To Fight For (8 page)

I walked slowly back to my car. The idea that I was being watched, that I was not in control, sat at the back of my head, like a shadow. It had been there, casting its darkness over my actions. Every time I thought I knew where I was, what I was doing, I'd walk, blind and confused, into some dead-end. Maybe it was just getting caught by Compton that had me thinking like that. Maybe it was the whole thing, never being able to get away from it all, from the past, from the bastards out there.

Whoever they were.

Wherever they were.

I checked the motor for any electronic surveillance gadgets. These days, though, I'd be hard pressed to find them anyway. I rolled around the streets for a while, looking for tails. I couldn't see anything obvious. I drove into some big Tesco car park, pulled up and watched the entrance. Nothing came in for a few minutes. Then a red mini entered, drove past me slowly and parked. A middle-aged woman got out and headed into the shop. I waited some more, saw nothing, then headed back onto the street and drove to the address Green had given me.

When she opened the door, a gurgled sound came from her throat. It sounded like she was being strangled. She took a step back, tried to slam the door shut. I put my hand up and threw the door back. She turned and staggered away, going as fast as her dressing gown would let her. She went into the bathroom and slammed the door. I followed her into the flat, stopped in front of the bathroom door and smashed that thing off its hinges.

I'd told myself not to lose it, to be calm, to be in control. I only wanted to ask her some questions, I'd told myself. She wasn't to blame for her husband's work, I'd told myself.

But as I'd neared her place I kept remembering what they'd done to Brenda and all that shit I'd told myself about keeping cool went out the window. So what if she was just his wife? I didn't care about any of that. She was all that was left of Marriot, she'd been married to him, must've known what he was, what he did. That was enough for me.

And then, by the time she opened the door, I'd been about ready to rip her apart.

But when I smashed the bathroom door in, all of that fell away. She was cowering in the corner, her eyes screwed tightly shut, the dressing gown twisted around her, her knees up to her chin, her arms covering her head. I could see the inside of her leg, blue veins bulging, and her shoulder blades poking through the fabric of the gown. Her hair was dyed brown, but the grey roots were showing through and had been for a while. Whatever life she'd been used to with her husband was all gone. Now she was just another old middle-aged woman, a widow, waiting her time out.

She didn't move. I could hear a sound, a whining, mumbling noise.

‘I'm not going to hurt you,' I said. ‘I only want some information.'

Now she opened her eyes. She was wearing make-up, and her mascara had streaked with tears.

‘What?' she said. ‘What do you want?'

‘Answers.'

‘I don't know anything.'

It bothered me that she was in her dressing gown. It was mid-afternoon and she was in her dressing gown. Either she'd got up late or she was going to bed early. But she had make-up on. I couldn't work that out.

Then I worked it out.

I turned in time to see him, bare to the waist, shaven grey hair, old, collapsed chest. He brought the bottle down on my head. I moved quickly, and the blow glanced off my jaw. It dazed me, but I still managed to throw out a fist and catch him in the ribs. He crumpled.

Then the pain scorched through my head and the bath came up to hit me. I put my arms out and felt them take the weight of my body as I crashed into the white plastic.

When I looked up, the old man was staggering away, doubled over, one arm across his torso. There wasn't much to him. I could see his spine ripple down his back. A punch from me should've floored him for good. Christ, I couldn't even down some thin old bloke.

I stood and the room spun. I waited for the world to slow down, holding onto the sink while I swallowed the bile that had come up. I managed to reach the door, held onto the frame and heaved myself into the hall. The front door was open. The old man had gone. I kicked the door shut. If he was off to call the law, I didn't have long.

I heard a woman's voice, low and desperate.

Then the voice changed.

‘Oh God,' it said, and her eyes were on me, huge with horror.

Somehow I was in the lounge and Marriot's wife had a phone in her hand. When she saw me, she fumbled the phone and dropped it. I reached down for the phone and put it to my ear and heard no sound. I put it in my pocket.

‘Who'd you call?' I said, hearing the words coming out in a slur, knowing she couldn't understand me.

What did it matter who she'd called? Whoever it was would be trouble.

The flat was small, but well decorated. It was the ground floor of a converted Victorian house, with high ceilings, coving, a fireplace – all the trimmings. The furniture was proper antique, I thought. It was rosewood and mahogany, anyway. And there was silver all over the place. It looked like she'd managed to keep some of Marriot's money after all.

There were no photos of Marriot, which was odd. Christ, he'd only been dead a few weeks. There was a picture of her as a young woman and another of her with a bloke who looked like the one who'd just scarpered. I suppose she didn't want her dead husband to ruin things. I suppose she wasn't that bothered he was dead.

‘I want Glazer,' I said.

I could see the lines beneath the face cream she'd spread on. I could hear the crackling of nicotine soaked lungs.

‘Glazer,' I said again.

‘He … he knew my husband,' she said. ‘I don't know anything else. Is this what you do,' she said, moving backwards, ‘threaten women?'

She stumbled and fell, the breath leaving her in a gasp. One hand clawed at the carpet. I could see blood vessels in her yellowy eyes, as if the pupils had grown red roots.

‘If I have to.'

But even as I said it, I thought, Is this what I've become? I, who was never floored in the ring? I, this monster, feared by men of power, killer of soldiers? Now I terrify small women.

Christ, the rage, the fury kept pulling me into its depths. I saw myself as I was, as that monster, but now full of the fury of impotence, standing above an old woman who was more impotent than me. I was like some mad dog, snarling and frothing at an insect.

‘Policeman,' she said. ‘He was a policeman. My husband paid him.'

‘So, you do know more. Stand up.'

She stood on weak legs. She kept her eyes on mine all the time.

‘Can I sit down?' she said.

I nodded. She sat. I sat. I watched. She watched. I let the rage sink, fade.

‘I haven't had anything to do with Frank for a long time,' she said. ‘We split up a couple of years back.'

‘Just tell me what you know about Glazer.'

‘He and my husband knew each other. He's a policeman. That's all I know.'

She knew I'd killed her husband and she must've thought I'd kill her. That's why I believed her.

‘Your husband must've had notebooks, address books, something like that.'

She jumped up and almost ran to a tall chest of drawers. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a bunch of papers and a couple of books. She held these out to me like she was making an offering. I suppose she was.

‘Go,' she said, pushing the stuff into my hands. ‘Take it all and go. Please.'

I looked through what she'd given me, but it was rubbish, all domestic stuff; bank balances and car payments, shit like that.

‘Where's the rest of it? His business papers?'

‘It was in his office,' she said, as if it was obvious.

And, of course, it was obvious. I even remembered the huge iron safe he'd had there.

I dropped the papers on the floor and stood, suddenly weary. All the anger had slunk away and left me hollow.

‘Glazer had a girlfriend,' she said. ‘That's all I can remember. He used to talk to me about her.'

‘What's her name?'

‘Mary.'

‘Mary. Is that it?'

‘It's all I know.'

I walked out of her flat and up the road to my car. I fell in behind the wheel and started it up and pulled away from the curb, my mind full of nothing thoughts, all crashing into each other, leaving me more confused than ever. I had nowhere to go, nothing to go towards. I drifted, letting the car take me along to wherever it wanted to go. I was weak with it all, sick of it, old. I was dead, but too stupid to know it.

I couldn't keep the image of Brenda's blood-soaked face from my empty mind. It filled my head, torturing me. I saw her blood on my hands. It filled her eyes, her mouth. It was more than a nightmare, more than a dreamed-of horror, more than a memory. It was all of these, and more still because it had been real, and I'd done nothing to stop it. My mind was haunting itself, tormenting me with failure.

It was then I realized I was being followed.

I turned left. The green car was still behind me. I slowed to twenty-five, and the car neared me a bit, then slowed too. I could see the driver, but not clearly. He was a young bloke with short dark hair. That was about all I could make of him.

It didn't smell like law, not with just one of them, and not when he was being this obvious. It might've been one of Dunham's mob, but, again, they usually went around in pairs.

I'd been turning this way and that, trying to decide what to do, and I didn't know where we were by this time. It was a residential area, quite posh. I was winding through rows of semis, cars parked in driveways, neat front gardens, grass verges.

I was going to have to find out who he was, what he wanted. That meant I was going to have to lead him into a trap. These suburban streets were fine for taking him into a cul-de-sac, but they were too quiet, I'd be too easily noticed. So, I had to lead him to where I could turn the tables. I had an idea about that.

I sped up, and drove around until I found a main road. The first shop I saw was a newsagent. That was good enough. I pulled up opposite and went over, all nice and slow, like I was only out to buy some smokes. There was a woman behind the counter, fifty-something with a gut and a thick baggy jumper to try and hide it.

She said, ‘Can I help you? Excuse me, can I help you?'

I went through into the back, past the stacks of newspapers and boxes of crisps, and out through the rear door into the loading area.

To my right was a wall. I stood on the bin next to the wall and climbed over into someone's back yard. I carried on, crossing a few more back gardens, and then went up the driveway of a house and came back onto the road where I was parked, only about a hundred yards behind my car. I was going to stroll up to this bloke's motor from behind, take him by surprise.

But he'd gone. There were cars parked in front of me, and vans, but there was no green car. I looked behind me and saw the same.

I walked back towards my motor, glancing up and down the street, natural like, so that I didn't tip him off in case he'd parked up somewhere and was watching me. I didn't see anything. I thought he must've cottoned on to what I was doing and scarpered.

If he hadn't changed down a gear, I wouldn't have looked up. He just had to have that extra acceleration. He just had to smash me to hell. The anger, I suppose. Well, I couldn't blame him for that. I understood it too well.

I was just rounding the back of my car, when I heard his engine jump sharply in pitch. I looked back and saw his car racing towards me, an animal rushing in for the kill. I hesitated, and that was dumb. My reactions were sluggish. I wasn't going to get out of the way of this now. I thought I was dead.

He was ten yards away, doing fifty, when I snapped to and jumped onto the boot of my car. Everything went sideways. I saw the street, the sky, the buildings in snapshots. I didn't hear the sound of the impact. Or, maybe I did, but it was blurred with everything else and became part of the chaos. I felt myself fly into the air. For a split second, everything was quiet. I might've blacked out again. I can't say. What I remember is that, for that instant, which went on forever, I thought, Well, I tried. I thought, Fuck it. I thought, I don't care any more.

It was over. I was dead. I knew it.

It didn't matter.

I think I was happy. I understood what Browne was talking about; the need for nothingness, the need to not exist. Only he did it slowly, piecemeal, falling nightly, drifting into the warm blanket of oblivion that he craved and out of the cold real world. He let himself slip into the darkness.

Me, I could never go that way. This was always going to be my end, or something like it – this brutal, thuggish thing. Mine would not be a slow death. It would be this; smashed into pulp between machines. And that was fine. That was what I wanted.

But not yet.

I saw the sky, grey and lifeless, and I wondered if that was what death was, just the same greyness. Forever.

Then the tarmac was scraping my body and every bone jarred with impact. The sound of crunching metal tore through my head, and seemed like some great beast tearing the cars apart in its teeth. I felt my spine bend sideways, felt my legs flail as I rolled over and over.

Then I stopped rolling. There was silence.

Something was pressing against my shoulder. There was pain in my side. I felt cold. I felt hot.

I heard a voice.

‘Are you alright? God.'

I opened my eyes and saw concrete. It took me a while to remember where I was, what had happened. The voice was there still.

‘I've called an ambulance,' the voice said. ‘I saw him. He must be drunk.'

I turned my head. It felt light, numb. That was bad. She came into focus. She wore a baggy jumper. I'd seen her before, hadn't I?

I was lucky. If I hadn't blacked out, I probably would've been dead. As it was, my body was relaxed when I crashed into the ground. Now I lay in a crumpled heap, my head up against the curb.