Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

‘Yeah, that’d be nice.’ Still bent over, she tied her shoelaces in a double knot, brushed at the toes of her shoes, then lightly stamped her feet. Finally, she sat back up and looked at me. ‘If it’s not too late,’ she said, almost shyly, ‘maybe we could go out somewhere?’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Good.’

I smiled at her.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I thought you were getting up?’

‘I am.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘I thought you had to go downstairs to cash up?’

She shook her head. ‘You watched me getting dressed, now it’s my turn to watch you.’

I stared at her, stupidly embarrassed, not sure what to say.

She smiled. ‘It’s all right, I’m only joking. I’ll let you get dressed in peace.’

She glanced over her shoulder at me as she left the room, and the look on her face — a carefree smile of intimate amusement — sent a tingle through my heart.

It was quiet in the pet shop downstairs. The daylight was fading outside, shops were closed or closing, shoppers were on their way home. It was that time of day when the town gets a chance to rest before the bedlam of the night begins. In the shop, Bridget was cashing up, birds were fluttering softly in their cages, and the fish tanks were bubbling quietly in the evening light. I stood by the door, breathing in the musty smell of straw and grain, the rubbery tang of dog toys, the fresh leather scent of collars and leads …

I didn’t want to leave.

I wanted to stay here.

I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

‘You’ll ring me later then?’ Bridget said.

‘Yeah … I don’t know what time it’ll be — ’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she smiled. ‘Just call me when you can.’

I looked at her for a moment, remembering the scent of her skin, the touch of her lips, the breath of her whispered words …

‘Go on,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll see you later.’

I unlocked the door and stepped out into the twilight.

There were no reporters waiting outside my office when I got there, and my illegally parked Fiesta was gone. The building looked dark and empty, and as I let myself in and started climbing the stairs, I could feel the silence all around me. It was everywhere — in the air, the dust, the empty offices, the worn old wood of the banister … a sleeping silence.

My keys rattled far too loudly as I unlocked the office door and went inside. I didn’t turn on the light. I moved quietly through the darkness, opened the door to my private office, and made my way over to my desk. I poured myself a large drink from the bottle in the drawer, then went over to the settee beneath the window. The blinds were open, the dark glass of the window glazed with the faint glow of streetlights, and as I sat down on the settee and lit a cigarette, a shadow of my stupid smoking head fell across the floor.

Stupid …

The blue-eyed animal.

Stupid and pure.

I wasn’t pure. I was faithless and stupid and weak.

‘I’m sorry, Stace,’ I muttered. ‘I’m really sorry …’

It’s OK .

‘No, it’s not.’

You can’t be sad all the time, John. Not for ever. It’ll kill you. You have to be happy sometimes .

‘I can’t — ’

Yes, you can. You were happy with Bridget just now, weren’t you?

‘Please don’t — ’

She’s nice .

‘Yeah, but she’s not you.’

It’s all right, John. Really, it’s all right. Don’t cry any more .

I sniffed hard, wiping snot and tears from my face.

I’m in your heart, John … always. No matter what .

‘I know.’

I love you .

I thought I might just sit there in the silent darkness and sink down into a drunken nowhere for the rest of the night, but after five minutes or so of not drinking, not thinking, just staring thoughtlessly at nothing, something made me put down the untouched whisky glass and get up off the settee.

It was almost six o’clock.

I looked over at the wall safe, imagining the 9mm pistol inside, and just for a moment I thought of my father. I thought of him alone in his room, putting the gun to his head … and I remembered Leon’s question: If you’re going to kill yourself, why make a point of locking the door first? What purpose does it serve? And I wondered if there was a meaningful answer, or if — like almost everything else in this life — it was just one of those things, as purposeless as life itself.

I guessed I’d never know.

Cal was waiting for me outside his house when the taxi dropped me off. Dressed in a long black overcoat and a battered old trilby, and with his tousled hair sticking out wildly from beneath the hat, he looked like some kind of mutant Sam Spade.

‘You’re late,’ he said.

‘Yeah, sorry — ’

‘It’s quarter-past six already.’

‘I know — ’

‘And why don’t you answer your fucking mobile? I’ve been trying to call you for hours.’

I pulled out my phone and checked it. ‘Sorry,’ I said, switching it on. ‘I must have turned it off by mistake.’

‘Fuck’s sake, John …’

‘What were you trying to call me about?’

He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll tell you in the car.’

It was fully dark as we left Cal’s house and headed north out of town. The Turk’s Head, the pub where Bishop was supposedly meeting the man called Ray, was about two miles west of Stangate Rise, the estate where the Gerrishes lived. It was a large, family-friendly pub, with a restaurant and a beer garden and a children’s play area, and although it was a fair way from town, it was usually pretty busy.

Traffic was sparse at this time of night — too late for going home, too early for going out — and Cal was making the most of the open roads, gunning the Mondeo along at well over 60 mph. His hands were tight on the steering wheel, his eyes were alight, and he was talking as fast as he was driving.

‘Listen, what I was trying to tell you about, the search … it came up with something about Bishop, something really weird … well, it might not be anything, and it might not be really weird, but the thing is, it found this archive someone’s set up on a private site, like a local newspaper thing, a local history site or something — ’

‘Hold on,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘First of all, I can’t understand a word you’re saying. And second of all, you’re driving too fast.’

‘We’re late — ’

‘It doesn’t matter. Just slow down.’

‘But if we don’t get there — ’

‘If you carry on driving like this, we won’t get there at all.’

He nodded, licking his lips, and eased off the accelerator.

‘OK,’ I said calmly. ‘How much speed have you taken?’

‘Not much. I was just — ’

‘You need to get on top of it, Cal. Right now. OK? If you can’t control yourself, we’re not going anywhere.’

‘I can control myself.’

‘Yeah, well, do it then.’ I looked at him. ‘I don’t want to hear another word from you until you’ve got your head sorted out. All right?’

He nodded.

I lit a cigarette and gazed out of the window. The moon was full, hanging low and pale in the sky, its cold light greying the night. We’d left the town behind now and were driving steadily along an unlit dual carriageway through a dying landscape of small villages and farmland. Ash trees lined the roadside, their branches almost bare, and beyond them lay the remains of an old forest. There wasn’t much left of the forest now, and most of it was scarred with litter-filled ditches and the mindless rut of motorcycle tracks, but it was still just possible to imagine the primitive heart of the forest as it once must have been. Colourless in the cold of night, a tableau of dark earth and grasses and shallow black waters melting in the starless sky. Bones, scraps of beasts, like bleached jewels of winter scattered on the slopes of black hills. It would have been a desolate place, proud and savage and out of time …