Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

‘How did you find Anna’s body, John?’ she said. ‘How did you know where it was?’

I didn’t say anything, just opened the door.

‘Did you know Anna, John?’

I went inside and shut the door, but before I’d got halfway along the corridor, the doorbell rang. I turned round and walked back along the hallway, reached up to the bell, and yanked out the wires. Then I just stood there for a while, in the silent darkness, waiting to see if she knocked on the door … and I was really hoping that she didn’t, because I didn’t want to do anything stupid, but I had a feeling that I might.

But she didn’t.

I waited a couple of minutes, then a few minutes more — and while I waited I was listening hard for any sign of life from upstairs … but there was nothing. No sounds, no faint vibrations, no sense of any presence at all. And as I moved quietly back down the hallway and unlocked the door to my flat, I wondered where Bridget had gone. Was she out with friends somewhere? Dancing, drinking … enjoying the night? Or maybe she’d decided to give Dave another chance. Maybe she was with him right now … in a fancy restaurant, a pub, a club, at his place … in bed together …

I didn’t put the lights on when I went inside. I moved through the familiar darkness into the front room, sat down in the armchair, and lit a cigarette. The curtains were all still closed. The house was silent. I poured myself a tumbler of whisky, raised it to my lips, and drank deeply.

Around 8.30 the next morning I was smoking my second cigarette of the day with my third cup of coffee when I heard a commotion outside — hurried footsteps, raised voices, the sound of a dog barking. I got up and looked out through a gap in the curtains and saw Bridget and Walter struggling their way across the road, pursued by a gaggle of reporters and TV people. Bridget was saying nothing, keeping her head bowed down and her eyes fixed firmly to the ground, and Walter was just barking chaotically at everything. As they reached the front door, I went out into the hallway and met them coming in.

‘Shit,’ said Bridget, slamming the door on the reporters. ‘They don’t give up, do they?’

‘Are you OK?’ I asked her.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘How about you?’

‘Yeah,’ I nodded. ‘I’m all right. Look, I’m really sorry about all this — ’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, shaking her head and waving away my apology. ‘It’s not your fault, is it?’

‘Maybe not,’ I shrugged. ‘But I’m sorry anyway.’

‘Me too,’ she said, touching my arm. ‘About last night, I mean …’

I looked at her, not sure what she meant.

‘I meant to leave you a note,’ she explained. ‘To let you know where I’d gone … but I forgot. Sorry.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘I went to see Sarah,’ she said. ‘We had some pet-shop business to sort out, you know … tax and stuff. And then we had a few glasses of wine, and I didn’t want to drive home drunk … especially with all these reporters around — ’

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me.’

She smiled. ‘I’m just telling you, that’s all.’

‘Well … thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

We looked at each other for a moment then — Bridget still smiling at me — and I realised that her coat was damp and her hair was glistening darkly with a light sheen of rain … and I remembered how Stacy’s blonde hair used to darken in the rain, taking on the colour of rain-goldened straw …

‘I’d better get a move on,’ Bridget said.

I looked at her. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Work,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘Saturday’s the busiest day of the week.’ She grinned at me. ‘Lots of fat kids wanting to buy mouses.’

I nodded, smiling. ‘Are you going right now?’

‘Yeah, I just need to get a couple of things from upstairs.’

‘I was just on my way into town, so if you want a lift …?’

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah.’

‘OK,’ she said, heading for the stairs. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

There were even more reporters waiting outside when we left the house, and as we headed across the street towards my car they swarmed all around us like maniacs — shoving microphones in our faces, shouting out questions, blocking our way, taking photographs. Walter started up with his chaotic barking again, while me and Bridget just kept our mouths shut and concentrated on walking in a straight line. I was doing my best to stay calm, to not let the pushing and jostling bother me … and I was doing a pretty good job of it until, just as we reached my car, a particularly annoying photographer rammed his camera so close to my face, trying to get a shot of me and Bridget together, that I just couldn’t help lashing out at him. As he shoved against me again, almost knocking me off my feet, I swung round and cracked my elbow into his camera, smashing it viciously into his face. He grunted in pain, stepping back and dropping the camera, and while he stood there clutching his bloodied nose, I leaned down, picked up his camera, and threw it over the factory wall. There was a momentary silence before I heard the satisfying sound of the camera splashing into the cooling pond beyond the wall, and then everything started up again — the scuffling, the jostling, the questioning, the digital whirr of cameras — and as we got into my car, I could just make out the bleating voice of the photographer I’d hit whining away in the background — you brode my vucking node, you bartard … I’ll vucking do you for dis … I’ll vucking ab you …

‘Sorry about that,’ I said to Bridget, making sure that Walter was safely in the back and locking the car doors. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt the guy — ’

‘Fuck him,’ she said, fastening her seat belt. ‘He deserved it.’

‘You ready?’ I asked her, starting the car.

She smiled. ‘Let’s go.’

About five minutes later, as we approached the north end of the High Street, Bridget glanced over her shoulder and said, ‘I think we’re being followed.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Are they reporters?’

‘In the BMW, yeah. There’s a TV crew in the Range Rover behind them.’

Bridget looked at me. ‘Aren’t you going to try losing them?’

I shook my head. ‘There’s no point.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m a shitty driver,’ I said. ‘And this is a shitty car. And, besides, they know where I’m going anyway.’

‘Yeah, but they don’t know where I’m going, do they? I don’t want them following me to the shop, John.’

‘I’ll drop you off at the NatWest in the High Street,’ I said, pulling up at the lights. ‘You can cut through the bank and go out the back way into Wyre Street. It’s only about five minutes from there to your shop.’ I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw that the BMW and the Range Rover were about three or four cars behind us. The lights were still red.

‘But what if they follow me into the bank?’ Bridget said.

‘They won’t.’

Before she could say anything else, I slammed the Fiesta into gear, put my foot down and shot through the red lights. Horns blared as I swung the Fiesta to the right, narrowly missing an oncoming bus, and sped down the High Street for about fifty yards before screeching to a halt outside the bank.

‘Go on,’ I told Bridget, glancing quickly in the rear-view mirror. ‘You’re all right, they’re still stuck at the lights.’

‘Will you call me later?’ she said, undoing her seat belt and opening the door.

‘Yeah, if I can. Now get going.’

She jumped out, got Walter out of the back, and as they hurried off together into the bank, I drove off steadily down the High Street. Within twenty seconds or so, the BMW and the Range Rover were behind me again, only this time they were keeping a lot closer.