Mark Burnell - The Rhythm Section

‘Straying a little, ain’t you?’

She looked up. The man before her had emerged from the sea of boozing suits, from the waves of accountants, local government officials and cut-price travel-agents. She checked Bradfield’s contact; he was still perched on his bar-stool, nursing a pale gold pint and a slim cigar.

She said, ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

‘You’re straying a little.’

He wore a suit as badly-fitting as any other she could see; tight trousers eating into a medicine-ball gut, a jacket with spare room at the shoulders, sleeves that ended inches short of the wrist. His face was pink and his neck was coated in shaving rash.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’

‘Nah. At first, I thought I might’ve – you look different with your kit on – but not now. I couldn’t place your face and then it clicked. You work up west, not down here. Brewer Street, top floor, near the Raymond Revuebar. Right?’

Stephanie was reintroduced to one of her least favourite sensations as her stomach turned to lead and seemed to seep through her bowels, through the floorboards and deep into the earth below. Mentally, she reached for the mask; the hardness in the eyes, the firmness of the mouth, the determination to betray no sign of weakness. But there was nothing there and it showed.

‘It’s Lisa, ain’t it?’ The man was leering, enjoying her shock. ‘Remember me now, do you?’

Truly, she didn’t. He could have been one in a thousand. He might have been every one in a thousand. The pub seemed to shrink, the crowd grew taller, the lights dimmed, until they were the only two people in the room.

‘You’ve put some meat on. Don’t look bad on you, neither. You was well thin the last time I had you. But now you got more to sink into, know what I mean?’

There was no stinging comeback, there was no response at all.

He lowered his voice. ‘You on the meter?’

‘What?’

‘You working or what?’

‘You’ve made a mistake –’

His bravado was in his piggy eyes, which dropped to her thighs, as much as it was in his voice. ‘I got eighty quid in my pocket says you’ve got something for me down there.’

‘I told you –’

‘And I’ll go to a ton for a bit of A-level.’

Suddenly, Proctor was back, standing beside the man, looking at Stephanie, reading her alarm and saying, ‘Are you okay? What’s going on?’

Once again, the words stalled in her throat.

Bristling with aggression, the stranger turned to Proctor. ‘Who are you?’

Proctor stared him down in silence. Stephanie watched the arrogance subside and the confusion surface. The man turned to her and said, unpleasantly, ‘Should’ve told me you was busy.’

‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’

Then he turned to Proctor, in a futile attempt to salvage some gutterborn self-respect. ‘I’m telling you, she’ll cheat you, that one. Bleed your wallet dry and won’t give hardly nothing back. So do yourself a favour and make sure she gives you full value, know what I mean?’

Before Proctor could protest, he was gone, back into the sea of suits. Proctor looked at Stephanie, grabbed his leather coat from the bench and took her hand. ‘Come on, we’re getting out of here.’

‘What about Bradfield?’

‘He can wait.’

The wind was brisk along Victoria Street. They stood on the pavement, waiting for a taxi. Stephanie was trembling, a fact that was more disconcerting to her than the cause of it.

Proctor said, ‘Are you okay now?’

‘I guess I’m cold.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I’m shaking.’

He took hold of one of them. It was icy. She lifted her gaze to meet his. He traced absent-minded lines across her palm. Then his fingers threaded themselves through hers.

She said, ‘We shouldn’t throw this chance away.’

He moved closer. ‘No.’

‘I’m talking about Bradfield.’

His cloudy vision cleared. ‘What do you mean?’

Stephanie smiled at his mild embarrassment. ‘I can get home all right. You should stay. If there’s a chance you’ll find him, you’d be crazy not to take it.’

Proctor knew she was right. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine. He was just some wanker trying it on. It’s happened a million times. I don’t know why it got to me this time. But it’s over now.’

They were still holding hands.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like? I’m cooking. Or at least, I’m going to.’

Proctor appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘What is it?’

‘Stir-fried vegetables with noodles.’

‘You’ve been waiting all this time? It’s midnight.’

Stephanie sliced the leeks that were on the chopping board. Then she placed a pan of water on to the blue circle of flame.

‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘Bradfield showed up a couple of hours after you left. He was only there for about ten minutes. I followed him and he went to a place called Gallagher’s in Longmoore Street, not far from where we were, maybe a ten-minute walk. He stayed there until closing time and then went home. It turns out the pub’s his local; his house is right down the same street.’

‘What happens now?’

‘I’ll go and see him.’

‘And what will you say?’

‘I don’t know yet but I’ll think of something. Do you want a glass of wine?’

‘Are you having one?’

‘There’s a bottle open in the fridge.’

‘Okay.’

The glasses were balloons on tall, thin stems. He handed her one and half-filled it.

‘Can I ask you something personal, Stephanie?’

‘You can ask.’

‘I know you told me once that you didn’t want to talk about your family, but would you tell me about them now? I’d like to know. Not for an article – in fact, I promise anything you tell me will be in confidence – but for me.’

‘You think a personal appeal cuts more ice with me than a professional one?’

Proctor smiled and shook his head, the two things coming to a sum total of weariness. ‘I don’t understand you. Every time I think we’re making a little progress, you say something and we’re back to square one.’

‘In that case, I’ll try not to raise your expectations again. That way, you won’t ever be disappointed. As for my family history, it’s very boring.’

‘I doubt that. There’s always something.’

My father, Andrew Patrick, was a doctor for Falstone and the surrounding area. Falstone is in north Northumberland, not far from West Woodburn, where my brother, Christopher, now lives with his family. The area my father covered was large, even for a rural practice. It is a wild, rugged place and it is perhaps the one thing that I have not poisoned in myself. I cannot rinse my love for it out of me. In the summer, it can be idyllic; warm days and nights where the light never fades – I have read books outside at one in the morning. In the winter, it can be hard and cold. During those months, it doesn’t get light until nine and it’s dark by four. But I have no favourite season when I am there; I love them equally, just as I love everything else about the land .

Both my parents possessed strong puritanical streaks and so the life we led was hard without ever being uncomfortable. It was an outdoor existence, mostly. They were keen on walking and were both expert climbers, a legacy of my mother’s nationality – Swiss – and my father’s fondness for Alpine holidays. They passed this love on to all of us. We lived for the land and off it, growing many of our vegetables and summer fruits, as well as rearing chickens and a small number of sheep. There were always dogs at home and they were always Boxers; we never had less than two, we frequently had four. All in all, we lived a life that might seem perfect to many .