Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

It’s how it is, how it’s meant to be, and that’s how I like it.

And it holds no memories for me.

And I like that, too.

I went over to the old armchair beneath the high window in the front room, and I sat down and lit a cigarette. My eyes were stiff and heavy, and deep inside me I could feel a distant weight of tiredness that at some point, I knew, was going to creep up behind me and drape a blanket over my head — a cold, black, greasy old blanket. And when that happened, I wouldn’t be capable of anything. I’d be in the black place, the place where I can’t move, where I’ve never been able to move … the place where there is nothing else … nothing at all. And when I’m there, I’ve been there all my life, and I’ll remain there for the rest of my life, draped in the darkness. I can’t do anything. I don’t want anything. What’s the point? Fifty years from now, we’ll all be dead anyway. We’ll all be floating back to the stars or buried in the dark underground, caked in clay, riddled with worms and insects, centipedes, chafers, slugs … and nothing that happens now will mean a fucking thing.

That’s how the black place makes me feel.

But I wasn’t there yet.

I finished my cigarette, went into the kitchen and swallowed a handful of painkillers, then came back to the armchair and poured myself a glass of Scotch. I lit another cigarette, took a long slow drink, and breathed out slowly as the heat of the whisky soaked down into my gut and then rose up into my heart like a warm balloon.

I poured myself another, and then I just sat there, drinking and smoking in the rainy-grey light of the afternoon, until I fell asleep.

I woke up to the sound of my mobile ringing. The daylight was beginning to fade now, and as I fumbled the mobile out of my pocket and put it to my ear, a car rolled down the street outside and the dimness of the room was briefly illuminated by a slow sweep of headlights.

‘Yeah?’ I said into the phone.

‘Hi, John,’ a familiar voice replied. ‘It’s Imogen …’

Imogen Rand was a good friend of mine who’d once been more than just a good friend. Her father, Leon Mercer, was the owner and managing director of Mercer Associates.

‘Hey, Immy,’ I said. ‘I was going to call you later — ’

‘Yeah, right. Of course you were.’

‘No, really …’

‘Are you all right, John?’ she interrupted. ‘You sound a bit — ’

‘Yeah, sorry. I just woke up.’

‘Late night?’

‘Well, kind of …’

‘I can call back if you want.’

‘No, it’s all right.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, glancing at the clock. It was 4.55. ‘I needed to wake up anyway.’

‘OK … well, it’s just a quick call. Has a woman called Gerrish been in touch with you yet?’

‘Yeah, I saw her this afternoon. She told me that you’d recommended me.’

‘Well, you know it’s not the kind of thing that we’d take on, and I thought you might find it interesting … are you going to do it?’

I lit a cigarette. ‘I told her I’d give it three days.’

‘Right, well …’ she said hesitantly. ‘The thing is, John, I saw Dad last night, and I mentioned it to him, and he told me that Mick Bishop is the SIO on the Anna Gerrish case. Of course, if I’d known that at the time, I wouldn’t have put Helen Gerrish in touch with you, at least not without asking you first. Sorry, John, it just didn’t occur to me to find out — ’

‘It’s all right,’ I assured her. ‘It’s not a problem. I knew about Bishop before I made up my mind anyway.’

‘Really? So you’re still going to do it?’

‘Yeah, why not? History is history.’

‘I suppose …’

‘What did you think of her anyway?’ I asked.

‘Helen Gerrish?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Not much. I mean, yeah, I feel sorry for her and everything, but …’

I laughed.

‘What?’ she said. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘You, feeling sorry for someone.’

‘Hey,’ she said, pretending to take offence. ‘Just because I don’t give a shit about people, that doesn’t mean I’m not sympathetic.’

‘Right, so you felt really sorry for her, but …?’

‘Well, she was lying, for a start.’

‘About what?’

‘I don’t know, but she was definitely lying about something. At least, she was when she talked to me.’

‘Yeah, I got the same feeling too. What else didn’t you like about her?’

‘It’s not a question of not liking her, John … well, actually, come to think of it, it is. I really didn’t like her one bit. And I’m sure that if I met her husband, I wouldn’t like him either.’

‘What about Anna? Do you think you’d like her if you met her?’

‘Probably not.’

‘You’re all heart, Imogen.’

‘Fucking right, I am.’

We talked on for a little while longer about nothing much in particular — the StayBright/Preston Elliot case (which I told her was coming along nicely), her father’s ailing health, and the possibility of her taking over as MD of Mercer Associates — and then I realised how late it was getting, and that I had to be at Helen Gerrish’s at six, so we said our goodbyes, and I called for a taxi to take me back into town, and by the time the taxi arrived I’d taken a quick shower and changed my bloodied clothes, and was ready to face the world again.

Helen Gerrish lived with her husband in a small red-brick house on a modern commuter estate called Stangate Rise about two miles out of town. It was one of those estates with hundreds of houses that all look the same and dozens of streets that all look the same, so it’s really easy to get lost. Which I did. And that was one of the reasons I didn’t get there until just gone quarter to seven. Another reason was that the garage still hadn’t been round to fix the broken window in my car, and the rain was still pouring down, so I’d had to spend twenty minutes or so patching up the window with a couple of old Sainsbury’s carrier bags and about a mile of grey duct tape before I left. And one more reason for being late was that I’d had to stop on the way to answer a phone call from DCI Bishop.

It was strange to hear his voice again. The last time I’d seen him was eighteen years ago at my father’s funeral, and although he’d only spoken to me briefly then — a very curt offer of condolences — I recognised his gruff Essex accent immediately.

‘John Craine?’ he’d said when I answered the phone.

‘Yeah?’

‘DCI Bishop. Your secretary called me this afternoon.’

‘Yes, thanks for — ’

‘What’s your interest in Anna Gerrish?’

‘Didn’t my secretary tell you?’

‘I’m asking you.’

I sighed. ‘I’ve been hired to look into her disappearance — ’

‘By who?’

‘Whom.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing …’

‘Who hired you?’

‘I’m sorry, but I’d have to get my client’s permission before — ’

‘What does your client want you to do?’

‘Find Anna.’

‘And how do you expect to do that?’

I lit a cigarette. ‘Look, all I want is — ’

‘You’re Jim Craine’s son, aren’t you?’

‘Yes …’

‘You probably don’t remember me, but I used to work with your father — ’

‘Yeah, I remember you.’

He paused for a moment then, and although it was only a very slight hesitation, it was enough to give me an equally slight sense of satisfaction.

‘So,’ Bishop said, sniffing self-consciously. ‘You’re working this case then, are you?’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Not as long as you keep me informed of what you’re doing.’