Birdman

'Oh purr-lease. You were never going to be a doctor.' She started to sit up, grimacing at the pain. 'Face it, Malcolm, you're a fucking civil servant and you'll always be one.'

'Don't,' he whined. 'Don't leave me. Please don't.'

But she let him stand there and shiver, whilst she got painfully to her feet and limped around the room, finding her boots, zipping them up, wriggling into the suede skirt. 'This place is disgusting too.' She found an aerosol in her bag and squirted it into the air. 'It stinks — it absofuckinglutely stinks in here.'

With a sob Malcolm fell against the wall and shrank into a ball in the corner, his head in his hands, his body shuddering. 'Please don't leave me.'

'Come on.' Joni's voice was softer now. He heard her come to stand next to him, and saw her foot close to his. 'Don't be a baby.'

'Don't leave me!' He stroked her suede-covered foot. 'Don't go.'

'I've got to go. Look, chill, yeah? We can be friends.'

'No.'

'Malcolm. Come on. I'm going now, yeah, Malcolm?'

But he was faster this time.

In one movement he grabbed her foot and drove it up high, above his head. Joni scrabbled for a hold, her hands slipping off the smooth walls. She slammed into the floor, arms flailing. Quickly Bliss rolled up onto his knees and rammed his elbow into her stomach. A second blow caught her on the side of the face, drawing a fine spurt of blood from her nose. Her face crumpled into unconsciousness.

Caffery paused outside Susan Lister's house. The curtains were drawn and, stapled to the gate, a typed note enclosed in plastic, the ink smudged where dew had crept in.

Members of the press:

My brother and his wife are going through a very difficult period. Please respect our family's privacy and do not make this time worse for all of us by pestering us with enquiries. We have said all we want to say.

Thank you

T. Lister

He pocketed his car keys, rounded the corner and stood in the doorway of the junk shop, one hand on the door frame, the other on the buzzer.

'Yes?' she called into the intercom. 'Who is it?'

'DI Caffery. Wonder if you've got a few minutes.' He waited a moment. She didn't reply so he leaned back in. 'I said it's Jack Caffery—'

'Yes, I heard. Wait there. I'll be down in a minute.'

It took a long time for her to come to the door. He grew agitated standing on the doorstep and was about to buzz again when he heard footsteps on the stairs and the bolts being pulled back. She was barefoot, wearing a small fluid dress the colour of a tulip.

'Can I come in?'

She didn't answer.

'Rebecca?'

'Yeah,' she sighed. 'Come on, then.' She stepped back into the hall, allowing him in — closed the door, bolted it and held her hand towards the staircase. 'There's some Fitou I've just picked up. I expect you'd like some.'

Inside the flat was cool. The shutters were half closed and a fly lazily circled a fan of brushes upended in a glass jar. 'Sit down — I'll bring it through. Sorry it's such a bloody mess.' She went into the kitchen. Caffery wandered around the studio, looking at the piles of paintings and sketches scattered around the room. The half-finished painting of Joni still on the easel. Hair so blond it was near albino.

'Joni not in?' he called.

'Still at the pub.'

'What time do you think she'll be back?' He could smell Joni's stale deodorant.

'Who have you come to see, Mr Caffery? Me or Joni?'

'You, of course.'

In the kitchen Rebecca laughed derisively. 'Yeah sure.'

'Yeah sure,' he muttered under his breath, wandering back to the hallway. The bathroom stood opposite, next to it the staircase to Joni's room. To his right the door into the kitchen was closed and on the other side of it he could hear Rebecca washing glasses. He went into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

It was warm in here — the colours were the hot tropical tones of a holiday brochure — fuchsia pink towels and aquamarine walls. Black stockings soaked in a bucket in the bath and talcum powder footprints criss-crossed on the bath mat. He switched the tap on full, opened the medicine cabinet and immediately found what he was looking for. Quickly he pulled Rizlas from his pocket, flipped open a paper and folded it around the bristles of a red paddle hairbrush. When he pulled it away four or five silvery hairs came with it. He returned the paper to the little cardboard packet, turned off the tap and went back to the studio.

Rebecca handed him a glass without speaking. She turned away, picked up a stack of paintings from the floor and put them on the table.

'Rebecca?'

'Yes?' She didn't turn to him.

'Did you get my message? Did you hear what I said on the answerphone?'

At first she didn't reply. She pretended to be absorbed with dividing the pile into smaller stacks. Then suddenly she put the paintings down. Her shoulders sagged and she leaned forward on the table. 'Yes,' she muttered, shaking her head. 'Yes, I'm sorry. It's all over the papers too. They're saying — well, they're suggesting that that woman in Malpens Street…' She waved her hand vaguely in the air — trying to make light of it. 'God, they just love sensationalizing—'

'I meant what I said — you need to be careful.'

She paused. Turned slowly to him. Folded her arms, leaned back against the table and looked at him with her head on one side. 'He is dead, isn't he? Toby? There wasn't a mistake.'

'No mistake.'

'Then why exactly?' Her voice was low. 'And who? Who am I supposed to be being careful of?'

'I'd tell you if I knew.' When he saw her expression he sighed. 'Honestly, Rebecca, I'd tell you. There's not one of us knows for sure what is going on.'

'Oh God.' She shivered slightly. 'I'm so tired. I'm so fed up with being scared all the time. Sick of living in a greenhouse because I can't open a window.' She turned back to the table and began sorting the paintings again. 'Galleries keep calling. My work's selling out — flying off the walls — they're asking for more and more and now even Time Out wants an interview. Time Out, for Christ's sakes. And you know why, don't you?' She didn't look at him and he knew she wasn't waiting for an answer. 'Because of the sterling quality of my work? Because I'm the next Sarah Lucas? Because I've added a new word to the lexicon of artistic interpretation?' She shook her head. 'No, duh. None of the above. They're only interested because of him. Ghouls — the fucking lot of them, a bunch of ghouls. And you think I'm going to get principles over it? No way. No way. I'm as bad as the next. Every intention of exploiting it. I suppose I should be thrilled that it's not all over yet.'

As she talked herself through her anxiety, Jack's own tension began to fade. The other doors in London had closed themselves to him for the night — he'd be at the FSS when it opened in the morning, but for now there was nothing left to do. Time to put a full-stop at the end of his day. He sipped the wine and let Rebecca talk.

* * *

Bliss had recovered from the struggle. He spent the evening waiting for Joni to regain consciousness, twice going into the bathroom to relieve himself, ejaculating into a condom. He congratulated himself on his prudence — he wanted to wait for Joni until she was properly prepared.

It was 10 p.m. when he went into the bedroom to get started. He placed his hands under her bottom, and — bending at the knees, to save his back — lifted her onto the bed. She dropped down, limp and dry, and now he saw he'd done something bad to her left eye. Even through all the swelling he could see something was wrong. He placed both hands on either side of her face and bent in very close to look. It had taken on an unnatural bulge, and the iris was pointing downwards. He prodded the eye experimentally. He'd have to look this up in one of his books later. For now he moistened his finger with spit and tenderly cleaned the dried blood from the side of her nose.