crashing waves.
Did she come back with him last night?
The phone’s ringing.
He opens an eye, sees the bare wooden floorboards an inch away. His
head is half on a cushion crammed between a sofa and the coffee table. He’s
still in his shirt and trousers, and his body, sprawled on the floor, is aching
and cold.
They’re shouting his name, clear and loud.
Must have crawled off the sofa last night, too tired to get up
again. Cold. Very cold now, shivering as the first waves of nausea hit him. No
need to look around: there’ll be an empty bottle somewhere close by. The
self-disgust is worse than the hangover.
Den?
They’d tried to talk it through last night, awkward and tearful,
their food ignored in front of them. But what was there to talk about? Then
back home in the car, hardly a word. A brief kiss on the cheek as he dropped
her off. He watched as she got out and walked up the drive. She turned, looked
back, just for a second.
Now this.
The phone stops ringing. The banging too.
They’re telling him to open the door.
He props himself up on his elbows. Through the three huge windows he
sees the sky, flecked with ribbons of white cloud that catch the sun. Sometimes,
on days like this, the early morning clouds have a blush of yellow from the
sun’s first rays. But not today.
The banging starts again.
He squeezes his eyes together, takes a breath, then pushes himself
up off the floor, doing what for a haggard, hungover forty-five-year-old is a
pretty decent attempt at springing to his feet.
He opens the door.
“Mr John Ray?”
Pale
face, drab suit. Copper.
John nods. He knows the face. Detective Sergeant John Steele,
sarcastic bastard, reckons himself a bit of a wit. A wit with a warrant card?
Bad combo.
“Can we come in?” Steele says, all deference now the door’s finally
open. Behind Steele are a couple of uniforms, big fat blokes, faces like Spam. They’re
on the tail end of a night shift. Friday night, the worst. Now all they want is
their eggs and bacon. Not this shit.
John turns, padding wearily over to the kitchen area to make coffee.
“No need for that,” Steele says, standing just inside the door, “you’ll
be needing your jacket, though.”
“Eh?” says John, patting his pockets, then pulling open a drawer, desperate
for a fag.
“Jacket. It’s on the floor.”
“What’s this about?”
Steele folds his arms, his face straining to keep the satisfaction
in check.
It’s been a year, but he hasn’t forgotten John Ray. There was
something dodgy with those sports cars, the whole thing stank. They couldn’t
prove anything though. Let it go, they’d been told, we’ve got the convictions we
need. So John Ray got off scot-free. Steele knew it, Baron too, and neither of
them could do a thing about it.
“John Ray, I am arresting you for the murder of Roberto Swales. You
do not have to say anything, but anything you do…”
John looks up to the ceiling, runs his hands through his untidy
black hair, and groans.
*
There’s a plastic cup on the table in front of him, its contents too
hot to drink. His mouth is dry. They’d let him use the toilet, and he managed
to gulp down a few mouthfuls of tepid water from the sink. But now he’s thirsty
again.
Opposite him is DI Steven Baron, short-cropped hair, one of those light
blue suits he wears, cut a little too tight, almost a uniform, no room to move.
So far he’s been polite, friendly even. But that’s just his way. The two men
know each other well enough, and their relationship is not forged on
friendliness.
Next to Baron sits DS John Steele, proud owner of the city’s most
punchable face. Pinky and Perky. Christ, this is a bloody joke. Only it’s not.
Baron speaks towards the digital recorder at the end of the table.
“I ask you again, Mr Ray, would you like to have your legal counsel
present before the interview begins? If you prefer, we can provide legal
representation for you.”
John stares into the space in front
Did she come back with him last night?
The phone’s ringing.
He opens an eye, sees the bare wooden floorboards an inch away. His
head is half on a cushion crammed between a sofa and the coffee table. He’s
still in his shirt and trousers, and his body, sprawled on the floor, is aching
and cold.
They’re shouting his name, clear and loud.
Must have crawled off the sofa last night, too tired to get up
again. Cold. Very cold now, shivering as the first waves of nausea hit him. No
need to look around: there’ll be an empty bottle somewhere close by. The
self-disgust is worse than the hangover.
Den?
They’d tried to talk it through last night, awkward and tearful,
their food ignored in front of them. But what was there to talk about? Then
back home in the car, hardly a word. A brief kiss on the cheek as he dropped
her off. He watched as she got out and walked up the drive. She turned, looked
back, just for a second.
Now this.
The phone stops ringing. The banging too.
They’re telling him to open the door.
He props himself up on his elbows. Through the three huge windows he
sees the sky, flecked with ribbons of white cloud that catch the sun. Sometimes,
on days like this, the early morning clouds have a blush of yellow from the
sun’s first rays. But not today.
The banging starts again.
He squeezes his eyes together, takes a breath, then pushes himself
up off the floor, doing what for a haggard, hungover forty-five-year-old is a
pretty decent attempt at springing to his feet.
He opens the door.
“Mr John Ray?”
Pale
face, drab suit. Copper.
John nods. He knows the face. Detective Sergeant John Steele,
sarcastic bastard, reckons himself a bit of a wit. A wit with a warrant card?
Bad combo.
“Can we come in?” Steele says, all deference now the door’s finally
open. Behind Steele are a couple of uniforms, big fat blokes, faces like Spam. They’re
on the tail end of a night shift. Friday night, the worst. Now all they want is
their eggs and bacon. Not this shit.
John turns, padding wearily over to the kitchen area to make coffee.
“No need for that,” Steele says, standing just inside the door, “you’ll
be needing your jacket, though.”
“Eh?” says John, patting his pockets, then pulling open a drawer, desperate
for a fag.
“Jacket. It’s on the floor.”
“What’s this about?”
Steele folds his arms, his face straining to keep the satisfaction
in check.
It’s been a year, but he hasn’t forgotten John Ray. There was
something dodgy with those sports cars, the whole thing stank. They couldn’t
prove anything though. Let it go, they’d been told, we’ve got the convictions we
need. So John Ray got off scot-free. Steele knew it, Baron too, and neither of
them could do a thing about it.
“John Ray, I am arresting you for the murder of Roberto Swales. You
do not have to say anything, but anything you do…”
John looks up to the ceiling, runs his hands through his untidy
black hair, and groans.
*
There’s a plastic cup on the table in front of him, its contents too
hot to drink. His mouth is dry. They’d let him use the toilet, and he managed
to gulp down a few mouthfuls of tepid water from the sink. But now he’s thirsty
again.
Opposite him is DI Steven Baron, short-cropped hair, one of those light
blue suits he wears, cut a little too tight, almost a uniform, no room to move.
So far he’s been polite, friendly even. But that’s just his way. The two men
know each other well enough, and their relationship is not forged on
friendliness.
Next to Baron sits DS John Steele, proud owner of the city’s most
punchable face. Pinky and Perky. Christ, this is a bloody joke. Only it’s not.
Baron speaks towards the digital recorder at the end of the table.
“I ask you again, Mr Ray, would you like to have your legal counsel
present before the interview begins? If you prefer, we can provide legal
representation for you.”
John stares into the space in front
Similar Books
