He walked back through the sliding window just as Reid put the phone down.
‘How do you feel?’ Reid asked him.
‘Fine.’ Nathan sat down on the bed. ‘I ran into a friend of yours the other night.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘Maxie Carlo.’
‘Old Maxie. How is he?’
‘He said your name’s Neville.’
‘That’s my professional name.’
‘Professional name?’
‘I told you I was a hand model, didn’t I?’ Reid looked at Nathan, then he lit a cigarette. His face so smooth and still, the flame seemed nervous.
Nathan remembered a grey day on South Beach. This was a few months back, before Dad died. A storm was on the way and the red flags were up. Nobody was swimming.
Towards lunchtime a woman strode on to the beach with a towel and goggles. He hadn’t seen her before, but he knew the type. He knew she probably wouldn’t listen to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but you can’t swim today.’
She continued buckling the strap of her bathing cap under her chin. ‘Oh? Why not?’
‘The flags are up.’
She smiled at him. ‘It’s all right, I’m a swimming instructor.’
In a strange way she reminded him of Yvonne so he was patient with her. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘it’s my lunchbreak. If anything happens to you while I’m away it’ll be my responsibility.’
‘You go and have your lunch,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Sometimes you have an instinct for what’ll happen next. He knew this woman was going to get into trouble. He knew that if he left the beach she might even drown. He also knew that she had to find out for herself.
He waited at the top of the beach, under the awning of the kiosk that sold candy bars and soda. He watched her run towards the water. He saw the short arc her body made as she met the first wave.
It took a while. But then he saw one arm reach up, pale against the charcoal waves, pale against the sky, like a child asking a question in class.
When he brought her out of the water, she wouldn’t look at him. ‘I was wrong,’ she said. And then she said, ‘Thank you.’
He gave her a smile. ‘It’s my job.’
Almost every day after that she’d arrive with offerings at lunchtime, sandwiches or fruit or cold drinks, but that wasn’t the point of the story. The point was, he’d seen through something, and he’d been ready. He had the same feeling now. The feeling that he couldn’t go to lunch. Except there were too many people on the beach and he didn’t know which way to look.
‘What’s wrong?’ Reid said. ‘Don’t you remember?’
Nathan lay back on the bed. ‘I remember.’
He drifted off to sleep. He woke suddenly and his mind had jumped tracks. Georgia. It was a whole day later and he still hadn’t got through to her. He glanced at his watch. 5.45 a.m.
He reached out, picked up the phone. He dialled her apartment first. No reply. He dialled the house. He let it ring and ring. He was about to hang up when somebody answered.
‘Who’s that?’ he said.
‘It’s Georgia.’
‘You sound strange, George. Did I wake you up?’
‘Nathan?’
‘George, what’s wrong?’
‘I took some pills.’ Her words were slurred. It was hard to understand her.
‘What pills?’
‘Dad’s pills,’ she said. ‘You know. He’s got lots. I took some green ones, then I took some red ones, then I think I had a blue one —’
‘Where are you, George?’
‘I’m in Dad’s bedroom. On the bed. There’s bottles everywhere. Tiny little bottles —’
‘How many did you take?’
‘Don’t know. Didn’t count.’
‘George, listen. Don’t go to sleep, all right?’
‘Yeah. OK.’
‘I mean it. Don’t go to sleep.’
‘OK.’
He stood still for a few seconds, then he put the phone down and turned the light on. Reid’s eyes opened wide, as if he’d only been pretending to be asleep.
‘What are you doing?’
Nathan was already dressing. ‘I’ve got to leave.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘It’s my sister. She’s taken some pills.’
In five minutes they were walking out of the motel, the rising sun driving a thin wedge of orange light into the bank of dark cloud on the horizon.
Mackerel Street
That awful smell, it was his eyebrows. He touched one. It crumbled on the tips of his fingers like a kind of wiry dust. He could smell his own eyebrows, for Christ’s sake.
He couldn’t think about it, what was in that car. The sheet, his back-up copy of the tape. The numberplate. He just couldn’t think about it. His top hat was on the thirteenth floor. His wallet too. But he wasn’t going back, not now. Not with those flames crackling in his ears like rain, not to that mass grave. Even now, maybe, he was being watched. That kid with the puffy eyes and the crewcut, he was everywhere you looked. Maybe he even worked for Creed. Creed had kids all over the city. A line of speed, a limo ride, a smile, and they were his. Sometimes he used them for sex, sometimes for information. Sometimes for both. Jed looked round. The kid was still standing on the balcony, his face turned in Jed’s direction. A pale blotch, no features. The kid was still watching. Where’s your hat, mister?
He walked to the bus station in Mangrove East. He bought half a pound of Peanut Brittle on the way. It was how he felt. The wind moved past his ears and he thought of nothing. Rage filled him full, his skin felt tight with it. Instead of standing in line, he eased back against the wall, next to a fruit machine. Nobody came near him. Half a pound of Peanut Brittle and a head tight with rage. People know a force-field when they see one. He felt in all his pockets, pooled what money he had in the palm of one hand. Four dollar bills and some loose change. It would do. He waited till the Rialto bus pulled in, then he pushed through the crowd and climbed on board.
In ten minutes he was walking into TATTOO CITY. The walls were papered with the usual designs: anchors, roses, skulls. Nobody had numbers like he had. He could hear the buzzing of Mitch’s needle-gun. He stamped down to the workshop at the back. Mitch was working on a boy’s left shoulder. Jed waited for silence, then he bit off a piece of Brittle. Crisp as a bone snapping. It almost took his front teeth out. Then he said, ‘You set me up, Mitch.’
Mitch looked round. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘You fucking set me up. Admit it.’
The boy peered at Jed, mouth hanging open. Jed wanted to fill it with something. Liquid concrete. Manure. Glue.
Mitch spoke to the boy. ‘Give me ten minutes.’
The boy nodded.
Mitch put his needle-gun down and crossed the room. He stood in front of the door to his house, hands dangling against his thighs. ‘You want to talk or don’t you?’
Jed led the way into the house. One dark corridor, all the rooms on the left. He passed the kitchen. Mitch’s old lady was sitting at the table, hands clasped together as if in prayer. Wisps of black hair veiled her eyes. Jed paused, but Mitch pushed him between the shoulderblades.
‘In the study.’
The study was in the back. One small window looked on to the verandah where they’d drunk beer the week before. One wall was lined with shelves. Books, model boats, clocks.
Mitch took a pipe out of the rack on the mantelpiece and began to pack it with tobacco. Jed counted the clocks, trying to keep his anger down. There were eleven. Mitch sank into a leather armchair. Jed counted the clocks again, just to make sure he hadn’t missed any. He hadn’t.