Wasted Years

Forty-Seven

Ruth padded across the tiled floor in bare feet. Why hadn’t she been surprised when Resnick had walked into the pub? Recognizing him instantly from the trial and earlier-standing in the side door of the house, Rains behind her, watching Resnick and her husband face to face. Watching her husband’s face, the gun; knowing that he was playing the percentages inside his head. How much do they know? How much can they prove? How much time am I going to get? She remembered how close Rains had stood to her, warmth of his breath against the side of her neck; even then, his hand reaching out for her, touching her back.

She poured nearly boiling water into the pot and swished it round as she took it to the sink and poured it down. One tea bag and one for luck. Digestive biscuits in the tin on the shelf. She poured on the water and replaced the lid, left the tea to brew.

The dog watching her all the while, clear eyes following her every move. A ritual like many others. One which Resnick’s visit had left undisturbed. A couple of halves in the pub, few chapters of whichever book, back to the cottage for a cup of tea and while that was standing, she would feed the dog. Afterwards, walk him on the beach. Well, she would walk, the dog would run. Then home for a little telly, maybe the radio, another early night, the dog curled on the rug at the bed’s foot.

Ruth stood with both hands to her face, pressing deep. Resnick had walked into the pub and told her what she had always known, sooner or later, would be the case: he’s coming out. I’ll get you, Ruthie. Get even with you. Pay you back, you double-crossing bastard. Cunt. You bitch. There had been a photograph of her, front page in most of the papers, little black dress, descending the steps outside the court. Pale face. There behind her, smart in his suit, that handsome smiling face, hands raised and spread to ward photographers and press away. Mrs Prior will be making a statement later through her solicitor.

Pleased, course I’m pleased. We got a good result.

Prior’s release, so long coming, she had ceased to fear it long since. What would come would come and who was she to say she didn’t deserve it? Grassing up your old man, you slag, you don’t deserve to live. Rumor was his mum had hired some tearaway to teach her a lesson, throw acid in her face. Ruth hid herself away, down London, abroad, a spell in Glasgow, back for a while to the city, then here.

You can walk but you can’t run.

She liked it here. The quiet. All those early years in front of speakers jacked up so high she was lucky not to have permanent damage to her ears. In Glasgow once this journalist had recognized her, a stringer for the NME. Begged her to let him do her story. Not talking a magazine piece here, I mean the real thing. A book. Built around you. The history of British Rhythm and Blues.

She hadn’t told that story or any other. Not even after the trial when they’d all been round her like flies round the honeypot. The Sun. The News of the World. Money she’d been offered. My Life with a Villain. My Life with a Face. Some tart who reckoned she’d screwed him silly in her scabby little bedsit had sold this yarn about champagne and foursomes and how Prior hadn’t been able to get enough. Well, after all the years of virtual abstinence he’d practiced with her, maybe that was the only part Ruth had believed.

It was late. The dog had finished its food and was waiting, bemused, by the door. The tea was cold and stewed. Ruth changed her shoes, buttoned up her coat.

The roll of the sea as it folds back against the sand. If Prior walked up to me now, out of this long dark, Ruth thought, what would I say or do?

Returning, as she neared the sea wall, she heard the quick scratch of a match and, moments later, saw the soft glow of a cigarette. Just kids, she thought, doing some cold courting.

Resnick’s card was still in the pocket of her skirt and she dropped it onto the kitchen table as she walked through. For fifteen, twenty minutes she sat with her feet up, listening to Radio Two: Brian Matthew more relaxing than another bout of Gradgrind.

“Come on,” she said, and with its usual enthusiasm the dog trailed her up the stairs to bed.

On the outer edge of the city, nights before, traveling back, Resnick had pulled across to the side of the road and cut the engine. Lights splayed out before him like a net. A feeling, not quite pain, had caught low in his throat. His instinct had been to slip a fresh cassette into place but inside his head Lester was already playing “Ghost of a Chance.”

unseen, not quite unbidden,

someone has just slipped in.

Ruth was vaguely aware of the dog paddling off downstairs but it was such a familiar sound she never really woke: what did wake her was the sharp, sudden sound of tearing close to her head.

“What’s that?” Jumping up with a start, blinking into the near dark.

“That,” the familiar voice said, “was the sound of your dog’s throat being cut.”

“Bastard!” she sobbed, reaching sideways for the light.

Beside the bed, Rains smiled down. “Don’t worry, Ruthie. It was only this.” One of her shirts which she’d left hanging over a chair was dangling from his hand, ripped from tail to neck.

“The dog! Where’s …?”

“Downstairs sleeping, not to fret.”

“He wouldn’t …”

“Hungry. Gave him a little something to eat.”

“If you’ve …”

“Just a few hours. He’ll be right as rain.” Rains smiled. “Funny that, isn’t it? Always makes me smile. What’s so right about rain.” Never taking his eyes from her, he sat on the side of the bed. “Always when you least expect it. Forgot the umbrella, raincoat in the car.” He laughed, smiling with his eyes. “Good to see you, Ruthie. You look like shit.”

He scarcely looked older; what age there was, if anything, had made him even better-looking. Too handsome for other people’s good.

“No sense pretending we parted on the best of terms, is there? Even so-I thought some things were all agreed. No true confessions, no stories. No talking out of turn.”

“How did you get here? How did you find me?”

“Ruthie! Used to be a detective, remember?”

“I know what you used to be.”

Rains leaned one hand against the covers, close to her leg. “Followed him. Charlie. Heard he’d had the feelers out, asking questions, and I followed him.”

Ruth glanced away and when she looked back his expression had changed.

“You thought shutting yourself out here would stop people finding you; thought getting that dog would protect you if they did. Well, now you know better. And I know you won’t forget.” His hand moved fast and he had hold of her jaw, fingers pressing hard against the bone. “One thing, when he comes to see you, Prior; if he wants to know what went on between us, if I used you to fit him up, you don’t tell him a thing. Don’t as much as mention my name.” Leaning quickly forward he kissed her on the mouth. “Life’s good, Ruthie. Too much so to have it fucked up by some jealous bastard, fresh out of prison, harboring a grudge.”

She stayed there for a long time after Rains had gone, allowing the warmth gradually to seep back into her skin. Only then did she put on her dressing gown and go downstairs and kneel beside the dog, unconscious on the kitchen floor; sit, with its head resting in her lap, until it stirred with the first light glinted off the sea.