‘They weren’t customers Ali, you know that. They were looking for trouble.’
‘And in you they found what they were looking for, didn’t they?’
Brian nodded towards a row of small screens on the far wall. ‘I did everything I should have, the guy had a knife and used it. You know that, Ali, because you watched it all happen on one of those screens.’
‘I did, Brian, and you know what, I can also watch the whole fucking thing in glorious slow fucking motion replay if I want. That doesn’t change a damn thing, does it?’
‘The guy had a knife.’
‘So what, Brian? These guys are nothing to what you’re used to, you disarm and two of you escort them away. If they keep coming back you escort them away again. Using your head as a blunt instrument, as much as it’s suited to the task, happens a long way down the line. You know that, Brian, why do you keep testing me?’
Brian moved away from the door but could not stand at ease so he shifted back. Ali did not wait for his answer.
‘I have guys standing out there watching you week in week out, wondering why the fuck I don’t fire you! And you know what that kind of wonder breeds Brian?’
‘Indiscipline.’
‘Yes, Brian, it does. Before I know it I have bouncers knocking lumps out of customers and each other and I wave goodbye to my 6 a.m. licence.’ His fist clenched, like a big black mallet but only butted the top of the desk lightly. Collecting his anger.
‘So what’s wrong?’ He looked Brian up and down and then looked him in the eye. ‘You’re looking rougher than normal, you got problems?’
Brian pushed his hands behind his back and leaned against them. ‘Well you know. Life can be tough.’
‘I do know. So what’re you into, nothing that will come back to me I hope?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
‘Well, you know, family stuff. It can get on top of you.’
‘It sure as hell can. Isn’t Andrea down this weekend? Is she OK?’ Concern now in Ali’s voice.
‘She’s good. Still telling me what to do. You know Andrea, ten going on thirty.’ The words caught in his throat, coming out uneven.
The dancer on the sofa looked up at him, reassessing.
‘Look boss, I better get back.’
‘You’ll go back when I’m good and done, Brian. You’re sure there’s nothing wrong with Andrea. Her mother still sucking the life outta you?’
‘No, well, yes. Liz is Liz, vengeance is her game but nothing new. I got a few things I need to sort, is all.’
‘Things, serious?’
‘Ali, are you going to fire me?’
Ali blinked at him, holding on to his answer a beat too long. His lips parted and closed again, he seemed to grow just a little bit smaller.
‘Not this time Brian, but this really is the last time. I’d want you at my side in any fight. You know that, we done that. But we’re not fighting wars, Brian, not anymore. Sort your shit out my friend, find a way. I can’t have you knocking my customers about. If you want to keep burning then fine, but you’re not taking me with you.’ Both men looked across the room at each other, the only sound the distant bass. ‘You got that, Brian?’
Brian nodded, turned and reached for the door.
‘Hold your horses, for fuck’s sake.’ Ali heaved himself out of the chair. ‘Jeesus Brian, come here.’ Ali’s frame filled the room, reaching into his trouser pocket and coming out with a rolled wad of notes. He licked the tips of his fingers, his pink tongue a contrast against the dark skin of his lips. He counted off three notes. Looking at Brian he reconsidered, counted off another two and then held the notes out.
‘Here.’
Brian hesitated, conflicted by pride and need.
‘Take it. Call it a bonus, off the record for old times’ sake. Take Andrea out tomorrow. Get her something nice and maybe even treat yourself, get some new clothes even.’ He grinned. ‘But make sure you let Andrea choose them.’
Brian reached forward. ‘Thanks, Ali.’ He curled the notes into his palm.
‘Now get out of here, get changed and go home. You just used your last life, my friend. Think about what you need to do, not just for this job but in life. We all had to adjust. Now make sure you get Andrea something nice, say hello to her for me will you.’
Brian pulled open the door, taking a last glance at the dancer and then back at Ali.
‘I will,’ he said, and left.
TWENTY-THREE
Brian walked out of town, his heavy boots ringing a hollow echo, around roadworks with lights at a constant red, past untidy rows of terraced cottages and through the leisure centre, jumping across a ditch and wading through long wet grass, finally stepping over the decrepit barbed-wire fence at the back of his flat.
Inside the flat was clean as it usually was two weekends a month. He left the lights off, trying to shut out Andrea’s attempts at dispelling its bleakness. Reminders of Andrea were everywhere. From her pictures on the walls to the arm covers and cushion she made for the ancient sofa, the mobiles of painted glass hanging from the window. She had tirelessly followed the light, refracted red and green during the summer, the colours shifting across her jubilant face.
Stacked on the carpet beside the sofa were her books, her diary and puzzle book, her pencil case on top. On the sofa his neatly folded sleeping bag and a duvet he used as a mattress. A sheet of paper lay square on the sleeping bag, a picture she had left for him. He could make out shapes and words but dared not go over, not yet.
He would get home at dawn on Sunday mornings and she would be there, sprawled pink cheeked and asleep on that duvet, the sleeping bag either by her feet or on the floor, every light on. She hated sleeping in his bedroom while in the flat alone.
Brian walked through to the kitchenette and retrieved a half bottle of whiskey, rinsing a glass and sitting in his chair, savouring the harsh taste. Andrea would wait for that first mouthful to wash down, as if waiting for some silent signal, raising her head and peering at him through bleary eyes, climbing off the sofa and onto him. Then he would feel the weight of her body as she curled into him, her head on his chest, a few mumbled questions, the draw of breath into and out of small lungs. It was his favourite time. He knew he was not the dad he was supposed to be, knew he fell a long way short. This was a time though, when he could hold his daughter and not worry about it being enough. Her body warm beneath the palm of his hand and so fragile as he stroked the hair from her face, marvelling at her ability to love him regardless. Constantly hopeful and ever trusting.
But not tonight. He poured another drink, looking across at the sofa and the sheet of paper, ignoring it for now. He drained the glass and got on with the job in hand, preparing for what he used to do best. He walked through to his bedroom and pulled his old kit bag from the creaking wardrobe. The bedside clock ticked past three as he packed everything he knew would be useful into the bag. The bottle of prescription tablets dropped in last. Then he carried it back to the living room and poured himself another measure, staring at the sofa until the glass was empty. He steeled himself and stepped over, plucking the picture from the sleeping bag.
Andrea loved drawing fairies and angels. A large collection adorned the walls of the hall and his bedroom. Each picture had a purpose which she would earnestly explain. This one did not need explaining. It showed herself at one side of the page, her hair hanging either side of a round smiley face. She was standing on a green-coloured surface he assumed was the park, an outlined white shape by her feet with a long neck and orange beak. She had drawn him stood at her side holding her hand, looking like a caveman in a green jacket. Just the limitation of a child’s artistic skills? He suspected not. As always with Andrea there was an angel. She had drawn gigantic wings that emerged from his back either side of his jacket, so big they disappeared off the page. The bottom corner was filled with little blue kisses. He could hear her voice.
Daddy’s burns look like angel wings.
A ceaseless, child’s hope, to see something good in something so debilitating. She saw good in him when he was too weary of life to even look anymore. A maladjusted ex-soldier discharged from a world he had thrived in, handed a medal and a disability pension and thrust into a civilian world he cared nothing for. Until now.
He pushed the folded picture into the kit bag and took a last slug of whiskey, screwing on the cap and dropping it onto the sofa. He flicked through her neat stack of books, stopping at her dog-eared favourite, recalling the numerous times she had tried reading it to him. He slid that into his bag as well. He contemplated her diary, picking it up and skimming through the pages, half afraid of what he might find of himself reflected in her words. He dropped it onto the sofa next to the whiskey. The police would find better use for it.
Brian closed the front door and stepped again into the night, moving back across the field and through the town, down onto the tow path, through the park and past the bench overlooking the canal. The night was still and quiet save for the persistent rain beating against trees and evergreen leaves, the canal a chaotic dance of expanding ripples.
Twenty minutes saw him pause as the bordering trees gave way to a wide lawn and modern apartments. Soft spotlighting highlighted the slanting rain and three joined buildings with Edwardian façades. He walked across the wet grass to a gravel car park, checking the three entrance doors. Number five was in the first block, probably the middle flat on the first floor. He walked around to the back and looked up at the first floor balconies, each with black painted metal railings.
A collection of small toys had been neatly stacked against a wall. He picked a knee-high plastic slide and positioned it, testing his weight. It would probably hold. He pulled the strap up over his head so the kit bag hung from his back and took two steps back. He clenched his fists and opened them and launched himself forwards. The slide cracked loudly as he propelled himself upwards, clamping his fingers over the edge of the balcony floor, swinging for a second and scrabbling to get leverage. He caught his breath, looking through a ground floor window and straight into the wide impassive eyes of a cat. He then pulled himself over the railing and onto the balcony.
The garden lighting cast his shadow long, through the windows into the dark apartment. He could make out a leather sofa faintly outlined, Adam stretched on the sofa, a glass on his chest.
Satisfied he was in the right place, Brian moved one of the two plastic chairs beneath the partial cover of the upstairs balcony. He would let Adam sleep a while, the peace before the storm. Sarah Sawacki was his lifeline. Andrea had vanished to thin air. Sarah had left a trail. Waiting went against his every instinct but experience had taught him patience now would save him wasted time in the next days. This was the time to focus and let his mind work through the detail. Besides, being in the open reminded him of the good times, of hunting demons. He pulled Andrea’s favourite book from his bag and started reading.
TWENTY-FOUR
She blinked twice but it was dark. Something was wrong. Not just physically, it was wrong inside her head. She was there but deep inside. A small glowing firefly surrounded by shards of memories and broken images, all knocked loose and switched about. The probing pathways that once connected smells to colours, colours to emotions, shapes to faces and images to places, had been disconnected or misplaced, realigned on the dial of recollection.
She blinked again but it was still dark. Where was she? Where was Adam? Who was Adam? She had dreamed, dreamed of herself as a child before.
Before what?
Dreamed of herself as a child crouched down over herself, could feel her hot hands, tears wet and warm on her cheeks. Just like her own world, her escape world where the rain was always warm and the fields rolling green. It felt like home, she had been there so many times. To escape from what? Where was the horseman? There was always a horseman. Warm rain on her face and the sea crashing onto a beach, the sound soothing and repetitive, vivid blue. She could feel the sun hot on her skin, the sand burning her feet and his arms around her shoulders. Simon? Real happy smiles as a plane buzzed across the sky, a large banner trailing:
You’ve been drugged.
Why couldn’t she remember? What is my name? I can’t remember my name? A face, pale, dark hair and sad. Was that Adam? Who was Simon? Was she married yet? She could hear her mother’s voice.
Time to stop screwing around.
If only she knew, why can’t I get clean? Erase it. Surely she must know? Must have guessed. But guessed what? She closed her eyes and opened them again.
He had a grey beard, had been a winner. She so wanted to please him. Guilt, what had she done wrong? Why her? She could see herself as a child. The warm rain. Who was Andrea? Why can’t I wake up, WAKE UP!
You’re already awake sweetie.
She tried reaching out from inside, to move her arms and legs, but there was nothing, no feeling. Just the intention to move a leg, but nothing back that said
Moved leg as requested
. Could she feel anything? She could feel but the dark made it hard to place the component parts floating on the salty sea. Her arm was curled around her head, but stuck and cold like dangling from a car window. Her other arm was bent at the elbow, pushed against something hard. Was it a door? She was lying on a hard floor. Could she hear something? Something move outside? Outside where? Something small, breathing. Something pushing against her elbow; or had she moved her elbow? Could she hear voices? Distant, a conflicted sound. And then close by, soft and almost pleading
Are you awake?
Little more than a child’s whisper. Was she talking to herself? Something warm on her arm, a small hand feeling in the dark. The conflict a little closer. She couldn’t speak, wanted to say;
I’m awake, who are you?
But her mouth refused, so she tried with her fingers. Imagined them moving, willing her fingers to life. Contact! A little shriek then something warm shuffled closer.
You are awake, are you OK?
A girl child.