Peter Robinson - Not Safe After Dark

She frowned. ‘Wedding ring? There wasn’t no wedding ring.’

‘What?’

‘I told you. There wasn’t no wedding ring.’ Sighing, she got up and went into another room. She came back with a handful of jewellery. ‘That’s all I found.’

Frank looked through it. The only pieces he recognized were the gold chain and the pair of cheap earrings. The rest, he supposed, must have been stolen from another house. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘What happened to the ring?’

‘How should I know?’ She stubbed her half-smoked cigarette out viciously. ‘Maybe he sold it already, or threw it away. Look, I gotta go before someone steals the laundry. That’s all I need.’

He grabbed her arm. ‘No, wait. Can I talk to him? Maybe he’ll tell me. I have to find that ring. I’m sorry… I…’ He let her go, and before he knew it, he was crying.

She rubbed her arm. ‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘There’s no need for that. Shit. Listen, Daryl’s a bit non-communicative these days. It’s his age, just a phase he’s going through. You know what teenagers are like. Basically, he’s a good kid, it’s just… well, with his father gone… Look, I’ll talk to him again, OK? I promise. But I don’t want you coming round here bothering us no more, you understand? I know he’s done wrong, and he’ll pay for it. Just leave it to me, huh? Take the chain and the earrings for now. For Christ’s sake, take it all.’

‘I only want the ring,’ Frank said. ‘He can keep the rest.’

‘I told you, I’ll talk to him. I’ll ask him about it. OK? Here.’

Frank looked up to see her thrusting a handful of tissues towards him at arm’s length. Her eyes had softened a little but still remained wary. He took the tissues and rubbed his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s been such an ordeal. My wife died three years ago. Cancer. I keep a few of her things, for memories, you understand, and the ring’s very important. I know it’s sentimental of me, but we were happy all those years. I don’t know how I’ve survived without her.’

‘Yeah, tell me about it,’ she said. ‘Ain’t life a bitch. Look, I’m sorry, mister, really I am. But please, don’t go to the police, OK? That’s trouble I could do without right now. I promise I’ll do what I can. All right? Give me your number. I’ll call you.’

Frank watched the broken cigarette still smouldering in the ashtray. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He nodded, gave the woman his telephone number and shuffled out of the apartment. Only when he found himself holding the revolver in his hand at home in the early evening did he realize he didn’t even know the woman’s name.

A day passed. Nothing. Another day. Nothing. Long gaps between the memories, when nothing seemed to be happening at all. Most of the time Frank sat at his bedroom window, lights out, watching the apartment. He cleaned his gun. There were no more rows. Mostly the place was dark and empty at night.

At first, he thought they’d moved, but on the second night he saw the light come on at about midnight and glimpsed the boy cross by the window. Then it went dark again until about two, when he saw the woman. She must work in a bar or something, he thought. It figured. The next thing he knew it was morning and he couldn’t remember why he had been sitting by the window all night. The sun was up, the birds were singing, and his joints were so stiff he could hardly stand up.

Still he heard nothing from the mother. He had been a fool to trust her.

After three days he decided to confront her again. Rather, he found himself walking into her building, for that was the way things seemed to be happening more and more these days. He could never remember the point at which he decided to do something; he just found himself doing it.

Halfway up the stairs to her apartment, he suddenly had no idea where he was or why he was there. He stopped, heart heavy and chest tight with panic. Then the memory flooded back in the image of the ring, burnished gold, bright as fire in his mind’s eye, slightly tilted so he could read the inscription clearly: ‘NO GREATER LOVE.’ He walked on.

He hammered on the door so hard that people came out of other apartments to see what was going on, but nobody answered.

‘My ring!’ he shouted at the door. ‘I want my ring.’

‘Get out before I call the police,’ one of the neighbours said. Frank turned and glared. The frightened woman backed into her apartment and slammed the door. He felt the sweat bead on his wrinkled forehead and ran his hand over his sparse grey hair. Slowly, he walked away.

Finally his telephone rang. He snatched up the receiver. ‘Yes? Hello,’ he said.

‘It’s me.’ It was the woman’s voice, husky and low. He heard her blow out smoke before she went on. ‘I heard you come over here again. You shouldn’t of done that. Look, I’ve talked to Daryl and I’m sorry. He said he threw the ring away because it had writing on it and he didn’t think he’d be able to sell it. I know how important it was to you, but-’

‘Where did he throw it?’

‘He says he doesn’t remember. Look, mister, give us a break here, please. Things are tough enough as it is. He’s not a real criminal, otherwise he’d of known he could sell it to someone who’d melt it down, wouldn’t he? He won’t do anything like that again, honest.’

‘That won’t bring my ring back, will it?’

‘I’m sorry. If I could bring it back, I would. What can I do? I’ll save up. I’ll give you some money.’ He heard her inhale the smoke again and blow it out, then he thought he heard her sniffle. ‘Look, maybe we can even come to some… arrangement… if you know what I mean. You must be lonely, aren’t you? I saw the way you were looking at me when I found you outside my door. Just give Daryl a chance. Don’t go to the police. Please, I’m beg-’

Frank slammed the phone down. If only he could think clearly. Things had gone too far. This whore and her evil offspring had conspired to ruin what little peace he had left in his life: his memories of Joan. What did they know about his marriage, about the happy years, the shock of Joan’s illness and the agony of her death, the agony he suffered with her? How could a woman like that know how much the ring meant to him? She probably hadn’t even tried to find it.

The next thing he knew, he was walking along the boardwalk. When he took stock of his surroundings and saw the ruffled blue of the lake and the tilted white sails of boats, heard the seagulls screech and the children play, he felt as if he were in one of those jump-frame videos he had seen on television once, with no idea how he got from one frame to the next, and with seconds, minutes, hours missing in between.

It was dark. That much he knew. Dark and the boy was at home. She was at work. He knew because he had followed her to the bar where she worked, watched her put on her apron and start serving drinks. He didn’t know where he had been or what he had done or dreamed all day, but now it was dark, the boy was at home and the gun lay heavy and warm in his pocket.

The boy, Daryl, simply opened the door and let him in. Such arrogance. Such cockiness. Frank could hardly believe it. The music was deafening.

‘Turn it off,’ he said.

Daryl shrugged and did so. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘My mother told me you’ve been pestering her. We should call the law on you. I’ll bet you’re one of those dirty old men, aren’t you? Are you trying to get in my mother’s pants? Or are you a pervert? Is it young boys you like?’ He struck a parody of a sexy pose.

Out of the window, Frank could see the upstairs light he had left on in his house over the laneway. Daryl was smoking, his free hand slapping against his baggies in time to some imaginary music. He wouldn’t keep still, kept walking up and down the room. Frank just stood there, by the door.