Bone Machine (14 page)

‘So what d’you fancy, then?’ asked Donovan.

‘Surprise me,’ said Katya, smiling.

It was late. They were back at the cottage in Northumberland. The remains of an Indian takeaway on the coffee table before
them, opened bottles of wine and cans of beer and soft drinks at their sides. Jamal had taken himself off to bed, leaving
Donovan and Katya alone in the front room. Donovan bent in front of his CD collection, looking for something to play. Something
restful. Something that would take away the evening they had just experienced.

‘What about some Tom Waits?’ he said. ‘Early stuff. Not later. Not what I want right now.’

Katya shrugged. Curled up on the sofa. ‘OK.’

Donovan ran his finger down the spines of the CDs, pausing momentarily at Shawn Colvin’s
A Few Small Repairs
before selecting Tom Waits’
Closing Time
. He slipped the disc into the player. The piano rolled lazily in, sweetly melancholic yet tuneful, soon to be joined by Waits’
voice, which was still quite sweet, not yet affected by his Brechtian Beefheart bawl.

‘This is nice.’ Katya smiled.

‘Doubt he’s ever been called nice before,’ said Donovan, settling down on the floor, his back to the sofa. Tried to relax.

They had driven back from Newcastle, suddenly hungry from the night’s exertions. Donovan had stopped for
takeaway food and alcohol in Denton, then driven all the way back as fast as he could. He felt there was nothing more that
could have been accomplished that night. He would phone Janine Stewart in the morning, go about getting a written statement
from Sharon as soon as possible.

As he drove, Jamal had started to fall asleep in the back of the car; Katya seemed to join him. Donovan didn’t blame them.
He felt like nodding off too.

He still had doubts about involving Jamal in his work, feeling that the boy should be in school. That, however, presented
too many challenges. Legally, Jamal wasn’t supposed to be there. Donovan should have informed the authorities that the boy
was living with him. But he hadn’t. Jamal had begged him not to, and with good reason: he hadn’t had a very positive experience
of those organizations whose job it was to provide for and protect children. Donovan, he felt, could do a better job. Plus,
Jamal had argued, the things he had seen on the street, the things he had done just to survive, kind of disqualified him from
being with kids his own age. Donovan had his doubts about that, but they had fallen into a loose arrangement. Jamal could
stay until he was on his own two feet again. Until there was somewhere he wanted to be more. And in that time, he, Peta and
Amar would take responsibility for schooling him. And if he wanted to be with kids his own age, there were children in the
village he could hang out with. That was nearly a year ago. Jamal showed no signs of wanting to move on. Donovan, for his
part, hadn’t really encouraged him to. They enjoyed each other’s company. Not that they would ever admit it, though. Plus,
Jamal had struck up a friendship with a boy in the village. Donovan had never thought that would happen but was glad that
it had.

Katya placed her empty wine glass down on the coffee table.

‘Want a refill?’ asked Donovan, reaching for the bottle, filling up her glass without waiting for an answer.

‘You drink a lot, Joe. Why, I wonder?’

‘No more than anyone else.’ Donovan had drained his final can and was reaching to uncork a half-empty bottle of Black Bush.
He poured a couple of fingers into a small tumbler.

‘It’s OK,’ said Katya. ‘None of my business.’

Donovan shrugged. Staring straight ahead, listening to the music. ‘I drink. It’s what I do.’

Katya nodded. Silence from the pair of them. She reached towards the table, picked up her glass. Drank. Tom Waits singing
that he was wishing he could stay a little longer, how the feeling was getting stronger.

‘May I ask a question?’ Katya said, once they had drunk a little more, listened a little more.

‘You can ask,’ said Donovan with a smile.

Katya looked at her drink, her fingers playing with the stem, swirling the dark red liquid around as if she would find the
words she wanted and the courage to say them within the glass. ‘The locked door. What is behind it?’

Donovan said nothing. He raised his glass to his lips, drank the whisky, felt the usually smooth drink burn as it went down.
Deciding what to say. Tom Waits singing that he was looking at a woman across a bar, hoping he wouldn’t fall in love with
her.

Had another drink. Made up his mind.

‘I had a son,’ he said tentatively. ‘I have a daughter, too, but I had a son.’

He stopped. Katya waited.

‘I had a son and he …’ He took another drink. ‘… he disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

Donovan nodded. ‘Disappeared. One minute he was
there, the next—’ he lifted his lightly clenched hand, opened his fingers ‘—boom.’ The word spoken quietly. A distant explosion.
An acid raincloud dispersing.

Katya said nothing.

‘We were in a store, we were buying something for his mum. I turned around and … he was gone. Never found.’

Katya leaned forward. ‘No trace? No … clues?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ Donovan sighed, took another drink.

‘In my country during war this happened all the time. But not here.’

‘I can give you chapter and verse. I’ve memorized it. Five hundred and seventy-five people go missing every day. Over a hundred
thousand people aged eighteen or under go missing every year. Children missing for more than a week—’ his voice cracked ‘—for
more than a week have a forty-four per cent chance of being hurt.’

Katya looked at him, said nothing.

‘I used to have more than a son. I had a wife. A family. A good job. When David went, all those things went with him.’

Katya nodded.

More silence. Tom Waits singing about midnight lullabies.

Katya began hesitantly: ‘Your wife? Your daughter?’

‘Went with the job. After the breakdown.’ Donovan stared at the wall. Saw something that wasn’t there, saw beyond it. ‘Couples
never stay together after something like that. Families can never survive. At least mine didn’t.’

‘So … that room. That was his room?’

Donovan nodded. ‘It
is
his room. He’s never been there. But it’s his room. It’s got his life in it. His past.’ He put the glass to his lips, swallowed
more than a mouthful of whisky. ‘His future.’

‘His future?’

‘I’ve got people out there. Looking. Hunting. For any clue, any sighting. Sharkey has a network out there. When they find
anything, they’ll report to me. And I’ll go to him. Whatever’s happened to him.’

‘Do you think that will happen?’

Tom Waits singing about days of roses, about there being no tomorrow, packing away sorrows and saving them for rainy days.

‘I hope so,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve got to hope so.’

He said nothing more, just stared at the wall.

‘I am sorry for you,’ she said. ‘I know what is to lose a loved one, a family, and think you will never see them again.’ She
smiled. ‘But I know I will see my brother again. I am lucky.’

He nodded. ‘And I’m glad for you. Really.’

A cloud passed over Katya’s face. ‘I will see my brother again, yes? You promised?’

‘I promised,’ said Donovan. Arranging a meeting with her brother had been the condition she had made in accompanying Donovan.
‘And you will.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you. That makes me happy. You are good man, Joe Donovan. I wish the same happiness for you.’

Donovan smiled. It had a bittersweet edge, like crushed rock salt and lime around a tequila glass. ‘Thank you.’

She put her hand on his shoulder. It felt smooth and warm to the touch. Donovan couldn’t remember the last time a woman had
touched him like that.

He looked up. She had put her glass down and was leaning forward, her other hand on him too. She bent down, her face before
his. Her eyes closed. Hesitantly, she moved forward.

‘Don’t,’ he said.

She stopped, opened her eyes as if from a dream. Pulled back from him. ‘Why? Don’t you … like me?’

Donovan almost smiled. ‘Yes, I do, Katya. But I haven’t had a very … I don’t have a very good track record. In … with girlfriends.
Partners. Not recently. And that’s another story.’

‘Perhaps not all stories have sad endings,’ she said. ‘Perhaps some end happy?’

She slid on to the floor next to him. Her arms went around him again. Eyes locked with his. He hadn’t noticed how beautiful
they were. Deep blue. Drowning pools.

‘You have been good to me.’

‘You don’t have to—’

She put her fingers to his lips, hushed him. ‘I like you. But you are lonely. I know what that feels like.’ She bent further
forward, her eyes closing again.

‘This is wrong,’ he said, fighting the growing sense of arousal in his body. ‘I’m meant to be helping you. Looking after you.’

‘You are,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘And I look after you.’

‘You sure you want this?’

She nodded, her eyes still closed. Lips smiling.

Their lips met. Mouths opened. Arms entwined, bodies soon after that.

Tom Waits sang about little trips to heaven. About it being closing time.

Donovan turned the CD player off. He and Katya made their way upstairs to his bedroom.

Amar closed his eyes, opened them again. His vision was crashing against his head. He was swimming towards what he saw, struggling
to stay focused. He shook his head. He didn’t know what he’d taken.

Anything. Everything.

The camcorder shook as he moved it around. He was
aware of bodies moving, writhing before him, aware that although he was pointing the camera at them, he was missing what was
going on.

He had told himself he would stop doing this. Told himself he had only done it because it was necessary. Because he needed
the money. And for a time he had given it up.

It. Filming private gay orgies hosted in a rich man’s house, by the rich man himself. Strictly behind the camera, he had stipulated.
He was not to take part. not to be invited to take part. Whatever was on offer – sex, drugs, drink – was not to be offered
to him. He didn’t want any part of it. He wanted to stay focused. Rise above it. It was a job. That was how he regarded it.

For a while.

Then came the odd spliff. A glass of wine. A line of charlie. A cute young man offering himself up. Just the occasional indulgence.
Not harming anyone. Getting for free what the others paid for. Getting paid for doing it too.

Then an escalation. More lines. Of charlie. Of young men. More wine. Blow. More. More.

Then came self-realization. He knew what he was doing. To himself. To his reputation as a professional. And with the self-realization,
a complete stop. He turned down work, offers. Other work came in. Albion had started; it seemed to be going well. He concentrated
on that. Let the drugs go. Cut down the alcohol. Got back into shape. Peta got her gym partner back again. And helped in the
education of Jamal. He liked the boy. He really did. And with all that, he didn’t need to go back. Didn’t need the other stuff.

But it began creeping back. He felt something within him. Boredom? Lack of fulfilment? A writhing serpent coiled there in
his guts, telling him what he wanted. What he needed.

And he listened.

Secretly at first, so Joe and Peta didn’t find out. Then, when directly questioned, openly admitted it. Yes, he was back at
the parties. And, yes, he was enjoying them. They had responded more with sadness than anger, asking him not to do it, but
he had ignored them. He was fine. He could hold himself together for work. It wasn’t affecting him.

Then came earlier in the day. Walking out of the café.

Fuck them. He was too old to be told what to do. He would do what he wanted to do. And if they didn’t like it, fuck them.
Fuck them all.

He looked around the room, tried to focus his lens, his eyes. As he did so, he stumbled, tripped. Fell to his knees, his fall
broken by a naked man’s body. The camera spilling to the floor. The man smiled, stopped what he was doing and to whom, put
his arm around him. Amar let him. Amar yielded to him. Someone else joined them. Amar didn’t know who, didn’t see them. Couldn’t
see them.

He closed his eyes. Gave in. Stopped swimming, let the tide engulf him; bear him away on it.

The camera, his pretext for being there, was lost.

And soon he joined it.

Lost in the realm of the senses. The realm of the senseless.

Lost.

Donovan lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Katya next to him, her body curled into his, sleeping. Or pretending to. She breathed
deeply, a smile playing on her lips. She looked relaxed, contented. Dreaming.

The rain had ceased. Donovan, who should have fallen asleep first, had been lying there long enough to hear it stop.

Mention of David had done it. Started him thinking again.

Donovan still saw him. In the street. In his mind’s eye. In dreams.

Always when he least expected it. He would be coping, getting on with his life, not thinking about his past. Walking down
Northumberland Street, say, or Grainger Street, Eldon Square even. Or in a shop. A café. Starbucks. Off in his own world.
Happy, or at least content, in the moment. Then he would hear a voice. Catch a glimpse of dark hair. Recognize a walk. And
look up. And see him. Coming out of a shop. Chatting to his mates. Or head down, hoodied and denimed, texting.

And Donovan would turn, wait for that familiar skip of his heart. He would open his mouth, make to call out, start to run.
Unable to stem the joy bubbling within. Rushing to hold him. Hug him. Make him feel safe.

But he would never get there, never call. Because the rational part of his brain would stop him. Make him look again. And
he would stop. Do as instructed. Look again. Truly see the boy. His hair would be wrong. His walk. His eyes. It wasn’t David.

It was never David.

And then he’d stand, like an inflatable toy that’s had the air stamped out of it. Feeling worse than empty. And it would start
again. The cocoon of the present would crumble. The past would press down on him again. Remind him how precarious his balance
was in the world. Like a cancer sufferer reminded of their disease, a psychic intimation of sudden death.