Читать книгу The Rhythm Section - Mark Burnell - Страница 17

‘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.

But Proctor is right. There’s always something. And in our family, it was probably me.

My parents’ puritanism was matched only by their stubbornness. Consequently, our house was a fiery place to be. They argued with each other, they argued with us and we argued among ourselves. Except for David, who was the youngest of us, and who was crippled by shyness. When confronted, he always withdrew deeper into himself. My parents were strict with all of us and often expressed their disappointment at our behaviour or lack of achievement. But by far the largest share of their exasperation was reserved for me, their brightest child and their greatest frustration, a fact that was not lost on me, even at an early age. I under-achieved deliberately and I took a perverse delight in it. I was the archetypal ‘difficult second child’.

I never cried. I was sullen and cold. When provoked or angered, my resentment was usually silent and ran deep. I rarely forgave, I never forgot. I preferred my company to that of anyone else. The social aspects of family life held no attractions for me. Independence was what I craved. I longed for a future free of the family.

It wasn’t that they were unpleasant. It was that I was unpleasant.

My teenage years must have been a particular form of Hell for my parents. I rarely missed an opportunity to anger or disappoint them. I found academic work much easier than anyone else of my age but I frequently failed exams as an absurd act of rebellion. When my parents lectured me on the perils of alcohol, I went through a phase of getting drunk at every available opportunity and, if possible, in public. Even losing my virginity was an act of spite. It was genuinely nothing more. I treated the boy who took it as contemptuously as I treated my parents, whom I told the following morning. They were disgusted, then distraught. I was delighted.

I think about these things now – the pointlessness of it all, the needless irritation and sadness for which I was responsible – and I try to console myself with the fact that at least there was a reason for it, an explanation. But there isn’t. And now it’s too late to apologize. They’re gone. Dead. And if I hadn’t been such a spoilt bitch and refused to go with them, I’d be dead too.

There really is no justice in this world.

‘How did you find out what had happened?’

Stephanie cupped her glass of wine between both her hands. ‘It was when I was at Durham University –’

‘So you didn’t totally under-achieve, then.’

‘I was smart enough to know when it mattered and then I’d always do enough to get by. And I wasn’t going to miss out on a place at university. It was a chance to move away.’

‘What were you reading?’

She smiled. ‘German – I was already fluent. My mother was Swiss-German. We were all brought up trilingual. My father was fluent in French.’

‘Why didn’t you choose something more challenging?’

‘Because I wasn’t really interested. If I had been, I’d have made sure I went to Oxford or Cambridge. But for me, university wasn’t about degrees leading to professions. It was just a phase to be endured.’

Stephanie poured a small amount of walnut oil into the wok and then moved it over a flame. The vegetables were on the wooden board beside the chopping knife. Proctor was behind her and in this moment, she preferred it like that.

‘The night before I found out, I was with this second-year student. He was living in a rented cottage in Sherburn, an old pit village a few miles outside Durham. There was a party, we all got drunk, I stayed over. I didn’t get back to Hild and Bede – my college – until eleven the next morning. I was in my room, changing, when there was a knock on the door. It was another first year, like me. She was ashen-faced, she looked sick. I hadn’t heard the news or seen a paper, but she had. She said the Principal was looking for me so I went across to his office and he told me. I remember how hard it was for him, how he struggled to find the right words.’

Stephanie turned around. Proctor said, ‘How did you react?’

‘Predictably. No gasps, no tears. It didn’t seem real until I saw it on TV. Even at the funerals, I couldn’t absorb it. I kept expecting it to end, for someone to say that it had just been a macabre practical joke.’

‘And when that wore off, what then?’

‘Then I had to get away. From Durham, from Christopher and his family. From myself. And so I came down here. The rest … well, you know most of that already.’

‘You stayed with friends at first?’

‘They weren’t really friends, just people I knew. I moved from one place to the next – a couple of nights here, a couple of nights there. To ease the pain, I drank and took drugs. I’d done a bit of both at Durham, but when I got to London, I started to do more. Before long, and without really being aware of it, I gravitated towards similar people. Instead of wine and beer, I started drinking cheap cider and stolen spirits. Instead of a sharing a couple of social joints, I started scoring Valium, speed, coke, heroin. Anything to take me up or bring me down, I didn’t really care which. You know how it is. The habit gets worse, the crowd becomes seedier, the circle becomes more vicious. It didn’t take long for me to run out of money – six weeks, maybe two months, I don’t remember – so that was when I started trading sex for cash.’

‘That must’ve been hard.’

‘Not as hard as you might think. I was wrecked most of the time and I’d already been screwing a heroin dealer in return for a steady supply of tranquillizers. That was like a stepping-stone to the real thing. I got away from everyone else by moving to London and then I got away from myself by getting out of my head. Selling myself was the price I had to pay for that.’

Proctor shook his head. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve tried.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean the reality’s not as titillating as you’d like it to be.’

He looked indignant. ‘I’ve never thought there was anything titillating about prostitution.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

He saw that she didn’t believe him. She said, ‘Whatever you say. The truth is, it’s dirty, monotonous and depressing. Occasionally, it’s dangerous. But most of the time, it’s as routine as any nine-to-five. Except we tend to work p.m. to a.m.’

‘How many days a week did you work?’

‘I’d say four to five, averaging five clients a day, at thirty to eighty pounds a go. Some days you get no one, other days you lose count.’

‘What kind of people?’

‘A mixture of regulars and one-offs.’

‘Can I ask you the most obvious question?’

She guessed what that was. ‘How do I do it with someone I find repellent?’

‘Yes.’

‘The same way a lawyer does his business with a criminal he’s sure is guilty. Dispassionately and professionally.’

‘But this is your body we’re talking about.’

‘Exactly. It’s not my soul – my spirit – so it’s not the real me.’

This time it was Stephanie who saw that her answer was doubted.

‘What do they tend to be like?’

‘They’re mostly middle-aged, mostly married. There are one or two who are nice enough – they tend to be the regulars – but the rest are wankers. Especially the ones who try to bargain. I mean, it’s bad enough without having to explain to some tosser that I’ll open my legs for eighty but I won’t for forty. Then you get the guys who can’t get it up or who can’t come. They’re the ones who are most likely to get abusive. They’re also the ones most likely to cry. But the ones I like the least are the macho ones who insist on the full half-hour – not a minute less – and are determined to try to break some kind of ejaculation record. It’s like some kind of virility test they have to pass. They’re pathetic.’

‘Do you have to see so many of them?’

‘Why? Do you think I enjoy it?’

‘No. But five clients a day at eighty quid a session, that’s four hundred pounds. Five days a week makes two grand.’

‘Let me explain something to you. Firstly, not all punters want, or can afford, the full service, so it’s not eighty quid a time. Then there’s rent. I paid a full rent to Dean West, my landlord. I also paid protection to him. If I’d gone outside him, I’d have had to pay a full commercial rent but I’d also have had to pay someone to take the flat in their name, since no agency is going to lease a place to someone who doesn’t even have a bank account.’

‘What?’

‘That’s right. No bank account, no National Insurance, nothing. And whoever rented the flat on my behalf would probably have skimmed some more off the top. Then I had to pay the maid – she cost fifty quid a day plus ten percent of what I made. On top of that, I had the cards to pay for. That’s twenty pounds for a thousand and ten pounds to the carder for every one hundred he stuck in a phone-box. And now that British Telecom is clearing some phone-boxes up to four times a day, that’s a hell of a lot of cards we’re talking about.’

‘I never really thought about the details,’ Proctor admitted.

‘No one ever does. The truth is, it’s bloody hard work.’

Proctor nodded. ‘It sounds rough.’

‘It is.’ When it looked as though he might be about to say something sympathetic, she cut him dead by adding: ‘But not as rough as the ride on North Eastern Airlines.’

He reached inside the fridge for the bottle and replenished their glasses. She shovelled some of the vegetables into the wok. The oil spat.

She said, ‘Did you know that they never found David? All the others were eventually identified – God knows how – but David was one of the twenty-eight they never recovered.’

‘No. I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’

Stephanie shrugged and seemed surprised at herself. ‘I don’t even know why I mentioned it. I mean, what difference does it make?’

Half an hour later, they had eaten. The topic of conversation had changed and so had the mood.

Stephanie said, ‘It’s my turn to ask you something personal.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Are you gay?’

‘What?’

She wasn’t sure whether he was merely surprised by the question, or angered by it.

‘Are you gay?’

‘What makes you think I might be?’

‘I haven’t seen you with anyone.’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been away a lot.’

‘I know. While I’ve been here. And no one called. At least, no one personal and female.’

He smiled at her analysis. ‘In answer to your question, no. I’m not gay. I’m just busy.’

Stephanie gathered their plates and took them through to the kitchen. Proctor followed. She placed the plates in the sink and turned on the cold tap. Proctor was behind her, but closer than before. She knew he would touch her before he did. He placed a hand on her hip and kissed her on the ear. It was a little peck followed by: ‘Thank you. That was delicious.’

The cold water was running over her hands. ‘It was nothing.’

‘It was thoughtful.’

He hadn’t moved away. He’d waited for a response, some form of rejection. There hadn’t been one and he took this as a sign of encouragement. He placed a hand on Stephanie’s shoulder and slowly turned her around. She let him. This was a moment that had been coming for a while.

Stephanie’s curiosity was marginally stronger than her trepidation. Proctor kissed her. He was tentative and closed his eyes. She kept hers open and never blinked. His hands moved around her, from the shoulders to the small of her back. Her lips felt numb against his.

She broke the kiss.

‘Are you all right?’ he murmured.

She recognized the sensation; the tension of a guitar string on the verge of snapping. Her pulse quickened, her fingers flexed.

He lowered his face towards hers once more, reading her silence as acceptance. But she turned her face away, grabbed his arms and pushed him back. If he was surprised by the vigour of her rejection, he was utterly amazed by the look on her face. Her eyes were aflame. The bitterness in them superseded anything he had seen in her before.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Keep away from me,’ she hissed.

He was dumbfounded. ‘Stephanie, what the hell’s going on?’

‘What did you think was going to happen?’ Even her voice had changed. Instead of rising to a hysterical shriek it had dropped to a growl. ‘That I’d find relief by letting you fuck me all night?’ She spat every word. ‘Is that what you thought? Me with tears on my face, you with a grin on yours?’

‘What are you talking about? It was just a kiss. I didn’t mean to …’

He took a step forward, she took a step back, until she found herself pressed against the sink. Her elbow knocked a wine glass to the floor. It shattered but her eyes never left Proctor. She felt the cold water splattering off the plates on to her arms. And then she felt the knife on the chopping board. She grabbed the handle and thrust the blade at Proctor who froze.

‘Come one step closer to me and I’ll kill you. I swear to God, I will.’

He raised his hands. ‘Take it easy, Stephanie. Just calm down –’

‘I mean it.’

‘Look, I’m sorry if I upset you.’

‘Sorry?’

‘If I misread the signals, I apologize. I didn’t want –’

‘Signals?’

‘I thought there was something … happening. Between us.’

‘Like what?’ Her fury was still building. ‘Do you see some neon sign over my head? You can fuck me if you want. What bloody signals?’

Proctor was bewildered beyond reason. ‘Stephanie, please …’

She was shaking. Her face had reddened at first but now the colour had drained from it entirely. He had never seen eyes so black or so brilliant. Her voice quietened to a brittle whisper: ‘If you ever touch me again …’

Proctor slowly extended his right hand towards her and said, softly, ‘Give me the knife.’

The swipe was so quick that neither of them saw the blade properly.

Stunned, Proctor looked at his palm, at the slice that extended from the base of the index finger to the edge of the wrist. For a second, it was a perfect scarlet line. Then the cut started to flow, streaming over his hand and fingers, curling around his wrist, coiling itself around his forearm, slicking the sleeve of his shirt, splattering on the tiles of the kitchen floor.

It was the sound of the front door closing that prompted him to gather his senses. Stephanie was gone and he needed medical attention.

At two in the morning, the busiest places in London are the night-clubs, the police stations and the Accident and Emergency departments of the city’s hospitals. Proctor descended from the first floor of St Mary’s Paddington and stepped out on to South Wharf Road. His palm had been stitched and bandaged. It was a freezing night. He glanced both ways, wondering which direction would most likely lead him to a taxi, even though Bell Street was not far away. To his right, he recognized the vast curved roof that covered the platforms of Paddington Station. Only a handful of lights were burning in the high-rise beyond. It stood out against the night, lit by the glare from the streets below.

Proctor turned left. He never saw Stephanie standing still in the shadows of the hospital. And she never saw him alive again.