John Harvey: Cold Light

Mist rolled off the river in swathes. Hard against the curb, its offside door wide open, the cab sat cordoned off with yellow tape. Bright in the headlights of Resnick’s car, glass sparkled on the surface of the road like ice. Immediately beyond, the road narrowed to a single lane across the bridge and Resnick knew that within an hour the traffic would be building up into the city worse than ever: Christmas Eve, for many the last day of this working year.

The scene of crime team were dusting the outside of the taxi now, the interior would be more safely and thoroughly examined when the vehicle had been removed. Uniformed officers were sifting carefully through the frosted mud and sparse grass of the riverbank below, others checking the path which led back off the bridge towards the city. This was the direction in which the driver of the milk lorry had seen two men running, down the slope towards the all-night garage and the road that would take them-where? On towards Colwick and the Country Park, the race course, or left into Sneinton. Yet according to the message the driver had called into base and the entry he had made in his own log, the destination for this fare had been across the river. A ruse, or had they simply run off, unthinking, panicked by what they had done?

“Sir?”

Naylor stepped towards him, the usual hint of deference and apology in his voice. At first Resnick had found it grated on him, waited for it to change with use and time; now he simply accepted it, the way the man was. The reverse, perhaps, of Mark Divine’s bullish eagerness. How had Lynn Kellogg described Divine? All mouth and trousers? Resnick’s mouth widened, letting in a smile.

“The cabbie-they’ve moved him to Intensive Care.”

The smile faded: an all-too-familiar pattern falling into place.

“Mark wants to know, should he stick around or come back in?”

“He stays. As long as there’s any chance he’ll get some answers, he stays put.”

“Yes, sir,” said Naylor, hesitating. “Only …”

“Well?”

“I know it’s not … it’s just, he seemed a bit het-up about getting stuck there all day. The shops, you see, they close early some of them and …”

“And he wants to be let off duty to do a bit of last-minute Christmas shopping?”

“It is for his mother,” Naylor said, not believing it for a moment.

“Tell him he’ll be relieved in the usual way, as and when we can.”

“I’ll say you’re keeping it in mind, then.” Naylor grinned.

“If you like,” said Resnick. One of the scene of crime team was walking towards him; likely they were ready to winch the cab on to the waiting lorry and drive it away. The last thing Resnick wanted cluttering up his mind-thoughts of what Divine might be putting into someone’s Christmas stocking.

She’d been getting things for the kids for months now. Oh, nothing much, not a lot, not expensive. Just, you know, little things that had caught her fancy-a Dennis the Menace T-shirt for Karl, bright red on black, a toy dog for the baby, yellow, with blue stitching for its paws and nose, not too big, soft, something she could cuddle up to in her sleep. Michelle had joined the Christmas Club at the shop on the corner, opposite the old Co-op. Putting by a pound a week, not telling Gary, slipping in when she was on her own.

As long as there was something there for the children Christmas Day, enough to make it feel special. Not that either of them really knew, not yet, what it was all about. Too young to understand. They had been to the fair, though, the one in the Old Market Square; walked around the Christmas tree in its red tub outside the Council House, staring up at the colored lights and the star at the top. A present from Norway or Sweden or somewhere, though no one seemed to know why.

Gary’d bought them a jumbo hot dog, running over with tomato sauce, onions crisped, some of them, till they were black and brittle. They’d sat on the wall behind the fountain, sharing it between them, Michelle blowing on a piece of sausage and chewing it a little before pushing it into the baby’s mouth. All around them, other kids with parents, kids on their own in gangs. Pushchairs and prams. Arms and coats to tug at. “Dad, can I have this?” “Can I have a go on that?” “Can’t I? Can’t I? Can I not? Oh, Mum! Dad!”

Michelle thought their Karl was like to carry on the same when he first saw the carousel, all the horses, brightly painted, prancing up and down. But she did his work for him, taking hold of Gary’s hand to ask him softly, “Do look at his face, you can see how much he wants to have a go.”

“You’re all right,” said Gary. “Just this once.”

They had stood back and waved at him, Michelle shaking the baby’s hand as well, and Karl, for all his smiles, had never quite felt sure enough to loose his grasp of the saddle and wave back.

“Snowman,” said Gary later, pointing at the figure in front of the dodgems with its yellow hat and gloves. “See the snowman, Karl?”

“Noman,” Karl had replied, excited. He had seen snowmen in his cartoons on TV.

“Snowman,” Gary laughed. “Not noman, you daft pillock! Snowman.”

“Gary,” Michelle said, starting to laugh herself. “Don’t call him that.”

“Noman!” sang out Karl, jumping up and down. “Noman! Noman! Noman!”

He lost his footing and went sprawling, bruising his face and grazing the fingers of the hand from which he’d earlier lost his glove. Not long after that they all caught the bus home.

Michelle looked up from what she was doing and listened; footsteps that might have been Gary’s outside on the street. As they went on past, she slid her hands back into the soapy water, washing out a few clothes in the sink. Natalie she’d put down half-hour back and mercifully she’d stayed. Last time she’d checked, Karl was belly down in front of the TV lost in a program about lions; at least he was quiet.

She lifted the clothes clear of the water while she emptied the bowl ready to rinse. She only hoped Gary would be pleased with what she’d got for him, a replica goalie’s shirt, twenty-eight quid it’d set her back; they’d kept it on order for her at the County shop, twenty-eight pounds less one penny.

Well, it was only once a year after all.

The door stuck as she was taking the washing through to the back yard to peg out and when she nudged it with her hip the bottom half of the door came away from the frame.

“Michelle! Michelle! You there?”

“I’m out back.”

“You might’ve shut the door behind you. Like a bloody fridge in here.” He stopped short, staring at the twisted hinge.

“I’m sorry,” Michelle said. “It wasn’t my fault.”

Gary turned on his heel and a moment later she heard the front door open and slam shut. Upstairs in her cot, the baby woke up crying.

“Ion,” said Karl from the doorway. “Ion!” And he made his tottering run towards her, hands stretched high like claws, growling loudly.

Mark Divine was three degrees short of pissed off. First they’d told him, sorry, he’d have to wait outside the Intensive Care unit, they’d be certain to let him know the minute Mr. Raju regained consciousness. So he’d sat there, his bulk awkward on the low chair, legs at all angles, watching various other Rajus as they were shepherded in and out, whispering and wailing. The one time he wandered off in search of the WVS canteen and a decent cup of tea, one of the staff nurses came out looking for him.

“He’s come to, then, has he?” Divine asked when finally she found him.

As well as the plastic cup of tea, which was threatening to burn a hole in his fingers, he was trying to balance two chocolate cupcakes and a lemon puff.