GBH (11 page)

I sit on the top of the steps, drinking, cloaking myself in the sound, rocking backward and forward like somebody who’s been punched in the gut.

Then the music stops. The room is full of silence. Just the clicking and the whirring of the stereo machine as it dies.

And then I’m aware of another sound, a light tapping. A light tapping, but not in the room; it’s outside.

Outside, at the window.

I stand up and go over to the piano. I put down my drink on the closed lid and pick up the gun.

If they were ever to come, they wouldn’t do it this way; if they were ever to come. I’d be dead before I passed through the photo-electric cell.

The tapping stops for a moment. Then it starts again.

I walk down the steps into the lower level of the room,
below the level of the window. I wait next to the door, by the switches.

Again the tapping stops, and again it starts again.

From where I’m standing below them, I press the switch that operates the curtains. I’ll be able to see them, but they won’t be able to see. Not soon enough, anyway. And then there was the plate glass. By the time they’ve blasted through that, I can take anybody out who happens to be out there. I shake my head. Whoever they were, they weren’t professionals. And not even the local fourth division would tap tap tap as an overture to taking me out. So I press the switch that operates the curtains and the switch that operates the outside light.

The curtains slide apart and the lights illuminate the figure of Lesley, in her Afghan coat and her dark glasses, the light again, like the spotlight in the Dunes, blanking the relief of her features. And the soft inside light combines with the harshness of that outside to diffuse and at the same time double her image in the double glazing of the glass between the two sources of illumination. And my present alcoholic vision doesn’t help in clarifying her appearance.

Thoughts of why she’s here, what she’s doing, seem frozen by the surprise at being presented with her vision.

She stands there motionless, looking into the apparent emptiness of the room for any signs of life.

I press another switch, and, just for the moment, I don’t move. Just in case.

A section of the window slides open, letting in the cold night air. For a moment, she just stands there; then she steps forward, into the room.

I press the switches again. The window closes, and so do the curtains.

She stands still, a foot in front of the curtains.

“Do I have to say, coming, ready or not?” she says.

I slip the gun into my jacket pocket, then step away from the wall. She looks down into the well at me.

“So,” she says. “You saw the Bond movie, too.”

I still don’t say anything.

“I’m not standing on a hidden trapdoor or anything like that, am I?” she says. “Or is it the crocodile’s night off?”

I move forward to the foot of the steps. She still doesn’t move.

“What are you doing?” I say to her.

“Waiting,” she says.

“Waiting?”

“To be offered a drink.”

“Here,” I say to her. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugs.

“I don’t know really. I was walking on the beach.”

I look at her, not saying anything.

“I often walk on the beach when I can’t rest. Mablethorpe’s only a mile from here if you walk along the beach.”

“But what are you doing here?”

“I saw your light. I was going to turn round and walk back, but I saw your light.”

“How did you know it was mine?”

“Yours is the only house here.”

“You knew where I lived?”

“Of course,” she says. “Eddie told me.”

“Why should he tell you that?”

She looks at me. I begin to mount the stairs.

“You’re pretty drunk, aren’t you?” she says.

I reach the top of the steps and pick up my drink off the top of the piano.

“Why did Eddie tell you where I lived?”

“No reason. Except to impress me, I suppose; I can’t think why.”

I take a sip of my drink and look at her.

“He’s impressed by you,” she says. “So I suppose he thought I would be.”

“But you’re not.”

She shrugs.

“Then why come?”

“I told you; I saw your light. I thought I might be offered a drink. I mean, as you tried to pick me up. As it happens …”

She walks over to the window, then stops, turns to face me.

“Or do I get to go out through the front door this time?”

“The drinks are over there,” I tell her.

She looks at the shelving, then crosses the floor between me and the silent flickering of the TV set and begins to make herself a drink.

“Don’t you have any lemon?” she says.

I don’t say anything.

“Vodka’s not the same without a slice of lemon.”

“Why didn’t you ring the bell?” I ask her.

“I did,” she said, dropping some ice into the glass. “You had the music on loud. You do remember the music?”

She walks over to the fireplace and stands in front of the unlit logs that have been set in the grate.

“I don’t believe you,” I tell her.

“What, particularly?”

“People don’t walk on the beach at night.”

“Only first thing in the morning?”

I look at her.

“I’ve seen you. A couple of times. Once you sat on an old tank. Another time I saw you climb up on to one of those pillboxes and sit on top of that.”

“I’ve never seen you.”

She shrugs.

“It’s a big beach.”

I go over to the drinks and pour myself another.

“One thing I
have
noticed about you,” she says.

“What’s that?”

“You drink every drink as though you need it.”

“You notice a lot.”

I go over to the TV, switch it off, then walk just beyond it to the panel of switches on the brick wall. As I pass the TV, I sway into it, almost knocking it off its stand. I get to the panel and as I’m trying to turn up the heating a few degrees to compensate for the entry of the night air I accidentally activate the movie screen. It begins to descend from the ceiling. I reverse its procedure and it slides back up again.

“Every possible home comfort,” she says.

I don’t answer her. Instead I put a cigarette in my mouth, light it, walk a little closer to her. She steps back slightly. I shake out the match, throw it into the grate.

“Eddie says everybody round here thinks you’re in property or something.”

“I am.”

“Eddie doesn’t think so.”

“Eddie knows nothing.”

She takes a sip of her drink. I try my hardest to focus on her. In spite of myself I say, “I know you. I know you from somewhere.”

“God,” she says, walking over to the piano. “Why use that line when you’re in your own house?”

“Listen,” I say. “I don’t give a fuck about you.”

“That’s good,” she says. “Because I didn’t come here to get laid.”

There is a crackling behind me. I couldn’t have shaken the match out properly; flames are rolling up from the newspapers, licking round the logs. Lesley clocks the picture of Jean on the piano.

“Your wife?” she says.

“I’m not married.”

She places her fingers on the keyboard, plays a single chord.

“What do you do?” she says.

My focusing is getting worse; there seems to be a triple image of her as she stands at the piano.

“Property.”

“Yours or other people’s?”

The images of her turn to face me.

“Do you mind if I have another drink?”

THE SMOKE

H
ALES WASN
’
T THE ONE
either.

But Jean had enjoyed herself. The video proved at least that.

Watching it, afterwards, Jean had gone crazy. She made love as though she’d been touched for the first time. And after that we’d watched the tape again. And after that, again, love.

The following day I talked to Mickey about Ray Warren.

“He should have been back by now,” Mickey said. “The funeral was last Thursday. He didn’t have anything to hang around for.”

“Have you phoned his lady?”

“No,” Mickey said.

“Why not give her a ring now?”

“What, now?”

“Why not? She might be worried too.”

I pushed the phone towards Mickey. He took his little black book out and dialled Glenda Warren’s number. I flicked the amplifier so I could hear both sides of the conversation. Glenda came on the line.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Glenda. This is Mickey Brice. I’m phoning on Mr. Fowler’s behalf. Ray’s not there, is he?”

“Ray? No, why?”

“I mean, he’s not back from Bolton yet?”

“No, he’s not. Why?”

“Just business. Mr. Fowler’s got some ideas he wants to talk to Ray about.”

“Well, he’s not back yet.”

“When did he say he’d be back?”

“He said either yesterday or today, depending.”

“Oh, that’s all right, then. When he gets back, ask him to give us a bell, will you?”

“Sure, I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks. Goodbye, Glenda.”

“That’s all right.”

Mickey put the phone down. We looked at each other. After a while I said, “Supposing Ray
has
retired to the sun?”

Mickey shrugged.

“If it’s him, he’ll have enough money stacked.”

“He doesn’t know we’re looking at him.”

“He could have decided it was time, independent of us.”

“Well …”

“There’s two alternatives. Glenda’ll either know or she won’t know.”

“Ray wouldn’t trust a bird. Not with this.”

“He might. Ray’s usually a seven-bird-a-week man. He’s been with Glenda eighteen months. Her name’s even on the lease.”

“In that case she’d have flown with him.”

“Not necessarily. As I say, there’s two alternatives; if he’s cleared off without her, she’d be mad enough to talk to us; if she knows what he’s been up to, how much money he’s been salting, she’ll be even madder. All we’ve got to do is to tell her he’s cleared off, then await further developments.”

“And if he’s not cleared off?”

“Same difference. We still tell her he’s cleared off.”

Mickey had a few thoughts.

“Of course, she could be about to join him, wherever he is. If he’s put her in this one.”

“So we’d better go and talk to her straight away, hadn’t we?”

“We?” Mickey said. “What’s the need for us both to go?”

“No need, Mickey.”

Mickey stood up.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll go and get the motor out.”

“Good lad.”

He stood there for a moment. Then he said, “Funny. I never knew Ray was shacked up.”

“Nobody did,” I said. “Except me.”

“I wonder why?”

“Didn’t want to spoil his image, did he?”

Mickey shook his head.

“Men,” he said. “I’ll never understand them, not if I live to be a hundred.”

THE SEA

I
N THE DREAM, THE
shotgun that’s being pointed at my face is growing larger, so that the ends of the barrels grow so large that whoever is levelling them at me is totally obscured by the size of the black tunnels. And when the triggers are pulled, there is not an immediate boom; the shells seem to originate from miles away, down in the depths of the shotgun, beginning with a high-pitched scream, rushing forward up the barrel, expanding into a shattering explosion as pellets the size of bowling balls spread outwards from the barrels’ rims. And not just twice. The double process is repeated again and again. Again, and then I wake up.

But the screaming and exploding of the shells doesn’t stop.

I’m not in bed. I’m laid out on the settee that’s set at right angles to the brickwork and its fireplace.

The first thing I notice is that the TV’s still on, the snowstorm on the screen giving out like an audible rash.

I get up and make it to the set and switch it off. I just manage to do that.

That accomplished, I drag myself across the face of the shelving to where the drinks are. I manage to get some scotch into a glass. And then I manage to get some of it into myself.

The screaming and the exploding still go on.

I make it over to the window and part the curtains slightly.

A couple of jets screech low, almost on a line with the sea’s
horizon, loose their rockets at a piece of the charred hardware on the beach.

I look at my watch. It’s quarter past seven. Christ.

I take another drink and go over to the wall panel and activate the central heating. Normally it’s programmed to come on at eight, but I’m cold, frozen from passing out and spending the night where I’ve spent it.

Then I go over to the fireplace and sink down in front of it and light the rolled paper that peeps out from between the logs. I stay where I am for ten minutes, until the fire’s properly going, absorbing its warmth, my mind concentrating vice-like in an attempt to keep out the noise of the manoeuvres outside.

Then, when I feel slightly more fit, I raise myself and make it back over to the drinks.

While the second one’s going down, the image of the girl comes into my mind.

But I’m still not fit to think in any kind of shape or sequence.

The girl. She came in. She had a drink. She came in, she had a drink. Through the window. She had a drink. And the next thing those bastards outside are bombing my dreams. Or had she been in my dreams, while I’d been bombed out?

The gun.

I look at the piano. It’s where I always keep it, next to the picture of Jean.

She’d seen the gun; Jean’s picture, a different one, had been in the papers, months ago. The girl had seen Jean’s picture, here. If she was here.

I walk over to the piano and slam Jean’s picture face down.

“Fuck it,” I say out loud. “Fuck it.”

I sit down on the piano stool.

Just think, I say to myself. Think things through.

If she’d come.

If she’s where she could be from, I’d be dead. I wouldn’t have risen off that settee. I wouldn’t be sitting here thinking about it.

That aspect was out. And Jean’s photograph. Nothing like the one that’d been in the press. No real resemblance at all.

No, I wouldn’t be sitting here, drinking, staring at the flames—