Waking Broken (3 page)

Monday, 7.30pm:

Councillor John Harrison hopped out of the back of the black BMW. Leaving his assistant to park the car, he trotted up the steps of the civic centre. At the building’s entrance, he paused and took a deep breath, smiling to himself. It had been a good day. He had brokered a satisfying arrangement at the planning referrals committee. Good for the city, good for the developer and another endorsement to his reputation as the man who could fix things. Plus, there was a nice little donation that would arrive in due course.

Inside, Harrison ignored the lift up to the council chamber and took the stairs at a brisk run. After four flights, his pulse was only ticking over a little above normal. He nodded, satisfied. Although now closer to fifty than forty, he prided himself on looking like a young man and a strict routine kept his fitness at an enviable level.

The city councillor slowed down as he approached the doors to the chamber and ran a hand over his hair. From the muffled sound of the voices inside it seemed he was still in time. The police authority’s meeting had yet to begin.

Harrison nodded to himself. He hated to be late. To be on top, you had to have control and being out of the loop was fatal.

Outside, a light rain began. Just spits of cold to start with, it thickened into a dank drizzle: the kind of weather to dull the soul.

In the car park, the BMW sat waiting, its windows disappearing behind a fog of moisture. Harrison’s young assistant, a suited boy with a penchant for gadgets and a knack for making numbers disappear, shrugged. He pulled a Game Boy out of the laptop bag on the car’s back seat, turned up the music on the BMW’s stereo and settled down for a couple of hours of virtual mayhem. The boss would call on his mobile when he wanted the car brought round to the front.

Soon, with the view of the car park fading into a watery abstraction, a series of alien invaders began to die: picked off with a sniper rifle, blasted with a plasma carbine or blown to pieces with a rocket launcher.

Inside, the meeting was called to order and the committee settled down to work through the agenda. This time, the members only had a relatively short list of reports to deal with and a few matters to approve under existing policies. For a change, there were no new government initiatives to take on board this month.

The committee had been getting on with their work for nearly an hour when a white limo pulled into the civic centre car park. The over-long car moved slowly, ponderously, a white shark cruising for its prey.

The hubbub rose again as the meeting finally came to a conclusion. Conversations broke out as chairs were pushed back, papers shuffled and briefcases snapped shut.

The doors to the chamber swung open a minute later and the members of the authority began to filter back out. Harrison was one of the last. He held back, apparently sorting some papers and scribbling a couple of notes in order to time his departure.

Just as the only other man left in the room headed for the door, Harrison scooped up his papers, reaching it only a few paces behind.

‘Isaiah! How are you?’

Harrison caught the man in the doorway. He reached up and slapped one hand heartily on the other’s shoulder and squeezed firmly.

A sharp look of pain crossed Isaiah Van Hulle’s heavy features. His eyes closed and the big man seemed to wince. But he pulled his mouth into a smile as he twisted out of Harrison’s greeting and turned to face the councillor. ‘Mr Harrison. I am well, thank you.’

Harrison grinned. He tucked his sheaf of papers under one arm. ‘Good, glad to hear it. A satisfying meeting, don’t you think?’

Van Hulle’s heavy brows knotted. ‘A bit of routine administration, Mr Harrison, I wouldn’t go any further than that. I do not feel we have really achieved anything tonight that will have a major impact on law and order in the city.’

‘Hey, call me John, please.’ Harrison shook his head. ‘But I guess you’re right: until the last lot of policies we implemented have time to take effect, we shouldn’t get too excited. We need to see what they achieve, eh?’

Van Hulle pursed his lips. ‘And still, it is only the beginning. There is too much lawlessness in all areas of society, from parking regulations to prostitution. People need to learn respect again. Forcing a few individuals to moderate their behaviour is just tinkering. We have to bring about more deep-seated changes, Mr Harrison.’

The big man lowered his eyes. ‘As the book says: “And thou shalt teach them ordinances and laws, and shalt shew them the way wherein they must walk”.’

The councillor made a pretence of looking thoughtful as he studied Van Hulle. The Dutchman was an odd fish in many ways and not the most attractive of people. When Van Hulle pressed his fleshy lips together in that disapproving face, Harrison was struck by a peculiar notion. The Dutchman’s prim expression turned his flabby, androgynous features into those of a sanctimonious middle-aged woman.

Harrison tried not to smile as he pictured Van Hulle as a menopausal housewife whose nose had been put out of joint by society not conforming to how she thought the world should be run. He frowned and gave a nod as if seriously weighing the other man’s comments. ‘Maybe. I do know what you mean but sadly I’m not sure the issues you’re talking about are really within the remit of the police authority.’

‘Of course not.’ Van Hulle looked disdainful. ‘The police can only put into practice the laws that are made. They need to be given the necessary powers by those that make the laws. It’s the politicians that need to take the lead, Mr Harrison. Politicians like yourself.’

Harrison held up his hands. ‘Hey, not me. I’m only a city councillor. We don’t have any power to make laws.’

‘But I hear you are ambitious, Mr Harrison.’

Harrison chuckled. ‘Perhaps, but there’s ambition and ambition. I like it here. I’m not sure I’ve got any intention of running for higher office.’

‘No?’ Van Hulle looked at his watch. Harrison could not help but notice the other man’s forearms. There might be something womanly about his face but his build was more akin to an Eastern European shot-putter from the Soviet era.

‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must get going. I have a meeting to attend.’

‘Sure.’ Harrison nodded. ‘Still, good to talk to you, Isaiah.’ He patted Van Hulle on the shoulder again as the other man turned and began to stride towards the stairs. Van Hulle closed his eyes with another wince but did not stop walking. Harrison stood and watched him go.

Then, just as Van Hulle was about to descend, Harrison hurried after him. ‘Oh yes, Isaiah? Just remembered something I wanted to ask you.’

‘Yes?’ Van Hulle stopped a couple of steps down, wanting to go on but reluctant to appear rude even to a man he detested.

‘Yes. A friend of mine is interested in buying that old car showroom down on The Parade. Seems to be some uncertainty over the identity of the other parties in the running. You wouldn’t know what the situation is would you?’

Van Hulle raised his eyebrows. He paused a moment before answering. ‘I’m aware of the site you refer to, Mr Harrison, but I’m not the best person to answer your questions. My company principally deals with civil engineering projects and social housing. We have little involvement in commercial property.’ He gave a narrow smile. ‘Our work is on different lines. “Build you cities for your little ones, and folds for your sheep.” We follow a different path.’

‘Oh well,’ Harrison shrugged. ‘Just thought you might have heard. I know my friend is quite keen on the place. Might be willing to come to an arrangement. Develop a partnership, that sort of thing.’

Van Hulle gave a quick nod and hurried down the stairs and out of sight.

Monday, 8.03pm:

For Daniel Harper, the nightmare did not end with his fiancée walking past him in the street. There were more twists of the knife yet to come.

After finally abandoning the lamppost on the High Street, he continued home to William Street. It was a slow walk; the pain from the bruises up his left side seemed to get worse rather than better. The discomfort did, however, help take his mind off the insanity of the past couple of hours. None of it made sense and it seemed easier to grit his teeth and concentrate on walking than try and work it out.

When Harper finally hobbled into William Street, it was with a great sense of relief. The street looked the same as usual: a backwater of terraced red-brick houses, lines of parked cars broken by the mature trees dotted along the pavements on either side. The orange glow of the streetlights gave the scene a warming comfort.

There were few people about and none Harper recognised.

He and Becca had bought the flat a few months earlier. Because of the work needed to make it habitable, they had not actually moved in until about five weeks ago. There had been little time to make new friends and, so far, they were only on nodding terms with a few fellow residents.

But Harper was happy to go unrecognised. He was too confused, tired and angry to exchange the mildest pleasantries. He continued up William Street in silence, limping past trees, cars, piles of dead leaves and the odd wheelie-bin out ready for emptying in the morning.

It was only as he drew closer to number eleven that he began to worry. The usual red Transit van was parked next door but there was something wrong with the steps leading to his and Becca’s first floor flat.

At first glance, Harper could not work out what was wrong; it simply did not register. But as he drew closer it dawned on him and a cold blade of doubt slid into his stomach. He blinked in disbelief. Part of him wanted to stop and turn round, walk away and go to the other end of the street: see if it worked better coming from that direction. But he kept walking: reluctant and with an acid taste rising up his throat.

A couple of doors away, Harper paused. Above the low brick walls at the side of the steps, he could see the straggly branches of a small buddleia. The bush was growing from a crack in the wall where the flight turned to go up to their door.

He blanched. A tight fist gripped his heart and he felt himself cringe, both externally and internally. A shiver ran down his spine and a twinge of nausea made his stomach twist.

The bush should not, and could not, be there. Harper had removed the buddleia himself. It was one of the first things he had done. Even before the sale went through, he had got hold of a pair of secateurs and cut the plant back to the brickwork. Three weeks ago he had dug the roots out of the wall and cemented up the crack.

The buddleia did not exist anymore. But it was there now, its dry stems poking over the wall and across the stairway. A weather-bleached crisp packet was stuck on its twigs and, as Harper reached the foot of the steps, he could make out a drift of other litter clogging the stairwell. He also saw the boarded-up windows and the heavy lock fixed to the peeling frame around the front door.

The wrong front door: not the one he had hung himself three days after taking ownership of the flat, not the freshly-stained, hardwood door with the inset glazed panels. This simply could not be. It was the old door, the one he had ripped out, along with its rotten frame, smashed up and burnt in the back yard. The door that was now ash and cinders: that was what stood in the entrance to his home.

Harper put his face in his hands and moaned.

He was still there a couple of minutes later when the door to the flat below opened. The old hippy with the red beard looked up curiously. There was concern in his eyes but also caution. ‘You all right, mate?’

Harper hesitated. It was the same man: Pete his name was. As well as being the closest of their new neighbours, he was also the most friendly. He had lent Harper and Rebecca tools from time to time, as well as advice and assistance. He had been into the flat several times, to see the changes being made and to stay for a beer and a chat. Now, however, there was no recognition in his expression.

‘Er … yeah,’ said Harper. ‘I’m fine.’

Pete smiled up but didn’t go back inside.

‘It’s just…’ said Harper. ‘I was… looking for someone. I thought they lived here.’ He shrugged awkwardly. ‘This was the address I had.’

‘Not ’ere, mate,’ said Pete. ‘Place been empty years. Bloody shame really; plenty of mice running about but no one’s lived there for ages. Last person was some old biddy: sweet old dear, lived in the street all ’er life. Born and died there.’

He paused then looked uncomfortable. ‘Nah, that wouldn’t be who you were after, would it? Grandma or something?’

Harper shook his head. ‘No. No, nothing like that. Don’t worry.’ He swallowed and gave an uncertain smile. ‘Someone I know. A friend. Must have given me the wrong address.’

‘Bummer,’ said Pete. ‘You got a phone number or something? You can make a call from my gaffe if you want.’

Harper shook his head. ‘No, no number.’

Pete sighed. ‘Makes things tricky.’

Harper smiled weakly, trying to think what to say, at the same time as trying to work out what to do. What he wanted to do was sit on the steps and cry. Either that or rip down the padlocked door and force his way in, searching for something his head was telling him would not be there. However, instinct told him acts of vandalism or collapsing in the street babbling out an incomprehensible story were not going to help. Get him a warm bed maybe but only once he had been sectioned and taken to the nearest mental health facility.

‘It’s okay,’ he said after the pause started to get uncomfortable. ‘I know where her parents live. I’ll find them.’

‘Ah,’ said Pete. ‘Girlfriend. Now I understand why you looked pissed off when you found you’d been given the wrong address.’

‘Yeah. Something like that,’ said Harper. He turned and began to hobble back down the street. ‘Thanks.’

Pete’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hey, if you’ve got something up with your leg, I don’t mind giving you a lift. Got me van there.’

Harper shook his head. He couldn’t cope with talking. ‘It’s all right,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘It’s not a problem.’

The inside of the White Lion was comfortably gloomy. There were few other drinkers in on a Monday at this time of the evening and the stall-like booths at the side of the pub were all empty. Harper lowered himself awkwardly behind the table and sat with a grunt and a wince.

Brendan Teague looked at him and raised his eyebrows. ‘What you done, boy? Been in a fight with a train?’

‘A car.’

‘Yeah? How’d that happen?’

Harper smiled. ‘There seem to be a couple of versions.’

The photographer laughed. There was an amiable glint in his eyes as the older man studied Harper; he scented a story and was looking forward to the details. Teague was a rogue at heart but also an inveterate gossip. ‘What’s that then?’ he said. ‘Like which one won?’

Harper gave a non-committal grunt and picked up his pint. He took a long, slow drink and gave Brendan an appraising stare. As well as being a colleague at
The Post
, the photographer was also Harper’s closest friend other than Rebecca. He, at least, appeared unchanged. He still lived in the same house and had answered Harper’s call for help without hesitation or question. His looks were unchanged too: the same ragged grey curls, weather-beaten face and blunt, workman’s hands.

Harper swallowed the Guinness carefully then took another drink. He was unsure what he would have done, or where he could have turned if Brendan had failed him. He had rung ten minutes earlier from a call box down by Victoria Park, half-expecting to get a complete stranger on the other end of the phone or have his friend claim never to have heard of him.

When Brendan answered with his usual “it’s yourself then, boy”, Harper had almost burst into tears. Even coming down the line, the photographer’s soft brogue was almost as comforting as an arm around the shoulders.

Now, they each supped their pint in silence. Harper glanced at his friend but the other man made no attempt to question him and sat calmly opposite. Harper slowly relaxed as the familiar taste and surroundings took the edge off the panic he was only just keeping under control. He drained the last of his pint and lowered it onto the table. Brendan, who had been keeping pace, picked up the empty glasses and stood up.

‘Let’s refresh these beauties.’

He was back a couple of minutes later with a tray carrying four fresh pints of Guinness. Harper looked at him in surprise. ‘Four?’

Brendan nodded. ‘Thought they might be needed. You sank your first in three swallows. Now, I thought that little hint, and the tone of your call earlier, suggested a man with a thirst.’

Harper nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’

Harper took a long draft of the next pint.

Brendan watched him with a quiet, measuring look. As he did so, the photographer reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of rolling tobacco, cigarette papers and a lighter. His hands working deftly, he pulled out two papers, stretched out the shredded tobacco and rolled two cigarettes. He held one towards Harper. ‘Nip out for a smoke?’

Harper smiled briefly and shook his head. ‘Not me.’

Brendan blinked. ‘You don’t want one?’

‘No.’ Harper stared abstractly into his beer glass. ‘I don’t smoke, Brendan.’

The photographer frowned and scratched his nose. He looked at his own roll-up and then his pint. He picked it up and took a couple of swallows of stout. ‘Since when?’

‘Since when, what?’

‘Since when don’t you smoke? Surely that’s not what’s making you so on edge?’

Harper frowned and shook his head abruptly. ‘What do you mean? I haven’t smoked for years.’

Brendan snorted. ‘If you say so.’

‘It’s true! I mean, sure the odd spliff at parties but I haven’t smoked for what… ten years or more.’

Brendan held his hands up. He looked taken aback.

‘Sorry,’ Harper shook his head. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just, well… I don’t smoke and today has been… well, I don’t know what’s going on.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I’m not sure I can cope either.’

Brendan stretched a hand out and rested it on Harper’s arm. ‘Hey, relax, Danny. No offence taken. I dunno what it is that’s got yourself so upset but take your time. Drink your beer: tell me about it when you feel like it. Or don’t tell me. Up to you. But don’t worry, whatever it is, you’re alright here. This is the Lion, no one is going to bother us here.’

Harper nodded slowly. He picked up his pint and began to sip it more slowly.

They sat in silence for a further ten minutes: Harper looking at the table or his pint, Brendan watching his friend over the rim of his own glass. Eventually, Harper shuffled and looked up.

Brendan met his gaze and nodded. Harper wet his lips and nodded back. ‘Brendan?’

‘Danny?’

‘What do you know about me?’

His friend rolled his eyes. ‘You want the long version or the short one?’

‘The short… for now.’

‘You’re Daniel Harper, known to most as Harper, Danny to his friends. You like Guinness and a good crack like the next man. You pretend to work as a journalist. You grew up in Penzance. I’ve known you about five years now. You’re a friend.’ Brendan shook his head. ‘But you didn’t bring me here for that. You’ve got a problem and you want my help. You’ve got that. I trust you. If you’ve done something daft, I won’t judge you. So, stop asking stupid questions and tell me what’s up.’

Harper smiled. ‘What do you know about Rebecca Shah?’

Brendan blinked. ‘Rebecca Shah? Not a lot. She’s Tony Wright’s cousin. He’s brought her to a couple of Christmas bashes and the like. Works for some snooty PR outfit down by the river in Westcote House. I’ve only spoken to her once or twice but she seems all right, bit of class, I’d say.’

‘What would you say if I told you I was going to marry her?’

Brendan chuckled. ‘Well… there’s two things wrong with that. First: the idea of you getting married. Second: how you’re going to persuade some woman to marry you that, as far as I’m aware — and I might be missing something here so correct me if I’m wrong — some woman you’ve never even gone out with. But I like a man with confidence.’

Harper nodded sadly. ‘Yeah, tricky isn’t it.’

Brendan shook his head in exasperation. ‘Danny, what the hell is it? Are you trying to do an impression of a love-sick puppy to wind me up or am I missing something here?’

Harper held up his hand. He had just thought of something else he needed to know. ‘Okay, one more question. Tony Wright, does he work for me?’

The photographer snorted. ‘Ah, Danny, dream on. He’s news editor. You’re just a common-or-garden hack, like I’m just an old Irish snapper. Tony jumped past you three years ago when he got the deputy news job. You should be chief reporter but you’ve pissed the old man off too many times.’

Harper took another drink, finishing his second pint. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let me tell you a different story.’