Good as Dead

TWENTY-FOUR

Five minutes on from it, Helen could no longer be sure that the noise in her head was the result of the gunshot. That it was not simply a silent scream of alarm at what had happened: the head slamming back against the radiator, the light leaving the eyes, the body slumping slowly down across her own.

And at what had happened afterwards.

The things she had said on the phone…

She had dragged herself, wailing, from beneath the dead weight of Stephen Mitchell. She had pushed his body away in disgust – her hands slick with him – and flinched when his head had cracked against the floor. She had turned, as the cry died to a ragged groan that bubbled in her throat, and seen Akhtar shuffle backwards to press himself against the wall.

She had listened to him murmur in a language she did not understand.

She had wondered if he was praying.

Then, when it had begun to ring, they had become still and stared at the phone. The handset juddering across the linoleum between Helen’s leg and Mitchell’s head. Its bright blue casing spattered with red.

It was not until it had rung a second time that her brain was able to do what was needed. Then, it had calmly told her hand to move and pick it up. Told her mouth to say what it needed to…

Now, she lifted the cushion from behind her by one sodden corner and tossed it towards the toilet door. She leaned back and tried to control her breathing. She could feel the sticky wetness on her blouse. The blood, livid against the ivory, pressing the material against her skin, and her chest rising upwards to push the skin against the wetness.

‘Can I please put my jacket back on?’

Akhtar was examining his hand, the gun that lay in his open palm.

‘ Please. I don’t want to look at the blood.’

Still, Akhtar did not raise his head. Just shook it, as though pushing it through water or treacle-thick air. ‘What have I done?’ he said, the whisper gaining in strength with each repetition. ‘What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?’

Helen could just make out her own voice, cracked and nervous, below the high-pitched whine in her head.

Asking the same question.

The party is shaping up nicely, and he bloody well needs it after a long day dealing with idiots. There are plenty of good bodies on display and the drugs are top quality as always. The first joint – in his hand before he had removed his jacket – has helped him relax a little, taken the edge off, and he will move on to some of the harder stuff later on, once things really start to get serious.

When the lights are dimmed and the bedroom doors begin to close.

He has already met one or two he might go back to see later and made more than casual eye contact with someone he hopes is as keen as he is to take things further. Just a look, but that is usually more than enough early on, and he had needed to step out into the hallway afterwards, slip a hand into his underpants and make the necessary adjustments.

The feel of things down there had got him even more excited of course. The smoothness of it, and the weight in his hand. He had spent a few minutes in the bathroom after that.

He is pouring Glenlivet into a glass when his phone rings. He sees the caller ID and hesitates for just a second as he reaches for the water jug. He lets the phone ring. Then, once he has taken a sip and helped himself to a nibble or two, he carries his drink out on to the balcony and calls back.

It is a warm night, if a little breezy, and there are three or four boys out there laughing and smoking. They smile, but he ignores them and walks to the furthest corner; stares out across the rooftops towards the winking light on top of Canary Wharf.

‘It’s me.’

There is a noisy breath at the other end of the phone. ‘Listen… you should know that some questions are being asked about one of our old friends.’

He takes a gulp of whisky. ‘You might need to be a little more specific than that.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Are we talking about an old friend we haven’t seen for a while?’

‘For heaven’s sake. Yes.’

‘I thought that had all been dealt with.’

‘When was the last time you watched the news?’

The conversation continues for another few minutes. All perfectly casual, at least from his end, and as far as those boys eavesdropping from the other side of the balcony are concerned.

A little business, no more than that.

When he goes back inside, he tops up his drink and sits down across from a group he recognises from one of the parties the month before. He has encountered one of them professionally once or twice, but here that counts for nothing. Nods are exchanged, that is all.

He holds the whisky in his mouth, then swallows, closing his eyes and letting the warmth spread through his chest. He needs to think, for a few minutes at least, about what he has just been told. It is problematic, certainly, but it is manageable, and he will not let it spoil his enjoyment.

Stop him satisfying himself.

He will have a couple more and a snort or two of something to liven him up. Get the juices flowing. Then he will get good and sweaty giving some lucky so-and-so the seeing-to of their lives.