Waking Broken (4 page)

Monday, 9.50pm:

Harrison marched briskly down the corridor to his office. The councillor had been about to ring his assistant and tell him to bring the car round when his mobile phone bleeped, alerting him to a text. Harrison read the message with surprise. The sender’s number was unfamiliar but the instruction clear enough:

We need 2 spk. Yr office — now.

As he approached his office door he had a moment’s misgiving. He thought about checking with the civic centre’s security desk but then shrugged and turned the handle. The door swung open and Harrison stopped, frowning. ‘Cole? What are you doing here?’

The short, redheaded man behind Harrison’s desk grinned as he span round in the chair. He had a large tumbler of whisky in one hand. The bottle, taken from the councillor’s private store, sat nearby.

‘John, come in, sit down.’ Nelson Cole raised the glass. ‘Come an’ have some of this: it’s good stuff. Islay is it?’

Harrison looked around. There was no one else in the room. ‘How did you get in here?’

Cole shrugged. He gestured with a flick of one manicured hand. ‘The door.’

Harrison scowled and stood where he was.

‘Oh relax, John.’ Cole gave a short, high-pitched laugh: an incongruous sound that was more of a giggle. ‘It’s okay, I got the key from your young assistant. Had a chat with him in the car park, found out where you were. Persuaded him to let me borrow the key. I told the doorman down there you’d arranged to see me.’

He grinned. ‘It’s all legit. I signed in and everythin’.’

Harrison shook his head. He did not like this one bit. He had no idea why Cole was here or what he wanted: not a comfortable position for a man who liked to be in control. He frowned. ‘You “persuaded” him? Would you mind telling me what this is about, Mr Cole?’

The smaller man smiled. ‘Why don’t you come in an’ close the door, John. We’ve got business to discuss. I reckon it’d probably be better for both of us to keep it private.’

Harrison shrugged. He moved out of the doorway and closed the door behind him, trying to work out what was going on. He’d met Nelson Cole in the past but his knowledge of the man was limited. Cole was an ex-dancer who ran a string of fitness studios and gyms across the city. He was known to be homosexual and open about it, having also launched the city’s original and still most popular gay nightclub. Rumour had it Cole was involved in a few other, more shady ventures but Harrison had never heard anything definite to connect him with criminal activities. The fit of Cole’s shirt also emphasised the fact he clearly spent plenty of time using his own gyms.

Harrison decided to ignore the fact Cole was sitting behind his desk and try the easy-going, approachable councillor act. ‘Well, Mr Cole, it’s hardly conventional office hours but if there’s something I can do to help…’ He held up one finger in playful warning. ‘Although if it’s to do with licensing, I should warn you I’m not on that committee anymore.’

Cole gave another short giggle. ‘Come off it, councillor. Cut the act. I know it’s “hardly conventional office hours” but then you’re hardly a conventional businessman are you?’

Harrison felt a little buzz of adrenaline run through his body. He kept his face still and looked Cole in the eye. ‘What do you mean by that… Nelson?’

Cole took a sip of whisky and rolled the malt appreciatively round his mouth. ‘Well, John. You’re bent, aren’t you? I know you’ve got a lot of dealin’s in the property business. The kind of jobs where bein’ on the plannin’ committee can be a great help. Plus you’ve got some involvement in a few other games: prostitution to name one.’

A chill slipped down the back of Harrison’s neck. ‘What’s this about?’ He kept his voice cold and calm. ‘Money? Are you trying to blackmail me?’

Cole sighed. ‘Oh John, no need to act silly. It’s not exactly a sensational revelation, is it? Most people have got a fair idea even if they wouldn’t come out an’ say it in public. You’ve sued enough people in the past to put the others off tryin’. Or maybe it’s the legs you’ve had broken that have put them off.’ He giggled again. ‘Nah. I’m not interested in your money, not unless you’re undergoin’ a conversion an’ wanna give it away.’ Cole shook his head. ‘Information, that’s what I want.’

Harrison was silent for a moment. He watched Cole then gestured to the whisky bottle. The other man smiled and reached for a clean glass.

‘What information?’

Cole poured a healthy slug of spirit into the glass and slid it over. Then he pulled a card and flipped it across. ‘Recognise the name?’

Harrison nodded.

‘Yeah.’ Cole took a drink. ‘That’s my sister. Runs a nice little business, just her an’ a couple of friends. All very high class, sophisticated sort of stuff.’

‘And?’

‘You run girls. That’s one of your interests, right.’

It was not a question and Harrison said nothing.

‘Word is, you had a little run in a couple of weeks back with a guy called Robertson. Accused him of poachin’ one of your girls after she went missin’.’

Harrison licked his lips. Cole’s knowledge was too good to be comfortable. ‘So? Supposing that was true?’

This time Cole’s laugh lacked any humour. ‘John, I’m not tellin’ you fairy stories. I know all sorts of things about you I’m positive you’d rather no one knew.’ He leant forward abruptly. Harrison saw the intensity in his gaze and shifted nervously on his chair. ‘But fuck that. I told you, I’m not here to cramp your style. I’m here for information.’

Harrison shook his head. ‘But about what? And what’s your sister got to do with things.’

Cole’s eyes welled up. ‘She’s missin’ too, isn’t she? Went out on a job. Never came back. Seems her an’ your girl ain't the only ones to go missin’ either.’

There was a pause as the redheaded man stared into his whisky. His eyes closed briefly then he sighed. ‘She had a request to come to the Royal Hotel. Seemed regular enough. Thing is, there was no one in the room when she got there, just instructions to go to a restaurant few streets away. But she never made it. Turns out the hotel booking had been made using a stolen card too.’

Cole slowly shook his head. ‘We haven’t heard from her since.’

Alone in the room, he sits motionless for a while: letting his mind clear, waiting for the static and chaff to fade away, preparing himself for the reverie.

The only light comes from a single candle. It is mounted in a small holder inside a recess usually hidden by a large calendar. The recess also holds a couple of small icons. They are personal items that look to be of little consequence; the only clue to their significance is where they have been placed. Although mainly symbolic, the objects are charged with meaning; these are keys that help turn secret locks.

One by one, the thoughts and irritations that have buzzed throughout his head during the day are cast out. A cool sensation spreads from inside his temples, soothing oil across the brain’s mental seething: the precursor of the rapture that will follow.

The candle burns steadily, no rogue currents of air to disturb the purity of its flame.

He breathes slowly, staring at the light. His vision is unfocussed: a golden blur with a dead centre. He does not see the icons but is aware of their presence.

An involuntary shiver runs up his spine and his naked torso flexes. The movement of muscle and bone creates a ripple across his flesh. It makes the scars on his back twitch: dead tissue dancing to the tune of the living.

An echo of the sensation moves up his neck and a faint smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. It is only a matter of time. A matter of letting his mind empty, cleansing his thoughts of distraction, concentrating on…

When the feeling comes it is like a flood. It begins with a faint prickling in his palms. An instant later, it is everywhere. It swells up, consuming his thoughts, sweeping through every fibre of his body. It is fire and ice at the same time: a storm of calmness, a torrent of silence. It is the rapture and it has come to sweep him away with its power and its glory. He sings its praises in silent adoration, blessing the fortune that has singled him out for this.

Tuesday, 10.10am:

Harper sat staring out of the window. Yesterday’s clear skies were gone, replaced by a low February overcast to match his mood. A blanket of grey sat above the city and the occasional rattle of hard, sleety rain pattered against the glass.

When they returned to Brendan’s place the previous evening, Harper did not expect to sleep. But the combination of physical and mental exhaustion, several pints of Guinness and a few whiskies worked their magic. He was unconscious within minutes of his head hitting the sofa in Brendan’s cramped front room. His sleep was mostly sound, only plagued in the early hours by flickering dream images that left a sense of unease but nothing concrete.

The next morning, Brendan left just after six. The photographer was on the newspaper’s early shift and Harper did not even hear him go. Instead, he found a note stuck under a near-cold mug of tea when he woke a little after seven.

Sleep as much as you want. Think of a plan.

I’ll tell them you’ve been in an accident and are signed off until at least next week.

If the phone rings don’t answer. I’ll be back by two. BE HERE.

Brendan.

As instructed, Harper took his time. Contrary to Brendan’s advice, he tried not to think. Instead, he drank the tea and dozed for another hour or so, by which time he could no longer ignore the pressure on his bladder. After a long shower, he dressed gingerly. He pulled the same clothes back on again, hiding the array of bruises that decorated most of his left side. Later, still limping, he went in search of food.

Now, munching on a slice of toast and marmalade and drinking another, fresher mug of tea, he sat on Brendan’s kitchen table. Trying to ignore the aches in both body and mind, he gazed blankly around the room, looking for familiarity in a world he did not want to understand.

On the surface, Brendan’s flat seemed almost the same: typical refuge of an unreconstructed permanent bachelor. In the main room, the furniture was unchanged: battered and so far out of date it was almost retro fashion. A litter of books and magazines lay in drifts in all the corners. On the mantelpiece, a struggling spider plant fought for space amongst a collection of bottled beers from obscure microbreweries. A pile of videos was heaped like a discarded Jenga puzzle underneath the ancient analogue television. On the G-plan coffee table, a familiar chess set sat next to a pub ashtray.

But, although familiar, the room was the one Harper had known when he first met Brendan. It was not the same room he had been in only last week. It lacked the touches that came after Rebecca appeared on the scene. The walls were still the original dingy mud colour. There was no sign of the cushions she gave Brendan for his last birthday or the shelves put up for his books and beer bottles.

Harper glanced around the kitchen. He smiled as he saw the bottle of Bushmills sitting next to the cornflakes. At least there were some advantages to being single and having the freedom of applying male logic to the contents of kitchen cupboards.

Thoughts of solitary living turned Harper’s mind back to his own domestic arrangements. When he first woke, his initial reaction to consciousness was to hope yesterday’s nightmare would turn out to have been just that: an over-realistic delusion that could, once the shock had subsided, be laughed away.

As he stumbled around after his shower, the idea brought a swell of optimism. From the outset, though, underlying that burgeoning hope lay a gritty, nagging fear. It would have been easy to dismiss everything that happened after waking in hospital the previous day as some temporary psychosis brought on by the accident. But everything had been too coherent and too detailed for Harper to really believe it was only a bizarre dream. Besides which, if he had only dreamt up his altered reality, he could not work out why, particularly considering all his bruises, he would stay the night on Brendan’s couch rather than in the comfort of his own bed. Even if he were suffering some kind of delusion, Brendan would have known better and posted him back to Rebecca.

Harper finally plucked up the courage to resolve the dilemma by getting out his mobile and dialling what should have been his home number. It came up as unrecognised. Rebecca’s mobile number, which should have been programmed into his phone, also failed to work.

With resignation but no real surprise, Harper came to the conclusion that a night’s sleep had done nothing to erase yesterday’s delusions. Either that or the nightmare was still not over.

Accepting this as reality in the absence of any alternative, at least Harper now knew where he was supposed to live. Brendan had told him he rented a gloomy attic flat on a street overlooking the railway station. Harper even remembered the flat. He had looked at it when he first moved here to take up a job on the city’s daily paper. He had thought about taking the place. It was cheap and convenient. But also noisy. In the end, he opted for a place in a shared house in a village a few miles out of the city. He stayed there until moving into Rebecca’s flat shortly after proposing to her. A couple of months later, they moved into the place in William Street.

But, in Brendan’s version of the world, that was where Harper lived and he was in no position to argue. Not much he knew seemed to be right, so maybe he did live in the flat. The choice of accommodation would appear to match his clothes: scruffy and down-at-heel but practical and cheap.

Sometime, Harper knew he would have to go to the flat even if just for fresh clothes. But the thought hardly filled him with joy. Who knows what else he might discover? There could be all manner of clues: things about which he would much rather remain oblivious.

Like his fingers. And the cravings.

Harper stared at the faint yellow stain around his thumb and forefinger. He had seen worse but it was still there. And although his mind denied it, his body did not. He was a smoker. Had been for years. Never given up. The hacking cough when he woke and the thick phlegm was a sure giveaway too. Last night, even while his mind was telling him he did not want one, part of him was desperate to grab a roll-up off Brendan.

And it could so easily have been true. Because he had smoked: he started when still a kid. At school, smoking gave you credibility with your peers, or so he thought back then. Cigarettes were a way of trying to impress girls he was too shy to actually talk to, as well of trying to keep up with his cousins and their older friends. As a youngster, Danny Harper was keen to prove himself one of the lads. And, as he got old enough to drink, the habit lasted. It was the thing to do. And after the pub it was the spliffs. That was one of the benefits of growing up in a backwater like Cornwall; all those fishing boats and empty coves meant a ready supply of wacky baccy: as much part of the culture as pasties and clotted cream. And in those days, anything that went against his parents’ strictures was embraced.

But then he moved away, started to grow up and get a little bit more mature. Giving up smoking had been hard though; he still remembered how long it took. Even years on, sitting in a pub with other smokers brought the odd twinge. He had cut down on drinking too, continued saying no to cigarettes and only smoking joints on the odd night out. Now he was in his thirties, his body was clean compared with a decade earlier.

Harper set his mug down on the table and stared at his fingers. The nicotine stain was still there. And he had Brendan’s word for it too.

Perhaps he was mad. That was one answer. It certainly made sense.

Harper gave a bitter laugh. But if he was mad then fuck, was this delusion realistic or what!

He closed his eyes and blinked back tears.

In truth, it was terrifying. Not only had the logic gone out of his life, he had lost the most important thing in it. He had been sure he loved Rebecca; that was why he asked her to marry him. Now she had been taken from him, though, he was starting to realise what love really meant. It was more than just fondness and fellow feeling. It was need, security and comfort. It was completeness.

Without her, a hollow space existed inside him. He was lost and frightened and his instinct was to turn to her. It was not something he even needed to stop and think about. In a crisis, she was his touchstone. But. But. But…

Harper screwed his hands into his hair and groaned. The thing he most wanted to do was go in search of Rebecca. He wanted to return to their flat: the one with the new door and no buddleia growing from the steps. He wanted to crawl into bed, their bed, and curl up with her body tight against his, her arms around him, her hair across his face, her words whispering soothing nothings into his ear. He wanted her to tell him it was all a bad dream, a reaction to the accident. She would show him his cycling clothes, the battered but repairable bike: the life they shared. And, afterwards, when everything was calm and normal, this nightmare would seem an odd and distant memory, a vague nothing subsiding into the mists of the past.

Oh, he wanted her so badly.

Harper was only conscious of his tears when he tasted the salt trickling down onto his lips. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and levered himself stiffly off the table. Like Brendan said, he needed a plan.