Steve Mosby - The Third Person

It must have been the final straw, because I was immediately aware of noise all around me – the rush of air, the tapping of feet, the beeps and clicks and conversation. In the background, a lyricless Will Robinson hit was being saxo-phoned in. I was in a busy, muzak-flavoured Hell: surely far too fiery to have been slept through. But here I was: shocked awake, which meant I’d managed it.

I sat up, well aware that my muscles had solidified through the awkward contortions of a night spent stretched over three plastic chairs. The truth I faced was terrible and complicated: a bus station in full working order. Too many people, doing too many things, and all at the same fucking time. The light was harsh. The décor – a painful, pissy yellow – was harsh. The coffee would, no doubt, be harsh too, but hopefully not pissy. Regardless, after a few minutes’ careful twisting and yawning, and a check to see that my wallet and gun were still with me, I set off in search of a cup, blinking away the last remaining mists of my troubled sleep and running a hand over the stubble of my hair.

A janitor was pushing a four-foot wide brush through the hall, collecting crisp packets, bus tickets and dust. He almost collected me, too, but I managed to stumble out of the way and – by luck – found the bathroom. It wasn’t a coffee machine, but it was a start. I used one of the sinks to freshen up, splashing water on my face and hair, and trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes. I looked like shit when I’d finished: a pale, blotchy nightmare with punched eyes and a gormless expression. But I figured, what the fuck. I was going to get coffee and – by the law of averages – kill a few more people. Neither required me to look my best.

I withdrew the dregs of my account from a hole in the wall outside. It was a risk, but I was barely caring. At some point – if not already – Kareem’s body would be found, and I was sure it wouldn’t be difficult to trace me from either the physical evidence at the scene or eyewitness testimony in the Bridge. I was fucked, basically, and the police would no doubt be checking my bank details to see when and where I’d made my most recent withdrawals. That was too bad, because I needed the money. When you’re basically fucked, you might as well get yourself a coffee. And maybe a small onion bagel.

There was a mini, make-believe park outside the bus station, and I spent the next hour and a half waiting there for an acceptable time to ring Graham. It wasn’t too bad, actually: a central floral display; some grass; an old-fashioned streetlamp. Three benches. I took the one with a good view of the bus station and waited for the police to arrive with guns, grimaces and sniffer dogs. At a quarter to nine I was still waiting, and by then I figured the hour was decent enough for me to make my phone call.

‘Hello?’

Helen didn’t sound as chipper as usual. Normally, she answered the phone like she answered the door, which was as though it was the most cheering thing to have happened to her all day, but right now she sounded annoyed: wary and impatient. She must have known it was me.

‘Hi Helen,’ I said. ‘Is Graham there?’

‘Wait a minute.’

She was gone. I swapped the phone to my other ear and watched the traffic rolling past. None of it seemed to be watching me back.

The phone clicked through.

‘Jay, hi.’

‘Hi. I didn’t get you guys up, did I?’

‘No, we were up already.’ He sounded subdued, and I figured: argument . There was a time, right back before Amy disappeared, when I might have thought that them arguing was a good thing, but I didn’t know what to think anymore. Fuck them and good luck to them at the same time.

‘How are you doing?’ he said.

‘Fine,’ I lied. ‘And I’m making some headway.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ I didn’t feel like going into my headway with him over the phone, so I just said:

‘I’ve got a few leads.’

‘Well, I’ve got some information for you, too. The stuff you wanted.’

It sounded like there was meant to be a but at the end of that sentence, and I heard it even though it wasn’t technically there. Invisible words: language seems like such a solid thing until you start reading all the spaces.

‘That’s great,’ I said.

‘The server information. The user ID. Some background. I couldn’t get as much as I wanted, because my computer’s fucking up.’

‘I appreciate you looking for me. I really do.’

I was trying to sound friendly, but his tone didn’t alter.

‘Jay, you remember what I told you yesterday afternoon?’

‘I remember.’

‘About me backing out if this got dodgy?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I remember.’

I wished he’d just say whatever was on his mind. But it probably wasn’t that easy for him. We had history, after all, and when you’re throwing out memorabilia you take a last look, don’t you? It’s not like throwing away a milk carton.

‘What are you saying, Gray?’ I prompted him. ‘You want out on me?’

Without any hesitation, ‘I want out on you.’

‘It got dodgy?’

‘Not exactly. It didn’t need to get any more dodgy than it already was. I just can’t do this anymore. I don’t really want to explain it, but that doesn’t bother me too much.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I understand.’

It wasn’t worth anything and we both knew it.

‘I’ve set up a Yahoo account for you,’ he said, and then gave me the address. ‘Find yourself an internet café and check the inbox. Everything you need to know is there. I’ve sent the text, the user details, some background. As much as I could find.’

‘Thanks. I mean it.’

‘And that’s the end, okay?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s the end.’

‘You don’t ring here anymore.’

I could imagine Helen leaning in the doorway, watching her boyfriend make this oh-so-difficult, oh-so-necessary phone call to his old friend. Secretly so pleased. She’d make him a nice coffee afterwards, and say some comforting shit about how he’d done the right thing. Which, of course, he probably had.

I closed my eyes.

He said, ‘You don’t call round.’

Maybe they could even stop buying sugar now. One less thing to worry about.

‘It’s just… that’s it, Jay. That really has to be it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry. Just don’t call or phone or come round. Maybe you should even let go of all this.’

‘All this.’

‘Amy. Maybe you should let go of her and move on.’

‘Maybe I should move on.’

‘You there?’

I blinked, realising that I hadn’t been speaking these last few things, just thinking them.

‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you in the next life, Gray.’

And the receiver was down before I even knew that I’d done it. The traffic was still making its way past. Moving on and up as I stood there by the side of the road. None of the drivers were watching me: they were all watching the cars directly in front and behind, and that was all. In the cold morning sunshine there was something about that that struck me as being almost profound. But then it went.

‘Maybe I should move on,’ I said out loud.

As though it was actually still possible.

But I wasn’t going to get out of anything as easily as that.

There was an internet café a block and a half away from the coach station: one of those wonderful all night places where you can surf and drink cheap coffee for about a pound an hour while the world outside gets dark and light and then dark again. Throw in the sizzle and smell of bacon, frying behind a counter at the far end, and you had a done deal as far as I was concerned. The dregs of last night’s clubbing circuit were slipping out even as I arrived. I got myself a coffee, a bacon sandwich and an hour’s screen time, and then logged into the account that Graham had set up for me.