Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

It was an embarrassing train of thought.

But nothing happened.

Almost nothing.

I remember her whispering, ‘Go to sleep … I’ll see you later.’

And then I felt her lips on mine — a brief but gentle kiss.

And it moved me. It made me want to be with her, to hold her, to have her hold me. And with the touch of her lips still sweet on mine, I reached out for her …

But she’d already gone.

It was dark when I woke up, and it took me a minute or two to work out where I was, what day it was, what time it was … why I was lying in bed, fully dressed, with an aching head and a bone-dry mouth and a familiarly sour taste in the back of my throat … and then I remembered.

‘Shit,’ I groaned, looking at the clock beside the bed.

The LED display read 19:32.

‘Fuck.’

I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, then into the kitchen for a glass of water and four paracetamols. I lit a cigarette and went into the front room. The lights were off, the curtains closed (did I do that?). I reached out for the light switch … and paused. I was beginning to remember everything now, and as I stumbled through the dimness over to the window, I could hear myself slurring drunkenly to Bridget about the press and the TV people — now that Bishop’s thrown them a bone they’re all going to be after me like dogs , I’d told her. I can keep the phones turned off, and I can keep away from my office, but sooner or later they’re going to start coming round here …

I stood to the side of the window, pulled back the edge of the curtain, and glanced outside. Across the street, a handful of reporters and a TV crew were hanging around by a streetlight at the far end of the factory wall. I watched them for a while, then closed the curtain and stepped back from the window.

‘Shit.’

I remained motionless for a minute, digesting what I’d just seen, then I inched open the curtain again and took another quick look. I got the impression that they’d been there for some time, which either meant that they were waiting for me to come out, or that they didn’t know I was in and they were waiting for me to come home. And from the way some of them kept glancing up and down the street, I guessed it was the latter. They’d probably arrived a few hours ago, and they’d probably rung the bell and been hammering on the door, and in my drunken stupor I simply hadn’t heard anything. And with the curtains closed, and no one answering, they must have assumed that I was out.

I wondered where Bridget was …

And what she thought of all this.

And me.

What did she think of me?

And did I care?

I went out into the hallway and stood at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up into the darkness. No lights, no sounds …

‘Bridget?’ I called out.

No reply.

‘Bridget?’ A little louder this time.

Still no reply. And no barking either. Which either meant that she was out somewhere with Walter, or that they were both up there pretending to be out. Either way, there was no point in me going up.

I went back into my flat, put on my shoes and coat, then went out into the backyard. It was a cold night, the air damp and sullen under a starless black sky, and as I headed down the pathway towards the back wall, I realised it must have been raining quite heavily while I was asleep. Bushes were dripping in the darkness, the path was scattered with the debris of a hard downpour — washed-up soil, slugs, worms, bits of stick — and the sodden earth was alive with the sound of tiny wet things clicking and popping.

At the end of the path, I clambered up onto an old metal bin, hoisted myself over the wall, and dropped down into my neighbour’s backyard. It was a yard that had evolved over the years into a flagstone shanty town of broken sheds and greenhouses all cobbled together with discarded wooden doors and acres of corrugated plastic sheeting. The sheds, I knew, were packed with crates and rusty tools and scraps of wood rescued from skips, and the greenhouses were piled high with empty seed trays and plant pots.

There was no one around. It was EastEnders time — or Coronation Street or Emmerdale — and the deaf old man who lived here would be stuck in front of his TV, just like everyone else, engrossed in a world of twisted love and daily disasters …

I made my way round the back of the house to a bin-cluttered alley that led me out into the street that runs parallel to mine. It looked almost identical to my street — the same terraced houses, the same frontyards, the same cracked pavements lined with too many parked cars … the only thing missing was a handful of reporters and a TV crew.

I lit a cigarette and headed for the nearest taxi rank.

Leon Mercer lived with his wife, Claudia, in a grey-walled four-storey house in a secluded avenue at the edge of town. It was a pleasant area, the gardens well-tended and the broad pavements planted with lime trees, and as I got out of the taxi and headed up a block-paved driveway towards Leon’s house, I remembered the first time I’d ever been here. It was about a month or so after I’d started going out with Imogen. I was seventeen years old then, anxiously visiting my girlfriend’s home for the first time, scared to death that I’d do something wrong, or say something stupid, or that her parents just wouldn’t like me. And I remember feeling quite intimidated by the size and relative splendour of the house. I didn’t know much about Leon Mercer then, but I knew that he was a police officer, like my father, and I was pretty sure that they were both the same rank, and so I couldn’t understand why we lived in a modest semi-detached house in a very average street while the Mercers had a four-storey detached place in one of the wealthiest parts of town. I found out later that the house actually belonged to Claudia Mercer, a gift from her father, who’d made a pile of money from a string of retail sports shops …

I’d reached the front door now — a huge oak thing, set in an old stone porchway. I rang the bell and waited. A cold rain had begun to fall, and in the bright-white glare of security lights blazing from houses along the avenue, I could see the twist of yellowed leaves fluttering in the wind. There was a hint — perhaps imagined — of bonfire smoke and fireworks in the air, and as I stood there in the autumn night, the distant memories of childhood Guy Fawkes’ nights drifted into my mind. Black horizons arced with rocket lights and starburst blooms … jumping jacks, roman candles, catherine wheels … a roaring bonfire, snapping and popping and crackling, the glowing red embers drifting up into the night …

‘John!’ a surprised voice said, bringing me back to the here and now, and I turned round to see Imogen standing at the open door.

‘Hey, Immy,’ I said.

She gave me an enthusiastic hug, kissing me on both cheeks, then led me inside and closed the door.

‘God, John,’ she said, taking me by the arm. ‘I just saw the press conference about Anna Gerrish on the news … Why didn’t you tell me you’d found her?’

I shrugged. ‘Well, it’s kind of complicated — ’

‘I tried ringing you, but I couldn’t get through.’

‘Yeah, sorry. The press started calling me so I turned all the phones off.’

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, gently squeezing my arm. ‘I mean, this must be really hard for you …’

‘I’m fine — ’

‘Christ,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Anton fucking Viner … I still can’t believe it.’ She looked at me. ‘Is Bishop keeping you up to speed on everything?’

I shrugged. ‘He’s told me what he thinks I need to know.’

‘Yeah,’ she muttered, shaking her head again. ‘I bet he has, the piece of shit.’