Mr. In-Between (14 page)

‘As soon as you get out of here,' replied Jon, ‘I'll buy you the biggest bastard kebab you've ever seen. As long as you promise to behave yourself.'

Andy laughed.

An hour later his parents arrived. His mother leaned over on tiptoe to kiss his forehead. Jon heard her whisper, ‘Happy New Year, love.' Andy's father shook his son's hand stiffly. ‘Hello, son.'

‘Hello, Dad.'

Andy's mum kissed Jon's cheek. ‘And you, love. Happy New Year.'

‘Here's to a better one,' Jon said.

‘Hear, hear,' she said, and squeezed his hand.

Andy was showing his father the paper. ‘This bloke. This is the bloke I worked with. The one who didn't show up for weeks.'

His father took the paper and scrutinised it minutely. ‘Bugger me,' he concluded. ‘“A savage and frenzied attack”. Look at this, Joyce. This was our Andy's boss.'

‘Put it away,' she said, ‘I don't want to know.'

Father and son exchanged an intimately knowing glance.

Jon and Andy's father left to get coffee and tea from the Maxpax machine that stood just outside the ward doors.

‘How are things?' Jon said, inserting money into the slot.

‘Better,' admitted Andy's father. ‘Getting better.'

‘Good,' said Jon.

Not much later, he went home.

All the way he was oppressed by a sense of threat, which clung about him like a localised atmosphere. He stepped into the house with exaggerated caution, even withdrawing the stiletto knife from his pocket.

The Tattooed Man sat in the leather armchair, tabloid newspaper open on his lap.

Jon fell against the door. ‘Jesus Christ,' he said. ‘What are you doing here?'

The Tattooed Man stood, folding the tabloid. ‘Reading,' he said. ‘I was sat here reading.'

The relief left him. He straightened slowly, concealing the knife in his palm.

A man emerged from Jon's kitchen. It was another of the Tattooed Man's drivers, an enormously tall, gangling sociopath who wore a dark grey suit, crisp white shirt and shined shoes. His name was Olly. He and Jon shared a long history of antipathy. As an unspoken matter of course, the Tattooed Man usually arranged things such that Jon and Olly rarely, if ever, crossed each other's path. Olly regarded Jon over the rims of the mirror-lensed sunglasses he affected to wear, and which Jon found unbearably aggravating. He carried a mug of tea in his hand. Jon's mug. Jon's tea.

‘What the fuck is going on?'

The Tattooed Man bunched the tabloid in his fist and threw it at Jon. It unfurled as it flew. ‘
This
is going on.'

‘What?'

‘
Rickets
,'
bellowed the Tattooed Man. ‘Don't pretend to be an
idiot,
Jon. Don't pretend you can
lie
to me.'

Olly hid a cool, satisfied smile behind the back of his hand.

Jon was cold with fury for seeing this man, whom he loathed, invited into his house as a calculated insult. He spoke to the Tattooed Man but regarded Olly. ‘Tell that cunt that if he laughs at me again I'll cut his fucking throat.' He revealed the knife.

Olly took a step forward, reaching into his pocket. The Tattooed Man restrained him with a hand against his solar plexus. ‘
Rickets,
'
he hissed at Jon, arid sibilants forced through spitless teeth.

‘He had it coming,' said Jon.

The Tattooed Man whirled on his axis, howling, his arms spread wide. The windows shook. ‘
He had it coming
?'

Jon said nothing.

The Tattooed Man faced him. ‘Do you know what I hate?' he said. ‘I'll tell you what I hate. I hate someone who knows the cost of everything but the value of nothing.'

Jon lowered the knife. ‘What does that mean?'

The Tattooed Man levelled an accusing finger: ‘It means that it's not your place to decide who lives and who dies. Do you
understand that
?
That's
my
decision. That's my prerogative. You're not qualified. You don't
know
enough.'

Jon swallowed. ‘For Christ's sake,' he spat, as if expelling a sour taste. ‘What was Rickets to you? He was more trouble than he was worth. I did you a favour.'

‘You don't
know
what Rickets was to me!'

‘He was nothing. Admit it. He was nothing. You're angry because I did something off my own back for my own reasons. You can't stand the idea that I made a
decision
!'

‘A decision?' The accusing finger was so tense, it might snap. ‘Rickets was nothing. Do you know the value of nothing?'

Jon clenched his fist in frustration, too angry to speak.

‘People saw him,' muttered the Tattooed Man. ‘They saw him give you a kicking in that pub. How long do you think it'll be before they start sniffing around you?'

‘So what if they do?' replied Jon a trifle petulantly. ‘Do you think they'll be able to
prove
anything? The day Rickets died I was at the funeral of my friend's wife and child. Who goes revenge killing on a day like that?'

‘Don't try to psychologise,' warned the Tattooed Man. ‘Don't try to second-guess. Rickets leads them to you. You lead them to me. For all I know they're watching me now. For all I know they're
listening. Now,
of all times.'

‘Oh, don't be such a
martyr
,'
spat Jon. ‘The Law represents no threat to you. You've got them eating out of your hand.'

‘But it's not just the Law, is it?' The Tattooed Man advanced slowly upon him.

Jon stooped and picked up the paper, flattened it. He held it aloft and pointed to the front page. ‘No, it's
not,
is it?' He stabbed at the lead story. ‘Look at what I do,' he accused sadly. ‘Look at what I do for you.'

‘And I, of course, have done nothing for you.' His jaw was set.

‘You can be such a fucking parasite,' said Jon.

The Tattooed Man bunched his fists at his sides. ‘I should have known,' he said. ‘I should have known you for Judas.'

Jon took a step forward. ‘The suffering servant, you bastard,' he replied, and punched the Tattooed Man in the side of the head.

Olly leaped forward, hand inside his jacket. Jon lashed out with his left hand and slashed Olly's face lip to ear. He kicked him twice in the testicles. When Olly had fallen to the floor he kicked him twice in the back of the neck, once in the knobbly curve of his spine.

Jon turned to the Tattooed Man, opened his mouth to speak, to accuse. The Tattooed Man reached out, grabbed his throat and squeezed. Jon gagged and his eyes bulged. Step by step, the Tattooed Man drove him backwards until he had pushed him flat against the cool wall. His breath was forced from his lungs, between the Tattooed Man's fingers. His vision began to blur. ‘Don't think you're that good,' the Tattooed Man warned quietly. ‘Don't ever think you could ever hope to be anywhere near that good.'

He released his grip. Jon fell in a heap, his hands at his throat. He fought to stand. The Tattooed Man kicked him half-way across the floor.

He scrambled to his knees, his feet. He wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘Go on, then,' he said. ‘Go on, if you think you can. Do us all a favour.'

Olly had regained his feet. He looked like he'd gone face-first through a windscreen. He levelled a pistol at Jon. The Tattooed Man slapped the gun from his hand. ‘Don't you dare,' he warned. ‘Don't you fucking dare.' He turned on Olly and punched him full in the face. Olly's nose splintered with a dry crack. He whirled this way and that, howling, and stumbled over the leather sofa which the Tattooed Man had purchased for Jon.

Meanwhile, Jon had retreated to the bookcase, which he used to support himself. He was unable to catch his breath. ‘You ungrateful bastard,' he said. The bookcase could not support his weight. It fell spectacularly to the floor, spilling across the carpet the volumes the Tattooed Man had given him.

The Tattooed Man was breathing heavily through his nostrils. He stood like that for a long time. Then, lifting Olly to his feet by the scruff of his neck he turned his back on Jon and left the house.

He left a vacuum behind him.

Jon sat with his back propped by the fallen bookcase. He fumbled for the cigarettes that lay in his pocket. Each one was crushed and bent and beyond smoking.

At length, he stood. He walked in a daze towards the Oblivion Suite. He walked, fully clothed and bruised, into its familiar frigidity, its comforting endlessness. He curled like a foetus on the floor. Infinitely reflected, infinitely repeated and infinitely meaningless. All the time he saw before him the image of a pair of bright blue shoes with a buckle on the side, and a plastic doll without a head.

Two days later the police came for him. Plain-clothes detectives, one an asthmatic Welshman in a Marks & Spencer's suit, the other a powerful man with fine blond hair and a face marbled and mottled like corned beef. They asked if they could come in. They showed him their badges. He said, ‘Come in, please.' He offered them tea. They declined. He asked if it was about Rickets. They said yes it was and added his given name: Clive Thompson. Jon had trouble attributing the name. He found himself imagining Clive Thompson's life. An incapable or unwilling student. Perhaps a violent father, perhaps a string of ‘uncles'. He wondered what was happening to him.

As the two detectives sat, he noticed the eyes of the Welshman settling on the bruises he wore like a necklace. A professionally suppressed reaction. A mental note.

They knew about the ‘incident' in the pub. They had spoken to Ted the landlord and Fat Dave and Jagger. They had interviewed other patrons. They had spoken to Rickets's mates, each of whom, Jon suspected, had been reticent in the extreme, for fear of sharing something like Rickets's fate. Jagger and Dave, too, had been loyally evasive to effectively, if unintentionally, incriminating effect.

Murder was easy and usually the murderer was a lamentably stupid creature, whose crime, though endlessly fantasised about and mulled over, was committed in haste and frenzy and stupid fury. Frequently, the victim was known to the murderer. Equally frequently, alcohol was involved.

They asked him where he'd been and he said, ‘A funeral.'

They asked him when the funeral had ended and he said, ‘I left the wake at about six o'clock.'

The Welshman said, ‘Mr Thompson was last seen alive at—' he checked his notes, ‘about eight fifteen or thereabouts. That would have given you plenty of time to leave the wake. Don't you agree?'

Jon shrugged. ‘I suppose so.'

‘Can you remember where you were at about eight o'clock that evening?'

‘Of course not.'

The blond policeman withdrew a pack of cigarettes and said, ‘Do you mind?'

Jon said, ‘Of course not,' again. He offered an ashtray.

In return the blond policeman offered him a cigarette which he took with a steady hand, and lit from the Welshman's match, leaning into the flame.

‘Would you mind,' said the blond policeman, whose name was Marlowe, ‘if we took a look around?'

‘For what? The murder weapon?' He snorted. ‘How stupid do you think I am?'

‘It's nothing personal, Jon,' said the Welshman. ‘Do you mind if I call you Jon? It's just procedure.'

‘Procedure,' he mimicked. ‘Leave my house alone.'

Each man regarded him through slow-lidded eyes.

‘Why, Jon?' said Marlowe, the blond detective. He leaned forward a tiny increment.

Jon smiled at him. He could see something in the detective's eyes. He wondered how these men saw him, men who were attuned and immune to the inexpert mundanity of everyday violence. He wondered if they suspected, if they
intuited,
as he believed policemen were wont to do, the nature of the man to whom they spoke. He wondered if they had seen Rickets's—Clive Thompson's—body, or worse, if they had seen only photographs. He wondered if they had lain awake in bed next to their wives, or sat alone late at night in their kitchens, smoking themselves to a headache, wondering what kind of creature could
do
that to another human being?

‘I've always wondered,' Jon said, ‘if the way the police are portrayed on television affects the way the real police behave. “It's a fair cop” and all that. “You're nicked”. You know.'

‘We're only doing our job—' Marlowe said.

‘There you go,' said Jon. ‘There you are!'

Marlowe shook his head. ‘That was supposed to be a joke,' he said, ‘or aren't you a man who appreciates a joke?'

Jon shook his head once. ‘I enjoy a joke as much as the next man,' he answered, looking pointedly at the sober-faced Welshman.

Marlowe guffawed and slapped his thigh with a stubby-fingered­, powerful hand. ‘Very good!' he congratulated. ‘Very good. Very dry. Did you kill Clive Thompson?'

‘Yeah,' said Jon. ‘I broke into his flat and I hacked him into tiny pieces. I made him eat bits of himself. I made him eat his toes.'

He almost laughed.

Jon had seen many arrests, mostly on television. He stood, obscurely incredulous, as the Welshman, whose name he had forgotten, closed the handcuffs about his wrists. As they entered the unmarked car, Marlowe was barely able to touch the end of his cigarette to the wildly waving lighter he held to his face.

Jon sat in the back seat and watched them. They didn't exchange a word.

He looked out of the window. Afternoon shoppers milled apparently aimlessly. Shop windows bore seasonal legends, each of which announced a
SALE
!, as if taken by a national mood of mad, seasonal philanthropy.

‘I expect when I tell you about the others,' said Jon, ‘you'll beat me up. I expect the tape machine'll break down, and I expect you'll take it in turns to take your righteous anger out on me. I expect you can't wait.'