Good Bait

‘’Cause I can go over, make an introduction …’

‘No.’ She grabbed hold of Carla’s arm. ‘No, it’s fine. Just jumpy, that’s all.’

‘Okay, okay.’

The next time Karen looked, the man had gone.

‘Bad day, huh?’

‘Bad couple of days.’

‘Want to talk about it?’

Karen shook her head.

They went to a club across the river, just a nightcap, vodka tonics. When someone stumbled over his feet asking her to dance, Carla just laughed. ‘I ought to be heading home,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘Matinee tomorrow.’

They stood on the Embankment, looking out over the river, the slow trail of lights down towards St Paul’s.

Carla lit a cigarette.

‘Let me have one.’

‘I thought you’d given up.’

‘I did.’

Something caught Karen’s eye up on the bridge. The flash of a camera. Tourists capturing the city, the Thames at night.

‘If it was ever really getting to you,’ Carla said, ‘you know, really doing your head in, you’d chuck it all in, right? Step away.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, of course.’

Even as she said it, she wondered if it were true. It was her life, after all. What else could she do? And besides — Make somethin’ of yourself, her father had said. Make a difference if you can. She owed it to him to keep trying.

Five minutes later, she and Carla were in the Underground, different destinations, separate trains. A five- minute walk for Karen from Highbury and Islington, five or six, soft echo of her footsteps along the pavement. Someone, somewhere playing Al Green’s ‘Belle’, a song she’d always loved; an upstairs window left open, volume just high enough to tempt her into singing along. The living-room light was on as she’d left it, muted through closed curtains. Key in her hand, she looked up and down the empty street.

Inside, she slipped the bolt and turned the key. Switched on the TV and listened to the canned laughter from some rerun comedy as she moved around the flat, taking off her clothes. The man in the Mexican place earlier, standing up against the wall, bottle of Dos Equis in his hand; she knew him, someone like him. The way he had looked at her. As if he were in the job. God! What was this? Burcher on her tail from nowhere, checking up on her, asking questions. Ion Milescu’s father expressing concern, friends in high places, and now she was getting paranoid.

Ridiculous.

She clicked off the light.

The man in the restaurant: off duty or on?

The bedroom struck cold. Curling into position on her side, knees drawn up, one hand close to her face, she was asleep before realising she’d closed her eyes. Flat out.

And still she dreamed.

20

Come all this way, Kiley had said, with reference to the bookshop Letitia’s father ran in Hastings, shame not to check it out. Besides, it was too long, Cordon thought, though little time enough, since he had seen the sea. The smell, catching the air from as far back as the railway station, drawing him down.

He made his way past the chippies and the pizza parlours and the petty amusement arcades, on past the signs advertising Smugglers Adventure and Underwater World to where the fishing boats, bright reds and blues and greens, sat propped on a slope of pebbles beneath the East Cliff; net houses, narrow and all-over black, stood tall, shielding them from the road.

Cordon walked between the boats, sniffing the air, listening to the squawk and call of gulls, relishing the roll of small stones beneath his feet. Letitia might even like it here, he thought, the south coast, remind her of some of the things — few enough — she missed about home. A touch closer to Penzance than Finsbury Park.

He sat.

Letitia’s face came clear to his mind. Not that last time, the last time so far, herself and Maxine dolled up to the nines, a night out on what passed for the town. This was Letitia at sixteen, just old enough, as she had put it, to be legal; Letitia the night she had let herself into the flat with the key she used when she came to walk the dog; let herself into the flat and into his bed, and Cordon, caught between fantasy and dream and recognising, just in time, the warmth and reality of bones and flesh, had pushed her out, and, stumbling to the bathroom, hand across his all-too-humanly tumescent cock, had splashed cold water in his face, and when he looked up, had seen Letitia’s face behind him in the mirror, half-mocking, half-exposed from the pain of being rejected, cast aside.

After that, between Letitia and himself, it had never been the same. And still there were times, when, unbidden, the memory returned, caught him off guard, riven between desire and shame.

He lifted a stone and weighed it in his hand before skimming it out to sea. One bounce, two, and he had turned away before it had sunk from sight.

Back beside the main road, he crossed against the traffic and headed for the centre of the old town.

The shop was tucked away between a web of narrow streets, the sign over the door in faded purple paint, Clifford Carlin, Bookseller. Antiquarian and Second-Hand. A couple of boxes stood partly blocking the entrance — Any Book 10p. Inside, books rose, floor to ceiling, up every wall; tall shelves of paperbacks, arranged by type, jutted out, maze-like, across the floor.

Taking his bearings, Cordon paused before a large selection of Westerns: Jubal Cade, Herne the Hunter, Apache, Edge. Who was that writer his father had liked to read? Louis L’Amour? They were here in their dozens. And there was somebody else, he was sure. Oakley someone, was that possible? Oakley Hall?

In the far corner, near the window, there was a children’s section with a little plastic table and chairs, crayons in old coffee tins, scraps of paper on which to draw, copies of old Beano annuals fanned out, one above the other. A pair of Goths was looking at the section labelled Alternative Medicine amp; Psychotherapy; an earnest young man, head angled awkwardly sideways, was browsing through Science Fiction amp; Fantasy.

Music played from a battered beat box perched precariously atop a tower of encyclopedias. Twangy guitar, slapped bass, flailing vocals — rockabilly? Is that what this was? Cordon glanced at the red cover of the CD as he stepped past. Charlie Feathers. He was none the wiser.

Carlin — he presumed it was Carlin — was talking to a customer weighed down with plastic bags that seemed to contain all his worldly goods. Long hair pulled back off his face and tied in a pony tail, goatee beard, Carlin was wearing a faded T-shirt from the Rolling Stones tour of ’76. Late fifties he’d be, Cordon hazarded, early sixties. Ten years, or thereabouts, older than he was himself.

The customer demanding all of the proprietor’s attention, Cordon looked again at the Western shelves, and there was Oakley Hall, but out of sequence. Not Warlock — he remembered the title now — that was the one his father had read, not once but several times; there had even, Cordon thought, been a movie. This was a tall paperback, close on three hundred pages: Separations. A painting on the cover of a deep canyon, sheer cliffs leading to slate blue water.

He turned to the beginning and read the first sentence.

When Mary Temple read in the Alta California that a white woman had been reported seen in an Indian village in Arizona Territory, she knew it was her sister.