The City Trap (11 page)

The road he tramped along dipped down and he came to a bridge over a stream. Some joyriders had ditched a car into the grey, polluted waters. A hefty biker-type was directing a gang of kids to
strip it of spare parts. Des took a left turn along a drive that led to another complex of boxes. As he walked, he almost dived into the stream as a ferocious Alsatian reared up above a garden
fence and barked wildly. Finally, Des did find Gary’s pad. Kicking his way through empty cans of lighter fuel, he ran up cold concrete steps and found the number of the door he’d been
searching for. It had been kicked wide open.

Des entered cautiously. The heat of the day, though waning on the outside, was still intense within the flat. Smells of burnt debris mingled with those of piss and shit. There was no one in the
place and not much left to make it a place at all. As he sneaked his way round, Des saw that the kitchen had lost its cabinets, cooker and fridge. The bathroom was minus its toilet and the bath had
been smashed up. The living room was bare, bar a broken chair and a forlorn lampshade. Des began to sag. He wiped the sweat off his face and felt the frustrations rise within him. It seemed
appropriate to kick the wall. He did and his foot went six inches in.

The last place to check was the bedroom. This was where the burning smell came from; the bed itself was a two-foot hole of charred stuffing. Des entered. Syringes and silver foil littered the
floor. The cupboards here were built in but they too had been smashed. Clothes, magazines and other rubbish had spewed out around the bed to be kicked and trampled on. Des picked up a splintered
piece of wood, sat on the bed and then began to prod around the rubbish. There was practically nothing there of significance. Male fashion mags and soft porn, broken CDs and slivers of mirror
mingled with the mud-stained tiles and underwear. Des only found one thing, a torn triangular third of a black and white photograph, upon which Des could see a bare white bum.

The car was still in once piece when he got back to it. Des quickly clambered in and took off at speed. He opened his windows to let out the heat and the estate smells that lingered.
Couldn’t have been more than a few days, Des thought, since Gary skipped and his pad had already been stripped bare. Desperate times. Desperate place. Des pulled out the photo he’d
found. It was on thick paper and there was a blurred edge to the print. The image itself was not quite sharp and a white smear at the side looked almost like a curtain. No professional piece of
porn, Des thought, but then probably not a piece of anything. He threw the photo down and sighed.

‘A hot, harrowing day in a fucking dustbin of the city and what do I get? A bleedin arsehole!’

Des allowed himself a smile and then he saw he was driving into familiar territory. Up ahead was the Vine. A large crowd of brethren were outside taking in the sun. As he drove past, Des thought
he saw Vin St James, but he couldn’t be sure. This guy had a bandaged head and his arm in a sling. Des carried on and it was then that he felt the tension grip him. He knew what it meant.
He’d spent all day ignoring it. At the next crossroads he could go right and go home. A rather sour but a safe place. Alternatively, he could go left. There was a third-floor flat done out in
pink. It was a risky place and bound to be fraught, but it had one hell of a bedroom.

11

The other side of someone. The moment when charm and affection slip away and a different face stares at you. One where configurations have subtly changed and sweet looks become
nasty. Des was looking at a bloated, world-weary face with straw hair. He noted for the first time the sagging lines that left Bertha’s lips and made her chin protrude. And he noted too the
eyes, frosted over and hard.

‘I’ve had a really shitty day,’ Des said, trying to ignore the admonition in those eyes.

‘You chose the job.’

Bertha sat stiffly on her maroon sofa and didn’t exactly encourage Des to feel at home. He sat down anyway and tried to loll, thinking that Bertha’s eyes were not just scolding but
testing him too. This was power play. She wanted him squirming on the floor.

‘Yeh,’ Des drawled. ‘Guess I was a naïve bugger to choose this line of work.’

‘At least you’re getting paid, well . . . by me.’

‘True enough.’ Des began to feel irritation rise within him. He dug out the torn scrap of photo. ‘And this is the result of a hard day trawling through crap.’

‘Uh huh, very informative. What is it?’

‘An arse.’

‘I can see that, but what’s it mean?’

‘Thought you might know that. I mean, you’ve been around. It’s possible it could belong to Claudette.’

Des half expected a blow from Bertha. She rounded on him, but then she turned up the cold control in her probing eyes. Words finally came out of a tight mouth.

‘You are a cheap piece of shit, aren’t you, Des? A piece of scum who thinks he’s a big boy. Crap, you’re just a tosser like most men, exploiting people’s problems
and grief.’

‘I see –’

‘Call yourself an investigator? A lost soul more like, looking for a mummy and a bit of cheap sex on the side.’

‘Come on, Bertha, so I’m the one who’s using you? No way –’

‘You’re doing all right, aren’t you? You get my money, sleep in my bed – and then you treat me like dirt, bugger off, do your own thing as though I’m just a service
provider.’

‘You got me into bed. I didn’t think it was such a good idea.’

‘Oh, you were very reluctant.’

‘I knew this would happen.’

‘I want respect, Des. I need to trust you.’

‘Trust? Well that’s fine if it works both ways.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Des had to hand it to Bertha. Those unflinching eyes, not a sign of defrosting in them.

‘What it means is that you haven’t levelled with me. Past glories, Bertha, like living with Ross Constanza and having an affair with some other porn merchant.’

That one almost caused a crack in the ice. For a second, Bertha looked away. ‘So that’s it.’

‘Well, come on, these guys are still around, in the same trade. For all I know, you and Claudette, you could still be connected.’

Bertha lowered her eyes and looked down at the Dralon seat. ‘God, still paying for my past . . .’

It was quite a story. And a winning one too. Des, though feeling tetchy, skin still crawling with the germs and chemical detritus of a lost part of the city, forgot all his reservations about
Bertha. Once more he saw those past glories in her face and not contemporary weariness and pain. Bertha had been a student once but, in a search for cash, had become drawn into the dodgy glamour
world of escorts and stripping. It had been a laugh. Exciting to delve promiscuously into a world of ogling, uptight men who desperately wanted a turn-on. It was at that early stage that she met
Ross. She got heavily into drugs and ended up whoring. Dark days followed, loss of self-respect, a youthful view of the future turned sour. Bertha said she thought she’d end up an ageing
hooker.

‘Lumbered with bleedin kids, stuck on the Social but still touting for trade, getting gormless drunk at weekends and bawling abuse at the night sky . . .’

Ross had left her to go bumming round the world. But then one day he came back and looked her up.

‘He was oozing serious money and saying how he’d missed me madly. He took over my life. I was on a totally different level.’

That was when they started the escort and procuring agency. Bertha got off the game and organized it all. But Ross got into other things and started sleeping around. Bertha took a shine to Paddy
Conroy and Claudette turned up in her womb.

‘There was one hell of a bust-up. Ross beat the shit out of me and then he went after Paddy. There was a big fight at the King’s Arms. One of Paddy’s pals, Derek Cross, got
killed. The law blamed it on Ross and he did five years for manslaughter.’

Des sat back on the sofa and thought about his own past. No CV to match that. Plenty of scrapes, bits of dealing, torrid affairs but nothing to equal that. He looked again at the lines on her
face and wondered what events were responsible for which lines.

‘So what happened after that?’

‘A slow descent into oblivion. Paddy was scared off. I had Claudette and just had to scrape a living somehow. I got secretarial qualifications and have bored myself silly ever
since.’

‘Come on, you must’ve had a few affairs and the like.’

‘Nothing much, nothing that stuck. I had my daughter and I did everything for her. For a long time it was enough, it more than compensated for the lonely nights and, you know, the
frustration.’

‘And now?’

‘I guess I lost her when she went on the game, and now I’ve lost her for good.’

Des went with the eyes – thawed now, pools of brown melt-water – and put his arms around Bertha. ‘I guess I’ve been a bastard.’

‘Yeh, but maybe not as bad as some I know.’

‘I dunno.’

‘Well, you’ve been pretty clogged up with posh Miranda.’

‘Shit, don’t mention her.’

‘Never look at the surface, eh. You’ve got to get in deep, right down to the muck, to pull out the best of gems.’

‘The best of gems and the worst of nightmares.’

‘Let’s go delving, huh?’

‘You mean into the pink?’

‘I guess you are with me, on my side . . .’

‘Yeh, guess I am.’

Bertha looked up to her pink paper flowers and smiled.

‘No blame,’ she said quietly, ‘but also totally to blame. That’s what experience is.’

* * *

Way out in the sprawl, Paddy Conroy had got himself shacked up in a part of the city Bertha had never been to before. A maze of des-res detached and semis in Shirley, solid
investments for accountants and insurance men – conventional and desperately boring. What happens to people when they get old? Paddy used to be a cool guy. A hip Irish shark. Smoking dope
with the rude boys, playing mixed up jazz and jigs on his mouth harp. Paddy was a laugh, a light-touch charmer who made things happen. Bertha turned her car right and went further into the bland
lands of the city, wondering how a bright spark could end up there. She knew it was a risky venture but felt she couldn’t wait any more. Maybe Des was pushing the boyfriend angle but Bertha
was inclined to go with intuition. Ross, he was so much part of the scene, he would have to be involved somewhere. This was her hope; this was the chance she had to prepare for. She allowed herself
a smile as she thought of Des still sleeping. She once again tried to reassure herself that it wasn’t all planned.

Fuck, he already knew the outcome. Men just sucker themselves.

Paddy Conroy had a balding head and a big gut that pushed out of canvas slacks. A podgy face, almost unrecognizable, except for the bright smiling eyes that remained beneath a
seriously wrinkled brow. Bertha was nervously greeted and reluctantly let in. She sat in the oyster and cream sitting room and tried to avoid the cold, fading-beauty looks of the blonde woman who
offered tea. Paddy sat down opposite, leaning forwards, his arms on his knees and his hands restlessly intertwined.

‘So are you married now, Paddy?’

‘Just living together, Bee.’

‘You look a hell of a lot different.’

‘And you, we’ve all got the same incurable disease.’

‘Yeh.’ Bertha began to feel uncomfortable. She hadn’t expected Paddy to be so uptight. ‘Bit of a shock to see me, eh, and perhaps not a good time?’

‘You should’ve rang.’ Paddy looked behind him towards the kitchen and then lowered his voice. ‘Cass, she’s a bit . . . you know, she don’t trust me with other
women.’

‘Well, you’ve still the old twinkle in your eye.’

The tea arrived and Cass stayed resolutely present. The situation depressed Bertha. The room, sparse, tidy and uncluttered. A restrained and gone-to-seed Paddy. A staid white suburb where you
had to get in your car for a packet of fags. But she tried to make the most of it. She said she’d come into some money and was thinking of getting back into the business. There were rumours,
she said, that Ross Constanza might be getting into trouble. A lie maybe, but she knew she need say little more. For Paddy, a less successful Paddy, had long sworn to get his revenge on the
‘deformed little Eyetie’. She didn’t mention Claudette’s death, and Paddy showed no signs of knowing. It was a difficult subject and one Bertha couldn’t raise in front
of Cass. Who was the father, Ross or Paddy? The time when Claudette had grown in Bertha’s womb was not one when such a question could easily be resolved. Ross was on his way to prison and
didn’t even consider the child; while Paddy, he went missing for a bit, and backed down on what could’ve been a territorial war. Some time later he did ask Bertha. ‘Who knows, who
cares?’ she replied and was happy to keep it that way. But that wasn’t the purpose of her visit. She had but two aims. Two seeds planted. Cass cleared up the tea things and took them
away.

Paddy took his brief chance. ‘I’m interested,’ he said quietly, ‘but don’t ever call or come here again. I’ll give you my office number and we’ll
arrange a time for a proper talk.’

‘We should have a few drinks together, Paddy, in some old Irish dive and get nicely sozzled.’

‘I can’t talk like that now, and I’m not supposed to drink. I’m supposed to be a reformed man.’

Paddy whispered those last words. Bertha smiled widely and winked.

‘You’re missing something,’ she said. ‘Our age, it’s second childhood time. We’ve done it all and now we can have fun.’

‘Jesus, Bee, that sounds too naughty to me.’

‘Well, Paddy Conroy, it could well be.’

* * *

How long can you make a cup of tea last? It is a serious question when you are down at rock bottom. Des McGinlay considered this as he sat in Kropotkin’s Diner watching a
scruffy dosser string out a cup of camomile tea. There could, Des thought, be a Buddhist art to it. Out of destitution, a kind of fruitful path to meditational ease. That, or a useful exercise in
bloody-mindedness. Either way, the situation irked Des because he loathed the smell of the dosser and the tea. But then the whole café tended to have that effect on him. He liked the idea of
anarchism but found most of its adherents obnoxious. Like Col, the guy behind the counter. It wasn’t just the dayglo green brush that bisected his head, or the staples in his nose and the
studs in his ears that bothered him, it was more that there was something strangely clinical and contrived about it all. A look-at-me sign on a clean face that had nothing to say. The dosser was
the true anarchist. Des shrugged, took another swig of coffee and tried to focus his mind.