‘I wasn’t sure you were open …’
‘We had a fire alarm earlier, cleared the place out.’
‘I’m looking for the owner.’
‘You’ve found him.’ He frowned at the scrapes and bruises on my face. ‘Not sure this is your game, though …’
‘Nicholas Fisk?’
‘Nicky Fisk,’ he said. ‘Junior.’ I knew from the old newspaper articles that Fisk, the thin man, had two sons. They’d been the ones who reported him and his wife missing. It felt incredible to interact with a character from this time in my life, like it proved my sanity. He pulled off his gloves and held out a hand. I’d wanted to keep him at arm’s length but I went forward and shook it.
‘In that case, I think I’m looking for your father …’
‘I know you fucking are,’ he said, crushing my hand and stabbing a left into my stomach. He hit me so hard I felt the blow in my spine. I folded on to the floor and he dragged me by the leg through to the next room where I was lifted up and thrown, roughly, into a chair. I heard duct tape being torn off a roll, and then felt it, binding my wrists behind my back.
I tried to speak.
Felt the bile climbing up my throat and clenched my jaw.
When I looked around I was in a shambolic, out-of-time office, sitting opposite an empty chair.
A spit bucket was emptied over my head and when I opened my eyes, gagging, Nicky Fisk Jr threw a right at me. I winced and he stopped one inch from impact, laughing strangely. The taste of stale, bloody spit in my mouth was making me retch, and he pushed me back against the chair so I stayed upright. He grabbed a sports bottle from the desk and sprayed my face with water. When I opened my eyes again the chair opposite me was occupied.
Nicholas Fisk, senior.
The thinnest man I’d ever seen in my life.
The tragic, emaciated figure I remembered so vividly from twenty-odd years before had become somehow sharper, somehow more angular. It looked like he hadn’t eaten a meal since. He had his legs crossed and I could see the bones in his knees outlined through his trousers. Despite being so slender, so tall, every visible part of his ashen skin sagged.
‘What do you think, Nicky?’ he said. ‘We got a contender?’ He sounded like Johnny Rotten giving elocution lessons.
‘Guy’s faded,’ said Nicky, his son, leaning against the far wall with his arms folded. ‘Some journeyman who’s reached his final destination.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Fisk, jerking his head to the right. ‘Maybe he’s not much of a technician but he looks like a brawler. You didn’t do that to him, did you?’
‘The bruises?’ said Nicky. ‘Naw. Guy’s just got one of those faces …’
‘I have to apologize for the boy,’ said Fisk. ‘He got the hip-hop patois from his mother’s side. Now every word out of his mouth sounds like an insult. And I suppose I should apologize for him gutting you before you could get to me. But there’s an old boxing saying I try to live by. Be first.’
I looked up. ‘Carver told you I was coming …’
‘I’m glad he did,’ he said, using his cynical, false-toothed smile as a full stop.
‘Listen—’
‘No, you listen.’
I heard the hammer being drawn back on a gun next to my head. I heard myself breathing in and out for a moment, then I turned to stare down the barrel. The gun was being held by another young black man. Nicky’s exact double. They were twins.
‘Fool really turned up, then?’ said the twin.
‘What’s left of him,’ said Fisk. ‘Which isn’t much. He thinks we should listen to him …’
The gun pressed into my temple. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Carver’s playing you …’
Fisk sucked his false teeth for a moment and jerked his head to the left. ‘Carver says you’re not to be trusted. Says you’re an informant. Says you’ve come here to kill me …’
‘I’m a police officer,’ I said. I felt the pressure of the gun at my temple increase. ‘I’m serious, check my ID.’ Fisk nodded at the twin, who felt inside my jacket pocket, found my wallet and threw it at his brother. He caught the wallet and picked through the various cards and receipts inside it, dropping them on the floor as he went.
‘Well, fuck me …’ he said, handing my badge to his father.
Fisk examined it then jerked his head to the right. ‘Is that supposed to get you out of my bad books, Detective?’
‘No, but it proves I’m on the level and Zain’s pouring shit in your ear.’
He squinted. ‘Why does he want you dead, I wonder?’
‘It’s about a girl,’ I said. ‘You know what he’s like.’
‘This girl didn’t get herself killed, by any chance …’
‘The opposite.’
‘The one that got away?’ He gave me his false-toothed smile again. ‘Well, I shouldn’t wonder he’s upset with you, he usually likes to brick his little problems up into the walls of old houses. Sometimes while they’re still breathing. Which begs the question: if Mr Carver’s telling me porky-pies about you coming here to kill me, and if he wants you dead so badly, why didn’t he do it himself?’
The gun was pressing back into my temple.
‘He tried to. My superior told him if anything happened to me, he’d go down for it.’ Fisk didn’t say anything but his head kept feinting from side to side, like a fighter trying to provoke a reaction. ‘As we speak, Carver’s making a scene in a very public place, creating a cast-iron alibi, praying one of your boys decides to be his triggerman. You’re doing his dirty work for him.’
‘So, why are you here?’
I didn’t even know where to start so I got straight to the point. ‘Bateman,’ I said. The gun was removed from my temple and Nicky’s twin spat into my ear.
‘Don’t even say that fucking name in here.’
Fisk gave me his false smile. ‘Bad form,’ he said. ‘It was a man called Bateman killed the boy’s mother, my wife.’ He watched me cautiously. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s out,’ I said. ‘He’s walking the streets.’
Fisk didn’t move for a minute, until his boys had both turned to look at him. Then he shuffled forward in his chair. I saw that he was holding a walking stick and, with difficulty, climbed to his feet. He was so tall that he had to hold his head to one side so it wouldn’t hit the ceiling. He swayed there for a moment then walked slowly to the door, leaning heavily on the stick.
‘Thanks for letting me know,’ he said gravely, his back to the room. ‘But it looks like I owe you another apology …’
‘Wait a minute—’
‘What do you think, Nicky?’ he said.
‘Fuck him,’ said Nicky, pushing himself off the far wall with his strange non-smile.
‘Donny?’
The gun was pressing into my temple so hard I thought it might pierce the bone. ‘Guy’s got no etiquette.’
‘Sorry, friend,’ said Fisk. ‘But you’re a cop. You’ve been beaten up by my boys. Heard their names, seen their faces …’
‘Wait—’
‘Another boxing term, I’m afraid. Unanimous decision.’
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘They were holding you in the cellar. You got out, you called the police, you found a gun on the kitchen table.’
‘You’ve read the papers, well done—’
‘Tracy,’ I said. He stopped in the doorway. ‘You were crying and you heard someone behind the door, someone in the hallway, and you called out for your wife.’
Fisk turned to look at me.
My vision was blurring, my voice was shaking. ‘Bateman sent a little boy into that house to get the bag and he heard you behind that door.’ The gun pressed harder into my head. ‘He couldn’t take it,’ I was shouting now. ‘He couldn’t take it so he unlocked the door and let you out.’ I saw them exchanging glances. ‘He saved your fucking life.’
Fisk was breathing heavily, staring straight into me, leaning on his stick. He tilted his head again, but this time to get a better look. His eyes focused on mine. Neither of us moved for a moment. Acknowledging, perhaps, that we were both prisoners.
‘Untie him,’ he said, with some feeling. ‘Now.’
11