Rebus nodded. ‘That most of all.’
‘There are other ways, John.’
‘Is this where you try to sell me the Juice Church?’
‘You’re a big boy, make up your own mind.’ Jack got to his feet, pulled Rebus to his.
‘I bet we look like a couple of dossers.’
‘Well, you do. I don’t know about me.’
‘Elegant, Jack, you look cool and elegant.’
Jack touched a hand to Rebus’s shoulder. ‘OK now?’
Rebus nodded. ‘It’s daft, but I feel better than for ages. Come on, let’s go for a walk.’
They turned and headed back towards the Infirmary. Jack didn’t ask where they were going. But Rebus had a destination in mind: the university library in George Square. It was just closing as they walked in, the departing students, folders huddled to chests, giving them plenty of room as they walked up to the main desk.
‘Can I help you?’ a man asked, looking them up and down. But Rebus was walking around the desk to where a young woman was bowed over a pile of books.
‘Hello, Nell.’
She looked up, couldn’t place him at first. Then the blood left her face.
‘What’s happened?’
Rebus held up a hand. ‘Brian’s fine. Jack here and me... well, we...’
‘Tripped and fell,’ Jack said.
‘You shouldn’t drink in pubs with stairs.’ Now she knew Brian was all right, she was regaining her composure fast, and with it her wariness. ‘What do you want?’
‘A word,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe outside?’
‘I’ll be finished here in five minutes.’
Rebus nodded. ‘We’ll wait.’
They went outside. Rebus went to light a cigarette but found the packet crushed, its contents useless.
‘Christ, just when I could do with one.’
‘Now you know how it feels to give up.’
They sat on the steps and stared at George Square Gardens and the buildings surrounding it, a mishmash of old and new.
‘You can almost feel all that brain power in the air,’ Jack commented.
‘Half the force has been to university these days.’
‘And I bet they don’t go swinging punches at their friends.’
‘I’ve said I’m sorry.’
‘Did Sammy ever go to uni?’
‘College. I think she did something secretarial. She works for a charity now.’
‘Which one?’
‘SWEEP.’
‘Working with ex-cons?’
‘That’s it’
‘Did she do it to have a dig at you?’
Rebus had asked himself the same question many times. He shrugged.
‘Fathers and daughters, eh?’
The door swung open behind them. It was Nell Stapleton. She was tall, with short dark hair and a defiant face. No earrings or jewellery.
‘You can walk me to the bus stop,’ she told them.
‘Look, Nell,’ Rebus started, realising that he should have thought this through, should have rehearsed, ‘all I want to say is, I’m sorry about you and Brian.’
‘Thanks.’ She was walking quickly. Rebus’s knee hurt as he kept up.
‘I know I’m unlikely material as marriage guidance, but there’s something you have to know: Brian’s a born copper. He doesn’t want to lose you — it’s killing him — but leaving the force would be a slow death in itself. He can’t make himself leave, so instead he’s trying to get into trouble, so the high hiedyins will have no alternative but to boot him out. That’s no way to sort a problem.’
Nell didn’t say anything for a while. They headed for Potterrow, crossed the road at the lights. They were headed for Greyfriars, plenty of bus stops there.
‘I know what you’re saying,’ she said at last. ‘You’re saying it’s a no-win situation.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Please, just listen to me.’ Her eyes were glistening in the sodium light. ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for the phone call, the one that tells me there’s bad news. I don’t want to plan weekends off and holidays away only to have them cancelled because some case or court appearance takes precedence. That’s asking too much.’
‘It’s asking a hell of a lot,’ Rebus conceded. ‘It’s a high-wire act without the safety net. But all the same...’
‘What?’
‘You can make it work. A lot of people do. Maybe you can’t plan things too far in advance, maybe there’ll be cancellations and tears. When the chances come, you take them.’
‘Have I wandered into a Dr Ruth show by mistake?’ Rebus sighed, and she stopped walking, took his hand. ‘Look, John, I know why you’re doing this. Brian’s hurting, and you don’t like to see it. I don’t like it either.’ A distant siren wailed, down towards the High Street, and Nell shivered. Rebus saw it, looked into her eyes, and found himself nodding. He knew she was right; his own wife had said the same things. And the way Jack was standing, the look on his face, he’d been here before, too. Nell started walking again.
‘He’ll leave the force, Nell. He’ll make them dump him. But for the rest of his life...’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be the same. He won’t be the same.’
She nodded. ‘I can live with that.’
‘You don’t know for sure.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You’ll take that risk, but you won’t risk him staying put?’ Her face hardened, but Rebus didn’t give her time for a comeback. ‘Here’s your bus. Just think about it, Nell.’
He turned and walked back towards the Meadows.
They’d made up a bed for Jack in the spare room — Sammy’s old bedroom, complete with Duran Duran and Michael Jackson posters. They’d washed themselves and shared a pot of tea — no alcohol, no ciggies. Rebus lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, knew sleep wouldn’t come for ages, and that when it did his dreams would be fierce. He got up and tiptoed through to the living room, keeping the lights off. The room was cool, they’d kept the windows open late, but the fresh paint and the old scorched paint from the door left a nice smell. Rebus uncovered his chair and dragged it over to the bay window. He sat down and pulled his blanket over him, felt himself relax. There were lights on across the way and he concentrated on them. I’m a peeper, he thought, a voyeur. All cops are. But he knew he was more than that: he liked to get involved in the lives around him. He had a need to know which went beyond voyeurism. It was a drug. And the thing was, when he had all this knowledge, he then had to use booze to blank it out. He saw his reflection in the window, two-dimensional, ghostly.
I’m almost not here at all, he thought.
24
Rebus woke up and knew something was wrong. He showered and dressed and still couldn’t put a name to it. Then Jack came slouching through to the kitchen and asked if he’d slept well.
And he had. That was what was different. He’d slept very well indeed, and he’d been sober.
‘Any word from Ancram?’ Jack asked, staring into the fridge.
‘No.’
‘Then you’re probably clear for today.’
‘He must be in training for the next bout.’
‘So do we crack on with the decorating, or actually go to work?’
‘Let’s do an hour’s painting,’ Rebus said. So that’s what they did, Rebus keeping half an eye on the street outside. No reporters, no Justice Programme. Maybe he’d scared them off; maybe they were biding their time. He hadn’t heard anything about an assault charge: Breen was probably too happy with the video footage to consider any further action. Plenty of time to file a complaint after the programme went out...
After the painting, they took Jack’s car to Fort Apache. Jack’s initial response did not disappoint Rebus.