Off Minor

Forty-seven

“Fuckin’ ’ell, Ray! You gone to sleep in there or what?”

“Got the tweezers out again. Trying to find his prick.”

“Come on, Raymond, give us all a break. It is sodding Saturday night.”

Back in his room, Raymond eased himself into his black jeans, tucked down the tail of his shirt before zipping up his fly. Front of the shirt unbuttoned, he took the deodorant from the end of the bed and sprayed again under his arms. Money in his back pocket, keys. Before leaving he tugged at the front of his shirt so that it was hung loosely over his waist. Like someone who can’t stop themselves touching their tongue to a painful tooth, he pressed the ends of his fingers close against his nose. Nothing would get rid of the faint ripeness of fresh blood, raw meat.

Sara came out of the shop wearing low heels, black skirt inches over the knee; underneath her coat Raymond caught the gleam of a white blouse. Tonight they’d be like twins.

He waited in the doorway across the broad swathe of pedestrianized street; Sara chattering to two of the other girls, one with a cigarette already in her hand, the other lighting up as she spoke. Just when Raymond was starting to get restless, scuffing his feet, the other pair turned and walked off towards the city, arm in arm. Sara waited a couple of moments, only acknowledging Raymond when he stepped out of the doorway and began, hands in pockets, to walk towards her.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Nothing. Why?”

Raymond sniffed and shrugged. They stood close, facing in opposite directions, movement on either side of them, groups of youths walking up from the station, in by train from the suburbs, the surrounding towns. Saturday night.

“What you want to do then?” Raymond said.

“I don’t know, do I?”

A few more moments of silent indecision. No more than fifteen, a lad, jostled by his mates, bumped into Raymond and Raymond whirled round, angry, “Watch where you’re fucking going.” The boy backing away, laughing it off, “Sorry, mate. Sorry.” Fear in his eyes. His friends gathering him up and sweeping him away.

“Raymond, what’d you do that for? It was only an accident.”

“Not going to let him push me around for nothing,” Raymond said. “Bastard! He wants to fucking watch out.”

“What is he like, this boy?” Sara’s mum had said. “You haven’t told us much about him.”

“You hungry?” Raymond said.

Sara was looking over towards HMV, the posters for the new George Michael album in the window; maybe she’d get that before the end of the week if her money held out. “No,” she said, “not really.”

“Come on, then,” Raymond, starting to move away, “might as well get a drink.”

The ground floor of the restaurant was small and already quite crowded, the waiters either asking newcomers if they minded sitting upstairs or if they would like to try again in an hour, an hour and a half. Patel and Alison were in the corner, behind the door, next to two couples who had greeted the owner familiarly and proceeded to talk loudly through their meal, spraying advice on the relative hotness of the curries and details about their planned winter holiday round all and sundry.

“I’ve embarrassed you, haven’t I?” Alison grinned, spooning lime pickle on to a piece of popadum.

Patel shook his head. “You? No, I don’t see how.”

The grin broadened. “Wearing this.”

This was a low-cut chenille top beneath which it was impossible to disguise the fact that she’d elected not to wear a bra. The top was the color of cream, worn over raspberry culottes in cotton velour. Patel was wearing dark gray trousers, brown leather shoes, shirt and tie under a burgundy jacket. He was trying not to stare each time Alison leaned forward towards the pickle jar.

“Not at all,” he said.

Alison laughed, not unkindly. “The girls at work said you’d take one look and run a mile. Either that or put me under arrest for offending public decency.”

Patel’s turn to smile: by the standards of a normal city Saturday she was quite conservatively dressed.

“You have arrested someone, haven’t you? It was on the news.”

“For the murder of the little girl, yes, that’s right.”

“I thought there were two,” Alison said. “Two girls.”

The waiter squeezed his way between the tables with their portions of chicken tikka, shami kebab.

“So far, I think he’s only been charged with the first murder. I don’t know about the second.”

“But he did do it?”

Patel nodded thanks to the waiter and realized that their noisy neighbors at the next table had fallen quiet to listen.

“I don’t know,” Patel said. “I haven’t really been that involved. Look at all the chicken tikka you’ve got, you’ll never be able to finish your main course.”

Stephen Sheppard lay on a plain, thin mattress in the police cell, a continuous period of eight hours’ rest, free from questioning, travel or any interruption. Whenever the duty officer looked through the door, Sheppard was a moving tangle beneath his blanket, the shal-lowness of broken sleep.

“Remorse, then, Charlie, that what you’d say he was feeling?”

Resnick sighed. Since his first waking thoughts about the Shepperds’ new carpet, he had been functioning for close on sixteen hours. “Oh, yes, remorse by the bucketload. Even then not above trying to twist the blame.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know, so beautiful, so lovely I couldn’t stop myself from touching her. The way she smiled, not like a little girl at all. Always smiling, clinging to my hand. As if somehow she’d been egging him on.” A shudder ran through him and he struck his fist against the side of Skelton’s desk. “Trying to make her complicit. Six years of age. What kind of twisted mind can convince itself of that?”

Skelton’s father-in-law had arrived long since, replete with urinary sheath, leg bag and new three-piece suit in Donegal tweed; three times his wife had phoned to inquire when he would be home. “Nothing about the Morrison girl?” Skelton said.

Resnick shook his head. “Still reckons to know nothing about her. Beyond who she is, stuff he’d agreed to before.”

“Think he’s waiting till we’ve proof there as well?”

“Possible. Either that or he’s telling the truth.”

Skelton was on his feet, taking his jacket from the hanger on the back of the door. “Charlie, look at what we already know. Look at the facts. Chances he didn’t do for the other kiddie, thousand to one against.”

“I’m sorry,” Lynn Kellogg had said, “there’s still no information about Emily, nothing new at all. We’ll let you know the moment there is.”

Michael and Lorraine, not really focusing on Lynn’s face, exhausted, cried out, gazing past her into the night.

“Raymond, however many’s that you’ve had?”

“What difference it make? Just ’cause you want to sit all night over one lager and black.”

It was her second but Sara didn’t argue; she didn’t know what had gotten into Raymond, but it obviously wasn’t going to pay to argue with him about anything. He’d already had one shouting match with a bloke who’d splashed beer over his shoe.

“What d’you reckon then? This place, all right, isn’t it?”

“’S all right.”

They were pressed against the balcony, looking down over the crowds milling round the bar below, squeezing between pillars or sprawled along bench seats down the sides. At the bar itself they were five deep, calling for attention, waving ten-, twenty-pound notes. Up where Raymond and Sara were, there was as much dancing as space would allow, a DJ playing Top Forty and regular soul mixed with swingbeat. Raymond promised himself that if the bastard DJ played “I Wanna Sex You Up” once more, he’d go over and stiff him one. Bastards with their big mouths and big dicks.

“Raymond!”

He had been absentmindedly stroking Sara’s behind and she wriggled away, giving him one of those reproachful, wait till later and even then you’ll be lucky, specials.

Raymond thought they’d make a move pretty soon, after he’d finished this pint, see about the long walk home. Some other night, he’d try and get her back to his place, room to stretch out, take your time. Not tonight though, he could tell she was in a mood about something. Not like some blokes, Raymond thought, no sensitivity at all, didn’t matter what the girl was feeling, still wanted to pork it.

Patel looked along the room to where Alison was sitting, toying with her wine glass, waiting for him to return; he still couldn’t take it in, that she wanted to be here with him. The warmth of her smile as he sat down beside her. The thrum of conversation, the thud of the speakers made anything less than a shout a waste of breath.

She finished her drink and pointed with her glass towards the door. “Let’s go,” she mouthed, reaching for her bag.

They walked along the narrow platform of tables where they had been sitting, underneath the paintings and the potted plants and out through the swing doors into the street. It was like stepping out into the middle of rush hour. A group of ten or twelve came down the center of the road at a slow trot, blocking traffic, arms linked, singing at the tops of their voices. In the alley leading to the Caribbean restaurant, a couple necked furiously while a few yards further along a youth in a Forest shirt leaned back against the wall and pissed.

At the corner of George Street, Alison took Patel’s hand. “I was watching this program,” she said, “about arranged marriages. I’m surprised you’re still walking round free.”

“You can say no, you know?”

“I didn’t think it was that easy, family pressure and all.”

“It’s easier if you’re a man.”

“Isn’t it always.”

Three young women in fancy dress came hurtling into the street in front of them: one was wearing a police tunic and hat, a pair of white ski pants and four-inch heels; the other two were dressed as schoolgirls, gym slips, black stockings and white suspender belts. One was holding a jumbo sausage wrapped in paper, the others were carrying chips and gravy in open cartons.

“Stick ’em up!” called the policewoman to Patel, waving her sausage into his face. “You’re under arrest.”

Patel sidestepped and the woman lurched away into the arms of her friends, the three of them bent double by hysterical laughter, chips spilling across the pavement.

“You can’t say you don’t see life,” Alison said, linking her arm through Patel’s and steering him away.

“Agreed,” Patel said as they started down the hill, “but do you have to see so much?”

Alison laughed and moved closer against him as they walked.

Raymond had fancied one last drink in the Thurland. Sara had argued with him for fully five minutes on the pavement outside before finally giving in. It had taken them twice that long to get served, another age for Raymond to force his way into the Gents and when he got there someone had blocked one of the toilets and he had to stand ankle deep at the stalls, water and worse.

Sara was being chatted up by some lad when he got back, black sweat shirt and hair tied behind in a little pony tail, gold ring in one ear.

“What’d he want?”

“What d’you think?”

Raymond looked over at the youth, laughing now with two of his mates. “Must’ve made a mistake, reckoned you for the wrong sex.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bloody shirtlifter, isn’t he?”

“He’s not.”

“Fucking fancy him then, do you?” Pushing her in their direction. “Go fucking on then, see if I sodding care!”

“Raymond, leave off! I’ve told you before about mauling me around.”

“Yeh? Yeh? Right, if that’s the way you feel, get home on your fucking own. Or get that poncey bastard over there to take you.”

“Raymond!”

But he was barging his way towards the door, hands hard down into his pockets, head lowered. Sara took a few halfhearted steps after him and stopped. She could see the lad with the pony tail grinning at her, then one of his mates making that wanking movement with his hand. Sara sucked in her cheeks and hurried after Raymond.

Raymond had come out of the pub so fast, not looking, he was almost off the wide corner of pavement before thinking about where he was going. For a few moments he considered going back for Sara, waiting for her at least. No, why the hell should he? He was alongside the telephone box across the street and starting down to the square when he saw them coming up the other way, the four who had attacked him outside Debenham’s. Nearly two months back, but no way was he going to forget. Loose white shirts, sleeves rolled back, dark trousers, pleated at the waist, shiny shoes. One of them turning into the doorway of the jeans shop, shouting for the others to hang on, lowering his head to light a cigarette. In the flare of the lighter Raymond could clearly see his face: the one that had stared back at him in the Bell, had screamed with anger as he stabbed Raymond with his knife.

“Hey!” Raymond called, hurrying towards them. “Hey, you!” closing fast.

The youth was slow to react, slow after all those weeks to recall Raymond’s face.

“You!” Raymond pointing. “I’m having you!”

One of the youth’s friends laughed in disbelief, another called out a warning; the one who tried to intercept got a fist in the face for his pains.

“Raymond! Ray-o!” If he heard Sara’s voice, he gave no sign.

She was making her way across the road, not quite breaking into a run, when the youth realized Raymond was serious, possibly recalled who he was.

“Get the fuck away and don’t be so fucking daft!”

Raymond threw a punch at his face and kicked high at his body, aiming for the groin, the toe of his shoe catching him above the knee. Hands grabbed for Raymond and he elbowed them away.

“What the fuck d’you think …?” the youth began, but Raymond lowered his head and jerked it forward, forehead smack into the center of the youth’s startled face.

“Raymond! Don’t!”

One of them grabbed Sara’s arm and swung her aside, back towards the entrance of the Cookie Club, losing her balance and tumbling to her knees. One of the others kicked Raymond in the back of the leg but he scarcely seemed to notice.

“Right,” he said, seizing hold of the youth’s blood-spattered shirt, “you got this coming. Raymond Cooke, remember?” As recognition dawned, the blade of Raymond’s Stanley knife gouged a chunk from the youth’s face, beside his broken nose.

From where they had been looking at the futons in the window of the Japanese shop higher up, Patel and Alison heard the shouts, the scream.

“Don’t,” Alison said, hanging on to Patel’s arm. “Please don’t get involved.”

Patel touched her hand, lightly prised her fingers away. “I have to,” he said.

There seemed to be one person on his back in the doorway, another bending over him, two or three more attacking from behind. Patel began to run. A shoulder rocked Raymond hard against the shop window, making it vibrate. Fists flew round his face and he threw up both arms to protect himself, lashing out with his feet as he tried to break away. On the ground, hands to his head, the youth was alternately crying and moaning.

“All right,” Patel said, taking hold of the nearest youth by the arm and pulling him away. “Put a stop to this.”

“Fuck off, Paki!” the youth shouted and punched Patel’s shoulder.

“Yeh, fuck off!” And they swarmed round him.

“I’m a police officer,” Patel just had time to call out, before Raymond jumped towards him, the force of the attack knocking him back, knocking him down, the blade of the knife that was still in Raymond’s hand severing the carotid artery alongside Patel’s chin.

Within moments all the youths were gone. Only Patel lay there, Alison gazing helplessly down, blood across her trousers and her shoes beginning to run between the paving stones. On the edge of the crowd that was slowly forming, Sara picked herself up from grazed knees and turned away, vomiting into her hands.