Nirvana Bites (18 page)

Ali was lying on the grass, smoking a roll-up while an adrenalin-stoked Frank bounced and pirouetted around him. I wasn't sure if I could handle this. I toyed with the idea of doing a runner, but Frank spotted me. He came leaping and dancing towards me in a manner that would have been less incongruous if he'd been a hyperactive five-year-old.

‘Fucking fantastic!' he yelped. ‘Fucking, brilliant, A1, fantastically, amazingly, one hundred per cent diamondly fantastic!'

I looked round, but no one seemed to be taking any notice. Ali drew on his fag and avoided meeting my eyes.

‘Ali was fucking
brilliant
, Jen. He really went for it. When you heard me yelling, that was for fucking real, man. He was outside the window, right? I had his hand – and he only went and fucking stepped off the ledge, didn't he? I mean, listen to me. He didn't
slip
, OK? He didn't
fall
. He fucking
stepped off
. It was fucking mad, I'm telling you.'

He turned to Ali, shaking his head in admiration.

‘You are one crazy fucking bastard, man.'

I looked at Ali. His middle name was Intense. He never went for anything by halves. But this was extreme even for him. It was like he'd swallowed a Stanislavski manual on Method acting and puked back the
Suicide's Handbook
. He glanced at me and gave a tiny shrug.

Frank wasn't prepared to relinquish the stage yet. He plucked at my sleeve to get my attention.

‘And then,' he said, ‘and then, once we'd hauled him back inside, we go haring off down all these fucking staircases and corridors and next thing I know we're out on the street. It only turns out he used to work there as a porter years ago. He knows the place like his own fucking armpit.'

Ignoring Frank's manic laughter, I turned back to Ali, who was picking at blades of grass. He raised his eyes and held my gaze. His face was expressionless.

‘So why didn't you tell us that when we were wandering round lost before?' I breathed.

He shrugged again and twitched the corners of his mouth downwards. ‘You never asked,' he said.

I plopped down on the grass next to him and asked Frank if he'd mind getting us a takeaway coffee. He hesitated, torn between his twin needs for activity and an audience, before loping off. I hoped he'd buy decaff for himself. The last thing he needed was a caffeine fix.

I took Ali's makings and rolled a fag. For a while, we smoked in silence. Then Ali shifted, picked a little piece of baccy off his lower lip and looked at me with his eyebrows raised. I told him what I'd been doing while he'd been busy dangling from a window five storeys above the ground held only by an ex-junkie given to depression and panic attacks. When I said Della's only concern was that she would be scarred, he frowned.

‘Are you sure that's what she said?' he asked.

‘Well, I can't think what else it could have been. It doesn't seem to make sense. Like so much else in this whole fucking business. I've got to say it, Ali: I feel like we're flapping round in the dark here. I'm worried that we're out of our depth. But I don't know what to do about it.'

Ali's frown deepened, but he said nothing. In fact he said nothing else while we drank our coffee, walked to the bus stop, sat upstairs on the 171 and walked down Kirkwood Road. Frank, of course, more than made up for his silence, using up his own word ration, Ali's, mine and then some. It was with relief that I closed my own front door and trudged upstairs.

20

THERE WAS ANOTHER
neat little stack of notes on the TV with a shocking-pink Post-it on top. Stan had gone to Gaia's and would probably spend the night there. She was going to attempt to cleanse his aura and change his karma using a technique she'd picked up in an evening class in Clapham.

I kicked off my trainers, flopped on my cushions and stared into the middle distance. I was prepared to stay like that for as long as it took to at least work out my next step. When the phone rang, I leapt a mile in the air. I picked it up automatically and then cursed myself for not letting the answer-machine cut in. That's what answer-machines are for. So you can screen your calls. So you don't have to speak to people selling double glazing. Or people you owe money to. Or sisters-in-law.

‘Jennifer? It's Kate.'

And there was I thinking things couldn't get any worse. Silly me. You'd think I'd have known better by now.

‘Oh, hi, Kate. Sorry – I'm just on my way out…'

‘Oh no you don't, Jenny. Whatever it is, it will have to wait, I'm afraid. This is urgent. And serious. As you would already know, if you'd bothered to return my previous call. You really have gone too far this time.'

Yeah, and don't you just love it, you self-righteous, uptight, anally retentive bitch?

‘What's this about, Kate?' I sighed.

‘Oh. So you don't know. You can't guess. Well, all I can say is that speaks volumes. What other things have you done that might result in this conversation? Hmmm? Apart, that is, from giving this address and telling the police you live here?'

‘Oh, that. To be honest, I'd forgotten about that.'

I swear I don't try to wind her up. It's effortless. I only have to be myself. Apoplectic blusters and wheezes down the phone told me I'd possibly had my greatest success to date. I thought I'd better help her out.

‘So what happened? Did the cops phone? Or did they come round?'

I heard Kate take a few ragged breaths before she spoke again in clipped tones. She sounded like she had something large and uncomfortable stuck up her arse. Maybe it was Dennis.

‘They came round, Jenny. Two very pleasant police officers from the Serious Crimes Squad came round. To our home. To see you. As though we didn't have enough to deal with right now, with your father's inquest coming up.'

‘Yeah. Well. I'm sorry about that, Kate. So what did you tell them?'

‘What did I tell them?' Kate's voice came out in a strangled shriek. ‘What do you think I told them? I told them you
didn't
live here. That you never
had
lived here. And that, as far as I was concerned, you never
would
live here. Not unless I moved out first.'

‘Look, Kate, there's no need to be nasty.'

‘No need?' she screeched. ‘No need? Oh, but I think there is every need. It's about time someone told you…'

I heard my brother's voice in the background, reeling in his wife. There was a bit more conversation, muffled through Kate's hand. Then all I got was ‘Greensleeves' as played by a six-year-old on one of those little Yamaha organs. I would have hung up, except I needed to know if there was anything else I should be aware of about the cops' visit. I ground my teeth and counted the carriages on the train clattering past my window.

I was on my second train when ‘Greensleeves' was replaced by Dennis's big grown-up I'm-the-eldest-so-I-know-best voice.

‘Jen? Listen. We're trying to be reasonable about this. But I do think you owe us an explanation. Why
did
you give our address to the police? And what, precisely, is this all about?

‘Didn't they say?'

‘Well, I wasn't here when they called round. But no, apparently they didn't. Though I understand they were from the Serious Crimes Squad, so I'm presuming it wasn't just shoplifting this time.'

‘Cruel, Den. And unnecessary. That was a long time ago.'

‘Yes. Whatever. I've no idea what you get up to these days. Anyway, don't try to change the subject.'

I eyed the pile of notes on my telly. ‘Well, for your information, I don't do shoplifting any more. I've got a very well-paid job.'

‘Is it legal?'

‘You're so cynical.'

‘No, I'm not, Jen. I just know you.'

‘Hmm. So did Kate give my real address?'

‘Of course she did. And I understand they asked a lot of questions about you.'

‘What kind of questions?'

‘Oh, about your character. Your lifestyle. That sort of thing. Kate answered to the best of her ability.'

I just bet she did. Which is precisely why I allow Den and Kate to know almost nothing about me.

‘When was this, Den?'

‘Yesterday afternoon sometime.'

Shit! That meant I could expect a knock on the door any time.

‘Right. Thanks, Den. Nice talking to you.'

I hung up. I could hear his yells of protestation all the way to the click. I raced round the flat, emptying ashtrays and opening windows. I was about to ring the other houses when the paranoia beast reared its ugly head. What if the phones were tapped? I raced down the stairs to deliver the dreaded message in person. The cops. The cops were coming to Nirvana.

Although there was no reason for the other co-op members to be implicated, the paranoia beast is a powerful adversary. I watched it sink its claws into each of my friends, who then tore off to perform the same cleansing ritual I had just engaged in. Then I ran home to try to think of a plausible reason why I would have lied about my address.

21

I SPENT THE
rest of the evening gagging for a spliff, starving for food and desperate for a bath. And not daring to start on any of those activities for fear of interruption. By the time I went to bed, it was gone midnight and they still hadn't arrived. They didn't come the next day either. Nor did anyone else. No one – least of all Stan (every cloud…) – wanted to be mixing it with the Bill right now. I spent the day reading, thinking and ignoring messages from my snarling sister-in-law on the answer-machine.

It was the following morning, at that time when the light is hovering between old night and new day, that heavy thuds penetrated my deep dawn sleep. I was taking advantage of Stan's continued absence to sleep in my own bed. It took a few moments to separate the shreds of my dream from the nightmare of my reality. My body went into spasms of panic, wrapping me ever tighter in my sleeping bag. I tore myself free and blundered round in the dark, stubbing my toe on the door while wriggling into a huge T-shirt. I turned on the light and was about to run down the stairs when I looked at my front. ‘I'd put on a T-shirt with
STOP POLICE VIOLENCE
emblazoned across the chest.

I tore the T-shirt off, cursing, and searched the room for an alternative. Shit, Jen. Get a grip. Now is not the time for a sartorial crisis.

‘All right. I'm coming,' I yelled.

The pounding on the door didn't let up. Bastards. I grabbed the original T-shirt, turned it inside-out and pulled it on again. I was still pulling on my jeans as I ran down the stairs and nearly tripped as I stepped into the second leg.

At the bottom of the stairs I took a moment to draw breath.

‘Who is it?' I asked. I couldn't resist.

‘It's the police. Open up.'

‘Can I see some ID, please?' I asked in what I hoped were reasonable, innocent and utterly respectable I've-got-nothing-to-hide-just-being-a-cautious-citizen tones.

The pounding stopped, but I swear I could hear growling from the other side of the door. And it wasn't a dog.

The letterbox flipped open and a laminated card was thrust through. A solid, craggy face gazed up at me from the photo, identified as Detective Sergeant John Mackay of the Serious Crimes Squad. I pushed the card back through the letterbox.

‘What's this about?' I asked.

‘Jennifer Stern?'

‘Mmmm.'

‘We have some questions we'd like to ask you relating to an inquiry we're conducting. Now, we can continue this through the door, or you can be sensible and open up and let us in.'

‘Do you have a warrant?'

There was a heavy sigh from the other side of the door. ‘No, Miss Stern. We do not have a warrant. But we can get one if necessary. Similarly, Miss Stern, we do not have a warrant for your arrest at this time. But that too can change.'

I thought about that for a moment before swinging the door open. I led the two plain-clothes cops up the stairs and switched on the light in my front room. Mackay walked in. His sidekick hesitated in the hall, fingering some of the red splashes on my Murder in a Battery Farm interior decor.

‘It's OK,' I said. ‘It's paint, not fresh blood.'

The cop threw me a dirty look and pushed past into the front room.

Mackay settled himself on my only armchair while I sat cross-legged on the cushions. The other cop stood leaning with his arms crossed against my ancient chest of drawers. I wasn't too confident it could stand his weight, but I didn't mention it. Mackay did the introductions. The other guy was Detective Constable Bartlett. He was thin and wiry, with receding blond hair, bad skin and a perpetual sneer. Mackay's eyes flickered round the room, missing nothing, before fixing me with an appraising gaze.

I decided to cut through some of the crap.

‘I presume this is about Della, right?'

Some cops don't like it when you try to wrestle back a bit of control. Mackay was one of those cops.

‘Why, Miss Stern? Do you have anything else you would like to share with us?'

I simpered to indicate the utter impossibility that I might have anything to hide from the forces of law and order. I doubt if he was fooled.

‘Miss Stern,' Mackay continued, ‘may I ask why you gave a false address to the police officer on duty at the hospital?'

‘Oh. Um, yeah. Sorry about that,' I stumbled. ‘I'd just had an argument with my sister-in-law and – well, to be honest, I just wanted to wind her up. I mean, you've met her. You must have seen what she's like…'

Mackay looked at me. Or through me. Either way, I was starting to squirm. It occurred to me that someone like Mackay would probably consider Kate to be a strong candidate for the Salt of the Earth Award.

‘Look,' I wheedled, ‘I know it was childish. But I don't really think it was too serious. It's not like I didn't know you could trace me from there…'