Dead Pretty (15 page)

‘We didn't exactly leave nothing behind, did we?'

‘Except Shane.'

‘Aye, except him.'

‘Do you think it'll ever be solved?'

‘Been a long time now. He'd be a teenager.'

Julie sniffed and pushed even closer as Carl came back in.

‘Right, time to go, Mam,' Mark said.

‘All right.'

‘I'll give you a lift,' Carl said.

‘No need for that, mate.'

‘No trouble. Come on, then.'

Julie hugged him at the doorway. He was once again reminded of how small she was. It was like picking up a twelve-year-old.

‘Still a size ten,' she whispered in his ear. ‘Take care of yourself.'

‘Don't I always?'

They drove off in the Merc. Mark saw the diminishing figure of Julie in the wing mirror. She was smiling, and waving vigorously. He fixed this image in his mind, just in case it was the last time he saw her.

‘Drop me off in the centre of Cardiff,' Mark said. ‘I'll get a hotel tonight. Make sure you're gone in the morning, I don't think those guys will hang around too long.'

‘I still haven't a clue what I'm going to tell her,' Carl said. ‘Any ideas?'

‘How much are you into Julie?'

‘We clicked straight away. And I'm not on the rebound, if that's what you're thinking. My marriage died a slow death for years. It was a relief for both of us when it finished, even if she did take up with that slimy ponce. Come on, gimme a reason why I should suddenly want to take her from here.'

‘Say that you've booked something as a surprise,' Mark said. ‘You were going to tell her then I showed up. I know, take her to Ireland, she's always wanted to go there. Try Donegal, I've heard that's nice. You'll be safe there, just in case they managed to connect you to Julie.'

Kelly came into Mark's head. If he got through this, he'd take him a case of Irish whiskey and says thanks. He doubted it was a word Kelly had heard much in his life.

Carl pulled up outside a large hotel, built since last time Mark was here. He thought it would be better to be anonymous in a multi-roomed chain than in a small B & B.

‘I don't know whether to shake hands or not,' Carl murmured. ‘Before you appeared I was thinking that maybe my life's getting straight, that I've met someone who might be right. I haven't thought like that since that fucking war, and that was twenty years ago.'

Mark stuck out a hand anyway.

‘Sorry, Carl, I thought the same just a few days back. I'd change it if I could, believe me.'

Carl took his hand.

‘Aye, I know. The thought of anything happening to Julie like what happened to that Lena …'

‘It won't. You'll be there. Anyway, these people don't kill for no reason. It's not professional.'

‘Oh aye? The code of fucking killers, is it?'

‘Something like that. Look, you all right for money? I could let you have a few hundred.'

‘No thanks. I've got enough for Ireland.'

‘All right, let's have your mobile number then.'

Mark logged it on his own phone. He'd charge it up in the hotel, for there'd be no electricity where he'd be sleeping for the next week. They shook hands firmly.

‘See you, then,' Mark said.

‘I hope so, son.'

Mark watched him drive away quickly, anxious to be back with Julie. Apart from himself, Mark had never known her have a defender.

The weather was changing. What was left of the day had turned dark, and it was starting to rain. Small drops as he stood on the steps of the hotel, then harder as he pushed open its doors. I'll bet it will be wet all next week, Mark thought, summer ending just for me.

The young man at reception didn't like the look of him, and he was bored. He fingered his dark red tie with the hotel's logo on it as he scanned Mark's battered holdall, and was suspicious when he paid the deposit with cash. Mark half expected the git to put the notes up against the light.

It was a room like a thousand others in a thousand towns. Identikit furniture, decoration, a modern cell for modern man. It didn't care if you liked it or not, but it was on the fifth floor, which gave Mark some kind of view over the city. He stood looking out at it with his hands in his pockets, watching the last of the light slip away. In the years he'd travelled around chasing people it had struck him how alike everything was becoming, same city centres, same brand names, same places to sleep. It was like he was on an endless journey that never stopped and never got anywhere.

He was running the water for a bath when his mobile rang,
if you're looking for trouble
echoed around the room. He thought it would be Julie, she always wanted a last word. It would be another query into his state, or maybe Carl had come out with something. He answered.

‘Hullo, my friend. You are well? I have a message from Stellachi. He's impressed, and says he will see you soon. Why don't you meet with him, man to man? Get this over with? You are only delaying things.'

Of course, why wouldn't they know his mobile number as well?

‘Won't you answer?' Angelo continued. ‘We know where you are. We know where you're going. Shame you can't fly, isn't it? You'd have more choice then.'

Mark cut Angelo off. There was no point in responding. Lena must have told Tony his life history, in case they needed it for any future use. They did, and the future was now. Lena stabbed at him again, and the thought that these bastards might know about Shane made him burn. Maybe he
should
have killed Angelo, and his big friend. Stellachi would see this as a flaw, a weakness he could exploit. Let him try. Mark's heart was hardening, taking on its old granite texture, and his resolve would have to match it. He turned off the phone.

Mark ran the bath deep and sank into it. Although he was safe for the moment his senses were on permanent alert, practising for what lay ahead. He imagined the door quietly opening, whispers in a strange language, then a knife or gun. Probably a knife. Whenever he heard footsteps in the corridor, he tensed. Once someone paused near his door and he was almost out of the bath and searching in the holdall.

The bed was welcoming but his sleep was troubled. Lena was with him throughout. His brain picked over her memory, their times together arranged in order, each piece of happiness paraded until his brain tried to salve itself by telling him it was all a bad dream, and that he would wake with Lena by his side. Then reality would be back, and her drained, stone-like face, that fixed the horror she'd endured. Each snatch of sleep ended like this.

He was up very early, showered, dressed and back at reception with maroon-tie man by eight. The night clerk was just knocking off his shift, his female replacement waiting bright-eyed by his side. She smiled at Mark and he tried to arrange his lips into something similar. Mark could see now that Maroon Tie wasn't much more than a kid, realising he was on the slow grind of work, going over all the things he could be doing as his long night dripped away and wondering how long he could hack this. Dreaming of running the place. A sprinkle of dandruff was on each shoulder of his padded black jacket, like epaulettes. He made a point of carefully checking Mark's bill and said
thank you sir
the way that snotty hotel clerks did the world over, when they thought you were beneath them. Mark hadn't bothered to shave, it would be better for the hills. The girl was interested. A scruffy guy checking into a place like this might be someone, a rock star maybe, an event to push her day forward, to mock Maroon Tie for not recognising him.

Mark spotted a twenty-four hour convenience store on a corner. He put tinned stuff, cheese, bread, water and some tired fruit into a basket. From a rack near the counter he added a half bottle of unknown whisky. The guy smirked at him knowingly but packed the stuff quickly when he saw Mark's glare. He was charged at convenience prices.

Next door was an army surplus place which wasn't yet open. Mark went into the adjacent cafe and ordered another plate of grease. His good eating of the last two years had been crushed in four days.

Day four was starting. Two coppers passed outside. About the same age as Maroon tie, but happier. They had the jobs they wanted. Mark could go out to them now, hand them the holdall and tell them to look in it, let them rush him to the station, excitement reddening their baby faces as they showed off their trophy to their sergeant, who'd listen dumbfounded to Mark's story before getting his inspector.

As he pushed undercooked bacon around his plate Mark began to doubt his shaky plan. He was bringing pain back to his homeland, where it had always thrived, writ large with his chaotic upbringing, his crime and the vanishing of Shane. Maybe this was the inevitable final chapter, and already he'd managed to involve Julie; his family. It was starting to rain outside, solid stuff that came down quickly, rain that would go straight through him on the hills. He needed to buy wisely.

The man in the surplus shop looked surplus himself. The shop smelt of musty canvas, a dead-end kind of smell that matched Mark's mood. The man behind the counter had a grey face as creased as one of his tents, but it might have been healthy once, and in the army a long time ago. Mark bought a small rucksack, sleeping bag and a camouflage jacket, the type kids wore when they wanted to strut. The shopkeeper perked up, these were good sales for first thing Monday.

‘Going on a trip, are you?' he asked.

‘Not really. I'll have a pair of them too. Thirty-four waist, long leg.'

Mark pointed to a pair of waterproof trousers, a match for the jacket, and picked up a pair of boots. And these in a ten.'

The guy was almost in ecstasy at the unexpected sales. Mark thought about a small tent, which would really have pumped the man up, but decided against it. He needed to see around him at all times, and made do with a waterproof sheet. He could rig this up to keep the rain off, if he had to.

The man rang up his till.

‘That's £160, dead on. Anything else?'

Mark saw a small pair of binoculars and a Swiss army knife, and added them to his bill.

‘You in the army?'

‘No, why?'

‘Only asking. Just that you look pretty fit and I've had a few of those boys in since Iraq kicked off. Army don't give 'em enough stuff, see. Pathetic.'

Mark's money had decreased quite a bit. Mark wondered if Kelly had drunk his way through his share of it by now. Probably. There was a national paper open on the counter. As the man bagged up his stuff Mark turned it towards him. It was full of the usual nonsense he never bothered with but a smaller paragraph halfway down the page caught his eye.
Man jumps to his death in London on Sunday morning. Shoppers were shocked as …
The man was handing him change and Mark almost turned away until he saw the name.
Patrick Michael Kelly, a well-known character in the area … police are not treating the death as suspicious …

‘Your change, mate.'

‘What?'

‘Change.'

Mark took the money and picked up his purchases.

‘Have a nice day now.'

Mark needed the rain on his face. There was a tightness in his chest and he found it hard to get his breath. Too many people were dying. He stood in the rain in the middle of the pavement, making people walk around him. It was several minutes before he could move. The shopkeeper was watching him from his doorway. He'd go back inside and scrutinise the bank notes, then be relieved that this nutter hadn't stiffed him.

Mark went to the nearest newsagents and bought the same daily. There were public toilets across the road, so he locked himself in a cubicle there and read about Kelly. He hadn't told Kelly where he was going, that was his first thought. The second was that Kelly hadn't jumped anywhere. Poor bastard. He shouldn't have involved him, but this thought was too late now. He imagined the terror the man must have felt. It didn't take much to frighten him at the best of times. He wouldn't have known what the fuck was happening, he'd have snivelled and pissed his pants with his night's booze but his last thought would have been clear – that it was all Mark's fault.

A well-known local character.
Kelly's fifteen minutes of fame, or was that fifteen seconds. They'd come for him, and the poor bastard couldn't have told them anything useful. Mark shut his eyes and saw the big man picking up the skin and bones that was Kelly and tossing him out the window. Fuck it. His brain couldn't take many more images like this. Tony smashed on the road, Kelly airborne, Agani's head saying bye bye, and Lena. Always Lena. Someone old shuffled into the cubicle next to him, he heard the man cough, splutter and sigh to himself. A sigh that was only Monday old. Out early on the streets because he was bored shitless, Mark thought, nothing to do, no place to go, and another long day beginning, but right now he'd swap places with him.

Mark loaded the holdall's contents into the rucksack, and left the holdall in the cubicle. The guns went in pockets either side
with an apple over each of them. The man in the shop had said the sack was waterproof, Mark hoped it was, else the guns might prove useless. He hoisted the sack onto his back and made his way to the train station, trying to walk steadily, breathe easily. Kelly was a signal they were sending him. Thank Christ Carl was around and Julie was out of that flat, at least he hoped she was.

Mark caught a train to the top of his old valley with Kelly jostling with Lena for first place in his waking nightmare. Julie was bringing up an honourable third. He was the only one in his carriage. The train was almost empty. Everyone was going the other way, to work or to shop. A few miles out of Cardiff, as the train began to climb, it stopped raining. As it passed into the gap in the hills that led to the valley, the sun struggled out, enough to make a faint rainbow on the hillside. Mark hadn't been back here since they'd sent him to the Shetlands. While he'd broken his heart over dead whales, his mother had moved from the estate. It had been better for her to leave everything behind while he wasn't around. She'd swapped a windswept hilltop house full of the wrong memories with an anonymous flat at the seaside. The council had made it easy for her.