I’ve always been a fighter. I’ve never felt it right to give up in the face of injustice. I’d rather die fighting than give up. It’s one of the reasons I reacted the way I did when I found out about Mr Duggan’s death. That was sheer injustice at its highest level – a man who got to live his life the way he wanted without retribution, save for one night many years ago. And when it’s an injustice I can’t do anything about – like Mr Duggan getting off scot-free – it hurts a thousand times more.
Andrej goes off to make a few phone calls, and Marek offers me a drink. I tell him I’ll have whisky. I figure they can at least let me have the rest of the day off from driving after pouring out my life history in front of them. A few minutes later, Andrej comes back.
‘We have a job for you,’ he says. I lift up my whisky glass in response, as if to show him I’m not going to be able to do anything right now. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he replies.
51
It’s all hazy at first. I’m flicking channels on the TV, and there’s a couple I can’t get. Channels 4 and 5, yet again. I blink, and the TV remote becomes my mobile phone. I’ve just finished sending a message, so I lock the screen and put the phone on my bedside table. It’s dark, but I can still see perfectly. I can see everything. All of my senses are alive.
I can hear the footsteps treading softly on the carpet in the corridor outside, gradually getting louder until the adrenaline coursing through me turns the sound into a deafening roar which ends with a second’s peaceful silence before the gentle knock on the door. I casually walk over to the door and open it, beckoning her inside. Her hair flows behind her as she walks, her whole appearance almost ethereal, a light, bright glow around her, shining like an aura.
‘You said you wanted to see me?’ she says, her pale skin glistening white, almost translucent. She’s even more beautiful than I remember, and I have a distinct awareness of remembering her far too fondly, almost like looking deep into the past with rose-tinted glasses.
‘Yes, come through,’ I reply, beckoning her through the small side door to my left. The light is glowing inside, the whole room basking in the whitest white. ‘Lie down,’ I say. She smiles at me and steps over the side of the bath, swinging her other leg in behind her, before sitting down and resting her head back. It makes a small, gentle sound as her head makes contact with the cold, hard surface of the bath. I can see her muscles visibly relaxing in front of me. She looks happy, content.
‘I understand,’ she says, looking at me, her eyes conveying a lifetime of emotion. ‘I understand.’
In that moment, I know things are changing. It’s a moment of sheer beauty, of complete mutual human recognition. We both know, we both understand, and not a word needs to be said. It’s serene. It’s beautiful. It’s what philosophers refer to as ‘the numinous’. If I could savour the moment forever, I would – we both would – but we know it’s not to be. We know what comes next.
The theme tune to Countdown is playing from the TV back inside the bedroom. I lean across the edge of the bath and put my hands around her throat, squeezing harder as she begins to gurgle. The music gets louder, my hands getting tighter around her throat. The blood tries to escape from her head, but it can’t. She goes from pale white to pink, through red and on to deep purple, her lips turning blue. The Countdown music rolls into the final five-second sting as she begins to shake violently, her central nervous system putting up one last, final struggle for life as all signs of existence start to fade from her eyes. The final bong sounds from the TV at the same time as her body stops jerking, a beautiful, peaceful silence filling the room.
I rest her back against the porcelain, gently, taking care not to hurt her. I stand up, pull the shower curtain across and wash my hands before drying them on the towel. I glance into the mirror and check that my shirt is sitting comfortably and then I leave the room, my stomach starting to growl and rumble.
52
The next morning, my head is pounding. I don’t recall drinking all that much, but it feels like I’ve got the hangover from hell. Logically, I know it’s likely to be a combination of a bit of alcohol plus a fair amount of tiredness and a smattering of stress. I’m not quite sure what else I expected at the moment, but I don’t feel in any state to go doing deliveries. Andrej and Marek have already been making phone calls, though, mostly in Slovak but with familiar words being interspersed through the conversations. Daniel Cooper. Lisa Cooper. Jessica Walsh. Herne Bay. Claude. France. Innsbruck.
They’ve both been very reassuring. Then again, they would be, wouldn’t they? They want me to be the fall guy for their dodgy dealings. I tell myself not to take it personally, that they’re my only hope. For them, this is pure business, I suppose. A large part of me is also hoping they’re the sort of people who deal with so many crooks and villains that they’ll be able to tell just by looking at me that I’m an honest sort of guy. Well, about as honest as I can be, anyway.
I get up, get dressed and make my way downstairs to the bar. When I get there, Marek is mopping the floor. The whole place smells of disinfectant with a faint undercurrent of stale lager. He looks at me, fires off a smile and goes back to mopping.
‘Morning,’ I say, trying to initiate some conversation.
‘Good morning,’ he says eventually, not looking up from the floor, his mop gliding across it with a light swish-swoosh in between dips into the bucket.
‘Any news?’
Marek shakes his head almost immediately. ‘No news. When we have news, we will tell.’ I say nothing. ‘Here,’ he says, jiggling a small wicker basket on the bar. ‘Eat.’
I look into the basket. It appears to be full of what looks like black bread or some sort of cake.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Breakfast,’ Marek replies, beaming.
Not wanting to offend anyone, and starting to feel pretty hungry, I take a slice of the bread and start to eat. It’s sweet, almost like cake, and very malty. It’s not what I’d tend to associate with breakfast, but right now I’ll eat anything. I somehow doubt there’s going to be a local greasy spoon serving a full English fry-up.
‘Did Andrej tell you any more about the job he wants me to do today?’ I ask.
Marek says nothing in response, instead spending a few more seconds mopping right up into the corner of the bar before he straightens up, plops the mop back in the bucket, dries his hands on his shirt and comes over to me.