Why We Die (16 page)

One way or the other, time to go.

iv

‘Did you hear that?’ Arkle asked. He was looking out of the window.

What Trent could mostly hear was the noises in his head.

Arkle turned to Blake. ‘What about you? Anything reach your eagle ears?’

Bit of humour here: the only thing that had reached Blake’s ear the past half-hour was his own finger. And that was uncharacteristically energetic.

Before today, last time Arkle had seen old man Blake had been months ago – not to speak to; just to watch from over the road as Blake meandered out of a shop and stopped dead, as if he’d lost track of what to do next –
for
fuck
’
s sake
, Arkle had thought,
you
’
re retired: what
’
s to forget?
Get up, put your trousers on: you
’
re already halfway through
your day
. That was when he’d had his thought about growing older: that it was just another way of fucking up. Blake had puzzled his way into the café next door after a while. Possibly not where he’d intended to go, but a good place to regroup.

And now he was a room ornament, staring at a wall, and nothing Arkle said was bringing him back.

‘That murdering bitch of a daughter of yours,’ for instance. ‘She killed my brother.’

Blake had raised a polite eyebrow, as if Arkle had mentioned a common acquaintance who was in satisfactory health, sent good wishes, and hadn’t killed anyone.

By now, hours later, raising an eyebrow would have ranked as a special effect.

Arkle looked at Trent. ‘Any ideas?’

But ideas didn’t figure on Trent’s current agenda. That was what two-and-then-some bottles of vodka did, though admittedly the blow Arkle had fetched him with the crossbow must have smarted.

Forgive and forget, though. Arkle had forgiven Trent for needing to be hit, and had largely forgotten about it.

Since then he’d nursed Trent tenderly – bandages, ointment, toast – and explained what they had to do next. Grief had been moved to the back burner. It was just the two of them now, and it was important they had a workable plan. Which would have been much easier if Baxter had been around to talk it through, but that was upside-down thinking. If Baxter was around, this wouldn’t be happening.

To Trent, Arkle had said: ‘Our brother’s dead. What we have to focus on is what happened to the money.’

Trent mumbled something that might have been ‘Banker.’

‘That’s right. He was our banker.’ Jesus. They weren’t kidding when they said it killed brain cells. ‘And we don’t know what he did with the money. Remember?’ He made Trent eat more toast. ‘But Kay does.’

Trent groaned. That would be the hangover kicking in. One of the best things Arkle had ever done was not drink any more. He’d had a tendency to lose control after a drink or two.

‘I’ve an idea which way to go on this.’

His train of thought was broken by Trent being sick. Once he’d cleaned him up a bit – Trent looked like a lopsided panda; it was funny, really – he continued:

‘Her old man. If she blabbed to anyone, it’ll be him.’

Trent was sick again.

When you were down to your last brother, it was awesome how fucking tolerant you had to be.

After a few hours in old man Blake’s company, though, one thing was clear – any information that had found its way into his head lately wasn’t getting loose without a struggle.

‘Does he actually ever leave the house, you think?’ Arkle had pretty much given up addressing Blake directly: he was talking to Trent, or talking to the air. Current state of play, there wasn’t a lot of difference.

But this time round, Trent answered. ‘Paper,’ he said.

Which was a start. Today, Trent’s vocabulary had consisted of ‘fugle’, ‘drosh’ and ‘wodka’, and this was after he’d finished throwing up. ‘Paper’ was at least English, even if Arkle didn’t have the first clue what he was on about.

‘Paper,’ he repeated. You did this with budgies and parrots: they said something and you said it back, to make them do it again. Pretty soon they wouldn’t shut up saying it, and you could pretend they were talking to you. That was the theory. Arkle, frankly, didn’t have the patience. ‘What the fuck you on about?’

Trent pointed.

The
paper. Today’s paper was on the floor by Blake’s chair, which meant he did actually leave the house, or at least left his chair. All of which indicated that the ambient temperature was drying Trent’s brain out, but otherwise didn’t help.

He had another go. ‘Your daughter. Kay. Remember her, old man?’ Not on the evidence. Something occurred to Arkle: something he should’ve thought of already. ‘Katie.’ Old man Blake called her Katie, not Kay. There was a flicker of recognition. ‘Katie Blake. Are we getting somewhere?’

But whatever light switch had flipped in Blake’s head flipped back again, leaving them all in the dark.

Arkle tried once more. ‘When she came round, what did she talk about? . . . Hello? Anybody there?’ He reached a hand out, intending to knock Blake’s head – not hard: just getting his attention. But he let his fist drop halfway.

. . . It had seemed simple. He’d come up here for words with old man Blake: find out what Kay had told him; discover what hints she’d dropped. She was a woman, everyone was agreed on that. Women dropped hints. This was practically a natural law. So Arkle had been
sure
Blake would know what had happened to the money; Arkle was
dead certain
Kay would have told him. It occurred to him now to wonder about the source of this certainty, and wondering that was like running full tilt into a wall. Why was he sure? He just
was
, that was all. When Arkle had an idea, the important thing about it was this: it was
his idea
. If it didn’t work out he was going to have to come up with another one, and it wasn’t like the fuckers grew on trees.

At his feet now lay the newspaper Trent had drawn his attention to. Arkle wasn’t a big reader – had been known to move his lips while watching TV – but he recognized the
News Chronicle
from the typeface even before he unfolded it and read
Inside! Today!
in the colourbar across the top.

A whole new idea occurred to him, making a noise like the door into the side passage . . .

‘Wait here,’ he said unnecessarily, heading for the front.

Nobody else in that room was going anywhere.

Time to go . . .

For Zoë, the next few minutes – which were also her last this side of the coffin – passed with the slowness reserved for accidents, though nothing that happened to her during them was accidental. She did not hesitate after her last glimpse of Arkle through the window – fist raised as if he were about to clout the man in the chair; then dropped, as if he’d changed his mind – but turned to leave; she’d go and make sure Sweeney wasn’t at the Dunstans’ actual address: alive or dead; captive or lurking. It would not take much to dissuade him from thoughts of vengeance, if such possessed him. A clear look at consequences would re-establish common sense. With an amateur like Sweeney, putting the fear of God into him wouldn’t be a problem either. She reached the overgrown hedge and swung round the corner, expecting to push her way through to the door, the street, the outside world. Instead she met a bright light, which she did not have time to interpret immediately, and which was in fact nowhere visible to anybody else – it happened inside Zoë when the blow struck her forehead, and a universe of stars showered down on her: bright blue happy stars that lasted, each of them, a lifetime. But life- times pass, and so did the stars. They winked out, one by one.

Next it was dark, and she lay on her back, unable to move for the pain in her head. Somebody had hit her: that much she knew. She’d been hit before, though couldn’t remember having been struck unconscious – it couldn’t be good for the brain; there would be repercussions. And it was so so dark. She tried to move her feet, and barely could, and her immediate thought was that here was the first repercussion – some part of her neural system had fused, and none of the messages her brain sent to her feet were getting through. She’d lie here forever, unable to wriggle or stretch, because her wriggle and stretch commands didn’t work any more. And panic gripped her, racked her like a wave, and she kicked and pushed at the same time, and found resistance all around.

Probably she shouted. Certainly, at some point, noise was everywhere; echoing minutely in an enclosed space, and her throat was raw and painful . . . She couldn’t move because there were walls all around her; close walls with no give. She could punch and twist forever and make no dent in their permanence. She was in a box, a box not much bigger than herself. It might have been made to contain her. She might have been shaped for this end . . . An image of a hearse flashed through her mind before she went blank again; lost herself in a frenzy of screaming and punching; hurting her soon-to-be-useless hands on walls that didn’t flinch. This was more than fear. It was the last moments of the scariest film she’d ever seen, and it was real. This was Zoë’s coffin.

And inside it, she knew with perfect certainty, she was going to die.

Part Three

The party wall

Chapter Six

i

The house was an end-of-terrace on a road no wider than a lane, negotiating which required diplomacy as much as motor skills – Katrina had already witnessed a breakdown in relations when two cars met head-on, neither prepared to reverse three yards. Opposite was a garden square, surrounded by tall black railings set in stone. Once, you’d have needed a key to get in. Now, all you needed was the usual city armour: an indifference to discarded needles, used condoms, broken glass. When the gentrifying wave washed this far, it would be retoned as a stately pleasure garden, but for now it remained a winos’ dormitory: peace and tidy greenery deep in its past, far in its future.

Her third-floor room was at the back, and looked down on an actual lane, much favoured as a shortcut by those heading to or from a local club – Heaven, or Paradise, or possibly The Sweet Hereafter: something, anyway, that promised more than it could deliver. No cars used this – three concrete bollards blocked one end – but revellers’ noise woke her on her first night, and she got out of bed and stood by the window, while scattered groups of people wandered past, heedless of the sleeping houses around.

Jonno said, ‘Probably best not to stand by the window, know what I mean?’

‘Is my room wired for vision?’

He flushed. Twenty-two, he flushed easily. If Katrina had been of a mind, she could have made his daylight hours hell.

‘There’s a loose board,’ he said. ‘Just by your window? It creaks.’

In addition to being twenty-two, Jonno had a receding hairline he disguised with a buzz cut. Girls were growing taller, and men were growing bald. To compensate, he nurtured a goatee. Without it, Katrina would have pegged him at fourteen.

‘Who do you think might see me?’

‘Better safe than sorry, know what I mean?’

‘I think so,’ she said. ‘It’s not terribly complicated.’

He looked at her blankly, no idea what she meant.

Jonno was a staff writer on the
News Chronicle
, or so he’d told her. Jonno, in truth, was a gopher on the
News
Chronicle
: a newish daily yet to claim a grip on a readership, but whose proprietor had always wanted a newspaper to play with, and was throwing money at it like it was a snowball fight. The experienced journos he’d hired were snatching the cash, beefing up their expenses, and keeping in touch with the hirers on the broadsheets. Tyros like Jonno were fetching sandwiches and telling their mates they were Press.

The actual writer on Katrina’s story was a thirty-year veteran called Helen Coe: a big-boned ex-smoker whose light was fading fast – while the more cliché-prone in her trade succumbed to drink or quit to write The Book, Helen was gradually giving up the struggle to remain awake twelve hours at a stretch.

‘You know how many council meetings I covered, way back when?’

A lot, Katrina guessed.

‘Felt like all of them. Stayed awake, too. But these things catch up.’ She was fifties, with mad grey hair and thick glasses; she wore a tatty green cardigan, and a belted brown raincoat for outdoors. ‘After that, I covered Westminster, then a crime beat. Half my career happened way past bedtime. No wonder I’m knackered.’

‘You never considered another line of work?’ Katrina asked.

‘And miss the glamour?’ Helen spoke without apparent irony, but in the light from an unwashed window, the room had the charm of a prison officers’ social club. ‘You know why most politics happens at night? So MPs have an excuse for a London flat. Gives them the opportunity to shag their research assistants.’ She paused. Jonno blinked four times in quick succession. This was code, Katrina decided, for
No way is my career going to be like this. Not even
in a joke
. ‘If they all went home to their wives at night, you think the transport system would be quite so far up hell’s back passage?’

She seemed to expect a reply.

‘Some MPs are women, I’ve noticed,’ said Katrina.

‘That’s very sweet, dear.’ Helen shifted on her stool. There was one usable chair in the room: a straight-backed armchair whose padding was a distant memory. Katrina had this. Jonno stood sentry by the door, a post from which dispatch was as regular and inevitable as Helen Coe’s need for refreshment. ‘Halfway chance of a decent pension, and I’d be into the sunset.’ She yawned, without bothering to hide it. ‘Then Jonno’d have to write your story. And Jonno has a
degree
.’

Katrina looked at Jonno. ‘I’m sure you’ll make a very good journalist.’

‘And I’m sure he’ll make a very nice cup of tea,’ said Helen. ‘Soon as you like, dear.’

Jonno left.

Once Katrina had called the police, events had occurred both very swiftly and alarmingly slowly. She was taken to a succession of rooms in a large police station, where cop-show reality swallowed her up – fingerprints and photographs; questions and more questions. She surrendered her clothes, and was given a medical examination by a male doctor in the presence of a female officer. The left side of her face was paid careful attention. ‘Tell me how this happened?’ She told him, then told him again. Her new clothes were baggy grey coveralls, and felt like a replacement identity; in this role, she’d carry out useful but uncomplicated tasks, such as cleaning floors or unblocking drains. The attending female officer remained impervious throughout, and Katrina attempted a similar detachment.
What happened to my face is part of somebody else
’
s statement
. And what happened to her dress sense was somebody else’s wardrobe. A switch had flipped inside her, allowing a pragmatic, purely functional Katrina to take over; who responded to a prod, but otherwise might have been laminated. Meanwhile, phone calls were made and a lawyer appeared. Possibly in a puff of smoke: she didn’t notice. The plan was to get through this while noticing as little as possible, though all the time in the cold hard centre of her being, she wrapped layer after layer of unfeeling around the knowledge of what she’d done.

When she needed the toilet, she was accompanied. Washing her hands, she stared into the mirror – the face staring back was a party-mask.

‘Slight fracture,’ the doctor had muttered, taking notes. As if he were talking to himself; and Katrina merely an onlooker at her own examination.

Now, looking into the mirror, she murmured, ‘What is your favourite colour?’ Purple or blue; black or crimson?

‘What?’

‘Purple,’ Katrina said. Then: ‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’

She was taken back to the room she belonged to, and the questions began again.

All that had come to an abrupt end, she told Helen Coe.

‘Oh yes. You know how things go in waves, dear? Reality TV, boy bands, Tory leaders? You’re riding the zeitgeist. The appeal courts have been backed up for months releasing battered women who’ve crossed the line.’ She reached into her bag for a cigarette, before remembering she didn’t smoke. This happened a dozen times a day. ‘Before they charge you with something that’s going to be trampled underfoot by the Law Lords – always supposing you’re convicted, dear – the CPS are going to be looking very carefully at the alternatives.’

‘Which is likely to be?’

‘Wilful misuse of a kitchen implement, if the
Chronicle
’s got anything to do with it. Mind you, you’re not out of the woods yet. You know what it means, dear, having a newspaper on your side?’

‘It says nice things?’

‘If you’re lucky. But it also means the others are going to be kicking seven kinds of shit out of you.’ Helen almost leaned back, then recalled she was on a stool. ‘You noticed the small print? If you’re convicted, we won’t be paying for your story.’

‘Yes.’

‘Another good reason for being innocent.’

Sometime during the second day of police, Katrina had been shown a tabloid, and found it used the word ‘murderess’; the inverted commas a standard defence against libel action. That -
ess
troubled Katrina. Actress, stewardess, waitress – all had shed their suffixes; succumbed to the gender-neutral. So why did
murderess
still have that cachet? Because it was sexy, the idea that women were dangerous. It gave men the notion that taming remained incomplete.

She had the feeling that sharing this with Helen Coe wasn’t a good idea.

So here she was, anyway, in what the
Chronicle
’s crocodiles probably termed a safe house: a barely furnished three-storey in an area that would be on its way up just as soon as it touched bottom. She felt like she’d wandered into an urban fairy tale. There was just enough of everything for all of them, provided Jonno didn’t mind going without – there were mugs and plates for three, but they were short a knife and fork. Plus, of course, he had nowhere to sit. Not that Helen would have let him sit much.

On the first evening, when it became apparent that Helen wasn’t staying – no offence, dear, but they don’t pay me enough – Katrina had wondered if this was going to be stage two of the nightmare: stuck in a rambling flophouse with a kid who hadn’t been alone with a woman yet. That was before she discovered how easily he blushed.

Once Helen had gone he told her, dead serious, ‘If you hear anybody at the door in the night, stay put. I’ll deal with it.’

She asked who it was likely to be, this late-night caller.

‘Probably no one.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s drinkers and druggies about, know what I mean? It’s the square over the road, they congregate there.’

It occurred to her that he was expecting rival journalists to turn up and spirit her off. ‘Jonno? If I hear anything in the night, I’ll stay where I am.’

Because if he was her protection, she’d be better off hiding under a duvet.

Later, after she’d been woken by the revellers, she lay staring at the ceiling, remembering some parts of the past few days; forgetting others. Her face throbbed. But if not for that, she wouldn’t be here at all. She’d have been charged with murder. It was one thing describing how you’d been struck, hit,
beaten
, but without the bruises, it could just be a story. Baxter, dead on their kitchen floor, might have been a sweet innocent; his brothers, grieving lambs. She shuddered. If there came a knock on the door in the dark, rival journalists wouldn’t be on her mind. She’d be thinking Arkle; she’d be thinking Trent. Blood revenge would draw them here. And of course, there was also the money . . .

They were not supposed to know she knew about the money, but they’d know. Arkle, anyway, would. From the first time she’d laid eyes on him, he’d had a way of staring straight through her, as if already wishing she weren’t there. He’d seen her as a threat, which was almost funny, because it was impossible to be in Arkle’s presence without knowing where the real threat lay. That phrase about a riddle wrapped in a mystery wrapped in an enigma might have been coined for him, except for riddle, mystery and enigma read aggravation, hostility and blunt instrument.

For as long as Katrina had known him, Arkle’s appetites had been diminishing. He drank no alcohol; never ate a decent meal. But he was eaten up by hunger all the same. It just lay in less obvious directions.

Two days after the Oxford weekend she had read about the robbery there, and had known, even without the significant detail, that the trip had been reconnaissance. This had not come as a surprise. Some things Bax had told her, others he tried not to, and it was an aspect of his masculinity that he’d imagined that the things he didn’t tell her, she didn’t get to know about. As if she were shrouded in ignorance, and her only light shone through holes he punched . . . Among other things, he’d told her where the money was. Which he hadn’t told Arkle or Trent.

‘Why not?’

‘Arkle’s a little . . . unsteady.’

He was telling her?

‘Arkle’s a little impulsive. He can only focus on one thing at a time.’ This was delivered with an air of interested detachment, as if Baxter were narrating a documentary. In a way, he’d spent a lot of time doing that: providing the voiceover for whatever Arkle was up to. ‘He prefers it this way. Trust me. Keeps his issues from being clouded.’

Though it didn’t take much to cloud Arkle’s issues. The significant detail in the newspaper report was that somebody walking past the target at the wrong time had wound up with a bolt in his leg.

Katrina closed her eyes, blotting out the ceiling, but not thoughts of Arkle, or Baxter. Arkle was straining at the leash. That’s what that detail meant. Was probably frothing at the mouth, in fact. Firing his crossbow at a warm two-legged body would have been the highlight of his day.

Arkle: hostility, aggression, blunt instrument.

Baxter: simply dead.

All three had been adopted – strange that they’d forged such a unit. Or perhaps it was inevitable, after years of being harried from pillar to post, that they’d drop a common anchor in the first available harbour. No wonder Arkle had always looked at her as if she were a pirate – he wasn’t a man for whom romance figured on the agenda. Arkle understood the nature of alliance, but hadn’t quite sussed out what was in it for Bax. What turned out to be in it for Bax was a knife in the heart.

A passing car threw shadows across the ceiling, and when it stopped she knew they’d come for her. But they hadn’t. It was lost, that was all; a lost car having to stop and reverse, because of the concrete bollards at the alley’s end. After a while her pulse steadied. This room – bare floorboards, a narrow bed and a thin curtain; one wooden chair on which she’d draped a change of clothing – was sanctuary for now, courtesy of the
News Chronicle
, but it wouldn’t remain so for long. She wasn’t sure how they’d manage it, but they’d find her. Sooner or later, they’d find her.

And Arkle’s appetite was just starting to wake.

ii

Arkle and Trent. Arkle and Trent. Arkle, Baxter and Trent . . .

Baxter had been the smart one, able to work through the logistics of a given situation to the satisfaction of the important parties. And Trent generally managed to do what he was told. He could, for instance, carry heavy stuff a lot further than you’d imagine, given what a fucking dwarf he was. As for Arkle . . . Arkle, to get to the point, was a creative genius.