Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

I lit a cigarette. ‘Do you know Anna’s father then?’

‘Not personally, no. But I know his type.’

‘What do you mean?’

She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if I should be telling you this …’

‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ I assured her. ‘It’s entirely up to you what you tell me. But if you think it might help me to find Anna …’

She sighed. ‘I don’t even know if it’s the truth or not. For all I know she was just making it up …’

‘Making what up?’

‘This stuff about her old man … how he used to fuck her and everything, you know …’

‘He abused her?’

‘Yeah … it went on for fucking years, according to Anna. Started when she was just a little kid, and the dirty fucker carried on doing it until she was … well, I don’t know, until she left home, I suppose.’

I took a long drink of beer. ‘When did Anna tell you about this?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, quite a while ago. It was after work one night. It was someone’s birthday and we all stayed on for a few drinks and stuff … Anna didn’t usually join in with that kind of thing, but I think she was pretty out of it that night. I found her crying her eyes out in the toilets … this would have been about two or three in the morning, and when I asked her what was the matter, she started pouring her fucking heart out to me about her bastard fucking father. She told me everything … and I mean every thing. Poor bitch.’ Genna pulled on her cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘It’s no wonder she was so fucked up.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, her whole life, you know … everything. She was a total fucking mess.’

‘How long had she been using heroin?’

Genna looked at me. ‘You know about that?’

I nodded.

‘Not all that long,’ Genna said. ‘A few years, maybe.’

‘How much did she use?’

Genna shrugged. ‘She was always trying to quit, so sometimes she got it right down to hardly anything, but then she’d get back on it again and start using more.’

‘Do you know where she got it from?’

‘Could be anyone. It’s not hard to buy stuff round here.’

‘What about money? I imagine it’d be hard to maintain a habit on just a barmaid’s wages.’

‘Fucking right.’

‘So where did Anna get the extra money from?’

Genna shrugged. ‘No idea …’

‘Did she earn anything from modelling?’

Genna just laughed.

‘How about prostitution then?’ I said.

She stopped laughing. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that …’

‘About what?’

She shrugged.

‘Come on, Genna,’ I said gently. ‘I just need to know, that’s all.’

She looked at me. ‘Anna wasn’t a whore, OK? I mean, she didn’t do it all the time or anything. She just … well, she just needed the money sometimes. A lot of them do it, you know …’

‘Addicts?’

‘Yeah … it’s the only way they can get enough cash.’

I nodded. ‘Would Anna have worked through an escort agency or anything?’

‘Christ, no. She’d just … well, sometimes she might pick up someone in here, but most of the time I think she just worked the streets.’

‘Would she do that after work?’

‘Yeah …’

‘Do you think that’s where she was going the night she disappeared?’

‘Probably. I mean, we all knew, you know … she’d finish work, get herself all tarted up in the toilets, probably shoot up at the same time, then she’d put on her coat and fuck off.’

The door to the smoking area swung open then, and Psycho Billy leaned through and called out, ‘Fuck’s sake, Genna, how much longer are you going to be?’

‘Yeah, all right,’ she called back. ‘I’m just coming.’ As Billy went back inside, she dropped her cigarette on the ground and said to me, ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Did you see anyone following Anna that night?’ I asked her.

‘No.’

‘Did she have a boyfriend?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Pimp?’

Genna shook her head. ‘Anna didn’t have anybody. She knew plenty of people — work colleagues, customers, dealers — and it wasn’t as if she didn’t get on with them, or that they didn’t like her … I mean, she wasn’t lonely or anti-social or anything. She was just … I don’t know …’

‘Solitary?’ I suggested.

Genna nodded. ‘Yeah … it was like she lived in her own little world, her own little bubble … do you know what I mean? You could be with her, talk to her, spend a night working with her, and it’d all seem fine … but then afterwards, later on, there’d just be this empty space in your head where your memories of her should be.’ Genna looked at me. ‘Does that make any sense?’

‘Yeah,’ I said slowly. ‘Yeah, it does.’

She sniffed and sighed. ‘Look, I really have to go — ’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘And thanks, you know … thanks for taking the time to talk to me. I really appreciate it.’

‘OK,’ she said hurriedly, turning to go.

‘Did you tell any of this to the police?’ I asked her.

She paused. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘They never asked me anything.’

‘Right … well, thanks again, Genna. And if you think of anything else, my number’s on the card I gave you — office and mobile. Call me any time.’

‘Yeah …’

‘And good luck with it,’ I said.

‘With what?’

‘Staying clean.’

She looked at me for a moment, instinctively rubbing at the faded old needle tracks on her arm, and then, without another word, she turned round and left.

I didn’t stay there much longer. Another quick drink and a cigarette while I mulled over what Genna had told me, and then I was on my way. The rain had stopped altogether now, and although the night was still cold, the air felt fresh and clear. As I headed back down the street, I could hear the heavy bass thump of music in the distance — doomp-doomp, doomp-doomp, doomp-doomp, doomp-doomp — and I guessed the nightclubs were beginning to come alive.

I looked at my watch. It was 10.45.

Later than I’d thought.

And now that I was out in the fresh air, I was also beginning to realise that I was a little bit drunker than I’d thought. I started thinking about a taxi then. I knew it was the sensible thing to do, but it would mean leaving my car here overnight, and that would mean having to come back and get it in the morning. But if I didn’t get a taxi, if I drove home in this condition and got stopped by the police …

That’s what I was thinking about, not really paying attention to anything else, when three things happened almost at once. The first thing was, I spotted the silver-grey Renault parked halfway down the street, and although there was undoubtedly a gap of about half a second or so between seeing it and realising that I’d seen it, I really don’t think that half-second delay made any difference. The second thing was, as I paused to think about the Renault, a voice called out to me from the shadows of an alley on my left.

‘Got a light, mate?’

And the third thing was, as I turned instinctively to the sound of the voice, a heavily-ringed fist hammered into the side of my head.

After that, it’s all a bit vague. I half-remember staggering back against a brick wall, almost knocked out by the blow, and then I think someone hit me again, this time low in the belly, and as I doubled over in pain, someone else grabbed me by the arm and kind of half-swung, half-dragged me into the alley, and then I think I must have lost my balance and fallen over — or maybe they hit me again — because the next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground getting the shit kicked out of me.