The Light of Day: A Novel (18 page)

49

“How’s the Empress?” I say.

“She’s fine. She’s in the South of France. She’s bought a yacht.”

“Good for her.”

“She’s over sixty, but still going strong.”

“Life in the old girl yet.”

Small talk, dodging the issue. Time’s precious—but you just play cards.

Nearly a quarter past four. In a couple of minutes they’ll blow the whistle. No extra time. I’ll have to leave before anything’s begun. She’ll have to live through it all alone.

Will there ever be a year when this day gets forgotten, like a neglected birthday, then gets remembered, afterwards, with a jolt? A stab.

No, I don’t think so.

Nearly a quarter past four. I was outside the flat, the first time. She was sharpening a kitchen knife. Not even dreaming.

I say what I’ve said countless times, when it’s nearly time to go. “I’m with you, sweetheart, I’ll be with you.”

Though today, of all days, it can’t be true. Because she’ll be with Bob. His day. And ghosts aren’t like other visitors. They can come any time, they can pass through walls.

Who’d begrudge him? Today. But the black taste wells up.

No, he can’t make it, he’s sorry—he told me. Unavoidably detained. You’ve got me instead.

As if I should stand in for him entirely: the whole rerun. His double. And she’d raise the knife and see it was me. And this time, really, she’d stop.

Jealous—of a corpse. She can read my thoughts. Her eyes can see inside my head.

“I’ll be with you.”

“I know.”

But jealous of Bob
alive.
She knows that too. Jealous of all those years, good long years—twenty-four of them— ending like they did. And it might have been me and her in the first place. Me and Sarah. The absurdity. And Bob would have found someone else. And we’d all be happy, all still be alive. The absurdity.

And I might have been a gynaecologist and Bob might have been a cop.

You play cards, you shuffle the pack.

Twenty-four years. Except time doesn’t work like that. Time doesn’t make its meanings like that. Visits, moments, days. This day, this clear cold day, the air diamond sharp.

Two minutes. What can you say with two minutes left?

A bedside closeness, a hospital hush. As if tonight’s the night, when I’m gone, she’ll go in for her operation. Touch and go. Ha—under the knife.

Though there’s a knife, I know it, already stuck, grating and rusting, in her heart.

One day I’ll pull it out.

I’m with you, I’ll be with you. It’s what I’ve always said, even right at the beginning—when she didn’t want to hear. What tosh. This won’t go on.

But one day she said (a smile like sunlight on stone), “It’s the wrong way round, George. Can’t I be with you?”

I say it now. “I wanted you to be with me, there, today. It’s been such a—beautiful day. I wanted us to be standing there together by that grave. You know, sweetheart—there’s a moment when you have to walk away, turn your back and walk away. I didn’t know when to do it. How much time? I wish you’d been there beside me so you could have said when. Do you understand me? You’d have known best. I wished you’d been there so I could have heard you say, ‘Let’s go now, George. Let’s go.’

“And the thing is, sweetheart, whenever you’d have said it, whenever you’d have decided, he wouldn’t have stopped us.”

50

Marsh said, “Wouldn’t Mr. Nash have got home safely without you following him?”

“I wanted to be sure.”

He looked at me sharply but patiently. A tactful senior officer dealing with an over-zealous junior. As if he were really my Super. An inside matter. Cop to cop. This needn’t go any further.

“What did you think he would do?”

But I wasn’t going to tell him. That he’d gone to the flat first, that I’d waited outside, a second time—maybe all of fifteen minutes. Waited even when I might not have waited, shouldn’t have waited. Waited while something tilted and teetered inside me.

And up above (you have to put yourself in the scene), he would have thought: where else was there to be? Where else was there to go?

It used to be how it was done once, in other times, in other countries, when some high-ranking officer had disgraced himself, done what he shouldn’t. He’d be left in a room with a pistol, the door locked. His fellow officers waiting outside for the shot.

In a different world, a different age. Splendid uniforms, grim rules. The age of Napoleon and Eugénie, for example.

I waited.

And he wasn’t the sort, was he? A sane and responsible medical man, a senior consultant. To be reduced to this. A room in Fulham, its four walls closing in on him.

I watched. Lights behind curtains. And we’re all policemen, aren’t we? Nothing’s just a matter for the police.

Don’t think, Marsh, you’ll leave it all behind. Don’t think you’re a free man.

He stroked his jaw. Past midnight. Bob was four hours dead.

“You seem to have been very concerned for his welfare.”

I wasn’t going to tell him. Or tell Sarah either. But she’d have known anyway: written in his face. All her patience, all her conceding—all her scheming with me—all her waiting and hoping: to welcome home a ghost.

And now she too was in a place of no escape. A locked cell—just yards away. Four cold clammy walls. How could she have come to this?

The fug of interview rooms. The matter-of-factness of police stations. In the background a smell of disinfectant.

“I wanted to be sure. For Sar—, for Mrs. Nash’s sake. For my client’s sake.”

I saw the look on Marsh’s face.

“She hadn’t asked you to deliver him to her door.”

“I didn’t.”

“No. A pity—maybe. Do you normally go to such lengths for a client?”

“I’m a free agent.”

“Sarah Nash’s agent. You mean you didn’t have to act like a detective just doing a job?”

Or not act, not move.

He means: like a good steady cop.

But I did act. I got out of my car. I crossed the street. I ran, for dear life.

And he found a way out, an escape route, somehow, down the stairs, out the front door. There wasn’t any shot. We might have collided on the front path. I can’t remember if I felt glad. He got to the gate before I did, stepped past me. I stepped aside. I let him go.

Let her go, Marsh, let her go. The words knocking inside my head, as if to burst out too from a little cruel room. Have me, put the cuffs on me. But let her go.

I should have stopped him. Shouldn’t I? I should have arrested him—God knows for what. For being alive? A citizen’s arrest.

A street in Fulham. Victorian red brick. A street full of comfortable law-abiding folk. A good part of town.

I’d have spared him, I’d have spared Sarah. I’d have kept the peace.

I should have said, “Don’t go home, not just yet. You don’t know me, but—” I should have kept him in for questioning, for interview, to assist with inquiries.

“Not just yet. Let’s find somewhere, let’s go somewhere where we can talk.”

51

Time’s up. A sudden activity. It’s like the moment when a ship leaves. All non-passengers disembark. Where do prisoners sail?

“Take care, sweetheart, I’ll see you soon.”

It always feels like desertion. Today it feels like treachery. How will she get through these hours? As I make my way back with the others, through the doors and check-points, there isn’t even that usual feeling of reprieve. You’re lucky, they’re letting you go this time. That was just a warning.

The screws count you out as if there still might be a catch. A catch? A concession? The tap on the shoulder: No, not you—you stay.

Do they know it was today, this very day? There he goes and it’s two years now, to the day. It must mean something.

Bridget waves me through. Is that a special look in her eye?

“Bye, Bridget.”

“Bye, George. Be good now.”

“I’ll try.”

And the world’s still there. It’s always a faint surprise: it didn’t go away. And there’s always the faint sweet rush of gratitude, of guilty gratitude.

Then it hits you, like another wall: another fortnight.

The cold strikes. I emerge with the others. For a moment we could be some strange class being let out of lessons (but I’m the only one who hands in homework, I think). Then we disperse quickly and silently, as if to blend as soon as we can into the surroundings and become just innocent passers-by.

A rule, a superstition: I never look back. Just in case the magic, the miracle, might work that way. An ache in my back. Just in case she’s behind me and the tap on the shoulder is her.

George, it’s me. Don’t go without me.

It’s twenty past four. The sun has dipped behind the rooftops. There’s a red bloom low in the sky. Up above, it fades to pink, then gas-flame blue. A slice of moon. A vapour trail, thin and twinkly as a needle. Another bitter night coming, the air hard as glass.

Write it down for me, George, what it’s like out there. Bring the world in here. Not like a police report, you understand?

A tall order. Asking the world. But I’ve done my best.

“You deserve the world, sweetheart.”

“No, I deserve what I’ve got.”

A piece of the world on a piece of paper. I’d never thought of it like that. The world brought in bit by bit, like prisoners—the other way round—chipping away, stone by stone, at a wall.

But no homework to collect today. Not today.

I cross the main road and walk on in the direction of my car. The street lamps have come on. In half an hour it will be dark. I think of his grave, the smooth granite glinting like ice. He has to get through these hours too. If she does, he does. If things can be relived.

What do they do in cemeteries when night falls? Close the gates, lock up? All visitors out. No funerals after dark.

The trees along the side of the road are turning to silhouettes. Against the sky every twig and last leaf is distinct. Cars becoming just their floating lights.

Dusk. Twilight. She taught me to look at words. The way I think she once taught Kristina. Strange English words. Their shape, their trace, their scent. Dusk. Why is it so strangely thrilling—winter dusk? A curtain falling, a divide. As if we should be home now, safe behind doors. But we’re not, it’s not yet half-past four and everything becomes a mystery, an adventure. Now everything we do will be in the dark.

I turn the corner into the street where I’ve parked. One day I’ll do this a last time.

I unlock the car. It’s like a fridge. It’s like a bed in a disused room.

It’s my punishment too—but I don’t say this. I never say it. To have and not to have. But, this way, you could say I
do
have her. She’s not going anywhere. You could say I have her where she can’t get away.

My punishment and my reward.

And my remorse. An ache in my back.

If I’d carried the job through to the end, delivered him back—special delivery, to the door, like a gift. Matrimonial and Missing Persons. Here he is—there were problems on the way, but here he is. As if he was the prisoner set free.

Was it possible? And she might have been happy. Was it ever possible?

I turn on the ignition with the heater full on. It throws out a freezing blast.

So happy she’d have come in to see me, a last time, to settle the bill, to thank me in person, a few moments in my office instead of years—of this. To sign a cheque and thank me (“It was nothing—nothing, really”) and suddenly hug me, maybe, kiss me even, on the cheek.

She’d have walked out free and happy. Was it possible? I’d have watched her heels, the backs of her knees. Departures. I’d have watched her from my window, crossing the Broadway, walking back to her life. And that might have been and should have been gift enough for me.

52

Since they do thank you. Thank you and more. The strangest thing—I never expected it—they thank you even when the news is bad.

“It’s not just that they’re women, Helen . . .”

“No?”

Suddenly all ears. “Well, you can’t leave it at that— you’ve got to go on.”

Chicken Marsala, Sole
Véronique . . .
But it wasn’t just the cooking. This dad of hers that she’d never known.

Rita said, “Are you married yourself, Mr. Webb?”

“Was.”

A cock of her blonde head.

“A long story.”

(Though it wasn’t really: a quick goodbye then off she went to school.)

“You don’t have to tell me.”

She glanced round my office—the way Helen had glanced round at the house. The tiniest hint of a tut-tut.

There are all kinds of motive: information, confirmation, desperation . . . Sometimes it’s an act of war. It’s savage, it’s rough. And there’s always the rebound factor. I’d got wise to that.

The tiniest hint of a sigh.

I’d already given her the news: the who and the where. She’d already half-known. The no-nonsense, dry-eyed type. She worked in a factory—cardboard products—manager’s PA. I imagined she could do the job for him, do it all with her eyes shut, but she had to know her place.

She sat now in my office, legs crossed, eyes clear, the black point of one shoe now and then prodding the air.

And I’m a detective. I’m not a fool. I can read signs. I ought to have had a sign on my door: “George Webb: Private Investigator and Rebound Consultant.”

And wasn’t I on the rebound too? A long story. A long, slow rebound.

She wasn’t finished, so it proved. She wanted me to go one step further. A little extra job. She wanted me to take her to the house, the address—while the husband was there— and just wait outside while she went and knocked. That was all, a simple job. She’d only be a moment.

Would I do this? She’d pay.

The point of her shoe poked forward, like something being aimed. She took her eyes off me and looked along the stretched-out line: knee, ankle, toe.

So we went. A modern house on a new estate. Nine in the evening. They thank you, you become allies.

I parked outside. A cold January night. She was all grim, steady silence, but before she got out, while my hand rested on the wheel, she reached across and pressed her fingers against my wrist. “Wish me luck,” she said—as if no particular reply was needed. Then she took away her fingers, leant across further, took my face in both hands and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Wish me luck.” I did.

She got out, straightened her skirt. She might have said, “Keep me covered.” What was she going to do? Pull a gun? (From where?) A knife, a jar of acid? While I sat here drumming on the steering wheel?

She walked up the front path. It’s an inspiring sight, a magnificent sight, the striding hips of a woman who hasn’t got much to lose and, right now, means serious business.

I waited. The door was opened, a shaft of light. She was actually let in. I waited to hear yells, screams, breaking glass. Remembering my police training. Put in your call first. It was more than a moment, it was almost ten minutes. Then she reappeared.

I’ll never know what she did or said in there, but she walked out in a way that was magnificent too, but different from the way she’d walked in. She held her head up high, breathed the air. She might have swiped one brisk palm against the other. Her moment of glory, of make-do glory, of hollow revenge. I thought of Rachel: where was she now?

Though the revenge wasn’t over yet.

She got back in. She said nothing. For an instant she sat still and rigid as a statue, then she went into cascades of tears, she went liquid. I put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off. I felt I shouldn’t have been there. Then she pulled herself up, groping in her handbag for a tissue, and said, “Drive! Drive! Get us out of here!” So I drove. She said, “Put your foot down!” as if we’d just robbed a bank.

I drove—in no particular direction. I drove like an ambulance driver, like a cop who’d done time on cars.

Then after a while she said, “Stop! Stop!” There was a dark empty side street, a grass verge, dimly lit. “Stop here, George, stop here!” I thought she was going to be sick— she’d fling open the door and throw up. So I stopped.

Then she lurched across towards me and—how to put this?—dived into my trousers.

In the morning, in her bedroom: more tears. She oozed tears. “I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry.” As if she’d dragged me there by force. A hand clapped over her face. “Oh God, what a mess. You’d better go.”

But it was a Sunday morning in January, grey, bleak and cold, and after a while she got up and was gone for maybe half an hour. She’d paused and turned in the doorway first. “How do you like your eggs?”

She came back with a tray. Tea, toast, marmalade. She’d taken a shower, she’d done things to her face, her hair, slapped on some scent. And she was wearing a pale-pink fluffy dressing-gown, inside which her tits huddled and snuggled up to each other.

An empty bed, George.

Mr. Rebound.

The truth is she wasn’t the first. Who else do they have to lean on, to console them? And, God knows, you have to have a heart. And sometimes it’s just at the point that you think they’ll collapse completely, they’ll go to pieces, that, strangely, they brighten up, they bristle, they find a new fire. Their friend in need. Mr. Quick Revenge.

I’d never have guessed it. It’s supposed to be a loner’s job, a loser’s job. A shabby, shady, dead-end job. Matrimonial work.

And I’d never have guessed there was this other person inside me: a womanizer, a woman specialist. Sleeping with my clients. Each one with the same worrying complaint: they aren’t getting loved any more. All part of the service. Your agent, your confidant, your bosom-pal.

Though it’s true: not every one. One or two—well, three. Some of them wouldn’t have touched me with a barge-pole.

I told Helen. Maybe she’d guessed—she could read my face. It was after she told me about Clare. My turn now. And the strange thing was a bit of her was shocked—or she was good at pretending—more shocked than I’d been. Though what she did next was
laugh.
Well, who’d have guessed? Her old dad, her policeman dad.

But wasn’t it a time-honoured remedy—and only what she’d half-recommended, half-urged? Sitting there in the candlelight, being wined and dined. You wash away one woman with a blur of others. You press away memories as you press down flesh.

(And it was
her
revenge, too, on her mother?)

“So there you are, Helen—now
you
know.”

What shall I say? I let myself be used, get pounced on? But I didn’t exactly resist. I was even ready to pounce, myself. All included, no extra charge. The first time I slept with a client I thought: so what happens now, about the fee—I forget it? But what would that make her? So I took the cheque. What did that make me?

A phase? A cure? Hollow revenge? A different kind of hound on a different kind of scent.

Until I felt used-up, or emptied, or just plain worse-for-wear. Till Helen’s look was no longer intrigued, amused, even vaguely conspiring—just a little sad.

Was this how it was? I was just going to the bad? Looking after myself (eating well), but letting myself go. Fucking clients. Swigging now and then out of that bottle in the office that was meant to be just for them.

Corrupt as they come.

I thought her husband might come back at any moment (his name was Terry). The standard scene. A Sunday morning: bursting in. Double revenge. But she said no, no chance of that. Not after last night.

Whatever she’d done.

So I didn’t leave till after four in the afternoon. Sneaking away under cover of dark.

She couldn’t cook scrambled eggs (you have to take them from the heat when they’re still not quite done). Later I found out she couldn’t cook much at all. Not her strong point. Her strong points were elsewhere—like in walking into an office, taking a cool look around and knowing how to put it into shape. But they didn’t stop there. She had a talent for detection too, so it proved. She’d never known it was there.

Something else that happens too: they get a taste, a glimpse, a hankering. Undercover work. I could do this too.

But with Rita it wasn’t just a fancy, it was real. She had the knack, she had the makings. She was good at it. All her life and she’d never known: she could be a detective. These unsuspected people inside us. And why work in a factory making empty cardboard boxes, letting your talents go to waste?

“You need help, you know, George” (while she cleared away the tray). “That office is a tip. You need sorting out— you need more than just you.”

So in the end I took her on. I took her in. On a strictly professional basis, of course. And I started giving her jobs— assignments—outside the office. Nothing too tricky at first. But there are some jobs that are best done by a woman, or in combination with a woman. And she was good at it, no question, she’s never let me down. A real find. One of those women whose fate it is to be told they’re worth their weight in gold.

“My weight in gold? That won’t help me keep my figure, will it, George?” Running her hands down over her hips.

She’s there right now—holding the fort.

Where would I be without you, Rita? I think I’m about to find out.

And I might have given her the Nash job, I nearly might.