Watching You (12 page)

O
n the train to Ealing Broadway, Elijah eats a sandwich from a Tupperware box and Marnie stares at the posters for West End musicals and insurance companies. The carriage is full of office temps, tourists, and bored-looking people, capitulating to the mundaneness of the day.

Elijah is engrossed in a young couple sitting opposite.

“Why is that boy whispering in that girl’s mouth?” he asks.

“They’re kissing.”

“Can she breathe?”

“She can.”

The girl looks at Marnie, who smiles apologetically.

At Ealing Broadway, they emerge onto street level and follow the High Street as far as the common. Elijah watches boys playing park football and gets a hot dog from a barrow. He drips tomato sauce down the front of his best shirt, but Marnie doesn’t get annoyed.

On the southern edge of Ealing Common, they cross a road and follow a terrace-lined street to a larger detached dwelling with lace-trimmed curtains and a brass plaque beside the door.

Marnie rings the doorbell and it opens automatically. Instantly her nose wrinkles at the smell of boiled cabbage, disinfectant, and people crumbling with age. The nursing home belongs to a corporation with a name like Everglade or Evermore and is run by a Welsh couple, Mr. and Mrs. Herman. Mrs. Herman has short, permed hair like a ball of steel wool and black-rimmed glasses. She wears a white coat and stands with her legs apart and arms crossed, guarding the nurses’ station.

Signing the visitor’s book, Marnie walks along the hallway, past different rooms. Most have beds with worn-out human beings propped on pillows, some with oxygen masks on their faces and catheters coming out from their bedclothes. A few are watching TV, mouths open, toothless. Occasionally one of them makes eye contact with Marnie, gazing at her like a prisoner peering through the bars of a cell.

Thomas Logan is in a different wing. His dementia is getting worse, but only affects his short-term memory. He loses track of his yesterdays, forgetting whether he’s eaten or taken his medication. The gaps are like missing words in a conversation but the meaning can usually be determined.

Marnie finds him sitting in the courtyard, wearing a battered Panama hat. His legs are bony under the thin striped pajama trousers and his cheeks are gray and sunken. A big man, fragile now in his illness, he spent twenty years working as a roughneck connecting pipes down the well bore on North Sea oilrigs. Two weeks on, two weeks off. No alcohol. No drugs. No women. His hands bear the scars and grease that seems to be ingrained around his fingernails.

When he quit the rigs Thomas set up a window-cleaning business and later worked as a warehouse manager and moved to London when Elijah was born because he wanted to be closer to his grandchildren. He was single by then. Divorced.

“Best decision I ever made,” he said, talking about the breakup. He didn’t take much with him apart from an old-fashioned record player in a wooden box, with a sliding lid on top of the turntable. He loves Bing Crosby and Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. The crooners, he calls them.

Marnie crouches next to him and kisses his cheek. He looks up at her almost merrily as Elijah crawls onto his lap. Thomas stares at the boy for a moment, trying to make the connection.

“How about a cup of tea?” she says.

The dining room has been set up for lunch, but they’re allowed to use the big silver urn to make tea. The milk comes in small plastic pods that are difficult to open.

“Let me do that, Dad,” she says, using her fingernail to lift the foil flap. Elijah is allowed to choose a biscuit from the metal tin.

Thomas opens a cupboard and stares inside.

“What are you looking for, Dad?”

He doesn’t answer.

“The sugar is here.”

He shakes his head.

“Do you want a biscuit?”

Another shake. The skin along his hairline is shiny with perspiration and there are tiny black specks in the blueness of his eyes. He’s worse today. The messages aren’t reaching his brain or there are no fumes for his synapses to ignite.

He takes a spoonful of sugar and stirs for a long time, looking into the cup, then at the spoon. Meanwhile, Elijah has found his coloring book and crayons, setting them out on the table. Somebody has a radio cranked up. Thomas hums tunefully along, glancing occasionally at Elijah as though puzzling over his grandson.

“I need to ask you about Daniel,” says Marnie. “He was making a book for me. Do you remember?”

Something seems to fire in the old man’s brain. “It was gonna be a surprise.”

“You gave him some photographs.”

“We went through them together. I told him all the old stories—about you growing up. You were always getting into trouble. Remember the time you told Jacinta that Santa had run out of Barbie dolls and she would be getting a Ken doll for Christmas?”

“Jacinta?”

“One of the foster kids.” Thomas has a rumbling chuckle. “You also tried to sell little Duncan at a car boot sale.”

Marnie feels a pang of regret. She grew up resenting the children who came and went. More kids meant shorter showers, shared treats and fewer presents under the tree. Why should she have to cope with these interlopers, these cuckoos?

“I was a selfish little cow.”

“You were pretty normal.”

Thomas looks out the window and straightens, holding himself upright, as though dignity might be found at higher altitudes.

“How is Daniel?”

“He’s missing, Dad.”

“Did he ever give you that big red book?”

“I found it.”

The conversation is going round in circles. Thomas finally remembers what’s been bothering him.

“A detective came to see me.”

“When?”

“Yesterday…or maybe it was the day before…He reminded me of someone, but I can’t think who it is.”

“What did he want?”

“He was asking about Daniel…and he wanted to know what happened to your mother…how she died…”

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

Thomas studies Elijah for a moment. “Is he yours?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Who’s the father?”

Marnie laughs. “Daniel, of course, who else would it be?”

Thomas turns back to his tea with a sniff.

A
plastic bag flies high up into the sky, caught on the wind, snapping and slewing like a runaway kite before being pinned against the branches of a tree. Ruiz listens to the midday news on the car radio. Resting his hands lightly on the steering wheel, he leans forward and gazes at the façade of the modern apartment block.

The building has a doorman, key-controlled lifts, a rooftop pool, landscaped gardens, and a view down the Thames as far as the London Eye. Sold off the plan, high-end, it’s worth three, maybe four million. Joggers drift past him, feet slapping the pavement, along with flocks of brightly colored cyclists waving bums in the air.

Up until two days ago, it had been ten years since Ruiz heard the name Patrick Hennessy, but some criminals cling to his memory like burrs. Hennessy is one of them. His old man, Ronan, used to run illegal casinos and brothels in the seventies—establishments that sprouted like weeds after the Kray twins were sentenced to life imprisonment. Various gangsters and crime families divided up London as though they were playing Monopoly. Hennessy took the north.

Patrick was still in short trousers, going to the best schools. He could have broken the family mold, but filled it instead. He branched out into loan-sharking. One of his favorite fiddles was to plant people into chapters of Gamblers Anonymous, who befriended problem gamblers, getting details of their debts and addictions. He found those who still had assets left to lose—cars, houses, or savings. They were addicts. It was easy to sow the seeds of their destruction. Soon they were chasing more losses and Hennessy was happy to lend them money with the right security: deeds to their house, registration papers for their cars.

Ruiz takes out his tin of rock candy and chooses a square, sucking it back and forth over the top of his tongue, tasting the sour sweetness.

A large black Land Cruiser is idling out front of the apartment block, polished so brilliantly that clouds roll over the bonnet and tinted windows. A doorman stands sentry in a uniform. The automatic doors open and Patrick Hennessy emerges, glancing at the sky as though confirming the weather forecast. He’s dressed in a lightweight suit and Italian loafers with sunglasses like mirrors.

Ruiz calls his name and crosses the road.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” Hennessy looks up from the open car door. “How are things, Detective Inspector Ruiz?”

“I’m not a detective anymore.”

“So they finally kicked you out.”

“I retired.”

“Same result.”

The driver has stepped out of the Land Cruiser. He looks like the sort of weight-room poser who drops free-weights in the gym to attract attention. Hennessy raises his hand a few inches, telling him it’s OK.

“How can I help you, Mr. Ruiz? Are you looking for a job? Security. You’re a bit long in the tooth. Terrence here can bench-press twice his body weight.”

“Must make him useful around the house. Does he wear a pinny?”

The driver isn’t sure if he’s understood the insult. Ruiz gives him a wave.

“Be nice,” says Hennessy. “You’re too old to be making enemies.”

The Ulsterman steps out of the car, tugging at the cuffs of his jacket. He inclines his head, his face upturned, giving Ruiz a wide elastic grin.

“So why are you here?”

Ruiz wishes he could see behind the mirrored glasses. Hennessy has a sun-bed tan and whitened teeth, but like most narcissists, he has a hidden streak of self-doubt that can’t be camouflaged by expensive clothes and a posse of flunkies. It’s the Ulsterman’s lips that most fascinate Ruiz. They look as if they’re made of rubber and belong to a man with a physical appetite that is visceral and base; someone who knows the value of violence and how to bend people to his will.

Ruiz motions to the building. “Nice place.”

“My old man always told me to buy in the inner city, never mind the price.”

“How is your father?”

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Hennessy looks for sarcasm and can’t find any. Ruiz continues talking. “I had my issues with your old man, but he had a streak of the squeak in him. He could do the right thing. You’re different, Patrick. Not so much a chip off the old block as a splinter under a fingernail that’s turned septic.”

Hennessy’s nostrils dilate and he forces his lips to curl into an insinuating smile.

“I was trying to be polite and you’ve gone and done the opposite. My father had nice things to say about you, Mr. Ruiz, although he said you had a Don Quixote complex—always tilting at windmills.”

“Have you read Cervantes?”

“Who?”

Ruiz smiles. “It doesn’t matter. I want to talk to you about Marnie Logan. She says you threatened her two days ago. Maybe you knocked her off her bike.”

“I wouldn’t believe a word that cunning bitch had to say.”

“You know her then?”

“She owes me money.”

“Her husband owed you money.”

“Same difference.”

“Not unless you mix up your genders and your tenses.”

Hennessy frowns, growing impatient. “I’m a busy man, Mr. Ruiz, I don’t have time to play word games. Marnie Logan is madder than a midget with a chainsaw, so don’t put too much trust in anything she tells you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’ve heard stories.” Hennessy’s face is empty of expression. “My brother-in-law is dead and Marnie Logan was the last person to see him alive. She comes across as all soft and vulnerable, but I’m not buying it. She’s a head-case—and I’m not talking about your typical female insanity, I mean seriously fucked up.” He pauses, lips peeled back. “Are you bumping uglies with her?”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t blame you. She’s prime real estate. I mean, if I were you—and I’m not—I’d take her back to that little place of hers in Maida Vale and hump until she can’t sit down for a week. Her daughter’s not bad either, if you’re in a Jimmy Savile frame of mind.”

Ruiz feels his molars grinding against each other. He can see his reflection in Hennessy’s mirrored glasses, a tiny phantom version of himself who seems to be standing a long way away, struggling for relevance.

“But if you are going to fuck her, watch your back,” says Hennessy. “She’s a first-class babe, but she can cut a man’s throat with a kitchen knife and pretend nothing has happened.”

“When was the last time you saw her husband?”

“What is this, twenty questions?”

Ruiz waits. Hennessy sighs. “I loaned Mr. Hyland certain monies, which he failed to repay. The man couldn’t back a winner if it had twelve legs and was the only horse running.”

“Unlucky?”

“Didn’t know when to quit.”

“Where is he?”

“Dead. Don’t read too much into that—it’s just my opinion.”

Ruiz can taste something bitter and cloying in his mouth, which seems to leak into the back of his throat. Hennessy picks up on the vibe.

“Why is it that you don’t like me, Mr. Ruiz?”

“You really want to me to answer that?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You’re an intelligent man, but you’re a narcissist and like most narcissists you destroy anyone who questions your perfect view of yourself. You think legitimate businessmen like Richard Branson and Alan Sugar should treat you as an equal, but nobody wants to break bread with you because the fecal stench is too much for them.”

Hennessy doesn’t react. “How can someone with your experience be so naïve?” he asks. “You think you have principles. You think you’re on the right side. Explain something to me. When a man like me lends money and seeks to recover the debt, I sometimes have to remind people of their responsibilities. When a bank is owed money, it throws a man out of his home, along with his wife and kids. They sell his furniture and his cars. You think I’m scum, yet you ignore the banker sitting in his fancy office, foreclosing on mortgages, gambling with other people’s money, pawning risky products, getting bailed out by taxpayers, and not one of them ever goes to prison. They get knighted and fêted by politicians. The scum you should be complaining about is already floating on the top, Mr. Ruiz, bobbing with the turds.”

Hennessy motions to the car and Terrence opens the door.

“I have people to see. May I suggest you make an appointment next time you want to talk to me? Don’t be offended if I decline.”

“I’m taking an interest in Marnie Logan’s welfare,” says Ruiz. “Don’t threaten her again.”

Hennessy smiles. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

He raises a single middle finger and pushes his sunglasses higher up his nose. The finger stays in place. The door closes. The Land Cruiser accelerates away. A whiff of diesel catches in Ruiz’s throat. The whole encounter bothers him. It’s as though he’s missing something—a major plot point or a turn of events, which means the story doesn’t quite hang together. Why is he so concerned? It’s not his fight. He’s retired. He’s settled for the easy life. No more criminals, gangsters, junkies, bent coppers, defense lawyers, terrorists, or victims. No responsibilities. Yet it doesn’t seem like enough.