Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t make sense, does it? If you’re going to kill yourself, why make a point of locking the door first? What purpose does it serve?’

‘I don’t know …’ I said, confused. ‘I’ve never really thought about it …’

He smiled distantly. ‘Perhaps you should.’

‘Are you trying to say — ?’

‘I’m sorry, John,’ he muttered, his eyes beginning to close again. ‘Would you mind asking Claudia to come up here? I think … I think I’m …’ He sighed hard. ‘God, I’m so fucking tired.’

‘How long has he got?’ I asked Imogen.

‘I wish I knew,’ she sighed. ‘But you know what Dad’s like, he refuses to talk about it.’ We were in her car — a ridiculously expensive black Mercedes — and she was driving me home. ‘He has his good days and bad days,’ she went on. ‘Sometimes he’s OK, other times … well, you saw what he was like tonight.’

I nodded. ‘Is he at home all the time now?’

‘Just about. He struggles into the office every now and then, and he still insists that I keep him up to date with everything that’s going on with the business, but he spends most of his time in his study now.’

‘What does he do up there?’

‘I’m not sure … he’s got a few things he’s been working on for years — old cases, I think. He’s forever emailing people, speaking to old colleagues …’ She sighed again. ‘He just can’t seem to give it up.’

‘Yeah, well,’ I said. ‘Maybe that’s not such a bad thing … at least it’s better than just lying around feeling sorry for yourself.’

‘I suppose so …’

I glanced at her, realising how much she’d changed over the years. She didn’t look all that different to the seventeen-year-old girl I’d once thought I loved — the same shiny black hair, the same graceful features, the same overall air of almost aristocratic elegance. But she’d grown up now. She was a married woman. She ran a business. She was confident, capable … she could deal with the world.

‘What?’ she said, smiling as she noticed me looking at her. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing … I was just …’

‘What? Just looking at me?’

‘Sorry …’

She laughed. ‘I’m not complaining.’

I gazed out of the window for a while, not saying anything. We were driving through the town centre now, and the night was alive with drinkers and clubbers — groups of girls, groups of men … short skirts, drunk eyes, T-shirts, no coats …

‘So,’ I said to Imogen. ‘How’s Martin?’

Martin was her husband, Martin Rand. A financier of some sort, he worked in the City, commuting to London every day. Apart from the fact that he was sickeningly energetic, and grotesquely good-looking, and unbelievably rich, I didn’t really know very much about him.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ Imogen said.

‘Heard what?’

‘We split up.’

‘Really?’

She nodded. ‘A couple of months ago … I thought you knew.’

‘No …’

‘That’s why I’m living at home at the moment.’

‘Oh, right … I thought you were just visiting.’

She looked at me. ‘Are you sure I didn’t tell you? I could have sworn …’

‘I would have remembered if you’d told me,’ I said. ‘So what happened …? Or don’t you want to talk about it?’

‘No,’ she said lightly. ‘It’s no big deal. It was just … well, lots of things really. We just grew apart, I suppose.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘And, you know … Martin had always wanted us to have kids …’

‘And you didn’t?’

She glanced at me. ‘I wanted a family, yeah … but I wanted to carry on working too.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t want to stay at home all day, changing nappies and cleaning up sick, while Martin carried on living his life, swanning around all over the world.’

I nodded, not sure what to say.

Imogen smiled at me. ‘You never liked Martin, did you?’

‘I never really knew him that well.’

‘Yeah, but you still didn’t like him.’

I looked at her. She was smiling at me.

I said, ‘Are you doing all right?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, nodding. ‘Yeah, I really am.’

‘Good.’

‘How about you? I mean, apart from all this stuff that’s going on at the moment. How are you doing?’

‘Well, you know …’

‘The business OK?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

‘What about the rest of it?’

‘The rest of what?’

‘Your life …’

‘I don’t know,’ I muttered, inexplicably embarrassed for a moment. ‘I get up in the morning, you know … go to work, come home, do stuff …’

‘What kind of stuff?’

I shrugged. ‘Just stuff … the same kind of stuff that everyone else does. Read, watch television, eat, sleep …’

‘Are you seeing anyone?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to?’

I sighed.

Imogen looked at me. ‘Sorry … I didn’t mean to — ’

‘It’s all right.’

‘I’m just … I worry about you, John, that’s all.’

‘You don’t need to.’

‘I know,’ she said, grinning. ‘But I enjoy it.’

I smiled at her, and for a moment I was reminded of how close we used to be, and how different things used to be. Back then … it was a ghostless time — the spring before the summer, when the leaves that were falling now had yet to even form.

I looked out of the car window and saw that we were nearing the turn-off to my street. ‘You’d better drop me off here,’ I said to Imogen.

‘Why?’ she said, still smiling. ‘Don’t you want to be seen with me?’

‘There were reporters waiting outside my house when I left,’ I explained. ‘And a TV crew too. If they see you with me … well, you know how it works.’

She glanced at her watch. ‘But it’s 10.30, John — ’

‘Oh, yeah, I forgot … they all go to bed at ten o’clock, don’t they?’

She nodded, pulling in at the turning to my street and parking expertly at the side of the road. The engine of the Mercedes purred quietly, and for a second or two we just sat there in the warmth of the car, sharing an intimate silence. ‘I’ve got a hat and scarf in the back of the car,’ Imogen said after a while. ‘It’s not the most subtle disguise in the world, but if you wanted to invite me in for a drink, I could leave the car here …’

I looked at her, not sure what to think or say … and my uncertainty clearly showed in my face, because after a few moments Imogen smiled sadly and said, ‘Some other time, maybe?’

‘Yeah, I’m sorry … it’s just — ’

‘I understand, John. Really, it’s OK.’ Her smile brightened, and she leaned across and kissed me. ‘And you never know,’ she added, brushing my cheek with her hand. ‘A mysterious woman in a hat and scarf might just turn up one night, looking for some company …’

‘I’ll look out for her.’

‘You do that.’

I couldn’t see any reporters or TV people as I walked down the street towards my house, and I wondered briefly if perhaps they had all gone home and gone to bed early, but then — just as I was approaching my house — the door of a parked car opened and a sharp-eyed young woman clutching a digital voice recorder jumped out.

‘Mr Craine?’ she called out to me. ‘Could I have a quick word about — ’

‘No,’ I said firmly.

She took no notice, scuttling up to me, then scrambling along beside me, sticking the recorder into my face. ‘How did you feel when you heard the news about Anton Viner, Mr Craine?’

‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘It really made my day.’

She was taken aback for a second, long enough for me to get to the house and get my key in the door.