Fatlands (6 page)

At last they let me go. I refused their offer of a lift home and headed off down towards the front door. In the hall the living room door was ajar. I stopped and stared through the gap. On the sofa, where Mattie had been before, a man sat with his back to me, head deep in his hands. He wasn't crying any more. Opposite him, sitting on the edge of my Bette Davis seat, was the big guy in plain clothes with the dark curly hair, obviously a man with a mission, and, now my brain was working, equally obviously a rank high up in the Anti-Terrorist Squad. This was, after all, bound to be their case. As for Shepherd, well, what can I say? Except it's hard to look at anyone in that much distress and not feel pity. The copper glanced up at the door. He stared for a moment, half looking at me, half through me, then slowly got up and, giving the slightest of nods to the woman PC standing behind, closed the
door in my face. Bastard, I thought. And it made me feel better to have some of my old prejudice back.

My car was parked about forty yards down the street on the other side. The fire engines had gone, but the police cars and an ambulance were still there, although the burnt-out shell of the Rover was screened off. There were still policemen everywhere, keeping the onlookers with nothing to look at at bay. Someone said something to somebody and I was let through. I found my car keys in my bag and put them into the lock. Then I slid into the driver's seat and closed the door, like I and a million other people had done a million times before. Except for one. I sat for a moment staring at the dashboard. I reached across to get the stereo out of the glove compartment and as I did so something went very wrong in my stomach. I tried to put the key in the ignition but it was clear I wasn't going anywhere. I got the door open just in time to throw up on the pavement. And so it was that I left a little of myself on the street with Mattie Shepherd.

Eventually, when there was nothing more to leave, I drove home. I was surprised by how empty the roads were, until I realized how late it was. 11.47. Five and a half hours since … But then I don't suppose she was counting any more. I turned the corner into my street and everything looked the same but different, as if I had been away for a very long time and my memory had played tricks on me. When I got out of the car, I was so tired I could hardly stand.

In my exhaustion I found I'd relocked the front door trying to open it. I knew I just had to get inside and then I could lie down and let it all go till morning. But as the door pushed open I got this sudden hit of tension, almost
a physical shock, as I realized that something in the flat wasn't right.

I stood absolutely still, trying to place the fear. And then I heard it, coming from the living room, a soft almost rhythmic clicking sound, once, twice, again, as if someone was trying to make a cigarette lighter catch in the darkness. And instantly I saw Mattie sitting there in her leather jacket, half a stubbed-out Dunhill in one hand and her cute little Bic lighter in the other, flipping down on the switch time after time waiting for the flame to jump. I was trembling so much I had to hold on to the wall. I put my hand on the handle and softly turned it.

The room was dark apart from the street-light glow from the curtainless window and one small, green light dancing in the wall unit. The amplifier was on, and below it the pick-up of the turntable was hiccuping its way round and round an album. Repeating stereos, fast becoming a leitmotif in tonight's drama. I turned and saw the figure laid out on the sofa, shoes off, arms in a pillow behind the head. And then, and only then, did I remember what I had forgotten so completely. That this was Nick's Saturday for not having Josh and that we had agreed to spend the evening together.

I walked farther into the room and looked down at him. He was sleeping noiselessly, his face caught in that slight frown I knew so well. Down by his side an empty bottle of wine sat next to a long-stemmed wine glass, half filled (Nick always picks the best glasses, says it improves the taste). The album on the turntable was Mahler's Requiem, a cover I didn't recognize lying near by, which no doubt made it a particularly special recording, the latest move in his continued, good-humoured campaign to drag me kicking and screaming into adult music appreciation. I put out my hand and turned the switch. The pick-up lifted smoothly off the record and Mattie put
away her lighter until the next waking nightmare. I looked at Nick again and was about to wake him when I realized that I didn't know what I would say, or if I would ever stop crying once I had begun to say it, and I couldn't bear the idea of not being in control. So instead I took a blanket from the chest and laid it carefully over his sleeping form. He didn't stir. I went out and closed the door. I brushed my teeth to get rid of the taste of bile in my mouth, but I left the light off so I wouldn't have to look at my face. Then I lay down on my bed and gave myself up to the protection of sleep.

W
hen I woke it was another glorious day. It was also half over. I had slept for twelve hours. Lying beside me, in the curve of my body where a lover should have been, was a piece of paper. It read: ‘Let me guess. You met a job you liked better than me?' Good old Nick, never one to make a crisis out of a drama. I got up and went into the bathroom. My face looked like my clothes, crumpled and slept in, and my eyes had that closed-up piggy look that comes from too much crying. Which was strange, considering I hadn't done any. I ran a basinful of cold water and dipped my head into it. Electric shock treatment. While I was fumbling for the towel, I knocked over the next instalment, rolled up in my tooth mug alongside the toothpaste. It read: ‘Or maybe you've just grown tired of safe sex?'

In the living room the remnants of the night before had been cleared away, and the Mahler was sitting in its new cover on the coffee table, casually ostentatious. I nodded welcome to it, but it just wasn't the morning for a requiem. Instead I put on the radio. The
World this Weekend
was in the Ukraine sizing up the possibility of another nuclear catastrophe from the clapped-out old Soviet reactors. Maybe Mattie had already been news, or maybe the police were keeping it to themselves until they had something to say. I put on the kettle and went in
search of breakfast, which, along with the Harrods almond croissant, was the last thing I remembered eating the day before. I wasn't expecting much, so the fridge came up trumps. Sitting on one of my fancy plates on the top shelf with a neat little cover of cling film over it was breast of chicken in a creamy sauce, ringed by a semicircle of new potatoes and some thoughtfully arranged broccoli spears. And on the top, the final and concluding part of the discourse: ‘Just so long as it isn't my cooking. Call me on Monday if we're still lovers. Nick.' And this time I smiled.

I peeled the cling film off and stuck my finger in the sauce. It tasted better cold than anything I could make hot. I nuked it in the microwave for ninety seconds (last year's Christmas present from a mother who's finally given up on my domesticity) and then sat down next to Mahler at the table. What are the most important things in life? Food, sex, death and the movies, not necessarily in that order.

I ate slowly, making every mouthful count. The food helped normalize things a little. I suppose I should have given some thought to Nick, about how pissed off he really was. No doubt you've got some questions of your own about him you wouldn't mind answered. But the fact is it wasn't the right time, not with Mattie sitting so close on my shoulder. He'll come up again. And then, I promise, I'll tell you the whole story, or as much as there is. For now let's just say that he's a nice guy with a well-developed sense of humour; that we have a good time in bed (when we manage to get into the same one together) and that I absolutely adore his cooking. Not exactly Abelard and Heloise, but good enough for me right at the moment.

After eating I went into work. I hadn't really planned it that way, but when it came down to it the flat felt too
warm and cosy, and I was too off the wall to be comfortable with its comfort. Of the other places I could go—well, Nick, even if I wanted him, had gone south to be a good enough father, and Kate, good sister Kate, was hurtling down the French side of the Alps with Colin in Michelin men suits and bobbly hats and wouldn't be back for another fortnight.

I parked on a meter which during weekdays would have cost me 20p for every ten minutes. It gave me short but sweet pleasure to walk away with the clock reading
PENALTY
.

Before we get there maybe I should prepare you for the office. I mean the street isn't too bad, as roads around Euston go. A hundred yards farther on and the real estate picks up considerably, but like a high-tide mark you know it's never going to reach us. The whole area has a feeling of the temporary about it, as if being near two of the biggest railway stations in London had infected it with their sense of transience and movement. Frank says he chose it because it was
of
town, but not
in
town (unusually poetic for Frank), but I think it was the only place he could get for the money, and he figured he might pick up some passing trade. The name on the plate reads
COMFORT AND SECURITY
, the lettering's really quite nice. We buzz you in via the door phone, which sounds good but means the inside comes as even more of a shock. The hall and stairs are communal, so it's not all our fault. When Frank moved in towards the end of the eighties, the television industry was still expanding and a couple of puppy-dog independents took the offices on the floor above and tarted the place up, even put down a new carpet. But then the bottom fell out of the market, not to mention the economy, and failure began to stain the carpet and dirty the walls. What with the name on the door and the state of the staircase, I suspect your average punter could mistake
us for a coy version of sex and bondage. But then most of Frank's clients are not average punters. Neither are they glamorous women with skirts slit to the thighs who tell their story through lazy curls of cigarette smoke while the light casts film noir shadows on the wall. In reality most of them are men and most come via insurance firms or Frank's old friends in the Force. (I've often wondered if the boys operate on commission, but even if they do Frank would lie about it, so I've never bothered to ask.)

As for the jobs, well, take away the pizazz of the name, and private detecting is a dull business these days, made duller by the demands of the ‘security' industry. I mean you still get the odd juicy assignment: a factory where the books aren't balancing because someone (in my case the son of the owner) is walking away with the goods, or the fire-insurance claim which turns out to be petrol for profit rather than God's little handout to a small business. I've even had some pleasure watching people betray each other through lace curtains and fake hotel reservations, but the line between investigation and voyeurism is painfully thin in those kinds of jobs, and Frank usually off-loads them on to contract labour. Instead I get other run-of-the-mill stuff, like looking after rich ladies in town for the day. Or young girls. Because, according to Frank, I'm good with people and so they feel at ease with me. A talent to aspire to, eh?

Sometimes I think I should have just swallowed my political misgivings and joined the opposition. Who knows, by the time I was ready to begin my ascent up the ranks maybe the police would have learned how to spell equal opportunities. Either way I would have had a much bigger computer to play with. Mind you, as I keep telling Frank, if he hadn't been such a cheapskate and gone for an Amstrad over an IBM, I could probably have hacked
my way into their mainframe by now (well, even us girls have our technological wet dreams). As it is, Comfort and Security has to make do with the good will of the boss's ex-colleagues. On the other hand if I had joined the Force, chances are Frank would have already left it. And I'm a great believer that some people are your destiny.

Upstairs the office door wasn't locked. He was standing by the coffee table with his back to me, and from the sound of it he was trying to gouge the last scraps of Coffee Mate out of an empty jar. ‘I thought it was your turn to buy this stuff?' he said, grumpily, without turning, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about us both being in the office in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. I sighed and walked past him to a cupboard at the back, from where I plucked a new jar.

‘Thanks,' he said with scant gratitude. I took off my coat and put it over the back of my chair which sat in a corner and was a little smaller and a little neater than his. ‘You want some?'

‘Yeah. Please.'

He grunted, and padded off to get another mug from the sink. ‘Did you get my message?' he called from the alcove we have graciously called a kitchen.

‘No,' I said. But I had known it was him, the little light flashing the number 1 on the answering machine when I woke up. I hadn't really wanted to hear it, whatever it was, but now I was here I was glad he was too.

I stood watching his back through the open door of the kitchen. He's a rumpled kind of man, Frank. I don't really remember his stomach arriving, but it certainly wasn't as much of a feature two and half years ago. There's also been a growth in the amount of chin. If you were cruel you could say he looks just what he is, an ex-policeman gone to seed. But in Frank's case what you get is more than what you see. Because he's most definitely
not stupid. Neither is he corrupt, nor greedy. On the other hand he's not exactly Chandler's white knight. He has distinct trouble with some of the isms of life—sex and race in particular. Also I know for a fact he regularly tries to shaft the VAT man. I suspect in his heart of hearts he thinks himself a failure, and it's that which keeps him modest rather than any innate goodness. But he knows more about private detecting than anybody else I know and he's not mean with his knowledge. Also, when things get tough, as they most certainly were that afternoon, he's the one I find it easiest to talk to.