The City Trap (7 page)

‘Look, if me a block up me don’t hear it anyway; an if me, you know, doin it, me ansa it feh a laugh. All the res a the time it business, man.’

‘I guess, just like the boss of ICI.’

‘Yeh man, you can bet the guy im get stone an fuck im women an run im business the res a the time, jus like me.’

‘You could be up there, Tone.’

‘Me a knockin on the door, man.’

Heaven’s door, thought Des as he got into his car and drove off to see Vin.

It had to be sign of a paranoid man. A cul-de-sac, lost and forgotten in the arse end of town. There were a couple of derelict workshops on one side of him and the unbroken
back end of a factory on the other. Des got out of the car, but could see no one else. The factory brick wall was lavishly daubed with unintelligible graffiti. Looking back at the street he’d
come down, all Des could see were galvanized railings and some sort of dumping ground for dead engines behind. He kicked brick detritus aimlessly and began to wonder whether he was in a trap or
just ditched once again. Then he heard the voice from behind the fence.

‘You ain’t carryin, are you?’

Des turned. He couldn’t see anyone. ‘Er, no. Hey, where the hell are you?’

A trilby then rose above the fence, followed by Vin’s worn and suspicious face.

‘Jesus, is this a joke?’ Des said, shuffling his feet.

‘Me know you, ain’t it? We done business some time in a past.’

‘Sure, man, you know me.’

‘So who you a wuckin feh?’

‘No one. Look, we can’t talk like this. You want to come out? I’ve got no axe to grind with you.’

Vin continued to give Des some heavy scrutiny and then nodded his head. ‘You come to me, man. The plank wid the mark on it dere, it push through.’

Heaving a big sigh, Des moved over, pushed and made an opening. He got a glimpse of a canal behind. It was a bit of a squeeze and when he’d finally got most of himself through, he suddenly
found himself intimate with a knife.

‘So who you wuckin feh?’

Finally clear of the gap in the fence, Des was now backed up against the boards. The knife was five inches from his throat. Vin looked coldly determined to keep the situation that way.

‘Come on, Vin, what is this?’

‘Who you wuckin feh?’

It became too much. Des felt violated. He darted his head suddenly to look down the towpath. Vin’s eyes did the same and so missed the left uppercut that thundered to his jaw. Des had the
knife in no time and a foot on Vin’s chest too.

‘You stupid bugger. I came here to talk, maybe even help you. Sod it, man, no one pulls a knife on me!’

Vin groaned. Des stooped down, pulled Vin up and propped him against the fence. He looked around. Deserted. On one side, ancient factories. Des could see plants growing out of the crumbling
walls. The towpath side was bordered by fencing and, further down, coils of razor wire. Des looked at the gloomy water and shivered with the sudden feeling of fear that he might fall in.

‘Shit, you pack a bleedin punch.’

‘So you ain’t dead, are you, Vin? I mean, do I look like I’m about to cause you grievous harm?’

‘Me don’t trust nuttin an no one at the moment, man.’

‘Just check this, right. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to find out about Claudette’s death. All I want to do is ask you some questions, off the record,
confidential, no comebacks – however you want it.’

‘Huh, waste you time, me don’t know nuttin bout it. Wish me did.’

‘Come on, why’re you acting so scared?’

‘Heat, man. Me was close to the fire, an some fucker out dere’s gonna tink me was the one wid the matches.’

‘Were you?’

‘Course not! She jus went out to she fren. Dat’s all me know bout it till she turn up dead.’

‘And who was the friend?’

‘A tart call Pauline, but she neva went dere.’

‘Never went or never got there?’

‘Me dunno, man. Shit, me don’t even fucking care now. Me reckon the bitch she was jus shaftin me.’

Des got a little niggle of emotion at the word shaftin. He gripped hard onto Vin’s knife and thought about giving the fence a stab.

‘No ideas who with?’

‘Me ain’t neva really hurt anyone, man, but if me knew dat . . .’

‘So why’re you so scared?’

‘Me tell you, man! The pigs, whoever did feh Claudette, shit, whoever Claudette was mixed up wid.’

‘You got anyone in mind?’

‘It ain’t the sorta ting me’d like to know.’

Vin’s shifty eyes seemed to imply that it was the sort of thing he might know, but he didn’t want to admit it, and for sure he wasn’t going to tell Des. He stared down at the
parched grass he was sitting on and left the next move up to Des. Des didn’t have one. He tried to think what to do – get heavy, get physical – but his heart wasn’t in it.
Vin’s hat had come off when he’d socked him and now Des looked down at a shaven head. It looked vulnerable and tired. He sensed that maybe Vin was only out to survive and just wanted to
be left alone. Des sympathized.

‘Shit. This place gives me the creeps,’ he said and moved towards the hole in the fence. ‘If you come up with anything you think I should know, get in touch, eh, there might be
dosh in it.’

‘What bout me blade, man?’

‘I’ll throw it back over the fence.’

And so Des squeezed out from one dump of a place and into another. He unlocked his car and then remembered the knife. He got it over the fence OK, but too well. He heard the splash but
didn’t wait for the curses that were sure to follow.

* * *

Jerry had the sickness. He sat on the sofa, arms folded, and stared at the bare walls opposite. He saw nothing and rarely did a thought cross his mind. Inertia. Pure,
don’t-give-a-toss inertia. He could do it for hours on end. It was the usual story. Cut adrift and feeling too tired to fight it. Few people knew how much hard work there is in being
workless, how much energy is needed to stay afloat when there’s no support and the only outlook is down. Jerry had spent days toiling with nothing. He’d had many fitful nights too,
slipping in and out of revenge dreams, eyes behind the sights of a sniper gun, killing off all the shits in the world. Jerry was wrecked and hadn’t even managed to call on Mary. But that was
about to change. There were noises on the fire escape and he heard the outside door creak open.

Mary stepped brightly into the living room. She was wearing a thin cotton blouse and a long skirt, and the way the light hit her, Jerry thought she wore nothing else. He squirmed a little with
hunger. She slumped down beside him on the sofa and waved a brown envelope, wafting cool air around them.

‘Jerry, the day is glorious and you’re looking like a dead rat in a hole.’

‘Yeh. F-Feel like one.’

‘So what’s the matter, huh?’

‘You know . . . nothing, the b-big fucking nothing out there, and the m-malice it holds.’ Jerry tried to smile.

‘Boring self-pity. You should’ve come down to see me instead of moping.’

Jerry felt a little confused by Mary’s sudden breezy appearance, and ashamed too for being so morbid. He tried to rise to the occasion.

‘Are you t-trying to cool me d-down, or are you going to show m-me what’s in that envelope?’ he said with his head somewhat averted – he could see Mary’s breasts
beneath the purple flowers of her blouse and he wasn’t sure how to react. That was the thing about Mary, she kept coming out with things and you were never sure where she was at.

‘I wasn’t going to tell anyone, but, well it’s hard to resist and I reckon it’s safe to tell you.’

‘S-So what is this?’

A slyly smiling Mary gave the envelope to Jerry and suggested he look inside. He pulled out a couple of large black and white photographs. Two people having sex, doggy style, with the man at the
back straining his head up in contorted ecstasy. Somewhat amazed, Jerry couldn’t work it out but then noticed the blurred edge of a curtain at the side of the pictures.

‘H-Have I got this right? Y-You took these? I mean, you took these through a w-window like a p-peeping tom?’

‘Awful, isn’t it?’

‘B-But, this isn’t portfolio stuff . . .’

‘Sort of. Well, I’m getting paid for them which is more than I can say about most of the other work I’ve done.’

‘W-What’s it for, is the b-bloke two-timing or something?’

‘I’m not sure about that. This woman I met down the Lime Tree, Claudette, you may have seen her around. We were chatting, I said I was trying to set up as a photographer and she said
she’d like to teach this bloke a lesson.’

‘Yeh, I think I’ve seen her around.’

‘God, it was scary doing it, Jerry, but exciting, you know. I got quite turned on. I was printing a few up the other day and it brought it all back.’

‘So, d-did you get paid?’

‘Half. I’m expecting the rest but she hasn’t been around the past while.’

‘Jesus, M-Mary, you’re certainly full of surprises.’

She looked at Jerry then, straight in the eyes. There was a glint within them, a glint Jerry hadn’t seen much of recently.

‘Hey,’ she said, ‘let’s go out for a walk.’

‘Shit, I d-don’t know . . .’

‘So how is it with you and that Wanda then?’

‘W-Why do you ask?’

‘Well, I haven’t seen her around, that’s all.’

Jerry and Mary were sitting on the grass down at Sparkhill Park. The sun was out and so were the people, dotted around the acres of green away from the relentless traffic. The benches by the
driveway were full of OAPs. A few young men kicked a ball about while a circle of Sikhs played cards by the rose bushes.

‘I g-guess it’s m-more or less folded. I haven’t w-wanted to go round and see her. No spark left, I guess, just habit.’

‘Yeh, the way they go, relationships.’

‘Y-You know I want y-you.’

Jerry thought he could say that then, in the park, in a public place, as though the context took away the import of his words. But Mary was grinning; she leaned over close and looked into
Jerry’s eyes.

‘Say it again.’

‘W-What? I w-want you?’

‘God, your stutter drives me wild.’

And then Mary kissed him, a kiss that was long and searching, almost a tongue fuck as she sat astride him and spread her skirt over him.

‘Come on, Jerry, let’s!’

‘D-Do y-y-you th-think –’

‘Shush! Put your hands under my skirt.’

All the seediness that had brooded within him for days suddenly went. Jerry began to feel that he was in the sea and about to drown. He looked around and saw the complacent faces of the old
folks on the benches and the surly youths thumping leather. A toddler waddling along the drive with her mum was looking straight at Jerry. He wanted to shout, to wave his arms and scream out that
he was in trouble, but the waters proved more alluring than fear. He slid his hands down into silky softness and found the wet place of his dreams.

‘Oh, Jerry, that is good . . . Now, try to get your jeans down.’

‘B-But –’

‘No one can see anything, we just look like we’re being playful.’

But the toddler was staring now and seemed to sense something was going on. And a poker-faced old lady was certainly looking hard at them. But Jerry couldn’t stop the pull of the waves. He
carefully eased down his jeans and Mary sank herself down. He closed his eyes and let himself be absorbed by the lapping sea. He was vaguely aware of Mary’s face above the water and, beyond
that, a distorted, malignant tree but then the climax came. Jerry writhed and choked and finally opened his eyes to a disconcerting sky.

* * *

Several hours later, Des drove Bertha in the direction of Burma Road. His mind was beginning to buzz, and it wasn’t about a certain someone. He’d picked Bertha up at the
Fedora and had encountered an almost animated Wayne.

‘Bleedin hell, Des, you ought to pack up the job more often. This place nearly came alive.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Another customer besides Dick, Bertha over there, and two phone calls for you. The dreaded M rang, said she was dropping the charges but to expect a bill through the post. Then that posh
woman rang. She said she was “going ahead”, whatever that means, and the cheque’s on the way. I mean, Des, we haven’t had such action in months!’

Des smiled to himself and then caught sight of the milk crates on the corner of Burma Road. No old men sat on them, but placards were hanging on the railings. Des looked over at Bertha.

‘Could be another suspect there,’ he said.

‘What? The holier-than-thous?’

‘One way to get the girls off the street. You know, these religious nutter types, they can be extreme.’

‘Don’t forget, Des, I’m reformed. I might even agree with them.’

‘Yeh, well it’s like dope, they’re shit scared to legalize it.’

Des went down Burma Road, took a few more turns in the backstreets and finally pulled up outside an Edwardian terraced house, last known home of Claudette Turton.

‘You’re sure Vin won’t be around?’

‘He’s frightened, Bertha, gone to ground.’

‘I guess he wouldn’t want to see me anyway.’

Bertha took out her key to the house and they went inside. Darkness was beginning to fall and so they switched on the lights as they went in each room. It all seemed very neat and tidy.

‘S’pose the police have had a good poke round.’

‘And you can bet that as soon as he heard, Vin flushed the place over.’

Downstairs consisted of a front room, living room and kitchen. Des and Bertha went snooping round all the furniture, cushions and kitchenware but found nothing of interest.

‘Strange,’ Des muttered, ‘going through someone else’s house.’

‘Bit of a waste of time.’

‘You don’t get much sense of what the two of them were like.’

‘Mmmm, guess some of this stuff should come to me.’

‘Would you want it?’

‘Nah, I got the things I . . .’

Bertha briefly took hold of Des’s hand and squeezed, but Des found that her face gave little away.

‘You OK?’

‘God, let’s get it over with.’

Upstairs, too, seemed totally unpromising. A front bedroom where the couple had slept and another where Claudette plied her trade. Both tidied up and clean along with the bathroom.
Not any
kind of personal scent. Not a sniff of dramas that once went on. Too unreal. Claudette already seems a memory kept alive in her mother’s mind
. Des watched Bertha looking through her
daughter’s clothes. Her looks may have waned with time, her body lost its symmetry, but he could see attractiveness there. He liked it. Beauty with character, not glamour; subtle pleasures
maybe, post-menopause. Des pulled himself up abruptly. Business, his mind asserted, strictly business!