To Fight For (16 page)

‘It won't die,' I said. ‘Wild violets are perennials. It'll be back next year.'

I didn't know if that was true.

Browne sat thinking for a while. Then he rubbed his head and smiled.

Afterwards, we went and sat in the lounge and watched something on TV. I can't remember what it was. I remember, though, that Browne wouldn't stop talking about how he was going to transform the garden. He had big plans, he said. Would I help? I said, yeah, sure.

When he shuffled off to bed, I finally got some rest. I turned the TV off and sat in the darkness again.

For some reason, I kept thinking about that evening in the Fox and Globe, when me and Brenda had met Browne in there, and he'd given his lecture about why he drank. That wasn't what made me think of it, though. There was something about the way Brenda had acted that time, something off.

After Browne had gone, the pub got slowly quieter. It must've been late afternoon; after the day crowd, before the evening mob.

Music was playing. It was soppy shit, but Brenda was getting drunk and she smiled and swayed to the music. Her long throat was bare and looked like carved mahogany. Her hair, done up in those thin plaits that she always had, fell down her neck like black water. But her eyes … her eyes had a glazed look, as if her smile was stuck onto a mask. She wasn't looking at me as she moved to the music. She was staring out into space, into the place between us, between everything.

Then she closed her eyes slowly, and opened them, just as slowly, and saw me and the smile struggled a bit, and her eyes got a bit wet, and she reached a hand across the table and took mine, her fingers like ice, despite the heat. I looked down at her slim hand resting on my clumsy, gnarled thing. As I closed my fingers, she pulled away from me, and when I looked up at her, her eyes had lost their softness and she was glancing over my shoulder, looking towards the bar area. The hairs on my back bristled. I thought that she must've seen Paget or Marriot. I thought there'd be trouble, thought I was going to hurt them, this time, whatever Brenda said about leaving it alone. So, I turned and scanned the bar.

There were a few people there, but nobody I knew. There was a young barman, spots and tattoos and puppy fat. There were two men in suits, sitting astride stools, their guts pouring over their belts, eyeing the woman who'd just come in, as if they'd forgotten that they were twenty years too late. There was a big bloke sitting at the far end of the bar, nursing a pint. He had shaved brown hair and a short beard and moustache. Every now and then, he'd look my way, as if he knew me but couldn't place me. When I met his eyes, he'd move them over to something else, but I knew he turned his gaze back to me a minute later. Did I know him? I couldn't remember.

Then there was the woman, the one who'd just come in. She was slim, thin, really, with pale skin and black hair which ran down to the nape of her neck and stopped there in a straight line. I couldn't see her face clearly, but I caught a glimpse of huge eyes, black holes in a white face. I could see her arm as it reached for a glass of something. It was long and thin and the colour of ivory. She wore a short black dress. Her legs were as thin and pale as her arms. It seemed wrong; her hair too black for her skin, her skin too white for her dress.

I wouldn't have paid any attention to any of these people except for the way Brenda reacted. She'd gone still and then, seeing me catch her looking over, she reached out quickly for a drink, and sipped it and smiled at me.

It was then I felt that coldness creep along my insides, and I knew we hadn't come to that pub by accident, or because Brenda wanted to get out of the flat or because she fancied a drink or wanted to listen to sad music. And, for a reason I couldn't explain, I felt the tightening of my guts, the darkness. And fear.

I turned back to look at that scene at the bar. That's what it now seemed to me; a scene, something staged.

‘Someone you know?' I said.

‘No.'

‘Is it the bloke? That big one? Does he work for Marriot?'

‘It's nothing, Joe. Nobody.'

I let it go. What else could I do? It was possible she'd seen someone she'd known. Maybe those two blokes were johns, maybe the big bloke knew Paget, maybe the woman was a pro. I didn't know and knew not to ask, but one thing I did know, if Brenda had seen something she hadn't wanted to see, we would've been out of there sharpish. As it was, she made like everything was fine. And that's what made me realize it wasn't.

I knew, and she knew that I knew because when, after I'd scanned the pub once more, I turned back to her, she was looking at me, and there was something in her gaze that made my insides crawl. Now, years later, when I think of that look, I think of it as if she was saying goodbye to me, right there and then. The sadness in her eyes was as deep as the darkness I feel when I think of it.

And then she stood.

‘I'm gonna get a drink,' she said.

There was a drink right in front of her, but I didn't say anything. She wandered off. I watched her as she went slowly up to the bar. She lit a cigarette. Nobody cared about smoking, not in that place. She didn't look to her left or right and nobody paid her any attention except the barman who spoke to her and went off to get her drink. I turned away. My eyes were still sore from all her smoke. I didn't care about that, but my head hurt and that was getting to me, so I closed my eyes for a moment, to try and get the haze out of my head, to try and rid the sourness of Browne's despair and Brenda's sadness and my weakness.

When I opened my eyes, the music had changed, had become sadder, and Brenda was standing in front of me, a glass of colourless stuff in her right hand, hanging loosely by her side, a cigarette in her left, dangling in the same way. I wondered how long she'd been like that, how much time I'd lost. Seemed like I was always losing time, one way or another. So, she stood like that a while and looked at the table, at the glass already there. It was like she'd forgotten all about me. Maybe she had. Then she closed her eyes and started again to sway to the music. She opened her eyes and looked at me and smiled.

‘Dance with me, Joe,' she said.

Apart from those at the bar, there were a half-dozen tables occupied, couples, small groups. But, of everyone in the place, nobody was dancing. I turned back to Brenda and told her I was too big and clumsy to dance. I told her I'd make her look stupid. I knew I was lying, but I believed it anyway.

I didn't dance with her that night, or ever. I hate myself for that.

I looked back to the bar. Everything seemed the same, stuck in a freeze frame, but also different, as if the picture had been forwarded a few frames. The young barman dangled around, waiting for an order; the businessmen faced each other and chatted, each holding a pint over his gut; the big bloke still nursed his drink, still let his glance wander around; and the woman with the short black hair and thin white arms and large eyes – she was at the end of the bar now, ignoring the occasional looks from the businessmen. She was stirring her drink with a straw while she spoke on the phone. Her handbag was on the bar in front of her. She closed it, switched her phone off and left the pub. She hadn't touched her drink.

I noticed then that Brenda was sitting down, looking at me.

‘I'm sorry, Joe,' she said.

‘What for?'

She shrugged.

‘For being me.'

‘That doesn't make sense,' I said. ‘I like you. I …'

She put a finger on my lips.

‘Don't.'

I wasn't sure what I was going to say. Whatever it was, she didn't want to hear it.

She looked at me. No, she looked into me, our eyes locked. There was nothing else in the world but her and me, no time but the present.

We were like that forever. And then she got up and took my hand and led me from the pub.

It took Green a day to find the woman.

‘I got something,' he said.

‘What?'

‘Not on the phone, mate. Alright?'

I went cold then. Green was right, of course. I knew I might have heat on me from all over, so I should've known to be careful about the phone. What worried me more, though, was that Green was taking care about it, as if he knew something.

‘Alright. Where? When?'

‘Where you saw me a few weeks back. Soon as.'

‘Right.'

I met him in the bakery. He wasn't working, but he wanted to get out of the house.

‘She's doing my fucking nut in,' he said.

That's what he told me, anyway. I thought he was lying. I thought probably he was being careful, not wanting me anywhere near his family. That was fine. Sensible.

The bakery was quieter now. The girls had gone, but the manager was still there. Green smiled at him and led me out back, to the walled yard.

‘What've you got?'

‘I found her. This Margaret Sanford,' he said, lighting up a smoke. ‘She ain't changed her name. We was lucky there. She must either be stupid or real sure of herself. It's been a few years, right? She probably thinks everyone's forgotten about her. That's often what happens.'

He handed me the address on a piece of paper. It took a few seconds for his words to sink into my thick brain.

‘What do you mean?' I said.

‘Huh?'

‘Why would she be worried about people remembering her?'

‘She was a grass. Didn't you know?'

I felt the coldness again, dripping down my guts.

‘No.'

‘That's how I found her so quick.'

I felt like I was in some kind of trap. Every time I thought I knew where I was, I'd turn around and find myself lost.

‘Who'd she grass on? Who to?'

‘She snouted for the local law, plain-clothes mob. As for who she grassed up, I dunno. She was nosy, saw things, heard things. Nothing big.'

And I'd walked right into her that day I'd gone to Brenda's. She must've been onto the law the moment I left.

‘Is that why you didn't want to talk on the phone?' I said.

He took his time answering that. It was cold outside, but there was sweat on his forehead. He took another drag of his cigarette.

‘I got a funny feeling. Things ain't kosher.'

‘Why?'

‘I called a few people up, asking about this bird, right? Well, they didn't know anything, but they tried a few people. You know how it works. Anyway, I get a call from this bloke, Brian Ward. Know him?'

‘No.'

‘I knew him way back. He didn't know anything about this woman, but he told me something else. First he says that he heard me and you were mates. I said maybe. Then he said he was in with his local Bill. I think he went to school with some of them or something. Anyway, he says to me, be careful, don't get involved. Says there's rumours going round the station that you've got big enemies. I asked him who these enemies were, but he didn't know. Told me they were law, though. He knew that much.'

‘Where's he from?'

‘Dunno. North London somewhere. Brent, maybe.'

It was Glazer. Had to be. But how did some plod in the local cop shop know anything about Glazer wanting me? Glazer was surely going to want to keep it quiet from his own mob. Had one of his men talked?

‘Can you get hold of him again? Find out if he can get anything more?'

‘Can't risk it, mate. I don't mind helping you out if it's villains we're dealing with, but not the law. I've got previous, and a family. I can't get involved if they're onto you.'

‘Then tell me where to find this Brian Ward.'

‘Joe, do me a favour, alright? Leave it. Get out of town for a bit.'

‘Tell me where he is. I won't get you involved.'

‘I'm out, Joe. Sorry.'

‘What is it? What's wrong?'

He looked up at me.

‘I just heard about Cole,' he said.

‘Cole? What about him?'

‘He's dead, Joe. Fucker's dead. They bombed his house. Fucking bombed it.'

Cole was dead. Christ. I never thought someone like him could die the same as everyone else.

And if Cole was dead, I was out of allies.

‘You know what that means, right?' Green was saying. ‘Joe? You understand what that means?'

‘It means now Dunham can concentrate on me. I'm next.'

He nodded.

‘You and anyone near you. I'm not gonna be one of them. I'm sorry, Joe. Don't call me again, please.'

He stood and dropped the smoke and, looking down at it, slowly squashed it beneath his foot as if the cigarette was his knowledge of me. Then he was gone. I didn't blame him.

I found her in a bedsit in Leytonstone. When she opened the door, I thought Green had got it wrong. This couldn't have been the same woman. She looked like she was in her seventies, scrawny, skin wrinkled and paper thin.

Then I saw her mouth. It was the same bitter slash, only now it suited the rest of her face better.

She still wore black, but the clothes were baggy on her. Her body looked like it was made of broken wooden sticks, and her hair was thin and white, as if it had been spun by a spider. It was stuck to her scalp.

‘Yes?' she said, looking up at me.

‘Margaret Sanford?'

‘Yeah.'

There was a glimmer of recognition. Her hand went to her throat. I moved my foot to stop her closing the door, but she didn't try. She said, ‘What do you want?'

‘To talk.'

‘About what?'

‘The past.'

She said, ‘I always knew … You got any money?'

I fished a hundred quid from my pocket. Her hand came out, but I held the money.

‘If you talk.'

She opened the door and grabbed the money.

I moved past her. She closed the door and followed me into the main room.

There was a single mattress on the floor and a jumble of stuff all over the place, clothes, shoes, bags of crisps, empty bottles of booze, boxes of pills. There were two chairs. One faced the TV, a small table next to it. The table was littered with pills and odds and ends. I saw a couple of unlit joints there, sitting in an ashtray. The other chair was stuck in the corner facing the wall, as if she never again expected company. The chairs were as thin and tattered as the she was. I turned the one by the wall to face the other.