He closed the door, thinking. Maybe a joint might make him feel better. Kill or cure?
He stood up on a chair and reached for the tin marked BREAD, where Angi kept her stash. He lifted it down, put it on the table, removed the packet of cigarette papers, the plastic bag full of weed and a strip of cardboard, and rolled himself a fat joint.
Knowing she would not be happy, he replaced the stash in the tin and put it back on the shelf, then went out into the tiny back garden to smoke it.
Yes!
Wow, oh wow! That was powerful stuff. Wowwweeee!
When Angi arrived home, just after 6.30 p.m., he was standing in front of the television in the sitting room, with his fists balled, dancing to the sound of the Eagles, ‘Peaceful Easy Feeling’ blasting from the speakers.
‘You’re feeling better!’ she greeted him, joyfully.
‘Magic!’ he said, still dancing. ‘Magic that Coke!’ He took her in his arms and nuzzled her neck. ‘You know what, you’re a genius! Magician! Will you marry me?’
‘You already asked me that, and I said yes. Did you forget?’
‘Just checking!’ he said.
‘Checking?’
‘In case you’d gone off me during the night.’
‘In sickness and in health,’ she said. ‘The marriage vows. OK? I’ll be sick one day, too. Will that turn you off me?’
‘Never!’
‘What time are you off to work?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘At 7.30. Just under an hour.’
‘Have you eaten anything?’
‘No, but I’m ravenous.’
‘I’ve defrosted a moussaka. OK?’
‘I’m so hungry I could eat the carton!’
‘I’ll save that in case you want to roll another joint,’ she said, tartly.
Then he realized. Despite his elaborate precautions of replacing everything in the bread tin, and smoking it outside, he’d stubbed it out in the ashtray on the kitchen table.
42
Sunday 1 March
The woman who answered the Streamline Taxi company phone could not have been more helpful after Tooth explained his predicament, in the very posh English accent he had practised for an hour before he made the call.
‘Oh, hello, this is Andrew Mosley, General Manager of The Grand. We have a slightly delicate situation. Last Tuesday night we had a couple dining here who were — how should I say it — playing away. You sent two cabs, booked in the name of Carmichael, just after 11 p.m. One collected a gentleman, the other a lady. I’m afraid the lady’s in a bit of a state. She’s just rung to say that during the course of the dinner she lost the very expensive engagement ring her husband had given her. She thinks she took it off in the ladies’ toilet when she washed her hands. He’s due back tomorrow from a business trip and she’s terrified he’ll go berserk if she’s not wearing it. Luckily one of our cleaners found it on the floor, but of course we’ve had no idea, until she just rang, who it belonged to. She’s desperate to have it returned, but in her panic she forgot to give us her address or phone number! Could you possibly trace the booking and find out her address for me, and I’ll get someone to run it over to her this afternoon?’
43
Sunday 1 March
Shelby clipped on his seat belt then reversed his Fiat Panda out of the driveway and onto the street. Normally Angi would stand in the doorway to wave him off, but tonight, angry at him, she’d even turned her head sideways when he’d kissed her goodbye.
He struggled with the gear lever, crunching the gears loudly as he tried to engage first. Then the car bunny-hopped forward and stalled. He pressed the clutch in and twisted the key. The engine turned over and fired. As he started forward, the car bunny-hopping again, he heard the almost deafening blast of a horn as a van shot past him, nearly taking out a car coming in the opposite direction.
Shit. He checked his mirrors. Nothing behind him now. He accelerated and again the car jerked forward. Handbrake, he realized, and released it. Then he drove on, winding down past a pub called The Long Man of Wilmington, his vision blurry. He leaned forward in the darkness, peering through the windscreen, and switched on the wipers. But the screen was clear. Headlights came towards him. Two of them suddenly became four. He swerved slightly to the left and the car juddered over the kerb and on to the pavement.
Shit, shit, shit. He steered back onto the road, missing a tree by inches. He was clammy with perspiration. Ahead was a mini-roundabout, and suddenly he could not remember where he was supposed to be going.
Roedean. Kemptown. He halted at the roundabout. There was nothing coming to his right. But he stayed there, eyes trying to focus. Checking then double-checking the road was clear. Then he heard an impatient toot behind him.
He wound down his window, pushed his arm out and gave the car behind two fingers. ‘Fuck you!’ he said.
Suddenly a shadow loomed towards him. A man, towering over him. Shelby smashed the gear lever into first and jerked forward, turning left into London Road, accelerating hard. He saw red tail lights ahead. Bright headlights coming towards him, one set after another. Each so bright they felt like they were burning his retinas, as he if was staring at the sun through binoculars. ‘Dim your lights!’ he shouted. ‘Dim your lights, bastards! Dim your lights!’
Then red lights in front were growing brighter. Brighter. Brighter still. Shittttt! He stamped as hard as he could on the brake pedal. The little Fiat slewed forward, its tyres squealing, and came to a halt just inches from the tail-gate of the lorry right in front of him.
He sat still, his whole body palpitating, his head swimming. After a minute or so the lorry moved forward again, over the green traffic light and on past Preston Park. He ought to turn round, he knew, he wasn’t up to this — turn round, go back to Angi, go back to bed. But he drove on, fighting it, trying desperately to concentrate, to focus. ‘Focus!’ he shouted at himself.
His voice sounded strange. Sort of echoing around inside his skull.
He stared at the tail lights of the lorry, imagining it was towing him, that there was a long rope between them he needed to keep taut. No slack. He was safe all the time he stayed behind this vehicle. Just follow it. Follow it. He braked when it braked, accelerated when it accelerated. They crossed over more green traffic lights. Stopped at a red. Moved on. Keeping that rope taut.
But the lorry indicated right.
‘Gooshbye,’ Shelby slurred. He was going the other way. Left. East.
Then he frowned.
He was at a roundabout. Right in front of him were the dazzling lights of Brighton Pier. Shit. He’d come too far, totally missed the earlier turn-off he’d intended taking into Edward Street.
Bugger. Shit. But no matter. He could go along Marine Parade instead.
He continued to stare at the lights of the pier — and of the Brighton Wheel to the left. So many lights. Like a thousand torches all beaming straight into his eyes.
He heard the toot of a horn behind him. He put the car into gear and stalled it. He pushed in the clutch and the engine turned over without firing. There was another toot behind him, louder and longer. He twisted the key in the ignition and the engine again turned over without firing.
No, don’t do this to me. Do not fucking do this to me.
Headlights flashed behind him now, flooding the interior of the car with a light so bright it was blinding him. Another blare of the horn. He tried again and the engine stuttered into life, backfired, then caught.