John Harvey - Off Minor

“Think he’s waiting till we’ve proof there as well?”

“Possible. Either that or he’s telling the truth.”

Skelton was on his feet, taking his jacket from the hanger on the back of the door. “Charlie, look at what we already know. Look at the facts. Chances he didn’t do for the other kiddie, thousand to one against.”

“I’m sorry,” Lynn Kellogg had said, “there’s still no information about Emily, nothing new at all. We’ll let you know the moment there is.”

Michael and Lorraine, not really focusing on Lynn’s face, exhausted, cried out, gazing past her into the night.

“Raymond, however many’s that you’ve had?”

“What difference it make? Just ’cause you want to sit all night over one lager and black.”

It was her second but Sara didn’t argue; she didn’t know what had gotten into Raymond, but it obviously wasn’t going to pay to argue with him about anything. He’d already had one shouting match with a bloke who’d splashed beer over his shoe.

“What d’you reckon then? This place, all right, isn’t it?”

“’S all right.”

They were pressed against the balcony, looking down over the crowds milling round the bar below, squeezing between pillars or sprawled along bench seats down the sides. At the bar itself they were five deep, calling for attention, waving ten-, twenty-pound notes. Up where Raymond and Sara were, there was as much dancing as space would allow, a DJ playing Top Forty and regular soul mixed with swingbeat. Raymond promised himself that if the bastard DJ played “I Wanna Sex You Up” once more, he’d go over and stiff him one. Bastards with their big mouths and big dicks.

“Raymond!”

He had been absentmindedly stroking Sara’s behind and she wriggled away, giving him one of those reproachful, wait till later and even then you’ll be lucky, specials.

Raymond thought they’d make a move pretty soon, after he’d finished this pint, see about the long walk home. Some other night, he’d try and get her back to his place, room to stretch out, take your time. Not tonight though, he could tell she was in a mood about something. Not like some blokes, Raymond thought, no sensitivity at all, didn’t matter what the girl was feeling, still wanted to pork it.

Patel looked along the room to where Alison was sitting, toying with her wine glass, waiting for him to return; he still couldn’t take it in, that she wanted to be here with him. The warmth of her smile as he sat down beside her. The thrum of conversation, the thud of the speakers made anything less than a shout a waste of breath.

She finished her drink and pointed with her glass towards the door. “Let’s go,” she mouthed, reaching for her bag.

They walked along the narrow platform of tables where they had been sitting, underneath the paintings and the potted plants and out through the swing doors into the street. It was like stepping out into the middle of rush hour. A group of ten or twelve came down the center of the road at a slow trot, blocking traffic, arms linked, singing at the tops of their voices. In the alley leading to the Caribbean restaurant, a couple necked furiously while a few yards further along a youth in a Forest shirt leaned back against the wall and pissed.

At the corner of George Street, Alison took Patel’s hand. “I was watching this program,” she said, “about arranged marriages. I’m surprised you’re still walking round free.”

“You can say no, you know?”

“I didn’t think it was that easy, family pressure and all.”

“It’s easier if you’re a man.”

“Isn’t it always.”

Three young women in fancy dress came hurtling into the street in front of them: one was wearing a police tunic and hat, a pair of white ski pants and four-inch heels; the other two were dressed as schoolgirls, gym slips, black stockings and white suspender belts. One was holding a jumbo sausage wrapped in paper, the others were carrying chips and gravy in open cartons.

“Stick ’em up!” called the policewoman to Patel, waving her sausage into his face. “You’re under arrest.”

Patel sidestepped and the woman lurched away into the arms of her friends, the three of them bent double by hysterical laughter, chips spilling across the pavement.

“You can’t say you don’t see life,” Alison said, linking her arm through Patel’s and steering him away.

“Agreed,” Patel said as they started down the hill, “but do you have to see so much?”

Alison laughed and moved closer against him as they walked.

Raymond had fancied one last drink in the Thurland. Sara had argued with him for fully five minutes on the pavement outside before finally giving in. It had taken them twice that long to get served, another age for Raymond to force his way into the Gents and when he got there someone had blocked one of the toilets and he had to stand ankle deep at the stalls, water and worse.

Sara was being chatted up by some lad when he got back, black sweat shirt and hair tied behind in a little pony tail, gold ring in one ear.

“What’d he want?”

“What d’you think?”

Raymond looked over at the youth, laughing now with two of his mates. “Must’ve made a mistake, reckoned you for the wrong sex.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bloody shirtlifter, isn’t he?”

“He’s not.”

“Fucking fancy him then, do you?” Pushing her in their direction. “Go fucking on then, see if I sodding care!”

“Raymond, leave off! I’ve told you before about mauling me around.”

“Yeh? Yeh? Right, if that’s the way you feel, get home on your fucking own. Or get that poncey bastard over there to take you.”

“Raymond!”

But he was barging his way towards the door, hands hard down into his pockets, head lowered. Sara took a few halfhearted steps after him and stopped. She could see the lad with the pony tail grinning at her, then one of his mates making that wanking movement with his hand. Sara sucked in her cheeks and hurried after Raymond.

Raymond had come out of the pub so fast, not looking, he was almost off the wide corner of pavement before thinking about where he was going. For a few moments he considered going back for Sara, waiting for her at least. No, why the hell should he? He was alongside the telephone box across the street and starting down to the square when he saw them coming up the other way, the four who had attacked him outside Debenham’s. Nearly two months back, but no way was he going to forget. Loose white shirts, sleeves rolled back, dark trousers, pleated at the waist, shiny shoes. One of them turning into the doorway of the jeans shop, shouting for the others to hang on, lowering his head to light a cigarette. In the flare of the lighter Raymond could clearly see his face: the one that had stared back at him in the Bell, had screamed with anger as he stabbed Raymond with his knife.

“Hey!” Raymond called, hurrying towards them. “Hey, you!” closing fast.

The youth was slow to react, slow after all those weeks to recall Raymond’s face.

“You!” Raymond pointing. “I’m having you!”

One of the youth’s friends laughed in disbelief, another called out a warning; the one who tried to intercept got a fist in the face for his pains.

“Raymond! Ray-o!” If he heard Sara’s voice, he gave no sign.

She was making her way across the road, not quite breaking into a run, when the youth realized Raymond was serious, possibly recalled who he was.

“Get the fuck away and don’t be so fucking daft!”

Raymond threw a punch at his face and kicked high at his body, aiming for the groin, the toe of his shoe catching him above the knee. Hands grabbed for Raymond and he elbowed them away.