John Harvey - Good Bait

‘You believe that?’

‘That he walked away? Got out of there as soon as he could? Sure, of course.’

‘That he didn’t have anything to do with what happened?’

She shrugged and reached for her cigarettes. ‘What’s it matter? Pushed, fell, either way? Not going to bring her back, soft cow.’

Cordon bit back his words. Her mother, not his. Her life to live.

Neither of them mentioned it again.

Jack Kiley had been in touch that morning. According to Taras, his brother was gradually coming round; just give him a little longer and he thought Anton could be persuaded to agree to some kind of reasonable arrangement, shared access to his son in exchange for financial support. Just give him a little more time.

Time they still had.

Venturing out into the surrounding area, they found, less than fifteen minutes’ drive away, a family theme park with bouncy castles and trampolines and pedalos; a small paddling pool, where Danny screamed with delight at the sudden shock of cold; a petting zoo with sheep and goats and a pair of long-eared donkeys, shaggy in their winter coats.

Emboldened, they drove north to the Pink Granite Coast and followed the path as it wound between vast, impossible formations of rocks shaped by the sea and the wind; parked above the empty swathes of sand at Beg Leguer, where Cordon and Danny combed rock pools for shrimps and tiny crabs, while Letitia sheltered out of the wind and smoked and read for the second time a Maggie O’Farrell she’d found stashed behind all those dry and clever men on the bookshelves where they were staying.

On a shopping expedition to the Carrefour in Guingamp, Danny picked up a flier advertising the Haras National de Lamballe, the national stud. Guided tours at three p.m., Tuesdays to Sundays. The illustration showed a stallion rearing irresistibly up into the sky, its mane catching the rays of the sun.

‘Please!’ Danny cried. ‘Please!’

Smiling at his anticipation of such pleasure, Letitia agreed.

Lamballe was where they had switched cars, no more than an hour and a half away; Cordon could call in at the office while they were there, extend the period of loan. Give the boy his wish.

The sun shone, still weakly, but without a breeze they could delude themselves of its warmth. The tour of the stables was more interesting than either Cordon or Letitia had expected — some of the huge Breton horses weighing up to a ton — and Danny, in his element, ran from stall to stall, glowing with excitement; when the tour guide pointed to some hay and asked if he wouldn’t like to help feed one of the horses, it must have felt like heaven.

Afterwards, they sat outside a patisserie in the town square, Cordon and Letitia drinking coffee and sharing some kind of almond pastry, while Danny sipped hot chocolate through a straw and bit down into a coffee eclair so hard the cream splurged out from the far end, all over his face and hands.

Letitia caught Cordon’s look and instead of giving him a warning glance, she allowed herself a smile.

‘Good day?’ he asked, as they settled back into the car.

‘Not bad.’

Leaning across, she kissed him on the cheek, and from the back seat, Danny issued a little squeal of delight.

It couldn’t last.

Hugo French lay there, blocking out the sound, for as long as he could. Turning over, turning back. Moving the pillow beneath his head. Covers tugged this way and that. Kids. No, not kids. Older. Young men by the sound of them, their loud, overlapping voices rising up to the second-floor bedroom where he slept. Young blokes, not so very long out of the pub, standing around outside the house, arguing the toss. About what, Hugo didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. Just the odd word clearly audible, the pattern of phrases repeated over and over, the slightly dodgy double glazing unable to keep them out. ‘No, wait. Wait, wait, wait. Listen. Just fucking listen!’ Every second or third word, the swearing. Like some kind of punctuation, like breathing.

Time was, it would have been Mary awake before him, pushing back the duvet and padding to the window, thinking nothing of throwing it open and sticking her head out, complaining.

People sleeping …

Haven’t you got a home to go to …

Call the police if you’re not careful …

Not any more. The space beside him cold and uncomprehending. He rolled over on to his side and as he did so, the noises seemed to falter and fade. Thank Christ! They were moving away.

But then again …

‘Listen, you bastard! Listen, will ya! Fuckin’ listen!’

Over and over and over …

Hugo levered himself into a sitting position, feet seeking out his slippers; tightening, as he stood, the cord of his pyjamas; reaching his old dressing gown down from behind the door. For heaven’s sake let me buy you a new one for Christmas. That old thing’s a disgrace.

Carefully, he shuffled to the window. Stood there for several moments, nervously, before easing a small space between the curtains and squinting down through the gap.

Yes, he was right. Four young men, standing in a tight little group, facing one another, hands every now and then gesturing, heads lifting with the rise and fall of voices. On their way back from some party, he supposed, an extension at the pub on the corner. Nothing wrong with his eyesight, he didn’t recognise any of them. Not from this street, he was certain. Not from round here. Why they’d chosen this street, he’d no idea. Unless that was their car, parked right by where they were standing. He hadn’t seen that before, either. Nothing flash, nothing racy. Could be theirs, no saying.

One of them turned abruptly and started to walk away, and Hugo thought, okay, this is it, at last they’re going. But right off he seemed to change his mind and turn back again and now … now what were they doing? One of the others leaning over the roof of the car, something being tipped out onto a piece of … foil, was it?… yes, a piece of foil … and one of the others dipping his finger and then putting it inside his mouth, rubbing it across his gums. Hugo didn’t believe what he was seeing. This perfectly ordinary, quiet street, not yet two in the morning, four blokes, illuminated by the nearest street light, not giving a bugger about who saw or heard them, messing around with drugs — cocaine, he supposed that’s what it was, cocaine — he’d read about it enough times, seen it on TV. Maybe that’s what they’d been arguing about all along, buying or selling, he didn’t know, the price, who was to pay, how much.

It angered him; knotted inside him.

And the blank windows opposite, blinds down, curtains closed, none of the neighbours, not that he really knew most of them, not now, not any more, no one interested, sleeping through it all, not caring.

Below, one man pushed another and laughed, then went back to what they were doing.

The telephone was on the bedside table.

The community support officer when he’d called round — some kind of scheme they had, crime prevention — had left a card with the number of the local station. You keep it there, where it’s handy. Any strange noises, anything untoward, don’t be afraid to use it. What we’re there for. Your taxes.

Not my taxes, Hugo remembered thinking, not now it was just a few bits and pieces and the pension.

He dialled the number.

Dawn Pritchard was parked up outside the twenty-four-hour convenience store near the junction when the call came through; her partner, Richie Stevenson, inside buying God knows what. Snickers, Peppermint Aero, KitKat, Bounty. Likely a can of Coke or Red Bull. Whatever it took to get him through the rest of the shift without dropping off. The wonder was, all the sugar and stuff he gorged on, he still looked like a stick insect, so thin when he turned side-on it was just possible to miss him altogether. Whereas Dawn, as she knew to her cost, only had to look at a bar of chocolate or even a Diet Pepsi and she was having to loosen the buttons at the front of her uniform jacket.