The City Trap
by
John Dalton


"Grit noir's cutting edge has just got sharper.  John Dalton's prose is
as slick as a flick-knife.  The City Trap will catch you in its taut
and tangled web."

MAUREEN CARTER, author of Working Girls

"Dirty realism just got dirtier and more real.  It's like Derek Raymond
lost his way at Hanger Lane and ended up, via the M40, in
Birmingham."


First published in 2002 by

Tindal Street Press Ltd

217 The Custard Factory, Gibb Street, Birmingham B9 4AA
www.tindalstreet.org.uk

John Dalton, 2002

The moral right of John Dalton to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted, in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or any information storage or
retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the
publisher or a licence, permitting restricted copying.  In the United

Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90
Tottenham Court Road, London W1P OLP.

Typesetting: Tindal Street Press Ltd

All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 09535895 60

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Biddies Ltd, Woodbridge Park
Estate, Guildford.

To K and L

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Myra; and to Joel, Emma and Alan at Tindal Street Press for
their help and support.

One.

"I mean, look at this!  What is going on?"

"Seems like we're stuck."

"Stuck, yeh, like every day it gets quicker to walk!  Bleedin crazy!"

"Hold on, that bloke's letting you in."

"Thank the fuck you!"

Scobie Brent nudged his car into the crawling traffic of the main road.
It was half a mile bumper to bumper ahead of him.  Once in the flow, he
sighed and wiped imaginary sweat off his brow.  Then he smiled
reassuringly at the woman who sat next to him.

"Bloody nation's grinding to a halt," Claudette muttered.

"Yeh, even in our business we have schedules to meet."

"Reckon we'll make it?"

"Plenty of time .. ."

Scobie hadn't meant to cuss out loud.  "Keep your lid on," the boss had
said.  "Be smarmy."  Huh, as if Scobie couldn't handle a bird like
Claudette.  This job was a piece of piss.  He worked his thumbs into
the ribs of the steering wheel, pressed hard and then grinned as they
paled with the pressure.

"Anyway, Scobie, you got any plans to get out of this dump?"

"Don't know, luv, I ain't the kind to make plans.  You know, take each
day as it comes."

"Wow ..."

There was little point in keeping an eye on the road.  Scobie looked in
the rear-view mirror, smoothed back his hair and then cast a frank gaze
over Claudette.

OK, quite tasty, he thought.  Worthy of a second look .. . unlike the
rest of the slags.  Then he put on a casual smirk and let his eyebrows
float.

"You got plans then, have you, sweetheart?"

"Too right."

"You gonna give me an idea?"

"I don't reckon you'd know what I was on about."

The car nudged forward a few feet at a time.  What a flesh creeper, she
thought, real dangerous scum.  But Claudette reckoned she was used to
it, wits and instincts finely tuned to treading the thin line of hassle
avoidance.  She looked out of the window.  The last of daylight had
finally gone and city light had taken over.  This sudden tilt from day
to night seemed to bring more movement in the traffic and Scobie could
accelerate down the main street, his leering presence in the car
feeling less oppressive.  Claudette liked car-cruising in the city.  It
seemed to her the only way such a place made sense.  You could be
everywhere and anywhere and somehow feel part of the godawful sprawl.
Don't clog up on me yet, keep moving.  Movement is desperately needed,
thank you very much.

She leaned back in her seat and felt the thrust of speed.  Fingers
crossed, one big deal and I'll be over the horizon and gone for good.
Then she smiled at the neon shop signs and imagined the envious
thoughts of friends who would wonder how she got away.

"We're using the Varna pad tonight," Scobie drawled, feeling more
relaxed and in the groove of his work.

"Bit down-market, isn't it?"

"It's what the bloke wants."

"What sort of jerk is it this time?"

"Fuck knows, insurance or something."

"Don't know how the boss manages to find such well-heeled shits."

"Cos he knows where they crap, of course!"

Scobie gave out a braying laugh and ignored the grimace that Claudette
made.  He began to soothe the car through darkened backstreets,
skirting empty acres of flattened factories and keeping his eyes alert
for signs of police.

"Do I have to do anything funny?"

The nerves.  Always just before, Claudette felt the nerves tighten her
mouth and make her stomach queasy.

"Nah ... just be your professional self."

"Anything else lined up for me?"

"You know the boss .. . Shit, who knows when he'll pull out a golden
egg?"

"Yeh, well, he certainly likes his hand up the arse of a bird."

Scobie parked his car at the rear entrance of Varna Court.  He looked
up at the three-storey building with its grey bricks and saw that
everything was quiet.  He grabbed a large sports bag out of the boot
and then took Claudette by the arm to the entrance.  The flat looked
obviously unlived in, but it was furnished respectably and didn't come
over as a knocking shop.  Scobie moved straight into the bedroom and
began to unzip his bag.  He saw his face in the large mirror above the
headboard and he grinned uneasily at himself.  Why am I on edge?  he
then thought.  Cos the damn bird is getting to me, that's why.  His
fingers fumbled for a bottle of Scotch.

"This place is done out all right."

"Seen one, seen em all."

"Yeh, but you said the punter wanted something down market  This looks
more like home from home."

"What the fuck do you know about how rich pricks live?"

"Well I was'

"Just shut up and take your clothes off!"

"Why do I have to do that?"

"Because I've got some special kit in this bag.  What the bloke
ordered, see!"

"All right, keep your hair on."

God, Claudette thought, I'll be glad when this one's out the way.

But that was the way she'd been feeling with all the tricks since she'd
put her plan into action.  You don't realize how much you shut off from
the shit until you see a way out.  Then, suddenly, the things you've
done thoughtlessly for years become awkward, precarious even. Claudette
took her clothes off slowly, keeping an eye on Scobie in the mirror.
She didn't think too much of stripping in front of him; it was work and
common enough.  There was a niggle of uneasiness all the same. As
Scobie knocked back a few shots of booze she tried to work out what was
troubling her.  Not the usual nerves, the feeling didn't fit in with
them.  She looked again at Scobie.  Surely he couldn't have found
out?

"What time's the punter coming?"

"Nine."

"Has he got a name?"

"You're to call him James."

"And where will you be, Scobie, peeping through a hole in the wall?"

It was the wrong thing to say.  Scobie jerked his head round to stare
at the now naked Claudette.  There was a deep frown on his brow and a
dark fierceness in his eyes which made Claudette feel scared.

"It was only a crack."

Scobie didn't reply.  He tried to smile but Claudette got the feeling
he was hating her for something.  She nervously put her hands across
herself and cursed silently.

"S-So are you going to give me that gear then?"

For the first time in a long time Scobie was feeling panic.  He'd been
trying to work out his next move but it just wouldn't come to him. Such
a thing hadn't happened before.  Most jobs he'd done for the boss had
come off naturally.  He'd never really needed to think or plan. The
Scotch hadn't helped, but it was the other thing, the solid hard-on
that really irked him.  This sudden manifestation and the urge it
provoked seemed far more important than the job he had to do.  Scobie
felt himself begin to sweat.  He frowned even harder and tried to
fumble around in his fuzzy brain for a way to go.

"Do you have to stare at me like that?"

"Hello!  Are you going to give me the clothes?"

"You want it, don't you, you dirty bastard?"

Scobie went with his senses.  Still frowning, he got up from off the
bed and put his arms around Claudette.  A half-sneer, half-smile
flickered across his face and his hands roughly pawed over her.

"Get off me, you fucking shit!"

"Jesus, Claudette .. ."

"Get off!"

Claudette tried to fight Scobie off, but then they both stumbled
backwards onto the bed.  Scobie forced himself on top, shoved his arm
across Claudette's throat and then fumbled for his flies.

"God, I've gotta -Jesus, you are bleedin something."

"Get off me, you creep!  .. . The boss'll kill you!  ... I c-can't
bloody well b-breathe!"

Scobie shifted his weight then.  He forced himself into Claudette and
then pushed both his hands down on her shoulders.

"Bloody hell," he moaned, 'you are bleedin .. ."

"I'll fucking get you for this, you bastard!"

Claudette tried to struggle against the weight that held her.  She
tried to spit at the frowning face but her throat was dry.  Powerless
... It was then her sobs began, silent and bitter-tasting.

"Oh .. . Jesus ... you .. ."

Scobie came.  A few feeble, stiff spasms and that was it.  Claudette
trembled but managed to sneer defiantly at the still frowning face.

"Bastard!  Just piss off, will you."

"Yeh, I will, you stupid little slut.  But one thing, right' Scobie
pulled himself forward and put his hands around Claudette's head.

"You're a lousy lay and the fucking boss wants rid of you!"

Scobie sniggered excitedly, then he twisted, right and left, violently,
until her neck broke.

Two.

Last night, saw a face at my window

Sure as bell scared me to death

Thought it was my lover's ghost

Ha it was only me staring back!

Cymbals danced like bees' wings.  The lead guitar wound up a
high-pitched scream.  Bass and drums thundered as Stevie Kitson
bellowed, "OHHH YEAHH!"  and ended the song.

"Oh yeh sure, that's it tonight, brothers and sisters.  See you next
week and remember we love y'all, you Lime Tree people."

The applause didn't transcend the noise of chat and laughter in the
Lime Tree bar.  But that was cool because Stevie Kitson and the
Slammers didn't do the gig for anything but fun.  As Stevie once said,
"Shit, they all talked when Charlie Parker blew his horn.  It was the
whole scene, man, the music and the vibes."

Jerry Coton couldn't have agreed more.  He'd say, "You f-fork out a
b-bomb to see some group and you're supposed to t-treat them like a
snotty soloist in an orchestra.  S-Stuff that!"  He raised his pint
glass and nudged Mary in the arm.

"On form t-tonight."

"Don't know how he keeps going .. ."

Stevie Kitson was a feature of the local scene, a small time celebrity.
At one time he'd been lead guitar with the Blue Cruisers who had a
couple of hits like the famous "She Ain't What She Is'.  He'd made
enough out of that to set him up for life, carried on for a while as a
session musician, then decided that his hometown and the blues were the
place to be.

Jerry lit up a fag and moved his face close to Mary's, enjoying the
chance to sneak some intimacy.

"He'll p-probably g-go on till he's grizzled and grey, like us t-too,
half dead and t-toothless, still grooving to the same old riffs."

"You speak for yourself.  I'm never growing old .. . I'm going to leave
the power on and burn out way before then."

"I c-could drink to that."

"Yeh, so could I, cept I haven't got one."  Mary began to ease off her
stool.  "You want another?"

"Nah.  I'm holding on for V-Vin."

Thursday nights, the Lime Tree was the place to be.  Representatives of
all the tribes of the inner city came down.  All ages too, groovers and
straights, hustlers and tarts.  You even got some of the big-time bad
guys to shake a finger to good old Stevie, and the odd few cops too, no
doubt giving Eileen the landlady the protection to carry on the scene.
It was needed.  The spliffs were discreet but there to be spotted.  The
after-hours drinking was regular.  It was one of those situations where
everything seemed to work without controls.  There were no fights or
other fuckery.  For a few boozy hours, that pub was the melting pot in
love.  Camaraderie and good vibes transcending the myriad schisms that
would normally splinter such a grouping apart.  The navvy could boogie
with a junkie; the Sikh could spar with Rastafari.  Even God made it
with the pros, and cops and car thief both agreed Marvin Gaye was
supreme.  Jerry never wanted such nights to end.  Instead of the sour
morning-after, he wanted the melting pot to be a magic pot where the
party never stopped but grew and grew, bursting out of the walls of the
Lime Tree and flooding down every road until the city itself became one
huge wild party.  He was, of course, well on the way to being stoned.

Outside the pub, you'd have been hard pressed to enjoy yourself.  It
was bucketing down with rain.  Vin St.  James was locking up his car
and cursing the weather, the rain already funnelling down his trilby
and onto cold brown hands.  He made a dash for the Lime Tree, his last
port of call, hoping he'd do good business and make the efforts of the
night worthwhile.  His foot sloshed into a puddle as he staggered
through the doors and into the hall.  Vin cursed loudly.

"Don't take it so personal, man.  The puddle wasn't put there just for
a sucker like you."

Vin found himself face to face with Scobie Brent.  He was leaning
against the green tiles in the hall, combing his wet hair.  Vin felt a
momentary sense of panic at this sudden confrontation and he could only
cover his confusion with a lame smile.  Then he took off his trilby and
tried to coolly flick it down.

"Long time, Scobie," he said.  "Your kinda weather, huh?"

"You know me, Vin.  I take whatever comes, right there."  A smirking
Scobie pointed to his chin.

The next move for Vin was to get past Scobie and into the bar without
being drawn into some awkward scene.  Scobie was a feared heavy and,
according to whim, liked to throw his heaviness around.  Vin put on one
of his best smiles.

"You is one hard case, Scobie," he said, trying to keep the sarcasm as
subtle as possible.  "Didn' me a see you las winter out in the snow wid
jus you vest on?"

"The fuck, I was bleedin starkers in the snow!"

Vin laughed over loudly and went to push open the bar door.

"So how's your woman doin then, Vin?"

"Eh?  Jus fine."  Vin stalled.  "Why you ask?  What Claudette to
you?"

"Nothin, man, but," Scobie's smile was mocking, 'you know, I've always
kind of fancied her."

"Oh yeh .. ."

Vin pushed quickly through the bar doors and heaved a sigh of relief.
One fuckin mountain a turd!  he thought.  Inside, the crowd was
starting to thin out.  Vin ambled through and searched for clients. The
half-caste peach with the dishy eyes shook her head.  Then he saw
nervous Jerry and old grey Frederick.  Vin waved.  They knew where he'd
be.

"D-Didn't think you were g-going to turn up, Vin."

"Well, Jerry, it a shitty night, me nearly didn' come at all.  Me ain't
no milkman."

"More important, man.  A weekend smoke is essential  "Huh, you shoulda
be tuck up in bed, ole man."  Frederick was somewhere around sixty
years old and he never missed a Thursday night.  He had a chubby black
face that gleamed with sweat, and white frizzed hair.  A sharp suit
rippled with shine and chunky cufflinks winked gold from his sleeves.
Frederick was a groover.  Well into ganja, he could score with the
girls too.  A fine role model, Jerry would think, maybe there's hope
after all.

They all sheltered in the entrance to the men's loos as Vin doled out
his deals.  He was quite a small guy set against the lanky Jerry and
Frederick's broad girth.  But Vin, though silent, didn't get much
aggravation.  For first-time customers, he would give off the hard eye,
then pull out a slim shiv and groom his nails.  That demonstration
given, Vin would grin and soothe his clients with the winning sparkle
of his eyes.  Vin St.  Charm.  It was one way to survive.

"You stayin on feh late drinks, Vin?"  Frederick asked.

"Nah man, the ole lady a call."

"Dem always do but some time you don't have to hear em."

"Come on, man, it neva pay to be deaf to a woman ..."

Another latecomer poked his head around the bar door.  Des McGinlay,
feeling desperate, panic lights in his eyes.  He'd been stuck in his
house loneliness crawling down the walls like so many spiders out to
get me.  Des needed company but the boozy energy of the bar made him
stall.  Smoke and din, sweat on garrulous faces it seemed to mock him
and where he'd fled from.  Des groaned, wavered and stared in mild
shock at the scene, a scene he should really be part of.

"You gonna kick Winston out?  You must be mad!"

"Trust, Bev, it's all about trust, an one thing me do know only me I
trust."

"Dis horse, it won fuckin hell.  Me had fifty soddin quid almost in me
hand an den the bastards mek it disqualify!"

"That is cruel..  ."

"You truly are a sweet-looking woman, you know.  Why don't we go
driving, up to the airport, have a slick supper and watch the planes
come in?"

"Promise to take me on one and I just might go .. ."

There wasn't anyone Des could see that he knew.  Familiar faces, yes,
but no one he could latch onto amid the strident scene.  Des knew he
shouldn't have come.  He'd missed the momentum of the night.  The boozy
groovers were well off into pleasures shared and Des was just a wet
rag, a rain-sodden piece of reality that no one would give two fucks
for at that point in time.  Des groaned again and then slunk away from
the door.  v

Jerry was still there in the crowd, a smug smile on his face and
thoughts of spliffs soon to drift him onto dawn.  There was only one
thing more he needed that would make it perfect.  Jerry scanned the
crowd and finally saw her.  He began to squeeze his way towards Mary.
Yes, it was a bit of a gamble.  They were supposed to be just friends
but Jerry couldn't help himself, it was the extra buzz he craved.  He'd
almost reached the bar when he suddenly stopped.  Mary was talking to
another bloke, a suited geezer with receding black hair and a ponytail,
and she was talking in 'that' kind of way, almost drooling over the
creep.  Jerry's spirits sank.  He began to stare vindictively at the
git in the suit, seeing there was a finger missing from his left hand.
But as he stared, he became conscious of someone else watching him.
Jerry turned and found himself looking into a pair of dark, malicious
eyes.  He shivered like he'd just had a premonition of pain.  The eyes
narrowed.  He saw a deep frown above them and sneering lips below.  The
tough guy's head nodded towards the door.  Jerry was expected to leave.
He didn't hesitate.  Frustrated and fearful, Jerry walked off and out
into the un consoling rain.

It seemed to be raining everywhere that night.  Well beyond the city
limits, among the leafy lanes, farmworker Bob Grainger drove home from
his local.  Fit to burst, he had to stop and take a leak.  He pulled in
at a lay-by and stumbled over to the bushes.  Just as he was about to
let go with huge relief, he looked down.  The naked corpse of a woman
-white skin dripping, eyes puddled with rain lay right where he was
about to piss.

Three.

Des McGinlay was back in his kitchen and looking out at the rain.  A
poplar tree shimmered in the breeze; its twisted leaves caught city
light and sparkled.  Des scowled angrily.  He turned on his own light,
ignored his gaunt reflection and went to the table to write.

Dear Miranda

Yeh, it is a mess.  And yeh, I'm feeling lousy.  But this cold shoulder
of yours, it's really screwing me up.  What am I supposed to do? You're
shagging other guys and I want to shag you .. .

The ball of crumpled paper missed the waste bin.  It bounced over lino
and hit a wall.  The pen bounced too, became silent and blunted on the
kitchen floor.  Des hugged himself tight.  He looked warily at the
walls, feeling that the spiders were back again.

"I can't bleedin well take this!"

Grabbing a raincoat, Des again escaped the claustrophobia of his house
and hit the streets.  He ducked his head into sheets of rain and
walked.  Up Argent Street, past the Lime Tree and onwards.  He trudged
twelve miles that night, through the pelting rain, the nameless
streets, alone but for half a bottle of whisky.  The onslaught of the
weather, the pounding his legs received helped to keep at bay those
awful questions, that writhing feeling that he was zero and out of
control.  But the booze was a mistake.  The whisky numbed the pain but
it sent his mind reeling with unwanted thoughts.  Miranda, Miranda,
Miranda .. . The pictures in his mind: smiling eyes, intimate laughter,
breasts like speckled pears.  He wanted them, wanted to ravish but
someone else would be there.  Des groaned up at the streetlights,
stashed his empty bottle in a hedge, crawled on through the
rain-drenched night.

"Where is he then?"

"Fuck knows."

"It's gone twelve o'clock."

"I know, he ain't been himself lately."

"What, he's still moping over that bird of his?"

"Yeh, like a lost dog looking for its master."

"A wanker if you ask me."

"The cops want to speak to him now."

"Jesus, what's that about, Wayne?"

"Fuck knows."

The Fedora used to be called the Black Boy.  No one was quite sure what
the old name referred to.  Some swarthy king from the past?  The times
when aristocrats paraded their houseboy Negroes around?  Or a reference
to those Victorian urchins shoved up chimneys or pushed down mines?
Whatever, in modern times, Black Boy was no name a brewery would wish
to be saddled with.  But Fedora, that had glamour; it was Hollywood
stars and cool dudes in the gleaming city.

Midday, Des McGinlay looked through the pub window and saw the grainy
black and white blow-ups of famous faces.  But no one sat by the
parlour palms.  No smoke drifted to the ceiling fans.  There were no
heavy-drinking role-players on the New Orleans scene.  Des sighed as he
pushed through the doors.

Wayne was slotting pint mugs on a rack above the bar.  He didn't look
at Des when he entered.  Dick O'Malley sat on a bar stool and grinned.
The ever-present, ever-grinning Dick nodded at Des and then gormlessly
stared into his beer.

"Sorry I'm late."

There was no immediate response.  Wayne carried on stacking glasses and
his grizzled chin gave nothing away.  Finally, however, the words
came.

"You look really bad, Des.  Terminal.  You look like you got TB, cancer
and Aids all in one go."

"There's a hangover for you."

"You've got to pull yourself together, mate."  Wayne brought his hairy
forearms down to the bar and gave Des a sad look.  "You know I don't
mind a bit of slack, but this ain't no sheltered home for the fucked
up."

"I know."

"I mean, there's gotta be some point to me being boss, like I can put
my feet up and give you the run around."

Des had been working at the Fedora for six months.  It was temporary,
of course, until his other job picked up.  But the whole set-up there
was a temporary affair.  The Fedora was the kind of city centre pub
which had a different clientele every day (grinning Dick was an
exception).  It went through bar staff on a monthly basis and even
Wayne had no inclinations to stay around.  The Fedora was a kind of
floating world, an on-the-off-chance place that meant nothing to no
one.

"Maybe you should take the rest of the week off?"  Wayne was now
picking his teeth with a match.  "That new bird Kim was asking for a
few extra hours."

"I don't know, Wayne.  It might be better if I came in."

"Come on, you ain't that desperate.  A break'd probably do you good."

Wayne had a thing about matches.  He cleaned his nails, teeth and even
his ears with them.  He scraped them on his bristled chin, passed them
through his fingers and made pretty patterns on the bar.

"I don't know what I'd do, though.  You know, things are still
slack."

"Anyways, you're wanted.  The police are asking for you."

"Oh no .. ."

"Don't ask me why.  You do anything stupid lately?"

"Don't think so."

"Better to keep yourself scarce."  Wayne proceeded to slot some matches
into his fist.  "And that client of yours, posh Rebecca, she rang up,
wants to know how you're getting on."

Des found it hard to focus on the idea that he was wanted, even if by
the police.  A world-weary sigh hissed out of him.

"Come on, Des, the whole boring load of crap will still be here when
you get back."  Wayne raised his fist.  Suddenly he scraped the match
heads against his stubble.  There was laughter all round when his hand
became fire.

Lunchtime was a gaping hole, an empty stomach, a great white craving
for a fag.  Jerry Coton, having spent hours climbing out of sleep,
finally climbed out of bed.  He threw on his dressing gown and shuffled
to the fire-escape door.  "Shit," he moaned, 'save me from oblivion."
Pushing the door open, he saw red roofs and rain-washed leaves.  His
bleary eyes tried to focus and his whole body wavered, almost shrank
from the painful glare.  Jerry lit a cigarette and waited for the view
to sink in, for the world to stop being upside down.  Once adjusted, he
moved onto the top step and looked out.  "Another aimless d-day in the
sprawl, another stroll on the streets of d-deferred opportunity," he
muttered, half smiling to himself.  But it wasn't a comfortable smile.
Dope smugness worked up to a point, but anxiety always lurked
somewhere.  Jerry thought then that he saw the houses shift as though
they were floating on water and he was relieved when he heard noises
coming from the kitchen below.  Gripping the shaky banister hard, Jerry
sighed and went on down.  Mary was there, starting to wash up.  She
offered to make him toast.  Jerry gave the door some support and tried
not to leer.

"So, Jerry, you want to know what happened?"

Since waking, in the back of his mind Jerry had been wondering and
hoping that last night had been a flop for Mary.  Now she was looking
at him as friend and confidant and he was forced to brace himself.

"You know, with that guy last night?"

"Oh, yeh .. . the one with the f-finger m-missing."

"Weird and a turn-on.  I know he did look a bit slimy but we kind of
hit it off."

Jerry clamped his lips together and tried to look unmoved.

"His name was Ross, said he sold cars."  Mary grimaced.  "That was a
turn-off."

"S-So what h-happened?"

"You know.  I mean, why am I telling you?"

"The g-geezer stayed the n-night?"

Jerry's heart plummeted and squirmed with jealousy.  He struggled to
hide it.

"See what you miss when you get up late?"

"S-So," Jerry managed to gulp, 'h-how, how was it?"

"Interesting.  You should've heard what he said about his finger."

"I I c-can imagine."

"But it wasn't that good.  To tell the truth, at the end of it, he
seemed more interested in my darkroom than me, and kept asking if I
took dirty pictures."

"You said he looked s-slimy."  Jerry began to feel relieved.

"Yeh, one down to experience I reckon."

Mary went back to washing up while Jerry struggled to settle his
feelings.  Ponytailed little ponce!  Slime bag!  But then he remembered
the eyes, the cold little eyes that had sent him running and he
shivered.  Mary, those careless risks she took .. .

It was all laid out there in front of him.  A pile of beer cans on the
living-room floor, overflowing ashtrays and a few roaches stubbed out
in a plant pot.  The kitchen told the same story, only this time a
bottle of Scotch lorded it above the crumpled balls of paper on the
floor.  Des stood in the doorway and could feel the pull.  The 'big
wallow' that grinned and whispered seductively, Come on, man, sit down
and let's hinge.  He did his best at self-control, grabbed a bin bag
and flung the mess of the night's turmoil into it.  Outside, the
garbage got squashed satisfyingly into an already full bin. Cautiously,
Des breathed in cool air, wondering whether this could be his fresh
start.  He wiped rain off a plastic chair, sat down and got out the
local newspaper.

The headline on the front page was briefly intriguing.  The body of a
naked woman, possibly a prostitute, had been found in a lay-by five
miles outside the city.  Reference was made to the fact that several
others had been found in similar circumstances over the past two years.
Des was interested in that.  One of the bodies previously found was
that of a whore who'd lived just down the road and at the time he'd put
out feelers to see if it could bring him some work.  This woman had had
no friends or adult relatives, though.  Just a five-year-old girl left
in the worst of lurches.  Des sighed; he was in the wrong
neighbourhood, close to the wrong clientele.  He threw the newspaper
down.  The patio seemed dismal and empty.  He stared at the grime on
the paving stones and took a wary look at an insipid sky.

The colour caught his eye first.  A hint of red amid the dreary backs
of the houses.  Des turned his head and saw it properly.  A red balloon
was bouncing down from his roof.  Slowly it drifted and, catching a
current of air from the entry, it suddenly flung itself forwards and
landed at Des's feet.  Des smiled slightly at the surprise, but then
felt a stab of resentment at the intrusion and kicked out.  A square of
polythene was attached to the balloon.  Des picked it up.  On one side
of the square he read: Open me.  I want to be let out!  Please!!!!!

Des carefully unstuck the sellotape at the side and drew out a pink
card.  More writing: From the mystry?  Who loves you and is ready for
it sex.  This is from Lisa.  I love you.  I live at 108 Kingsvale
Tower.

Des stared at the message.  He looked back up at the blanket of clouds.
It was then that the ache began to return, that thwarted hunger as
chillingly tangible as the need for food.

It took some time to find the A-Z, such was the mess of his house.  He
began to flick through the pages.  He must've been up that way when he
was taxi-driving.  But that was then, when he was with Miranda.  Now
the lines and letters were just a blur.  The map book to the city had a
random index and false reference codes.  But Kingsvale Tower did exist.
The name finally pointed itself out of the confusion and Des realized
that a westerly wind must have brought the balloon two miles through
the polluted air.  He pondered.  Was this luck or just a hoax from a
silly girl?  Could it be a real message from a lusting damsel locked up
high in a tower?  Could this be his escape from the claws that dug into
him?  Des closed the A-Z, put it in his back pocket and went to the
phone.

"Is Rebecca there, please?"

"Sorry, she hasn't been in work for a couple of days."

Des smiled with relief.  "Could you tell her Mr.  McGinlay rang,
yeh?"

"Certainly."

Des grabbed his coat and hurried to the front door.  As he opened it,
two burly policemen stopped and stared at him.  One had a scar that
halved his nose.

Four.

The cop with the scar-spliced nose leaned over towards Des and snarled.
You could tell he'd had his fair share of abuse about his deformity and
toughed it out.  In fact, he wore it with pride.

"Look, when Miranda said "shove it", she didn't mean shove a house
brick through the windscreen of her car!"

"But, I didn't... I don't -'

"Were you out last night?"

"In most of the time though I did go for a bit of a walk."

"Pissed, were you?"

"I suppose I was a -'

"Stoned?"

"You don't expect me to'

"Yeh, too bloody high to know it.  Too red with rage to care."

"Come on, she lives six miles from me.  You think I'd walk there and
back, twelve miles in the pouring rain, just to smash a car window?"

"She's a tasty bird, Miranda.  You must be pretty sick at losing
her."

"And smashing her car will help me get her back?"

"It was a cry from the heart, attention-seeking; and you got it too.
Miranda clocked you, mate."

"Oh, I don't know, maybe I did do it.  But if I did, it was a mistake.
I was pissed and'

"That's no defence."

"Oh sod it, man.  Miranda won't press charges anyway."

The cop ceased to flaunt his disfigurement.  He eased back in his chair
and allowed an indulgent smile to soften his mean interrogator's
face.

"Well, if you did do it, and Miranda does press charges, then you're in
deep shit, aren't you?"

"What you mean?"

"This Mickey Mouse licence of yours, "private investigator".  Business
good, is it?"

"Fair enough."

"Oh yeh?  Well, mate, your days of snooping on unfaithful wives could
be over.  Mickey Mouses ain't supposed to have criminal records."

"Ha bloody ha."

"So, we'd better get the charge sheet filled out, and a statement
written down."

There comes a time, in the stages of splitting up, when lost love
becomes hate.  When all those yearning touchstones of desire are turned
on their head and become foul urges to destroy.  As he walked out of
the police station, Des got a sense of that, like a sudden spurt of
acid through his veins.  But, valiantly, he clung to hope and dived for
the first phone box he found.

"Is Miranda there, please?"

"It is me."

"Yeh?  Well this is Des, I've just got out of the cop shop!"

"You mean they haven't locked you up?"

"Come on, Miranda.  I was pissed and angry."

"I don't want you harassing me.  I don't want you anywhere near me!"

"Look, I'll pay for the windscreen and everything."

"I don't want this phone call, Des."

"You're not really going to press charges, are you?"

"Oh yes I bloody well am!  I'd press for the death penalty if I had the
chance, anything to get you out of my hair."

"Jesus, you don't have to be such a shit.  I could lose my PI licence
and be stuck down the Fedora for the rest of my life."

"Look, Des, I'm sorry, but it is over, and your day in court will
hopefully make it plain to you that it is finally and totally finished.
So please, just get off the phone and get on with your own life."

Des stared at the silent mouthpiece and the streaks of grime around its
rim.  He sensed something within him that was becoming familiar.  A
draining away inside, a feeling that the ground beneath his feet was
turning liquid.

"I've got to do something!"

Des dashed up the road, clambered into his rusty old Lancia and sped
off.

He knew where he was going but didn't want to admit it to himself.
Instead, he began to wonder whether he would lose his licence and
whether or not it was worth having anyway.  Business was barely ticking
over.  He hadn't actually been properly paid since he'd sorted out
Calvin Westmoreland, the guy with the gammy leg who'd ripped off Sister
Bethany's savings.  True, he did have a case on the go, if only he
could get round to working on it.

"I'm sure my husband is having an affair, Mr.  McGinlay, and I just
need the proof.  And if he is, I'm going to get a divorce.  I'm going
to bleed the rotten bugger dry!"

Fine.  Posh Rebecca had the means and Des was keen to provide the
ammunition.  But Rebecca's prospective ex proved to be slippery as well
as rotten and Des had yet to get conclusive proof.

"What am I paying you for, Mr.  McGinlay?"

"I'm sorry, but your husband plans his shagging like he's a frigging
spook in the Kremlin."

"You have two weeks or I go elsewhere!"

"I'll do it," Des grumbled to himself.  "Miranda may have stabbed me in
the back and left me writhing, but I'll bleeding well do it."

That was a week ago and Des had barely been sober since.

Night was falling fast around the Kings Road Estate.  Already tower
blocks were dark monoliths, and menacing stars were piercing the clear
sky.  Des shivered in the exposed grass spaces he roamed across. The
towers, as their lights came on, began to seem almost homely.
Kings-wood, Kingsriver, Kingsacre (renamed Kingsarse by some local
hood) and then, finally, Kingsvale.  Des clutched his little pink card
and looked up.  No desperate face at the window, no balloon escaping to
the stars, but Des chose to remain optimistic and blind.

Empty corridors and landings.  Resolutely closed doors.  There's
something ferociously hostile about a tower block as though when
entering you defile the dead or taunt their living, ghostly spirits.
Des had always hated tower block calls when he drove his taxi.
Standing on a cold landing late at night, hearing dogs growl, feeling
eyes at spy holes screams and laughter echoing down the pipes.  He
almost chickened out as the lift shuddered open at Kingsvale Tower, but
he doggedly took the plunge.  Maybe it was a stupid waste of time or
maybe a sniff of adventure, but it was something that took him away
from her. Des stood outside number 108, took a deep breath and rang the
bell.

She could've been sixteen, Des thought, perhaps even seventeen.  It was
hard to tell, the way young girls bloom.  She could've been twelve.

"Yes?  What d'you want?"

"Hi there.  Your name Lisa?"

"Who's asking?"

Whatever her age, the young lady had all the components of a perfectly
formed body; and she'd made the effort to let the world know this by
wearing a dress that clung to her like a coating of smooth, erotic
moss.

"Well, hope you don't mind but..  ."

"Yes?"

Lisa this girl was surely her was beginning to retreat from the door.
She had a pretty face but her lips were sulky and there was hardness in
her eyes.

"I reckoned it was a good idea, this card.  Literally out of the blue.
Risky, yes.  Crazy, but... you know, nice.  Like the lottery, seeing
what comes up me."  Des tried a charm smile but he was fast realizing
that perhaps Lisa didn't quite appreciate him turning up.  He suddenly
noticed a picture of a blue Madonna hanging like a warning sign in the
hallway.

"Oh my God!  Jesus!  Look, you just get'

"The name's Des1 was wondering, why don't we throw caution to the winds
and meet up some time?"

"It was a joke, you daft'

As Lisa began to hiss and close the door, Des saw a man's face peer
into the hall.  A father's face, no doubt, large and stern-looking.

"What's going on, Lisa?  Who is that?"

"Dunno, Dad," Lisa called back and then turned to Des.  "Just piss off,
will you?"

"You don't reckon, huh?"

"It's not one of your boyfriends sniffing around, is it?"

"No, Dad, it's some stranger.  But he's talking dirty, Dad, bout me."

"What?"

Des caught her malicious little smile before the extent of his own
stupidity hit him like a punch in the gut.  Seeing a burly father come
down the hall towards him, he backed away, looking for a hole to jump
into.

"Let me see this bloke."

"I I think he's a bit funny, Dad."

Des took one more step back, hit a wall and then realized that the only
honourable thing to do was run.  The door to 108 was flung open as Des
frantically rushed to the stairs.

"Is that the bleeder?"

"Yeh, I think he's one of them perverts."

"Eh, you, come here!"

Des pushed through the stairwell doors, footsteps pounding behind him.
The rest was madness.  Zigzagging pell-mell down ten sets of stairs.
His steps echoing, and heavier, more menacing footsteps close behind.
And then the shouts, the raucous shouts that seemed to fill the whole
tower, bringing blunt shafts of embarrassment to Des's ears.

"Just let me get you!  .. . Fuckin perverts should be trashed!  .. .
Gonna beat the livin shits outa you!  .. . Bastaaard!!"

Vin St.  James sat down beside a clump of rosebay willow herb and
thought about being a suspect for murder.  He felt calm enough.  He
hadn't done the deed but he knew that didn't count for much if a sucker
was needed.  Vin knew he was sitting pretty for that, a dumb-arse black
pimp would do fine if the real killer couldn't be found.  There was a
lot to think about and the patch of waste ground wedged between two
canals and a factory yard was the only place he could go to think.  It
was his place and the ganja plants that gracefully swayed in the
darkness were his winter supply.  Vin took out his knife and stabbed at
the ground.

Me gotta tink it out firs, den feel.  Shit, Claudette!  It coulda bin
some friggin white nut, some half-dere shit who took she away.  Bad feh
me, dem don't often catch such creeps who melt away like snow in the
bloodclaat suburbs.

But she ivasn' s'pose it be out on the game.  Wha she a say?  Gwan see
a fren?  Jesus, what was the bleedin bitch a doin?

Vin dropped his knife and let his hands hang against his thighs.  He
sighed loudly, thinking how the cops knew he wasn't the one but were
laughing at his predicament: A drink down the Earl eh, St.  James, one
in the Vine and the Lime Tree, you shouldn't have to worry bout
witnesses then, pal, you should be cast iron in the clear.  But then
maybe they'll have bad memories about knowing a piece of shit like
you?

So plan one was obvious to Vin; he had to get some guys to back him up.
But what if it wasn't a nutter?  What if Claudette had done something
stupid and got caught up in bad business?  She was pissed off enough to
make that possible.  Vin came face to face with his feelings then.
Shit, me ain't no pimp.  We was partners, a team, man, seeking good
returns an a straight way out.  Jesus, me fuckin love her an me heart
it bleed!

Vin knew what his second plan had to be.  He'd have to start asking
around, check out the other players on the scene and seek an
explanation.  It was dangerous but he had to know if Claudette had been
messing him around.  In the distance he heard trains trundling into the
mainline station and above the tops of the weeds he saw the lights of
city centre towers muted in grey haze.  He stabbed his blade back into
the wet earth and tried not to think about regret and his really big
mistake.

Jesus, man, it happen.  What the diff'rence, it all come out the same
.. .

Driving the Lancia through sparkling city streets was soothing.  Des
felt the shakes recede and his heartbeat ease down to its normal level.
It had been a close shave.  Lisa's angry father had tripped over,
giving Des the chance to sneak off into the night.  Now, feeling quite
cosy amid the anonymous suburbs, he allowed himself a smile and a
little self-scolding too.  What a stupid dickhead!  Total prat!  Look
what it's doing to me, Miranda.  A mistake to think that one.  The name
Miranda, it was a trigger; it was like a bell to a conditioned dog. Des
didn't actually salivate, but physiological ructions did occur. Most of
all, he suddenly began to feel that awful hunger, that dreadful
appetite for release.  He almost howled then because his search for
Lisa, no matter how stupid, had given him a goal, had put his craving
on the outside.  Now he was back to the prospect of a lonely house, the
big wallow with its bad vibes and alcoholic stupor.  Des gripped the
steering wheel hard.  I've got to do something!

It was then that a sort of solution did arise.  He'd just turned into a
side street when he came to a group of Asian men standing on the
pavement.  Des blinked.  They were carrying placards.  He slowed down
and peered through his windscreen.  KEEP KERB-CRAWLERS OUT!  No Go FOR
PROS!  Des realized he was coming up to Burma Road, well known for its
streetwalkers and inviting window displays.  An idea began to
illuminate his mind but before it could grow, an Asian guy tapped on
his window.  Des wound it down.

"Hope you don't mind me asking, mate, but what're you doin round
here?"

"Reckon I do mind."

"You're not local, are you?"

"It's just none of your business, friend."

"We think it is, mate.  We're sick of kerb-crawlers and dirty pros
fuckin up the lives of our women and kids and we're out to stop them.
So, are you looking for sex or what?"

"Come off it, man.  I don't mind you demonstrating but what I do is my
business and I'm not bleeding well telling you'

"Oh yeh?"

"Yeh."

"Right, we're gonna take your number, right, and we're gonna give it to
the police and we're gonna tell them what a dirty fucker you are."

"Too late, they already know."

Des pressed down the accelerator and moved off from the group.  A
couple of them briefly ran after him, shouting abuse.  On the corner of
Burma Road a group of elderly Asian men sat on milk crates.  They
brandished their fists at Des.  He waved back and slowly turned into
the famous road.  It was deserted.  No bare thighs flashed out between
the trees.  No bosoms pressed against parlour windows.  That faint
spark of an idea in Des's mind began to wane.

But it didn't die.  Des cruised down Burma Road and then on through the
backstreets.  Barely half a mile from the vigilantes, his headlights
caught a familiar sight.  Des slowed.  Should he try?  He never had
before.  Never needed to.  But wasn't that what they were for?  When
you were down on your luck, when there was no one else to turn to?  Des
stopped next to the woman and she peered in through the open window.

"Bad time for business," he muttered.

"Could say that."

"You're brave to be out here."

"You've got to make a living whatever."

"Guess so ... em, what do you charge then?"

"What d'you want?"

"Intercourse I guess."

That's thirty."

"OK."

"I've got a room across the way."

She said her name was Pearl, and a pearl she was, a yellow pearl,
slightly oriental in looks and with bright ginger hair.

Des followed her ample backside up the narrow stairs of a dingy house.
A smell of damp caught his nostrils, a whiff of ganja and air freshener
too.  They entered a small bedroom on the first floor, an empty dismal
place with just a bed, table and easy chair.  Des began to waver.  This
was another nothing place, a functional fuck-room that made him feel
depressed.  The feeling was made worse by the token picture on the
wall.  A mournful clown with a big grin looked over at him.  Pearl
quickly put down her bag, laid a condom on the bedside table and then
began to strip.  It didn't take her long.  A miniskirt and top and that
was it, apart from her calf-length boots, which she left on.  She lay
down on the bed and smiled while Des stood hovering awkwardly in the
middle of the room.  She was, he could see, a perfect erotic vision,
the sort of vision that was meant to provoke wild love-making, but "Are
you OK, luv?"  she said.

"Dunno yet."

But Des knew what had happened.  He'd messed up again.  In his mind,
yes, she was erotic perfection, but there on the bed, she might just as
well have been a pile of flesh with a scar.

"Would you like me to come over and undress you, help you get
started?"

"Look, Pearl, I..  ."

He couldn't really pretend she was Miranda, they were too different.
Anyway, such fantasies rarely worked, and wouldn't in a place so
perfunctory.  He looked again at the sentimental clown and wanted to
mash its face.  Time was what he needed to get involved with Pearl's
body, to make it fit the contours of his own desire, but there wasn't
time on the game.  She must've read his thoughts.

"Are you going to do it or what?  I haven't got all night."

"Pearl, you are great but... I don't think this is going to work, I'm
sorry."

"After coming this far you don't want to?"

"Well, I guess I do, but..."

"Bloody hell, what are you?  A peeping tom or something?  Jesus!"

Pearl angrily got up off the bed and began to put her clothes back
on.

"If things aren't bad enough with these vigilantes, I have to land
myself with a limp John!  Fuck'

"I'll pay you some money anyway."

"You bet you will."

"A tenner?"

"It'll do.  Now, come on, out."  Pearl smoothed over the bed and picked
up her handbag.  "Jesus, this city is full of wankers .. . religious
nuts .. . murdering perverts."

"You knew the woman who got killed?"

"Yeh, I knew her, thought she had more sense."

"The risks you take, though, Pearl."

"Part of the game, just like prats like you."

"No hard feelings I hope."

"Nah, you're all right.  I got part of my fee, but get out now, huh."

Pearl opened the door.  "What you need, sweetheart, is a nice
girlfriend, right?"

She winked as Des passed her and then drifted on down the dingy
stairway.  He was trying to think of a journey, a different journey
that didn't cruise through familiar streets and end up at the same old
bottle.

Five.

Posh Rebecca's husband was called Theo.  He was a university lecturer,
some kind of expert on the history of sanitation.  Des could see why
Rebecca wanted rid of him.  Theo was small and flabby.  He sported a
brown moustache.  He had dandruff.  The moustache was no doubt the sign
of his eccentric trade, for otherwise Theo looked like a bland
executive, stepping out sprightly in expensive suits with a sly look to
his eye.  Des blended in well on the campus, got a fix on him easily
enough.  Theo had a fancy woman all right.  Naomi; a skinny, hawk-nosed
lady almost half his age.  Des clocked the little glances, the
hand-holds beneath tables and the secret sniggers.  But that was the
easy part.  Catching Theo on an assignation proved much harder.  Twice
he'd tailed him on unscheduled drives and twice he'd lost him.  But
this time Des was ready, he hoped.

He sat in his car outside the campus entrance on the afternoon when
Theo usually went screwing.  For a lovelorn, doped-up fool, Des felt
quite reasonable.  He'd indulged the night before, but something had
shifted within him and he didn't feel as though he was treading water
so much any more.  That he put down to his stupidity.  Making an ass of
himself, it seemed, was something he had to do.  But it was perhaps due
also to another kind of resolution, the late-night kind.  What do
washed-out guys do?  Concentrate on work.  So there he was,
businesslike, out on the streets and doing his job.  He looked with a
pin-sharp eye at the campus scene and scanned for a red BMW.  With
effort, the M word was kept from his thoughts.  He did wonder though
about a possible court case.  Did he really sling a brick at her car?
This was a tricky problem.  No way he could reason with the accuser.
One possibility came to him: a consultation with his only friend in the
police force.  There must be ways to sort out such things, and Errol
would know them.  Thus preoccupied, Des almost missed the red BMW, but
recovered in time to get on its tail.

It was going to be the same switch.  Theo parked in Sainsbury's car
park, got out and went into the store.  Des had worked out what would
happen next.  Theo would go left into the store cafe, exit through a
side door and then slip through to the DIY warehouse on the same site.
He would go in and out again and meet up with Naomi on its parking lot.
Des drove round to the relevant entrance and waited.  Across the vast
area of cars, he soon spotted the portly figure with the trim
moustache.  Through his binoculars he saw the glint in the eye and the
jokey, surreptitious manoeuvres Theo made as though it was a jolly good
game.  A blue Ford Fiesta exited the car park and Des followed his
unwary prey home.

Naomi and Theo parked in the drive of a house at the end of a modern
terrace.  There was a low fence around the house and plenty of
greenery.  As the couple went inside, Des found himself stalling.  How
was he going to get any decent shots?  Did he really want to scrabble
around in the undergrowth and snoop?  Wasn't it, after all, just plain
sex?  Des almost convinced himself.  Then a piercing view of the big
wallow came to him and he wrenched open the car door.  A few minutes
later he was shuffling through a big rhododendron at the back of
Naomi's garden.  Luck was with him.  Naomi had a large picture window.
She also had the courtesy to snog Theo right in the middle of Des's
lens.

"That ought to satisfy Rebecca," he muttered.  "Specially as Theo's got
his hand crawling up Naomi's thigh.  God, whatever, wouldn't mind my
hand .. ."

Des brought the camera down.  This is getting too close.  What if
Rebecca wants the full gory details?  How would I cope?  he asked
himself.

Des looked at the upstairs of the house and began to wonder how
seasoned pros get such shots.  He couldn't see any way short of a
ladder to do it.  But luck was still with him.  The two lovers had
begun undressing each other in the living room.  They were having quite
a giggle and Naomi feigned great shock when she saw Theo unveil his
upright tool.  Then a game of 'catch-me' began and the two ran off
naked, both laughing like little kids.  Des took what pictures he
could, his fingers shaky and sweat on his brow.

"Shit," Des breathed as he replaced the lens cap.  "That was too close.
What do you get when you make a move?  Your own bleeding needs thrown
back at you.  Unwanted fuckery I say, like so many memories left stale
in the mouth the morning after, too damn much."

"Des still not in then, eh?"  "Nah, he took the full week off."  "Can't
see him lasting much longer."  "Des's all right.  I mean, let's face
it, Dick, it's a crap job."  "His other option seems pretty weird."
"Well, he's still getting the phone calls."  "But does he get the
dough, eh, Wayne?"  "Fuck knows.  But who gives a shit, let him do it."
"So where's this bird then who's doing his shift?"  "In later, and
pretty dishy too I tell you."  "Ten times better than Des."  "Phew, no
comparison."

"So what you reckon your chances are?"  "Fuck knows."

Des managed to enter the Fedora with a certain amount of style.  He
caught the gaze of Bogart on the wall and thought, Yeh, well, it's only
acting after all.  Match in mouth, Wayne straightened up and raised an
eyebrow.

"Give us a malt, and one for yourself," Des said as he plonked his
camera on the bar.  "I reckon I've earned some dosh today."

"Well, Jesus, this is a major happening, Des."

"See the morgue's still empty, apart from Dick that is."

"Ha, ha."

"So what you done then, solved the perfect crime?"  Wayne flicked his
match up into the air with his lips and got it into the ice bucket.

"No, just done my bit for the divorce rate."

"That ain't hard to do these days."

"Got some snaps up at the lab now.  I'll have them in an hour."

"Dirty sod.  Still, you're looking half normal, Des, and that's a big
improvement.  If you got that bleeding Miranda out of your hair, well,
Jesus, I wouldn't know you."

"Don't mention her."

"I mean," Dick said, trying to get in on the conversation, 'what did
happen with you and that bird?"

"Don't mention her!"

Des leaned over towards Dick and fixed him with a hard stare.  The work
he'd done may have been troublesome but it had helped; an aspirin for
the heart, and he didn't need a meddling prat to ruin its effect.

"Forget it," Wayne intervened.  "A bust-up's a bust-up, ain't it, Des?
Nothing else to it."

"Yeh, full stop to that."  Des turned his attention back to his whisky.
"So, Wayne, any messages for me?"

"As it happens, yeh.  This woman, Bertha, she wants to see you, said it
was "very serious business"."

Someone was having difficulty crossing the road.  He was hovering
hesitantly on the kerb side and looking extremely worried.  But this
was no inexperienced child, or an elderly guy fearful his creaky legs
wouldn't make the crossing.  This was Jerry Coton and he was stoned.
"What the hell was in that j-joint?"  he was muttering.  "The whole
w-world looks set to explode!"

Jerry had been out for the afternoon to see a dole friend.  A pleasant
activity with shared joints and gallons of coffee.  There was the usual
half-cocked homespun philosophy and obsessive concentrations on the
rhythms of rock.  "Shi-it, that bass line, it really moved!"  But on
leaving for home, Jerry felt like he'd walked out into a nightmare. The
trees on the streets suddenly seemed alive, with tiny eyes and limbs
groping.  People's faces too seemed odd: luminescent and caricatured.
As he reached the shops on the main road, a large crate of oranges on
the pavement flared up like a brazier of fire.  Jerry's thoughts then
were only of home, until he went to cross the road.

"They're all g-going too b-bloody fast!  Well, they look slow in the
d-distance but, Jesus, when they c-come up to you'

Jerry felt he had to talk out his thoughts just to give them some sense
of reality.

"That's the b-bleedin d-drivers, though, isn't it?  They do that, ease
d-down hoping you'll take the p-plunge and then accelerate j-just to
give you a scare."

He looked round.  There were some traffic lights a short way up the
road but the thought of crossing at that point made him just as
nervous.

"Walking out in front of revving c-cars, their eyes and feet primed for
amber, then someone t-turning into the m-main road and smashing you
down.  No way."

Jerry hugged himself and shuddered.  He could ask someone for help but,
either way, they or him would come over weird.  He looked back into the
road.

"Jesus, the t-tarmac, what if I went to cross and s-sank straight
through?"

Des McGinlay sat in Daley's wine bar and felt the tension in his
shoulders.  Outside, expressway traffic streaked the night with red and
amber.  He looked at the streams of light could be transient firebugs
flitting through tall tower moulds of ants.  It's a jungle out there
after all.  Des shuddered and turned his attention to the gleaming pool
of whisky that sat before him.  He studied its golden glow.  He could
almost breathe it in and he felt an acute sense of temptation.  It
would be easy to drift slack, drown in sorrow and blame "M'.  A sweet
fix of poison and a healthy 'sod you' .. . a working philosophy well
enough.  Des smiled but then saw the envelope of photos on the table in
front of him.  Now there was bitter crap.  Joy, deceit and betrayal
packaged 10 x 8 and barely a centimetre thick.  Were they worth more
than a boozy oblivion?  Des didn't get a chance to answer himself.
Rebecca suddenly sat down before him.

Rebecca, forty years old, putting on weight with butcher's cheeks and
pale grey hair, seemed nervous.  She flustered about with her purse,
couldn't decide whether to get a drink and looked cagily all around
her.  Despite her earlier forthrightness, Des could see that this was a
big moment for Rebecca.  Her only marriage, maybe her only partner, she
had subscribed to and believed in the Great White

Wedding.  Now some seedy, on-the-make jerk was going to prise her life
apart.  Bitter crap indeed.

"S-So, I suppose you've found out?"

"Do you really want to know?  I mean, we can forget all this."

"I I"

"Just a bit of folly.  Believe me, I know.  Even at forty, people do
some really stupid things and the only thing you can do is forget them.
I mean, I've got a bad memory, and my bill well, you can just write it
off as a mistake."

Rebecca sat and stared at Des for quite a while after that.  It was
somewhat disconcerting.  Her head held erect and haughty but her lips
and chin were quivering, seemingly about to dissolve.

"You want a drink?"

"N-No .. . no, I'm all right.  I was just thinking about what you
said."

"As I said, whatever you want to do."

"This is an important moment for me."

"I know.  It's easy to set up an investigation in anger, but it's much
harder when the results come in."

"You're not that insensitive, are you?  You seem almost decent."

"No more messed up than most."

"I suppose I could forget it and try to ignore everything that goes on
behind my back."

"Oh yeh, you could.  You don't have to talk to me about easy
options."

"But I have to know really, otherwise .. ."

"Yeh, I guess you wouldn't want to live with a lie."

"So?"

"The answer, as you've probably guessed, is yes.  The woman is a
research assistant called Naomi Kent.  They have it off a few
afternoons a week at her place.  It's all there in the photos, but you
may not want to look.

Thinking of divorce proceedings though, well, you've got the shit where
you want him."

Rebecca put her hand on the envelope and tentatively tapped her
fingers.  Des thought her chin was really going to drop off.

"God, I feel awful," she said.

"Let me get you a drink."

"I don't think I do want to see the photos yet."

"It can help to get pissed, you know.  Makes you think about revenge,
helps you murder him in your mind.  It's a way of trying to break free.
I've been working on it myself for months now, all that frigging pain
you've got to shift..."

But Rebecca wasn't listening.  Her eyes went off to the flow of the
traffic, the tall towers where people were ants and the city was a big,
lonely place.

As soon as he opened the door, Des knew he was in for a hard time.
Brown eyes, up front and probing, hit his own and he almost stepped
backwards.  Previously, he'd been eyeing up a bottle of Scotch and
wondering whether he deserved some celebration.  But Des couldn't quite
give himself permission.  His motives for indulging seemed doubtful.
That woman again.  It had been stalemate until the doorbell rang.

"You Des McGinlay then?"

"Sure am."

"Glad I've found you.  I'm Bertha Turton."  Bertha looked around in a
doubtful manner.  "Thought you blokes had offices above laundrettes and
the like, not pub landlords taking messages."

"I'm working on it," Des replied.  "But you found me anyway."

Des invited Bertha in.  He switched on the light in his front room and
sat her down on an old easy chair.  She still seemed doubtful, looking
at the bare table, battered filing cabinet and sofa that filled out the
rest of the room.

"Yeh, this is my office," Des said, 'until I get the cash together for
a proper place.  This, and the Fedora, which is where I kind of
entertain clients."

"S'pose you have to start somewhere."

Bertha Turton was a tall woman.  Somewhere in her mid-forties, she had
a pale, attractive face, but looked pinched and drawn.  Her neglected
bleached hair was like grass the winter had killed.  She stretched out
her long legs and Des reminded himself to focus on work.

"I've heard about you.  You used to go out with Ceceline, right, but
then got hooked up with a bitch called Miranda and disappeared off the
scene."

"How the hell you know that?"

"Just a bit of asking around.  People don't take you too seriously as a
private investigator.  Just someone else spinning a line, but they
reckon your heart's in the right place.  They say you know how to
handle yourself."

"Great.  So why have you bothered coming?"

"Because you are known.  Because maybe I can keep an eye on you and
trust you to stay on my side."

"The client is all with me, but, you know, money.  The reason I don't
have much of a track record is because the people who come to me don't
have any.  I've just wrapped up a job though."

Bertha's eyes probed again and Des shifted in his seat.  She smiled
quietly to herself.

"Whatever the rates, I have the money."

"Ah, so what's the job?"

"The biggest thing you've ever snooped into."

Prostitutes have mothers.  That was the thing that lit her anger and
fuelled her pride.  Some dirty whore ends up dead in a lay-by.  Who
cares?  The mother does.  Bertha didn't flinch as she told Des about
the death of her daughter Claudette.  The phone call from the police,
the trip to the morgue, and the forensic details of her death.

"It was hard, very hard; and the police were hard too, as though a
prostitute's mother didn't count for so much."

"I read about it in the paper.  I'm sorry, Bertha, I really, I mean I
don't know'

Des was shocked.  He didn't think he'd end up with this kind of offer
of work.  Missing persons, adultery fine; but murder?  Bertha seemed to
sense this.

"Look, you know the police aren't going to put much energy into this,
and won't get far anyway because who's going to talk to them?"

"Yeh, but this is deep water."

Bertha pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose.  No tears.  She was
resolutely, almost vindictively, calm.

"But Claudette wasn't supposed to be out on the game that night.  If
she was, Vin would've been round to protect her."

"You mean it could've been local, someone she knew?"

"Someone I know!  If it was, Des, I want that arse hole and I want him
nailed."

"Have you got any other reasons to suspect..  . ?"

"Yeh, she left me a parcel to look after.  I opened it the other day;
it had over five thousand quid in it!"

Bertha Turton gave Des a defiant look, her brown eyes once again
piercing straight into those that were blue.

The money, was it really the money that made Des suddenly get keen?  He
shifted in his seat, uncomfortable that he might so easily be bought,
so easily tempted into a dangerous situation.  Or was it Bertha's
sudden smile?  Intimate, suggestive, seen clearly and then suddenly
gone.

"So are you going to do the job or what?"  Bertha asked.

Six.

Des had woken with the hunger back again.  A sweat and some
half-muffled dream where Miranda, armed with a knife, walked naked
among high-rise towers.  It put him off his breakfast.  He stumbled out
to his car and thought how awful the street looked with litter strewn
everywhere.  Des didn't see the sun was up until he hit the expressway
heading into town.  There the blue haze of pollution was already
building, leaving the sun an ineffectual glow.  Des worked hard to
throw off the ache he felt.

"Jesus, man, I got a real job now, no need to go down the bleeding
Fedora, don't have to dust off my taxi licence.  Get with it, Des, and
sod the woman."

But a night spent in bed with his unconscious self proved difficult to
shrug off.  As he got nearer the city centre, the traffic slowed to a
crawl and Des began to snarl at the congestion and confusion of
passers-by.  "Sex.  In-your-face sex.  But where the bleeding hell is
it?  Bet bloody Miranda's getting it all!"

He finally got out of the jam, drove too fast down a side street and
then hid himself away on the top deck of a multi-storey car park.

"Just leave me alone!"

DI Errol Wilson didn't want to see Des anywhere near work.  Though an
old friend from way back when Des did self-defence classes, the fact
that he'd become a dick made him wary of what his colleagues might say.
So they met up on the footbridge that spanned the six-lane highway, the
no man's land between Alpha Tower and the city centre.  When Des hauled
himself up the corkscrew ramp Errol was supping a Coke and seemingly
counting the cars that emerged from the Queensway tunnel.

"So how many is it since you got here?"

"Must be hundreds, man, an that's barely five minutes."

"I can think of better places to meet, like one of those trendy new
bars.  You could fix me up with some trendy new food and a nice
ten-year malt."

"Shit, some of my colleagues frequent those joints, they would wanna
know who you were and I'm too close to promotion to admit knowing
you."

"Ah, you're losing your touch, Errol.  The ladder's going to your
head."

"I'm getting older too, Des.  What the fuck, we all change."

"Well let's go down Chinatown, eh, check out Wung Li's and have a
snack.  Kills you quicker than fags this place."

"OK, man, I can live with that just the once."

Wung Li's was much like any greasy transport caff, except of course for
the Chinese script.  Yellow stained walls, circus posters and plastic
carnations.  But the food was good and the counter always gleamed.  Des
slumped into a corner after ordering while DI Wilson settled down with
great care.  They had the place to themselves, bar two Chinese guys
stuffing noodles at a table by the door.  "You really are getting
fussy, aren't you, Errol?"  "Look, man, I'm earning good money.  I've
lived most of my life in shit and I don't need or want it any more. You
wanna know how much this suit cost?"  Errol ran a slim brown finger
down his navy blue lapel.  "Don't give me a heart attack."

"So what gives then, Des?  What's the important business?"

"The Claudette Turton murder."

"Shit!"

A young Chinese woman brought over the food and tea, her face courteous
despite the language and Errol's insistence on serviettes.

"Jesus, Des, what are you doing this for, man?  This is real gutter
fuckery.  I mean, I get a fat pay cheque every month, an in ten year a
good pension.  I can fuck off to Jamaica then, be a beach bum widout a
care in the world.  Shit, you don't even know if you can pay the gas
bill nex month.  When you retire, you'll be half starved on Social
Security, queuing up wid the old dears down the market for half-price
stale bread!"

"Come off it, Errol, don't give me this grief.  I've got enough
problems."

"Yeh, well you certainly look a mess."

"Just give me credit, I've landed myself with a well-paid case; a few
more and I might out-snoot you."

"All you've landed is trouble, brother."

It took some time for Des to get Errol to talk about Claudette Turton.
The deep-fried spring rolls had to be tackled with extreme caution by a
cop who was concerned about getting bean sprout juice on his tie.  Des
slurped loudly and let his fingers drip with oil.

"The usual keep-it-under-your-hat disclaimer, Des, but, well, we don't
really know sweet fuck all about Claudette's murderer.  Her neck was
broken.  She had sex at some point before she died.  No signs of
struggle so rape doesn't look likely, though we got a DNA fix on the
guy that fucked her.  Being what she was, the two events may not have
been related."

"What's with this serial killer angle?"

"Inconclusive.  Whores and tarts, yeh, dumped nude in the country yeh,
but then the evidence seems to vary a bit."

"No leads, huh, Mr.  Well-Paid DI?"

"You know the score, Des.  Nobody's talking, no one gives a fuck.  We
put the heat on her pimp, it's possible, but im don't really fit, cept
the guy's a real sucker."

"Vin St.  James."

"Yeh, it'll probably be my job to make sure the git doesn't get fitted
up."

"So what you reckon then, Errol?"

"There's quite a few of these cases, Des, unsolved.  Most likely some
sexually screwed up nut who went too far one night, is scared shitless
now and won't come out of hiding for a long time.  That, or some
fuckery with the vice kings and, shit, we can't get much to stick on
them."

"This is it, isn't it, Errol?  Like you get your fat pay cheque every
month no matter what you do, catch the crims or no.  But me?  Jesus,
they should privatize the police and bring in payment by results.
Professional cops and vice kings?  Cut out the cosy status quo I
say!"

"You don't believe that bollocks, do you?"

"Ner, just jealous."

"Look, Des, we go way back and I'm happy to help, but you gotta go
careful on this.  You're sorta green, man, and you got no back-up, no
place to hide, an if it do turn out local..  . you know what I'm
saying?"

"Yeh, well I guess I have been a bit don't-give-a-shit reckless
lately."

"So I see ... and how is Miranda?"

On his way back to Argent Street, Des felt that the bubble in the
spirit level was getting centred once more.  He didn't know what kind
of trouble he was driving into, but the fact that he was driving made
him feel he was on the mend.  Besides, one problem could possibly be
solved.  Errol had said he would have words with Miranda.  Pull the
wool about Des being useful to police investigations which could be
seriously harmed by a court case.  And Des could even pay for the
windscreen now and throw in a few extra bob for compensation.  Just get
her quarantined out of my mind.  Concentrate on work and I'll be a
happy man.  Ha, ha.  If only .. .

If only ... It was the question that sometimes haunted Vin St.  James.
That letter when he was seventeen from Eustace, his dad.

Dear Vincent

We are settle now an doin well and want for you to come to England and
be wid you folk.  We have nice little house to keep we warm in winter
an I have jus got me firs car .. .

Vin gave off a bitter smile as he parked outside the Conference Cars
showroom.  Yeh, if only.  He maybe wouldn't have known so much about
money and all the fancy trimmings of 'civilization' but shit, a country
boy without pressure might be a decent thing to be.  Vin carefully
concealed his knife and then gave his short hair a smooth as he looked
in the rear-view mirror.  The grim expression of his mouth said I ain't
neva gonna give up.  That was the way it had to be, but somewhere
inside, Vin wasn't so sure.  He suddenly felt weary as he got out of
the car and sauntered as coolly as he could up to Ross Constanza's
domain.

The road outside was its usual daytime busy.  Half a mile up the long
straight was the Inland Port and every few minutes a container lorry
trundled up or down.  Vin stood looking out of the showroom window and
wondered whether Ross had a design in siting his business there.
Specialist cars, high-class whores, why not import/export too?  The one
dat succeed, dem is always the arse hole thought Vin as he heard the
clatter of leather shoes coming towards him.  Ross Constanza wasn't a
big guy and he looked the car salesman in his grey suit and pink
striped shirt.  He even feigned the chummy banter that such gits give
off which makes you feel you've just had an encounter with an ice
cream.  But it was all show.  Vin knew the stories.  The junkie who
lost a finger in Kathmandu.  The hard-case street-fighter who got off
with manslaughter over a territorial spat.  The self-made
wheeler-dealer who had the edge on everyone.  Vin felt his stomach
churn.

"Long time no see, our Vincent."

Ross's voice echoed in the showroom.  Glass vibrated behind Vin as
lorries trundled past.  It was disconcerting, as was the sight of big
Gus, Ross's bodyguard.

"Don't take it personal, eh Vince, but Gus is going to polish up the
Bentley here while we chat.  Call it standard procedure, eh."

"Guess so .. ."

As Vin stood with his back to the glass, Ross propped himself against
the Bentley and sullen Gus began to smooth away.  There was five foot
between them and it seemed it had to stay that way.  Ross's dark eyes
beckoned Vin to speak.

"Yeh, glad you could see me, man."

"You know me, Vincent.  Don't like to forget my roots."

"Well, it a tricky subject, you know, an me ain't expressin no doubt
bout you, Ross, but me worried, man, an felt me had to see you."

"I was sorry to hear about your girl, Vince.  D'you need any help, like
with the funeral or something?"

"No, man, it like .. . me can't figure it out, you know, how she got
kill.  Sometin ain't right bout it..  ."

"That's bound to be, mate, otherwise it wouldn't have happened."

"Yeh, but, me need to know so meting right, to put me mind at res, like
me owe it to me an she."

"What're you trying to say, Vince?"

"Shit, me jus wanna know whether she was two-timin me, out graftin on
the side, mebbe wuckin feh you."

"Vincent, come on, I'm not into that and you should know it.  Jesus,
man, you think I might use street girls, ten-quid blow jobs and all
that crap?  Come on, what is this I'm standing next to, eh?  A bleeding
Bentley, Vincel"

"Me a tell you, Ross, don't tek offence.  Dere was rumour, dat is all,
some a dese rich shits dey like a common tart an, well man, me jus
wanna know whether Claudette she was fuckin me aroun."

"She probably was, Vincent, but not with me.  I get to hear the rumours
too, pal, and the way I heard it, your loving woman had another fella,
like she must have had one hell of an appetite that bird."

Two lorries thundered past.  The road, the glass, his whole back seemed
to shudder as Ross's words echoed away across the flash, second-hand
cars.

"You kiddin me, man."

"That's what I heard, mate."

"Shit, me can't... it ain't.  Shit..."

Vin went away stunned.  He barely knew he was walking to his car.  All
he could feel was a strange void, a straining emptiness that he knew
was about to collapse.  He had been conned!  As he got into his car, he
didn't see Ross and Gus looking at him through sky-reflecting glass.
Even without lorries thundering past, he had no way of knowing what
Ross said.

"You better get Scobie onto this, Gus.  Give it a few days, yeh, and
don't make it obvious.  Scobie can pick a fight or something, but our
Vincent, well, he could do with some disability benefit."

So Des was back in the doorway of the Lime Tree, just like that night
when the rain made puddles in Claudette's eyes.  But Des wasn't feeling
quite so panicky.  He was on the job now.  He had some kind of
protection.  The last time he'd spent any time there was at one of
Stevie Kitson's dos and he'd been with Miranda.  Bad scene.  He'd kind
of conned her down with overtures of 'let's be friends' but really he
was trying to persuade her back to him.  It had ended in shouts and
tears.  So Des kept away.  The Lime Tree was the "Slime' from then
on.

But now he was going through the well-worn doors again, scanning the
nicotine walls and coming face to face with brassy Eileen, the landlady
queen.

"Well, Jesus Mary, look what the cat dragged in."

"You're looking as gorgeous as ever, Eileen, like you've just come in
from milking the cows."

"I don't know if I should take that as a compliment, Des, though I
think it's better than being a bedraggled mouse."

"Certainly is.  So how's it going?  Still the cops' favourite mother
figure?"

"Come to my bosom still."

"And what a bosom."

"And out of bounds to you.  Still whisky, is it, Des?"

"Yeh.  Is Bertha Turton around, d'you know?"

"Surely, just around the corner."

Des was rather surprised.  Bertha looked different.  She wore a long
floral dress and make-up that had somehow dissolved the pale weariness
of her face.  Bertha was dolled up and Des was quite impressed.

"Bit early in the day, isn't it, to be thinking of going out on the
town?"

"I was pissed off.  A bit of war paint can make you feel better."

"Yeh, little tricks for depressed hearts, eh."

"God, don't go on like that, Des."

"Sorry."

"You're definitely in then?"

"Yep."

"OK, but I want to be kept up-to-date, right?  And I want to know
everything you find out."

"Sure."

Des eased himself round to the seat next to Bertha.  He took a whiff of
perfume and started to feel strange.  Being so close to such a display
of femininity was a distraction.  Des strained to remain focused.

"So, how about we start with Vin?"

"Small-time trash, Des.  He's a likeable guy and I mean he really cared
for our Claudette but, you know, he's a bit slow on the uptake, got no
drive.  Vin just wants to drift and Claudette hated that."

Des was vaguely aware of a similar experience but he brushed it aside.
"No big arguments or bones of contention?"

"Not that I know of, but I wouldn't know for sure.  I have to say,
Claudette was no angel.  She was headstrong and not a little sly."

"I wonder where she got that from?"

"Des, come on, we were going along fine."

"Forgive me.  Cynicism, it comes out every so often like an unwanted
fart.  So Vin isn't out of the frame.  What about other pals?"

Bertha urged Des to check on a couple of girlfriends, but there was
little else he noted.  And by then Des's mind was beginning to wander.
It was over there, by the horse brasses on the wall, where they had
sat.  A stab of pain hit him and he shuddered.  He knew he should never
have seen her that last time.  Places, they get covered in all sorts of
things, like the hidden smells that dogs sniff.  Des tried to pull
himself around; he had an inkling Bertha was saying something
interesting.

'..  . On the game myself, God, must be twenty years ago now.  So I
knew the score, could tell her what a bloody fool she was but couldn't
really argue against it."

Des struggled for words.  Bertha put a hand on his thigh and smiled.

"You don't have to say anything, luv.  I'm a survivor and don't ask for
any sympathy."

Des noticed she had a gold ring on each finger and that her skin was
beginning to close around them.  He too tried to smile and began to
wonder what was going on.

"You still with that Miranda, then?"

"Nah."

"Ceceline said she was a stuck-up bitch."

"Ceceline would."

"Fancy something a bit more posh, did you?  Satin sheets and silk
pyjamas?"

"It was hardly that, but why not anyway?"

"Come on, Des, you're supposed to be savvy, I bet you just got bleeding
used."

"Huh, you tell me a deal where people aren't used?"

Bertha looked Des in the eyes, those brown bullet eyes that made him
shrink.  She patted his thigh before taking her hand away, and then she
gave a wry smile.

"You're not so likely to be used, Des, when you're the one who
walks."

Seven.

Why Chinatown?  Des found himself thinking as he drove around Small
Heath looking for Vin St.  James.  How many Chinese are there that
every big city should have one?  Why not Pakistanitown or Punjabville
or the Azaad Kashmir quarter?  What is it with these Chinese folks that
the top bods in the Town Hall and the tourists just love em so much?
Des was going up the Stratford Road at the time, checking out the balti
houses and Islamic book shops that lined the street.  He was on the job
and feeling good.  It was a bit like he was seeing the city for the
first time.  He stopped at a set of traffic lights and got come-on eyes
from an Asian girl in tight pants.  "Yeh," he said with near enthusiasm
as he then turned left into Golden Hillock Road and thought of minarets
in fields of ripened corn.  Vin hadn't been seen at the Lime Tree for
over a week.  Nor had he been at the house he shared with Claudette.
But Des had got a sort of lead at the Earl.  A group of dope-smoking
brethren suggested he try the Vine.  It was Vin's regular circuit and
now Des was doing it, making straightforward progress as a prospective
customer looking for a high.

The Vine was a little bit of Kingston amid the nation states of Small
Heath (one of the smallest, along with the principality of South
Yemen).  It was there that he struck lucky.  He met Tone, one of the
Iwah crew, who Des had once taught self-defence.  Tone had gone down
the tubes quite a lot since he'd last seen him.  His face was pinched
thin and there was a chemical look to his complexion.  But he
remembered Des and was happy to help.  Out came the mobile phone.  Des
played it straighter this time, told Tone to mention a business deal
and the name Bertha.  With Tone overdoing the recommendations, Vin had
to accept and he named a time and place.

"Many thanks, Tone, I ought to get a mobile."

"Essential man, gotta keep ahead of the game."

"Don't it piss you off, beeping and stuff?"

"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 nut ting 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 nut ting 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!

"I'll just do another check around."

Des again went round the too-tidy house.  Two things came to his
attention.  In the front room, behind the door, Des noticed a clown
print.  Not exactly the same as the other one that had witnessed a
small humiliation of his own.  It was similar enough, though, to send a
ripple of unease through him and a desire to thump its inane face.  Des
moved quickly away.  He'd failed to check the back yard.  On opening
the rear door, there seemed little to be bothered about.  In the fading
light he could see paving stones swamped by weeds.  A rotary drier
collapsed and rusting by the back fence.  There were, however, two
bulging black plastic bags by the gate.  Rats had gnawed their way into
both.  Refraining from breathing in, Des got down on his haunches and
prodded around at the spewing mess with a pen.  Potato peels and
eggshells, unidentifiable slime and fag ash, but also scraps of paper.
Gingerly, he tried to ease a few out of the filth.  A shopping list, a
few columns of figures, till receipts .. . Bertha appeared at the back
door.

"I reckon I might have found something, Des."

He looked up.

"In one of Claudette's jackets, stuffed right down in the pocket."

It was completely dark when Des began to drive Bertha back to her home.
He was feeling pleased with himself and certain things in his life were
beginning to seem long gone.  He put on an Abdullah Ibrahim tape and
allowed his fingers to play a tune on the steering wheel.

"So read the note again, Bertha."

"My special friends call me Bee."

"B is for boss don't forget."

"Huh.  OK "Sorry about this.  I tried to ring but couldn't get you. I'm
out of town for a few days so you won't be able to reach me.  Let me
know as soon as you can about the V.I.P .. ."  and it's signed "G"."

"What you reckon then?"

"Well, she was playing around, the naughty girl, as Vin suspected,
whoever G is."

"Sounds possible.  Then again, it could be just an innocuous
arrangement.  What about V.I.P?"

"No idea."

"I suppose that could be just a personal joke, you know, like people
have names for their genitalia.  Or it could be pointing to a scam."

"Find out, Des.  What am I paying you for?"

Bertha lived on the third floor of a ten-storey block of flats some
half a mile to the east of Argent Street.  Des pulled into the car park
and waited for Bertha to get out.

"You coming up for a coffee, Des?"

"Nah, I think I'll give it a miss if you don't mind."

"I won't bite, you know."

"I dunno about that, and that worries me, you being my client and
all."

"So what if I did bite, Des?  I'm pretty good at knowing where and how
to do it.  I mean, we're both well grown-up now and, if I'm not
mistaken, you, like me, are pretty hungry."

"Don't say that."

"I know what it's like.  I've been caught out too, hooked on a drug and
suffered withdrawal."

"Bertha, this doesn't feel right."  "Don't worry, it'll be fine."  "Oh,
I dunno .. ."

Bertha smiled.  It was a warm smile and appealingly accentuated by many
lines.  "By the way, Des, do you have a name for yours?"

Eight.

Flat 34 was a celebration of the pink frill.  Everywhere you looked in
the various pink-painted rooms, the scalloped adornments were there. On
va lanced curtains, cushions, drapes and mirror frames.  As mock
flowers standing tall on green canes.  But for a full realization of
Bertha's taste, the bedroom was the place to see.  Pillowcase and
counterpane, pink frilly canopy above the bed and a huge foaming
lampshade.  All this amid deep magenta walls, pink carpet and bed.  Des
McGinlay lay on this bed, lit up a fag and tried to think about the
mess he was getting in to.  He'd let himself be seduced.  The
implications were scary, the complications too awful to consider.  So
Des gave up thinking and sank back down to his feelings.  To his
surprise, they were good.  The first time he'd writhed with uncertainty
in Bertha's arms and felt guilty over Miranda, but the second time that
night, that time he'd really made love, and he'd felt great because of
it.  Bertha was true to her word.  She knew where and how to do the
things that made Des feel almost himself again.  She entered the
bedroom with a tray of coffee and scrambled eggs on toast.

"You shouldn't still be in bed, Des, there's work to be done."

"I hate eggs for breakfast."

"Don't expect me to know everything about you yet."

Bertha set the tray down on the bedside table.  She wore a see-through
shift, pink of course, and she let it slip off her shoulders as she lay
next to Des.  But Des, though appreciative of her body, didn't really
notice.  He was still wincing over the word 'yet'.  It sounded so
menacing, a threat that he might be swallowed up.  But it was a
titillating threat.  Despite the flouncy cheapness of all the
trimmings, there was an allure to Bertha's view of home, a sense of
snuggling, an oblivious passion that Des could submit to as an escape
from the hard-edged world.  Des saw then that the frilliness was
indicative of a womb, Bertha's womb, beginning to open as she rubbed
herself against his thigh.

"Bleeding hell, Bertha, I have got to work, you know."

"What difference will half an hour make now?"

"You never know."

"And so won't miss ..."

Bertha's tongue went down to his ribs and onwards like a trickle of
warm honey.  Des became lost once more in pinkness, moist and alive ..
.

It was midday before he was out on the road, though he wasn't too sure
what he was doing there.  He had the names and addresses of two
prostitutes who were friendly with Claudette, but he was still woozy
with Bertha and couldn't think straight.  First it was, Well that's got
one back on Miranda, and then, But Bertha, she's like a bad drug.  Too
good to refuse; too dangerous to know.  He was elated and pissed off at
the same time.  Des decided a snifter was needed before he followed any
leads.  So, it was down to the real world where the ghosts of murder
victims and ex-lovers mingled with the everyday punters.  Des propped
up the bar and smiled at Eileen.

"Here's to foot and mouth and mad, mad cows!"

"Scrapie with pork scratchings!"

"Love it here's a battery chicken in your eye!"

"And a crate of veal to go with it!"

"The way it goes, eh Eileen, down the tubes."

"Yep, and all you can try to do is go happy.  Speaking of which, you
almost seem happy yourself."

"Don't be conned; a temporary aberration I'm sure."

"But that Miranda's finally gone where all the mad cows go?"

"Well, I dunno.  Can you believe what the authorities say?"

"That sandwich you're eating is not mad, Des!"

He grinned at Eileen.  He'd forgotten how well they got on.  But then
that was the nature of her job and nothing special.

"So tell me, what's your view on Claudette's death?"

"Jesus, Des, I don't know."

"What did you make of her, though?  She was in here quite a bit."

"Well, she spread herself around, you know, liked chatting.  She'd rub
shoulders with anyone at the bar."

"What, for any purposes?"

"Oh yes, she was always on the lookout, you could tell.  Who's who and
what they've got to offer."

"Anyone in particular?"

"I wouldn't have noticed.  It gets too busy in here, but it makes you
think."

"What?"

"You know, the creep who killed her.  He could be a customer.  I could
be serving the bastard beer!"

The first name on Des's list was Sharon Mason.  He found her at her
home in the red-light district and she was happy to talk.  With
Bertha's recommendation behind him, Des walked into a kitchen with
shopping on the table and toys on the floor.  Sharon was a slim young
woman with mousy hair.  She had cute, youthful looks that Des guessed
might help with her work.  But Sharon was clocked off and determined to
be her normal self.

"Yeh, I was pretty friendly with her.  You know, we hung around the
same pitch at night, had a laugh, looked out for each other."

"You got any idea about her death?  See anything funny?"

"Nothing really.  We'd come across some weird Johns and piss-taking
kids and stuff, but that's kind of normal.  There was nothing scary
that I remember, nothing we had really bad feelings about."

"You don't think it was a lone nutcase?"

"I doubt it, she wasn't even on the game that night."

"So what do you think?

"I dunno.  You know, you think about it because it could've been me,
but..  ."

Sharon began to sort out the shopping.  She did it in a very ordered
and meticulous way and Des wondered if she was like that with her
punters.  The thought made him shudder.

"What's the talk among the girls?"

"Well, there's a feeling she was up to something, like she was doing
something on the side and it blew up in her face."

"No ideas?"

"Money, it had to do with making money.  That's all she ever talked
about, making money and getting away."

"WithVin?"

Sharon made a face.  "Vin was in the doghouse," she said.

"So who?"

"Sod knows.  You're gonna have to talk to Pauline about that."

Nothing much there.  Des left Sharon to her domesticity.  House to
clean, meals to prepare and kids to organize.

Pauline lived two streets down.  Des took the opportunity for a short
stroll in the sunshine and the rare chance to indulge in feeling good.
A lover and a job all in one day.

Can't be bad.  The feeling didn't last.  Pauline wasn't at home.  A
chunky guy with a huge black moustache was.  Des should've seen the
potential for trouble, the way the guy squared up to him and glared,
but Des was in the pink and slack because of it.

"Hi there," Des said with a smirk.  "I'm McGinlay, a private
investigator, and I want to speak to Pauline."

The man in the door didn't reply, merely intensified his glare and
somehow filled out the doorway more.

"You get me, yeh?  Pauline?  I mean, that moustache, there is a mouth
under it, isn't there?"

"Huh, snoopin after our Pauline, are yer?  Fuckin private dick!  We've
had the soddin pigs round half a dozen times and I'll be fucked if we
want you!"

"There is a mouth."

"Eh?"

"Forget it.  Look, I don't want to speak to you'

"No one speaks to our Pauline without my say-so."

"Come on, chill out.  This heavy macho thing, it's movie stuff," Des
quipped.  It was one quip too many.

"Fuckin smart arse  The man lifted up a slab hand and propped it on
Des's chest.  "Well you just check this, dick-face.  No' and the guy
began to push 'scumbag little -snooper comes knocking on my fuckin door
without good reason or a fuckin invitation!"

Des suddenly found himself on the pavement, pressed up against a car.
Only then did he begin to get seriously concerned and to think of
protecting himself.  Too late.

"An just in case the message hasn't got home' the guy pulled back his
arm 'fuckin this might make it so!"

Des saw the fist coming but blocked to no avail.  A solid thump hit him
in the solar plexus.  Des bent double, gasping for air.  The steak
sandwich in his stomach began to get ideas about reincarnation.  Des
teetered away on wobbly legs, and found a tree to hold on to.

"An don't fuckin well come back!"  he heard as he sought to breathe
without retching at the same time.  After a while, when most of the
nausea had gone, Des began to feel angry.  Not so much with the thug as
with himself.  "Slack," he muttered to himself.  "Unprofessional.  Five
minutes on the job and I'm almost fucked!"  He picked himself up and
gingerly went on his way.

Even on the third floor there was no horizon to see.  Houses, factories
and blocks of flats.  For many years, Bertha had barely given the view
a second thought.  It was just there, ugly and to be ignored.  But now
she was looking, not seeing, and thinking that maybe one day she could
be an observer of the sea instead.  One day, the hidden horizon and
those she knew with no horizons could be left behind.  There was hope.
It sat in a pile on the sofa like an unexpected guest.  Five thousand
pounds.  It wasn't enough to get you to the sea, to allow you to stay,
but such a sum could well create more, and so hope was justified.
Bertha left the window and sat down by the money.  But how to make it
grow?  She had few financial skills; she didn't know about much other
than typing and that job she'd done so long ago.  But maybe there was
opportunity.  What she once did, so did her daughter, and whatever
Claudette was involved with, so Bertha could seek to exploit.  But how?
The phone quietly beeped its way into her thoughts.

"Yes."

"Bertha, you didn't give me any warning, did you?"

"That you, Des?"

"Yeh, a rather pissed off Des."

"What's happened, sweetheart?"

"You didn't tell me about the walrus that minds Pauline."

"Have you got hurt or something?"

"Nah, wounded pride mostly.  But this git, he's built like a tank and
fires howitzers if you try to get past him."

"I thought you could handle yourself, Des."

"Yeh well... a bit out of practice, and softened up by you."

"We had a nice time, though."

"Something I'll have to sort out, the pain and the pleasure of the
job."

"Ha, don't know if I like the sound of that."

"Don't worry, but it would help if you could set up a meet with Pauline
minus the bodyguard."

"I'll fix that, but are you sure you're OK?  I wouldn't like you to get
hurt."

"Isn't that what you're paying me for?"

As she put the phone down, Bertha smiled.  That makes a change, paying
the man.  She picked up the money and wrapped it ready for hiding.  The
plan was on its way.  Bertha smiled again.  Quite a coup for a
secretary.  A secret second life with a man to meet her every need.
And, if the plan goes well, a way out to greater riches, an escape from
the concrete sprawl to sensuous pleasures by the sea.  Bertha pulled
herself up sharp.  She was fantasizing too far ahead.  Yet she knew her
daughter, had her suspicions and if proved right, there could well be
more money to come.  Bertha took the pile of notes into the bedroom,
removed a few and then stashed them away.  Tomorrow, new clothes and
moving forward to past glories and maybe even sweet revenge .. .

"I'm sorry about Barry, really.  It's just, well we've had a lot of
hassle since Claudette was killed.  What with the cops and all the
talk, it's buggered up my work and Barry's dead pissed off about it.
You must've been the last straw."

"Huh, cept he seemed to want to break my back."

"He can be a vicious bastard, I know.  I really am sorry."

Pauline was a small shapely woman with short black hair and an angular
face where chin and cheekbones stood out strong.  A mask-like face,
never changing and never giving anything away.  Des didn't like Pauline
but then Barry might've had something to do with that.

"I could do without the crocodile tears."

"Your snout's in dirty waters, Des, what d'you expect?"

"Some bleeding sympathy for Claudette.  Some desire to help catch her
killer."

"We'll do what we think it's safe to do.  You just rubbed Barry up the
wrong way."

"Yeh, well remind me to get even."

Des was back at the Earl with Pauline.  A slack afternoon where the
soundless TV flickered and two kids clattered pool at the end of the
bar.  Pauline lit up a cigarette, her waxy face immobile while her eyes
were on full alert.  A sharp tart, Des thought, a survivor and unlikely
to end up with a snapped neck.

"So what's the view on Claudette's death?"

"Come on, I don't know anything more than anyone else.  They say she
was on her way to come and see me but I never knew bout it."

"She didn't arrange it?"

"Course not.  It was just some fuckin excuse she gave to Vin."

"The sort of excuse she'd use to go and see her fancy bloke?"

"Maybe."

"Some bloke whose name begins with G?"

"My, you are the detective."

"And G is for?"

"The going rate is fifty quid."

"Jesus ..."

"You're using up my valuable work time."

"After what Barry did, you owe me!"

"I reckon I should make something out of this mess.  I've lost enough
days' work."

Des sighed.  There's no way you argue with a woman like Pauline.  He
wearily reached into his back pocket.  A sudden stab of pain hit him,
but it wasn't physical and it wasn't Bertha.  A holiday, a year or more
back.  Des could see it.  Him and Miranda on a beach beneath tamarisk
trees.  A bottle of wine and knowing smiles.  A bloody lifetime away.

"OK, here's the fifty.  Spit out the poison, eh."

"His name's Gary Marlow.  I don't know much about him, cept he was
young, flash and sold coke to rich pricks round the hotels and
stuff."

"Great.  And was Claudette hot on him?"

"Don't know bout that but they'd got something together."

"How'd they meet?"

"I never did work that out."

"And where is Gary now?"

"South America, I wouldn't be surprised."

"You reckon he did it?"

"Bloody hell, what do you want for your fifty quid?"

Des sighed again.  What did he want?  He wanted a tamarisk tree, a
bottle of wine and one of those knowing smiles.

Nine.

It was his only way into the hotel scene.  A friend of Miranda's who he
didn't want to see.  Des could only say What the hell?  and insist to
himself the worst was over.  The High Park was four star.  A modern
cube faced with pink concrete and thin windows.  A real bollock of an
eyesore.  Des eased into the cream and brown foyer and confronted the
obligatory plastic smile.

"I'm looking for Vera May Partington."

"Yes?  One of the chambermaids.  I believe she's working at the
moment."

"This is urgent, a family matter that can't wait."

"Well, I suppose I could put a call out for her."

Des put on his own big grin.  The receptionist looked about eighteen
and had susceptible eyes.

"Do it," he soothed.  "It's your job, eh, make connections, help the
world move on its way.  I'll be in the lounge."

He settled into an armchair a whole room away from a group of blue
suits taking coffee and spreadsheets.  Des breathed deeply.  This was
the first friend of Miranda he'd met since the bust-up.  He hadn't
wanted to see any of them ever again.  But Vera May, maybe she wouldn't
be too bad.  She never did have her finger on the button.  Was writing
some sort of novel apparently and working part time to make ends meet.
When did they ever?

"My God, it's you!"  gasped Vera May.

"Couldn't be anyone else."

"I thought it was going to be my dad or something."

"A more interesting alternative, I hope."

"Des, it's been some time."

Vera May actually wore a black dress and a white apron.  Des was quite
taken with it; in fact, he was quite taken with her.  She sat down next
to him and Des suddenly became aware of a difference.  No Miranda now,
so he could fancy Vera May as much as he liked.  There were
compensations.  And she was attractive.  A smooth, flat face and a
curled smile.  A slim body with large breasts which seemed to tilt her
forward.  Des felt quite relaxed.

"It's nice to see you, Vera May."

"Yes, I suppose so, but awfully unexpected.  You're the last person
I'd've thought to see."

"Funny how that gets said.  We see all kinds of strangers every day,
but the people we know we don't expect."

"You're .. . you're not here about?"

"She's dead and buried as far as I'm concerned."  Des wondered whether
he'd said it too affirmatively.

"Oh, so .. ."  Vera May began to shift uncomfortably in her seat.

"Don't worry, it's my job.  I'm here to snoop about the seedy side of
hotel life."

"You mean you're still doing investigating?"

"Yeh, and I'm looking for a line on getting a snort of cocaine."

"I don't know what's going on, Des."

"You always were the last to know."

Des filled in the bewildered Vera May with the broad details of the
case.  It still didn't seem to click with her, like this was some
elaborate, dubious tale Des was spinning.  But finally, perhaps just
deciding to go along with it, she suggested Des talk to the security
manager.  Vera May made a phone call at reception to arrange for him to
come down, then returned and sat back down with disbelieving eyes.

"You've never been propositioned for dope or whatever?"

"No.  In the daytime you hardly see the guests.  It's the male staff
who always proposition me.  With bedrooms everywhere, their heads are
full of sex."

"You still going out with that geezer John?"

"No, we bust up a while ago."

"Sign of the times."

"We're still good friends, in fact he's still living in the house.  I
think he wants me back."

"Sounds a bit tricky."

"It is, because I'm in love with someone else."

"Sounds quick."

"Yes, and stupid.  I think this guy is raving mad."

"Different."

"Oh, I don't know, I couldn't help myself.  He's charismatic and I was
on the rebound.  I definitely reckon he's a full-blown
schizophrenic."

"You don't seem too worried."

"Whatever.  Fate's as good as anything these days for guiding your
life."

"Well, Vera May, you look good on it."  And Des gave a beaming smile.

They promised to meet up for a drink.  Des was tempted but thought they
never would.  She drifted off when the security guy turned up.  Des
turned his attention to Mr.  Parkes, another blue suit, and this one,
he could tell, was an ex-cop.

"I'm not a great believer in private investigators, Mr.  McGinlay, but
since I'm private now, I guess there are grounds for co-operation."

"Discretion assured," Des said, 'if you've any worries."

"So what's the problem?"

Des gave an outline of his investigations and this seemed to impress
the thin-faced Parkes.  He twirled a gold pen in his fingers, his brown
eyes staring unblinking at Des.

"Now.  We have this Gary Marlow toting gear to hotel clientele and a
pro who was desperate for big money.  Next step, what are the hotel
angles?"

"What are the police doing?"

"Checking out lone perverts, I believe."

"Mmm, well, you'll see no illicit dealings here, not that I've
discovered anyway."

"Gary Marlow hasn't a reputation?"

"I haven't heard, but I know these things go on."

"Yeh?"

"Someone on the inside of the hotel, a porter or other member of staff
acts as a go-between.  So if a guest wants something special, the
member of staff makes his connection outside and sets up a deal.  It's
more usually sex rather than drugs.  Maybe your Claudette was into
that."

"It had crossed my mind, but she'd need a well-placed pimp for that."

"They exist, but as I say, I haven't seen any of it.  We're not all
that up-market as far as hotels go and the customers are pretty middle
of the road."

"Know anybody else I could try?"

"Oh yes, I think I know the man to see ..."

Des left the hotel with slight reluctance.  He'd got used to sitting in
that anonymous lounge and, perversely, had felt quite at home.  That's
what they're about, hotels, making you feel at home, Des thought.  And,
somehow, being alone among strangers is kind of homely.  Like there are
no reminders.  The grind of life suspended and you can lie back on your
well-made bed, rootless and free.

Des smiled to himself and blinked up at the bright sky.  Vera May was
looking down at him from the fourth floor.  It was strange sight, a
memory glimpsed briefly, a life once touched ready to be filed away. He
waved and then got in his car.  A certain Harry Sharma awaited. Yeh,
Miranda, who the hell was she?

There was something about the sun on the herb plants that made Vin
think summer was on the wane.  It didn't quite have the strength and
its light was a paler yellow.  An indication that he would have to
harvest soon.  He smiled.  It was a good observation, a country
instinct.  But he also felt a sense of relief.  At any time someone
could stumble upon his secret patch.  Worry was always with him when he
went to the canal.  For some time he'd been considering buying
high-power lamps and growing weed in his loft, but the outdoor option
was too alluring.  Less quality, more fret, but it was his patch of
back home in the concrete city.  Vin opened up his bag of fertilizer
and started scattering the white granules at the base of his plants. He
didn't see the man leaning against a brick wall and rolling a joint for
some time.  Vin almost bumped into him before he turned suddenly and
staggered back in shock.

"Jesus fuck, man!"

And then came the familiar snigger, the childlike smile and Scobie
flicking at a curl on his forehead.  "It's the man from Del Monte," he
said.

Vin pulled himself together quickly.  This was a serious situation.
This was a man he would never want anywhere near one of his own
operations.  He put his hand in his pocket and fingered his knife.

"How the hell you fin displace, man?"

"Saw you one time going down the cut and got curious."

"You follow me?"

"Just watched where you went, the rest was easy.  I mean, how could you
miss this jungle?"

"Dis ain't nut ting to do wid you, Scobie."

"What's it got to do with you, Vin?  Anybody could've planted these ...
It's Waterways land."

"You know dis is me lickle patch.  It me business."

Scobie finished rolling his spliff.  "Thought I'd try out the goods."
He lit up and set himself in the pose of a connoisseur.  "Mmm, a little
coarse on the throat and weak as piss, I'd say."

"Bugger off huh, Scobie."

"Still, you've got quite a lot of flower heads, so I guess they'd have
a fair buzz."

"Come on, man, split."

"Why don't we go fifty-fifty, eh?  You never know in a place like this
what might happen.  Anyone could stumble on em and nick the lot, but
for fifty-fifty, well, I could give some protection."

Vin felt his spirits begin to sink to his knees.  It was one hell of a
shit situation and he could see nothing but hassle.  Scobie would
probably steal the lot, or just burn the crop for the fun of it.
Whatever happened, he was sure Scobie would try to humiliate him.
Humiliation the word felt like a knife in his heart.  Vin grabbed the
handle of his own blade.  He felt a sense of loathing, for himself and
Scobie.  But then something more dangerous entered his mind.  This was
his crop, his land; this was at the root of him.  Vin pulled out his
knife and lunged.

Harry didn't want to meet up in his hotel.  This was a security guy who
wore a leather blouson and a black turban.  Harry was a bearded warrior
Sikh, young and proud.  He was also someone who believed in the age-old
practice of tipping, so Des shifted another fifty quid of Bertha's dosh
and hoped it would be worth it.  They met at the Merchant Stores, a
sort of up-market wine bar on

Broad Street.  But there were no conventioneers or Japanese industrial
heritage freaks around.  A couple of suits were lingering long after
their lunch break and that was it.  Des lit up a fag and swirled the
ice in his malt.  It didn't seem so inviting as the time he'd given
Rebecca the bad news.  Harry had an alcopop (the arse hole he dug his
hands in his jacket and tapped relentlessly on the floor like life was
busy and this dick was slowing him down.  Des went into his spiel once
more.  He kept it brief and matter-of-fact, and hoped he'd out-cool the
warrior.

"So it could be that these two got into some fuckery with a hotel
punter."

Harry eased up on the tapping and gave Des his attention.  He had a
lean, well-groomed face with wary, sharp eyes.  Des thought he was
probably black belt as well as black turban.

"Yeh, that's heavy business."

"So the job now is to get hold of Gary Marlow."

"Yeh."  Harry stared out of the big window of the Merchant Stores and
watched a couple of women stride past.  "Well, you know, my hotel puts
up a lot of celebs, you know, pop stars on the road, actors, and it's
my job to keep an eye on such people, liaise with their minders and
stuff."

"Do you know this Gary then?"

"Sort of.  I mean, I don't do any deals with clients.  The hotel has to
be strictly clean, but we do kind of indulge some of these celebs, you
know, their little numbers.  Then it's my job to keep it discreet and
out of sight."

"Of course, you wouldn't buy coke for a lead guitarist."

"It'd be me out of a job, but I know the guy you mentioned."

"Huh-uh."

"Well, I say I know him, but I haven't met the guy, and didn't know
nothing of the guy until he did a split."

"Quite a relationship."

"It was a week or so back.  These guys were coming up to me, you know,
minders and the like, and they kept asking me where the hell Gary was.
You know, the dealer had gone and the punters were hungry.  I was asked
if I could supply."

Tricky."

"I have a few connections.  I went out and found someone else to do the
dirty work, part of the service, and I heard then that this Gary Marlow
had buggered off down the Smoke because of some fucked-up deal."

"Was that all you heard?"

"Yeh."

"Any idea were he lived?"

"Nah."

"What about Claudette, ever hear about her?"

"Nah, but I guess I could ask round, you know, if it was ..."

"Yeh, worth your while.  You don't, of course, know who pimps for your
snorting stars?"

"They don't need them, man.  I just have to make sure the right
groupies get in."

"Huh, so what do you do with the ones that don't?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Des left Harry tapping out time in the Merchant Stores.  He didn't feel
he'd made much progress but he was sure now that Gary Marlow was
involved.  One last call to make.  The wonderful Fedora.  It was only
half a mile away so Des hoofed it through the city streets for a date
with his DI.

It seemed that New Orleans had livened up that afternoon.  The big eyes
of Bogart were staring down at a party of eight: office people out on
some kind of birthday hinge.  Wayne was actually busy and there was no
Dick to be seen.  Des cruised in and waved to Errol who lounged alone
in the far corner.

"What's happening, Wayne?"  he said.  "There's a third of a crowd in
here."

"Don't panic, Des, just the annual outing for the tax office."

"Shame.  Thought maybe it was the start of the big time."

"I don't ever say it, Des, but fuck knows, the Fedora is and always
will be a flop."

Des got in a couple of whiskies and went and sat with DI Errol Wilson.
The DI had a long line of peanuts set out on the table and was eating
them one by one.

"You're late, man," Errol said with a smile.  "You gotta know I'm too
important now to be fucked around."

"Wow."

"I tell you, if I'd reached the last nut, I was off and out of it."

"I'm a working man too, Errol."

"Oh, I forgot.  Another shit-heap place you've led me into."

"This is the future, mate.  It doesn't exist other than as an image of
something that never was, an image that nobody cares about.  It
probably isn't even here.  It's virtual, see, like we're probably
sitting in the street now getting our shots of booze."

"Jesus, Des, what the hell you on about?"

"Fuck knows.  It's the Fedora, what it does to you."

Des, feeling that his brain was beginning to speed after a long day's
gabbing, quickly got down to business.  And he felt smug enough doing
it, even though the Gary Marlow lead wasn't his.

"Bleeding hell, ain't you the genius?"  Errol put on an exaggerated
show of admiration.  "I'm serious though, Des.  That's good work."

"I tell you, I'm off the bottom and moving up."

"So how d'you do it?"

"Found something at Claudette's place that you guys had missed.  Got in
with the pros and found out more."

"Yeh, well that is your advantage.  That and the incompetence of some
of our guys."

"Could you check him for me, Errol, find out where his local pad is?"

"I reckon you deserve that."

"So how are the flat feet doing?"

"Making our feet flatter.  A lot of checking of per vs and so on.  What
you're digging up does seem to point to something closer to home."

"Maybe too early to say."

"Yeh, well I've got a bit of news that adds further spice to this case;
it concerns your Bertha."

"Huh-uh, I wondered when she might figure in the proceedings."

"You know she was no angel in her younger days, a pro like her
daughter?"

"Yeh."  Des sighed.  He'd been trying to keep Bertha out of his mind.
He'd been vaguely thinking he should keep out of her way.  She knew his
weakness.

"Well, man, I was talking to one of the old-timers down at the station.
The guy remembers Bertha.  Said she had a bit of a thing with Ross
Constanza."

"The name rings a bell."

"You know him.  Second-hand car dealer, backer of night clubs, escort
agencies, cover jobs for piles of villainous fuck'ry."

"Right."

"There was some trouble, way back, involving another sleaze dealer
Paddy Conroy.  Bertha got ditched and disappeared from the scene.  The
old-timer couldn't believe she'd surfaced again."

"I can't see any connection with Claudette and now."

"Mebbe not, man, but worth knowing, huh, what you're dealing with?"

"Yeh, guess so."

"It would kinda make me want to watch my back."

Des didn't say anything.  He was thinking of the pink room and was
wondering what else Bertha had to offer.  He didn't want to admit it,
but those thoughts turned him on.

Ten.

It was the whiteness he saw first; a blanket of white, soft but
overwhelming.  And then it was the wet he became aware of, clammy
skin-tight wet that made Des writhe.  And after that, after the
movement, he realized someone was pulling on his foot, tugging hard,
attempting to drag him down.  Des tried to look below, to see who it
was who held him but it was pitch dark down there.  "Miranda or
Bertha?"  he muttered half conscious.  "Who the fuck is it with me?"
Des continued to struggle, saw the whiteness even brighter above and
then managed to prise open his eyes.  He was totally drenched in sweat.
Des pulled himself up onto an elbow and shook his head.  "Shit..  ."
The room came into view.  The cluttered, pale green room he'd spent
many a sleepless or stupefied night in as he had lived, post-Miranda,
with the big wallow.  A shitty room he hated for all the memories it
held.  Des fumbled across the bedclothes and found himself a fag.  He
looked at the window.  The sun was blazing away outside.  Before the
first traces of nicotine hit his hungry veins, the phone rang.

"So where have you been then, lover?"

"Jesus, Bertha, I've just woke up."

"I've been up a while.  Couldn't sleep.  It may be hot outside, but my
bleeding bed is cold."

"I was pretty whacked last night," Des lied, 'but I guess you were in
my dreams."

"Not good enough.  After our night of passion I thought'

"Yeh, I know, but let's -' Des felt a niggle of irritation.  "Let's,
you know, let's try and keep a perspective.  There's work too, yeh.
There's your daughter to think about."

A marked silence at the end of the phone.  Des squirmed like a worm
around the receiver.  He cursed himself for being so ratty.

"Shouldn't have said that, should I?  But then I guess it shows how
complicated it gets."

"I'm disappointed, Des."

"Let's talk about it later, huh?  I've been working and I've got
news."

Des quickly launched into a report about Gary Marlow, knowing that
Bertha was far from happy but hoping he could distract her thoughts.
Bertha reluctantly responded, distance and disappointment in her
voice.

"You think he could've done it?"

"It's a possibility."

"No one else involved?"

"Hard to say.  He's done a bunk.  Could be out of guilt, or fright."

"Find out, Des."

"That's what I'm doing."

"And come and see me tonight."

"Of course, I mean, I want to'

Bertha had hung up on him.  Des threw the phone back down on its cradle
and realized he was still sweating.  Swearing, he flung the covers off
and began to scowl at the pale green walls.  The phone rang again.

"Hi there, Sherlock, you up and at it yet?"

"Half asleep, sweating like a pig and pissed off, Errol."

"Urgh, that makes me wanna put the phone down."

"I don't think it's catching."

"Better not be, man.  It's bad enough as it is dealing with you
low-life scum."

Thanks."

"But some news, huh.  I got an address for this Gary guy, for your use
for today only, yeh?"

"That's good.  I need something to sweeten up my client."

"Poor you!  We're also running a check down London to try to find out
where he is.  He's got a bit of form, man.  A coupla drug busts, sounds
like a user too, but no record of anything violent."

"Thanks a lot, Errol.  Give us the address then, eh, and I'll check you
later."

Des sat up on the bed.  The sweat had finally chilled and he shivered.
Maybe it was just enough to get him afloat.  An old friend on the phone
and something to do.

It was all too much for Jerry Colon.  He stood on a suburban street a
long way from home and felt as if and maybe wished he would
spontaneously combust.  He'd had a wasted journey to see someone he'd
met in a pub about a one-off job.  No someone, just a busy street in
eighty-degree heat and no sign of a bus to haul him home.  Jerry glared
at the groaning traffic and tried to avoid the acrid fumes.

It had been a bad few days.  The sickness was still with him, made
worse by weed.  He had a brain full of feathers and the world seemed
like a cinema set he roamed with disbelief.  He felt uncomfortable.
Deep within him was a needle of fear, an insidious worry that kept him
jittery.  The anxiety had grown when Mary had a break-in.  In the
middle of the day when Jerry lay prone, spliffed and watching soap,
someone had gone in and trashed her darkroom.  He hadn't heard the
intruders, but when he found out he almost collapsed at the thought of
such malevolence coming so close.  Mary was not sympathetic.

Jerry resolved to pull himself together, but the hours were long and
the temptation great.  He wiped sweat off his brow and struggled to
breathe.  A bus edged into sight.  But would he be able to count the
change for his fare?

Inside, it had to be one hundred and rising.  There was no prospect of
escape as the bus began its slow crawl through the suburbs.  It wasn't
long before Jerry got the shakes.  An irritating twitch on his thigh to
begin with, then a tic on his cheek and finally an awful sense that his
head wasn't properly attached to his body.  It really felt like his
head was wobbling, that he'd suddenly lost the supportive aid of a
spine.  If held in his hands it felt all right, but left on its own,
his head could've been a balloon flopping and straining to escape.
Jerry began to think everyone was looking at him.  Those hot faces that
normally look anywhere but at another face, they were now slyly turning
their eyes to watch the jelly-head wobble.  He didn't know what to do.
There was no escape.  He found himself slipping down in the seat.  He
pushed his head against the window and wedged a hand under it.  This
stopped the wobbling, but then his head vibrated in synchronicity with
the engine of the bus.  Jerry sneaked a look at the snooping
passengers.  Why the fuck didn't they suffer?  Such complacent faces
like stupid sheep off to the slaughterhouse!  He groaned and squeezed
further into his caged space.  Would the driver never stop?

He did stop.  Jerry teetered onto the baking pavements of the city
centre and resolved to walk the last few miles home.  Out in the open,
there was no more confinement to face.  But the world still seemed out
to harm him.  Vertiginous buildings bending over and hurting his head.
People blocking and bumping into him.  People who sneered malevolently
or mugged him with their eyes.  Jerry kept his head down.  He heard
whining sounds, sounds like forks scraping plates or chalk on the
blackboard.  Dragging his legs along the hot pavements, he managed to
haul himself away from the crowd and out to the quieter backstreets.
Jerry still kept his head down.  For some reason, he found himself
distrusting gravity, fearing that if he looked up, he would fall from
the ground and hurtle to the clouds.

The leafier suburbs closer to home offered a kind of relief.  Fewer
cars or people on the streets and the relative silence made things
better for a while.  But there seemed no way Jerry could get back to
his normal old stuttering self.  He soon began to suspect the silence
and wondered why no one was about.  Were all the people, the nerds,
deliberately staying inside to avoid the wobble-headed loony?  Or were
they watching from behind those net curtains?  Looking for signs of
non-conformity or little misdemeanours they could shop him for?  That
really kept his head down but it didn't help much.  There were so many
trees in the streets -poplars, planes and limes and they began to seem
more threatening than the clouds.  The limes were the worst.  Horrible
sweaty leaves covered in grime, and pallid flowers that looked like
excreta from an alien planet.  It was a lime tree that finally flipped
him.  Jerry just happened to glance up and there it was.  A scrawny,
grey monstrosity sat on a branch just above him.  It had beady eyes and
a white corrosive head.  Jerry staggered to a halt and flopped against
a privet bush.  He tried to keep hold of himself, to enforce the voice
of reason that said he was looking at a juvenile pigeon, but he
couldn't.  Suddenly, the whole tree began to sweat white flakes of ash
or snow.  His brain, his body, they just seemed to close down and he
was paralysed.  Only his eyes existed, floating, full of flakes of
white and straining to see the bird's eye that drifted further away. He
must've passed out then for a moment and when he awoke he found himself
sitting on the ground, sweating, shaking and very scared.  But Jerry
got himself up with the bird still watching.

"F-F-Fuck you!"  he cried, then staggered desperately, angrily the last
few yards home.

A gun might have come in handy where Des was.  Many of the
thirty-year-old buildings looked close to collapse.  On the far side of
the road, all the flats and maisonettes that sat behind half-mature
trees were grilled over with steel mesh.  On the corner of a side
street, a bunch of surly youths gave Des, the stranger, the once-over,
like customs officers checking for illegal immigrants.  Des merely
sneered back and clenched his fists.  It was proving a hard job to find
Gary Marlow's pad.  Half the road signs were missing or had been daubed
illegible.  Many of the little blocks of flats seemed to hide unmarked
down alleyways.  He had yet to see a friendly face he could ask.

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 one 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 arse hole

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.

Eleven.

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 naive 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 meditation al 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 cafe 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.

Kropotkin's Diner had a media resource centre above it.  A place that
hired out visual equipment and offered darkroom time for rent.  It was
a long shot, not much to go on, but Des felt that porno photos could be
involved in Claudette's death.  Or not.  Des figured that maybe the bum
shot could be the work of a freelancer, probably not professional but
maybe wanting to be, the sort of person who might use the resource
centre.  Des had just had a chat with the coordinator and some of his
views had been confirmed.  A tentative approach, the guy had said,
cheapish paper, but maybe knowing what they're doing.  He'd also given
out a few names of dubious types who might be up to peep-show work.  So
Des was almost pleased.  A dead-end it might be, but for a while the
momentum was being maintained.  It needed to be.  Thought had to be
forestalled.  Thinking would only lead on to Bertha and the hold she
seemed to be getting on him.  Strung up by money and sex.  Caught on
the rebound from Miranda.  Bertha, she with the dangerous past.  Des
grinned uneasily at the dosser who was licking the last drops of tea
from his spoon.

"The way it goes," he soothed to himself, 'no strings and one-off."  It
hardly sounded convincing.

Twelve.

"I didn't put the damn thing there!"

"Oh yes you bloody well did!

"No way!"

"You've got your head where your arse is sometimes, Liam!"

"Just don't blame me, woman!"

"Look at the poor kid.  He's covered in it!"

"Shit, that's the doorbell now."

Des groaned, took his hand off the buzzer and looked up at a cloudy
sky.  Maybe he should go back to taxi-driving?  But then again, you
still had to deal with people.

"Aren't you going to answer it then?"

"Probably that friggin loan shark."

A child began bawling inside the house and then, perhaps in
retaliation, Des heard the television being turned up.  Footsteps
clomped towards the door.

"Jesus, can't you all shut up and turn that telly down!"

The door to the house was flung open and Des found himself looking at a
skinny, dishevelled guy somewhere in his thirties.  The man picked at
his nose and gave Des a quizzical look.

"So who the fuck might you be then?"  he asked.

"God almighty," Des said with a smile.  He put his hand in his pocket
and brought out half a bottle of Paddy's booze.

"Well ... to be sure, God is always welcome here."  Liam

Bell beckoned Des to come in.  "We're right good Catholics, you can
tell by the horde of sprogs we got."

The living room was like some kind of aftermath, a nuclear war or
earthquake perhaps.  The floor cluttered with toys and paper.  Several
chairs upturned, as were cups on a table where a large black puddle
spread and dripped onto the floor.  A number of kids were sprawled
there too and on the rest of the furniture.  Another one sat directly
in front of the TV.  In the middle of this, a woman stooped, trying to
dab off some black substance from a small, bawling child.  The whole
scene gave Des a headache.  Liam shrugged his bony shoulders and pursed
his lips.

"Grand, ain't it?"

"I need to talk to you, about photography."

"Ah, well..  ."  Liam looked around at the mess.  "We'll go
upstairs."

Stumble up more like, thought Des as he followed Liam out of the mayhem
and up a stairway piled with old newspapers, teddy bears and the odd
box.  They ended up in the main bedroom.  Des slumped down onto a
double bed and unscrewed the bottle of whiskey while Liam propped up
the cot which butted against an overflowing wardrobe.

"Sort of pushed for space I'd say."  Des passed over the whiskey.

"Bloody council haven't come up with anything else yet."

"So d'you do commissions then?"

"Depends what you've got in mind."

It seemed as good a way in as any.  Des told him he was a private
investigator who needed some special kind of snaps for a client of his.
The usual scenario.  Husband cheating on wife, the wife reluctant to
believe it and needing a juicy eye-opener to make it come true.

"You want porno peeping-tom shots?"

"You've got it.  You've done it before, haven't you?"

Des pulled out the triangular piece of bum and waved it in the air.  He
got the whiskey back and Liam took the photo.

"This is not mine.  It's a bit out of focus."

"A reject shot, but you do this stuff, don't you?"

"The fuck I don't.  Well, I've done some stuff with the wife like, but
this isn't my scene."

"No?"

"No, man.  I mean, I'm interested .. . like you know, photography, it's
an art form you can create with, make your own images.  Tits and bums,
that's just exploitation al crap.  Hold on a min..."

Liam handed back the photo, then knelt down and began to rummage under
the bed.  He eventually brought out a battered folder and slipped out a
few black and white 10x8s.

"Like this is the stuff I'm into at the mo, low-light night shots."

A fuzzy street-lamp shone in the top left-hand corner in one photo, all
grain and blotted white with moth shapes.  Below the light, pale
girders loomed out of a dark background.  Then Des saw a brick wall
split dramatically in two by a thrusting shadow that pointed to a
tattered boy band poster, their clean smirking faces made almost
lunatic by the play of light.  Then another shot, low-contrast grey
light making barely discernible ripples on the surface of a canal.
Dead-end night glimpses, images of insomnia.

"See what you mean."

"I'm trying to explore the edge of things, man, you know, like where
light begins to disappear and the photo is just a stop away from being
no more."

"Sounds profound, like photographing death or something."

"Yeh.  Yeh, I hadn't thought of that."

"With what I'm working on, it's not such a crazy idea."  Des passed
over the whiskey again.  "So, if you don't do any hanky-panky stuff,
you know someone who does, or have you heard of someone doing it?"

"Yeh .. ."

Liam was looking at his own photos, beginning to get lost in them.

"I mean, yeh, some time back," he said.  "You meet like-minds down the
resource centre and I was chatting to this bird one time and she
mentioned she'd been asked to do dodgy stuff."

"Now this is what I'm looking for, Liam."

"Mary Holmes, a New Age sort of hippie-type.  She lives on Ivor
Road."

Des left Liam squinting at his dark, sparse images thinking that maybe
they were a kind of retreat for a harassed man.  But he was also
thinking of someone else whose eyes were like a shutter witnessing her
last blink of light.

Mary Holmes had just got home from her part-time job at Kelly's
bookshop.  It was always a good time.  Just after lunch with the house
quiet and no more responsibilities for the day.  She could easily spend
an hour lounging on the sofa, maybe reading the paper, daydreaming or
thinking about the things she had to do.  She was considering her
options then a nice long bath, go up and see Jerry and spend an hour or
so in bed, or perhaps a good session in the darkroom.  She knew she
needed to do the latter most.  The burglary had almost knocked her back
to square one.  She had hardly anything left of her portfolio and had
only just got the equipment functioning again.  But it all felt a bit
too much like work and she was still feeling uncomfortable with the
violation of the burglary.  She began to feel that she should leave
that until later, much later, at a time when she'd felt she'd pleasured
herself well.  Mary stretched and moaned sensuously.  There was no
argument a spliff, a bath and a large dollop of sex.

Downstairs, at the back of the house, someone was using a window as a
mirror.  He ran his hand over a frowning brow and then pushed his
fingers into ochre hair, enjoying the thickness of it and the curls
that rippled back over his head.  Scobie was very proud of his hair.  A
lion's mane, virile and strong.  He gave it one more tousle and began
to move further round the house to the fire escape.  It looked solid
enough, though the rail seemed frail.  Scobie noticed the open door on
the first floor.  This was the kind of job he enjoyed.  A simple case
of putting the shits up someone.  And a woman at that, a blundering
amateur who posed no threat.  Scobie put on a casual smile and quickly
made his way up the steps.  He didn't hesitate at the kitchen door,
strolled on through and pulled out a sharp knife as he did so.  Mary
seemed to find it hard to believe he was there.  Scobie smiled, bowed
his head a little and then walked over and cut the phone line.  Mary
only really registered his presence at that point and became paralysed
with fear.  But she had no time to react.  Scobie came round the sofa
and put the knife to her throat.

"So, darling, a bit surprised to see me, eh?"

"Wh-Who are you?  What?"

"I ain't here to answer questions, dear, only to ask them."

"God .. . you can, you can take whatever there is, b-but there's not
much, I've already been done."

"Mmmm .. ."

Scobie suddenly lost his line of thought.  He'd noticed Mary's supine
body and a familiar feeling was beginning to surface.  It wasn't
supposed to.  He had very strict orders from Ross.  But he'd done
something bad last time, really bad, and secretly knew that he'd
enjoyed it too much.  Scobie struggled to concentrate.

"I know all about you being done cos it was me what done it.  We found
the negs, darling, but we didn't find no prints."

"What n-negs?"

Mary found herself utterly frozen.  She seemed to have no sensations in
her body other than a vague feeling that she needed a pee.  She felt as
if she was just a brain, a whirring, buzzing brain with all its
circuitry in panic.

"Come on, you're well out of your depth.  You don't know where I'm
bleedin coming from?"  Scobie widened his smile.  "But the fuck I'll
tell you, darling, that I come from something bleedin bigger than you
could imagine and we're dead unhappy with you.  Straight answers, OK,
darling, straight and clear or it's a shitty bin bag and a landfill
site for you."

"I don't..  ."  Mary still couldn't think straight.

Things happened very quickly then.  Scobie grabbed Mary's hair, moved
round the sofa and began to wrench her up.  Mary yelled in agony as she
struggled to support her weight.  The grinning face moved in close.
"Where're the bleedin prints?"

A fist suddenly thumped into Mary's face.  There was a cracking sound
and blood began to pour from her nose.  She fell back onto the sofa,
her ears ringing loudly, and she was conscious of the words deep down
that she knew she had to bring up and out.  As she fell back, Mary's
skirt had swept up across her body and Scobie was suddenly looking at
underwear.  His next punch stalled, he found himself ogling and getting
that feeling back again.  Shit, he thought, what's the rush, why turn
it down, what's Ross gonna know?  He crouched and put his hands on bare
knees.  "Well, darling?"  he said.

Ill

Mary saw the change in his manner.  She was shaking uncontrollably now
and trying to keep the blood out of her mouth.  Scobie's hand began to
paw upwards, like a butcher's on a joint of meat.

"I don't have any prints," Mary finally managed to blurt out.  "I gave
them all to Claudette and that's the honest truth!"

"Did you now?"

Maybe it was the way he said the words, like he had stopped listening;
or maybe it was those awful hands on her trembling flesh; but something
snapped in Mary.  With a shriek, she kicked Scobie in the chest and
sent him tumbling backwards.  Then she jumped up and ran, ran to the
kitchen and stumbled through.  She ran to the fire escape, hit the rail
hard and then, Mary was suddenly flying, flying and falling like a
swooping swift under blue sky .. .

Des should've been there, following leads, making progress; he could've
arrived before Scobie; but Des actually ended up asleep in his car.  It
was the compensatory tipple of whiskey that did it for having endured a
mind-numbing bout of family life.  The experience had brought back
uneasy recollections.  His own family years, splattered here and there
with spurts of love and hate.  One tipple led to another.  One
experience got generalized.  All the houses in the street around him,
all the streets multiplied families sprawling for miles and miles, all
cosy and self-contained, browsing drowsily and awesomely quiet.  The
thought comforted Des.  He felt that at least he was out on the street,
living in cracks and fissures where people were exposed and nothing was
predictable.  One tipple leads to another.  The bottle then becomes a
teat, a breast of comfort for one alone in an empty street where all
windows point inwards.  Families .. . Des thought of Bertha, her
enticing bosom and experienced hands.  And maybe why not?  It was some
sort of nestling place in the fissured world where the fate of hearts
is a mere lottery.  And then Des drifted down to dreams, crazy
game-show dreams with 'real love' prizes.  Des was a contestant, shabby
and exposed, watched the world over by families, fast-food grazing,
bored and forever unsatisfied.

Thirteen.

Ivor Road on a sunny late afternoon.  Kids out playing cricket in
between the long lines of parked cars.  Des drove exceedingly slowly,
wary of darting youths and a fierce sun that splintered through
over-arching trees.  Sweat dribbled down his jaw and his mouth felt
like fur.  As he cautiously progressed, Des peered through the street
clutter to check out house numbers.  He needn't have bothered.  The one
he wanted was the one with the cop cars outside.  Des parked and then
let the sun warm his closed eyes.  For a moment he could've been out on
the coast resting from the optic sparkle of the waves.  But it was only
the briefest of moments where dusty plane trees had turned to tamarisk.
Very soon his head was thumping.  He knew he would have to open his
eyes and confront more pain.  As he got out of the car, the word
"Miranda' suddenly sounded in his mind and Des felt a surging hunger
for flight.

There was quite a crowd outside Mary Holmes's house.  Intrigued,
excited, sad.  Brown faces mostly, warmed by the sun and maybe the
knowledge that it had not happened to them.  Des eased his way through.
There were a couple of cops by the gate; one had a scar that spliced
his nose.  Des hesitated but then caught sight of Errol emerging from
the rear of the house.  A confident smirk began to form.  Des slipped
under the barrier and smirked even harder at the cop who wore his nose
with pride.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

Des tried to lord it even more, feeling that there was some
compensation for woe in being able to flaunt himself at the hard-faced
cop.

"Just get me DI Wilson, will you?"

"Go fuck yourself."

But Errol had already spotted Des and he came over.  "How come you're
here, man?"

"To this door a lead has brought me."

"Shit, you'd better come in."

Des gave one final defiant smirk and then allowed himself to be ushered
in where the big boys were.

Errol and Des stood in the overgrown back garden, the sun now lost
behind a wall and the place busy with forensics.

"Yeh, the rail on the middle landing there just gave way and she fell
bout fifteen feet.  Might've survived but for the brick yard and the
serrated chimney pot she clonked her head on."

"Jesus .. ."

"Instant death."

"So was it an accident or what?"

"Could've been, but there was blood on the sofa in her room and her
phone line had been cut."

"Jesus .. ."

"We've got a vague description of a guy hanging around, but nothing
else as yet."

"You say it happened a couple of hours ago.  Jesus, I could've been
here then."

"Huh-uh, so why weren't you?"

"Fell asleep on the job."

Des had almost been wondering what the job was.  Farting around with
nothing but a scrap of a photo and Claudette's death seeming like
ancient history.  But this development, this was a shock; it was a
justification he didn't want.

"Come on then, Des, explain your angle."

"Jesus .. ."  Des sighed and felt the ache in his head even more.

"That's the fourth time you've said that, man.  Could you, you know,
try another word?"

"Daytime drinking, Errol, it's a .. ."  Des stopped himself saying
'killer' and then got out his scrap of photo.

"It's just an arse, I know, but I found this at Gary's wrecked pad and
thought maybe that him and Claudette could've been into porn or
blackmail, so I was checking out possible snapshotters and this woman's
name comes up."

"Jesus

"Errol!"

"No, what I mean, this woman had her darkroom done over a while back,
had a lot of stuff nicked.  One of the DCs remembers coming here, said
it was a nasty break-in, a lot of damage and all of her neg boxes
gone."

"Sod it, Errol, is this fitting into place?  Is it me or what?"

"It could still be a coincidence, but I reckon we should get together
on this quick."

"Who found the body?"

"A guy called Jerry Coton.  Lives in the top flat.  He was cut up
pretty rough and couldn't tell us much.  Looked pretty stoned to me."

"Yeh, who wouldn't want to be?"

"With that guy it's probably permanent."

"Seems sane enough to me."

"You're not sounding too good, Des."  Errol narrowed his eyes and gave
Des a once-over.  "I mean, are you in control of this situation?  How
are you handling Bertha?"

"I don't reckon I know, Errol.  Whatever happens is about as far as it
goes."

There was a picture of Mount Everest next to the Cute of the Month.
That was Ross for you, a cute cunt and a big tit of a mountain.  Of
course, Ross would put it in a more 'refined' way: "A peak of
achievement in the glamour business."  Scobie secretly scowled.  What a
tosser!  The guy was just a piece of gutter shit like the rest of us.
Just because he read a dictionary once doesn't change fuck all.  It's
only a line of guff anyway for the men in suits but he seems to think
he can pull the same shit with everyone.

"Are you listening to me, Scobie?"

"Sure."

"I am really trying to get it into your thick skull that I am not
pleased."

"I got it the first time."

"I don't know if you did.  Two-inch thick that or you're just
pretending to be dim."

"Come on'

"No, you Jesus, think I'll get Gus to bring the drill in -look, final
last time.  I did not tell you to fuck Claudette, I told you she needed
to go away permanently."

"So what's it matter?"

"What's it matter?  It matters because they've got your genetic
fingerprint.  That means they've got you one hundred plus per cent for
doing Claudette and that means they've most likely got me."

"They don't know anything."

"Right.  Maybe.  So then what happens?  I tell you to put the shits up
this photographer bitch and she ends up dead, and no doubt screwed too.
What's the matter?  Are you not getting any or something?  Are you
losing touch with reality?"

"No!  The fuck no!  I never touched her!  She was the nutty one.  One
minute rigid as a rock, the next dashing off like a mad animal.  There
was nothing the fuck I could do about it."

"It's an almighty mess, Scobie, it really is.  Two deaths will mean
four times the effort by the police and that means heat for me and
diarrhoea for some of my clients!"

Words, his bleeding mouth's got the runs!  What an arse hole  Scobie
thought.  The cops will never make a connection anyway.  A tart gets
bumped off and a drugged up hippie falls off a fire escape; big bloody
deal.  Scobie continued to seethe quietly at the bollocking his boss
was laying out.  He stared at the missing finger and began to imagine
slicing off the rest of them.  The joke was that Ross lost his finger
while touching up a Nepalese whore who had a cunt like a clam.  The
truth was supposed to be that a rabid dog did the business, which
explained why Ross himself was a nutter and liable to do nasty things.
But Scobie had other ideas.  Years of wan king had worn it down, that
was one.  Another?  The guy was talking so much one time that he bit it
off himself without even knowing it.

No matter how many tart-ups it had, the Crown always ended up looking
like a dive.  The landlord, a West Indian old-timer, didn't really give
two shits for what the place looked like.  "Back-a-yard dem have
bleedin tin hut wid tea chest fi sit pon.  A pub, it a drinkin place.
Who care what it look like?"  he'd say.  So Reuben just left the finger
marks and beer stains alone.  Posters of past events became permanent,
as did the felt-tip exhortations to Jah, long forgotten posses and the
bloodclaat pros from down the road.  Only the bottles of booze and the
well-worn bar sparkled, as did the big screen satellite TV that flooded
the ceiling blue and silver.  Jerry and Frederick eased into a corner
away from the old men who pumped fruit machines and slapped their way
through endless dominoes.

Frederick set the tone of the night by lining them both up with a pint
of bitter and a large white rum.  The big screen that hung safely from
the ceiling was showing some Stateside boxing match.  Nobody seemed
bothered with it; all the intercourse of noise was rooted to the
floor.

"You feelin a bit better now, man?"

"I d-don't know .. ."

"Jus let it ride, man.  Nuttin else much you can do but get piss and
let it ride."

Jerry nodded and lit up a fresh fag from the butt of his old one.  His
face was grey and sweat-flecked, his lips were trembling and he didn't
dare to try to keep his fingers still.  But though he found it hard to
utter more than two words at a go, he was pleased that Frederick had
taken him in tow.  Earlier, at the Lime Tree, he had sat alone looking
down into a deep pit where Mary lay bloody and smashed.  He couldn't
see anything else, couldn't envisage ever closing his eyes and was
scared to try to think or feel.  But old grey Frederick had come along
with soothing words and a fatherly arm to guide him into oblivion.  The
Crown was the third pub of the night.

The movement of booze began to increase.  The bitters sank to halves
but the rums began to rise in their glasses.  The pub had become more
crowded and the noise of revelry flooded in.  Frederick's tales of
female conquests soon got lost in the blather.  Jerry's eyes began to
glaze and stare blankly at other guys cackling in competition with each
other.  Then his eyes drifted to the screen in the sky and the heavy
sparring that took place there.  It wasn't long before Jerry was in
there with the punches, as if that was a way to exorcize his pain.
Willing on thuds to the body and wincing at the slow-mo crunch of
punches replayed.  The whole situation seemed like a big spar.  All the
guys in the bar were fighting with words and gestures.  The stylized
slap of a domino was a provocation to war.  Everyone was getting
frigging worked up; the whole world was at each other's throats,
dancing up and down with the rituals of the fight.  Jerry felt like
standing up and getting into a boxing pose.

"What's your problem, huh?  Let me sock you with this shit!  Mary's
dead, you bastard, her skull's all smashed in!"  he wanted to shout.
But Jerry remained a pale-faced mute, a sad case in a bar of black
revelry.  Frederick clamped a large hand on Jerry's shoulder and
pointed across the bar.

"It a Friday night.  The girls dem a tekkin break from work."

There was Ida, Sandy and there was Colette.  The three women squeezed
around Jerry and Frederick and suddenly the atmosphere changed.
Well-cushioned thighs and brazen boobs pushed out and the raucous chat
that had previously jarred was dispelled to the far reaches of the
room.  Frederick did the intros as he sneakily rolled a spliff on his
knees.

"Social workers of the world, en nit sisters?"

"Too right, Fred," the big-shouldered Ida replied.  "There ain't a
man's problems we don't fix."

"Fuck the prisons, eh, jus gi em lots a pussy."

"Yeh, well we ain't working at the mo, Fred, so leave it out, eh."

"Yeh, you is right, sis."

"So how's it goin with you, old man?  How's the weary bones an that
dreaded arthritis?"

"No way you shoulda mention dat.  It like the weather, Ida, which in
dis country is none at all good.  Why you tink me a spliff up all the
time?"

"Huh, that's just an excuse to get high and you know it.  You wanna get
into training, old man.  That's what we do, ain't it, Sandy?"

Ida raised her arm to show off her biceps.  She nudged Sandy as she did
so.

"Leave off, Ida!"

"Blimey!"  Ida turned back to Frederick.  "She had a real slime bag
earlier on.  We had to help her out.  Jesus, you need to be fit."

"Well you know what happen to Claudette."

"Yeh.  But it forgettin time now, ain't it?  Time for fun, eh?"

"Too, too right."

As Ida spoke, Jerry found himself looking at her nut-brown hands and
the eight silver rings that adorned them.  One had a skull on it. Jerry
couldn't stop staring and suddenly felt his stomach churn.  The sight
of Mary's bloody head came looming.  And then another hand reached out
and touched Jerry's.  It belonged to Colette, the one with the ginger
curls.

"You all right?"

"J-Just about."

"You feelin sick?"

"B-Badly."

Colette pouted her lips and frowned.  "Now I'm here it ain't
allowed."

She smiled, shoved a fag in Jerry's mouth and suddenly the death's head
receded.  The flow of drinks increased as the girls began to blow
hard-earned money.  The laughter grew too, the girls taking the piss
out of punters, talking telly and movies and most of all weighing the
options of where they'd most like to be Spain, Greece, LA, Orlando it
looked like Florida would win hands down.

"Stop dis dreamin!"  Frederick shouted.  "The night it a young, the pub
a closin an we should go party elsewhere."

"Why not your yard, Fred?"  Ida bawled.

"Oh no, me gotta much better idea."

It was the end house of a condemned row.  Looking out of a side window,
all Jerry could see were dark humps of earth and brick rubble.  The
broken terrain seemed to last for ever, only ceasing, it seemed, at
far-off lights in some other part of the city.  The window was in the
hall, a place a few precious decibels quieter than the rest of the
blues party, where rap and reggae thundered.  Heavy bass pounded into
the walls and foundations, and then went off into the bowels of the
earth.  Jerry could see the house being prematurely demolished by the
end of the night.

"Women dem a bitches, man.  Dem play up like queens an mek man pay."

"Ugh?"

Jerry was propping up a wall in the hall with a Red Stripe and a solid
vibration up his spine.  This guy Wishbone was talking.  He was a kind
of travelling salesman with a big bag full of dope, chocolate bars and
overpriced fags.

"We the hunters man, an women, dey is creation, en nit  Pickneys an
dumplins an sweet-scented fannies, right?"

"Er .. . right."

"Right, an we out in the bleedin jungle getting cut up and fuck up an
strung way out, an all we friggin want, man, when we get back fi yard
is a lickle bit a sweet' Wishbone rubbed his fingers under Jerry's
nose.

"Yeh, r-right..  ."

"Right, an do we get it?  No fuckin way, man, less we kiss dem friggin
feet firs!"

Jerry didn't know what the guy was on about or how come he was talking
of sweet-scented fannies.  Frederick had drifted off some time ago to
rub-a-dub with the off-duty whores.  He could see them grooving and
soothing away the sweat of their labour with crackling bush and the
rhythms of Africa.  Maybe Frederick had said to the guys that Jerry was
mourning or maybe it was his sad drooling eyes that Wishbone noticed as
Jerry watched tight pants throb and hanging cleavages drip with
sweat.

"But me don't tek none a dat now.  Me mek sure me skirt a one who know
me is the boss!"

Wishbone showed a gold tooth and then pushed a gold knuckle up towards
Jerry's eyes.  All he could do was grin.  Copious amounts of dope and
pummelling sounds had moulded him into a kind of fluid oblivion, a
throbbing organism that just was, whatever went on around him.  And
that was good because the pain had gone.  There was nothing but the
numb beat, the uncomplicated pulse that went on and on.

Fourteen.

The Mirpur Gardens wasn't exactly teeming with life.  Only four others,
two couples, sat up front by the plate glass window, their faces washed
green by the restaurant sign.  Within the rest of the room, surrounded
by the gold-embossed flock of rose and vine, there was just one other
person.  Des McGinlay mopped up the last of his balti with a cold
remnant of naan.  The tables were covered with plum-coloured cloths and
had sheets of glass on top.  In the reflection of one, Des could see
the cold cabinet with its trays of sweets and the disembodied,
upside-down head of Zafeer.  A disconcerting view that seemed to sum up
how uncomfortable he felt.  Sweat dappled his brow, a brow that felt
taut as though ratcheted from behind.  And the floral walls, they
twitched and swirled in the corners of his tired eyes.  Des gripped the
edges of the table.  The room, dimly lit, suddenly seemed to elongate
and Zafeer, eyes almost closed, appeared twenty yards away, a
shrivelled nut of a head bathed in the green neon glow.  Des knew he
had to move.  He eased his way over to the counter.  He paid the bill,
fumblingly, cash clattering on glass, with Zafeer's bleary eyes looking
out into the night for mathematical inspiration.  It was a transaction
of sorts, though the details seemed arbitrary.  Des didn't mind; a
hollow "Cheers' and he was out into the cool night air.  It was what he
needed, the air and the exercise.  Back on the move, eyes alert, on the
lookout for Jerry Coton.  He crossed Stoney Lane and entered the
terraced streets, all yellow glare, deep shadow and covered windows
hinting secrets.  A taxi prowled past him looking for its fare.  Then a
pair of black ghost forms appeared.  Purdah robes.  Wary, they hugged
the house walls and then scurried past Des.  He caught the merest
flicker of a furtive eye.  Further on, Des had the feeling he was being
followed, but there was no one to see.  He shrugged.  Just bad feelings
on his tail.  In that yard behind the wall, a death that should've been
avoided.  Over in the shop doorway, fear pretending to check out the
small ads.  And further back, in deeper cover, Miranda was doggedly
clinging on.  He gritted his teeth.  Nothing much else could be done.
It was a test of nerve.

Friday night and there was no Stevie Kitson down at the Lime Tree. This
night seemed to attract mostly black clientele so Des didn't feel
especially hopeful.  Still, he pushed his way through the throng and
wondered whether a drink would dispel the night creatures that followed
him.  He decided it would and ordered a large whisky.  As he did so, he
caught Eileen's eye and beckoned her over.  It being pay cheque night,
it was a while before Eileen came.  Des surveyed the bar.  There were
few faces he recognized.

"Can't talk long, Des, what can I do for you?"

"Sorry, Eileen, just a quick thing.  You seen Jerry Coton here
tonight?"

"The tall guy who stutters?"

"Yeh, guess that's him."

"Surely, he was here earlier on, but then went off with Frederick."

"Old grey Frederick?"

"Huh-uh."

"No idea where?"

"I think Frederick sometimes goes down the George."

"Right."

Des downed his whisky in one go.  Then he felt a little something give
him a tug.  Big wallow here.  See all those smiling faces, that warm
amber glow?  How about, you know, another little shot before you think
to leave?  Des stood up abruptly.  "No way," he muttered under his
breath.  "No way I fall for that again."  And he made his way through
the crowd.

So it was once more out into the city streets where bad vibes prowled
like ghosts in black.  He went up a street of shuttered shops, all riot
and ram-raider proof, and then turned the corner at the Dodyal Sweet
House where bullet holes could still be seen in the concrete wall.  He
kept his head well down.  Eyes on automatic de-select.  If you don't
see the shit, the world looks better.  He didn't even look into the
window of the all-night taxi office where grey-faced drivers kicked
heels, chewed fat and went goggle-eyed in front of the TV box.  Being
this withdrawn, Des didn't see the guy coming round the corner.  He
couldn't stop his shoulder sending Vin St.  James flying.

"Jesus fuck, man!"  Vin had landed on his backside.  He angrily glared
up at Des.  "It you!  You the bleeda who sock me before.  You the
bastard who los me bes blade!"

"Sorry, man.  Shit, let me help you up."

"Don't you dare touch me, man!"

"You look like you need help.  I mean, what happened, Vin?"

Vin was certainly struggling to get to the vertical.  His left arm was
in a sling and there seemed to be something wrong with one of his legs.
He managed to get his weight on his good arm but then struggled to get
his feet to move.

"Shit!"  he gasped.

Des moved over, grabbed him under the armpits and pulled Vin up like a
pillow.  But he didn't get any thanks, merely a suspicious, surly look
as Vin dusted himself down.  Des noticed a set of stitches right across
his brow.

"So what happened then, eh?"

"It ent nut ting feh you to know bout."

"Come on, you know my interest.  I'm still working for Bertha."

Vin looked up and down the street.  His shoulders seemed droopier than
before and his cheeks more hollow.  The guy had aged a lot in a week.

"Yeh, what the fuck," Vin muttered.

"Did you get clobbered because of Claudette?"

"You t'ink me s'pose fi know dat?"  The shoulders drooped more.  "Yeh,
man, it probably was.  Look, man, you put it tog edda  Me go an see
Ross Constanza, ask im if he know any ting bout what Claudette she up
to. Im don't know.  Few day later, Scobie turn up on me plot an me end
up in a hospital wid me whole crop a trash."

"Scobie?"

"Wha?  You mean you don't know im?"  Vin kissed his teeth.  "Scobie im
Ross bad bwoy, im muscle.  Man, me pull firs an im still get me."

"I'm really sorry, Vin, but, you know, why would this Ross guy know
anything?"

"Come on, you ain't that dumb, or is you jus playin the fool?"

"Hey-'

"Look, Ross im run girl too, at the posh end a the market.  Me jus
thought she might a gone to im feh extra dough.  Turn out she was
fuckin roun wid some other guy, but dat don't bother Ross.  You ain't
s'pose to question Ross."

"You got any proof?"

"Man, me know nut ting right, cept me a fuck up bad an feelin
pressure."

"Well, thanks for the info anyway."

"Don't tank me, man, cos it could be a curse."  Vin suddenly turned a
shifty eye up and straight into Des's gaze.  "Scobie, the rat, im
coulda come after you!"

A half-hearted laugh came out of Vin's mouth as he turned and limped
away.  Des leaned back against a wall.  For a moment he was encouraged
by what he'd heard about Ross Constanza.  Another connection, another
snippet of information that made the case move.  But then he sighed
loudly.  "Just another sordid little fix really," he muttered to
himself.  "So why am I roaming the streets?"  Des set off once again
for the George.  "Could it be because I don't want to go back to
Bertha?"

The George Inn was considerably quieter than the Lime Tree.  This was a
Sikh-run pub and was known to be stricter in adhering to the rules. The
clientele, therefore, were perhaps a bit more respectable.  That, or
they were serious drinkers unconcerned with pick-ups or partying. Des
got himself half a bitter.  He asked at the bar about Frederick but got
the same story that he'd been and gone.  He found a fairly quiet corner
and slumped down.  The temptation was to start picking over the case,
and that would probably have happened, if a woman hadn't stared him out
of his thoughts.  She wouldn't stop looking, a ginger-haired mixed-race
woman with mocking eyes and the prominent thighs of a girl in the
trade.  Des began to get shifty.  Her face was familiar.

"You clocked it yet?"

"I'm working on it."

"Could be a delicate matter, certainly embarrassing."

"That's probably why I've forgot."

"Think of precious jewels."

"Rubies?"

"Better than that."

"Diamonds?"

"No, this has a sea connection."

"Oh no .. ."

It was the kind of situation that might have got Des running, but there
was something about Pearl that made him smile.

"I'm kind of surprised you remembered.  One limp John must look like
any other," he said.

"You didn't come over as any John.  You didn't even seem like a John,
more like a guy who was having a bad time.  A bit like now, huh?"

"Very perceptive."

"It's useful to know how to size a guy up."

"In one minute flat?"

"Often that's all the time there is."

Des found himself beginning to relax.  It was weird, her just sitting
there and latching onto him, but there seemed no angles, no shit to be
stirred.  Is this friendliness, Des thought, that I am warming to?

"Do you normally do this?  I mean, talk to ex-clients?"  he asked.  "I
guess this is your time off."

"Too right it is.  I come here for some peace and quiet.  And you? Well
you, I guess, aren't really an ex-client.  I kind of respect a guy who
isn't into cold sex."

"Yeh?"  Des wondered whether he was blushing.  "Well, it's nice to meet
you, Pearl."

"You too, mister."

They both shook hands and Des suddenly thought of the sea and of a
beach of yellow sand yet to be visited.

Fifteen.

Old grey Frederick lived on the second floor of a converted Victorian
house.  A housing association job, Des could tell.  He stood on the
porch on a bright sunny morning and rang the relevant bell.  It was
almost a good mood day.  He'd stayed away from Bertha.  And there was a
new spirit to warm up his weary heart.  They hadn't stayed chatting for
long, and it was just routine stuff about living in the city, but Des
had actually made a date with Pearl.  OK, so she was a pro and had a
nasty pimp hanging around.  She wasn't exactly a good catch, but for
Des the date seemed like an achievement in the aftermath of Miranda and
the deal he had with Bertha.  He rang the bell again.  Nine o'clock. It
was disgustingly early he knew, but this was a good mood day and there
was a big case to work on.  "Put it there," Des said to a scruffy cat
that came out of the shrubbery.  He held out his hand.  The cat sniffed
it but then moved on to wait by the front door.  "You want him too,
huh?"

The old guy did eventually come down and open the door.  A black face,
sallow and bereft of shine, Frederick peered out at the sunlight and
groaned.

"Err ... wha the fuck is it, man?"

"Your cat's hungry, Frederick."

"Huh, neva nut ting else."  A red eye prised itself a little further
open.  "Who the fuck are you, man, and why the fuck you we king me up
at dis lunatic hour?"

Des almost felt like launching into some kind of Jehovah spiel and
taking the piss, but he managed to keep in a work mode.

"Yeh, sorry about this, but, well actually I want to see Jerry."

"How'd you fin me, man, an im for dat matter?"

"I'm local, Frederick.  I know who to ask."

"Yeh .. . well, man.  Jerry, im stone cold out, got block up to im
eyeball las night cos im woman got kill."

"I know, that's why I'm here."

Frederick opened the door a little wider.  Des saw a white shirt half
stuffed into jogging pants.  He also saw unshaven white fuzz on
Frederick's jaw and thought then of Wayne, wondering whether he should
get a match out and strike up for his first fag of the day.

"Well, man, me guess you can try an wek Jerry up if you want, but it'll
prob'ly tek all day."

Frederick turned towards the stairs, the cat at his ankles and Des
following behind.

It could almost have been that Jerry Coton had joined Mary Holmes in
the garden of rest.  He lay on his back on the bed, white and totally
immobile.  His mouth resembled the last gasp of a fish drowned in air.
Des did light up his first fag of the day and pondered the arts of
resurrection.  His first impulse was to want to shave off Jerry's
straggly beard and comb his knotted hair as if he was an undertaker out
to groom a corpse.  But the sun was shining and urgent in his heart and
Des was impatient to get on.  Frederick muttered, "What the fuck?"  as
Des got out the ice-cube tray and returned to the laid-out Jerry.  A
cube for each of the eyes, several slotted in the mouth and then the
rest piled on a hardly moving chest.  Des squeezed Jerry's nose and
waited.  Like a train approaching in the distance, a few vibrations
began in Jerry's body, a few twitches and stifled snorts and then a
more distinct and continuous writhing until Jerry jolted upright, spat
out water and coughed raucously.

"Welcome back .. ."

"Wha -?"

"To the land of the living, man."

Bloodshot eyes glanced briefly at Des in incomprehension before the
coughing fit resumed.  Des knew he was only halfway there.

The cornmeal porridge sitting before Jerry Coton looked more like an
oral excretion than breakfast food.  Des concentrated on plying coffee.
It was the third top-up and still Jerry hadn't spoken a word.  His
elbows were pinioned to the table while the rest of him shivered, his
red eyes staring implacably at a sugar bowl and the brown coffee stains
that marred its contents.

"Come on now, man.  Drink this up, you're getting there, you're nearly
with us."

But it was the best part of half an hour before the white face became
tinged with colour and blurred eyes began to roam around the room.

"Sh .. . sh .. . sh-shit."

"Yeh, right.  Short, but I guess profound."

"W-Where a-am I?"

Frederick moved over from propping up the cooker and put his big face
close to Jerry's.  "My yard, man, you rememba?  You got so friggin piss
up las night me had to practic'ly carry you home."

"Yeh .. . F-Frederick."

"Dat's it, an dere's dis guy here, an investigator, im want to talk to
you, man."

It was a strain on Des's patience but eventually Jerry did fully join
the world again, a world of sunshine outside and blackness within.  He
gradually began to tell Des of how keen he'd been on Mary, of how their
relationship had been 'sort of crazy' but good.  It was a stuttering
and half-garbled account with Jerry's eyes fretting all around the
room.

"The really sh-shit th-thing .. ."

His words got stuck for a long time on that one but eventually Des got
it sussed out.  The really shit thing was that Jerry was in the house
at the time of the attack.  It was lunchtime and he was still in bed,
half-stoned, half-asleep dreams swirling around his head.  He sort of
heard some noises but they never got through the reveries he indulged
in.  It was probably an hour later when Jerry crawled out of bed, went
squinting to the fire escape and lit up his first fag.

"Shit, I always f-feel q-queasy on the f-fire escape, b-but I went
d-down expecting Mary to c-come out of the kitchen s-smiling.  And then
I saw the b-broken rail and 11-looked d-down'

"That must've been really bad."

"I I almost f-fell myself ... wish I had."

"Wouldn't have helped, Jerry.  Just more tragedy."

"God, I sh-should've b-been awake!  I c-could've helped her!"

"You still can, Jerry, that's the thing, and you're going to do it.
There must be something you know that can help finger the guy who did
it."

The coffee count was getting into double figures.  Frederick had to nip
out to replenish the fags.  Half a slice of toast got nibbled away. Des
explained his interest in the case and began to outline some of the
things he'd found out.  This seemed to help Jerry.  A story to focus
on.  Actions that aimed for redemption.  A firmer gaze entered his eyes
and his shaking finally ceased.  Des told him about the scrap of a
photo he'd found and the talk that Mary had done a dodgy job.  The
comprehension within Jerry then became almost acute.  Sharp eyes
focused on Des.

"I - I've s-seen those photos!"

"You have?"

"Some old g-geezer having it off with a p-pro, d-doggy style."

"You recognize them?"

"N-No, b-but, yeh I remember n-now.  It was C-Claudette.  M-Mary said
she met her down the L-Lime."

"And the guy?"

"I think I've still g-got a couple of her prints.  She showed them m-me
at m-my flat and they j-just g-got shoved somewhere."

"Jerry you can do something, and right now.  Get your coat, for fuck's
sake!"

The sunshine was still glorious but for Jerry it must have been
insulting.  He cowered in the corner of the car as Des set off for Ivor
Road.  There was no conversation and Des tried not to force it.  He
reckoned he knew about loss, not as bad, but something of what Jerry
was going through.  In five minutes Des was back under the trees,
watching out for tennis balls and avoiding wobbly bikes.  The cops
still had the house cordoned off, though there was no one on guard. Des
and Jerry slipped under the tape, unlocked the front door and went up
darkened stairs.

"G-Guess I'd've had t-to c-come back today anyway."

"The cops'll want to give you the third degree."

"S'pose I could be a s-suspect."

"Well, I wouldn't rule you out."

Thanks ..."

The flat was sparsely furnished, though there was clutter enough at the
edges of the rooms with books and magazines precariously piled.  Jerry
vaguely stared at them.

"I d-dunno .. ."

"You've got to find them, Jerry.  They could be crucial."

"Er, I w-was on the sofa and ..."

With fidgety fingers, Jerry began to turn over the books and magazines
on one particular pile.

"There was this other f-funny scene t-too."

"Yeh?"

"M-Mary, she had a one-night stand with this g-guy who k-kept asking if
she t-took dirty p-pictures."

"You know who he was?"

"Can't remember, b-but he had a f-finger missing from one hand."

"Won't be many guys like that."

Jerry stopped searching for a moment.  "I feel f-funny, you know, about
out there."

Des followed the movement of his head.  Through a door, he could see
the kitchen and the fire escape beyond.

"Perhaps you should go back to Frederick later."

"W-Wait, g-got it, this is the stuff!"

Des sat in silence looking at the two photos for a long time.  It could
be, he thought, that these were the cause of two murders.  Two lousy
shots of a guy indulging in whim or fantasy.  Des didn't think they
were particularly shocking, even though he recognized the faces.  Dirty
thoughts made real, dirty thoughts everyone has.  But such is
hypocrisy.  Dirt found out is crime.  It's crime that leads to greater
crime which makes the dirt more guilt-ridden and cloaked in secrecy. He
suddenly remembered his own stupidity, the red balloon madness when he
went hunger-driven into the night.  Des sighed.  Well at least he'd put
a face to the arse he'd been chasing.

"Y-You know who the g-guy is?"

"Sure, don't you?"

"N-No."

"God, man, don't you read the papers?"

"T-Too right I d-don't."

"This lunging stag here, Jerry, this rutting prick is none other than
Sir Martin Wainwright."

"Er, think I've heard the n-name."

"Jesus!  The guy's a bigwig businessman: car components, property
development and all that shit.  But he's high profile, this guy, spends
his pocket money pushing for withdrawal from Europe and true
independence for our beloved nation.  His friggin face is never out of
the papers."

"Oh f-fuck .. ."

"Look, I'm gonna have to have these, yeh?  This is important stuff,
could get Claudette's and Mary's killer."

But Jerry Coton seemed to have stopped listening.  He dismissed the
photos with a wave of his hand and slumped down onto the sofa.  He gave
the far wall of the room a venomous glare.  Des slipped the photos
beneath his shirt and made ready to leave.

"Don't tell anybody, huh?  You don't know anything about them.  These
snaps, they attract death as surely as death attracts vultures."

Jerry continued staring at the wall.

"You OK there?"

"God, I w-wish I c-could kill the bastard!"

Jerry took to the streets.  It wasn't as if he wanted to be there, but
home had lost its secure veneer, home had split open and left brains on
the floor.  He had no trouble walking away until he realized that the
streets might be equally risky.  Snooping eyes and damned pigeons.
Panic white outs beneath dripping trees.  But as he walked briskly on,
he knew he would probably be immune.  All that aching within, all that
nausea, it brought a compulsion strong enough to resist spooky streets
and lamp posts looming like sinister birds.  He headed for the emptier
places of the city, away from shops, cluttered stalls and the
claustrophobia of suburbia.  Eike an animal in flight, Jerry went for
waste ground and the empty acres of expressways where no one walked and
people sped past, anonymous as flies.  He found himself on Camp Hill. A
six-lane highway that swept down through brick factories and onwards to
glittering office towers.  Jerry stopped and stared.

"Nothing to d-do with m-me .. ."

He felt completely alone then.  The moving machines became almost
invisible, a blur of sound, a background drone within the morphology of
the landscape.  He was on the edge of a cliff looking down at the
scenery.  Human structures had become weird geology.  The city was a
plateau of rutted stone.  He sat down on a wall and all the lousiness
he felt began to overwhelm him.  One of those times.  Deep blues.  No
jobs, friends or prospects.  Body abused and beginning to overheat.
Self-pity awash with seediness.  And inside, like a balled claw
gripping his guts, there was the broken balustrade and the black
horizon below.  This was the place he'd seen, the place of death, and
he was horrified.  Jerry could not look down there again; he didn't
dare consider his own demise.  But from the insular broodings that the
fucked-up Jerry indulged in, a kind of suicide did arise.  Jerry wasn't
going to be Jerry any more.  With ingenuity born of necessity, like a
ghost stepping from a corpse, a new person eventually stood up from the
seated figure and walked off towards the rutted plain.  Discernibly,
this person was no different.  He had the same hangdog looks and
shambling gait.  But there was light glimmering somewhere in the vacant
eyes.  Two faint lights of purpose projected towards a dim horizon. One
light for a name yet to be found.  Another, bitter and vengeful, for a
half-realized love wrenched away.

Sixteen.

There were no tamarisk trees near the base of Cofton Tower and not the
slightest trace of a beach.  A few litter-swamped shrubs and the
rain-washed lines of builder's sand were all it had to offer.  But Des
was not too disheartened.  The job was going well, he had news enough
to satisfy a hungry Bertha.  He walked briskly through the sunshine and
up to the main entrance.  The stinking lifts were given short shrift.
Des was up the stairs in no time and knocking on Bertha's door.

"Well, mister, I reckon I've missed you."

Before Des had time to cross the threshold, Bertha had her arms around
him and was rubbing up close.  It was awkward.  All that intimacy out
in the cold, impersonal hall.  And Des knowing he wanted the impersonal
but was being pulled in deep.

"Easy now, Bertha, I've only just got here."

"You mean you're not glad to see me?"

"No, but, you know .. ."

Des reciprocated without much feeling, or rather he did so disregarding
the lust that was beginning to stir.  With fondling hands, he guided
Bertha into pink frilliness and got her down on the sofa.

"So how come you're so hot to see me?"

"Come on, several hungry nights have passed."

"I'm surprised you're not pissed off."

Des plonked a few kisses on Bertha's cheeks and wished he hadn't.  He
wiped the make-up off and tried to work out what was going on in her
eyes.

"I've learned you need a long lead, and that's all right, as long as
you come back and give me my due," she told him.

"That's what I'm here for."

Before Bertha had a chance to pull him back down into a clinch, Des
eased the photos out from beneath his shirt.  This was his strategy.
Divert attention and get back to strictly business.

"You might want to prepare yourself for these."

"What are they?"

"Your daughter at work, I'd guess you'd say."

"Oh God .. ."

The photos had their effect.  Bertha sat on the sofa all straightened
out with her skirt down to her knees.  She didn't touch or look at Des
but silently stared with damp eyes at the ridiculousness of sex.  Des
began to feel sorry for her yet again.  This was no memory a mother
needed.  This was wildlife safari, copulation and death on the rutted
plain.

"When you see it like this .. ."

"Yeh, nothing special in one way, but in this context, awful.  I'm
sorry."

The lousiness that Des suddenly felt spread quickly.  He began to think
about the last time he handed over photos and posh Rebecca's quivering
chin.  Images worse than words, worse than witnessing infidelity. These
were mere fragments of truth, compressed, ambivalent and haunting.  And
Des could've been the one to snap Claudette, a seedy little snooper out
to break people's hearts.  Fuck it, that Irish git Liam was right; we
should photograph the night.

"I guess I've seen worse in my life," Bertha lamely muttered.  "So, go
on, tell me, who's the man?"

"Sir Martin Wainwright."

"Jesus!  I thought I knew the face."

"Couldn't get anyone much bigger in the city."

"So Claudette and maybe this Gary Marlow thought they'd make a
bundle."

"Could be, though someone else could be involved.  Maybe someone else
set up the session and found out what was going on."

"And do we know who this might be?"

"Not yet.  The boyfriend of the dead photographer reckons it might be a
guy with part of a finger missing.  That ring a bell?"

"N-No

"Then of course there's your ex, Ross Constanza.  He beat the shit out
of Vin St.  James just because Vin had the nerve to be suspicious."

"Huh, that's Ross for you."

"So, what do you think then, Bertha?"

She seemed to be struggling.  Fingers writhing around the hem of her
dress, eyes burning the carpet.  When she spoke, she sounded too
cool.

"I think you're doing well, Des.  We now know why, and you're going to
find out who, right?"

"I'm on my way."

Des didn't get very far.  It was Bertha's eyes that did it.  All that
pain and defiance that wouldn't turn away, that wouldn't blink or
deferentially look down.  She wasn't going to let him off the hook. Des
felt quite detached at that moment.  He knew he shouldn't, and mostly
didn't want to.  The job could soon be complete; he wanted a cheque and
an uncluttered goodbye.  He could also see that Bertha was no slave to
her emotions.  Temporary needs, her own sensual power and the cash made
Des more than just a hired hand.  He didn't know why, but Bertha had to
have him doubly tied.  But then his thoughts turned full circle.  Shit,
she was having a bad time and Des didn't feel much better.  Comfort had
to be grabbed wherever it came in the cold city where the only horizons
are those in strangers' eyes.  And so seedy photos fell to the floor
and new calls of hunger were heeded.  Clothes ripped off in haste.
Worn flesh grappled with.

The weather had changed.  The wind was up and large white clouds were
bundling across the sky.  Bertha watched their distorted movement in
the mirrored glass of the Hyatt as she sat in City Square waiting for
Paddy Conroy.  It seemed to her a strange place to meet, but Paddy had
been adamantly against going to a pub.  Still trying to keep off the
sauce, or maybe it was just too intimate, thought Bertha.  Paddy did
have an experiential edge over Des McGinlay.  She looked around the
empty brick spaces and struggled to light up a fag.  The buffeting wind
and the comforting cigarette seemed to sum up her mood.  Comfort that
she still had Des on board and proof near at hand.  But a disturbing
swirl of feeling too, as she thought once more of the photo and Ross
Constanza's four-fingered hand, which was surely somewhere behind it.
It didn't seem a question of old anger but one of profound grievance in
the here and now.  But Bertha tried to keep those feelings back.  She
knew she needed a plan and a cool mind to carry it out.  Paddy Conroy
planted his sturdy backside down next to her.

"You've got a bloom to your cheeks there, Bertha."  "It feels more like
frostbite, you arse hole  "Just being courteous."

"Sounds like that woman has got you tied up in knots."  "It's for my
own good.  I had a stroke a while back."  Paddy was wearing a crumpled
cream suit and a bright blue shirt that was stretched tight against his
gut.  He sought to smooth the thin strands of hair he had left but
eventually gave up.  Bertha didn't think he was a patch on Des.

"So what are these developments you spoke of, Bertha?"

"It goes something like this, Paddy.  Ross has built up this business
of providing tarts to high-class punters.  Now, one of these high-class
punters got set up and was put in a very compromising position.  Well,
you know Ross and his extreme solutions.  He's been trying to murder
his way out of trouble and it hasn't come off."

"How come you know about this?"

"I've got a guy working for me.  We've got the compromising information
and near enough proof against Ross."

"Is this to do with Claudette's death?"

"You knew?"

"Didn't like to say anything when you came round that time but..  . I'm
really sorry, Bertha."

"Ross was in at the birth and in at the death."

"I guess you've got cause enough to want him fixed."

Bertha looked at the distorted clouds and the windswept square.  She
shivered with disquiet.

"It seems like it's everything, Paddy.  What he did to me then, what
he's done to me now and what he's deprived me of in between."

"So what have you got in mind?"

Bertha paused briefly.  "Well, it wouldn't do just to bump him off, or
get him nicked."

"Hah, that's no easy task, Bertha."

"I've got someone in mind who might do it, this guy who works for me,
but I was thinking first that we should try and take the business off
him."

"You mean kind of blackmail him out of it?"

"Why not?  If we've got him linked to murder .. ."

"It won't be easy."

'... And I've got some cash.  With your help we could set ourselves up
with a nice number."

"I don't know.  It's nice in theory, but in practice well think of the
man, Bertha.  You know him well enough."

Bertha felt a stab of anger.  Paddy had gone all soft, tucked away in
the suburbs and wanting the quiet life, no doubt holding on till some
friggin pension becomes due.

"Come on, Paddy, you want the guy, there's money in it too.  Those
cheap sauna joints you run can't pay that much."

"So what do I have to do?"

"Nothing.  I'll do the doing but I need you as a backer."

"I guess, in a way, I owe you one."

"Let's shake on a renewed friendship."

Paddy Conroy had cold damp hands.  That hadn't used to be true.  The
way it goes downhill.  Bertha felt another stab of anger.

"Fuck it, Paddy, we're stuck and we need change!"

It was nice not to be stuffing a raucous balti down your throat,
feeling the ghee clog your ventricles and wadding in naan against the
chilli burn.  This was civilized.  A tablecloth, napkins and a cute
little basket of garlic bread.  Des didn't know where to put his hands,
though he secretly knew where he wanted to.  Pearl sat opposite him
looking glorious in the intimate peach light that shone from the walls.
She wore a tight-fitting black dress with an amber brooch which matched
her hair perfectly.  Des looked into Chinese eyes and thought of
clippers sailing the seas of Trinidad, ships from all over the world
made one in those eyes.  Soft bastard, he thought.

"You want to tell me about your week?"  Pearl said.

"Private investigator?"

"Yeh."

"Not really.  It's shit-shovelling, dirty deeds and dirty thoughts and
not a lot to feel proud about."

"You make money."

"Yeh, s'pose so, and it beats driving a taxi or working in a bar,
but... well, I guess the dirt's wearing off on me."

"I know the feeling."

"You want to talk about your work?"

"Nah, it's the same story.  Shitty, fucked up people, a shitty pimp who
screws with my mind."

"My, what a pair we are!"

It was an Italian restaurant, and Des went with a pasta and chicken
concoction.  He made an effort to eat in a composed way.  So did Pearl
and the result was laughter.

"Are you trying to make out I'm really a pig?"

"It's obvious, Des.  Go on, be yourself.  Shovel it in."

"Of course, you went to some finishing school down south."

"I know all about etiquette."

"Etiquette.  What a bloody stupid word."

"I like it, Des.  It reminds me of manicured fingers lifting titchy
china cups, rich blue-rinse ladies talking posh, you know, afternoon
piano sessions and never having to clean the loo."

"Such people don't need to go to the loo, they're so refined."

"Don't you think it would be nice to be so above it all?"

"With you ... yeh."

Pearl gave off a sweet smile that made Des quiver down to his shoes. It
was a good sensation.  What the future might hold ceased to concern
him.

"Let's imagine we've all the time in the world."

"You're reading my thoughts, Pearl."

"That's a good sign."

"Like just sitting here and enjoying ourselves."

"No dirty thoughts."

"Well, a few maybe, but nicely restrained."

"You sweet me and I'll sweet you."

"Sounds fine to me ..."

And so it went on, a languid night in a restaurant until they were
kicked out at closing time.  A strange feeling that Des had with Pearl
of wanting but not wanting to touch her.  Warm smiles in the dark as he
drove her home, smiles not seen but felt.  He stopped outside her
house.  In the streetlight, Des saw Pearl raise a thin eyebrow and
smile.  "All the time in the world, eh?"  he said, their hands briefly
touching and then Pearl slipping away from him.  Des didn't drive off
straight away.  He bathed a little in the good vibes he felt, looked up
at the streetlight glow and almost believed it was the sun.

Seventeen.

You don't phone a bigwig like Sir Martin Wainwright and expect a
meeting.  The only thing to do is doorstep.  So, not so bright but
early, Des headed out of the city to the leafy lanes where most bigwigs
live, leafy lanes with no names and long sweeping drives equally
anonymous.  It was a disconcerting experience.  No pavements, or
people.  Wide tilting spaces being sucked off into a cavernous sky.
Dense greenery flopping down over dark places where some kind of pain
lurked.  Des hunched over the steering wheel and kept his eyes close to
the road.  It took quite a long time before he found the right discreet
drive with its locked iron gates.  He stared at a phone and video
camera.  The signs of privilege and unequal exchange.  The ultimate
put-down.  Des wouldn't have used the system, even if he thought he
could get in.  A field full of cows beckoned.

Thoughts of Pearl kept him going.  Smooth amber brightly glowing in a
cosy place where memories had been banned.  That restrained
anticipation of delight got him through the squalor of the field.  The
midges and thistles, the shit and blowflies, the mad-eyed cows gushing
piss.  He made it to the security of a copse of trees and a wooden
fence topped with barbed wire.  But this didn't prove much of a
barrier.  An overhanging branch provided a lift up and Des soon worked
his way over.  Then he was crunching forecourt gravel, feeling more at
home, and running his fingers along the lines of a Jaguar.  He reached
for the front door bell.  Des kicked the mud off his shoes and smiled

The housekeeper who answered the door was not pleased.  "How did you
get here?"  she said belligerently.  The backwoods twang seemed comical
to Des.

"Walked up the drive."  Des smiled.  "Your gates are wide open."

"What?  Well, they shouldn't be, and you shouldn't be here."

"You'd better send someone down to sort it out then, and in the
meantime, you can announce me to Sir Martin."

"What?  Well, who are you?"

"McGinlay, private investigator."  Des pulled out a grubby card.  "I'm
engaged in a private and delicate matter that Sir Martin alone knows
about, so, you'd better inform him I'm here.  It concerns a certain
Claudette Turton."

Des was beginning to enjoy himself.  Talking to a maid no less!  He
stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and grinned.  She looked
apprehensive but eventually scuttled off, leaving Des to gaze at a
rusty suit of armour that seemed to serve as a hat stand.  After a few
minutes, a pale beanpole of a man in a black suit came into the hall,
evidently to keep an eye out.  But Des wasn't perturbed.  He cast his
eyes around the candy-striped hall and thought Sir Martin's pile was no
huge deal.  Six bedrooms maybe, who gives a fuck?  And then the maid
returned, her brow a spider's web of frowns.

"Sir Martin will see you.  Will you please come this way, sir?"  she
said with half-hearted politeness.

Des smiled anyway and ambled his way after her.

"I admire your etiquette," he said as he was shown into a side room.

Sir Martin was, well, grey.  He had a full crop of grey hair, a neatly
clipped grey moustache and he wore a grey suit.  His face, too, was
tinged with grey.  He didn't look any different from the pictures in
the newspapers as if the guy was walking front-page news.  He sat at a
small table and beckoned Des to sit down.

"I don't really know why I'm doing this, Mr.  er -McGinlay.  I don't
recall ever having requested your services.  However, I do sometimes
have reason to turn to private investigators so maybe your name has
slipped my mind."

Sir Martin was getting flabby.  But Des didn't need the tight suit to
tell him that.  He'd seen photos of the real thing.  He put his hand
inside his coat and felt the envelope.  Sir Martin's burnt-umber eyes
waited, burnt eyes above a high-boned precipice of pitted flesh, a
mouth resolutely small.  Des hesitated.  He didn't feel comfortable
with the eyes, feeling there was something odd about them, distant but
also rudely penetrating.  Des felt himself shrinking back but he
managed to check himself.  Sod the deference, he thought, and so
launched in.

"It's a difficult situation this."  Des fumbled for a fag and then lit
up.  The room was practically empty, a kind of cold-shoulder reception
place for tradesmen and the unwanted such as himself.

"I've been on this case, chasing a bare arse halfway across the city
and not knowing who it belonged to.  But it seemed like an important
arse because two people who saw it ended up dead."

The grey face remained impassive and the eyes still drilled, though Des
thought he saw a slight smile beneath the clipped moustache.

"Now of course, I don't believe that this arse has the capacity to
shoot bullets or anything like that.  I mean, I guess you could say
that it's just a good-time arse having fun."

"I think you'd better get to the point, Mr.  McGinlay."

"You're right."  Des slipped the envelope across the table.  "Take a
look inside.  I'm sure you've seen them before.  Did

Claudette mail them through the post to you, or did she nobble you
outside your political headquarters?"

Sir Martin was a man of perfected calm, Teflon exterior.  His trade no
doubt cultivated that.  He looked at the photos and then dismissively
pushed them away.

"Fakes, Mr.  McGinlay.  I'm sorry you've wasted your time."  The mouth
hardly moved beneath the moustache.

"Come on .. ."  Des was nearly speechless.  "Is that what you're going
to say to the police and press when I hand these bleedin prints in?"

"Such fabrications have been known.  It's easy to transpose one face
for another, happens all the time in the photographic world."

"Bullshit."

Silence descended on the room.  The almost motionless Sir Martin stared
down at the table; only his little finger moved, waggling the air like
a flailing worm.  Des let him work out an angle.  He looked out of a
small window and got a view of a swimming pool.

"Maybe, and without conceding anything, maybe I should buy these photos
from you, these and any others there might be.  A worthwhile sum that
reflects their collector's value?"

"Yeh, that's interesting.  And what is the going rate for collectable
porn?"

"Shall we say .. . two thousand?"

"Mmmm, that's not bad for a few prints."

"Well, you look like a man who could do with a few extra bob.  It's a
grubby business at the sharp end, making ends meet.  I've been there
myself a long time ago."

"Well, I guess it's an option I should keep under review ..."

And Des did see the possibilities.  A bit of bargaining and he could
make it five.  Almost half a year's pay and a chance to bugger off to a
sun-soaked island.  Pearl on the beach drinking spiced wine.  But that
thought became alarming.  Pearl was a dream.  The job, he knew, was his
only reality.

'..  . But keep under review only along with all the other aspects of
this case."

"I'm sure there is nothing else I can contribute."

"Well, it would be nice to know how you met Claudette.  I presume
someone set it up for you.  The nice Mr.  Constanza maybe, or was it
Gary Marlow?  And it would be nice to know who did the blackmailing and
who said they'd sort it out for you?"

"There's nothing more I can say."

"Maybe I'm getting a bit too complicated.  Maybe it was just you, Mr.
Wainwright, who bumped off Claudette and Mary Holmes?"

The big businessman and Euro bete noire stood abruptly.  His umber eyes
spat contempt as he went over to the door and pressed a buzzer.  Then
he turned, his face more ashen but his eyes exuding cold power.

"This is the last time we meet, Mr.  McGinlay.  Any further interaction
you might wish, deal with my lawyer.  Just take your filthy dross and
bugger off!"

Des rose too and stashed the photos away.  He realized then that it
would be sensible if he got copies made.

"It's up to you, Mr.  Wainwright.  Help me and I'll see if I can keep
it all quiet.  Go with your procurer and the whole world will know what
a dirty fucker you are.  A dirty fucker who'd kill to keep his
reputation clean."

Des walked out of the room, just as several men came down the hall to
usher him out.

"I'll give you a day to come up with a reply," he called back
defiantly.

And so Des left the sanctuary of wealth and went back to the city.  A
sliver of fear pierced him as he drove and it made his heart flutter.
He realized his knees were shaking.  Jesus.  Who knows what a guy like
that could do?  Then he looked out and saw gentle hills in the
distance, viridian-washed beneath charcoal skies.  It seemed a lifetime
since he'd seen such things.  They didn't mean anything.

The Jag and the Bentley were parked carelessly on the grass space at
the end of an unmetalled lane.  Two men stood by the cars, their hands
thrust in pockets, their shoulders hunched against an unseasonable
chill wind.  The lane ended abruptly at a ten-foot chain-link fence.
Behind this there was a long, squat line of lights that marked the end
of the airport runway.  In the distance, the terminus could be seen and
behind its white tower, the whole enormous spread of the city.

"Bit fucking dramatic, en nit coming up here?  Jesus, these sort of
places give me the creeps."

"Well, Ross, the situation demands extreme caution."

"Huh, any bleeding snooper with binoculars could watch us.  It took me
ages to find the place."

"I used to own a section of this land and made a million plus selling
it."

"Most people reminisce about their sexual conquests."

"Yes, well maybe I should've stuck to land deals.  We have a deeply
serious situation on hand."

Sir Martin Wainwright leaned back onto the bonnet of his Jaguar and
looked over at a jet airliner being hauled to a far-off terminus.  He
clenched his teeth and then told Ross Constanza about a certain private
eye.

"Oh no .. ."  Ross groaned and ground his foot into the turf.  He
wished he hadn't.  The turf was squelchy.  It seemed indicative of the
sinking feeling in his gut.  He looked sideways at Wainwright.
Dark-eyed and cold; dangerously so, and not to be underestimated.  "I
did hear of someone snuffling around, but he didn't seem to be getting
anywhere."

"You should've told me.  He's knocking on my door, Ross."

"I thought we'd covered all the angles, but some of the snaps must've
got into third-party hands that none of us knew about."

"All of this is your fault."

"Come on ... I'll sort it.  It's a loose end that can be quickly
snipped."

"I want no more killing.  You didn't tell me about the photographer."

"It was a mistake.  She just flipped and had an accident."

"I want this McGinlay deprived of the photos or forced to do a deal.
Nothing more."

"I'll handle it myself."

"You'll do it properly or else all the deals we might have in the
pipeline are off."

"That's my motivation, Wainwright.  Otherwise, who gives a shit if you
hit the News of the World?"

"Don't -' Sir Martin suddenly pressed a pointing finger at Ross. "Don't
get cheap with me, Constanza.  I've got you well and truly trussed
should any of this get out."

"Look, you made the deal with Claudette in the first place.  If
you'd've come through me there would've been security.  Jesus, it's me
who's helping you out of a hole."

"OK, she was highly persuasive and I was reckless, but don't forget
we're both tied together."

A plane began to descend onto a runway on the far side of the airport.
Sir Martin watched it for a few moments, unfazed by the open space, and
then looked at his watch.  "I've got to go.  Day full of meetings, I'm
afraid."  He opened the door of his Jaguar.  "I want a regular update
on developments, OK?"

Ross watched the car drive off, then turned and looked at the airfield.
What a wind shit of a place, he thought with a shudder, and a shit
situation, as shitty as when I landed in the nick.  He knew then he
should've ditched Wainwright the moment he was told of Claudette's
scam.  God, he should've joined in with her and bled the bugger dry.
Ross felt his shoulders sag.  He could well have backed the wrong side,
but knew he had no choice but to see things through.  He looked down at
his soggy shoes and then over at the airport terminal.  Too much open
space.  Vulnerable to sniper fire.  Makes your head spin.

She had short shaven orange hair, a nose full of rings and a large
stomach that squeezed out of a tatty black T-shirt.  Her breasts were
quite large too, flopping at all angles as she got ready to lift.  But
Jerry was most taken with her eyes, pale blue and playful, inquisitive
but non-judge mental  He grabbed his end of the mattress and was
already beginning to feel at home.

"OK, you just keep it up and I'll pull."

And another thing, this woman was strong.  She braced her silver Docs
onto the stairs and easily heaved the mattress up, almost pulling Jerry
with her.

"One more pull and we'll be on the first landing."

Since first arriving with his stuff, she'd taken more things up the two
flights of stairs than Jerry, carrying two boxes of books to his one.
This was perhaps just as well since Jerry felt frail and run-down, and
a simple walk up the stairs made him puff.

"W-We g-going to be able to get this round the c-corner?"

"A piece of piss.  When I get it on the landing, we'll pull it round
fast so it doesn't stick."

"Sounds 1-like you've d-done it before."

"In this place, loads of times.  We get more turnover than the YHA."

She braced herself again ready to pull.

It was a stroke of luck that Jerry should be doing what he was.  Out on
Argent Street, wandering like a lost dog, he'd met a casual
acquaintance and blurted out he was fearful of going home.  "I c-can
still see her, m-man, all m-mashed up," he kept saying.  The guy he'd
met, Paul, happened to be one of those people whose connections spread
wide around the city.  He knew all about 65 Anselm Road.

"It's a long-established squat, man.  Been going years.  Owned by some
rich old dear who can't get her act together.  You'll get a room there,
man.  The people are cool, yeh.  They'll help you get through the
shit."

Jerry wasn't sure he wanted that kind of help, but he knew he had to
move away to stop himself totally flipping.  Then it was a question of
following Paul around a few pubs until he was introduced to Jed, one of
the long-term squatters, who readily offered him a room.  Jerry then
persuaded Frederick to drive his stuff over, a pile of cases and boxes
crammed in the old Ford with the mattress flopping around on the roof
rack.  It all happened so fast and yet it felt to Jerry as if it was
part of a plan.  He gave a huge sigh of relief when Frederick drove
away.  A strange house in an unfamiliar part of the city.  It was all
right.

"OK.this is the last pull"

From the top of the second set of stairs, the woman practically ran the
mattress into Jerry's new room, and pulled him along too.  Then she let
go and let it slap against the dusty carpet.  She followed, bouncing
down on her back, her breasts spreading like liquid jelly and her belly
wobbling like the set kind.

"Wow, I think I've earned a rest."

"Y-You've b-been great.  Thanks a lot."

She hitched herself up onto an elbow and Jerry once more warmed to her
eyes.

"So what are you in here for?"  she asked.

"Er, I d-dunno, ch-chuck out the old and s-starting anew."

"Any particular reason?"

Jerry nodded but couldn't speak.

"S'all right, tell me some other time.  I tell you, we've all got
problems here."

"Y-Yeah?"

"Jed's on methadone, trying to kick the habit but not doing that great.
He can't get a job and keeps getting ill all the time.  As for me, I'm
on the run.  Running from a lousy childhood in the dark and boring
suburbs.  And, well, knocking down any sacred cow I come across and
there's a bleedin mountain of them about."

Jerry began to look around the room, knowing he couldn't think of much
more to say.  The woman sensed this and stood up.  She bounced in her
Docs on the mattress.

"The name's Mouse by the way," she said.

"M-Mouse?"

"We all take weird names here.  What's yours?"

"Er, dunno.  F-Fred?"

"Ha, you don't sound too sure."

"Any old n-name I reckon."

"Yeh, well I'm going to call you Stray.  That seems to me what you
are."

"Yeh, why not?"

Mouse bounced off the mattress and clumped over to the door.  "I'll
check you later, OK?  Stray?"

"F-Fine."

The room was reasonable enough.  Not too small and with a nice sloping
roof.  It even had clean wallpaper, although the marks left by picture
frames and furniture were a bit disconcerting.  His window was at the
front of the house and he had a clear view of the road.  The only
problem was the large tree on the opposite side.  Jerry felt sure
pigeons would be lodged there.  Their irritating noise seemed to be all
around.  But it was reasonable enough; it was an escape and a chance to
start again.  He sat down on the mattress amid his possessions.  A new
life, a new name even, and a chance to re-enter the world in a
different way.  Jerry smiled brightly.

"A m-missing fucking p-person, what c-can you m-make out of that?"

And then a fierce spurt of bile rushed through him as he caught a
glimpse once more of the battered Mary and the horny face of that
politician.

"Sh-Shit..  ."

Jerry stood up shaking.  He began to wander around the room.  And then
he stopped and stared at a pale square where someone else's picture
used to be.  He started to cry.

Eighteen.

"So, how's it going, Wayne?"

"Same as ever, mate.  Three stiffs from down the morgue most nights and
the brewery's getting restless."

"The last of the last legs, eh?"

"You said it."

"So where's Dick then?  He makes up the numbers."

"Ha-ha, there's a bleedin story.  The bloke's been nicked."

"What?"

"Too right, got done for flashin.  Can you believe it?  Indecent
exposure, bloody crazy."

"Jesus, Wayne."

"I mean, it just goes to show, you can know a bloke for years, on the
other side of the bar, but it don't mean you know him at all, you get
me?"

"Yeh.  Guess you could say that about a lot of situations.  So where'd
he get caught waving his willy then?"

"Fuck knows."

Des picked up the two whiskies from the bar.  He smiled to himself as
he imagined Dick O'Malley doing his thing.  Desperate times.

"By the way, any calls for me, Wayne?"

"Some guy called asking about you.  Didn't want to leave his name,
though."

Des sat down in the far corner of the bar and slid a glass of whisky
over to Errol.  He looked up at the walls since he knew that Errol was
fuming.  Time to let things cool down.  Des perused Louis Armstrong's
clowning face and then the smoke-filled eyes of Lester Young.
Personality, doesn't it warm the cockles of your heart to have all
these familiar faces with you always?  He eased down in his seat and
began to inspect the whisky's golden glow.

"Look, Des, don't try an fuckin ignore it.  You've pissed me about,
man."

"Don't see why."

"You've got vital evidence, for fuck's sake!"

"You'll get the photos, Errol.  It's only a matter of timing."

"We were gonna get together and work this through.  So what happen? You
collar this Jerry git before we do, then he goes and disappears. You
get important evidence off him, then won't give it in or show it. That
is sheer fuck'ry, man!"

"I told you, I'm just getting some copies made."

"What is it with you?  You don't trust me?"

Des lit himself a fag.  He noticed Errol's hair was beginning to thin
and his cheeks were sinking inwards.  The trouble with knowing someone
a long time, you see yourself getting old.

"Well just tell me something, Errol, right?  Up there in the hierarchy
of our magnificent police, what will they do about the photos of Sir
Martin Wainwright having a kinky screw?"

"Probably nothing."

"Right!"

"It's not illegal, Des, having a fuck, and the photos could be seen as
an invasion of privacy."

"Jesus!  Ain't it always for the sirs of this world?"

"I'm just sayin, man'

"Come on, Errol, these photos make Wainwright a murder suspect!"

"All the more reason you hand them in!"

"Yeh, and have them sat on by some fraternal mason's arse!"

An edgy silence returned.  Errol frowned hard at the table and sucked
his teeth.  Des would've liked to have taken a photo then.  Worry.
Vexation.  That should be the sort of thing shoved on walls.  Everyday
lunacies, self-portraits of ordinary lives.  Des eased forward and held
out his hands in entreaty.

"Come on, let's start again, huh?  This whole thing's getting
off-limits for the police, and that's the place I can function."

"Dangerous and mad, Des."

"No, you can hold the rope for me, right, mate?  I'll give you the
photos and any other evidence I can get too and together we can pull it
all in and nab the bastards."

"And who are the bastards?"

"Dunno yet."

"Great."

"Face it, Errol, I'm more likely to find out than you, I mean, with
this bigwig involved."

"True."

"I just need a few more connections and then we'll know how to play
it."

"Well, it all sounds like a load of bollocks."

It was Errol's turn to ease back then.  He pushed against the fake
leather seat, gave his tie a tweak and wearily smiled at Des.

"So why ya doin dis, man?"  he said in his Jamaican voice.  "You gonna
get you' self kill."

"Dunno, Errol.  You get into it and you can't stop."  Des looked up at
Louis Armstrong.  "I mean, if I did stop, what would I be looking at? A
big pile of nothing, Errol, and spiders crawling down the wall."

He was definitely losing them, no doubt about it.  Ross felt he could
almost hear the marbles rolling down the windpipe and clunking like
gallstones in Scobie's gut.  He's had that stupid grin on his face for
days.  The guy has got to go.  Ross sighed.  Look at the fucker now,
one eye on his curly fringe, the other trying to give Mount Everest the
come-on.

"How did I end up with so much shit?"

"What d'you say, boss?"

"Never mind."

Ross Constanza was feeling as miserable as he'd ever felt in years.
From the moment his eyes had first seen light that morning, a big cloud
had followed him round.  He couldn't get it up with his girlfriend.  He
couldn't eat any breakfast.  His office had seemed like a poxy cell
full of niggles and bad vibes.  For the first time in ages he felt like
shoving it all.  "Hard man Ross' was a bloody great laugh.

"I've got a bad feeling about this Wainwright business, Scobie.  I
don't like it at all."

"Reckon you should let the bugger sink.  I would."

"We're in too deep.  If he gets fucked, so do we."

"So what you want me to do then?"

"There's this dick, McGinlay, he's got some of those snaps of our
famous friend."

"And we want em back pronto?"

"Right.  But get this, Scobie, we want them back without any more blood
spilled, right?  You can teeth them, or do a deal with the git, but we
can't afford any more dead bodies.  Has that penetrated your friggin
thick skull?"

"Sure, I ain't gotta do the guy in."

"I've been doing a bit of checking.  He hangs around the Fedora a bit,
got a pad off Argent Street and is buddies with a well-up tec in the
police."

"Who's paying the fuck?"

"Not sure yet, but I can make a good guess."

"OK, boss, I'm on it."

"You got it clear what I want now, Scobie?"

"Yeh, yeh, no dead bodies."

Scobie got off his chair, gave his hair a flick as he passed a mirror
by the door and then went out of the office.  Ross hugged himself.
First chance, he thought, feed that git to the wolves.

Gus then poked his head into the office.  "You got a visitor, boss."

Ross looked up.  The big black cloud had walked right through the
doorway.

"Why did I think I might see you again?"

"Guilty conscience probably."

"And what's that?"

"Ha, see you haven't changed."

"Well, it must be nigh on twenty years since we last mixed it and you
certainly have changed.  But that's the curse of a lot of women,
though, ain't it?  Big bums and big turns.  Sagging tits and double
chins."

"Still as charming as ever, I see."

It had been in the back of his mind, somewhere, that Bertha Turton
would turn up on his doorstep.  There could be no direct connection. He
felt sure she couldn't have known.  But like Vin St.  James, Ross had
thought that Bertha would come prying about the loss of the daughter
whore.  One more headache in what was becoming a migraine world.

"So, Bertha, what is it I can do for you?  Need a new outlet for your
secretarial skills?"

"You're not that far off actually, Ross.  I am looking for a new outlet
but word-processing wasn't what I had in mind."

Ross kept his mouth shut.  There was a determined edge to Bertha's
voice which he didn't like.  He noticed, too, that she was wearing what
seemed like expensive clothes.  A cream and brown kit with padded
shoulders and a gold necklace that looked full carat.  Maybe she wasn't
just a mousy nobody in a council flat any more.  Ross decided to feign
compassion.

"I was very sorry to hear about Claudette, you know."

"I'm sure you were, Ross."

"Really, when it happened, I thought about you, us, the fun we had
before the shit hit the fan."

"Jesus, Ross, the way you' Bertha suddenly stopped herself.  She took a
cigarette out of her bag and lit up.  She gave Ross a hard stare.

"Sod this conversation.  I never pushed it, the question of who the guy
was, but it could well have been that out of the fun we had, Ross, out
of the fun came Claudette."

"Now wait'

"You wait.  The point has to be made that Claudette may have been your
daughter.  The fact that has to be faced is that you may have killed
your own flesh and blood!"

"Jesus, fuck.  You stupid bitch, who d'you think you are, coming in
pointing the bleeding finger?  I haven't killed anyone!"

"I'm onto you, Ross.  I know what it's all about and I reckon you owe
me, twice over now, and you're going to pay!"

"This is a ridiculous conversation."  Ross stood up abruptly.  He felt
his whole body clench as he walked a few steps to stand looking out of
his small office window.

"I'm not going to let go of this," Bertha said to his back.

Ross ignored the comment.  He had a view of tarmac and the grilled
roller doors of an empty industrial unit.  It seemed a strangely
comforting view compared to what was behind him.  A black cloud in a
confined space and the walls moving in.  An ex-lover still resentful
and out to get him.  He smiled to himself.  The way to conduct a
conversation with the past.  The way to face up to its unwanted and
ugly return.  He let his eyes focus on the horizontal lines of the
warehouse doors as if he was watching a malfunctioning TV.

"Bertha," he said wearily, "I don't care what you think or suspect me
of, and I certainly don't care about things that happened way back.  So
let's cut that shit out.  You've come here you haven't changed I'm sure
you've come here with some angle so you might as well spit the bleeder
out and then we can talk."

"Yeh, it's probably best to keep it impersonal.  Strictly business, as
you used to say when you screwed around.  I want back in, Ross.  I want
my cut of what I had before.  The escort business girls, punters,
files, the lot.  I've got money and a backer, and you know, full well
you know, I could run things far better than you."

Ross sighed loudly.  Bomb the bleedin lot, he thought.  Exterminate and
scar per .. . but where the bloody hell to?

"Very interesting, Bertha, funny even," he said aloud.  "So tell me,
why should I give this crap more than a few seconds thought?"

"Huh, I used to stroke your balls, Ross.  Now I can cut them off."

It was his first venture out of the squat as Fred Stray.  All very
alarming.  The two spliffs he'd smoked seemed to have given him no
protection.  Jerry felt like a child out on the streets alone for the
first time.  He stood in the dark shadows of the old house and tried to
work out which way to go.  This was strange territory.  A zone of the
city where he was already lost.  The solid trees presented the first
problem.  Trunks large enough to hide a man.  Foliage dense, matted and
eerily fissured with streaks of light.  Jerry tentatively moved forward
towards the pavement.  The windows of the houses became apparent.  The
eyes of the street.  Some brazenly shining, others pitch black and
threatening.  He almost retreated but a comforting thought eased its
way into his fretful mind.  Some kind of past remembrance of when the
snow was thick and pavements had to be abandoned.  A time when, as a
child, he'd followed the thin lines of tyres right up the middle of the
road.  It seemed to present a solution.  Jerry lowered his head,
stepped between parked cars and imagined he could see tracks leading
off into the night.

Mouse had given him the idea.  They seemed to have hit it off straight
away and she'd visited his room for a number of chats.

"You can't just sit and mope," she said.  "Brooding is a kind of living
death.  This bleedin room could end up a coffin.  You've got to get it
out of you, Stray, be in the world in whatever way you can."

Jerry got the stutters bad then.  He could hardly get any words
together other than, "What the f-f-fuck w-was out th-there in the
f-f-first p-place!"

A spark of anger glinted in Mouse's eyes and she kicked out in Jerry's
direction with a heavy boot.

"Don't be such a defeatist runt!  What is there?  Well, for one thing
there's the shit bags who killed your woman.  Are you going to let them
just fester?  You may not be able to do much, but you could do
something, even if it's just kicking in a few car lights."

Mouse was all for action, hyper-action almost, and she didn't seem to
give anything a second thought.  This, Jerry could just about see, was
the kind of influence he needed, though the thought of him doing
something seemed remote.  Dope and depression just meant more dreams
and anxieties laid out face up on a carpeted floor.  But Jerry fought
the urge to wallow.  He did see the possibilities offered by a violent
act, the frustrations it could purge.  So, that evening, with the
darkness down and the streets empty, Jerry got off his arse and went
out for a dry run.

It all went smoothly at first.  There were no cars or people about.
Walking down the middle of the road, he felt a sense of freedom and a
kind of immunity.  This enabled him to think, to think positively and
not to brood.  He vowed to seek revenge, any act of revenge, big or
small, against those who had killed Mary.  He didn't know what he could
do or how.  He thought that maybe Mouse would help, and that out of it
would come a new direction to his life.

This unexpected glimpse of optimism made him smile, but it was
short-lived.  The bright glare of headlights and a loud horn shocked
him back to reality.  He had to jump for the pavement as a car
accelerated past.  Someone inside the car shouted, "Yer stupid fucker!"
Jerry felt disorientated.  The front door to a house opened and he saw
a burly silhouette looking out at him.  He began to rush along the
pavement.  He became conscious of the trees and of the strange dripping
noises they made.  Then he ran and came to a stretch of parkland.  The
blackness was inviting.  Jerry crept in.

He stalled.  An animal, a dog maybe or a fox, was standing on the grass
in front of him.  Two eyes, glinting with streetlight, yellow and
malevolent, were staring right at him.  And then it came.  The snow,
grey snow this time, filtering through the darkness like ash from the
death-throes of a fire.  Jerry collapsed.

Nineteen.

"This is a shitty job, you know that, Des.  Goes completely against my
principles."

"I surely know it, Liam."

"I mean, this is smut, tacky smut and it's not very well done
either."

"Well, the fifty quid should at least ease the pain."

"You're corrupting me, man."

Liam was arranging a set of lights over a table in the resource
centre's photography room.  One of Liam's offspring was also there,
fiddling around with drying spools and bits of old film.  Des kept a
cautious eye out, prepared to believe the kid would wreck the place.

"The thing I've got to do is not get any reflection or shadow.
Difficult when you haven't got all the right gear."

"Don't worry too much, as long as you get the basics."

"You mean the faces and the fucking."

"Perfectly put."

There was a sudden crashing noise behind them.  Des raised his eyes to
the ceiling.  Liam didn't even look up.

"Stop pissing about, you stupid bugger!"  he shouted.

"But I'm bored, Dad!"

"I told you to do a bit of drawing on the table over there."

"Bloody hell!  Them're dirty pictures!"  The kid had poked his head
around Des and was ogling at Sir Martin's happy hour.

"Get back to that table and mind your own business!"

Des eased the boy out of the way and gave off one of his hard-man
stares.  It did the trick.  He turned back to Liam, wondering whether
he'd chosen the right person for the job.  "This gonna be much
longer?"

"Ten minutes at the most."

While Liam fretted over getting the lighting right and set up a camera
stand, Des sat at a worktable, one eye on the kid, and pulled out an
envelope.  He addressed it to Miranda.  Then he wrote out a cheque for
the cost of her windscreen and began to write a note to go with it. His
intention was to send off one of the snapshots too as a form of
insurance in case the worst should happen.  He hadn't really dared to
think about the 'worst', but he was aware that this was the sort of
thing you were supposed to do.  Sending it to Miranda was awkward,
though.  She could well trash it, or come back and complain he was
trying out emotional blackmail.

"In the event of something happening to me .. . What is this, Des? What
tricks are you up to now?"

Des cringed.  Maybe deep down he did see it as a way of getting back in
with her?

He gave Liam's restless kid a scowl and finally wrote: "Just keep this
safe, yeh?  No comebacks.  Show it to Errol if you feel the need."

Pretty lousy, but it would have to do.  By then Liam had finished
shooting copies of the prints.  Des took one and put it in the
envelope.  The other he stashed in his shirt.

"So how long you reckon then, Liam?"

"I'll get the negs processed now, mate, the sprog willing, and then
leave them to dry.  Some time this afternoon I'll print them up for
you."

"No one's gotta know about this."

"Fifty quid'll keep me quiet."

"You could be in danger if someone did find out."

"Jesus, don't put the shits up me, man.  It's just an odd job on the
side, right?"

"If it makes you feel better, and a fifty quid bonus if it works out OK
.. ."

"Wow.  Now did I put a film in the camera or not?"

Des walked back to Argent Street.

He kept his head low, following a trail of chewing gum, the odd spot of
phlegm and the usual stirrings of litter.  He was trying to think of
his next move but felt at a loss.  Constanza seemed the main candidate
to check but he hadn't come up with much that made a direct connection.
He wondered whether he should go back to Pauline and her psycho
bodyguard of a boyfriend.  She at least knew more than she'd let on.
The prospect didn't enthral him and was soon forgotten.  On the corner
of his street, a Jaguar sat waiting, and as he approached, its rear
door opened wide.  Des knew what was expected.  He calmly sat in the
back and got a whiff of real leather.  He realized that maybe he didn't
need to search but that those involved would surely come to him.  And
there was one, the thinly clipped moustache and the seriously grey face
presenting Des with another move.

"Following me, are you?"

"I was going to call, but then I saw you in the street, looking like a
washed-out derelict wandering about."

"It's what it does to me, thinking."

"Huh-uh, and what has this thinking come up with in terms of my
offer?"

"Ah, well that one's slipped away, got lost a bit."

"You'd be a fool to turn it down.  This business, it's not yours, is
it?  This is just a job for you with a pay day at the end of it."

"I didn't say I'd turned it down, Sir Martin, just somehow mislaid the
thought of it.  But you're wrong about it being just money.  The itch'
Des began to scratch at his armpit 'this bleeding itchy curiosity
thing, it gets to you.  You want to know answers and you know you can't
stop scratching till you do.  It's bad, no doubt about it; it throws
money out the window."

Des looked out of the window.  The presence of a Jag in his
neighbourhood was attracting some attention and he felt somehow that
being in it wouldn't do his reputation any good.  Sir Martin stopped
leaning around in his seat and focused on the rear-view mirror instead.
The burnt eyes seemed more threatening that way.

"I suppose I could tell you all you want to know.  It would just be
hearsay since there's no proof.  Perhaps that can be the deal,
McGinlay?  I'll give you the money, name the names and you return the
photos?"

"That is tempting, I must say."

"So?"

"I'd have to speak to my client first."

The brow in the rear-view mirror furrowed and the dark eyes became
intense.

"I'm getting extremely annoyed with you, McGinlay.  You don't seem to
realize the clout I have.  I can get the police to remove your licence.
I can get the media to ignore those photos.  I can get you killed if
need be.  So let's stop the prevarications, shall we?  I want the
photos by the end of the day or else I do all I can to finish you. That
plain enough?"

Des certainly found the gaze intimidating.  He was looking at power and
a sense of fear began to rise in his gut.  He knew also that this was
just a play; it was the force of a privileged personality and the
substance of the threat could well be less strong.  Even so, Des
struggled to give as good as he'd received.  He smiled as casually as
he could and opened the car door.

"Be careful now, Sir Martin.  Think who's got most to lose.

You corner me, what the fuck do I care if we both go down?"  Des eased
out of the car and felt the relief of cool air on his sweating face.

"So how c-come I never see you eat?"  Jerry said as he lay back on the
bed stark naked.

"Guess I don't have much of an appetite.  I mean, food, you don't know
where the stuff comes from, do you?"

"B-But, you know, M-Mouse, y-you are ... w-well b-built."

"Jesus, don't you start.  I mean, all this fucking sizeism crap, it'

"N-No, d-don't get me wrong, 11-love it.  You've g-got tits like s-soft
ripe squashes, a b-belly like a volup-t-t-uous b-blancmange and an arse
.. . Jesus, y-you're all soft and fruitful and really d-delicious."

"Keep saying that and I might eat you."

"Yeh?  D-Do it, Mouse."

"Well, you certainly seem to be feeling better."

"I guess that's d-down to you, and this."

"What makes you flip like that, Stray?  You were a complete quivering
wreck."

"I d-dunno, it's like, there's s-something st-stuck.  I dunno, like
inside there's a hole, a d-deep well or something and I'm c-constantly
fearful I'm g-gonna fall down and I have to hold on.  I d-don't seem to
be able to really let go.  And then some things, they j-just seem to
p-push me over the edge ... I dunno, I can't explain it, I j-just know
something is crying out inside m-me."

"Jesus, we're all fucked up to the eyeballs, I guess."

"Let's not g-go on about it, huh?"

"You feeling funny?"

"J-Just hold me, Mouse, j-just shove those big tits of yours into my
f-face and let me d-drown."

"Huh-uh.  OK, just this once.  But then, Stray my dear, we should start
to think positively about what to do.  You know, ways to get out of
ourselves, ways to get ourselves back."

Des was thinking about Bertha as he approached his house.  She hadn't
been in touch.  No wounded voice or harsh words.  He began to feel that
she must be up to something, but couldn't see the angle she might have.
Maybe, as Errol had hinted, old ties had been revived.  Des knew that
he hadn't been all that square with her as an employee.  He knew the
sex was going to turn things nasty.  He suddenly became worried that he
would never see his final cheque.  But all this quickly became lost to
him.  The catch was down on the Yale in his front door.

Sweat returned to Des's brow.  He looked through his front window.  The
sofa was upside-down and gutted.  He made his way down the side entry
and into his back yard.  The kitchen door was wide open.  His feet
crunched glass as he went inside.  He found a hammer under the sink,
held onto it firmly and then began to look around.  The kitchen hadn't
been messed with and so he crept forward into his sitting room.
Bookshelves had been tipped over, chairs upended and the TV kicked in.
Des looked down at a spread of dirt where a plant pot had been toppled.
A neat chisel-shaped shoe print sat in the middle of it.  Des let out a
weary groan but as he looked around at the chaos, a cold sense of rage
began to grow.  He edged his way through the mess on the floor, his
hammer poised to swing, and started to check out the rest of the
house.

The front room was supposed to be his office.  Des didn't have much in
the way of paperwork, but what there was carpeted the floor in between
the broken furniture and flung-away drawers.  He saw some of the
letters he'd had from Miranda and a lot of photos of the doomed affair,
all cast off and trampled by the chisel-toed shoes.  The anger grew,
ice blue turning hot red as Des clenched the hammer with a surge of
vindictiveness.  This wasn't part of the deal.  This is too shit close
for anyone.  This is totally not on!  Des headed for the stairs, fuming
with an outrage that impaired his senses.  The creak on the landing
didn't register.  He only raised his head when halfway up.  Des didn't
have time to react.

With one hand pressed against the wall and the other sliding on the
banister, the man with floppy hair launched himself forward feet first.
The chisel-shaped shoes thumped Des in the chest.  Des got the sight of
a peculiar grin and then he was free falling  A rush of air in his
ears.  A split-second thought of pain.  Then pain became reality.  A
solid thump into his back and his head whiplashing to the ground with a
ferocious crunch.  A swirl of noise and light, and a mouth that didn't
know how to breathe.

Des, winded and confused, knew the intruder would be coming after him.
He flapped around for his hammer, tried to ease himself up but all his
strength had gone.  The grin was right above him, coming in closer. Des
felt knees pinioning his arms and the dead weight of the man sitting on
his chest.

"All good things come to an end, eh mate?"  Des thought he was looking
at two faces and he could hardly hear the words that sneered down for
all the bees that swarmed in his brain.  "That's if your life had any
good things in it."  Des began to consider how he might reply.  There
was enough abuse in amid the swarm to fill his mouth, but the problem
was his mouth wasn't working too well.  It was like a broken bellows
sucking, gasping and barely processing any air.  Above him, Des saw his
assailant donning a pair of gloves.

"Thing is, mate, you might just have a chance.  You know, get in a few
more fucks, a few more nights down the pub ..."

The gloved hands splayed out in front of Des.  They came down slowly,
began to cling to his neck, the thumbs smoothing his windpipe.  !  "All
I need to know is where the photos are."  I The man leaned in closer.
Des saw a swirl of lines like dancing centipedes on his forehead.

"YOU GOT THAT?  THE PHOTOS!"  he shouted.

At first, Des wanted to say that he couldn't speak.  Ridiculous.  The
thought doubled his fear and made him strain desperately to get his
mouth working.

"F-F-Fuck .. ."  was all he could manage.

"You stupid, daft bastard."

The thumbs began to press down.  Des tried to get more words into his
mouth but it was like his mouth was no longer there.  He looked up and
there seemed to be no sign of his attacker.  All he could see was what
looked like snow.  Snow in late summer?  That's something to tell
Miranda about.  Miranda?  Why the hell am I thinking about her at
death's door.  What about Pearl?  Jesus, Miranda, still .. . how bloody
deep does it go?

The snow seemed to be getting heavier and Des became aware of hands
pawing over his body as though perhaps he was already dead and the
authorities had come to take him away.  "Hold on!"  Des screamed to
himself.  "Not yet!  I've got to come up with a better last thought,
you know, something warm and hopeful."  Des struggled.  Night seemed to
be descending fast.  Fuck words .. . Mere snowflakes falling on a
deep-running river .. . huh, now there's something to put in the mouth
if I ever find it..  .

Twenty.

There was someone in the other room.  Or maybe they were in the same
room but far away.  Des could hear clumping steps, clattering noises
and scrapes.  This would be the autopsy.  The coroner preparing
scalpels, saws and drills ready for dissection.  It always had been a
thing Des found disgusting and would never wish for, even after death.
He tried to move but knew it was impossible.  The bastards!  Who
sanctions such casual butchery?  I like my body!  I want it going to
the grave in one piece!  The noises were getting closer, the footsteps
and the rattling.  Des could hear breathing and then something wet
being put on his face.  Jesus!  Not the head first, not the rotary
skull-opener!  They're not going to pull out my brain, are they?  Des
felt hands on his shoulders, pulling and shaking; and he thought he
heard a voice saying his name.  Name?  Wasn't he just a number now, a
number on a tag on a big toe?  More confusion.  Des felt hair on his
face and thought he could see an eye looking at him, an eye and a mouth
saying, "Des."  Then it all became clear.  Bertha.  "Bloody hell, Des,
I really thought you were a goner."  "You you don't need to ... do it.
I can tell you the cause."  Des was surprised that his mouth was
working, sort of, a croaking mouth full of sand, ball-bearings and
sounds that may not have been words.  "I'm so glad you've come round,"
Bertha said.  "When I

got here, Jesus, what a shock, you were lying stone cold in the hall. I
don't know fuck about first aid but I thought I could feel some sort of
pulse so then I lugged you onto the sofa."

"God.  I ache everywhere."

"I was panicking.  Thought I should've called an ambulance.  You've
been out for ages, Des."

"Guess I'm back now.  Still snowing outside, is it?"

"What?  Des, have some hot tea, try to move a bit, and tell me who the
bastard was who did this!"

The tea helped.  It burned and felt weird going down his throat but it
gave Des some sense of equilibrium back.  He sat up on the sofa,
light-headed and wobbly, and looked at Bertha's frowning face.

"I should've been more prepared ... in more ways than one."  It felt
strange speaking, like the ball-bearings were still there, but Des got
the hang of it.

"So who was it?"

"I've seen him around.  Wild yellowish hair, stocky, had a heavy frown
and a sort of sneering face."

"I think I know who that is."

"I think I can guess."

"Scobie Brent, Ross's heavy."

"That's what I reckoned."

"God, it makes the connection clear, doesn't it?"

"Seems to."

"What a bastard!"  Bertha looked edgily round the room.  "He's not
going to give in easily."

"Why should he?  He's looking at a big fall."

"So how are you now, Des?"

"Shaky, but OK."

"You think we should call this whole thing off?"

Des wasn't quite with the situation.  There was Bertha, a woman he was
vaguely aware he was involved with, but who sat some distance away and
looked as nervous as hell.

Shouldn't she be holding him now, giving him comfort and succour?  But
then Des didn't really want her as he was also vaguely conscious of a
river and of a voice calling up from the depths.  He didn't know where
to focus so tried to stay in work mode; it was impersonal that way.

"We can't call if off now," he said, wondering whether his words had
any expression.  "We're on the threshold of success.  We've got the
sods panicking."

"But, Des, it's getting dangerous.  Ross'll kill you if you get any
nearer."

"I'll be ready next time, so don't worry about me."

"I dunno, Des .. ."

Des could now see that Bertha was extremely nervy and that her attitude
had changed.  No more sensual intrigue or sexy looks.  This change
urged him to try out some reckless bravado.

"Anyway, I'm near enough ready to bring Ross out into the open, set a
trap with the help of the police."

"Oh no, Des, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Come on, if you want to nail Claudette's killer, we're going to have
to exert pressure."

"No."  Bertha eased forward and tried to look calm.  "I think maybe we
should call it off now.  You give me the photos and we'll work out how
much cash I owe you."

It wasn't hard for Des to look stunned.  He was stunned, all over, and
functioning on automatic pilot.  Bertha's words were disturbing, but he
couldn't quite grasp why.  A sudden sense of thwarted lust and job
insecurity swept along the river beneath him and Des shivered.

"I don't believe this.  I mean, don't you want to do right by your
daughter?"

"Des, don't.  Just give me the photos, eh, and we'll talk about the
rest later, when you're feeling better."

"The photos ..."

She still hadn't looked him in the eye.  Des continued to try to work
out Bertha's attitude but then the issue of the photos sank in.

"Well, I've only got one, the other is in a safe place' He stalled and
felt under his shirt.  "Jesus, that's it.  That's probably why I'm
still here!"

"What is going on, Des?"

"I had one in my shirt.  Scobie must've found it and stopped throttling
me."

"God, Des, what's happening?  Where's the other one?"

"You'd never guess.  But don't worry, I've got lots of copies of both
of them ready and waiting."

"Des, I want them, all of them!  Me, I've paid for the lot."

"You'll get them, Bertha."  Des suddenly began to feel sleepy.  "I've
got a few things to sort out, and then we'll settle up you know, the
photos and the money .. ."

The weight on his eyelids was growing heavier and the deep-flowing
river was beginning to drown his thoughts.

"Why don't we go to bed?"  he heard himself saying.  "It seems like
ages since we snuggled up all hot and steamy ..."

As Bertha looked at him with alarm, Des sank smiling into a deep
sleep.

"Me know you, en nit  Didn't we a meet at a New Year's do down at the
George?"

"I doubt it very much."

"Surely we did."

The guy hovering over Bertha was definitely on his way down.  His brown
cheeks were lined and his frizzed, thinning hair was tinged with grey.
The thing that turned off Bertha the most, though, was his suit
wrinkled, stained and half off his shrunken shoulders.

"I never forget a face and I know I've never met you."

"Well, would you like a drink anyway?"

"I'd just like to be left alone."

The guy's pale hazel eyes didn't persevere.  Indeed, his whole body
language seemed to say he knew he was lost before he began.  Another
no-hoper going through the motions, Bertha thought.  The pub is full of
them.  Dreams turned sour.  Hard-luck stories and tight-lipped
bitterness.  They're all here propping up the bar.  Bertha tried to
dispel her observation, but could still feel a sense of desperation.
She was part of the scene and it was getting older and scarier.  The
yearly shrinkage of the horizon to the point where life becomes those
few shabby streets you're able to walk down.  God awful!

Bertha picked up her gin and half emptied it.  If I can get a few years
in on the game through Ross and milk it hard, then, then maybe I will
get out, set up my own number and worry no more.  Hotel Erotica by the
sea.  Or perhaps Hotel Claudette for the sexually adventurous.  A
discreet but popular little establishment.  A niche in the market.  A
potential gold mine

Bertha stifled a smile.  Don't go too far ahead!  There was McGinlay to
get out of the way first.  There was Ross to be forced into line.  Why
do things always get hard when you see a way out?  She could see but
two alternatives.  Get Des bumped off and grab the photos.  Paddy could
well arrange that.  Or, get Des back into her bed and sneak the snaps
off him.  The idea wasn't unpleasant.  On the contrary, it was very
appealing and that was the problem.  He seemed to be able to have his
way with her.  Bertha picked up her gin and gulped the rest down.  "No
blame, girl," she said to herself.  "You do what you have to."

The battered Ford Transit groaned and clunked through the dark streets,
leaving a trail of poisonous fumes behind it.  Mouse, driving
erratically, was with Jerry.  Both wore balaclavas and dark sunglasses
and were keeping a lookout for street names.

"How you feeling now, Stray?"

"B-Better.  You were right about the g-gear.  I k-kind of feel safe."

"That's good.  Guess it's like soldiers and stuff who go out on a
mission."

"Yeh, we're on a m-mission."

"Too right!"

"Shit, is that the r-road there?"

Mouse turned the steering wheel drastically to the right and the old
van slewed across the main road and into a tree-lined lane.

"This is where it gets difficult.  These fucking country places, you
don't know where you are."

"Yeh, it's all t-trees and b-bushes.  Urgh, scares the living
d-daylights out of me."

"Don't worry, Stray, we shouldn't need to get out of the van."

"God, if I wasn't with you .. ."

Many a leafy lane had a dousing of exhaust fumes before the Transit,
faded blue and rusty, reached its place of call.  Mouse kept the engine
running as the two of them inspected the wrought-iron gates.

"Jesus, p-posh eh?  You d-don't think p-people actually live like
this."

"That's why they live out here, so you don't see."

"And this is the b-bastard who g-got M-Mary k-killed!  I f-f-f-f ...
shit!"

"Take it easy, Stray.  We'll get the sod."

"B-But how?  Look at those g-gates."

"Hold on tight and I'll show you."

Mouse suddenly put the van in gear and slammed her foot on the
accelerator.  With a loud groan, the van lurched forward and then
trundled fast straight at the gates.  Jerry covered his eyes as they
crashed, but the bolt of the gate easily snapped and the van went
hurtling through.

"Wow-wee!"

"D-Did you see that?"

"A piece of piss.  Now, get ready to slide your door open and we'll
give the bastard hell!"

Mouse drove into the forecourt of Sir Martin Wainwright's pile at
speed.  The headlights of the van had been smashed by the gates so she
couldn't see too well.  On hitting the gravel, she turned the steering
wheel hard, slewing stones all over the place and knocking over a lion
rampant by the front steps.  Jerry slid open his door.  He picked up
half-bricks he had under his seat and began to lob them at the
windows.

"You b-bastard!"  he yelled.  "You murdering scum, we're on to you!"

Mouse opened her door.  She brought up a couple of Molotov cocktails
she had wedged under her seat.  As she fumbled around for her lighter,
the front door to the house opened.  Two men came cautiously down the
steps.

"Stray!  Fling a few bricks at those bastards!"

Jerry did.  And with relish.  He was beginning to feel better than he
had for a very long time.  His stutter seemed to have left him.

"Here you are, you bastards, get a mouthful of brick!"  he shouted as
he sent the men into retreat with well-aimed missiles.

Mouse then lit the petrol-soaked cloth in the bottles.  She stepped out
of the van and sent one bottle through a smashed window.  The other she
hurled at the front door.  The two men dived for cover as the door
exploded in flames.  A room then burst alive with fire.  Mouse saw more
people coming from around the back of the house.

"Shit, Stray, it's time to beat it!"

Jerry continued picking up bricks from around his feet and chucking
them out into the flame-smeared night, relishing the articulation of
unhindered expletives.  Mouse, meanwhile, got back in the van.  She
grated into reverse, then swung round and back into the darkness of the
drive.  As the van disappeared from view, a group of shocked people
heard a singsong of swear words piercing the cool night air.

There was a question as to where Des was.  Yes, he was sitting in the
snug of the George pub, but he wasn't exactly sure that the pub was
real.  Or maybe he wasn't real?  Des looked at the bland walls and
shivered.  Whatever, he thought, I'm sure this is just a temporary
dislocation.  He looked down at his whisky.  It appeared to wink. Jesus
.. . In the circumstances, it would've been better if Des had been
allowed to sleep, but the phone had ruined all that.  First of all,
Liam had rang and told him the prints were ready.  And then Pearl had
come on the line and a woozy Des had suddenly found himself turned
liquid with emotion.  He was practically sobbing to her with a
frog-filled voice about how the river was flowing away and time was
running out.

"We can't let the moment slip," he rambled on to her.

Pearl had sounded concerned, both about his sanity and his sentiments,
and it was not without some reservation that she agreed to meet him.
But since then Des had felt a little more composed.  He managed to pick
up the prints from Liam, who seemed pretty anxious to be shot of the
situation.  Des then went back and stashed the photos under his carpet
in various places.  The obvious can often be the best, he felt.  It was
all very smooth, very professional, but then, once in the pub, faced
with the prospect of Pearl... She came in wearing a black astrakhan
overcoat.  Her face and hair positively glowed with the contrast. After
drinks were sorted out, she sat down opposite Des and gave him a
worried inspection.  Des knew it was incumbent on him to explain and he
did so in a detached, matter-of-fact way.  The words came out calmly
enough, but inside Des felt he was riding waves.  One second Pearl was
a vision seen through whisky, the next she was far away and looking
vexed.

"You should be in bed, Des, you look dreadful."

"I know, but I didn't want to miss you."

"This isn't good."

"We both know about our shitty jobs."

"But we were avoiding that, and now look what's happened."

"I'll be fine tomorrow."

Pearl looked as if she was going to say more, but she pulled back and
made her mouth small.  She shook her head at Des and gave off a tight
smile.

"It is good to see you.  A bright light in a lousy day."

Des felt that his mouth was working well, but was conscious that maybe
the language of the rest of his body didn't quite match his words.
Certainly Pearl seemed cautious as though expecting him to keel over or
freak out at any minute.

"I'm all right," Des insisted.

"Like fuck you are.  I think you're still in shock."

"Yeh.  Guess I am still a bit wobbly."

"We shouldn't have had this meeting.  It's messing up the magic we had,
it's making me doubt the situation."

"You could always take me in hand."

"I'll take you home, Des, that's all."

"Good enough, I guess."

"But, Des, this worries me.  It's depressing.  The shit, we both have
it but it shouldn't come between us.  It shouldn't be here now."

"Guess it's bound to happen."

"No, and if it does, well it's just like the rest of the shit, no
difference."

"I didn't exactly plan to be strangled."

"I know, you daft bastard.  Let's leave it for now and I'll take you
home."

Des made the most of her smile before he thought of his house and the
trashed up mess he was going to have to recuperate in.

Twenty-One.

There was a shaft of sunlight in the bedroom.  As Des opened his eyes,
he saw it catch an upended vase and sparkle.  Des smiled.  All was
quiet; his body felt rested and refreshed.  Yesterday was a bad dream
departed.  Des squirmed around under the duvet, thought of staying put
and leaving the clearing up of his house till later.  He tried to focus
his thoughts on Pearl, but then the cold mechanical tones of the phone
interrupted him.  An irritated hand flopped over.

"Yeh."  Des found it hard to say it and the word came out as a croak.

"McGinlay!  This is the last straw!  I'm going to break you, you
bastard, and your pathetic little life!"

Des swallowed phlegm to try to ease his throat.  He needed a coffee, a
fag and not a phone call.  "Who's the fan?"  he managed to say.

"You know full well and you know that today your time has run out!"

"It ran out yesterday, mate, but I got a second chance."  His throat
was easing.

"Are you on something?  I guess I should expect it."

"Who is this?"

"Wainwright!  The one whose house you arranged to be attacked.  I'm
sure it was you.  You're just the sort of low-life who'd get yobs to
throw bricks and petrol bombs!"

"Sir Martin, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"I expected you to say that.  However, regardless of denials, McGinlay,
today is your nemesis, so expect a call.  Only the photos can save you
now."

"So what's the cash offer?"

That deal's off."

"Huh-uh.  Well you'd better go fuck yourself then."

The coffee went down like molten metal but it did the trick.  Despite
some soreness, Des decided he was almost one hundred per cent.  He
picked up a chair in his living room and looked down at the
chisel-shaped shoe print  One job among many.  As Des surveyed the mess
of his house, he knew it was time for decisiveness.  The world was
closing in and he had to make some moves.  He stood up abruptly and
picked up the phone.

"Hi, it's Des.  You still talking to me?"

"Dunno, depends on what you've got to say."

"Well, Errol, I reckon it's time for some co-operation."

"Ah.  You do, huh?  That's very nice of you, Des.  I mean, I feel so
honoured."

"Yeh, yeh.  I've been an arse hole

"Huh, tell me something I don't know."

"Well, I got throttled three-quarters to death by Scobie Brent
yesterday and Sir Martin Wainwright's promising to finish the job
today."

"The situation is becoming clear.  You're in deep shit and you want
help."

"I wouldn't put it quite like'

"An now you got the cheek to come runnin to me after holdin out on me
for days."

"I guess I'd have to say I'm sorry about that."

"Wow, such contrition!  The power of fear!"

"What was that word again?"

"What's on your mind, Des?"

"Some kind of set-up, Errol.  I was thinking, all these shits, they
want to deal.  So why don't I make one?  Photos for cash and
information; a hidden mike up my sleeve."

"Who you got in mind?"

"Constanza, I reckon.  Scobie Brent probably did all the dirty work but
Constanza must've given the orders to protect his smarmy client.  He
can shop them both."

"I dunno, man.  You've gotta be careful about such setups, entrapment
and the like.  Then there's the question of what my bosses'll think of
me using a dickhead like you."

"Come on.  It's bona fide undercover work.  And even if it is
inadmissible, it could provide the basis for action, like giving Scobie
a forensic once-over."

"Yeh, there could be mileage in that."

"You up for it then?"

"Give me a few hours."

"Right, and I'll get some of those snaps over to you."

"Did you really nearly get snuffed?"

"I saw the river, man."

"Jeez, you are a mad bastard."

After putting the phone down, Des began to sort out the mess that
surrounded him.  It was a highly motivational activity.  Each item
righted provided a cause for what he wanted to do next.  He sorted out
most of everything as best he could, leaving only the footprint on the
carpet and the hammer lying by the front door.

"I'm not happy, Bertha.  I don't like this.  There's too many ifs and
buts.  Really, to be honest, it all seems half-cocked."

"Come on, Paddy, you can't expect things to be written down in black
and white.  What is in this line of business?"

"If it's run as an escort agency, then most of it can be legit, just
like the saunas."

"We can make it that way.  Ross, he just likes playing the role of pimp
to the rich."

"I don't know.  I'm getting old, I like things clean and straight.  I'm
hooked on security these days."

Paddy Conroy's Mercedes was parked on Vyse Street.  This gave him and
Bertha a view of an old graveyard where the soot-blackened tombs and
defaced angels of Victorian high society still stood.  Paddy was
paranoid about meeting Bertha in anything other than the most austere
circumstances.  He justified this on the basis that he 'still wasn't
sure about her', but really he knew that, even now, she could charm his
trousers down and that was another risk too far.

"Look, Paddy, you don't have to fret about these things.  We'll set up
a legit agency and I'll filter out all the contacts I get from Ross;
anything dodgy, I'll handle that personally."

"There's the thing, can you trust Ross?"

"Once the deal is set up, then yes.  I was surprised when I saw him.
Still a revolting bastard, but he seemed tired, maybe even glad to get
a few things off his hands."

"I can't believe that."

"No, really.  The photos he said would put him sweet with Wainwright
and some deals they've got planned."

"You can't trust the man."

"There is a problem, though."

"One among many I'm sure."

"Des, this private investigator I've got working for me, I reckon he's
got too involved.  He's talking about getting the police in."

"I told you, Bertha, didn't I?  I told you this thing was
half-cocked."

"Don't worry, Paddy.  We can handle this."

"I would've thought you'd've had him round your little finger."

"Yeh, well I thought I had, and I still hope I can get him in line
because he's got the photos and I need those in our deal with Ross."

Paddy stared at a nearby stone Jesus, arms once raised to the heavens
but now lopped off, and he groaned inwardly.  Put her off, he thought.
String things along to the very last and hope that she screws up.

"That's the first job then, isn't it, Bertha, before we can do else
all," he said.  "What's the point in tackling Ross until you've got the
leverage?"

"I think I can swing it, but as a standby, Paddy, we might need some of
your doormen."

"Bertha, I told you, I'm not happy with this kind of thing!"

Bertha leaned over and put a hand on Paddy's thigh.  She smiled, one of
those smiles that dispel age and bring back memories.  Paddy tried to
keep his eye on the armless Christ.

"Come on, Paddy, don't be a daft sod, it's just a fall-back, I'm not
asking you to rub the guy out."

The sun was a red balloon caught on the steel gantry of a container
crane.  The crane, normally yellow, had burned black and it cast a
shadow right over to where Des was standing.  The days were drawing in.
A foreground and forethought of a colder darkness, pale pinks and
violet receding to the horizon of someone else's summer.  Des shivered.
The idea was alarming.  He looked away from the pastel fires of the sky
and concentrated on the road that stretched before him.  From the phone
call he'd made he'd learned that Scobie would come in around seven.
There was no suspicion from the guy who answered the phone, to him it
was just a call from a crony down the Lime who owed a few quid. Des was
propping up a wall at the side of

Conference Cars and making a fag-end carpet.  He'd already sussed that
Ross was still inside.  A prospect of decisive times, if only the
sneering shit with the floppy hair would come.

He finally did.  A souped-up VW noisily entered the car park and revved
to a halt in front of a clump of litter-strewn berber is  Scobie
smoothed his hair in the rear-view mirror and then got out.  He
whistled tunelessly as he jauntily bounced on ridiculous trainers up
the showroom steps.  The sun had dipped below the container depot now,
so Des could easily move though shadow and catch Scobie by surprise.

The first hammer blow went straight on his nose.  A short, sharp thud,
a snapping sound and a sudden burst of blood.  Scobie staggered back
and teetered on the top step.  Des kicked him in the groin and Scobie
went tumbling down.  He was on his hands and knees by the time Des had
descended the steps.  Another hammer blow to the head sent him
sprawling onto his back.  Des stooped and grabbed the thick straw hair.
He used it to pull Scobie over to the shrubbery, then turned his head
and pushed his face into the dark soil.  Scobie was soon choking for
air and Des let him do so for quite some time.  Then he let the head go
and Scobie turned, gulping, his face a mess of blood and dirt.  Des
didn't say anything.  He saw his enemy's eyes register recognition and
then he put his foot on Scobie's windpipe.  He pressed down, ground his
shoe hard until Scobie writhed and gurgled helplessly.  His tongue
began to loll out, his blood splattered crisp packets and old condoms,
and turned the berber is prematurely red.  Des nearly didn't stop, but
another idea came to him.  In turn, Des pinioned both hands and
hammered Scobie's fingers ferociously.

The beneficial effects were immediate.  A mighty load had been lifted
from his shoulders and a slab of frustration expelled.  Des sighed with
relief.  Leaving Scobie groaning, he stepped up to the front doors of
Conference Cars and pushed them open.  He headed straight for the
office, giving the cars a good thwack with his hammer as he passed
them.  Gus hardly had time to see what was happening.  A sudden thrust
in his gut from the hammer and then Des had him in an arm-lock,
bundling him forward into Ross's presence.

"What the fuckin hell?"

Des pushed Gus's face onto the desk and then pulled his arm well back
behind him.  He gave Ross a heavy glare.

"I'm a very angry man, Constanza.  I've had it up to here with your
shit and it's got to be sorted!"

"Jesus.  OK, OK, calm down."

Ross had his hands up in alarm and it was then that Des saw the missing
finger.  He thought he should've known that before, but he couldn't be
bothered to work out why he didn't.

"I'm going to let the geezer go, OK, and we're going to have a quiet
chat, OK, about Wainwright and his randy ways.  No fuckery, OK?"

"So you're McGinlay, eh?  All right, we've no need for aggravation
right at this moment.  It's business, right?"

Des eased up on the arm-lock and pushed Gus away from him.  There were
oceans of silent fury in Gus's eyes, but a look from Ross kept the hate
locked in.  Gus propped up the wall as Des sat down in front of the
desk.

Ross became quite conciliatory when Des told him of Scobie's attack.

"I have to say I am sorry, mate, that guy is out of control.  He never
bloody does what I tell him to.  "No aggro," I said to him.  "Do a
deal, steal em if you must, but no aggro."  I'm glad you told me about
it, really.  The guy has just got to go.  He's a real liability."

"Well he won't be doing much for a while."

"What?  You clobbered him?"

"He's grovelling in dog turds outside right now."

"Bloody hell, that must be the first time Scobie's got done.  Jesus
Christ, you've done me a favour, mate."

"I'm glad we've got something going, because perhaps now we can do a
deal."

"A deal?"

Des reached inside his coat pocket, pulled out some copy prints and
threw them on the desk.  "I've got lots of these, dozens, hidden all
over the place, and the negatives ... still as embarrassing as ever."

"So, Scobie, the wanker, got fuck all?"

"Looks like the lot of you have been one step off the pace all
along."

Ross Constanza had sagged.  He lit up a cigarette fussily and kept his
eyes well down.  His brow had become stretch-marked with thought.

"Shit," he said to no one in particular before he looked up at Des.
"OK, you'd better tell me what you've got in mind," he began.  "But no
promises, right?  I've got others to consult.  OK?  So let's have
it."

Just two final tasks.  Des smiled, but was conscious it was an uneasy
one.  He carefully washed his hammer under the tap and then got a
dustpan to remove the chisel-shaped footprint.  That's when the
uneasiness grew.  Did he really do that, and enjoy it?  Did he really
barge in on Constanza without a second thought?  Des shivered
involuntarily and a sheen of sweat suddenly flushed his brow.  Jesus!
How could I?  He almost slumped down in delayed shock and might well
have done if the phone hadn't rung.  Its cold tones sounded
welcoming.

"Hi there, Desmond.  This is Miranda here."

"Y-Yeh?"

Another shock, and from a really unexpected direction.

Des began to flounder.  The floor was turning liquid again.

"I hope you don't mind me ringing.  I know I really shouldn't but well,
I was somewhat worried."

Des felt utterly speechless.

"You still there?"

"Y-Yeh, guess so."

"It's that note, Des, and the photo.  It just seemed like you were in
deep trouble."

"You mean you care about it?"

"Of course I care.  Whatever our conflicts, whatever the way we are
now, we did have some good times and you still mean something to me."

"Could've fooled me."

"Come on, Des, don't start.  You do know what I mean and you do know
why I've been the way I have."

"Maybe I haven't had time to think about that."

"Are you OK?  You're not in some awful danger, are you?"

"I'm as fine as I can be under the circumstances."  Des almost added,
"And no thanks to you," but then realized he didn't quite feel that
way.  "The photo, it was just insurance that's all, like you're always
forking out for but rarely ever need."

"That makes me feel better."

Des remained silent.

"Let's not say any more, yeh?  I'll see you around some time?"

"Yeh, guess so," he said.

Des put the phone down.  He looked at his TV set with its kicked in
screen.  He smiled.  Shit, I'm not angry, he thought.  Pretty well
unmoved .. . Des leaned forward as if watching a programme.  Yeh, and
the telly's better this way.  He laughed.  He hadn't done that in a
long time.

Twenty-Two.

The deal was set.  Errol rang Des, Des rang Ross and a meet was fixed
for the following day.  Then it was pay cheque time.  And Des could sit
back and think about love.  In fact, he was already thinking about
love, sitting outside the Waterside Cafe and waiting for Pearl.  Love,
some sandy beach and those wispy trees.  A new horizon presenting
itself, though feebly perceived amid the brick walls and dank canal
that surrounded him.  But then, Des had an uncomfortable thought:
shoulders drooping and the winter coming, what was a few weeks in the
wide-open blue but a frustrating distraction?  Shit, stuff that down
the back of the sofa!

He lit a fag and watched Pearl coming over the old iron bridge.  They
waved.  She wore shades and a thigh-length yellow dress that
head-turned city suits, making them bump into each other.

Hell, Pearl herself was a beach down by the dark waters sunshine on
sand and strands of golden kelp.  Maybe Des could afford to raise his
head a few inches?

"You're looking pretty stunning, Pearl."

"Yeh, turn a few heads down the meat market, fetch a good price."

"Well, that's nice."

"You weren't feeling romantic, were you?"

"Yeh, actually I was.  I was thinking about Madeira or the

Canary Isles, like the splash of yellow you are in this dismal
place."

"Working clothes, Des, and I've just had a lousy day."

"Looks like I'm going to join you."

"Sorry, hon.  A couple of really fat punters and Carlos giving me shit
for being rude and I've just had it."

"We were supposed to be keeping all that stuff separate."

"Guess it's not working, huh?"

Pearl frowned and began to chew a nail.  Des stared at the murky water.
I reckon I'm getting this.  Sod expectation, just go with the flow, no
matter how sordid it gets.  One working philosophy for a city dick ..
.

"I should've asked, shouldn't I?  How're you feeling today?"

"So much goes on in between .. . I'm feeling OK, Pearl, much better,
but now it's you who's down in the dumps, what can you do?"

"I'm going to have to split the scene, Des.  I can't take much more of
this.  I need a complete fresh start."

"A beach mid-Atlantic?  I should have the money tomorrow."

"A tempting thought, but first, Des, food.  Shit, I'm hungry as hell."
Pearl smiled for the first time.  "If we don't move soon, I'm gonna
take a bite out of your big thigh."

"Feel free, sweetheart, and I'll do the same to yours.  Who needs a
restaurant?"

"Not a fair deal, Des, your tough old meat for my sweet butt."

Bad feeling dispelled, Des and Pearl went off to eat.  French-style
this time, in among business people confidently blathering golf and
good wine.  A couple of misfits making dreams amid furtive stares and
feared-for wallets.  And Des glowered on cue while Pearl pouted and
they both fondled hands, seeking out the exact fantasy that would set
them free.

"I could go back to cab-driving."

"I've got to get off the game, Des, and there's no way you could afford
to keep me."

"There must be a respectable end to what I do, good rates and clean
work."

"I need a good business angle.  I was thinking of interior design."

"Wouldn't we be able to think better in Las Palmas?"

"You just want to get my knickers down."

"That, and all those de fences

"Don't say that, Des, it scares me."

"Huh?  Ah, go with the flow, right?"

"Don't you have any other skills you could sell, Des?"

"Loads, but I haven't found them yet."

"I still think we might have a nice time finding them."

"Now that does cheer me up."

"Good, because I'll have to go soon.  Second shift; Carlos calls."

"Oh no .. ."

"You mean you've got no calls on you?"

"Just a murder to wrap up."

"Ha, you should shout that out loud'

Des began to look around the restaurant.

'But don't bother, huh.  The way it goes for both of us, but I think
we're on the right path."

"I can see the plane taking off in the distance."

"And maybe just..."

"We two?"

Go with the flow.  Des was doing just that, driving somewhere
south-east of the city, a place he didn't know, looking for Jerry
Coton.  He felt good, like he'd found the groove he wanted and that
life was on the up.  But there was a niggling uneasiness.  Go with the
flow.  Fine, but what if it was sewer-bound?  Claudette, she probably
felt the same as

Des when she got her hook on Wainwright, moving forward and a view
beyond what she could see.  Now Des was closing in on her fate and
expecting the same payday.  The same outcome?  Des shivered.  He'd just
checked out old grey Frederick and found out about the squat.

"Watch out dere, man," the old geezer had said.  "Dat bwoy im goin
right over the edge."

Frederick's words suddenly jarred, as though they could apply to
anyone, especially to Des.  He turned the car into Anselm Road and
cruised down looking at house numbers.  "Sod it," he groaned.
"Whatever.  Any number of nasty things could crop up, Jerry Coton for
one."

"This is some shit heap of a place you've got here, Jerry."

"I d-dunno if I w-want to see you."

"Not much choice now."

"I'm m-making a n-new start."

"Yeh .. ."

Des looked around at the sparse room.  A mattress on the floor, an
armchair and a few piles of books.  Jerry was lying sulkily on the bed
smoking ganja.

"Not even the first rung of the ladder."

"Who c-cares?"

"Sounds like the spliff talking."

"What do you want, M-McGinlay?"

"You trashed Wainwright's pile, didn't you, you stupid arse hole  And
the pompous toad is blaming me, threatening all kinds of
retribution."

"I had t-to do something, that's all, and he d-deserves it, and
m-more!"

"Maybe, but you should keep well out of it.  You're just an ant he
wouldn't even notice squashing."

"He's g-got to p-pay, McGinlay.  He c-can't get away with it!"

"It's being arranged, OK?  We're setting up a bit of a scam tomorrow
night with the heavies that did it, and what we get out of that should
nail Wainwright.  So no more fuckery, Jerry.  Just smoke your weed,
feel sorry for yourself and go with the flow.  I tell you, the world'll
open up again in a few months time."

"Wow.  M-Mr.  Optimist."

"Two sides of the coin.  You look up or you look down.  The rest is
bollocks."

"Oh, M-Mr.  Cynic now?"

"Don't mind me, Jerry."

Des suddenly noticed the pale square of the picture frame on the wall.
He went over to look at it.  "That is spooky," he said.  "You should
give the room a lick of paint."

"It's a self-portrait."

"God .. . Jerry .. . wanker."

The next meeting was a car park job, back of a burger bar; Des's rusty
Lancia next to the sleek Audi in which a cautious Errol smiled.  He had
come up trumps.  The wire and Des were official.  Any ploy to nobble
Ross Constanza was acceptable to the powers that be.  He hadn't,
however, dared mention Wainwright, thinking that would make things
political and so scupper proceedings.  Awkward for Errol when Des
handed over a couple of the notorious prints.

"Shit, it'd be better if this comes out through Ross.  Covers us,
yeh?"

"Well, I don't care, Errol."

"You don't have a boss who plays golf with his knighthood."

"That bad, eh?"

"Wouldn't surprise me if they were secret lovers too."

"Now that would be a story .. ."

Sitting separate in the two cars, they began to talk through the
arrangements for the meet.  Errol was still being cagey, but he was on
board and Des felt better because of it.  He needed the support.  His
next job was to see Bertha.  Tricky situation.

A big smile greeted Des when she opened the door.  A big smile from a
made-up face and a welcoming body wrapped loosely in pink silk.  Des
heard a bell ring in his head and he didn't know what he was going to
do about it.

"I was sort of expecting you," she said.

"Well, we've got things to sort out."

"You're looking much better, Des."

"When it gets very bad, bad itself can seem good, if you know what I
mean."

"Yeh.  Until you see what good's like."

They sat down on the sofa in the room of pink frills, Bertha's dressing
gown already slipping off smooth curves and Des beginning to find it
hard to think.  He fixed his eyes on her reflection in the blank
television screen.  It seemed to help.

"So you still want to call it off?"

"I think it would be the best thing."

"What kind of deal are you making, Bertha?"

"I'm thinking of yours and my safety.  The job's done now.  We more or
less know the truth and if we push it further -the stakes are too high
for them, they'll just murder again."

"Sounds like bullshit to me.  You said you wanted to nail Claudette's
killer."

"That was just angry grief talking."

"Have you actually spoken to Ross?"

"No, of course not."

"So what d'you want the photos for?"

"To burn them all.  It's one memory of my daughter I don't want hanging
around and it stops any trouble in its tracks."

Des knew that Bertha was lying but it didn't seem to matter any more.
He'd set his trap and she didn't need to know a thing about it.  In
fact, she probably shouldn't know, because Des felt that it wasn't
beyond Bertha to have done a deal with Ross.  Whatever the situation,
she had an angle and that was as plain as the bare thigh that rubbed
against his.  But did he really know for sure?  Why the antagonism,
when before he'd felt sorry for the tough deal Bertha had had?  Des
ventured a look straight in her face.  She smiled.  Brown eyes glinted.
Maybe he did owe her more charitable thoughts.  Bertha had brought
succour when Des was low down.  Motives, ambivalent always.  Des eased
back and pushed his shoulder against hers.  Well, here comes another
dodgy motive, he thought.

"You'll drop the case then?"

"As best I can.  There are things in motion that might come back to
me."

"But you'll call off the police?"

"You'll be the one with the cards."

"That's fair enough.  I've paid for them."

Des stared up at the rose-patterned lampshade.  She was holding his
hand now, stroking the fine hairs on the backs of his fingers.  Two
sets of total lies locked together and a prospect of the false deals
being sealed by sex.

"So what do we do now?"

"What would you like to do?"  she asked.

Bertha was massaging his hand, leaning forward and revealing her
nakedness beneath the gown.  Its power had not diminished in Des's
eyes.

"Tomorrow will probably be the last time we meet," Bertha said.  "After
that, it would probably be best to keep our distance for a while."

"I guess you're right."

"I'll miss you, Des."

"Uh-huh."

"You don't know how to leave, do you?"

"No."

Bertha straightened herself up next to Des and let the pink gown slip
completely off her shoulders.  "Then you'll just have to stay."

It was midnight and Ross Constanza was still in his office.  A
half-empty bottle of whisky sat on the desk, as did Gus's feet, who was
lounging opposite.  The strip light in the ceiling had developed a
flicker and it was beginning to annoy Ross.

"Fucking first chance to get away, Jesus, man, I'm off -bleedin shit
heap!  I used to think you should never stay in the same place too
long.  I let that slip.  I can feel the moss growing all over me."

"Tek it easy, boss.  When you see a way out, dentings dey can seem
panicky."

"I don't know that I do see a way out.  I mean, what d'you make of it?
A phone call this afternoon from McGinlay saying he wants to do a deal
on the photos, and now the same bleedin call from Bertha."

"The photos dem're like breedin rabbit."

"Too right.  Sounds like the whole world's got them cept us.  Hardly
seems any point getting them back."

"What Wainwright im say?"

"He's a pretty angry fucker.  Says don't do any deals, just pull out a
gatt and take the stuff."

"Should work wid Bertha, but wid McGinlay .. ."

"Pity he crocked up Scobie."

"I can handle a gun, man, don' worry."

"That ain't the worry; it's the fucking tricks he might have up his
sleeve."

"What do dey call dat der ting, man?  You know, mekkin the bes out of a
lousy situation."

"Damage limitation."

"Dat's the fucker."

"Yeh, well, that's all I've been doing since Wainwright had his
"unprotected" sex."

"Bes ting be to blow im away."

"Don't think I haven't thought about it, the pompous prick.  Never
trust a bent straight, Gus.  They've got fingers all over the place.
You never know where you are."

"So what's the plan den, Ross?"

"Damage bleedin limitation.  We rip off the snaps from Bertha and
McGinlay and bung em down Wainwright's throat.  End of relationship.
Then we bugger off down Waterloo and by dawn we should be supping
Pernod by the Seine."

"Soun's cool."

"Yeh, just a case of keeping our distance till we see what happens."

"Fine.  Me hear dem say French chicks get pretty hot for guys like
me."

Ross poured himself another drink of whisky.  He looked at the soles of
Gus's shoes and then at the small office.  Too long in one place.

"Gus, take your stinking shoes off my desk!  And while you're at it,
why don't you fix that fucking light?"

Twenty-Three.

Des got almost sentimental about the big wallow.  It maybe wasn't so
bad to drown your sorrows and soak in self-pity.  Those sleepless
nights under low lights riding great monologues of thought.  Boozy,
smoke-filled dawns where the clarity of light was impossible to
believe, as though he'd reached an hallucinatory state.  It all seemed
so cosy and safe compared to the fraught actions he was caught up in
now.  And the psychology was there, just like the reluctant worker who
can't leave his bed.  Things'll go on with out me.  What does it matter
anyway?  Des was tired.  He dragged himself around his house collecting
the many copies of photos he was about to do deals with.  In some way,
he felt the case was over, and the dangerous business of wrapping
things up was a burden he didn't have the heart for.

Think of the pay.  Think of never seeing Bertha again.  Think of Pearl
and Las Palmas in the fall..  . Des suddenly felt a twinge of guilt.
No, don't think, don't think at all!

Three envelopes eventually piled up on Des's kitchen table.  For Ross,
half a dozen snaps and half the negs.  The same for Bertha.  The third
envelope was a bloody-minded whim.  A little sequence which made a
story to be sent to the local paper.  A felt-tip note: "Sir Martin
Wainwright."  An equals sign.  One of the snapshots.  Another equals
sign and then a press cutting about Claudette's murder.  What the hell?
Des put a stamp on it and then went out of the house to the post box
which sat collecting smog on Argent Street.  On his way back, Des saw
the guy sitting in his car.  It was fifty-fifty, of course, that the
man was just waiting for someone.  However, guys sitting in cars have
to be regarded as dodgy.  Social Security snooper, debt collector or
someone keeping an eye on Des.  There'd be but one way to find out.

The first place he had to visit was Bertha's pad.  Bittersweet, this. A
tangle, a badly snagged knot of string that might take a long time to
unravel.  Des got into his Lancia and set off for the permanent crawl
of Argent Street.  The guy sitting in his car didn't move but a
flashing indicator showed that he was about to.  As Des was let into
the traffic flow, the car pulled out, a Japanese job, grey and
anonymous.  The attention was unwelcome.  According to Hollywood, Des
would now zoom off, jump a few lights and screech around
near-impossible turns.  Des looked at the long line of traffic. Maximum
speed ten yards a minute.  Great.  He looked back and could see his
tail slotting into the flow some five cars back.  So who was he working
for?  Ross?  The police?  It seemed to Des that this was an element in
the situation he did not need, an element that could jeopardize his pay
cheque or even his health.  He began to feel annoyed, partly at being
tailed and partly because of the moronic pace of the traffic.  Des
stopped his car completely and jolted the hand brake on.  Tension was
wrapping iron bars around his head.  He got out and walked back to the
Jap job.  The guy sitting in his car had the window down.

"You're violating my rights."

"Eh, I'm just'

"I'm not in the mood for being followed.  I'm very fussy about my
personal space."

Horns from the stalled cars around them began to blow.

A few irate heads appeared from behind windscreens and standard
motoring oaths added to the cacophony.  Des reached into the car and
grabbed the ignition key.

"Hey!  Come here you!"

"Who you working for, huh?"

"Give me those bloody keys and get out of here!"

Des dangled the keys high in the air.  He saw a burly builder-type
hauling himself out of the car behind, his face contorted with rage.

"We're about to have a major scene.  You going to tell me?"

"Shit!  All right, I'm doing it for Wainwright.  I'm just supposed to
make sure you do the deal with Constanza and no funny business.  If you
do that you're in the clear and you don't have to worry about me."

"What the bloody hell are you lot doing blocking the fucking road?"

The irate builder was but a few yards away and he had a tyre iron in
his hand.  Des looked down at the guy sitting in his car.

"Oh well, the way it goes .. ."  Then he threw the keys across the road
and dashed back to his own car.  The noise behind him was growing, the
builder had his head in the Jap job, but Des suddenly had an open road
in front of him.  He got his car going and put his foot down.  A few
red lights to cross, a few impossible turns to try ... "The end of the
road then, Bertha?"

"You sure this is all there is?  There's not many negatives."

"They're copy negs.  There are only two prints to make copies of."

"I suppose I should settle up, then."

"I reckon you should."

Bertha was dressed up for the occasion.  Full make-up that brought back
former glories and a dark red dress that shimmered across her ample
curves.  Des took one look down her cleavage and felt an unwanted surge
of desire.  One of those places, an old pleasure haunt he was seeking
to move on from.  Bertha began to count out the money.

"You're sure this is the end of the line for you, Des?"

"From now on I'll refer all queries to you."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Loose ends, Bertha, like Wainwright pressuring me."

"Doing it my way will stop everything."

"I hope you're making a good deal, my dear."

"One day I'll tell you all about it."

Des sat back on the plum red sofa and allowed himself a sigh of relief.
A major job done.  A real wad of cash.  Las Palmas in his pocket.  He
could just pack it in and let things go on without him.  He could, but
he knew he wouldn't.  He fingered his throat, a throat that had known
the same hands as Claudette and Mary.  He had to see it through.

"I'm going to miss you, Des."

Bertha was leaning towards him and she had her hand on his thigh.  A
familiar pose this one and, despite himself, Des began to feel
rumblings of desire.

"You always do it, don't you, Bertha?  Go right down to base
instincts."

"Come on, that's in your mind, and you love it."

"As if you make sure the thoughts don't arise."

"Men, Des, you're all the same.  It wouldn't matter what I did."

"Well, you certainly have the chemistry."

"So, will you miss me?"

"Like wild nights on the town."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know, it was great while it was happening, but the mornings-after
were hard to deal with."

"Well that's nice."

Des shrugged.  He braced himself for flak.

"Sex and business.  That's about as far as it goes for men.  The rest
is just hassle, to be evaded or shrugged off."

"I don't know as you're any better."

"You never dared come close enough to find out."

"Look, you've paid me off, Bertha, so there's no point in rowing.  But
if you want to play the who-used-who?  game, then I reckon you're ahead
and just about to cross the finishing line."

"Yes?  Well, maybe I am about to do that."

"It'll end in tears."

That's what soft shits like you like to think."

Des was feeling pretty strange when he left Bertha's block of flats. He
didn't really want to leave but wanted to return, call Bertha all the
names under the sun and then make fierce love to her.  It made him
unwary.  He didn't notice the blue van that was parked some way behind
his own car.  It had been there before but he hadn't noticed it then
because of the Japanese job.  Previously, the van had been up ahead of
him on Argent Street and had since kept on his tail.  He was more
concerned now with easing Bertha from his thoughts, and as he set off
of to meet Errol, the van barely registered.  Des headed for the city
centre, working through the crawling traffic and then onto the
fast-moving expressway.  He swept up Camp Hill, past the stone canyon
vista of the city and on.  He didn't notice any of it.  No panoramas,
no horizon, just a blinkered route from an unsettling Bertha to an
unknown scene where danger lurked.  He got to the glasshouse facade of
the railway station feeling calm enough, though a sense of seediness
still lingered, old sweat needing to be showered off.  "You're late as
usual, Des."

"Yeh, just been disentangling myself from my employer."  "You never
really told me how entangled you were."

"Later, eh, Errol, it doesn't bear thinking about just now."

"The things you get into."

"The main thing is, I got my cash."

"Right, let's wrap it up then."

Des and Errol sat in the front of the unmarked black van and surveyed
the meeting place.  Three looming tower-blocks encircled the space in
front of the station where one broad main road fed into a large
roundabout which in turn led to the expressway out of the city.  The
traffic was constant and busy.  A slip road from the main road to the
station was where the meeting was planned.

"Whose idea was this?"

"Constanza's.  Said he likes railway stations.  Said they're a good
reminder that you should never stay still too long."

"He's probably right about that."

"Yeh.  I reckon he knows he's stayed still too long and got his feet
stuck.  Bumping off whores is a sign of desperation.  So, how you
reckon it'll be for the meet?"

"It's OK.  Lots of people coming and going, cars and vans parked around
so we don't look suspicious.  Bit of a problem maybe with the traffic
noise."

"I hope I can pull it off."

"Getting nervy, huh?"

"Yeh.  When you see the end of something, you can't help feeling that
some unforeseen snag will crop up."

"By the way, you wouldn't happen to know, would you, how Scobie Brent
ended up in the hospital?"

"Me?  Nah .. . but it sounds like good news."

"He's in bad shape apparently, concussion and stuff.  We asked the
doctors to keep him in as long as possible and we've got a plain
clothes guy there keeping an eye on him."

"So he needs fingering soon?"

"Yeh.  And apparently he was half throttled as well.  Didn't he do that
to you?"

"Yeh, that's another thing doesn't bear thinking about."

"So what are we g-going to d-do then, Mouse?"

"Dunno, we'll have to work something out."

"We ought to have a g-gun, that would be b-best."

"It's good, though, isn't it, what we're doing?"

"G-Guess so."

"I mean, "revenge", we're actually going to try and do it."

"Yeh .. ."

"It's got to be one of the biggest repressions around, you know, and
that's the way the system wants it.  Your mother gets beat up on, your
girlfriend gets killed and you're supposed to sit meekly back and let
some officious arse hole bring the culprit to justice.  Huh!  All
justice is is punishment by boredom in the nick."

"And the v-victim's friends or relatives b-bleed slowly to d-death
inside."

"Right, when they should be getting it out of themselves and wreaking
their own bloody justice.  Of course, we can't have that.  People might
start bumping off their neighbours.  They might start attacking the
bastard system itself!  God knows, there's enough to seek revenge for
there!"

"Too b-bloody right, Mouse."

"It's starting to get dark."

"Yeh, c-can't be long now."

"The dark'll suit us, Stray."

The battered blue van was parked on the opposite side of the station
entrance from Errol's van.  A bank of shrubbery obscured most of it
from view.  Jerry began to roll up a spliff on his knees as he sat in
the front passenger seat.

"It must be strange, though, Stray, to know a woman you've been to bed
with is dead," Mouse said.

"W-What d'you mean?"

"Dunno, it just seems odd, creepy even, that you've been really
physically intimate with someone, and now that body's lying six feet
under being caressed by worms."

"Jesus, M-Mouse!"

"Haven't you ever thought of it like that?"

"N-No.  I think back to when we made love, b-but it's the f-feeling of
the moment, the f-feelings about her I'm-miss."

"Must be my warped mind.  It does bring home the finality of death,
though, the physical awareness of sex suddenly turned to
putrefaction."

"C-Can't you think of anything else to t-talk about?"

"Well, yeh, this is a great spliff."

"D-Don't I always make em?"

"Mind you, this makes me think of sex too, or feel it more like."

"What is it n-now?"

"I'm getting horny, Stray."

"N-Now?  I mean we've go-got'

"Let's go in the back of the van and lie on the mattress," she
suggested.

"What about the m-meeting out there?"

"It could be ages, and I want you to shag me, Stray.  And note when I
say "you shag me"."

"Eh?  I d-don't -'

"You know what I mean.  Up till now it's been me on top, me screwing
you, and for once I want to be the one flat on my back."

"I thought you liked'

"Come on, be honest.  It's no great deal, but I reckon you can't do it,
can you?  Like with the stutter, you're half stuck in there and you
need someone to squeeze it out of you."

"That's n-not f-fair.  If y-you want that y-you should say."

"Really?  OK, let's start with a little tickle, eh?"

"What?  Owl  No, d-don't, you're oh, damn!  Shit, Mouse, I've spilt the
d-dope, get off, I -'

"Bollocks.  We'll have to hold on anyway, Stray.  McGinlay's appeared
outside."

Des walked out and felt a cool breeze on his forehead.  He looked up.
When darkness hits the city, the sky goes.  A relief.  Eyes can now be
rooted to the ground, horizons lost behind ceilings of light.  The sky
is a distraction.  It's a void or a reminder of somewhere else.  Des
didn't want to think of places beyond just yet; that could tempt fate
and increase pressure when he was so close to the end.  He looked over
at the office towers with their grids of light.  Thirty storeys of
furtive labouring.  People on the scale of ants.  The way it goes, the
way we are, thought Des, feeling weary once more, feeling the bruises
beginning to ache.  He physically tried to pull himself together and
not to give in to dread.  He saw a Bentley, silent and ominous, cruise
towards him.

Twenty-Four.

"The things we do, eh, McGinlay, for our employers."

"I'm not working for mine any more."

"Yeh, guess that's true."

It wasn't exactly a fair situation.  Des on his own backed up against a
timetable board and the two of them, squat Ross and bulky Gus, standing
a little way back by the Bentley.  But Des wasn't going to complain; it
could make them feel more at ease.

"So you admit that you work for Wainwright, then?"

"Nah, that's not really the situation, although he'd like to think it
was.  Associates, I say.  I'm just doing the guy a favour trying to
sort this business out."

"Quite a favour."

"That's business, McGinlay.  A few favours here, a few deals there
confidence, self-interest.  It's complicated but it all hangs together
somehow."

"You've lost me already."

"Yeh, well, it's a different ball game, ain't it?  I mean, you're just
a self-employed grifter really, screwing what you can from people's
problems, like Bertha for instance."

"She got her money's worth out of me, I reckon."

"I bet she did.  Did you know I was shacked up with her once?"

"Yeh."

"Quite a woman in her way.  Went to seed, of course, but she still had
what you call it?  - "sexual charisma".  Charm the pants off most men.
Bet you had a fair taste."

"Of course, you were immune."

"The fuck I wasn't!  I ended up in the nick because of her!  Still,
that's dead and buried now."

"I wouldn't count on it.  I mean, you did bump off her daughter."

"Don't slip that shit in, man!  She might've wanted to stitch me up for
any number of reasons, but I don't reckon she will any more."

"Huh-uh, you reckon?"

Ross suppressed a smile.  "Ever tried cleaning windows on the third
floor?"

"What you on about?"

"Nothing, man, cept we've chewed the fat long enough and it's time we
sorted this deal out."

Des was beginning to wonder whether he could pull it off.  Ross was the
type who led with his mouth but nothing he said held any substance. Oil
on seawater slopping around rocks and then slipping away again. But
that was words for you, something to drown in, something to obscure
action.

"So what are the basics of this conversation then, Ross?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Wainwright, when I first broached the subject, he seemed happy with a
cash deal and maybe a bit of information too, but then he got peeved.
Some victims of his own stupidity trashed his house, so then he says
it's the photos or my neck.  Not a good thing to say in the
circumstances.  I feel quite touchy about my neck."

"Understandable," Ross agreed.  "Threats of physical violence, they rub
people up the wrong way.  But, you know, Wainwright's an amateur.  He
loses his cool and you have to make allowances for that shit."

"I don't want to make any allowances for that shit."

"I know, but what the fuck, that's why I'm here and I can't see why a
few thou your way shouldn't sort this problem out."

"Sounds better.  And a bit of information maybe, just to satisfy my own
curiosity, you understand?"

"Come on, McGinlay.  What information?  My client, understandably, just
wants to keep a few photos out of the public domain.  There's nothing
more to it than that."

"That's got to be the understatement of the year."

That's the b-bloke!"

"You're sure, Stray?"

"I f-fucking well am!  I saw him d-down the Lime, ponytail and p-part
of a f-finger missing.  M-Mary pulled him.  She said he was m-more
interested in whether she took d-dirty p-pictures than he was in
her."

"He certainly looks a slime bag like one of those ageing rock stars
from the seventies who thinks he's done it all."

"Yeh, well, this b-bleeder probably has."

"Don't worry, we've got surprise on our side.  It's the black guy who
worries me.  Must be the minder.  Don't know how we'll get round
him."

"D'you think we're b-being t-total idiots?"

"Ha, probably, but it's exciting.  I feel totally aroused, Stray."

"N-Not again."

"Don't be so miserable.  We're involved, right with the action and we
have a righteous target standing out there."

"And I b-bet that's as far as it g-gets.  I hope McGinlay's g-going to
do something about it."

"Doesn't look like it, does it?  Let's face it, Stray, that guy's just
out there for the dosh."

"Like everyone it seems."

"God, you're such a bloody defeatist!  Feel, for fuck sake!  Feel the
anger.  Let's bleedin well do something for once!"

"I'm t-trying, Mouse, I really am t-trying."

"OK, Ross, let's take this in easy stages.  You said a few them, how
much exactly is that?"

"A deuce, and pretty good for you since it's a bonus.  But I don't
mind.  You've seen an opportunity to play the market, you have a rare
commodity and it's plain business sense to make as much as you can. But
get this, McGinlay, that's as far as it goes."

Des took a glance up at the tower blocks that surrounded them.  As the
meeting had progressed, the number of lights in the towers had
diminished.  People switching off, clocking off and going home.  He
briefly thought he'd like the certainty of that.  To turn off the wire,
grab his two thou and head for home.  But then, where was that?

"OK, Ross, you're right," he said.  This is a bonus for me and I'll
settle for that, but, well, there is an edge in this for me too, like
Scobie Brent's claws around my neck."

"Come on, McGinlay, you got your own back."

Des then noticed big Gus stepping forward.  He seemed irritated as he
loomed over Ross's shoulder.

"Shit, boss, dis guy im jus stringing you along, an you know we gotta
get places t'night."

"Yeh, you're right, man.  Come on, McGinlay, let's do the exchange and
get the fuck out of here.  You're wasting time."

"OK, but you know, just for me, Scobie was the one who killed
Claudette, right?"

"Jesus, McGinlay."

"It's no big deal for you, is it?  You said the guy had to go."

Ross stood back a little and put his hands on his hips.  He looked
around briefly at the straggling passengers heading for the station.

"OK.  Let me put you straight about Scobie, right.  The geezer's an
arse hole but occasionally in the past I have used the guy, as an
errand boy, a bodyguard for shipping cash to the bank, delivering cars
you know.  He's a tough nut and provides good protection."

"What is all this shit?"  Des couldn't help but notice that Gus was
edging closer.  Like clouds approaching the sun, Gus was a shadow
blotting out streetlight.

"What I'm saying, McGinlay, is that Scobie is a casual.  He did work
for lots of guys, maybe even Wainwright."

"That sounds total crap to me."

"You said you wanted information.  Fuck knows whether he killed
Claudette.  All I know is I heard Wainwright cussing Scobie off, said
he shouldn't leave his spunk up a dead girl's cunt."

"I bet Wainwright would be interested in you saying'

It was the full eclipse.  Des suddenly lost sight of light as a
half-smiling Gus leaned over.  There was malice in his eyes and garlic
on his breath.

"Reckon I owe you one, arse hole

"Piss off."

"You got one over me the udder night.  Man, I reckon it's repay
time."

A slab of hand attached itself to Des's jacket.  The Perspex cover of
the timetable board shuddered as Des backed into it.  Another slab hand
began to delve roughly into places Des regarded as private.

"Call this lump off, Ross, and let's finish the bloody deal."

"You're too curious, McGinlay, that's your problem."

"Fuck me, you were dead right, boss.  Dis guy's gotta lickle black
box."

"OK, get the photo stuff and let's split, and quick before anyone else
comes!"

Gus's slab hands found brown manila but they couldn't quite get a grip.
Something else made a connection.  A kneecap got uppity and crushed
into a groin.  Gus's great shadow swayed back just a little, Des saw a
brief flicker of streetlight but not enough.  There was no room to
swing a punch.  It was arms around each other time, vindictive hugs.
Like a drunken sumo dance, Des and Gus staggered together, straining
for imbalance and a decisive trip.  Ross Constanza saw immediately that
he didn't carry the weight to sort out such a tangle.  He quickly
stepped back to the Bentley, put his hand inside and brought out the
gun.

The battered blue van revved up raucously.  The gear stick had a
violent fit until Mouse's podgy hand calmed it down.  Jerry put his
hands up to his ears.  He looked around in panic before putting his own
hand over Mouse's.

"W-W-What are you d-doing?"

"This is our chance, Stray."

"B-But, w-what d-do you m-mean?"

"Look, they're all over the shop.  They won't notice us."

"B-But w-what are we g-going t-to d-do?"  Jerry almost screamed out the
words, and he knew he was shaking far more than the gear stick.  Sweat
slicked his brow, and he had a dreadful feeling inside, one that he'd
felt only twice before.

"Justice, Stray, it's fucking out there staring us in the face, and
we're going to take it, grab our destiny, vent our bloody anger!"

With those words, Mouse wrenched the gear stick into place and slammed
her foot down.  The van lurched forward, slewed reluctantly to the
right, banged into a parked car, mounted the pavement and then went
straight for the fracas ahead.

"M-Mouse, I'm gonna be sick.  I'm g-gonna p-pass out."

"Here comes retrib -!"  Mouse shouted.

The van slammed straight into the back of Gus.  He and Des shot forward
and crashed against the timetable board.  Ross, having a few seconds
warning, dived to the side.  The van missed him by inches but the wing
mirror didn't.  A solid crack on the head, the mirror bent backwards
and

Ross slumped forward into the open door of the battered van.  A shocked
Jerry saw the ponytail drape over his shoe and he felt nausea well up
once again.

"Is that the bastard who got Mary?  Is that him?"

"Y-Yeh."

"Pull him inside!"

"Wha -?"

"Come on!  Grab him!  There's people coming!  Grab his belt and hold
on!"

Once again a podgy hand hit the gears, a Doc Marten stamped down with
rage and the battered blue van hurtled off into the night.

Twenty-Five.

The nurse was nice.  It was as if she really cared, that Des was
special, that he could reach out from his lousiness and hug that
uniform which was so sexy because it wasn't supposed to be.  As he
eased his way down the corridor with her holding his arm, he almost
believed this was his true reward and they were on the way to Las
Palmas.

"You want me to call you a taxi?"

The downer.  Come up for coffee, yes, but don't expect to stay.  Des
heaved a big sigh.  Just like always .. . what she's paid to do.

"It's OK, a friend's gonna pick me up.  Park me in the waiting room and
I'll be fine."  And he was fine.  A little winded, a bit groggy, but
not a broken bone or scratch on his skin.  Big Gus had been a buffer, a
human airbag, and after the check-up, Des was declared unharmed.  Sad
for Gus that he had a broken pelvis and severe concussion.  But maybe
not too sad.  Des felt the van might've fared worse.  Errol was already
in the waiting room.  He gave Des a 'here we go again' look and
strolled over.

"I can take over from here, nurse.  Is he OK?"

"Just shaken up that's all.  He needs rest and should watch out for
signs of delayed reaction."

"Well, I guess I can handle that for him."

Des groaned to himself.  He somehow thought he was in the doghouse.

"So how is it then, Errol, the state of things?"

"Messy, real messy, of the bucketful of shit kind."

"Thought it might be."

Errol eased his Audi into the traffic crawl that led to Argent Street.
Rain was beginning to fall.  The windscreen became a gleaming gem-case
and the city outside was a slurry of light.  Des eased back in his
seat.  He didn't want to talk about the case, he didn't care any more.
All Des wanted was some soul slush from the CD, a few thoughts about
Pearl and a nice joint so that the lights outside would make music too.
Errol wasn't going to oblige.

"Come on, Des, what d'you know about the Ross abduction?  I mean, him
and that blue van have disappeared into thin air."

"They took him away!"

"What d'you mean, "they"?"

"I didn't get much of a look, but I guess it was Jerry Coton and some
of his anarchist friends."

"What?"

"You know, the guy who was having it off with Mary."  Des looked over
at Errol and didn't like the view.  He quickly went on talking.  "Well,
this Jerry guy, he did stutter something about revenge.  I reckon, some
drop-out gits from the squat he'd shacked up in, they did some sort of
guerrilla attack on Wainwright's place."

"Eh?  Des, why do I always get totally lost when I talk to you about
this case?  How would some spoilt white trash end up at the meet we had
arranged?  What the hell's going on, Des?"

"I did sort of mention it.  They're just half-crazy dope heads that's
all."

"Jesus

"Don't worry, they'll turn up."

"Yeh, they'll possibly turn up dead."

"Nah.  Ross'll probably thank them for rescuing him.  He'll probably
give them the money I almost had my fingers on, the bastard.  Shit, you
haven't got a spliff, have you, Enrol?"

As they drove on, silence commenced, and accumulated.  The
calm-before-the-storm kind of silence that, as Des knew, the longer it
went on, the greater the inevitable outburst.  Des tried some
pre-emptive charm.

"Yeh, can't agree with you more, Errol.  It was a balls-up.  Ross was
slippery and well clued up; he was covering himself all the time.  What
could I do?  But there was some loose talk surely, enough to get them
all in for questioning?"

Errol kissed his teeth and stayed silent for a few minutes longer.

"All right, Des, the wire wasn't so bad as far as it went," he said. "A
finger was put on Scobie and we can do all the forensic stuff and maybe
nobble the shit.  But the rest is totally dicey, Des.  I told you,
Wainwright has influence.  They're not going to act on that, especially
with the way it all turned out.  And I ain't gonna push, man.  There's
already a big dent in my promotion."

"Yeh, well, I guess I expected that, which is why I sent off some stuff
to the local paper."

"What?"

"Put all the blame on me, Errol.  A loose cannon, an unregulated free
enterprise PI, a stubborn and stupid dickhead.  Feel free.  I don't
want to hurt you.  I'm thinking of fucking off to the Canary Isles
anyway."

"Not just yet, brother.  You've got to help me find Ross.  Those little
innuendoes on the tape?  Bertha Turton is dead, Des, and that bastard
seemed to know it!"

Someone had wiped the names off the map.  Jerry didn't know where he
was.  Several hours they'd been driving and he'd finally managed to get
Mouse to take a break.  All he could see was darkness, and the dots and
threaded lines of lights on a black page.  Jerry had ceased to believe
in landscapes.  All he knew was he stood outside and a lousy wind blew
in his face.  He looked uneasily back to the van.  The 'bad guy' was in
there.  They had to decide what to do with him.  Mouse's idea was to
drive to the sea and dump the guy in.  "Simple," she said.  Like hell
it was.  Mouse had a thing about the sea.  A complete opposite to the
city.  A deep and wild place where the curve of the planet can always
be seen.  A place that makes you feel small but never downtrodden.
Fine, but where was it?  Whichever way you drive in England, she said,
you always reach the sea.  Yeh, great, unless you drive around in
circles.  Jerry lit a fag and made his own mark on the black page.  He
knew what was happening, he knew he wanted to back out.  He kicked his
feet restlessly.  His hardly smoked fag fizzled into the hedge like a
shooting star.  Back to a black page.  He went to the rear door of the
van and opened it.  Ross was splayed out on the mattress with arms and
legs tied to the sides of the van.  Jerry looked at the sack that
covered his face and guessed he could probably be seen through it.  But
Ross didn't move and he couldn't speak because his gob was taped.  What
now?  Jerry sighed and then reluctantly went to Mouse in the front
cab.

"I just looked in on the b-bad guy."

"I heard."

"He didn't move a m-muscle."

"Maybe he's had a heart attack."

"I d-didn't think of that."

"I hope he hasn't.  Not after coming this far."

Jerry sighed again.  Mouse was counting out the money they'd found. The
gun was stuffed in the waistband of her leggings and a half-smoked
joint balanced on her lower lip.

"So?  Come on then, what wonderful ideas did the fresh air give you?"

"C-Can't say I g-got m-many, M-Mouse."

"You got some, though?"

"I dunno .. ."

It wasn't fair, Jerry thought.  Mouse, she was just like any other
down-and-out really, but she was so bright.  She had a mind like a
knife.  He was all right with her most of the time, could ease along
nicely and make believe that he didn't stutter.  But then, when she
unsheathed her blade, he was stumbling over his tongue like a blind man
on rocks.

"I'm-mean, well, you know I hate the shit, d-despise him.  I'm-mean,
I'm really g-glad we've got this far .. ."

"Got cold feet eh, Stray?"

"I dunno, I c-can't..  ."

He tried to hold his own and look her in the eye.  Blue eyes, clear and
lucid, they sat in her face like jewels in a battered casket.  Yes,
Mouse was showing signs of wear and tear.  Worry lines and the
beginnings of a double chin.  Suddenly, Jerry began to feel horny and
he thought that it wasn't such a bad idea.

"So what is it then, M-Mouse?  What is it that m-makes you so
v-vindictive?  It's 1-like you want to get your own b-back m-more than
me."

Jerry eased in close and rested his hand on the dome of her belly.

"I don't think you'd understand."

"C-Come on, I've t-told you stuff about me."

Jerry began to edge his hand down her belly.  Like always, it was
exciting and Mouse didn't seem to mind.

"A lot of people say I've got a chip on my shoulder, a mean streak or
whatever.  I usually say back to them that it's hardly surprising given
the shit that's around."

Jerry moved his hand down to her legs, the bad guy and the crappy van
fast disappearing from his thoughts.

"I don't understand it myself, cept I feel some sort of fear and want
to kick out all the time.  There's this image I keep seeing, a darkened
room and a tall dark shadow coming towards me.  I don't know who or
when or what but I know that shadow means pain."

As Jerry's hand began to move between her legs, Mouse suddenly grabbed
it.

"Don't do that!"  Her eyes narrowed and she began to bend his fingers
back.

"M-Mouse, I w-was only owl"

"Shall we try and sort out what to do?"

"OK, OK."

Mouse let go.

"Why d-don't we just leave him, d-dump him by the road?  That could be
g-good, with a n-note to the p-police saying he's a murderer.  It'd
b-be enough for me.  We'll have m-made our point."

"You're just trying to justify doing nothing."

"So what the b-bloody hell d-do you want to do?"

Mouse stared out into the darkness.  Jerry thought she seemed
different: not so concerned about him, wrapped up in herself.  This was
worrying.  He didn't know where he was.  He was totally dependent on
her.  Mouse relit her spliff.

"I've just realized, we've got that shitty guy back there and we can do
whatever we want."

"Yeh?"

"Think of the power of it, Stray.  We're not the victims."

Jerry looked out at the night with its restless wind and emptiness.  He
couldn't think of anything except that he was trapped.  He then heard a
little sob from Mouse and saw that her eyes were wet.

"I was just thinking of all the millions of animals that have been
killed out here, in the country, all those dumb victims we're not
supposed to feel anything for."

"Oh no, M-Mouse, d-don't don't let it g-get to you."

"I guess you're right.  You can't think about it, can you?  It's
impossible to absorb.  You have to be hard."

"Or just 1-let it g-go."

"No, I think there is something, something I can try to do."

Mouse pulled out the gun and shuffled on her knees into the back of the
van.  The sack was wrenched from Ross's face and his cold eyes
blinked.

"Hello, fucker," she said, giggling and then wobbling her breasts in
his face.  She showed him the gun.  Ross began to move.  He writhed in
a taut kind of way and there was a muffled sound from his mouth.  Mouse
pointed the gun straight between his eyes.  Jerry winced and shut his.
He waited, but nothing happened.

"Look at him, Stray.  He's nothing now, just a useless shit."

"A m-murdering shit."

"And a pile of other bad things, no doubt."

Jerry kicked Ross's leg and then wished he hadn't.  He didn't want to
encourage Mouse.

"I used to have this fantasy once about the Prime Minister.  It sounds
daft I know, but I imagined I was part of this underground group who
managed to take him hostage.  We didn't want any money.  We just wanted
revenge for all the nastiness inflicted by the state.  So I'd imagine
ways to abuse, demean and torture the bastard."

"Yeh, well those s-sort, they're un-t-touchable, like that rich p-prick
who started all this."

"It's feeling helpless and wanting to hit back."  Mouse looked over at
Jerry.  "But we're not helpless now, are we?"

"C-Come on, M-Mouse, let's -'

"I think we need some kind of ceremony.  A ritual or something, you
know, to celebrate what we've got here and see what comes out."

"I w-want a j-joint."

"Roll one then and I'll see what else I can find."

Mouse shuffled back to the cab and Jerry remained, fumbling for his
rolling gear.  Ross was looking at him.  Sweat glistened around his
eyes and it seemed as if he was appealing to Jerry's masculine nature.
Well, he wasn't going to have any of that.  Ross was disgusting.  Ross
screwed Mary and then had her killed.  Jerry'd be glad to see the back
of him.  He could hardly feel an inch of sympathy.  Mouse came back.

"This is all I could find."  She was carrying a couple of cans of
engine oil, a bag of crisps and the gun.  "What's that stuff they shove
in your mouth in church?"

"Eh?"

"Never mind .. ."

Mouse moved across the mattress.  She kneeled down between the bad
guy's splayed legs and took her leggings down.  Jerry found himself
staring at her bare bum, pumpkin bum.  She then took off her T-shirt
and flaunted herself at Ross.

"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 prod dings 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
prod dings 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:

Dear Des

Bad news.  I'm sorry but Carlos got physical tonight and I've quit.
You'll know the only way I can quit is by leaving.  By the time you get
this, that's what I'll have done.  I'm on my way to Las Palmas.  It
would be great if you could follow me.  Sorry again, lover.  I'm
missing you.

Love, Pearl

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 free wheel 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 hand brake 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."

Twenty-Six.

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 stub bled 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 work mates 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.

"So, man, you haven't made it to the Canary Isles yet?"

"Haven't been much further than the end of my road."

"You should go, man."

"I'm working up to it, but, you know, I've just felt too weary, too
flattened out to even lift a finger."

"Well, I did say, didn't I, man, that job and you being out on your
own, there's no clocking off like with me.  Your sort of position, it
goes through the front door, through you and on, deep.  You get eaten
up, burnt out."

"Guess I should go and seek Pearl, long shot that it is."

"Yeh.  You won't be up to your necks in shit this time."

"And what a lot of shit we had.  I mean, Errol, now, it's hard to see
what the fuss was about."

"What you mean?"

"Sex."

"Sex?  It's what you do when you aren't working.  Sometimes ... if
you're lucky."

"Yeh, but going to those lengths for a bit of kinkiness, doing murder
for Christ's sake!"

"I guess it's all about the buzz of it.  Like drugs, man, you always
need to go further to get the same fix.  For some screwballs, murder
must be the ultimate."

"Maybe that's what was with Scobie, but Wainwright?"

"Power, I guess.  When you're right up there in the clouds, you don't
have to face the reality of the decisions you take.  A bit of lechery
goes wrong what's he care what Scobie did?"

"He shouldn't have needed to get anything done.  Getting caught with a
whore, who cares?"  Des shivered inside.  Somehow, all the
rationalizing didn't sound convincing.

"You and me don't give two fucks, but this country, man, it still got a
tight-arsed establishment that demands respect.  They might screw
donkeys in their spare time, but it just ain't acceptable that anybody
should know."

Des eased back in his seat and downed the last of his whisky.  The
booze was working.  About time.  He could feel it sizzle in his veins,
and see it too in Errol, in that sudden flush on his face.

"Yeh, well I reckon it's definitely Las Palmas for me then."

"Des."  Errol looked him squarely in the eyes.  "Go there."

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