Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

And then coffee breaks – sometimes she’ll come down to the Costa again, just for a walk, stretch her legs. But no fag breaks. Doesn’t smoke. Too healthy. Know which branch of Holmes Place she goes to, after work sometimes. And what times. Watched her work out.

Well, apart from that time when she had a broken arm. Just straight to work and back home, then. Alone.

That Tony, he’s a cunt. Really, he is. He doesn’t appreciate her, not nearly enough. Not an item. Cunt.

Then all again in reverse: tube, bus, home again. Unless she’s been going out. Cinema, theatre, dinner. A bar. Usually up in town, nothing round here. Well not much. A couple of times she’s been in my local. Once with a mate of hers. And once on her own. Sampling the local atmosphere, I heard her say to Mike behind the bar. But Mike behind the bar wasn’t impressed. If he can’t shag it or make money out of it, he doesn’t want to know. And she wasn’t about to become a regular. And she was way out of his league. So really, she knows no one round here.

Except me.

I unscrewed the small bottle, took a big swallow of whisky. Smacked my lips, savouring the aftertaste, feeling the burn. Good. Kept me warm. Helped me concentrate.

The rest of the pubs on the high road and the estate, she’s too good for them. Wouldn’t want her going in them again, I told her that. The men in there, they’re animals. They’d tear her apart. And I might not be there to protect her. I mean, I try my best, but I can’t be with her all the time.

I told her that the first time she came in the pub. She laughed then, asked what I did. I told her. Showed her the card. She said nothing.

The second time she came in the pub she said plenty, though. It was accidental, really. I just bumped into her in the street. Like I said, accidental. I hadn’t been following her or anything like that.

Honest.

I asked her if she’d like to come for a drink with me. Couldn’t believe it when she accepted. Took her to the pub, squired her round. All the other old bastards in there couldn’t believe it. She was with me. Me.

We had a great time. Talked all night. She really listened, you know? To everything I had to say, no matter how stupid it sounded. She made me feel like the most important person alive. To have a pretty girl listen to you, and talk to you, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

She made me feel special.

When she left, Mike from behind the bar said I should forget it. Get her out of my mind, she was too good for me. Whatever she had to say, she was just using me, stringing me along. I got angry with him. Told him just because she didn’t like him or want to talk to him he was jealous. He just shook his head, walked off to restock his bottles.

I wasn’t falling in love with her then. Honest.

It was dark now and cold. The fog made big patches of blackness between the street lights. You could see your breath in front of you. I breathed out into my hand, up my sleeve. I didn’t want her seeing mine. I watched.

She turned off the pavement like she usually did, made her way to the front of her block of flats. 1930s I think, lots of that type in this part of South London. Old, but still going strong. And worth more than where I lived.

I guessed what she would do next: put her head down, start rummaging through her handbag for her keys. I was right.

I’d been in that flat. Told them all in the pub that she’d invited me in. They didn’t believe me. They never do. But she had done. Made me a cup of coffee, even. So yeah, I was really there, true. Let the others in the pub think what they like. Say what they like. I was there.

Honest.

It was comfortable. Really comfortable. That’s the best way to describe it. The sofa looked like the kind you’d want to sink into after a hard day’s work. The TV looked like the kind you would want to watch. On the shelves were books that looked interesting if you liked that kind of thing and CDs that I’m sure would have been good to listen to. There were other things around too, like candles and little ornaments and small lamps that gave off soft, warm glows. Rugs that reminded you of the expensive foreign holidays that you’d never be able to afford to take.

Not a bare bulb in the place. Not one piece of never-never furniture from Crazy George’s that’d given up on you before you’d finished paying for it. No mismatching knock-off carpet remnants, donated tables and chairs. Not like my place at all.

I told you I was there.

And in the middle was her. Sitting on the sofa, sipping some real coffee, not the instant shite I was brought up with. She was like the flat. Nice. Dark hair that was long and well cared for. Green eyes that made you want to smile just to look at them. And she had dress sense and style.

She was so sweet, so honest. So loveable.

Then she told me her troubles. Her problem. I listened, all sympathetic like. And when she’d finished, I knew. Knew I could help her. And I wanted to help her. Protect her. Because she was lovely. Really beautiful. And there’s a lot of bad things, bad people, out there, just waiting to snatch that beauty away. Because they’re cruel. It’s what they do. She might live in this area of South London but she’s not of it, if you know what I mean. So she needed me to look after her. Like her own guardian angel.

Of course, I didn’t say any of this. Just drank my coffee, said I’d help her. But I think she knew. I could tell the way she was looking at me. Could tell what I was thinking.

She touched my hand. Told me how much it would mean to her if I would help. And I got that feeling, that little zing of electricity going up my arm like I’d just stuck my finger in a live socket. And I looked at her. Her eyes. Big enough to fall in to.

I swallowed hard. Said I would do what I could. She could rely on me.

She smiled. And I felt my heart lift. Really lift. Like getting a blessing from an angel.

I smiled back. She just jumped like I’d hit her. I saw myself in the mirror over the fireplace when I did it. Don’t blame her for jumping. Not a smile but a grimace. A blood lust one like apes do when they’ve just arse-fucked an outsider to the tribe and killed him by pulling his arms off. Once a squaddie always a fucking squaddie.

I stopped smiling. I was angry with myself, ashamed. She kept her hand there. Gave me another smile.

And that told me everything between us was still OK.

Now like I said, I wasn’t falling in love. That would have been fucking stupid.

The hand in the bag was my cue. I’d planned the shortest route to her while I’d been waiting. I hadn’t forgotten. The best view, the most camouflage, the quickest escape route. The bushes in the grounds of the flat. Obviously. Away from the road, the street light. Other people. Sarge would have been proud of me. Vicious old cunt.

I stood up, still hidden, breathing heavy, hand in front of my mouth, getting psyched, ready to run forward, ready for what was about to happen.

I thought about her all day long. All night. Even when I slept. Beautiful but vulnerable. I began to think things I’d never have considered a couple of months ago. Make little plans in my head. For the future. Thinking of her smile, the way she’d looked at me.

The future.

She stood on the front step, rummaging.

I waited.

But not for long.

They said at this charity that I go to that my problems go further back than just the shellshock. Go way, way back. Before the army. When I was a kid. To stuff that happened to me then. Bad stuff.

But I don’t think about that now.

They said I needed an outlet. So I got one. When I told them in the pub what I was doing, when I showed them the cards, they just laughed. As usual. They never take anything I say or do seriously. Think I’m some mentalist, some nutter, spend all day at the library reading private eye novels. Thinking, like the counsellor at the charity said, like I’m the hero of my own fantasy. They think I’m away with the fairies. Delusional, they say.