Saskia Brandt: Deja Vu Part 10

'Don't worry, Scotty. I'm on my way.'

She tucked the folder into her jacket, reattached her decelerator, and began the caterpillar creep upwards. The hairs on her neck rose. Nothing s.n.a.t.c.hed at her ankles. She looked up. A starfield of water droplets fell past her. She looked down. Three metres from the floor. Leaving.

Chapter Fifteen.

David pulled into a narrow alleyway. He dug for the kickstand and eased his bike to a stable tilt. The glow of the display faded and the engine faltered and stopped. The suspension sighed.

It was nearly 6:00 pm. That day, he had watched the sun climb. He had ridden through rain, seen a double rainbow, and swerved around road-kill. His shoulders and neck ached from the constant hunch. His kidneys, meanwhile, had been bruised by the vibration. Same story with his wrists.

'Oi, gormless.'

David looked up. A middle-aged woman was leaning into the alley from her window. Her bosom rested on her white, folded forearms.

'Aye, you. You can't park that here.'

He opened his visor. 'Firstly, I am not gormless. Secondly, this bike will stay here, undisturbed by you, for the entire night. And if I find so much as a scratch in the morning, we can talk about it down the station.'

The woman moved back into silhouette. 'Wor Barry would -'

David gave her a tired, tired look.

The single-glazed window slammed down. David sagged against the wall and tried to tune out the drumming in his ears. He slid his helmet upwards and ruffled his thinning hair. His neck had lost some movement but he resisted the urge to free the cartilage with a twist.

He emerged from the alley into a dusky street. Across the road was a pub called The Poor Players. Coloured lights pulsed in the windows. The music was a constant thump. Because it was an unlikely destination for a traveller as weary as him, he crossed the road. He reached to push the door when a voice said, 'Yen't a coppeh.'

A boy stood in the shadows. He wore a woollen cap, an Eskimo-style jacket with the hood down, jeans, and bright white trainers. He was bird-like in his movements. His eyes, when they caught the light, were red-ringed.

'Sorry?'

David had no grip on the Northallerton accent. It sounded Geordie, but no doubt the boy would be offended by the comparison.

'I heard what you said to old Taome. You aren't a copper. On holiday, then?'

David shrugged as the words came into focus. His hand still hovered at the door. 'Pa.s.sing through. Yourself?'

'Touting for business.'

Something in his voice spoke directly to David's stomach. He felt nauseous. 'Sorry, what?'

'Wannaf.u.c.kman?' asked the boy. He was relaxed but poised to run. David knew he had asked that question a thousand times and, with repet.i.tion, the meaning had worn out.

David's hand dropped from the door. He reached for the boy and, with a gloved finger, turned his face. 'You're not a boy at all. You're just a little girl.'

Suddenly he wanted Jennifer.

'All right, you've touched the merchandise. Cash or plastic?'

They ate in McCabe's Fish Palace. David let the girl sit facing the window. The palace was empty but for them and McCabe, a Turkish man who whistled over his gla.s.s battlement. The air was heavy with grease, the floor slippery with it. In silence, they unfurled their fish and chips.

'Eat it before it gets cold,' David said.

'I'll eat it when I f.u.c.king want.'

'Who are you?'

'What?'

'Your name.'

'Janine, like the singer.' She took a chip. 'What's your's?'

'David, like the king.'

'Jew, are we?'

'Yep.'

'Hmm.' She ate some more chips, then lifted the fish with two hands and tore a mouthful from the middle. David watched her. She chewed once, twice and swallowed. 'You have a daughter, don't you?'

'Sort of. I sent her away.'

She took another bite. With her mouth full, she waved him on. 'Out with it, then. You're paying me to listen a and paying well a so get your money's worth.'

'My daughter is called Jennifer.'

'Me and her would get on like a house on fire, right?'

'Actually, I'm not sure if she's your type.'

'Why did you send her away?'

'I could give you facts. She was a real genius. The schools in this country couldn't do anything for her. I decided to send her to a school in New York for gifted children. Jennifer was twelve. That was eight years ago. I think she works for the American government now.'

'New York. f.u.c.k, you have money.'

He shrugged and watched, his mind idling, as a customer walked in and asked for battered cod. An old man in faded jeans. 'Yes, you're right. I have money.'

'So what else could you give me?'

'What?'

'You said you could give me the facts. But that's not the whole story. Am I right?'

David ripped a chip from its sticky pile. He pointed it at her. 'You're good. You could do this for a living.'

She nodded seriously. 'Yes. Now what about the rest of the story?'

'I...' he began, and Christ if he wasn't near crying. He felt a tingling in his throat and a juvenile sense of hopelessness. 'Here we go: I am not a good parent. Some people could spend millions on a psychiatrist before they can say something like that.'

'Who says you won't? I'm not cheap.'

David laughed, thrown clear of his self-pity. 'What about your own parents?'

'Ah, the psychiatrist cannot talk about herself. It's a rule.'

'You have rules?'

'Of course. Let's be professional. What happened to her mother? Did she leave you?'

David's smile folded. 'Her mother was killed a few months after she was born. There was an accident where we both worked. She died in my arms.'

'f.u.c.k off.'

'It's true.'

She leaned forward. 'Did she wake up just before she died?'

'No. She died instantly.'

'Murder?'

'It's not that simple.' Inside, he was silent. His mind listened to his mouth. 'She looked asleep. I tried to wake her but she wasn't breathing. I remember...screaming. Later, someone led me from the building. I regret that she died alone.'

'Regrets,' Janine said. Her fish was nearly gone. His was hardly touched. 'Did you work in the World Trade Center?'

'So you remember that. No. It was later.'

'Oh.'

'You want some more fish?'

'No, thanks.'

David took his own fish and plonked it on hers. 'Here.'

'What's wrong with you? I don't want your f.u.c.king leftovers.'

He smiled and watched her eat it. 'Stop f.u.c.king smiling,' she said, spitting fish.

'Guess what?' he said.

She stopped mid-chew. 'Wha'?'

'I'm on the run from the police. They want me for murder.'

'They want me for shoplifting. Small f.u.c.king world.'

David said mildly, 'It is.'

Janine resumed her chewing. 'I don't really do it.'

'Do what?'

'Have s.e.x with people for money.'

Something swept through David. Was it relief that he had been talking to the worst example of society's failure, only to find that she had beaten him at his own game? She had played on his pity and eaten her meal.

And haven't I done the same to her? Got what I wanted? A dry run at reconciliation?

'So what do you do?'

'I lure them in and take them somewhere. Back of The Players. Down to the ca.n.a.l. Or Blackboy Road. Somewhere. Then me mates grab them and we take their cards.' She stopped eating. 'Sorry.'

David sighed and tried to push his chair from the table. It was stuck to the floor. He eased out and put on his gloves.

'Back on the run?' she asked.

'I'm going to get some sleep. In the morning I'll ride on.' He leaned closer. 'Janine, you want your money?'

She burped and nodded. 'Aye. Make it five hundred.' She said it casually, too casually, ready for David to protest. He did not.

'Got a card?'

She had it ready and handed it over. He touched the two. 'Can I ask you something without you getting angry or saying "f.u.c.k"?'

'Maybe.'

He placed a gloved hand on her head. 'Will you take care of yourself?'

'That all depends.'

He walked out and felt Janine's stare all the way.

Chapter Sixteen.