Dead Flowers Page 14

  ‘Who the fuck are you people?’ said Sharon.

  ‘I work for your husband,’ I said. ‘I’m a private detective. The girls are friends of mine. They took us in.’

  ‘A private detective?’ Sharon stared in disbelief. ‘Working for my husband?’

  I nodded. ‘He hired me to find you.’

  ‘Ray did? My husband? That’s crap. Ray’s an unemployed builder from Romford. He doesn’t have a pot to piss in.’

  ‘Things change, Sharon,’ I said. ‘He’s got money.’

  ‘What did he do? Win the lottery?’

  She saw the look on my face.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘How much?’

  ‘A lot,’ I said.

  ‘Christ.’ Then something occurred to her. ‘Where’s Chris? Did you shoot him? I remember a gun.’

  ‘I didn’t shoot him,’ I replied. ‘I shot a hole in a restaurant ceiling.’

  ‘That’s right, I remember.’ Suddenly her face spasmed. ‘God. I feel ill. I need the toilet.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Maddie. ‘I’ll help you.’

  She assisted Sharon out of bed where she immediately doubled up in pain and let out a gasp. ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers,’ she said. ‘I need some gear.’

  48

  ‘Come into the kitchen,’ said Matty, when they had gone. ‘I’ll make some more tea. It’ll make her feel better if she can keep it down.’

  Whilst we were waiting for the kettle to boil, Matty said, ‘Have you ever thought about the human condition, Nick?’

  ‘All the time,’ I replied.

  ‘It’s sad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Most time.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Just look at that poor woman out there, for an example.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘She’s been taken for a ride, but it’s not too late, is it?’

  ‘No. As long as she wants to stay clean.’

  ‘As far as I know she doesn’t even want to get clean. I kidnapped her out of a restaurant. It was all I could think of doing. I don’t know anything about her.’

  ‘You know some things.’

  ‘I know she ran out on her husband and child, went off with a scumbag with a few quid who turned her out as a whore and got her hooked on smack, not necessarily in that order. She’s not exactly the Virgin Mary.’

  ‘But her husband wants her back.’

  ‘A fool in love.’

  ‘Better that than not to love.’

  ‘A romantic thought, but not to love is not to be hurt.’

  ‘You’re very cynical, Nick.’

  ‘What I’ve seen of life so far has made me thus.’

  She smiled. ‘You know what they say about cynics, don’t you?’

  What’s that?’

  ‘Bruised romantics.’

  She started to make the tea as the kettle whistled.

  ‘I know one thing about her, Nick.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She’s your responsibility now.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘But you’re not someone who takes to responsibility, are you?’

  ‘Not in a big way.’

  ‘I thought not. But from knowing you I imagine you’ve had a lot of experience with women.’

  ‘Too much.’

  ‘But you’re alone now.’

  I didn’t need reminding. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘How many women do you think? Altogether?’

  I thought about it. Jesus. Too many. Some I couldn’t even give names to, and I don’t just mean one-night stands, although there’d been too many of those. I mean women I had relationships with, if you could call them that. ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘I thought so,’ she said as she poured tea into a china mug. ‘Well now, although we’re willing to do what we can, you’ve got to look after Sharon. It won’t be easy. It won’t be pleasant. But it’s your job. You took on responsibility for her when you took her out of that restaurant. So why don’t you make a start and take this tea into her. She doesn’t even know who you are. Go on, Nick. Do something useful for a change.’

  She handed me the cup and left me standing in the kitchen on my own. She was right, of course. It was time I did something useful. Maybe it would make up for some of my mistakes in the past. Or even the present … I thought about Judith up there in Scotland living with a family I’d only ever met a few times. And I thought of my first wife, now buried in a plot in north London next to her husband and child, and my second wife Dawn, dead too, with our unborn daughter in Greenwich Cemetery, and my eyes misted over. Shit, I thought. Come on, you old bruised romantic. Earn your money. And I took the cooling cup of tea and went to find Sharon.

  49

  She was back in bed when I walked into the room, which no longer smelt of bodily functions but rather of spring flowers out of a can. Maddie, who was sitting beside her, smiled, got up and went out without a word. Those sisters sure knew how to put someone on the spot. ‘Hi,’ I said to Sharon. ‘My name’s Nick. I think we should talk. Do you feel up to it?’

  ‘Where am I?’ she asked through teeth gritted in pain. ‘Am I dreaming? I want to go home.’

  ‘No,’ I replied, and put the tea on the table next to the can of air-freshener. ‘You’re not going anywhere. Not right now. Just drink this. It’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A sort of herbal tea. It’ll do you good.’

  ‘Only one thing can do me good,’ she replied. ‘I need a hit.’

  ‘No, Sharon,’ I said. ‘No more hits.’

  ‘Who are you to tell me what I can have?’

  ‘A concerned individual.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘If you say so, Sharon. But all the cursing and swearing in the world won’t change what’s happening.’

  ‘And what is happening?’

  ‘I’m going to get you sorted. Off the gear and back in the real world.’

  ‘You can’t keep me here. This is kidnapping.’

  ‘Call the cops.’

  ‘I would if I could get to a phone.’

  ‘That’s precisely why you won’t. Get to a phone that is.’

  ‘I could scream.’

  ‘The walls are thick, there’s no one else in the building, and the building is behind high walls. Only we would hear, and after a bit you’d get tired of hurting your throat.’

  ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you?’

  ‘No. Anything but. If I was clever I’d never have got involved in all this.’

  ‘Where’s Chris?’

  I looked at my watch. I’d only been asleep for a little while although it seemed longer. ‘Possibly just finishing an interesting chat with some coppers from Tower Bridge nick. I think the maître d’ at that restaurant called nine-nine-nine.’

  She changed the subject. ‘Is it true about Ray?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Winning the lottery.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re really a private detective?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I thought that was only on TV.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he’s hired you to find me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said again.

  ‘Well, you’ve found me. I want to see him.’

  ‘Not until you get well. There’s another party involved. A three-year-old boy. I’m not having him see you in this state.’

  ‘Liam,’ she said.

  This time I nodded.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘We’ve met. He asked me to find you. Made me promise.’

  ‘I’ve been bad to him.’ Junkie’s remorse.

  ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘But I’ll be better.’

  ‘In more ways than one, Sharon. Now drink your tea.’

  I picked up the cup and offered it to her but she knocked it out of my hand, sending hot liquid up the wall. I picked up the pieces and said, ‘I’ll g
et you some more, and if I have to pour it down your throat using a funnel, you’ll drink it. Get me?’

  ‘You could always try,’ she said. Then her face spasmed and she broke into a sweat that I could almost smell. ‘Oh God,’ she wailed. ‘I need the toilet again. Help me,’ and once more the room filled with the stink of faeces.

  50

  I got her to the lavatory, which I’d already checked for sharp objects or anything else she could use as weapons, and waited outside until she came out all white-faced and shaking. ‘You fucker,’ she said. ‘You can’t do this to me.’

  ‘Don’t take bets on it, Sharon,’ I replied calmly. ‘You’d lose.’

  She took a swing at me then, but it was pretty ineffectual and I just stepped away as she spun round and hit the wall with her back and slid down, the nightie she was now wearing rucking up, so I could see her nakedness underneath. I didn’t want to look, so I averted my eyes. ‘Get up,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you back to bed.’

  ‘I’m not moving.’

  ‘Shit, you’re not,’ and I caught her arm, hauled her to her feet and pushed her into the bedroom.

  ‘Don’t you touch me, you bastard,’ she wailed. ‘I don’t want you touching me.’

  ‘We agree on one thing anyway,’ I said, and I shoved her on to the bed and threw the duvet over her.

  She lay down and looked at me with hatred in her eyes. ‘I’ll get you,’ she hissed, ‘if it’s the last thing I ever do.’

  ‘Take your best shot. But meanwhile I’m staying here and looking after you, whether you like it or not.’

  And I did just that.

  And it wasn’t easy. I’ve never thought of myself as being full of the milk of human kindness and, believe me, Sharon tested my levels to the maximum. She was a mess. God knows how much gear Grant had been pumping through her system, but it was a lot. She’d been jacking it under her armpits to keep the merchandise elsewhere looking fresh. She told me that on the first day. Showed me the tracks. At least she’d used clean needles. Apparently Grant insisted on that when she’d moved from snorting and smoking the smack to shooting up.

  She was pitifully proud of that. Well, she was when her moods swung in that direction. At other times she was tearfully remorseful or as vicious as a feral cat. And her nails were almost as sharp as a feral cat’s claws; I was lucky to get past the first twenty-four hours without her drawing blood. It would have been just dandy if I’d had to go for an HIV test. That was what she wanted, she told me, so I tied her hands and put plasters on all her fingernails.

  And let me tell you, she wasn’t keen on that one little bit.

  ‘Take them off and I’ll knock you out, file your nails down to nubs and keep you tied up all the time.’ I said, when I’d finished.

  ‘Tough guy.’

  ‘You’ll find out just how tough, if you cut me,’ I said.

  ‘I’m scared stiff.’

  ‘Sharon. You’d better learn to get along with me. You’re here for the duration. That’s a fact. I don’t care what you do, but I’m going to see you clean or die in the attempt.’

  ‘I hope you do die.’

  ‘And I love you too.’

  I fed her broth that she spat back in my face. I gave her ice cream that she threw against the wall, laughing as I cleaned up the mess. I wanted to give her a good spanking after she poured Lucozade on to the bedclothes, and while I was turning the mattress and changing the linen she stood and brazenly pissed on the floor, so that I had to clean that up too.

  ‘Right,’ I said, when I’d finished. ‘You make any more mess and you’ll lie in it. Shit, piss, vomit, food, I don’t give a fuck. I’ll tie you to the fucking mattress and force feed you, then lead you to the fucking toilet and if you make a mess there I’ll hose you down with a cold shower and leave you to dry in your night clothes. You’ll be cold and miserable and begging me to help and I’ll laugh in your sodding face. Get me?’

  She looked away and I dragged her face back by her jaw. ‘Get me?’ I repeated.

  She spat at me again and I lost it and clouted her round the face. She spat out some bloody saliva and laughed. ‘I knew you were like all the rest,’ she said. ‘You fucker.’

  51

  I felt ashamed. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. For hitting you. I meant the rest.’

  ‘You wanker,’ she said.

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I told you. I was hired to find you. I found you. I was asked to bring you back safe. I promised I would. Right now you’re not safe. Not safe for anyone. Not yourself, not your family. So I’ll make you safe. Simple.’

  ‘Chris will kill you.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. A lot have tried. Some have come close, but so far no one’s quite completed the deed. Sometimes I wish they had. But I have a strong survival instinct. He won’t find us here, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Where is here?’

  ‘Just a place.’

  ‘Listen. I need to go to the toilet again.’

  ‘You will a lot. Now, are you going to be good?’

  She nodded.

  ‘No tricks.’

  ‘All right. No fucking tricks. Just get me there, will you?’

  I helped her out of bed and along to the lavatory again. I was going to get to know that journey very well over the next few days. I stood outside until she was finished.

  She was weaker when she came out, and this time accepted my offer of soup and managed half the bowl before pushing it away. She looked a real mess, her hair stringy and dull, her face covered in sweat and her skin goose-bumped and looking like a plucked chicken. Or a turkey. Hence the name: cold turkey.

  ‘Fancy me, do you?’ she asked when she saw me looking at her.

  I shook my head. ‘No offence,’ I said.

  ‘I bet you do,’ she said, and she pushed back the duvet and pulled up her nightie to expose her blonde pubic hair. ‘Natural,’ she said. ‘Wanna fuck? Get me some gear and you can do what you like. Anything. I’ll show you a real good time.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Not good enough for you, is that it?’ she asked. ‘You sanctimonious cunt.’

  Which was quite funny really, considering what she was flashing. ‘Calling me names is really going to turn me on,’ I remarked.

  ‘It does some blokes.’

  ‘Not this bloke.’

  ‘Little Saint Nick, is it?’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘Bastard.’

  52

  And that’s pretty much as it went for the next few days. But pretty is hardly the right word. Sharon had bad diarrhoea and vomiting, and her nose was constantly running with mucus. Her mood swings ranged from the violent to the passive. She tried to kill me one minute and get me into her bed the next. Not that she succeeded in either.

  Not that I could tell exactly how many days. I didn’t go out or use the phone, even to call Ray Miller. I had nothing to say to him or anyone else right then, and I didn’t want anyone to speak to me. There was no TV or radio in the loft, and I didn’t see any newspapers. It was as if Sharon and I were adrift in a lifeboat. And in a way I suppose we were. A lifeboat for her at least. And maybe for me, too. The girls pretty much left us alone, as Matty had said they would, floating around the place like wraiths when they were there, and vanishing for long periods of time. They left me to take responsibility for Sharon and, in a lot of ways, for myself as well. And the strange thing was Sharon never asked about them. Never once. Not who they were, or what they were or why they were there. She just seemed to accept what was going on. Strange that. But, then, so many things were strange during that period I never really thought about it.

  I had other things on my mind.

  At first I wasn’t keen on Sharon Miller. Actively disliked her even. To me she was just a stupid, feckless, spoilt little bitch that had got herself a load of trouble and abandoned her family. She had a mug punter for a husband who’d do anythin
g to get her back and I thought he was a fool. But by the third day of cleaning up her mess, like a mother looking after a baby, we started to forge some strange bond. Hark at me – bonding – I’d definitely assimilated too much hippie shit from Matilda and Madeleine. Next I’d be booking tickets for Glastonbury.

  I didn’t trust Sharon either to start with, even with locks on the door, so I moved from the couch on to a mattress on the floor at the foot of her bed. After her initial violence and sexual bravado she tried ignoring me, but without any other stimulus, and as she gradually began to get clean, slowly she started to talk. At first it was in the form of a bitter diatribe against herself, but, gradually, as her confidence and self-esteem improved, it was about anything and everything, and I started to look forward to our rambling conversations in the middle of the night, the room dimly lit by the orange glow of London that surrounded us and came in through the uncurtained windows.

  The first few days I spent on an uncomfortable chair beside her, bringing her soup and tea that Maddie or Matty had made and left for me on the stove, or Coke or Lucozade, for the thirst that seemed to be a permanent part of her recovery. But soon I moved to sit next to her on her bed and held her hand. I thought I owed her that at least.

  It was my fucking idea she was there.

  I’d taken her from one hell hole to another.

  It was my fucking hell hole, and I thought I owed her some comfort.

  But in a way it was a comfort to me too.

  And then one morning she started to tell me the truth about her life.

  ‘He made me do terrible things,’ she said.

  At first I thought she meant Ray. ‘Ray?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Chris.’

  ‘I imagined he had,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  I agreed that I didn’t.

  ‘Terrible things with terrible men. How could he do that?’

  ‘That’s how he makes his living.’

  ‘I wasn’t the only one. The only girl.’

  ‘I never thought you were.’

  ‘I did,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘That’s how it works.’

  ‘He was good to me at first.’