Shadow Play (17 page)

I soon ascertained that the male visitors weren't boyfriends (or mates), but ‘lovers' of a lesser sort, and very nearly caused myself harm. The roughneck who opened the door didn't believe the story about my buddy Pablo who'd promised to rendezvous here, and went straight for my collar when I turned around to leave. I could have been a plain-clothes detective for all he knew, but he didn't seem like much of a thinker. I evaded his first punch and blocked his second before kneeing him in the groin and then again flush in the face as he kneeled to clutch himself. That was all the violence it took to free myself from his grip, and I took off for the high street before he could groan for help.

I couldn't return to the area in case they were waiting. Anyhow, Martina's life was none of my business, and for the next week I suspended all adventures, my purposeless curiosity satisfied. I remained in my corner throughout her visits, greeted her amiably and savoured the warmth of her response, although there was never an opportunity to share tables again.

Perhaps she had touched a nerve, and I reacted oddly because I hadn't felt anything like it in over twenty years. Or else, possibly, I'd recognized what she did right away, and that is why I was moved. Until a few years ago, I used to visit such places often, though lately these requirements had somehow vanished. Anyway, I should confess that after the one dramatic accident of my youth in India, I'd never touched a woman without paying for it. Close friendship with Patty was still a couple of years away.

The last time Martina visited, she had a prominent black eye and a cut across her forehead, inadequately dressed. She
was also wearing a coat although it was June. She told Patty it was the price you paid for having a big Bulgarian boyfriend; they came with Balkan tempers. She seemed to want to behave normally after her brief explanation, and Patty respected this by not fussing. Martina found a seat and pulled out her phone, but everything was wrong about the tempo that afternoon. She drank too fast, frequently placed the phone on the table, brought out some tissues but didn't cry, and once buried her face in her arms. I watched everything from my barstool. When she left after ten minutes, I took my drink through into the empty conservatory.

It was a stroke of fortune. Five minutes later, my oversized but not over-bright contender strode in, apparently eager for an immediate rematch, grasping Martina's arm, growling in what I now supposed to be Bulgarian. I was far away, to the left at the rear of the pub, next to the garden door, with a partial view of the main area. It was a normal afternoon, and conversation had ceased abruptly with this interruption. I realized Patty had reacted, possibly by stepping out from behind the bar, when I heard Martina's voice: ‘It's all right, Patty, I promise. Don't worry. We're just taking a look.'

How had he linked his attacker to Martina, and traced me down to this pub? Had he followed her just like I did, and suspected she was meeting a (quixotic) admirer? But this wasn't the moment for reflection, and I soundlessly gulped down my drink (because an unfinished pint would have been a clue), and let myself out through the garden. It was an unusual exit, but not unprecedented. People did leave through the back if, for instance, there was a game on TV and you didn't fancy shoving through a roaring crowd. No one would suspect a connection.

Luckily, new assignments kept pouring in during the next few months, for short films and commercials, and I had ready excuses to avoid visiting the Three Bells. Sometimes in the studio, to give my brain and my eyes and ears a break, I'd switch off the light and retreat underwater into recalling Martina. There was no doubt by now that I felt something for her: in fact, if I didn't know her story and believed she was just an ordinary girl, I would certainly have returned to ask her out.

It was longing I felt, and it steadily jumbled my brain. In my isolation, with no one to trust for advice, I couldn't keep the various cards between my fingers, the conflicting variables to consider. What about the pimp recognizing me, should things go any further? How would I explain following her? How could there be anything between us? We hadn't even spoken yet. What else would emerge if I drew any sort of attention to myself? How much of my life could I share?

I would have returned much sooner had I not repeatedly been thwarted by the idea of having to reckon with the pimp, once I decided to approach Martina. Buying out the Bulgarian wasn't an option, though for one shining moment it seemed appropriately chivalrous. I didn't have any such amount to hand, and anyway, would it even earn us a final resolution?

For a while one afternoon I actively considered the option of being frank with her, and very nearly reached the pub before my resolve dissipated. I would take her out to dinner and confess about my trip to her house. It could even be my trump-card, my willingness to address the issue before we began anything ourselves. I wouldn't for a moment divulge my real plan, the nasty, anonymous end that would soon befall her Bulgarian: I'd just speak about running away together. Yet soon I modified
the idea, wondering if the Bulgarian should make his exit in an unrelated
previous
accident, thus freeing Martina even before I entered her life?

The choice turned upon the crux of connection. I had got away with two murders solely because they were arbitrary. I could not risk being a quiet regular in a pub that the dead pimp's girl visited, way across town. Why did she get a drink so far away: she must have been meeting a co-plotter. If the link had occurred to that gorilla, a detective would surely sniff it out. A few routine questions, and someone would connect the murder and our sudden disappearance. From there it was one step too close to exposing everything else, everything I would put behind me anyway during my future happiness with Martina.

But Martina might link me to her dead ‘boyfriend' herself, if I showed up with my proposal directly afterwards, and that would frighten her even more than her present entrapment. Would she be willing to run away with a stranger who'd proved himself to be a murderer?

It would all be resolved with the correct blend of sincerity and discretion, I'd worked out by the time I finally reached the pub. As always, I must only reveal things to her on a need-to-know basis. For the foreseeable future I should just be the older man chancing his heart one last time, a sentimentalist whose silence had concealed his desperation, even something of a fool.

Roger, Steve and Gerard were pleased to see me back, and in my happiness at being welcomed I stood them all a couple of rounds. I was also chattier than usual with Patty, which seemed to surprise her, and I casually raised four or five subjects as decoys before I dropped in a question about Martina.

‘I would love to know myself where that poor girl is,' she said, ‘seeing as she hasn't returned since the day that ape slapped her around. I wish I'd asked her where she lived, so at least we could make some inquiries. So many times I've said to Gerard, perhaps we should have a word with the police. But he's right, we've got no leg to stand on. No name, no address, no charge, what would we give them? Sometimes I catch myself pursuing terrible thoughts, and I really fear for her safety. But the boys here say it's just an average case of domestic jealousy, and they're probably right. You get an ape like that and he's bound to use his fists before his brains, especially when he doesn't speak the language. It's happened so many times in front of my eyes, even right here in this pub, without mentioning any names and present company excepted. And each time you wonder, what's a girl like her doing with a beast like that? But all you can do is stand by and watch people make their mistakes, though there are some mistakes they can't even run away from.'

Martina was obviously far from forgotten, although no one had any idea how to trace her. They'd spent a lot of the intervening weeks puzzling over the events of that afternoon, and I was glad to realize my absence had gone unnoticed. In fact, Roger mentioned it in passing, saying, ‘If I remember correctly, you narrowly missed the fun, Charlie. You were here, and then you left. A few minutes later, Beauty and the Beast, the North London debut, right here in humble old Three Bells.'

The rest can be sketched in fairly quickly. From the top of the road, there was an unmistakeable ‘To Let' sign visible above the small hedge in front of their steps, though I walked to the door to be sure. There seemed no danger in visiting the estate agent handling the property. They were nearby on the
high street, and were evidently pleased to receive my inquiry. They would be candid with me, the agent promised – they were having trouble shifting the place. Frankly, the previous tenants (selected personally by the landlord) had left it requiring a few major repairs. The owner didn't have the cash upfront to spare, so for now, if the tenant didn't mind a few breakages that would each be imminently addressed, it was actually, pardon the expression, something of a legalized steal for a fully furnished Victorian terrace. I could view it an hour later and be laughing all the way home by four o'clock, the entire, outrageous transaction conducted in broad daylight.

I prised myself from his enthusiastic clutches with a couple of false promises and a request for some thinking time. In the greasy-spoon a few doors down, I attempted to dismantle the matter over my coffee. There would be ample opportunity later to feel remorse over losing her because of my delay. I blocked that pounding regret from view, and gazed wholly upon the option facing me. Should I contact the landlord or not, to inquire about his ill-chosen tenants? But there rose again the spectre of connections. I imagined locating Martina and the Bulgarian, and finishing him off before I reappeared in her life. In the best-case scenario, she would agree to my offer of beginning afresh elsewhere, although she might certainly choose to employ her freedom towards some more attractive end than eloping with a middle-aged loner. Or perhaps I'd have hurled her into the fire, because of course there would be other cronies and pimps: they would assign her to someone worse, assuming she wasn't suspected of complicity. On the other hand, to repeat my most persuasive objection, wouldn't any investigator visit the landlord to ask him if he knew his property had been used as a brothel?
At which point he would remember my visit, and my questions about where the Bulgarians had gone.

What else remains to be spelt out? I sank helplessly for the next many months, and never stepped outdoors except to buy bread every few days. I turned down all new offers of work, and didn't go near the Bells (they had no contact number for me). There was no sequel to the Martina story; she had disappeared as if she never was. And really, wasn't that what truly transpired? In what way could I claim we had existed for each other?

It grew worse when I acknowledged that I'd begun planning possible solutions very early, deep within, almost as soon as I'd suspected her profession, long before I tailed her. Those weeks of inaction had proved fatal, and I now suffocated from the recognition of my selfishness. Yes, committing murder for a cause as unlikely and far-flung as this would have been an insane option. But that hadn't been my reason. I had already killed twice: there were no boundaries to overcome. It was no more than self-preservation, the terror of exposing myself to connections. Although, this time someone else's fate could have been transformed, even if she didn't feel anything for me.

It wasn't until six weeks later that I resumed my afternoons at the pub, and for the first time allowed myself to freely chat with Patty. In the interim however lay another incident, the death of a Greek professor jogging along just after dark in Putney Heath.

 

I misread Sharon at the start. I mistook her toughness for an act, and responded by trying to patronize, charm, awe and muscle her, sometimes in succession, frequently all together. I construed her as a punk reporter: she showed up to bust some myths, spar with a legend, punching hard straight from the bell, and by the evening she was flat on her back, completely under my spell. I remember inwardly congratulating myself at pulling it off yet again, and even outlined my ‘method' to her in one of my responses, which I knew to be an explicit underlining of my triumph.

‘You see, getting through has always been paramount. Reaching as deep as possible inside the widest range of people. Because I have always believed you can, without any trade-off or compromise. In movies and in politics they manage to sway millions by reducing everything to the lowest denominator. The flip side of that same cynicism is those who believe complexity must necessarily be exclusive, since most of humanity is too coarse for things like truth and beauty.

‘But I've always found that individuals fill whatever vessel you provide them. They calibrate themselves to whatever level
you meet them at. What it does take on your part is a basic faith in such potential, the capacity to imagine that despite appearances, each other person is as deep and mysterious as you consider yourself to be. Added to this, you require the suppleness of soul to re-tune your register each time.