The nurse beside her touched her arm and pointed to the stage. The curtain was going up.
The curtain went up to reveal a street scene and a gang of youngsters, dancing to the right or left and pushing the passers-by aside. They shouted abuse across the steaming road. One of them daubed paint on a brick wall: Kill the Bill. And the gang began to sing:
There were a few skirmishes last night but nothing much
Just a few friendly little fights but nothing much
We gave the residents a fright but nothing much…
The passers-by joined in. First the Politician as he introduced the others:
He's a criminologist and she's a sociologist
And I'm a politician, vote for me.
He's a police-inspector and she's a social worker
And I'm a politician, vote for me.
I'm into crime prevention, stop the windows being broken
And I'm a politician, vote for me.
And with that slimy offering the politician flashed white teeth and produced a red, white and blue banner which read: Vote for me! And the gang sang:
We're the pill-popping, heavy-drinking, glue-sniffing gang from hell.
The gang's all here, born out of fear, you see…
Passer-by: Alienated youth, violence on TV, poverty, bad-housing, boredom and page three…
Politician: And I'm a politician, vote for me…
Street Cleaner: I'm a street cleaner and I hose away the blood
Council Worker: I’m a council worker and I make the windows good
Vicar: I'm the local vicar and I'm mis-under-stood
Politician: And I'm a politician, vote for me.
And the gang sang:
We're the pill-popping, heavy-drinking, glue-sniffing gang from hell.
The stage was a frenzy of movement and colour. The first half-dozen rows were all but hidden by smoke. Anian Stanford didn’t really notice. She was watching Lawrence, trying to make out his features in the dimmed lighting and wondering if the girl hugging his arm was aware of the danger she was in.
Geoff Maynard was still out and the house was strangely silent. He’d mentioned earlier that Donna had come back with a nil return on the CCTV images and Cole guessed he was in the Square again, checking out the faces.
In just a few days the psychologist’s domesticity had left a mark; silly things, like the dishcloth left hanging to dry instead of squeezed and left on the drainer, the Teacher's safely tucked away in the cabinet instead of its usual place at the foot of Cole's armchair. Cole switched off the light and carried a glass to the bay window. The lawn, in its winter coat and orange wash, looked thick and spongy. The wind was up, sweeping through the volcanic light from the street lamps, rushing through the trees and beating the fluttering, flame-like winter shrubs into submission. He felt the familiar bite of the Teacher's and shivered, waiting for it to lift his mood. This was no life, annihilated every night, dealing with filth every day. No intermission. Another day, another meeting, another seeing, speaking, sleeping. Just going through the motions without a purpose, apart from one, waking up to do it all again.
A car rolled to a slow stop at the end of his drive. He recognized it and checked his watch. It had turned eleven. He watched her lock the car and start up his path. She was biting her lower lip, ready to turn and run, searching for a light in the house and frowning at the darkness. Maybe she'd already checked out the White Horse and drawn a blank. She wore a grey jacket and a short navy-blue skirt that fanned in the wind. A sudden gust gave him even more of her legs. Almost casually, she reached down and held on to the hemline. He turned on the porch light and opened the door as she was about to ring.
For a few moments they stood in silence.
She levelled her gaze.
With a slight tilt of the head he beckoned her inside.
She hesitated for a second more then stepped over the threshold. In the bedroom window the stars dissolved in the condensation. In the volcanic light the hard-edged trees rounded like candle wax under a flame.
“You take them off,” she said as she plucked the elastic below her navel.
He did and, some time later, lay back nursing a semi-skimmed dick. In the morning the night was just a blur. Teacher's, before and after, got in the way of clarity. He remembered the stars as they found their cruel brilliance again as the condensation wept away.
During the night there had been an explosion and it wasn't an allotment shed or children with reconstructed fireworks. It had brought down the roof of a house in a terraced row. An old exhausted run-down place that needed demolishing anyway. According to initial reports the cause was a gas leak. It happened, more than people knew. The Fire Brigade was out in force and uniforms were cordoning the area. Safety experts were examining the scene. Two men had died. Blown to bits and the bits burned beyond recognition. In time there would be neighbours and scraps of documentation and dental records and reconstruction and numerous items that would give them the background, but for the moment they were just casualties of the night, written off as accidental deaths. It meant paperwork and time they didn’t have and, hopefully, an uncomplicated transfer to the coroner.
In the car, in the morning, as they passed what was left of the house and skirted the flapping police tape, DS Sam Butler said, “With a bit of luck forensics will have something for us on Helen Harrison's car. And we do need something.” He paused, then: “Did you enjoy the show?” If Anian heard it didn't register. She said, “I almost went round to Rick Cole's last night.”
Sam Butler was staggered, speechless. All he could do was shake his head in disbelief and keep the car from veering.
“Did you hear me?”
Eventually he found his voice, but it still came out sounding like someone else. “I'm having trouble with it. Tell me again.” “It's true. I was a bit pissed after the show. Couldn't help it. Wanted to. Couldn't. Stupid, isn't it?”
“Why?”
He sensed her shrug. “I don't know. Nothing makes sense anymore. He made it quite clear the other night that he’s not interested. Maybe that was it. The challenge. The old behavioural protocol becomes activated, doesn’t it? Pride, anger, you name it. In a negative way it’s still intoxicating. I'm getting hurt here, but I can't help myself.” “Back off, for Christ sake. I thought you'd had your fill of office romances. Think about it.”
She sighed. “You're right. But that's not me, is it? All my life I've jumped in head first and lived to regret it. I wish I hadn't told you.” He nodded reluctantly, unable to make sense of what he'd heard. He said, “So do I.”
“You're angry?”
“Leave it alone, Anian. I was surprised, that's all.”
After a moment he added, “For a while back there I forgot I was married with a little girl that's keeping me up all night. All right?” “That's fine. I understand.”
He shot her a glance. Her dark eyes were on the road. He wondered whether she did understand, that back there, for a moment, jealousy – pure, irrational, blood-rushing jealousy – had got the better of him. He drove in uncomfortable silence for five minutes then pulled up in a wide, well-maintained street the other side of the park. No line of parked cars here, just clean pavements and drives to every door. “St George’s Way,” Anian said quietly. “Imelda Cooke?” “Right,” Butler said and climbed out of the car.
She followed him up the drive toward a two-storey detached. Joseph Cooke had reported his wife missing three months ago. He had given up his job in the city to take care of the children. When he opened the door and recognized the police officers, the expectation of the bad news he’d been dreading drained his features and left a terrible stain in his eyes.
Butler had seen the look many times before – the certainty, the disbelief, the helplessness, the realization of all those nightmares, and he was quick to reassure him. “It's all right, Joe. There’s been no development.”
Relief flooded back. “Thank God for that. I thought…”
“I know. There should be a way of ringing you first to let you know that nothing's happened. I'm sorry. Are the kids at home?” “No. They're staying with their nan. I get a break from time to time. Come on in.”
