Читать книгу A Line of Blood - Ben McPherson - Страница 12

Across the road from the neighbour’s house an ambulance stood parked. Three police cars boxed in the parked cars on our side of the street.

The door of the house on the other side of ours opened. Mr Ashani, all flower baskets and civic pride. His house was freshly painted, his cream slacks smartly pleated; his smile had God on its side.

‘Mr and Mrs Mercer,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘We see too little of each other.’

‘Hey, how are you, Mr Ashani?’ said Millicent, offering up her cheek.

‘French style,’ said Mr Ashani. ‘Nice.’ He kissed her briskly, once on each cheek, then held out his hand to me. I tried to grip it as firmly as he gripped mine. ‘Nice,’ he said again. His right eye had the first faint suggestion of cataract clouding its surface, but his skin was flawless. I had once asked him his age, and he had laughed. ‘Oh, you mean the old black-don’t-crack thing, sir?’ I should have asked him again, but I was afraid of appearing rude, or worse.

‘Waiting for the dead man?’ said Mr Ashani.

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, not at all.’

Mr Ashani laughed, coughed a little, and laughed again.

‘Not you, Mr Mercer.’ He nodded towards the ambulance. The crew had the doors open in the London heat, listening to the radio, drinking water from aluminium bottles.

‘I asked them, you see, but they told me nothing. The police have been there two hours. I saw men with metal cases and there were flashes coming from the house. They would not do this if this man were still alive, surely?’

‘You think they’re taking photographs?’ I said.

‘Can you think of any other reason for the flashes, sir?’ he said. ‘We must pray that this is not the beginning of a wave of crime.’

‘No crime was committed, Mr Ashani.’

‘No, my dear?’

‘It appears to be a suicide,’ said Millicent, her voice quiet.

‘No,’ he said. A look of horror passed across his face. ‘What a vile and cowardly thing that would be. We must hope that you are mistaken. We must hope that this is a murder.’

‘Mr Ashani, I can’t believe you would say that.’

‘It is not my wish to offend you, Mrs Mercer.’

‘A man is lying dead in there, Mr Ashani. Surely he deserves our sympathy – your sympathy – however he died.’

Mr Ashani considered this. ‘No, Mrs Mercer,’ he said. ‘No, suicide is the greatest of crimes. To turn one’s back on redemption, to despair in such a way … It is … That you cannot see this … I am at a loss …’

He began to walk back towards his house.

Millicent made to walk after him. ‘Mr Ashani. Please.’

He turned, then very deliberately walked back towards us.

‘I do not wish you to think me cruel,’ he said, ‘but the word on this is very precise, my dear. And besides, this man was not a moral man.’

I tried to move into Millicent’s line of sight. I wanted her to change the subject.

‘Mr Ashani,’ said Millicent, ‘I respect your view, of course I do, but we disagree.’

Mr Ashani began to speak very quietly, his voice grave. ‘With murder there is at least the hope of salvation. The soul of the victim may ascend to heaven, and the murderer may reflect on his crime and repent.’ He turned to me, smiled the most reasonable of smiles. ‘You see this, sir, do you not?’

I gave what I hope was a smile of respect. Mr Ashani nodded, as if I had confirmed his point, turned back to Millicent. ‘With suicide, Mrs Mercer, a soul is forever lost to God. Forever. To choose suicide is to mark your card for damnation. No, Mrs Mercer, no, we must pray that this is a murder.’

I looked at Millicent. Change the subject …

OK. Millicent looked back at me. All right.

‘Mr Ashani,’ she said, ‘my husband and I have been arguing over how old you are.’

He smiled. ‘How old do you think I am?’

‘So our guess was somewhere between fifty …’

‘Fifty? Excellent.’ He laughed.

‘And I guess, and I hope you won’t be offended, but we really didn’t know …’ She screwed up her eyes slightly, touched his hand to show that she meant no harm. ‘Well, we thought upper limit seventy.’

‘Upper limit? That’s your upper limit?’

Millicent nodded. ‘Maybe sixty-seven?’

‘I’m seventy-seven,’ he said, clearly delighted. ‘Fit as the day is young.’

‘My husband worries, you know, Mr Ashani. He thinks maybe you’ll think badly of us for not being able to guess. You have such perfect skin.’

‘No, my dear. No, I am not offended. Other things offend me, perhaps, but not that.’

‘You see,’ she said as I closed the front door behind us, ‘he doesn’t think you’re a racist for not knowing his age.’

‘What did he mean by other things?’

‘Well, I guess maybe he could think that you are a little racist because you don’t engage with his ideas … I mean with anyone else you would just jump right in there, but Mr Ashani gets to believe what he wants about God and suicide and murder, unchallenged by you.’

‘He’s old.’

‘Right … I’m sure that’s why you don’t engage with his views. And why you never invite him round. The guy likes an argument. You can see that.’

‘You think I’m racist?’ And suddenly I could see that she was laughing. ‘So now racism is funny?’

A dull thud, as if someone in the dead neighbour’s house had dropped a sledge hammer. Time stopped. Millicent winced. The air in the room was all dust and heat. Millicent laughed, as if embarrassed by her reaction. Time restarted.

‘No, Alex, no. That isn’t it at all. It’s just … He’s our neighbour, we have nothing in common; you don’t have to invite him round to drink mineral water and talk Nigerian politics.’

Something scraped across the dead neighbour’s upper floor. Millicent’s eyes darted. ‘Whoah,’ she said. ‘That was a little …’

‘… unexpected,’ I said.

‘Unexpected.’ She composed herself. ‘Yeah.’

‘He’s from Ghana,’ I said, ‘and he’s a nice guy.’

‘Only since he found out we were married. Before that he kind of sucked. And by the way, he has strong opinions about Nigeria.’

‘Love,’ I said, and took her hand. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Why would you think I wouldn’t be?’

I drew her to me, and she smiled weakly up at me. Because suicide terrifies you, I thought. Because you hate the idea that someone’s pain might be unreachable. Because you once told me someone you knew …

Voices from the neighbour’s house. Millicent’s eyes crossed to the wall.

‘So … This is all a little freaky,’ she said. ‘Why would they not take the body last night?’

‘Being thorough,’ I said. ‘I mean, that would be my guess. I don’t know.’

‘Gross. Maybe I’m not completely OK with it.’ She ran her tongue along the inside of her lips.

Why would you be, I thought? How could anybody be OK with this? I put my hand on her cheek and she held it there for a moment and looked me in the eye. Then she looked away and a shiver seemed to pass through her body.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I’m here. You can tell me what you’re feeling.’

‘I think I just did.’

You didn’t, I thought. Not really.

‘The guy was OK. A little buttoned-up, but OK. I guess I liked him.’ A troubled look clouded her eyes. ‘I guess I’m a little freaked out also. That he would still be in there.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Kind of an over-the-fence thing …’

A shadow across the curtain in the front window; three knocks at the front door.

I looked at Millicent. She was shaking her head at me. Police, she mouthed. She looked small again, hunched. No, she mouthed. Not now, Alex. Defensive eyes, like an animal that was past the fight-or-flight stage. I’d almost forgotten that look.

‘What else are we going to do?’ I said, under my breath. ‘They must have heard us in here.’ I walked towards the front door; Millicent slipped into the kitchen.

The man was small and thin, in white t-shirt and long shorts, and covered in a light dust. Muscular though. A builder, I thought. A builder carrying a clipboard.

‘Mr Bryce?’ he said. ‘Hello. Continent Containers.’

He looked at me as if I should know what he meant. I didn’t.

‘Skip-hire provider.’ He extended a hand. His smile was warm, professional.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Not Mr Bryce.’

‘Could I speak to Mr Bryce?’

‘There’s no Mr Bryce,’ I said. ‘I’m Alex Mercer. And I’ve never hired a skip in my life.’

‘Strange,’ said the man. He looked down at his clipboard. ‘All right.’ He took out a mobile phone.

‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ I said. ‘We’ve a lot on.’

‘OK, sir. Thanks, anyway.’

I closed the door. Millicent returned from the kitchen.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I get that you’re being brave for me, and for Max. And I hate that you guys had to see what you saw.’

‘I could have stopped him from seeing and I didn’t.’

‘I know, honey, but I’m guessing you were in shock.’

‘I laughed. I actually laughed.’

‘That would be a classic shock reaction, right there. You’re a good father, Alex. Your instinct is to protect. I know it. Max knows it.’

‘I failed. Max saw everything.’

‘OK, Alex. Yes, we do need to discuss that.’ She breathed out heavily.

‘My honest guess? Max is going to fall apart a little.’

I sat on the sofa, bit hard into my knuckle.

What have I done?

‘Alex, honey, he’s going to need to do this. It isn’t the end of the world. We have the summer.’ Millicent sat down beside me.

‘To let our son fall apart? We sit and watch while our son has a breakdown? Have him back on his feet and ready for school by September?’

‘We break his fall, Alex. There’s a logic to these things. We listen to him when he needs to talk, and we help him to pick up the pieces when – if – he falls apart. It’s a process. He’ll be OK. We’re good parents. We’ll find him a good shrink.’

‘That’s our summer?’

‘That’s our summer.’

‘What about work?’

Seventy hours of footage on my laptop. Another shoot to plan.

‘You can still go,’ she said.

‘I can’t. You’re going to need me here.’

Two weeks in America. An eight-week edit. How was that going to work?

‘Sure you can, Alex. Max and I always manage.’

Voices through the wall again. I could see the sinews in Millicent’s neck stiffen. ‘Huh,’ she said. ‘I thought they left already. I guess I’m still a little jumpy.’

‘Who wouldn’t be?’

‘Why are you so sweet to me?’ she said, her eyes searching my face.

‘I’m not,’ I said.

‘You are.’ She pushed me gently backwards and down on to the sofa. Then she lay down and folded herself into me, her back to my chest, legs entangling mine.

‘Max will be OK, Alex. With the right support he’s going to be just fine.’

‘How can you know?’

‘Children are resilient.’

‘I should be here,’ I said.

She turned, arching her back, and found my mouth with hers. Her eyes didn’t flick away as she kissed me: none of that reticence now. I lay on my side and she moved to accommodate me, my body cradling hers. She lifted my hand across her breasts, pushed her thighs gently back against mine. I could feel the weight in my limbs now, feel the tension easing from her body.

We lay like this for some time. I pushed gently back against her, not wanting to break the moment.

‘Millicent?’ I said at last. ‘Love?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Will this be anything like Sarah?’

‘No,’ said Millicent, her voice heavy with the promise of sleep. ‘No, Alex, this will be nothing like Sarah.’

I woke in the middle of the afternoon, stiff of neck and leg. I had been lying on my left arm, and could hardly feel it. I flexed the hand underneath me, felt it move slightly; an alien thing, a part of me that wasn’t.

When I raised my head I saw that Max was lying in front of Millicent. Her arms were tightly wound around him, and he too was asleep. He must have let himself in and climbed on to the sofa to join us. Millicent had rearranged my right arm so that I was cradling both of them. Or perhaps Max had done it himself. The three of us on our cramped little sofa. My little tribe. How had he managed to sleep without falling off?

I raised my feet so they were on top of the sofa back, then gently freed my arm from around Max. I pushed my back as gently as I could away from Millicent. She murmured something that I didn’t understand. Sleep talk, I guessed. Probably nothing.

With my right arm I pulled the rest of my body up so that I was balanced sideways on the sofa back. I brought my left leg down to the floor behind the sofa, then my right.

I heard voices through the wall again. Were they really not finished?

I stood up too quickly, saw stars falling past my eyes, felt my left arm tingle as the blood returned. I stood, massaging my arm in the space behind the sofa, glad that no one could see the strangeness of the scene. Then I held my breath and slid out along the wall behind the sofa.

I brought my head down to Millicent’s. ‘Love?’

‘Mmm? Hey.’

‘You have room now.’

‘Mmm,’ she said, and relaxed backwards into the space I had made for her, pulling Max gently with her. Max’s eyes flickered open and for a moment I thought he was awake, but he screwed himself even tighter, pulled Millicent’s arm firmly about him, and slept on.

Little Max-Man, I thought. Catch you when you fall.

A knock at the door. The police, I thought. It could only be the police. I wondered for a moment about not answering. What would happen then? How long would they knock for before they let us alone? But this had to be faced.

Another police officer. She wore a neat two-piece suit, and carried a leather briefcase exactly like the officer who had spoken to Max.

‘Mr Mercer?’ she said, and held out her hand. I’m fairly certain that she told me her name, but I have no memory of what it was.

‘You want to speak to me about finding the neighbour?’

‘That’s right. I do.’

‘And in principle yes,’ I said.

She looked puzzled.

‘Now isn’t good. Could we please schedule this?’ I kept my voice as level as I could. ‘That really would be much more convenient.’

‘Schedule?’ she said. ‘I’m not really sure I understand.’

I opened the door wide so that she could see Max and Millicent asleep on the sofa.

‘Oh,’ she mouthed.

‘He’s exhausted,’ I said.

‘I can see that,’ she said, ‘but it’s you I want to speak to.’

‘Do you have children yourself?’

She shook her head.

‘He’s asleep. It’s a small house. And he’s already told your colleague everything.’

‘We do need your side of the story, Mr Mercer.’

‘And I don’t want to add to his burden. He’s experienced a major trauma. I’d be grateful if we could do this tomorrow during school hours.’

‘It’s not that I don’t see,’ she said. ‘But you’re making this difficult for me, Mr Mercer.’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘It’s stability he needs.’

She blew out her cheeks a few times, then she said, ‘I’ll make a call.’

She took a small Bluetooth headset from the breast pocket of her jacket and crossed to the other side of the street. I stood, watching her from the threshold. Children shouted in back yards, and the traffic on the main road was loud, but I could hear most of what she said. She reported the conversation we had had, in the words that I had used. She spoke of my concern for my son. She kept looking across at me as she spoke, one hand on her briefcase, the other on her headset.

‘Mr Mercer thinks … Mr Mercer feels … Mr Mercer suggests.’ If she was irritated with me she didn’t let it show. Her words made me sound reasonable and adult, and I was grateful to her.

I smiled at her; she smiled weakly back.

‘Eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,’ she said when she had crossed back over. ‘Best I could do. Ensure you’re in, please.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Sorry to waste your time. But he’s only eleven.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do understand.’

‘I don’t have much to say anyway. Max has told you pretty much everything.’

Millicent woke at six and gently extricated herself from Max. We ate linguine in front of the television. Millicent sat on the sofa with Max’s legs in her lap, balancing the plate in one hand, her white shirt flecked red-orange from the sauce. I sat on the floor, my back to the sofa, with Millicent’s legs on each side of me.

Max hardly stirred. At nine I carried him up to bed.