cobbler's retail bag into the storage space under the rear seats, I notice that I'm slightly aware by the added weight, of the new Zombie shoes matching Connor's t-shirt that I liked and have bought as well. But my mind is otherwise blanking their existence as I lock the seat down again, hiding them from view.

Feels a bit too stalkery, buying incidentally co-ordinated accessories. I have to remind myself repeatedly that I'd have bought them soon as I saw them yesterday, if we hadn't already met. But it feels wrong, as if I'm doing some sort of telepathic control thing, a psychic persuasion of the type delusional erotomaniacs do when they're not in a relationship. Accessorizing themselves to match their fantasy before the object of their desire even knows they exist.

Miss Haversham went through an American phase, when a retired U.S. Air Force officer bought a house in the village. Suddenly she knew the best way to make Sweet Potato Pie, bought Hollywood toothpaste instead of her original Pearl Drops, and had acquired a slight Southern drawl, copied directly from Vivienne Leigh in
Gone With The Wind
,
over her clipped Raffia Mafia village English. She then tried to persuade the W.I. that they should do a re-make of 'The Bayeux Tapestry' commemorating the American contribution to the War efforts, inviting said officer to give them his insights. She went off him as soon he took a shine to her friend Beryl the tea-lady, over their common love of Miniature Poodles. As the tapestry was made, Miss Haversham withdrew from the main production and only did the borders, with the less artistic women who liked to discuss local gossip and celebrities. Which is when she developed a thing for inventing gossip based on the storylines of her Mills & Boon collection.

It feels weird to still associate with that mental state, and be aware of its presence, even while supposedly in something more like a relationship than I've ever experienced before. It makes me worry that I'm still under an illusion. That Connor's just a business partner with fewer boundaries than would be considered professional - that getting me to hang out with him is just a perk of working with a woman as far as he's concerned. That he's using his skeleton-key social skills to push the right buttons and get what he wants out of the situation along the way. Maybe being aware of acting deluded is a sign of actual delusion, in my case. A warning sign.

For example, apart from joking about wanting to censor what I'm wearing, he's not bothered about my meeting with Crank.

On the other hand, I don't know what 'bothered' manifests itself as - in a sane person.

Drury is outside the main entrance when I arrive, keeping an eye out for Ian Dyer's arrival. Patients in wheelchairs, with Meccano scaffolding sticking out of their plaster casts, trundle past determinedly heading for the car-park. Not in a mass escape bid, but to get to the only part of the hospital site which isn't smoke-free.

"Hi ya," she greets me, in her full hi-vis today. The hospital setting evidently appropriate for a police presence at any given time. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah, good," I reply, not sure if anyone's heard about my trip to Casualty last night, so I don't mention it. "How did you get on yesterday? Anything interesting?"

"What, the new Jackie Collins?"

"Barbara Cartland," I grin.

"Yeah, I don't think I'll be buying it when it comes out. Think it sounds like she's watched too much
Sopranos
and
Desperate Housewives
in her spare time," Drury chuckles. "I've got all of the box sets. I followed her to the hairdressers where she wanted them to do her Jennifer Aniston blonde, but they turned her down because she's been using henna, so she went to Scamways and bought chav bluebottle-black hair-dye instead. So the next time you see her she's either going to look like Amy Winehouse, or Cher in
Witches Of Eastwick
. What did you reckon on her?"

"It was really weird, to be honest," I say. "I remember having a fantasy life like her when I was a kid, but I got over it."

"She needs to get over herself, more like," Drury grunts. "I mean, if you believed you were a spy, or had all that intelligence and charisma, and a secret life no-one else knew about, wouldn't you just shut the fuck up and keep it to yourself for a quiet life, and your own personal security? I mean, instead of posting your fantasy world anonymously on the internet, like letters from Jack the Ripper going,
You'll never catch me out because I'm too clever and you're all stupid, ha ha
. She's in love with herself more than anyone else."

"And if she gets victimized for it, it'll just reinforce her narcissistic tendency to over-glamorize everything," I nod, watching an elderly man in a purple dressing-gown hobbling determinedly past us out of the lobby with a stick, pausing only to give Drury a sheepish, toothless grin, before shuffling onwards. "She'd get more positive attention for keeping her dignity and shutting up, considering what she's been doing in reality so far."

"Perhaps that's why she's obsessed with blogging, it's her own therapeutic way of regaining control over a situation which in reality she has no control over," Drury remarks. "I keep a diary still. Have done since school. What about you?"