The Fly Guy (23 page)

“Heart attack,” one was shouting.

“Catheter?” the other shouted back.

“Heart attack.”

“Panther? That’s how he died?”

“Heart attack.”

“Yeah, cat attack, weird, panther, wow.”

“Panther?”

“What?”

The moaning beside him was getting louder. The group of girls were lining up their drinks on the bar. Zoe looked so pretty as she waited for hers to be poured, and so happy to be with her friends. Martin picked up his glass and felt the room warp as he sucked and sucked on the straw. He leaned over to the group and said, “So what happened in Madrid?”

The girl who had been telling the story said, “What? What’s that?”

“Well, I used to live there, in Madrid, I have contacts, you know, I might know him.”

The girl shot a look to her friends and said to him, “Not likely,” and turned away. The rest of the group angled themselves away from him, too, and one of them gestured to the other side of the bar. As they gathered up their drinks, Martin saw a tattoo on Zoe’s shoulder, bird silhouettes flying in a
V
formation. He leaned over again, stretching so that his face appeared over her shoulder and he said, “Who are your friends?”

She flinched and said, “What?”

“Are you going to be hanging around with them all night?”

She didn’t even look at him again, just moved away, joining with the group as they moved away, slipping through the gaps between bodies in the crowded club. Martin was left leaning into space for a moment, but in seconds the space had filled with others, and he disappeared again.

The bodies and reaching limbs and jerky heads were all anxious to get to the bar, where Ozzy was still spinning bottles and juggling glasses. Martin straightened up and turned to the bar. Ozzy caught his eye and held his hand like a gun and shot it at him. Martin sucked on the straw until the ice rattled again, and slid the empty glass across the bar. Ozzy winked and soon it was full again. As Ozzy put the full glass in front of him he said, “I see you haven’t lost your touch with the ladies,” and then he was at it again, straightening to attention and taking orders, dutifully facilitating the indulgence that the club encouraged, with every pour pushing the clientele closer to the brink, and doing it with charm.

It was before three when Martin leaned over the bar to Ozzy and announced he was going to go. Ozzy broke off from talking to the blonde in the denim shorts and straightened up. “Are you sure, mate? You’re welcome to hang if you want.” Martin declined with a wave of his hand and a bow of his head and made his way to the door, bumping into people as he went. When he got outside he put his hands in his pockets and his head down and started to walk. He walked away from the clubs and the late bars and hailed a taxi. One stopped and he climbed into the back and asked, “Do you know the Sugar Club?”

The driver said, “Up on Church Way?” Martin agreed and they were off. It was warm in the taxi. The driver had the radio on, a voice in a language Martin didn’t understand. Martin felt comforted by the rhythm of the speech, it wasn’t rushed, it didn’t sound dramatic, it felt like it skipped along with the slow rhythm of a nursery rhyme. He was sure that if he knew what the voice was talking about it would soothe him, reassure him.

Then they were taking the turning at the boarded-up pub on the corner and then they were there, and Martin was paying the driver and standing in front of the door. There was the five-point star. Martin heard the taxi pull away and stood for a moment more.

He turned and started to walk away. He got to the corner and stood in front of the boarded-up window of the pub. There was graffiti on the wood. Judy’s a slag. Don’t run from the gun. Southerners take it up the ass. A stencil of a tiger on top of a turntable with Roar Records written underneath it. Call me for a good time with a number. He put his hand in his pocket and touched himself.

He turned back and walked back to the Sugar Club door. He knocked. It was opened by the bat-eared bouncer. Martin smiled and said,
Hi.
The bouncer said,
No single males after eleven thirty,
and closed the door. Martin knocked again. When it opened he started to say,
I’m just looking for
—but the bouncer said,
I’m not going to tell you again to fuck off, you’re not coming in. Fuck off,
and closed the door again.

Martin stood alone and cold on the pavement. He put his hand back in his pocket and squeezed. He walked the other way, away from the abandoned pub. In the back of his mind was the idea of finding another way in. He thought of all the people in the nightclub, all of the connections being made. He thought of the club with Andre and Cassandra, and all of the shaking of hands and exchanging of cards. He needed to make contact, some kind of contact.

He ended up walking and walking, further and further into housing estates, across roads with cars parked tail to tail on either side, past shops with shutters down and lights that flickered and shone on an unmoving street. He didn’t see anyone.
How am I the only one moving?
he thought. He passed parks and basketball courts and school gates and fences and driveways and flats and houses and terraces.

Ahead of him he saw a figure cross the road. The figure wore a long black coat, and walked in high heels. At a crossroads ahead, it turned left. Martin picked up his pace and when he got to the junction looked to the left, and there was the figure, closer now but still walking away. A wind came rushing up the road. It blew strong into his face and blew the long hair of the figure into the air for a moment. Martin faced the wind and followed the long dark coat and thin heels clicking on the pavement. The figure glanced over its shoulder and then started to run. Martin took his hands from his pockets and started to run, too. The figure stopped at a parked car and opened it, then climbed in and started the engine. The lights shone straight at Martin, and as it drove past him, he put his hands back in his pockets, and ducked his head into his chest. He felt an ache deep inside his stomach. Then the car was gone and the streets were quiet again.

He walked and walked until he could hear the sound of gulls above the roofs. The sharp calls reverberated around the buildings around him. They were like sudden spontaneous utterances of truth breaking through the weary city. If only he could understand them. He walked closer to the calls and they were overtaken by the sound of engines passing, each one an aggressive crescendo then a trail of noise, fading with a disappointed whine. He came to the main road and lifted his hand until a taxi stopped.

By the time he got out at New Acre the sky was getting bright. As he climbed into bed Alison sat up in the half-light and said, “It’s nearly morning, where have you been?”

He fell into bed. Within seconds his breathing deepened and slowed and he started to snore.

***

Chapter Thirty-Two

When Spike wakes he’s strapped to a chair in the kitchen. He’s looking at the ceiling. The room comes into focus and he realises he’s on his back. His arms are squashed between the chair and the floor. His wrists are bound with thick plastic binds and his ankles strapped to the chair legs. There’s a belt around his chest. He cranes his neck back and sees Gregor just about to lift the chair up. Gregor sees he’s awake.

“So soon? You are quite something, Spike.”

He starts to strain as he lifts the chair into an upright position. When the chair is up, Gregor exhales loudly and walks around in front of him.

“And so heavy!”

He has put on a thin plastic apron. He is wearing surgical gloves. There is a table next to him; it’s a plastic fold away table, made for camping. In the corner is a lump hammer. Spike tries to focus on what is on the table, but cannot. The room feels unstable.

“I thought there was a change in you, Spike. I guess I was right.”

Spike tries to lift his hands and stand from the chair, but he cannot. He’s looking around to see who else is with Gregor.
Surely he is being forced to do this,
Spike thinks.
He can’t be doing this on his own. Or this is not Gregor.
He looks again.
Is he travelling?
He feels like he is in the belly of a boat, the floor seems to tilt. There is an overpowering smell of chlorine. Then Gregor speaks again. It is him. It’s the real Gregor.

“I thought I could trust you with Lucy, but obviously not.”

“Obviously not? What?” Spike is spitting when he speaks, his throat feels swollen. It doesn’t sound like his voice. He shakes his head. He feels off balance, as if the room is moving. But he is in the kitchen of the house where Spiral was being made.

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on Spike, giving her and your little piece Spiral, then fucking them. It was super strong that first batch, we had to amend the formula, it was way too strong. But probably just right for what you wanted. I guess I should have listened to what you said in the Church club. If she’s like this now, imagine her on Spiral. It was too tempting for you, wasn’t it?”

“Gregor, she’s playing you. I didn’t touch her. I didn’t give them Spiral. She’s playing you!” As his voice raises it sounds more metallic, less real.

“Come on, what could she gain from lying about you? Why would she make that up? Did you enjoy it? Having the two of them? Was it like you thought it would be?” Gregor picks up a syringe from the table. It’s full of a yellow liquid.

“Fantasies coming true don’t always work out the way they do in your head. I mean it’s one thing actually fucking your daughter—”

“She’s not my daughter! Gregor, please listen, I didn’t …”

“As close as you can get though, Spike. Some things are taboo for good reason, you know. But you obviously like testing boundaries.”

“She told you then? Lucy told you about Kayleigh?”

“Oh yes, she told me all about what you put them through. On your daughter’s sleep over. You fucking sicken me.”

“Gregor, you know me, please, please you know me.”

“Do I? I thought I did. How long have you been fucking your little piece? How many years have you been grooming her? This brings out a whole new side to you, Spike, a whole new side. You see, now I don’t know whose side you are on. If you can take Lucy just to satisfy your dick then what else have you taken over time? I thought I could trust you.”

The room has stopped moving for Spike, he can feel his balance stable on the chair. He shakes his head again and clears his throat.

“It’s Lucy. Gregor think about it! Do you know who she is? Who is she?”

“She’s a no-one. She’s just a kid, a ghetto kid.”

“How do you know, Gregor? You don’t know who she could be working for. What do you know about her?”

“Working? If she was working for someone, she hasn’t done a very good job, the deal went smooth. It’s all done.”

“Gregor, it was too smooth. Who have you sold to? You could have just put the stash right in Stranstec’s hands. Where’s Ali?”

“Thinking is not your strong point, Spike, you’d best not strain yourself.”

“She’s playing you, Gregor. I didn’t touch her. When I got back from tracking Ali, they were already off it. We spoke on the phone. She’s playing you!”

“Who did you call?”

“What? When did I—”

“Who did you call outside?”

“That’s a personal thing, it’s got nothing to do with …”

Gregor picks up Spike’s phone from the table.

“Shall I call it now?”

“It’s an investigator, Maya’s disappeared; I need him to find her.”

“You could have asked me, you could have told me, Spike. You know I have resources. You know you can trust me, Spike. But now I think you and I have fallen out. You could have told me, but I can see why you want to keep this secret. It shines a light. It shows how sick you are.”

“It’s personal, it has nothing to do with—”

“You’ve been sticking your dick in your wife’s daughter. Then you thought you’d have some fun with Lucy. Well we can have a little fun now.”

“I didn’t—”

“I have an experiment I’ve been wanting to try.”

Gregor puts the phone back on the table and raises the needle in the air. The light hits the liquid in the syringe like gold. Scorpion heaves his hands and his legs, but cannot break the bonds. Gregor sees him trying. He watches him struggle, the chair is shaking under the strain.

“Wow, you nearly did it then. You know, Spike, in all the years I’ve known you, I am still always taken by surprise at just how big you really are. I can never get used to it. And now, all tied up like this, you are quite a monster.”

“Gregor, don’t do this. She’s playing you!”

Gregor puts the syringe down on the table and picks up a roll of masking tape. He stands behind Spike. Spike starts to shout. Gregor covers his mouth with the tape from behind, pulling it tight, and wrapping the tape around his head, over his ears, twice around before breaking it. He walks back in front of Spike, slowly putting down the tape. Then he picks up the lump hammer.

“You’re nearly there, nearly breaking out, Spike. This is just a precaution. Careful now, it might sting a bit.”

Gregor raises the lump hammer high before swinging it down onto Spike’s ankle. There is a loud crack of breaking bone. Through the tape Spike screams, a single short shout. Gregor does it again, back-handed this time, putting all his weight into the hammer, smashing the other ankle. Spike gives another scream of pain. The bone protrudes beneath the skin on the inside of his foot. Gregor steps back and considers Spike for a moment before putting the lump hammer back in the corner and picking up the syringe from the table, holding it up to the light.

“Now, you probably thought it odd,” he says, “when you saw me dressed like this, but you must understand this is an experiment. I don’t know what will happen exactly. And I plan to celebrate the success of this evening’s deal with a fine meal. I certainly don’t want to mess my suit up. The doctor that was working in this kitchen gave me a new prescription he’s been working on. An hallucinogen. A derivative of a deliriant, benactyzine, I think he said. Very strong and with tendencies for extreme paranoia and very sinister visual trips, which is why he stopped it. But I got a little batch from him anyway, for special occasions.”

Sweat is running down Spike’s face. He can’t breathe properly. His ankles start to swell. He tries again to break away from the chair. His huge bulk is straining, the veins on his neck and arms are raised. He thinks he can feel the chair about to break. It rattles as he pulls his arms upwards.

“It’s okay,” says Gregor, “I’ve mixed it with 300 milligrams of amphetamine, so it should be quite a party. Now if you’ll give me a moment, I just want to get something. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”

He puts the syringe back on the table and leaves the room. Spike heaves and heaves in the chair, straining with every fibre of his being. When Gregor comes back he is carrying a long thin mirror, which he positions against the wall opposite Spike. Spike sees himself, huge and helpless, in the chair. And there is Gregor, stepping next to him and looking in the mirror too.

He is slim and neat, with his plastic apron and gloves on, looking like a manager visiting the shop floor of a food factory. Spike sees how small Gregor is compared to him, just what a difference there is between them, yet he is bound fast to the chair, and helpless. Gregor looks at Spike in the mirror. He leans down so their faces are side by side. Even the difference in the size of their heads takes Spike by surprise. It’s as if they are from different worlds, or different times. Gregor talks at his reflection.

“For when your trip starts. The visuals are quite disturbing apparently, so best to put yourself in the picture, don’t you think? Now remember,” he says, picking up the syringe again and moving around behind Spike’s huge trembling shoulders, “don’t move, we don’t want to miss the vein and cause some serious damage.”

Spike watches Gregor, standing with a look of concentration on his face, syringe in hand, considering his neck like an artist about to complete his greatest work. Spike tries again to tear his hands apart, to move his legs, but explosive bursts of pain shoot up from his ankles. Gregor pats Spike on the back and waits for him to stop then puts the point of the syringe to his neck, saying in a whisper, “Shhh, now, stay still, stay still now, I don’t want to hurt you.”

***