Читать книгу FALLEN IDOLS - Neil White - Страница 15

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She was strumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she entered Manchester, drumrolling to the thoughts racing through her head, the images of Dumas as he died, of the two people in the flat. She had stayed in a motel, some chain place just off the motorway, but her sleep had been broken, angry, woken by jolts whenever she fell asleep. She had asked to view the flat alone. They had insisted.

She closed her eyes for a moment, tried to focus, muttered to herself, took some deep breaths and tried to calm herself down. She talked to herself some more, and when she spoke, she felt the panic retreat.

She leant back in the car seat, stuck at a red light by the Manchester Arena, the railway bridge coming out of Victoria the shadow on her horizon, red and gold, the Victorian north. She could see the shadows of Deansgate gathering in front of her, cars bunching, getting busier, with the new steel and glass of Manchester ahead, the rebuilding after the bomb, modern and dynamic, sharp angles shining light behind the dark stone of the cathedral. In her mirror, she could see Strangeways, the Manchester prison.

She moved on when she got the green and then the sun disappeared as she drove between the tight buildings of Deansgate. It went out altogether as she pulled into a car park below an apartment building. The wind was no longer in her ears, no more of the city sounds. Now it was dark and full of echoes, with the sound of her warm tyres screeching on the dry concrete.

She pulled into a parking bay, her stomach taking a roll when she saw the Porsche, his mid-life crisis. She thought she heard someone laugh. She gritted her teeth, knew not to look behind.

She did a slow count to ten, then stepped out of the car, her bag swinging, playing the part, and took the lift into the lobby.

As she stepped out, the security guard gave her a nod, a look of recognition.

She made it to the lift that led to the apartments, not wanting to talk, the silence almost crushing her, her breaths bouncing around the walls. Ten floors up, almost as high as she could go, she stepped out and paused outside his door. She took another deep breath and screwed up her eyes to keep the voices away.

She went into the apartment slowly, using the spare key she’d coaxed out of him, peering round, working out where he was. She could hear the shower running.

She saw The Times on a chair. She turned away. She’d read all she could about the shooting. No one had mentioned the chain yet. Not even on the television. Maybe she had pushed it too far in? Maybe they didn’t understand it? She would have to do something about that.

She walked quietly into the bedroom. She could hear singing coming out of the bathroom just off to its right, out-of-tune opera, and through the steam she could see him, a middle-aged divorced accountant happy to believe that she was interested in him.

She tried to slow down her breathing. She had been waiting for this moment, ever since that first time, when she had met him in a bar near the courts, when he had bragged to her where he lived, in the plush new high-rise with a central location and a view right into the city bustle. She had been trying to find a location for part of her plan when she realised that the answer was in front of her, bragging to her, chatting her up. She had smiled back, her eyes full of promise, and when she had seen the view out of the window, she had known it was perfect. Since then, it had just been a matter of keeping him interested.

She pulled back the shower curtain quickly.

He jumped back, gasping in shock, covering himself with his hands. When he saw who it was, he laughed, splashing water at her.

‘Hey sweetness, you’re early.’

She raised a smile. ‘I like surprises.’ She turned away. ‘I’m going to get a drink. You joining me?’

She left the bathroom and went to the living room. Modern and minimalist. Cream carpets, black chairs, big windows, and a view to die for. The irony almost made her laugh.

She went to the drinks cabinet and poured two vodkas. She would need hers.

She walked to the window. The apartment was on the corner of the building, all modern steel, the signs of Manchester coming up, balconies all around. The site of the IRA bomb was just at the end of the street, and what it had blown away had been replaced by optimism, by a new start. What had survived had been the old buildings, the grand Victorian buildings, solid in stone, the people below scurrying between them, all busy and small, St Ann’s Square as thriving as ever. The city was growing in front of her, a different place to the Manchester she had visited as a child.

She was looking down, thinking about the city, when she felt him approach her from behind, in a dressing gown, his passion pressing into her. He murmured in her ear, nibbling at her, pushing against her.

‘It’s good to see you again,’ he whispered, his breaths short and hot.

She stared down at the sunlight as it glanced off the roofs below. His hands made their way up her stomach. ‘Hey, slow down. We’ve got all day.’ She felt cold inside.

He began to fumble with her shirt buttons. ‘I can’t wait all day.’

He pulled her close, breathing hard into her neck.

Not long now, she told herself. Keep calm. Not long.

Bob Garrett was in the Sunshine Cafe, a quiet breakfast place on the edge of the town triangle, in the shadow of the town hall and the Horrocks clock. Bright vinyl seats gave the colour, red and dated, either bolted to the floor against the counter or in rows against sparkling white tables. The counter ran in front of the large windows, so it attracted the biker crowd, summer afternoons a parade of leather and chrome. During the week it was labourers and workmen looking for a good start to the day, or the retired and out-of-work looking to waste an hour with cheap coffee. Art deco pink tiles made it stand out, giving it the feel of the sixties. It served up honest food while the rest of the country marched under golden arches.

Bob was just coming off his night shift, making his way through sausage and fried bread, eggs and bacon, draining his tea. He looked up and smiled at the waitress as she sauntered over to wipe a table. She was pretty and young, but her face was getting hard, council-house blonde, too many rings on her fingers.

As she reached him, she smiled, nodding back towards the television in the background. ‘I saw that last night,’ she said. ‘Sounds pretty bad?’

He nodded thoughtfully, chewing. ‘It is.’

‘Do you think they’ll catch him?’

He smiled at that, infectious innocence.

‘I hope so, but it’s a big city down there.’

She wandered back to the counter. ‘I went to London once. Bloody crazy place. Why would anyone want to spend all day rushing around? No one speaks, no one smiles. Not much please, thank you, goodbye.’ She wandered back. ‘Glad I stayed in the Fold.’

‘The best breakfast this side of Pendle Hill.’

At that, she sighed. ‘I’d always hoped for more.’

He turned back to his breakfast. He couldn’t provide an answer for that.

He was halfway through his next mouthful when he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. He looked round and saw Jim Smith, one of his drinking partners from the Swan.

‘You’re out early.’

‘Peggy’s in one of her tidying moods. One of the problems with retirement. You spend all day with the person you went to work to avoid.’ He looked at the counter. ‘Same as Bob, flower.’

The order was shouted towards the kitchen, where the cook’s hands could be seen through a serving hatch, breaking eggs and flipping bacon.

‘No food at home, Bob?’

He shook his head, his mouth full of food, and then dabbed a napkin to his mouth. ‘If I feel like a treat, I eat out.’

‘Busy night?’

He sighed. ‘Couple of drink drivers and some kids growing up on White Lightning. Apart from that, nothing.’

Jim puffed as he shuffled his large frame along the vinyl bench opposite Bob, and then pointed at the television. ‘Makes me mad the more I think about that. He must have been up to something. Too much money on an empty head, and this is what you get. Football has turned to shite.’

Bob didn’t say anything. It had been a few years since he had cared about football. It had been his life once, but things had happened to change that.

‘Anything new yet?’ Jim continued.

Bob shook his head. ‘They just keep on talking until they catch somebody.’

Jim rearranged his trousers, and then asked, ‘Nothing on the police grapevine? No rumours from London?’

Bob laughed. ‘I keep off the police grapevine; it’s usually full of shit. But they’ll get somebody. They always do, with crimes like that.’ He looked at Jim. ‘It’s going to happen again.’

Jim was about to answer, but he was cut short when a plate of fried food landed on the table in front of him, so Bob slid off his seat, tossed his napkin onto his plate, and smiled at the waitress. He patted Jim on the shoulder and went to leave. ‘See you around, big man. I need to sleep.’

‘Yeah, get some beauty sleep,’ came the reply, mumbled through a mouthful of food.

The bell over the door tinkled as he went back outside. The sun was sharp but the streets were virtually empty. He saw a couple of tracksuits heading for the Fold’s only solicitor’s office, he guessed for a lift to court. A couple of old chaps, brown trousers, were heading for the greengrocer’s, hoping for the best of the early fruit. The butcher’s shop rolled out its red awning. The charity shop moved a rail of old clothes onto the pavement.

Another ordinary day in Turners Fold.