The City Trap (25 page)

‘Look at me, you scumbag. I am Mary and all the other women you’ve abused.’

She prodded him in the ribs with the gun, then reached over and picked up a can of oil.

This is weird, thought Jerry. Then, seeing her bent down like that, he began to get excited again. He forgot the joint and started taking his own clothes off.

‘I wish I had the words to go with this.’ Mouse opened the oilcan and held it over Ross. ‘You know, Stray, like you get with weddings and funerals. But nothing’s
–’

‘Deliver us from the shits of this world so we can all live in peace,’ Jerry muttered, as he struggled out of the clothes.

‘That’s nice, Stray. Yes, spit on their faces.’

Mouse did spit and then tipped oil onto Ross’s face. Jerry finally managed to get out of his clothes. Kneeling on the mattress, he got behind Mouse. ‘Deliver us from normality that
we may live again,’ he said.

‘God, Stray, you’re pretty good with words, and you’re not stuttering either.’

Mouse poured more oil, smeared some on herself and took a few bitefuls of crisps. Jerry began to run his hands over her smooth back.

‘This is revenge for all that pain and all that abuse,’ she declared.

More oil was splashed and the proddings of the gun got more violent. Jerry hoped it wouldn’t go off. But he was losing interest in all that, he was manoeuvring her legs apart and savouring
the moistness that lay within. Mouse had picked up another can of oil.

‘With this – oh!’

Jerry could delay his entry no longer. It seemed the only compulsion then, maybe the last one, and he wanted to lose himself in it for ever. The oil went all over the place. No more words from
Mouse and no more proddings from the gun. Jerry was as happy as he’d ever been amid the grunts and the slime and the naked flesh, fucking for all he was worth, doggy style.

* * *

‘Can’t prove much on this one,’ Errol said as he looked at the open window in Bertha’s flat. ‘Unless we get some witnesses.’

Des looked at the window, the smear of window cleaner on the glass and the bottle on the sill. Most of all he looked at the pale pink curtains and the frilly pelmet. He shivered.

‘It’d be dead easy to set up. Maybe a punch to her jaw, lift her up and throw her out. Put the window-cleaning stuff out after.’

‘She could’ve just fell,’ Des murmured. ‘I reckon she had her mind on other things and that can make you careless.’

‘She was dressed up to the nines, Des.’

‘Any sign of cash or photos?’

‘Nah, even more suspicious, eh?’

Des looked around the room. Pink paper flowers, the flouncy bits on the shelving, the doilies and cute ornaments. He averted his eyes from the bedroom door. That was the place he didn’t
want to see. That was the womb, the last succouring place before the desert; that was Bertha alive and bringing life to Des.

‘So you reckon Ross had any reason to kill her?’

‘Probably. She was up to something, calling me off. Maybe that was it. She’d got a lever out of me and wanted to prise open some blood money, get a bit of revenge for Claudette and
past sins against her.’

‘Which is why we need to find Ross.’

‘Or get Gus to talk.’

‘Yeh. Though I’m sure both options’ll be useless without evidence.’

‘It’s a sad end.’

‘They always are, man. Come on, I’ll drive you home.’

Des tried not to think about it. Carnal knowledge and death. The uneasiness fretted away all the same. Hot passionate flesh, cold dead flesh. Ecstasy and expiration. His first big job and
he’d got too close. He’d made every mistake that you could. Bertha could end up haunting him for a very long time.

‘So what’s the silence about then, Des?’

Errol was trying to get his car across Argent Street and into Des’s road. The traffic had eased, but the speed of vehicles going past was greater. It was dodgy just to nose the car
out.

‘Dunno. Too many deaths I guess.’

‘I reckon you quite liked Bertha.’

‘Sort of. I mean, she was a right manipulative sod but, you know, she did things that made you feel good. She had something . . .’

‘A fair enough epitaph.’

Errol finally got across Argent Street and down to Des’s home.

‘OK, you gotta rest up, Des, an watch out for any signs of delayed concussion or whatever. So no booze, eh brother, an non a dat dere devil weed! OK?’

‘Sure thing, Doc. I’m just gonna count my money and see if it was worth it.’

Des didn’t do any counting that night. And the booze and ganja got well tapped. Of course, it wasn’t actually anything, it was just a start, an aspiration –
but all the same, she was a cracker and he had almost felt the sand between his toes. The note he’d had through the door got obliterated but it read something like this:

* * *

They’d been travelling ages since the last stop and still there was no sign of the sea. Jerry had seen plenty of roads, empty towns and endless features of landscape made
weird by headlights.

‘You sure you know what you’re doing?’ Jerry had moaned.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get us there. I know my way around.’

The van was on its last legs. The engine groaned, rattled and struggled to take the slightest rise. There was an acrid smell in the cab, too, mingling with the oil that came from everywhere.
Jerry was feeling sick and his nausea wasn’t helped by Mouse’s erratic driving. As Jerry looked through the darkness at the flashing white lines, he felt he was on a rope being swung
from side to side. He wished she’d stop.

‘Did you read that thing in the papers, Jerry, about that bloke who ran someone over? He was so pissed off with the woman he’d hit, he turned his car round and ran over her
again.’

‘Shit, no!’

‘True. And this bloke, he got off on some crap charge. A few months in nick. Told some bullshit story about how his wife was leaving him, his job was on the line, he was late for work,
been stuck in traffic jams – blah, blah – said he just snapped when he hit the woman. “Mitigating circumstances,” the judge called it.’

‘Typical judge.’

‘Says it all. If you want to kill someone, just get in your car and run them over, then plead mitigating circumstances.’

‘Cars and property, the gods of today.’

‘Gives us a let-out, though, eh? Mitigating circumstances, after what the bad guy did to your woman.’

‘Yeh, but what’re we going to do with him, Mouse?’

The van hit another rise in the road and seriously struggled. It just managed to make it to the top before the engine croaked and fizzled out. Mouse eased the van over to the verge and
stopped.

‘Shit!’

‘Now what?’

With the van lights out, total darkness loomed ahead of them. Not a dot or a gleam anywhere, not a star twinkling in the sky. Mouse slid open the van door and let her legs dangle out in the cool
air.

‘S’pose I could take a look.’

‘God, I’ve n-never seen such darkness. Never g-get it in the city, do you?’

‘Open your door, Stray. Have a sniff. I can smell the sea, you know.’

Jerry did so and he could smell the sea. And, as his eyes got used to the dark, he thought he could see it too. There was a bumpy open field close by. But then, far off, beneath greyish clouds,
there was blackness that seemed to move like a seething snake flecked with glimmers of light.

‘Look over there,’ he said to Mouse. ‘You reckon that’s it?’

‘Yeh. I think we’ve made it, Stray.’

Mouse got out of the van and walked to the edge of the grass. With her hands on her hips, she took in great gulps of air and held her head up to the clouds. Jerry thought she looked pretty
imposing. He began to think again about how he could stop her doing something drastic. The last time had merely postponed matters. But he didn’t really know what to do and hated being reliant
on her. He just wanted rid of Ross and the whole messy venture. He didn’t like the empty darkness and the cold wind. The name Jerry was beginning to mean something again. He had lost his
stutter and was feeling homesick for the city. Mouse lumbered her way back into the van.

‘Well, the sea’s down there somewhere, but I can’t tell how far.’

‘Come on, Mouse, what shall we do with this guy?’

‘You still feeling squeamish?’

‘Yeh, s’pose so. I just want to get away from here. I don’t like it.’

‘Well, I definitely want to go down to the beach.’

‘Oh yeh. How do we do that? This van’s fucked.’

‘We can freewheel it down, it can’t be far now.’

Jerry groaned to himself. Mouse had become so intense and stubborn about this sea thing and all he wanted was a spliff and a nice warm bed. He didn’t seem to have a say in anything any
more.

‘So let’s at least dump the bad guy? We could leave a note or something, like I said.’

‘After coming this far?’

‘God, Mouse, you’ve just hijacked the whole bloody thing. It was supposed to be my revenge, remember?’

‘And you’ve just been trying to stop me from doing what I want . . . all those snidey sex games.’

‘I don’t want to end up in the nick.’

‘Oh, sod it, you’re just whingeing.’

Mouse suddenly grabbed the handbrake and thrust it down. She rocked impatiently in her seat. Slowly the van began to move.

‘Bloody hell, Mouse, I think we should –’

‘I got us this far; I’ll get us all the way.’

They began to pick up speed. Apart from the creaks of the van, the only noise was a wind which moaned and roared. Jerry began to feel more and more angry. She was doing it again, taking over.
The road ahead, going ever down, began to curve and bend. Mouse seemed to be enjoying the ride, her shoulders heaving at each deviation in the road.

‘I think we should stop this, Mouse. It’s dangerous.’

‘We’re going to the sea!’

‘Jesus, we could get out and walk, I’m sure.’

It was all becoming too much. Jerry, feeling sick with the motion, was genuinely scared as the van’s headlights swerved through the dark. He didn’t want this and he was furious with
Mouse.

‘Stop it!’

‘Too late, Stray.’

Mouse pulled the van sharply to the right and they screeched onto a straighter stretch of road. The sea was clearly visible now. Jerry grabbed the steering wheel.

‘Come on, Mouse, pull over.’

‘Sod you!’

Mouse tried to dislodge Jerry’s hand. He tried to pull right and force the van onto a grassy verge. The van began to swerve back and forth across the road.

‘Fuck! Fuck you, Jerry!’

Mouse glared at him and then violently wrenched the steering wheel to the left. Jerry lost his grip. The van bumped off the road and onto a slope. The sea was ahead of them, a misty glow in the
night.

‘God, Mouse, put the brakes on!’

‘Sod you.’

26

They’d renamed the place. It was the Fedora no more. Des now pushed through the doors of the Spit and Shovel. Of course, it could’ve been the wrong place entirely.
The outside location was hardly distinctive. Des began to feel that way when he saw the rough plastered walls and black beams where there should’ve been palms and Bogart eyes. Only
Wayne’s stubbled face gave Des hope that he was in the right place. He went in further, noting pickaxes, peat spades and heavy-duty hammers clamped to the walls. The place was also half busy.
Young white men mostly, office juniors knocking back the latest trend in beers. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Des made it to the bar and managed to catch Wayne’s eye.

‘Jesus, Wayne, what’s going on?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘I thought I’d walked into the wrong place.’

‘The bleedin brewery for you. Retro working class or something. Aiming for the lads who’ve never done a hard day’s work in their life but whose dads did, or some such crap as
that.’

‘At least you’re quite busy.’

‘We do live bands now. Got a gig on later, some loud fart called Stevie Kitson. So, what you having then, mate?’

‘A coupla doubles of whisky.’

‘My, doing well, are we?’

‘I’ve made a few bob.’

‘Your mate’s over in the corner.’

‘Great. Any phone calls?’

‘Yeh, a couple of numbers I can give you. Maybe work in it.’

‘Even better.’ Des smiled. ‘So, Wayne, tell me, how long you reckon this name’s gonna stick?’

Wayne smiled back, and then they both said it.

‘Fuck knows!’

Errol was up to his peanut routine, only this time he had them laid out on the table in circle form. He had his shoulders hunched and didn’t look too happy.

‘I reckon you’re ten peanuts earlier than your usual lateness.’

‘There’s an improvement for you.’

‘You were right about this place. It doesn’t exist. It’s a virtual reality. I mean, will you look at this crap?’

Des did. Behind Errol there was a photo of a guy with a walrus moustache sitting on a huge anchor chain. To the right, the blackened face of a miner stared down. A collection of miner’s
lamps was stuffed on a shelf above him.

‘We’re only a few steps away. They’ll be changing the scenery every night.’

‘Too right. So how was the funeral?’

‘Grim. A couple of workmates, a few neighbours and me. Oh, and this Paddy Conroy geezer standing well away at the back.’

‘Bertha’s final bad deal.’

‘Yeh, buried next to her daughter. Two chancers who took the hard way out.’

‘It’s been one hell of a messy case.’

It had been, and there were still things left unresolved. Scobie had been charged with Claudette’s murder but he refused to admit any involvement. The word was the shrinks were parcelling
him up for the funny farm. It seems Scobie was raving on about being the reincarnation of a lion. He was the ‘Lord of the Jungle’. Des’s hammer might have had something to do with
that. Sir Martin Wainwright had left the country. The press published the allegations. The police said they would investigate, but it all seemed to have fizzled out. ‘On a long business
trip,’ said Sir Martin’s personal assistant, ‘and we don’t know when he’ll be back.’ No more political high hopes for him then. And it was nearly a week before
Ross’s body was found. The battered blue van had gone over a cliff and been half covered with tumbling rocks. Down in Dorset, some fossil hunter found it, and Ross, a strung-up form covered
with feeding crabs. But there was no sign of Jerry or his friend Mouse, and they still hadn’t turned up. Probably gone checking out weed in the ocean, stoned, drifting and hoping to be
Atlantis-bound. Loose ends, all over the place.