‘Yeah? You didn’t ask me about that,’ said Kit.
‘You weren’t in a fit state to ask.’
‘So you went ahead and did it.’
Rob shrugged again. You need me more right now than Ruby does, he thought, but didn’t say it. Kit was notorious for being Mr Self-sufficiency. The slightest hint that he was showing weakness and he’d kick off like a madman.
Kit let out a heavy sigh and sat down on the bed. He felt weak.
Too much drink.
His head ached and he was tired and he wanted…
You want the bottle, right? You want to forget all this reality shit and hide away with your old pal Jack Daniels.
He shook his head, tried to concentrate.
‘Did Michael ever keep… I dunno… maybe a diary? Anything like that?’ he asked.
Rob looked at him. ‘You kidding? Write stuff down for one of the straight filth to pick up on?’
Kit was aware that he’d said something stupid, made himself look a cunt. He took a sharp breath. Come on.
‘What about his personal effects? His wallet, cufflinks, comb, that sort of shit?’
‘Ruby cleared out this flat, so I guess she’s got them.’
‘She still got her key then?’
‘Must have.’
Kit surveyed the room. This was too much, he couldn’t do this. He closed his eyes, rubbed a weary hand over them and wished for a drink. At any moment he expected Michael to walk in the door, but that wasn’t going to happen. He had started to feel, that was where it had all gone wrong. In the kids’ homes, he had grown a hard shell of indifference over his heart. It was the only way; when you care for nothing and no one, not a damned thing in the world can hurt you.
But then he’d fallen for Gilda, and he’d grown close to Michael. Between the two of them they’d smashed Kit’s shell wide open, laid bare his innermost soul, opened it wide to anguish, to loss, to grief. He was tormented by memories of Gilda’s laugh, the feel of her skin against his. And Michael’s sudden warm grin, the pressure of his hand on Kit’s shoulder.
‘You done good, son,’ he would say, and Kit would feel like he’d won gold in the Olympics, the feeling was that bloody good.
He was never going to have that feeling again. It killed him to think it, but there was no getting away from the truth.
‘What about the filth?’ he asked Rob. ‘We got quite a few in there on the take, right? What are they saying about what happened to Michael?’
‘I’ve spoken to them. Word is it’s been sidelined.’
Now Kit was paying attention. ‘Sidelined?’
‘Shunted into a dark place at the back of a filing cabinet,’ said Rob. ‘You think the Old Bill give a shit about Michael’s death? Think again.’
‘But there must be something,’ said Kit. ‘Crime scene forensics. Something.’
‘There is, for sure.’
‘Then I want it.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Don’t see. Fucking well do it, OK?’
Rob’s face stiffened. ‘Fine. It’s done. Look-’
‘What?’ Kit snapped, coming irritably to his feet. To his shame, he staggered slightly. And then felt a twat, because he knew Rob could see his unsteadiness and was about to mention it.
‘Mate, you’re not up to any of this. Not right now.’
Consumed with fury, Kit hurled himself across the room and grabbed the front of Rob’s shirt and rammed him against the door.
‘You what?’ he shouted in Rob’s face.
‘Mate-’ said Rob.
‘I ain’t your mate. I’m your boss. You wouldn’t speak to Michael Ward like that, you don’t speak to me like that either.’
‘Truth hurts, yeah?’ asked Rob, panting a little because Kit was pressing on his windpipe. But he didn’t raise a hand to defend himself. Not even when Kit’s face twisted with rage and he raised a fist.
‘Go on then,’ gasped Rob. ‘If it makes you feel any better, do it. But you know I’m right. You’re a fucking mess.’
Kit stood there frozen for long moments. Then he let Rob go, literally flung him to one side. They were both gasping, like fighters after a bout. Kit felt sick that he had nearly punched his best mate’s lights out. He knew Rob wouldn’t have fought back. Rob was better than that. He was so loyal that he would have let Kit kick all kinds of crap out of him without raising a finger to defend himself.
And what does that make me? wondered Kit. Right now he couldn’t even look Rob in the eye.
When Rob spoke, his voice was low: ‘Listen. Take a couple of days away, yeah? Sort yourself out. I’ll see what I can do here, look into it, and then you can come back and we’ll figure this out properly. But first, take some time. You need it. You know you do. You’re no fucking good like this. You’re embarrassing yourself.’
Rob was right. Kit hated it, but he knew Rob was right.
‘You’d better go,’ he said.
‘Yeah. But think about what I’ve said, OK?’
And then Rob was gone, closing the door softly behind him.
Shit, I was going to deck him. I really was. Rob, of all people.
In the stillness of the flat, Kit looked around him. Michael wasn’t here any more.
If I was, I’d knock your stupid block off came into Kit’s brain, and he was able to raise a painful smile.
Yeah, that was the truth. Michael would hate to see him like this. His eyes went over to the drinks trolley, still loaded with whisky, wine, gin – everything you needed to get thoroughly, hopelessly smashed. Ruby’d missed a trick there.
He turned away from it, sickened with himself. Quietly, he left the flat, locked it behind him, and went downstairs. Rob was right. He needed a break. Then maybe he’d start to think more clearly.
27
Kit went back to his house, threw a few things into an overnight bag. Then he came downstairs and thought again about a drink.
You tosser, don’t you dare, came Michael’s voice, loud and clear in Kit’s head, so clearly that Kit actually looked around, certain he’d see Michael standing there. But he wasn’t. Of course not.
Kit put his bag down and went over to the drinks on the sideboard. He gathered up the bottles and strode into the hall cloakroom with them clutched to his chest. Put them in the sink. Looked at them. Thought of how close he’d come to punching Rob in the head.
How long before he turned that stupid drunken anger of his on Daisy, or Ruby? If he did that, he’d never be able to live with himself. He didn’t beat on women: never had, never would. But his temper when he was in the drink was so unstable, it was like sweating gelignite.
Carefully, deliberately, he unscrewed the cap of each bottle and let the contents run away down the drain. The smell of the alcohol came to him, warm as a caress, rising to swirl around him.
No. You’re done with that, right?
With all the bottles emptied, he picked up his overnight bag, switched off the lights and went out, locking the door behind him. He made his way down the front steps, to where the Bentley was parked. In the yellowish gloom of the street lights, he could see something had happened to the car. Cautiously he moved closer.
All down the driver’s side, someone had taken a key or a knife and gouged a long line in the paintwork. He looked down. The tyres had been slashed. He walked around the car. The other side was the same – the paintwork savaged, the tyres in ribbons.
Kit’s heart was thudding hard in his chest, he could feel the steady beat of a headache restarting over his right eye.
Just a little taster, right, Vittore? he thought.