Nothing Sacred Page 9

  I breathed, nodded, and he let go. They turned away and walked back up to Alex Blake’s home. From my knees looking upwards it looked like a citadel, looming above me out of the dark. I could not get away quickly enough.

  11

  AFTER THREE GLASSES of Scotch, I still could not imagine that I would ever get close to sleep; when I closed my eyes I saw the half-remembered image of Liam, a bloodied bundle, his face like raw meat. A man who would make an example of someone who worked for him, punish him for an error of judgement in such a way. I drank and it was only by looking at the cold, still, prosaic reality of my living room that I could believe I was alive, that I had got away so lightly from Alex Blake.

  But the body can take only so much, and although the edge of sleep had seemed far away, at some point I dropped off it completely. I woke on my sofa with the fourth glass untouched and a pale, indifferent sun leaking into the room. My eyes felt as if they had been abraded by sandpaper and my ribs ached from where Carl had hit me. I sat up, tried to rub the itch out of my eyes, thought about what had happened, what my next move would be.

  What I should do was call Vick, tell her I was sorry but that there was nothing more I could do, or was willing to do, to help her – she was on her own. This was not my business, yet it had brought the threat of violence to my door, to Maria. I had no dog in this fight. Time to walk away. But before I could do that, there was somebody I needed to see.

  Today addiction is accepted as a disease rather than a moral defect or failing, treated with understanding rather than punishment. But Ryan Lowrie, in the grip of an uncontrollable compulsion or not, had given my card to men who used violence and intimidation as a way of life, as a means of business. I could not simply forget that. He owed me an apology, and an explanation.

  There was no answer when I pressed the buzzer to Ryan’s flat and, if I was honest, that was no bad thing. If I had found Ryan I know that I would have had difficulty controlling my temper. I was still shaken from the events of the night before and was looking for somebody to blame, to unload my fear onto. Ryan, small and slight and culpable, was the ideal candidate. I did not have Vick’s number with me, could not ask her where he was working, and anyway, making an example of Ryan at his place of work would have been a step too far. If I wanted to get hold of Ryan, there was only one sure way.

  The woman at the first bookies did not even ask me why I wanted Ryan, whether he was in any trouble; she just took the offered twenty and my card, told me she’d call me if he turned up but, given the way he’d been losing recently, she wasn’t holding her breath.

  At the next, a girl barely out of school was at the counter and she hesitated when I asked her to give me a call if she saw Ryan, looked about her for words of advice although there was nobody there.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Want to speak to him.’

  ‘Yeah, but, you know. Why?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Here’s another twenty.’

  ‘Ain’t the money. Just…’ She looked confused, unsure. She shrugged. ‘Don’t feel comfortable.’

  ‘I’m a lawyer,’ I said. I gave her my card. ‘It’s regarding his children.’

  ‘He’s got kids?’ She seemed surprised.

  ‘Yes, he’s got kids.’

  ‘Okay.’ She still did not seem sure but I left her looking at my card, wondering about the mysteries of grown men who could throw their lives away while being responsible for others. As if this was not a situation many of us had long accepted as entirely normal.

  My final visit was to the man with the glasses who had pointed me in the direction of the casino. He was no longer vacuuming and Chambers was awake this time, gazing at the screen above him, which showed the odds for a race held at a course I had never heard of.

  ‘You want me to call you.’

  ‘If you could.’

  He pushed his glasses down his nose, held my card out at arm’s length. ‘Known a few lawyers in my time. Didn’t trust any of them.’

  ‘He’s involved in something. With some bad people.’

  ‘And you might just be one of them.’

  I held my palms up. He was too shrewd for me. ‘Fair enough.’

  He sighed. ‘He gambles like my old man used to drink. Dunno what’s going on there, but I hate to take his money.’ He plucked the twenty from between my fingers. ‘I’ll give you a call. Ain’t nobody else looking out for the poor sod. You ask me, he’s a terminal case.’

  Gabe was standing outside his house, watching two men replace a pane of glass in one of his front windows. He nodded to me but did not invite me inside even though it was cold and we stood there, watching one of the men apply putty to the pane while the other smoked a cigarette and talked to somebody on his mobile about something that somebody else had done that Saturday night.

  ‘You all right?’ Gabe said.

  ‘Yeah. You?’

  Gabe nodded, watched the men work. The man on his mobile was laughing and his laugh turned into a cough, which had him doubled over. He wheezed out delighted Fuck mes and You’re jokings to whoever he was speaking to whenever he found the breath.

  ‘Disappeared last night,’ he said.

  ‘Had a word with those two from the bar.’

  ‘I figured. Everything okay?’

  ‘Good as gold.’

  Gabe and I are speaking carefully, both aware that we are withholding information, that we are being less than honest with one another. But I have come here for answers, and will not let Gabe evade my questions any longer.

  ‘Nobody else shot at you?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Even if I wasn’t your friend, I’m your lawyer. I need to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Danny, you don’t want to get involved.’

  Why was everybody telling me that at the moment? ‘Even so,’ I said. ‘You need to talk to me.’

  ‘That so?’

  Gabe did not say any more, let our silence grow. But Gabe was my oldest and best friend and we had been through too much together. He snorted, half laugh half despair, at the vagaries of the world, looked down at his feet, back at me. His eyes were as pale as the winter sky.

  ‘Not going to let this go, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  He thought to himself, put his fist to his mouth, index finger against his lips. Seemed to come to a decision. ‘All right. Question, since you’re the lawyer. Say somebody’s been killed. Inquest returns a verdict of, I don’t know, accidental death. Right?’

  ‘Right.’ Already I did not like the way this was going.

  ‘How could somebody get that inquest reopened?’

  ‘Gabe—’ I began, but he held up a hand.

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘How to get an inquest reopened? You’d need new evidence. Something which hadn’t been admitted the first time.’

  ‘A witness?’

  ‘If he or she was credible. Gabe, Christ. What’s this about?’

  He gestured to his window, the men working on it. ‘This. It’s… complicated.’

  ‘You killed someone?’ I said it with a smile but Gabe did not smile back. His eyes did not meet mine, looked to the distance.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said.

  ‘Then what?’ I said.

  But his face stilled and lost any expression, his eyes impossible to read. He looked past my shoulder and I turned and saw a man, broad with a shaved head.

  ‘Gabe?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, Danny, not now, eh?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Old friend.’ Still his gaze did not meet mine and he called out to the man, ‘Gavin.’

  The man joined us. ‘Gabe.’ He turned to me but spoke to Gabe. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Friend of mine,’ said Gabe. He did not seem to take offence at the man’s question, at being interrogated on his own turf. But I was less able to accept such arrogance, could not help but meet it with my own.

  ‘You got a name?’ I said.

&n
bsp; He looked at me blankly, turned back to Gabe as if I was a child who had shown some impertinence it was beneath him to acknowledge.

  ‘Bad time?’ he said. He might have looked like a slab of Essex muscle but his voice was precise and cultured.

  ‘No,’ said Gabe. ‘We’ll go inside. Dan’s just leaving.’

  The man gave me an appraising look and walked past us, towards Gabe’s house. Gabe and I did not say anything and this awkwardness was so unfamiliar that I felt a quick wrench of sadness.

  ‘We still fishing Saturday?’

  I said. Gabe frowned, thought.

  ‘Fishing. For sharks. Remember?’

  ‘Right. Fishing. Yeah, Danny. I’ll see you then.’

  He turned and left me standing there on his gravel drive. As I walked back to my car I could hear the cackle of the man who had been on the phone as he told the man fixing the window about Saturday night and how he wouldn’t fucking believe what happened, not in a million years.

  Maria was at school teaching and did not answer my call. I left a message on her voicemail apologising for last night, told her something had come up and that I’d see her soon, that we’d do something.

  I could not concentrate on work, sat at my desk shifting paper and making unnecessary notes, killing time. I wondered about Gabe, thought about his face freezing as the man turned up. He had been about to open up to me, tell me what was going on. But there was always our fishing trip. I had booked a charter boat operated by my old friend Harry Rafferty, and we would be alone, nobody to disturb us. Whatever happened, I would get some answers then.

  I was considering closing up for the day when my mobile rang and I looked at it, did not recognise the number, picked it up.

  ‘Daniel Connell.’

  ‘Yeah, John here.’ The man spoke in little above a whisper. ‘You wanted me to call, if Ryan showed.’

  ‘Yes?’ It was the bookie with the glasses.

  ‘Here now. Better be quick though. He’s losing money like he knows he can’t take it with him.’

  I saw Ryan leave the bookies as I drove past, and by the time I had parked he had gone. But I saw him a hundred metres away across a busy ring road and followed him, keeping him in sight, separated by four lanes of traffic. He was wearing a black jacket, black trousers, white shirt. He turned into town, towards the Liberty, a shopping centre of glass and concrete. I called out, saw him turn. I was a long way away and perhaps he did not recognise me. He turned and ran. I watched him go, saw him run into the Liberty. I looked for a gap in cars so that I could follow him.

  The Liberty was busy, store windows bright and colourful, the place a sudden relief from the cold grey bleakness outside. There were many people – schoolchildren and old couples and mothers and security – and I could not see Ryan. I pushed through the entrance into the main hall, glass ceiling high above me. A woman was offering massages from a stand in the middle. I looked around. There were so many people. Smell of doughnuts, sound of shop muzak. Caught sight of Ryan, his black jacket, pushing through a door thirty metres away. I jostled through the crowd of people, heard a voice behind me raised in complaint. I pushed through the door, saw a concrete stairwell. Only way was up. I ran up the first flight, saw a door, pushed through it. Cars parked, a woman buckling a child into a buggy. No Ryan. Back out, up another flight, another set of doors. Nothing. Same on the next level. I wondered if I’d missed him. Pushed up the final flight, this time into open air. Top floor, fewer cars. Five or six, parked around the rooftop. Birds black in the sky. Cold wind.

  Ryan was watching me from across the rooftop and I put my hands high in the air, called, ‘It’s Danny. Daniel Connell.’

  Ryan did not react and I walked slowly towards him. He was standing with his hands dangling. He looked as forlorn as a lost schoolboy. I felt my anger at him evaporate, replaced by contempt and not a little pity. He was wearing some kind of rent-a-cop outfit like the security guards in the Liberty below us – black trousers and jacket with little epaulettes. He had not changed from whatever he did for a living, protecting stores from shoplifters, chasing laughing kids on skateboards. A long way from the army, I thought. There was something pathetic and small about him: a man with a shitty job and a gambling problem who could not even look after his own children when they needed him most.

  ‘Ran into the Blakes,’ I said. ‘You gave them my card.’

  I had expected some kind of reaction from Ryan. But instead he just gazed past me, the same thousand-yard stare he’d had in the car after the casino. He did not say anything.

  ‘Vick nearly died in a fire the other night,’ I said, disdain in my voice. ‘Somebody tried to kill her. Know anything about that?’

  Slowly he turned his gaze to me, as if reluctant to acknowledge that I existed. He nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. He told me he’d do it. He laughed.’

  This stopped me. I looked at Ryan, his despair; wondered what lay behind it all, what pressure he was really under. People threatening to kill his family, hurting his children, torching his ex-wife’s home.

  ‘Hey,’ I said softly. I regretted the contempt that I had not bothered to hide from him; felt guilt for assuming his weakness. ‘We can do something about this.’

  I walked towards him and he backed away, held up a hand. I stopped. He sat slowly on the low wall edging the rooftop, hands on his lap, head bent towards them – an attitude of prayer.

  ‘Ryan,’ I said.

  ‘My father taught me to fight my own battles,’ he said. ‘I’m a father, too. It’s down to me.’ He swallowed, shoulders hunching. ‘Nobody else.’

  ‘Just hold on,’ I said. I did not know what else to say. I had so many thoughts in my head.

  ‘This isn’t your problem,’ he said. ‘Do yourself a favour. Keep out of it.’

  ‘Ryan,’ I said again.

  He sat up, squared his shoulders. Looked me in the eye. For the first time since I had met him, I felt that he was really there. For the first time I sensed a reserve of courage, something small yet fierce and unyielding within him.

  ‘I’ll do anything to look after my family,’ he said. ‘Whatever you think of me.’

  ‘Tell me who’s doing this,’ I said.

  ‘They tried to kill her. They’ll never stop.’

  ‘Is it the Blakes?’

  Ryan smiled sadly to himself, shook his head. ‘Connor Blake. A name I’ll never have to hear again.’

  The way he swung his legs over the edge, as if he was on a seafront wall, soft sand just feet the other side, his back to me. He pushed himself off with both hands and I froze, blinked at his sudden absence for I do not know how long. I slowly walked to the edge. Willed myself to look down. Saw a figure approach Ryan who was lying on his side, legs spread like a Sunday morning lie-in, four storeys below me. It was silent and he looked peaceful. At least there was that.

  12

  WHAT I DID next was, I am honest enough to admit, both legally and morally indefensible. Perhaps it was the lingering threat of Alex Blake; perhaps it was a wish to walk away from Ryan, Vick, their whole dark and forbidding story. Perhaps I should not even attempt to justify what I did. Whatever. Rather than wait for the police to arrive, give them my version of events, help them understand what had driven Ryan over the edge of the fourth floor of a busy car park, I walked away. Headed back to the rooftop door, hurried down the concrete stairwell, walked out of the Liberty to the sound of approaching sirens, and did not look back.

  But if I had imagined that leaving the scene of an incident rather than talk with the police would give me a measure of peace, I was wrong. Back home, its stillness and emptiness surrounded me like a reproach, unmitigated by Maria’s happy presence. She had forgiven me for leaving her with Gabe the night before but told me that she had better things to do that evening than hang out with me, told me it over the phone with a smile in her voice. We still, at least notionally, lived separately, and she was having girlfriends over at her place, some kind of celebration, though I was
not sure what for.

  Walking away from Ryan’s suicide gave me another dilemma. I had to tell Vick what had happened, could not avoid it. Had to tell her that I had been there but had left the scene. Had to co-opt her into what was, undeniably, a crime. Give her the bad news and at the same time ask her not to tell the police about my role in it. I took a deep breath, called her number. Got a busy signal. Called again and again, busy both times. Tried once more and was put through to voicemail. I sat back, replayed the likely sequence of events: the police call Vick, she calls somebody up, a friend; she heads to the friend’s and talks, leaves her phone to ring through, too exhausted to speak to anyone else. I gave up, put my phone down, not without relief. Somebody else was taking care of it. Better them than me.

  I turned on my TV, looked for some show to help pass the evening, keep my mind off what I had been through the last forty-eight hours; found a film I had seen before about an abandoned spaceship with some evil nestling deep within. But before the opening titles had ended, I heard a hammering on my door. My lights were on, my car parked outside: too late to pretend to be out. I walked to my door and opened it.

  My father was on the doorstep holding a bunch of flowers, and for a moment the vision was so unexpected that I doubted what I was seeing.

  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be a wanker,’ he said. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Not in. Out.’

  My father grunted, seemed at a loss about what to do with the flowers in his hands. Eventually he shoved them at me, pushed them into my chest, embarrassed.

  ‘Do something with them then.’

  ‘You want to come in?’

  ‘Thought we were going out.’

  I tilted my head, frowned.

  ‘Snooker. Your missus’ idea.’

  ‘Right.’ Maria had forgotten to tell me. Or perhaps she had not dared. I guessed that this was her attempt to force some kind of reconciliation, build bridges between father and son. There was nothing that I would rather do less than spend an evening alone with my father, after what I had just seen. But at the same time he had information that, for perhaps the first time in my life, might prove useful. I stuck the flowers head down in my kitchen bin, pulled on a jacket and headed on out.