Anne Billson - Suckers

There was nowhere to sit because he had thrown out most of his furniture. The floor was spread with dust-sheets, and he had started to repaint some of the walls, but sloppily. He didn't talk much, and when he did, he mumbled, so it was difficult to catch what he was going on about. His gaze kept flicking past my shoulder, to something that wasn't there.

'It wasn't murder, you know,' I said. 'She wasn't human.' It was the first time I'd brought the subject up.

'I'd rather not talk about it.'

I found that I didn't want to talk about it either. So that was that. He said he wanted to be left alone for a while, and by the time I popped back, a few days later, he'd gone. There was someone else in the flat — a short, stocky man with a sand-coloured moustache, who told me Duncan was in Scotland. 'Edinburgh, I think. I'm not sure.'

This was the first I'd heard of it. 'When will he be back?'

The man with the moustache shrugged. 'Haven't a clue. He said I could stay here as long as I wanted.'

Had he left a forwarding address? No, he hadn't. Any idea how I might get in touch? No, none at all. I thought about travelling up to Scotland after him, but I didn't think about it for very long. I wasn't sure I had enough money for train fare, let alone for food or a hotel, and I had no idea how long it might take to track him down.

In the end, I had to admit I was relieved he was out of the way. Now he could have his breakdown, or whatever it was he was having, hundreds of miles away from the scene of the crime, and I wouldn't have to endure the spectacle of him cracking up. I knew he would come back to me, eventually. He was mine now. He would always be mine. The tip of a finger was a small price to pay.

I caught the Bakerloo line from Lambeth North to Oxford Circus, and I went shopping. This is what I bought: one pair of silver crucifix earrings; two gold charm bracelets with assorted attachments in the shape of tiny football boots, piglets, and crucifixes; one diamante crucifix; one black plastic crucifix with a hologram of Jesus Christ on it; one black plastic rosary. On the way home, I stopped off at the supermarket and bought three dozen heads of garlic, a couple of jars of garlic salt, and some packets of dried garlic slices. I also stopped off at the timber merchants and snapped up all their dowelling offcuts for a knock-down price. I even remembered to stock up with some replacement blades for my Stanley knife.

Back at the flat, I launched into a frenzy of activity: sprinkling garlic salt around the doors and windows, peeling cloves and hiding them at strategic points, digging out my old crucifixes and hanging them on the walls. I decked myself out in some of my brand-new knick-knacks and offered a silent prayer to Madonna Louise Ciccone for achievements in popularizing the crucifix as an acceptable fashion item. I would be attracting curious glances in the days to come, but only because my choice of accessory was now considered a little passe. This whole business would very likely end up ruining my reputation as a person with her finger on the pulse of fashion.

There were one or two things which continued to puzzle me. I couldn't understand why Violet had gone to so much trouble over Patricia Rice, of all people. What was the point of prolonging such a wretched existence? Why hadn't she just ripped out the jugular and got it over with? The idea of an undead Patricia made me come over all shivery. Worse, I realized I was envious. Why her and not me? What had she got that I hadn't? But I knew the answer to that. She had her name on the Multiglom hit list, and I'd been the one to put it there.

I'd almost forgotten about Duncan. It was nearly midnight when he phoned. He sounded out of breath. 'Did you get my messages?'

'No.' I looked down at the counter on my answering machine. I'd been so busy, I hadn't thought to check it. There were four messages, and all of them turned out to be from Duncan.

'Dora, she's still not back.'

There was a tingling in my missing fingertip. 'She hasn't rung?'

'No, and it's not like her to go all incommunicado like this. Do you think I should call the police?'

'She's probably pissed off at you for getting drunk and staying out all night. Did you ring Multiglom?'

'I tried. They were all at lunch.'

'When was that?'

'Three o'clock, and again at four and five.'

'Some lunch,' I said. I had already decided not to tell him what I'd seen that morning. There was no point in worrying him unnecessarily.

'Christ,' he said. 'If only we hadn't got arseholed, I would have got home in time to stop her. I could have shown her the negs.'

'Negs? What negs?'

"The ones you half-inched from our friend Francine. I printed them up.'

I'd forgotten all about Dino's negs. I'd left the envelope in the car. 'And?'

'I think you should come round and take a look.'

'Can't it wait till tomorrow?'

'No, this is urgent.'

I sighed loudly enough for him to hear. I didn't feel like going out, especially after having spent half the day making my flat secure.

'Please , Dora…'

'All right.' I would just have to hope Violet wasn't out on the razzle in W11. I prepared as best I could and set out into the night, stinking of garlic and jingling with junk jewellery. There were plenty of people around, but they weren't the sort of people you wanted to bump into at that time of night. Just off Westbourne Grove, I saw a small mob moving with a great deal of laughter and shouting along the opposite pavement. One or two heads swivelled in my direction, and somebody shouted, 'Hey little girl!', but I pretended to ignore them and they swept along the street. A little further on, I heard the sound of bottles being smashed, and screaming, but I didn't think it was the same crowd; the noise seemed to be coming from the opposite direction. Fights were nothing unusual — not in that area — but I clutched my crucifix and walked faster.

Duncan let me in, reeling back in mock shock as he smelled my breath. 'Blimey. You've been picking up social tips from Francine.'

'Garlic for supper,' I said. He could talk, I thought. Put a match to the alcohol on his breath and he'd go up like a Christmas pudding.

He looked at me and laughed. 'Sure you're wearing enough jewellery?'

It's true I was clanking like a suit of armour; I'd dug out my entire collection. 'Just to be on the safe side. Can't be too careful.'

His smile vanished. 'Something's happened, hasn't it? What's going on?'

I said nothing had happened. I told him to show me the blasted photos.

Lulu had been gone three days and already the living room looked as though a bomb had hit it. Duncan poured me a large brandy, poured himself another even larger one, and showed me into his office. He was drunk, but not the way he'd been drunk before. Now he was dogged and forceful; he was going to hammer away until I said exactly what he wanted to hear. I hadn't seen him this animated for years. It was as though he was waking up after a deep sleep. He was getting all manic and obsessive again, and it was frightening me, but it was kind of exciting as well.

'Here we are,' he said, and flung down a pile of black and white prints. I sifted through them; these photographs didn't seem to be part of a regular assignment, they were more a record of an important social occasion. The setting was the same in each; a large room cluttered with antique furniture and a carved mantelpiece, heavy and a little oppressive — not the sort of place likely to be featured in Home Beautiful , let alone Bellini . People were standing around with champagne flutes in their hands, proposing toasts and generally looking rather jovial. One or two had noticed the photographer but were pretending they hadn't; others were mugging shamelessly for the camera. In one picture, a balding businessman was licking the ear of a pouty blonde young enough to be his granddaughter.