Conrad Williams - Decay Inevitable

Filth on what remained of the carpet tried to glue Sean’s boots to the floor as they moved deeper into the flat. The kitchen was a laboratory of horrors, bad smells burping from the drains. Slicks of grease covered every surface. An ecstasy of silverfish writhed under the sink units. In the living room, dark mould spread fingers up the walls. The air was damp and reeked of piss. On the television, a gardener showed how to keep frost off a vegetable patch.

Sean listened to Vernon in the hallway, smashing a collection of tiny Wade whimsies from the MDF cabinets and wonky shelves.

“Where are you, Mrs Moulder? No point hiding, lovey. It’s not me who’s blind.”

Sean heard the click of the bathroom lock and was at the door as the handle turned and Mrs Moulder fell through the gap, her skirt around her ankles. She had hold of an emergency cord in her hands and was yanking on it.

“Jesus Christ, Vernon,” Sean said, bending to help Mrs Moulder to her feet. Her thighs were dark with waste. Her breathing was hard and shallow, her face white. “I mean, Jesus Christ , Vernon. She’s just an old woman.”

“It’s okay, Sean, I’ve got things under control now. Why don’t you go and make yourself comfy in the living room? Watch a bit of telly, and I’ll give you a call when I’m finished here, okay?”

Sean backed off, checking first that Mrs Moulder was okay and wasn’t likely to simply pitch over or succumb to a coronary. In the living room he tried to busy himself with the newspaper but the damp on the armchair was seeping into his trousers and Vernon’s voice seethed through the flat, making the ornaments shake.

“I give you so much leeway, May. So much. But no more. I do not put up with you lot pissing me around. No more. I will fuck you to within an inch, girl, if you try to piss me around any more. Now. You will hand it the fuck over, hear me? I’m not going away empty-handed this time, you night-seeing cunt.”

Sean felt the sensation of a darkening in the room, as if someone had pulled the curtains to on a bright day. Now he heard a conversation in the hallway. Two men.

This was not good. Not good. Sean gritted his teeth and tried to force the violence out of his body. What was driving Vernon Lord to this kind of action? Fear? He couldn’t actually enjoy terrorising old people, could he? And who was the other guy? Where the hell did he spring from? Sean edged to the threshold and peered around it. In the kitchen, the surgeon was standing with his back to Sean, a hand in a white rubber glove holding a pair of scissors that snipped at the air as he played with them. As he knelt, he gripped the old woman’s jaw with his free hand and Vernon leaned around him to close the kitchen door, winking and mouthing the words fuck off to Sean.

Footsteps in the glass outside the door. Sean’s head cocked to one side. Three men, it sounded like. Heavy. Fit.

He shrugged off his jacket to prevent it from limiting his movement. During his time in the police he had never once, despite the misfortune of some of his colleagues, been placed in a position of having to defend himself. Part of the reason for leaving, he considered now, as the footsteps transferred to the carpet, was that he did not want to invite physical violence which, the law of averages demanded, became more likely to visit him the longer he remained in uniform. On her first day in the Force, Sally had been headbutted by a shoplifter in Greenwich. Broke her nose. It could have been someone with a knife or a gun. Next time, it might be. Next time, it might have been Sean.

And here he was, tensing, ready for the mash of fists and the stamp of boots. Ready for blood on his lip. A blade, even. All in the name of Naomi.

“WHO WERE THEY?” Sean asked again. He couldn’t see out of his left eye. It felt as though somebody had inserted one of those needle adapters for footballs into his forehead and inflated the flesh. It ought to sting like a bastard, but he couldn’t feel any pain.

He felt drained and sick. His body was tight, as though his skin had been cinched around the muscles. Adrenaline drained away, lactic acid in the meat of his arms and legs conspiring to make him feel as shitty as one of old May’s stockings.

Vernon glanced at him again. There was affection and awe in the way he favoured him. His voice was cowed: “The way you moved,” he said.

“It wasn’t a Fred and Ginger moment in there, Vernon. It was down and dirty. I’ve never seen fighting like it. They were fucking evil.”

Vernon nodded. “I’ve not seen fighting like it either,” he said. “You didn’t give them a chance.”

Apart from the crack to his eye, an anonymous elbow early on in the skirmish, Sean hadn’t received any other injury. He remembered little of the scrap, apart from the way it started

(Sean: Who are you?

Bucket-faced ape: Chin that fucker. Deck him now .)

and the way it finished, with him slamming one head repeatedly into another while the third goon tried to breathe around the splintered newel post that had been rammed into his neck. All through it, Mrs Moulder had been whining like a puppy: “I haven’t finished paying for this carpet! I haven’t finished paying for this carpet!” Bizarrely it had helped him keep his focus. Vernon had stood there with the bat limp in his hand, drying his tongue out. When it had finished, he had been comically polite to Mrs Moulder, telling her that he would be back next month and thank you very much.

“Well? Who were they?”

As they bypassed it on their right, the cooling towers of Fiddlers Ferry power station belched white plumes towards Widnes. As a child, Sean had been able to see the towers from his bedroom window. Red lights punched into the towers gleamed like demonic eyes.

“I don’t know. You saw her pulling on that emergency cord like she was at bell-ringing practice.”

“They looked pretty tough for people who come round to plonk you back on your commode.”

“Estate security then, who knows? Who cares?”

They drove in silence until they reached the general hospital, where Sean told Vernon to drop him.

“A quick nip of something warm back at yours?” Vernon tried.

“Don’t think so, Vernon. I’m knackered. I’ll see you at work tomorrow?”

Vernon shook his head. “Got business out in the sticks tomorrow.”

“You don’t need me?”

Another shake. “Salty’s coming with me.”

Sean tried hard to seem nonplussed. “What’s this? I mean, why do you need me sometimes, and Salty others?”

“What if I do?”

Sean made a dismissive gesture. He was hungry. And he was sick of Vernon. “Whatever you say, boss.” He was about to walk away when Vernon tooted him on the horn.

“Thanks for back there,” he said. “You did well. There’ll be forward motion for you soon. I promise. Be patient.”

“Better than being a patient.”

Vernon chuckled. “You’re right there.”

BACK IN HIS bedsit, having walked once around the block to make sure that Vernon wasn’t tailing him, he withdrew the bottle of Absolut from the freezer compartment and sat by the window in darkness, refilling a cracked shot glass until the vodka had lost its syrupy chill and night clogged the streets.

Sean fought the urge to bang the rest of the bottle back and get started on another. Getting pissed wasn’t going to help matters; it would only make his confusion more cloudy. Already it resembled some congested storm-anvil of black thoughts, questions and possibilities, reaching up into his head. He sipped his drink and felt the air change outside, as if it were mirroring his emotions. A gust of wind staggered through the badly fitting window, drunk on exhaust fumes and the smell of dog shit drifting over from the park.