Peter Guttridge - The Thing Itself

He walked over to join the small queue of people waiting to go back down the mountain. He shuffled forward as a couple and their two children went out on to the platform. Tingley could see Kadire now, slumped in his seat. Blood was coming out of his ear.

A fat curly-haired man in drooping jeans and a short-sleeved yellow shirt was regulating the funivia . Sweat glistened on his face and had begun to stain the back of his shirt.

Tingley was next but one.

He willed himself not to look back at Kadire. The man was dead and Tingley was the Invisible Man. He always had been. Nobody had seen him kill Kadire.

Another couple went on to the platform, leaving Tingley exposed at the gate. The fat man led him to a point where he was standing directly opposite Kadire. He kept his eyes lowered and for what seemed an age willed himself invisible, always expecting someone to cry out and point the finger at him.

A cage appeared over the rim of the platform. The three young girls inside were laughing. The man on the other side reached forward and unhooked the door. The cage bobbed as he slowed it down slightly with his right arm. The first girl — tall and elegant in shorts, tights and flat pumps — dropped out. The man was walking alongside to help the second girl. She jumped and stumbled slightly, but he steadied her with his right arm whilst keeping hold of the cage with his left.

The cage was between Tingley and Kadire’s slumped body when the third girl jumped out. The cage jerked and continued round. The first two girls joined the third and the man on that side cracked a joke with them. They laughed, forming a group with him between Tingley and Kadire.

Within a second the cage was in front of Tingley. Gripping the iron rim, he swung himself in. The gate clanged closed behind him and with a lurch he swung towards the edge of the platform. Just before he dropped over the line, Tingley looked back. Kadire was slumped exactly as before. A waiter was ambling towards him.

Gubbio approached slowly. As the cage made its steady progression, Tingley was strung tight.

The couple in front were larking about. The man shifted his weight to frighten the girl as their cage wobbled. She gave a little scream of pleasure and fright.

The cages coming up were empty. Tingley reached the first pylon and the cage jerked. There were speakers on the pylon and a metallic voice had begun to comment on a football match. Tingley heard the sullen roar of the crowd. The girl in the cage in front shrieked again.

A large insect landed on Tingley’s neck. He lightly wafted it away. Two brightly coloured birds chased each other between the pine trees below him. Tingley was acutely aware of bird songs, the faint thrum of traffic, a car changing gear. He looked across at the nearest tree, tempted to reach out and brush the branches with his open palm.

His nerves were screaming. In the bright sunlight the trees were etched sharply against the deep blue sky. He had an intense sensation of now-ness. He was pondering this when he saw Miladin Radislav coming up in a cage thirty or forty yards below him.

Kate Simpson was sitting on Sarah Gilchrist’s balcony waiting for her coffee to cool. The sun had come out between the showers but she still felt shivery. Frankly, she was terrified at the thought of going to prison for what she’d done to the man who had attacked her. And mortified that her actions had got Sarah suspended. And furious with her father for visiting this upon her. Otherwise, she was fine.

She gave a small smile and reached for her coffee. Her phone rang. Bob Watts.

‘How are you coping?’ he said.

‘I’m trying to stay calm,’ she said. She was surprised to hear the shakiness in her voice and to feel herself welling up.

‘Kate, Sarah and I are going to follow up a lead in France about the Milldean Massacre. We’ve located Bernie Grimes. Wondered if you wanted to come along.’

‘France?’ Kate was surprised. ‘I–I don’t know. Following up leads isn’t really my thing.’

‘We’re just a bit concerned about leaving you alone.’

Kate felt tears coming.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, a little breathy. ‘I’ll use a kitchen knife next time.’

Watts laughed but still sounded anxious when he said: ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ she said, her voice stronger, the tearful moment gone. ‘But thanks for worrying about me.’

‘We shouldn’t be more than a couple of days,’ Watts said. ‘You know, having a focus might be a good idea. When are you back at Southern Shores Radio?’

‘I’m not sure that provides any kind of focus.’

Watts was silent for a moment, then: ‘Listen. I’ve got a load more files on the Brighton Trunk Murders. The files that were supposed to be destroyed in the sixties?’

Kate had done all the research into the Trunk Murder papers that had turned up some months earlier in the Royal Pavilion. She had made a radio documentary about it.

‘How come?’ she said.

‘Long story, to do with John Hathaway’s father. They’ve been sitting in the boot of my car. Plus I’ve got some more stuff of my dad’s. You interested?’

‘Sure. Can you get them to me?’

‘I can come to Brighton tomorrow.’

Kate was conscious of her ragged breath.

‘Will you do me a favour?’ he continued. ‘Check out particularly three people: Martin Charteris, Eric Knowles and Tony Mancini.’

‘Tony Mancini is the other trunk murder — the two aren’t connected.’

‘I know but there’s something going on between him and Charteris — and, in fact, there’s another Mancini, an Antonio “Baby” Mancini, who’s a real Soho gangster. He worked for the Sabini brothers.’

‘I think there’s stuff about him in the Brighton Tony Mancini file. The two got muddled. Who are the other two?’

‘Charteris is a petty crook but maybe more. Knowles — I’m not sure what he is. But I definitely want to find out.’

Radislav was wearing dark glasses and a lime-green suit that made his skin tone even more ghastly. Even from a distance, Tingley could see that he was grinning. The gap between the cages narrowed. Radislav was standing feet apart, both hands resting lightly on the bar in front of him, and he was looking straight at Tingley. Tingley half-expected him to wave.

Before, Tingley had never felt fear. But now, this thing in his belly. .

He tried to take a deep breath. Half made it. Radislav is not a monster, he said to himself; he is just a man.

He looked down. He was nearing the part of the descent where the cages were only about twenty feet above a rocky scree. He was approaching another pylon. Tingley noted the small platform at the top and the steel ladder going up its spine. He looked across at Radislav’s grey face.

The two cages drew closer.

Radislav was almost level and staring directly at him, still smiling his skull’s-head smile. Tingley heard bird song, the girl’s shrieks, the dislocated voice of the radio commentator coming from above and below him. Radislav was near enough for Tingley to see the grey at his temples, the gold screw in the hinge of his sunglasses, his right hand moving inside his jacket.

Radislav was reaching for a gun.

Tingley reached behind him to take his own gun from its holster. He gauged the distance between the two cages and kept his eyes on Radislav’s jacket.

His cage was swaying. Radislav was fumbling, getting a grip on something. Then the hand withdrew. First, the cuff of his cream shirt with the glitter of its cufflink in the sunshine. The thin, pale wrist. The hand.

Tingley couldn’t seem to release his gun from its holster. He was totally off balance, the cage swaying alarmingly. His eyes saw a drunken kaleidoscope of rock, trees, shingle roof and blue sky. He fell to the floor of his cage.