Birdman

46

Back at Shrivemoor Caffery couldn't relax. He wandered around the incident room turning over scraps of paper, stared at the whiteboards, stood behind the indexer girls and watched the screens over their shoulders, until Marilyn complained that he was making her jumpy. He went into the SIO's room and called Jane Amedure –

'Did you get anywhere with that cement?'

'The diffractogram's gone off to Maryland. We could know by the morning.'

— then pulled out the personnel fax that Bliss had sent from St Dunstan's last week, scanned it, hoping something would catch the light, glint at him, and when nothing did sat with his head in his hands until it grew dark outside, the offices were almost empty, and Maddox looked in on him, jacket on, briefcase in his hand –

'This is all very noble but, a bit of realism, eh? I know I cracked the whip this morning but I didn't mean kill yourself.'

'Yeah, OK OK.'

'You get some sleep, you hear?'

'I will.'

He called Dr Amedure again.

'Give them some breathing space, Inspector Caffery. I promise I'll call you first thing in the morning. We're closing shop now.'

So he sat in the deserted offices, the building hollow and quiet around him, smoking out of the window and watching the world come home at the end of a long day. The watery sun dropped behind neat houses, a new poster was going up on the billboard opposite. He had been so swift to put Cook in the frame — so confident of his instincts — finding he had been wrong pressed hard on his nerves. Maddox was right — he should go home, but he was too conscious of Birdman's presence — powerful and almost close enough to touch: a big game fish weaving around his legs.

Over the road the Maiden Signs worker unrolled and pasted, unrolled and pasted, moved the rigging a few feet along and started the process again. The words Estée Lauder appeared at the foot of the billboard: above them the gleaming camber of the model's neck. He watched absently, thinking of the hair that had been tangled up in Jackson's. They were assuming it had belonged to another victim — to someone Birdman had not yet finished with, or someone not yet found. Caffery pressed the bridge of his nose lightly, trying to think.

Another explanation?

The colour and cut matched the wig hairs so exactly that even Krishnamurthi hadn't noticed the difference. Maybe the hair belonged not to another victim but to the person Birdman was recreating. Maybe that person had been in Birdman's house. Or been close enough for him to take a trophy from her.

You were so focused on Cook that you didn't even stop to consider it.

And something — something…

Caffery looked up at the high-gloss face opposite and suddenly he knew.

The metabolite of marijuana in the single blond hair. The aluminium spike on the FSS spectrograph. Joni spraying the room with deodorant, the smell of it always in the flat.

It wasn't seamless — Joni didn't wholly fit the picture: fleshy and tall — that wasn't how he'd pictured Birdman's Galatea. Even so, as he switched off the lamp and found his keys, leaving the fax and papers scattered over the desk, excitement was balling like a fist under his solar plexus.

At 2 p.m. the Clitoris had drifted off, taking with her the paints, the drawing board, her snotty attitude — leaving Joni alone to do her second spot in the pub. Bliss knew this girl's mind so well. He knew that once Joni was hooked up to a free drink supply she didn't shake free that easily. The other punters drifted away, headachy into the afternoon, leaving him alone with her, to plug her up with Liebfraumilch.

At 3.30 she was sick on the stairs up to the ladies — when he brought her back to his flat she was sick again, twice, in the bath.

He pretended he wasn't angry. He cleaned it up, rinsed it away and let her sleep off the lunchtime binge curled up like a big baby — blonde and pink, wearing just knickers and a T-shirt — in the spare bedroom so she didn't wake up, see his collection of pictures and make a fuss. Even the construction work on the old schoolhouse failed to disturb her.

How many times had he patiently let Joni do this, he wondered as he sat in the living room picking at a spot on his chin — let her use him as a casual detox base? And never had the sense to do anything about it. How many times had he scrubbed and tidied — cleared the corridor and the bathroom and the living room of his pictures while she slept — put them safely in a cardboard box, spraying sweet scent around the rooms? Only to have her wake up, pull the Walkman over her ears and stumble off on her way. Ignoring him. Treating him like shit.

And how things had changed now. His life had been rewritten. As if he'd looked up one day to find the sun was a different colour.

He got up from the sofa and made a pot of tea in the kitchen, piling a plate high with Bakewell tarts. In the bedroom he placed the tray gently on the pillow next to Joni's head. She stirred and put a hand to her face.

'Wake up. There's some tea for you.'

She pinched her head forward on her neck and peered out with bloodshot eyes. When she saw him she groaned and dropped her head back on the pillow. 'Oh no.'

'Have some tea.'

'No. I've got to go home.' She propped herself up on her elbows and looked blearily around her. 'God, Malcolm, I'm sorry but I never meant to end up here.'

'Have a Bakewell tart first.' His tongue was thick, the 'T's were muffled.

'No, that's OK.'

'I insist.'

'No, really.'

'I insist!'

Joni's eyes widened.

'I'm sorry,' he mumbled, wiping a dash of saliva from his lips. 'I want you to have something to eat. You need the strength. Look at you' — tongue between his teeth he reached out and palpated her stomach — 'all skin and bones.'

It was meant to be a tender gesture, but Joni reacted badly, shooting back against the wall. 'Get off!'

'But, Joni.'

'Leave me alone, Malcolm.'

'Just let me touch—'

'How many times do I have to tell you? NO!' She scrambled backwards and dropped off the edge of the bed, landing on her feet, but Bliss lunged forward and caught her by the T-shirt. She swung round and grabbed his hands, trying to prise his fingers away with her sharp little nails.

'Get off me.'

'Joni.'

'Get the fuck—' She pulled his hands up to her mouth and bit, scraping a tear in his thumb knuckle. 'Get the fuck away from me.'

'Don't do this, Joni.' His fingers were covered with a mixture of saliva and blood. He bent at the waist, screwed his eyes up and held tight: Joni lost her balance and fell, smashing her shoulder hard against the skirting board.

He let go and stood back, gaping.

They stared at each other, speechless, shocked that it had crossed into violence. Joni was on her back, the T-shirt riding up over her stomach, the shape of her pubis clearly outlined in the pale pink knickers. She looked like a doll, stunned that she'd been broken so easily. For a moment she seemed to be struggling to breathe.

Bliss stepped forward, his hand out to her. 'Joni.'

'Get — away — from me. Get the fuck — away from me.'

'But I love you.'

'Bullshit.' She clamped a hand over the injured shoulder and winced.

'Just spend my birthday with me. Tomorrow. That's all I ask. You owe me that, for leaving like you did.'

'I didn't leave you. We didn't have anything, you fucking lunatic. You weren't my boyfriend.'

Bliss gaped at her. 'I was in love with you.'

'In love? We almost had sex one night, almost, years and years ago, and that was only because I was too frigging drunk to stand up. If I'd been sober I wouldn't have come near you.'

'Don't say that.'

'You're rilly pathetic.'

'I gave up everything for you.' He stood with his head down, his arms limp at his sides. 'I gave up my dream of being a doctor.'

'Oh purr-lease. You were never going to be a doctor.' She started to sit up, grimacing at the pain. 'Face it, Malcolm, you're a fucking civil servant and you'll always be one.'

'Don't,' he whined. 'Don't leave me. Please don't.'

But she let him stand there and shiver, whilst she got painfully to her feet and limped around the room, finding her boots, zipping them up, wriggling into the suede skirt. 'This place is disgusting too.' She found an aerosol in her bag and squirted it into the air. 'It stinks — it absofuckinglutely stinks in here.'

With a sob Malcolm fell against the wall and shrank into a ball in the corner, his head in his hands, his body shuddering. 'Please don't leave me.'

'Come on.' Joni's voice was softer now. He heard her come to stand next to him, and saw her foot close to his. 'Don't be a baby.'

'Don't leave me!' He stroked her suede-covered foot. 'Don't go.'

'I've got to go. Look, chill, yeah? We can be friends.'

'No.'

'Malcolm. Come on. I'm going now, yeah, Malcolm?'

But he was faster this time.

In one movement he grabbed her foot and drove it up high, above his head. Joni scrabbled for a hold, her hands slipping off the smooth walls. She slammed into the floor, arms flailing. Quickly Bliss rolled up onto his knees and rammed his elbow into her stomach. A second blow caught her on the side of the face, drawing a fine spurt of blood from her nose. Her face crumpled into unconsciousness.

Caffery paused outside Susan Lister's house. The curtains were drawn and, stapled to the gate, a typed note enclosed in plastic, the ink smudged where dew had crept in.

He pocketed his car keys, rounded the corner and stood in the doorway of the junk shop, one hand on the door frame, the other on the buzzer.

'Yes?' she called into the intercom. 'Who is it?'

'DI Caffery. Wonder if you've got a few minutes.' He waited a moment. She didn't reply so he leaned back in. 'I said it's Jack Caffery—'

'Yes, I heard. Wait there. I'll be down in a minute.'

It took a long time for her to come to the door. He grew agitated standing on the doorstep and was about to buzz again when he heard footsteps on the stairs and the bolts being pulled back. She was barefoot, wearing a small fluid dress the colour of a tulip.

'Can I come in?'

She didn't answer.

'Rebecca?'

'Yeah,' she sighed. 'Come on, then.' She stepped back into the hall, allowing him in — closed the door, bolted it and held her hand towards the staircase. 'There's some Fitou I've just picked up. I expect you'd like some.'

Inside the flat was cool. The shutters were half closed and a fly lazily circled a fan of brushes upended in a glass jar. 'Sit down — I'll bring it through. Sorry it's such a bloody mess.' She went into the kitchen. Caffery wandered around the studio, looking at the piles of paintings and sketches scattered around the room. The half-finished painting of Joni still on the easel. Hair so blond it was near albino.

'Joni not in?' he called.

'Still at the pub.'

'What time do you think she'll be back?' He could smell Joni's stale deodorant.

'Who have you come to see, Mr Caffery? Me or Joni?'

'You, of course.'

In the kitchen Rebecca laughed derisively. 'Yeah sure.'

'Yeah sure,' he muttered under his breath, wandering back to the hallway. The bathroom stood opposite, next to it the staircase to Joni's room. To his right the door into the kitchen was closed and on the other side of it he could hear Rebecca washing glasses. He went into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

It was warm in here — the colours were the hot tropical tones of a holiday brochure — fuchsia pink towels and aquamarine walls. Black stockings soaked in a bucket in the bath and talcum powder footprints criss-crossed on the bath mat. He switched the tap on full, opened the medicine cabinet and immediately found what he was looking for. Quickly he pulled Rizlas from his pocket, flipped open a paper and folded it around the bristles of a red paddle hairbrush. When he pulled it away four or five silvery hairs came with it. He returned the paper to the little cardboard packet, turned off the tap and went back to the studio.

Rebecca handed him a glass without speaking. She turned away, picked up a stack of paintings from the floor and put them on the table.

'Rebecca?'

'Yes?' She didn't turn to him.

'Did you get my message? Did you hear what I said on the answerphone?'

At first she didn't reply. She pretended to be absorbed with dividing the pile into smaller stacks. Then suddenly she put the paintings down. Her shoulders sagged and she leaned forward on the table. 'Yes,' she muttered, shaking her head. 'Yes, I'm sorry. It's all over the papers too. They're saying — well, they're suggesting that that woman in Malpens Street…' She waved her hand vaguely in the air — trying to make light of it. 'God, they just love sensationalizing—'

'I meant what I said — you need to be careful.'

She paused. Turned slowly to him. Folded her arms, leaned back against the table and looked at him with her head on one side. 'He is dead, isn't he? Toby? There wasn't a mistake.'

'No mistake.'

'Then why exactly?' Her voice was low. 'And who? Who am I supposed to be being careful of?'

'I'd tell you if I knew.' When he saw her expression he sighed. 'Honestly, Rebecca, I'd tell you. There's not one of us knows for sure what is going on.'

'Oh God.' She shivered slightly. 'I'm so tired. I'm so fed up with being scared all the time. Sick of living in a greenhouse because I can't open a window.' She turned back to the table and began sorting the paintings again. 'Galleries keep calling. My work's selling out — flying off the walls — they're asking for more and more and now even Time Out wants an interview. Time Out, for Christ's sakes. And you know why, don't you?' She didn't look at him and he knew she wasn't waiting for an answer. 'Because of the sterling quality of my work? Because I'm the next Sarah Lucas? Because I've added a new word to the lexicon of artistic interpretation?' She shook her head. 'No, duh. None of the above. They're only interested because of him. Ghouls — the fucking lot of them, a bunch of ghouls. And you think I'm going to get principles over it? No way. No way. I'm as bad as the next. Every intention of exploiting it. I suppose I should be thrilled that it's not all over yet.'

As she talked herself through her anxiety, Jack's own tension began to fade. The other doors in London had closed themselves to him for the night — he'd be at the FSS when it opened in the morning, but for now there was nothing left to do. Time to put a full-stop at the end of his day. He sipped the wine and let Rebecca talk.

Bliss had recovered from the struggle. He spent the evening waiting for Joni to regain consciousness, twice going into the bathroom to relieve himself, ejaculating into a condom. He congratulated himself on his prudence — he wanted to wait for Joni until she was properly prepared.

It was 10 p.m. when he went into the bedroom to get started. He placed his hands under her bottom, and — bending at the knees, to save his back — lifted her onto the bed. She dropped down, limp and dry, and now he saw he'd done something bad to her left eye. Even through all the swelling he could see something was wrong. He placed both hands on either side of her face and bent in very close to look. It had taken on an unnatural bulge, and the iris was pointing downwards. He prodded the eye experimentally. He'd have to look this up in one of his books later. For now he moistened his finger with spit and tenderly cleaned the dried blood from the side of her nose.

Then he unzipped her boots and placed them carefully in the corner. He pulled off the suede skirt and cut the T-shirt off, letting the big, swollen breasts droop outwards.

Experimentally he squeezed one engorged nipple. He had wondered how these new, unnatural things would feel; surprisingly they were quite warm: grained and springy to the touch. He pinched the right nipple between thumb and forefinger and lifted the whole breast, stretching it as far as it would go, a full six inches above her ribs, fascinated by the warm pliancy of the flesh and silicone. 'Mmmm.' He leaned in and inspected the slightly raised, shiny scar where they cut her to put the silicone in. Good. There would be no need to do too much cutting.

'So…' Rebecca had finished sorting the paintings. She was calmer now. She ferreted under the paper and paints and found the corner of a frame, laid it over one of the sketches and squinted at the effect. 'Veronica, isn't it?'

Caffery looked up. 'Sorry?'

'Veronica. She lives with you?'

'Oh God—' He shook his head and leaned against the door jamb. 'Yes, yes. I suppose she thought she did.'

'What went wrong?'

'Really?'

'Really.'

'Me.' He smiled. 'It was me. I'm a human failure, y'know.'

'Mmmm.' She was silent for a while, watching him. 'It doesn't show.'

'You can't tell from looking; it's not visible to the naked eye. But it's there.'

'What?'

'An obsession.'

'Ah. A woman.' She turned back to the painting. 'Then I can't blame Veronica.'

'No. Not a woman.'

'Then it must be Ewan, I suppose.'

'Yes — I—' He was taken aback to hear Ewan's name spoken by someone else. 'You remember his name.'

'Did you think I wouldn't?'

'I thought you wouldn't.'

'Well, I did.' She put down the frame and began stacking the paintings in small piles, placing them at the end of the table. 'And I'm sorry to disappoint you but personally I think it's all crap.'

'I'm sorry?'

'It's a crap excuse for not living your life, isn't it? The past. I mean I don't know exactly what happened, but I do know this: by now, being a big grown-up adult and stuff, you're supposed to have let it go — moved on.' She dropped the last pile of paintings and turned to him. 'Don't you read your American poets? ''Let the Past bury its dead'' and all that gab.'

Caffery stared at her, the glass halfway to his mouth. He didn't answer.

'Oh shit,' she sighed, seeing his expression. 'I'm so rude to you, aren't I?' She opened her hands and looked around the room as if her own behaviour was a mystery, as if the explanation might be tacked up on the wall. 'It's like a compulsion — I mean, don't you think I was rude not answering that call, for example? And hanging up on you. Don't you think that was unnecessarily rude of me?'

'Yes,' he said. 'You were rude.' He lowered the glass and thought about this for a moment. Then he said. 'Did I deserve it?'

Her face softened. 'Yes.' She smiled. 'Yes, you deserved it.'

Jack nodded and sighed. 'Thought so.'

Bliss got irritated when he couldn't lift Joni's hips to remove her knickers, and gave in to his temper again, pushing her roughly onto her side and holding her there with all his force. Then he slipped a pair of his underpants between her teeth, taped over them, and sat back down on the bed to look at her.

The Greenwich woman had been tied up here for almost twenty-four hours. When he'd come to remove the packing tape gag, to replace it where it was becoming soft with saliva, she'd begged him to let her use the toilet. He'd refused and she'd begun crying.

'Please let me go. Please.'

But he'd shaken his head, replaced the gag, and watched her coolly until, in tears, she had wet herself. He'd beaten her for it, but dutifully cleaned up the mess. There was blood in it. He believed it meant that her kidneys were struggling with the infection.

'Now.' He glanced at his watch. 'It's ten-thirty, Joni. I'll be coming in to prep you at eleven. Until then just relax.'

Ten forty-five. The studio windows were open, the streetlamps lit the same red as sunset. Passing cars spilled music into the streets. The night and the wine had softened Rebecca, she had unfastened her hair and her skin was brilliant in the half-light. She sat facing him, not speaking. They'd talked themselves to a standstill long ago — nothing more to say except what was really on their minds.

It was Jack who eventually broke the silence. 'I should go,' he said but didn't move.

Rebecca sipped her wine and said nothing.

'It's getting late, I've got an early start tomorrow.' He let the sentence hang, waiting for her to respond. 'So I should go.'

'Yes,' she said eventually, putting her glass down. 'Yes, of course.'

They walked down the stairs, Rebecca leading. From two steps above he could see the small indents in the flesh of her shoulders where the ribbon straps of her dress had imprinted and slipped. At the front door she stopped — standing an artificial distance away from him — put her hand on the latch, but didn't open the door.

'Well—' She stared at a button on his shirt, not meeting his eyes. 'Thanks for the advice.'

'That's OK.'

Silence again. Her eyes remained fixed on his shirt buttons and Jack instinctively lifted his hand, holding his fingers over his chest. At the movement her mouth opened. She covered her face and turned away.

'Rebecca?'

'God, I'm sorry.' Her voice was muffled.

'Rebecca?' He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, over the straps, conscious of the dents in the hot skin under his palms. 'Maybe we should go back upstairs?'

'Yes.' She nodded, not looking at him. 'I think so.'

'Come on, then.'

He tried to turn her but she made a small noise in her throat and caught his right hand, pulling it to her mouth, kissing it, sinking her teeth lightly into his palm, sucking each finger in turn. Jack stood quite still, staring at the back of her head, his heart thumping. She rubbed his finger across her lips, lifted her chin, drawing his hand down her neck, over the dress, and suddenly, unexpectedly, an urge kicked off in him—

'Oh Jesus—'

He turned her to face him, gripped the backs of her thighs and lifted her backwards — up and back, so she was resting on the cold hall radiator. He pushed the dress up her thighs and she took a sharp breath, leaning blindly towards him, trying to kiss him, her teeth bumping against his, hands fumbling to help him pull her underwear off, not smiling, but concentrating.

Responding.

Her bare feet scrambled for purchase — found the mountain bike propped next to the radiator and got shaky balance — her foot pressed against the wheel, as Jack braced his feet square on the ground and unzipped himself. Through the fan-light headlights swept across the ceiling, the light shifting on Rebecca's face as he moved inside her. Her eyes were closed, she bit her lips — not stopping him but jacking her hips up against his, matching his rhythm. The bike rocked forward, pedals slammed into his calves, bringing blood that he didn't notice. His focus narrowed — speeded and strained — until every atom of energy and anger and need was isolated in this act and he had forgotten how it had started.

'No—' she said suddenly, looking at his face. 'No — don't come inside me.'

'Jesus—' He thrust himself away, back across the hall — out of control — coming onto his shoes, on the floor. For a moment he stared at her in disbelief, then he put his hand over his face and sank onto the bottom stairs, shaking his head. Breathing hard. 'Oh God. I'm sorry — I'm sorry.'

Rebecca pushed herself off the radiator and dropped onto the stair next to him, chest heaving, sweat-stained hair stuck to her face, her forehead. The dress was still hiked up to her waist, plastered against her skin, baring the shadowy notch of her navel.

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't've done that—'

'No — it's—' She wiped her mouth and looked sideways at him, her face and neck flushed and sore. 'Really — I— it's OK. I could've stopped you.'

'I should've used something. I've never done that before. I don't usually—'

Suddenly she covered her eyes, shook her head and started laughing.

'What?' His leg, he saw now, was bleeding — a long, inky trail extended into the trousers bunched at his ankles. 'What's funny?'

'Is that what you meant? A human failure?' She opened her fingers and peered out at him, still smiling. 'Is that what drove Veronica mad?'

'Oh Jesus,' he muttered. 'I told you — it's never happened before. I mean it.'

'Can you prove it?'

'Yes. I can prove it.'

'What — right now?'

'Right now.'

'No seriously — right now? I mean, are you sure, can you really?'

'Yes—' He looked around for something to wipe the floor, his shoes, his leg. 'Yes, I can. It's one of my party pieces.'

'God.' Rebecca sighed, dropping her hands from her face and smiling. 'This could be love.'

At eleven he was ready.

In the bedroom Joni was lying very still. He thought she was still unconscious until he approached and saw her one good eye staring up at him, taking in his scrubs, his mask, his cap. It was only when he produced the scalpel that she responded, bucking on the bed, back arching, head snapping from side to side, little noises coming from her throat.

'Calm down.' He put a soft, reassuring hand on her shoulder and pressed her down into the mattress. 'Calmly does it.'

Joni wrenched her head back and snarled at him from behind the gag.

'Bitch,' he said softly and straddled her. 'Shut up now, bitch. I've been good with you, but you're pushing me.' He shoved her down onto the bed and Joni became very still under his hands, watching him warily with her good eye.

'Good.' He tipped back on his heels and wiped the sweat from his face. 'Now, listen. I'm not going to kill you.' He bent over and, ignoring the shudder that went through her body, gently rested his face against her neck. 'I only want it to be like it was that night. Do you understand me?'

He could tell from the single tear that trickled from her cheek onto his forehead that she had accepted that. She stopped struggling. But to be quite certain he double taped her torso to the bed, crossing the tape over her hips; he knew from the Greenwich woman that even unconscious the human body responds violently to pain.

He reached for the styptic pencil.

'This won't take long.'

Tongue between his teeth, he painstakingly drew a mark just above the old scar where the new incision would be. Joni dragged in desperate shallow breaths through her nose as he spat on the scalpel and wiped it across his tunic.

'Not much to cut through under here, Joni.' He grimaced and the soft flesh bloomed up over the blade like cheese, strained, then relented and split long, like a heavy fruit. A muffled keening sound came from the tape mask. Joni's pelvis jerked frantically against the mattress. There was just a thin smatter of blood scattered amongst the freckles on her belly, nothing much. Bliss bent down to squint up into the new wound. Past the bloody, yellow fat he could see the implants squinting at him from their envelope of meat.

'Lucky,' he breathed and patted Joni's knee. 'They've been put above the muscle. Just hold on one moment…' He bit his lip and slowly inserted his fingers into the hole, creeping it around inside the breast.

Joni's good eye widened as his index finger hooked around the silicon bag. Her head thrashed side to side.

'Quiet now. Don't twist.' His thumb and forefinger closed on the sack. Confident now, he tugged it. 'Easy. Easy.' Joni's feet scissored, thigh muscles taut as small drums, as the implant slipped out drawing an egg-cupful of fluid with it.

He gently placed it on her stomach.

'There we are. Easy, wasn't it?' He wiped his hands on his scrubs. 'Now let's see. One down, one to go.'