Cold Light

Thirty-eight

One of the good things about Blue Stilton, Resnick was thinking, ripe enough it had a flavor that would survive no matter the company. This particular piece, the last of a chunk he had brought back from the market the other side of Christmas, he mashed down into a slice of dark rye bread before layering it with narrow strips of sun-dried tomato, half a dozen circles of pepper salami, a piece of ham, a handful of black olives cut into halves; a second slice of bread he rubbed with garlic before buttering and setting it on top. There were tomatoes in the salad box, a nub of cucumber, several ailing radishes, the last of an iceberg lettuce which he shredded with a knife. Somehow he’d allowed his stock of Czech Budweiser to run out, but near the back of the fridge he knew was a Worthington’s White Shield in its new-shaped bottle. In fact, there were two.

Of course, he had still not bought the CD player and the Billie Holiday box set sat on the living-room mantelpiece gathering dust, an expensive rebuke. Resnick placed his sandwich on the table near his chair, watchful that one of the more adventurous cats, Dizzy or Miles, didn’t jump up and start nibbling round the edges. He pulled one of his favorites, the Clifford Brown Memorial album, from the crowded shelf and slipped it from its battered sleeve. Music playing, he poured his beer, careful not to let the sediment slip down into the glass. Half of the sandwich he lifted towards his mouth with both hands, catching the oil from the sun-dried tomatoes on his tongue.

The Penguin Guide to Jazz was proving good reading, fine for dipping into, interesting as much for who was left out as who was included. Branford, Ellis, and Wynton Marsalis, but not Delfeayo. Endless sections devoted to European avant-gardists who recorded hard-to-get cassettes in Scandinavia, but no room for Tim Whitehead, whose quartet Resnick had seen recently in Birmingham, nor the altoist Ed Silver, so much a part of the early British bop scene and Resnick’s friend.

Resnick set down the book and reached for his glass. A couple of years back, he had talked Ed Silver out of severing his own foot from his body with an ax, taken him into his home, and kept him company long into a succession of nights. Resnick listening to Silver’s reminiscences about gigs he had played, recordings he had made, promoters and agents who had cheated him out of what was rightly his. The day, speechless, he came face to face with Charlie Parker in New York; the night he almost sat in with Coltrane. All the while easing him off the booze, encouraging him to regain a grip on his life.

As suddenly as he had materialized, Ed had disappeared. Eight months later, a card from London: Charlie back in the Smoke. Somehow they don’t want me at the Jazz Cafe, but I’ve got this little gig at the Brahms amp; Liszt in Covent Garden, Friday nights. Come down and give a listen. Ed. Somehow, Resnick had never been down.

By the time he walked into the kitchen for his second White Shield, Resnick’s mind had been reclaimed by other things: Harry and Clarise Phelan, awake in bed in their hotel, waiting to hear if their daughter were still alive; Lynn, driving back from Norfolk after taking her father to the hospital, alone in the night with what news?

Michelle was halfway down the stairs when she heard Gary outside. At least, she presumed it was Gary. All she could make out at first were voices raised in anger, muffled and harsh. She hugged the baby to her and Natalie whimpered; lowering her face into the fine wispy hair, Michelle shushed her and hurried towards her cot. She was sure it was Gary now. Brian, too. What on earth was going on? Gary and Brian, best mates for years.

She was tucking Natalie’s blanket around her when Gary lurched through the door.

“Gary, I wondered what was …”

At the sight of the blood, she stopped. A line of it, bright, like a Christmas streamer on the side of Gary’s face.

“Gary, what’s …?”

With the back of his arm, he pushed her away.

“Gary, you’re bleeding.”

“Think I don’t fucking know that?”

At the sound of their raised voices, Karl rolled over in his makeshift bed on the settee, Natalie began to cry. Michelle followed Gary to the bathroom and stood in the doorway, watching.

“Bastard!” Gary said, as he looked in the mirror. “Bastard!” wincing as he touched his cheek.

“Gary, let me …”

With a snarl, he slammed the door in her face.

She lay in bed, listening to the sound of the rain, clipping off the loose slates on the roof; the sound of her own breathing. Outside on the landing, where the water was coming through, it dripped in rhythm into a plastic pail. Natalie had gone off again and Karl, thank God, had never really woken. After he’d finished in the bathroom, she’d heard Gary banging around in the kitchen, presumably making a cup of tea. She thought he might switch on the tele, curl up next to Karl, and fall asleep, until she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

“Michelle?”

Soft thump of his jeans on the threadbare square of carpet, lighter fall of his sweater and shirt.

“’Chelle?”

His hand on her shoulder was cold and she jumped.

“I’m sorry. I am, you know.”

Face against her back, his fingers reached round and found her breast.

“Shouldn’t ’ve lost my temper, not with you. Weren’t nothing to do with you.”

Michelle rolled away, freeing herself from his hand. “What happened then? Tell me.”

“It wasn’t nothing. Really. Just me and Brian, messing around.”

“It didn’t sound like you was messing around. And this …” He flinched as she stretched towards him, but allowed her to touch the place just below the hairline where he had been cut.

“We was just foolin’ about, that’s all. Got a bit silly. You know what Brian’s like after a few pints.”

Again Michelle stopped herself from asking, whereabouts is he getting all this money?

“Still,” Gary said, “over now, eh? What’d my mum say? Spilt milk.” He lifted his hand back to Michelle’s breast, shocking her with his gentleness, stroking her lightly until, through the thin cotton of the T-shirt, he felt her nipple harden against his thumb.