Birdman

  She had sat limply in the front seat of his car, noises coming from her throat, as he groped at her soft body pressed and folded under the seat belt. Inside the leather jacket her heart fluttered like a weak bird. It was only when he tried to lift her skirt that she resisted. She stumbled drunkenly out of the car and sat woodenly on the pavement, her livid make-up smeared, pushing him away when he climbed out of the car and tried to touch her.

  ‘Not now, yeah?’ she muttered. ‘I feel sick.’

  He stood looking down at her ash-blond head, her knees in laddered stockings and suddenly chose not to rape her.

  Just like that.

  It was an unexpected deviation. He took her home and said goodnight. Just like that. As if it was nothing. As if this was normal for him.

  Afterwards he felt virtuous, elated, filled with light. He quickly decided his generosity to her was an expression of love. He wanted her so much that his head ached when he thought about her.

  But Joni pushed his advances away, got angry when he appeared at her pub performances, angrier when she heard he’d got a new job in St Dunstan’s and had purchased the ground-floor flat of an old lady’s converted house in Lewisham, less than a mile from her home in Greenwich.

  He didn’t flinch at her anger, she was his reason for living. His flat was a shrine to her, he photographed her in the street, bought her drinks in the pub. Sometimes Joni gave him moments of pleasure—sometimes she smoked or drank so much that she softened to him and he was able to take her home—let her sleep it off in the spare bed. He didn’t touch her. Not once. That wasn’t the point. The point was for her to come to him. That was crucial. He kept the flat clean in the pained hope that she would understand how he cared for her: hiding his treasured pictures when she stayed, taking every precaution, spraying the flat with air freshener—Joni loved things to smell sweet.

  And eventually she did come to tolerate him in a resigned, tired way. In return he learned to tolerate her thoughtless, patternless acts of faithlessness, her flirting with other men, her refusal to touch him. Even when she had driven him to the brink of fury, arriving that day, five years ago, fresh from the surgeon’s knife, her new, swollen breasts pouting on her rib cage, he had stayed calm, polite. It didn’t matter what Joni did in the present tense, in the three-dimensional world, because she lived on in his internal fantasy theatre as she had been that night, warm and pliable, with her small, soft-tipped breasts and drink on her breath.

  Back in the kitchen one of the battered little zebra finches had found the strength to get up to the perch. It stared at him with its bright little eyes. He grunted and shook the cage, hard, until the exhausted bird was dislodged and fell to the floor, too stunned and starved to flap. It lay there on its side panting and blinking at him as he finished the M&Ms, crumpled the bag and started to get dressed.

  ... 43

  The door was opened by a woman who was indeed wearing bifocals. She had cropped grey hair and large hands and was sensibly dressed in a Fair Isle cardigan, tweed skirt over solid, English hips and brown leather walking shoes. When Caffery flashed his warrant card and explained they were interested in the upstairs neighbour she gave them a gentle, tilted smile and opened the door.

  ‘A cup of tea, I think, gentlemen.’

  They went into the hallway, Essex hanging back, still not sure if he trusted this woman. Caffery stood for a moment, staring at the blank doorway at the top of the stairs. He ran a finger over the banister, pressed it to his white cuff. Nothing.

  ‘I don’t know their names,’ the woman said from inside her flat. ‘The couple up there.’

  ‘The couple?’ Jack turned back. ‘Did you say the couple?’

  So there is a girlfriend.

  ‘That is who you’re interested in, isn’t it?’

  She held open the door and led them into a small hallway which had been sectioned out of a high-ceilinged room using plasterboard. When he saw the airbrush fantasy posters on the walls, a silver-breasted Gigeresque woman, maned biker heroes, gleaming winged bikes and dragons, Essex caught Caffery’s sleeve.

  ‘Check this gaff out,’ he hissed as they followed the woman into the front room. Here the ceiling was hung with Indian shawls, mirrored and tasselled, a lava lamp stood side by side with a teak Afghan water pipe.

  ‘I know them to speak to.’ She picked up an orange hessian cushion from the sofa and slapped it. ‘My son would know their names, but he’s off on his holidays.’ She paused, the cushion dangling in her hand, and the three of them regarded each other in puzzled silence. Suddenly she laughed.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I haven’t explained myself.’ She dropped the cushion and wiped her hands on her skirt. ‘Do forgive me.’ She offered her hand to Caffery. ‘The name’s Mimi Cook. I spend so much time shuffling around here trying to keep the place clean sometimes I forget it isn’t my flat.’

  ‘Cook?’ Essex murmured, glancing over his shoulder as if someone might walk in behind him.

  ‘That’s right. This is my boy’s flat. I’m his personal busybody.’

  ‘Mrs Cook.’ Caffery stepped forward and shook her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise, I’m sure. Now.’ She put both hands on Essex’s shoulders and gently moved him from the doorway so she could get past. ‘Some tea and then we can get down to business.’

  While she clanked around in the kitchen, Caffery and Essex got to work, Essex skimming over the book titles, raising his eyebrows at a Fifties edition of One Hundred Days of Sodom and a slim volume of Klossowski’s Sade Mon Prochain tucked amongst the Kerouacs and Colin Wilsons, while Caffery, conscious of his worn-out reflection in the mirror over the fireplace, ran his finger over the surfaces, searched the assortment of pots and ashtrays on the mantelpiece. He found a stack of outdated travel cards secured in a rubber band, Cook’s freckled face staring up at him, and next to it a small framed black-and-white picture. It showed Mrs Cook, decades younger, dressed in a seersucker bathing suit, dark hair backcombed. She was sitting on a tartan rug spread over a pebbled beach, squinting at the camera. On her knee sat a white-haired little boy in bathing trunks, his arms straight down at his sides. Incongruously, the toddler was wearing dark glasses, the large frames sticking out on either side of his head giving him the appearance of a small beetle. When Mrs Cook came in with a tray piled with cups, Caffery picked up the frame and said, ‘Your son, Mrs Cook?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s something wrong with his vision?’

  ‘Oh yes. Achromatopsia. You won’t have heard of it and why should you?’ She smoothed the heavy skirt over her hips and sat down on the sofa to pour the tea. ‘Put simply, he can’t tolerate sunlight. You’d imagine Thailand would be the last place, wouldn’t you? But that’s my Thomas. He’s got a sixth sense for anything that’s bad for him.’

  ‘Achromo—?’ Essex blushed charmingly. ‘I’m not hot with long words.’

  ‘Achromatopsia.’ Mrs Cook smiled patiently. ‘Congenital. His eyes haven’t got any cones. Or is it rods? I can never remember. Anyway, the world’s in black and white for him, just like a cat. It’s very unfair. It means he’s registered disabled.’

  ‘Partially sighted?’

  ‘Not that it means much, except he can’t drive and …’ She smiled apologetically. ‘And that I’ve cosseted him more than the other two. Now.’ She handed Caffery a tea cup. ‘You wanted to talk about the people upstairs? Is it him you’re interested in? Thomas’s father always says that the normal-looking ones are the worst.’

  ‘I thought he meant his girlfriend.’ Caffery called Maddox from the car as soon as they left Cook’s. ‘When he said ”social secretary” I thought he meant a girlfriend. But he meant his mother. She comes in and cleans for him three times a week. Not only that, he can’t drive.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Mum. Says he’s partially sighted.’

  ‘Do we believe her?’

  ‘I’m on the way to St Dunstan’s now to back it up, but all
the signs are there. This avenue is dry.’

  Everyone in personnel was at lunch apart from the trusty Mr Bliss. He met Caffery at the door, hand extended, top lip pulled down over bad teeth, his smooth face pink and shiny as if he’d given it an extra buffing at his shaving mirror that morning.

  ‘Don’t you eat lunch, Mr Bliss?’

  Bliss wagged his finger at Caffery. ‘Lunch is for wimps, Mr Caffery. Didn’t you know that?’ He gave an odd, hiccupping laugh at his own joke, and swiped his hand across his head to smooth the thin strands. ‘Sorry I wasn’t here this morning to take your call—I was still out there—battling away to find a parking space again—I’m sorry to report that the situation is not improving—’

  ‘Yes,’ Caffery interrupted. ‘Yes—I remember, I—’ He placed his hands on the back of the chair. ‘Mr Bliss, I wonder if you can help me. We’re still tying up a few ends.’

  ‘Ah, the terrible business at the Dome.’ He seated himself and looked up at Jack. ‘Still beavering away, are you?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘And how can we help?’

  ‘You’ve got medical records for your staff?’

  ‘Medical records? No. If they’ve taken life insurance through the pension scheme we might retain a copy of a doctor’s report, but that’s all.’

  ‘But you’d know if they were disabled?’

  ‘The hospital’s equal opportunities policy means we’re obliged to employ our quota. They all fill in a questionnaire when we take them on. It would be in that. But you won’t find Mr H-Harteveld in there—he’s not on our payroll.’

  ‘No, I understand that. I’m thinking of Mr Cook.’

  ‘This is the mortician you spoke to Wendy about?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘She pulled his records for you this morning, they’re still—’ Leaning back dangerously far in his chair he turned to look at the filing cabinets in the corner. ‘No.’ He swivelled to look at the bank on the other wall. ‘Ah yes, over there.’

  Caffery watched him walk to the filing cabinet. There was something odd about Bliss today, something springy in his step suggesting a trampled-down excitement.

  ‘There!’ He returned to the desk with a folder and slapped it down triumphantly. ‘Lucky I didn’t file it away again. Now then, let’s have a look.’

  He flipped over a few pages and skimmed the paper with pale eyes, his mouth working noiselessly, occasionally wiping his hands on his jacket. His teeth, Caffery noticed, had a milky deposit at the roots.

  ‘Ah yes—here.’ He pointed to the page. ‘ “Any disabilities?” Cook answers “Yes”. The form says ”Please describe”.’ He licked his lips. ‘And Cook answers ”Achromatopsia”.’ Bliss looked up at Caffery and blinked. ‘That’s when you’re missing the cones in the retina. He won’t be able to see in colour.’

  ‘And he can’t tolerate the sun.’

  Bliss looked at a point above Caffery’s shoulder as if he was trying to recall something. ‘Are we talking about a man with rather long red hair?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen him around. I remember the sunglasses. So he’s a mortician, is he?’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and smiled at Caffery. ‘You deal with so many different people in this job, it’s difficult to put a name to every face.’ From the back of the file he pulled two photocopied forms. ‘Here’s a doctor’s report which confirms it. Achromatopsia. Registered partially sighted.’ He looked up at Caffery. ‘Ah. That seems to have worried you.’

  Caffery rubbed his face wearily. ‘No, no. Not worried. Just made life a little harder.’ He offered Bliss his hand. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Bliss, we’re sorry to put you to trouble.’

  ‘No trouble. No trouble.’ Bliss leapt up and placed his hand in Caffery’s. It was warm, slightly moist to the touch. ‘Don’t hesitate if you have more questions. Wendy’ll help you if I’m not here, I’ve got annual leave from tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Caffery said dully. ‘A special occasion?’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ Bliss sat down behind his desk and stretched his arms, lacing his hands together and cracking the bones. ‘My birthday!’

  ... 44

  When DI Caffery had gone Malcolm Bliss leaned back in his chair and stared at the door for a long time. Though he was newly confident, elated, humming with excitement, sometimes an intermittent, idiopathic anxiety plagued him. DI Caffery’s visits didn’t improve things. In the grips of such anxiety he found himself furious with Harteveld for putting him here.

  ‘But then, Harteveld,’ he muttered to himself, ‘who else would you have turned to when you found yourself with a well-fucked dead girl on your hands?’

  ‘You’re the only person who can help. The unthinkable has happened.’

  It had been December when Harteveld had come, in the early hours of the morning, backing the Cobra into the carport and showing Bliss the human-sized chrysalis in the boot. A fat girl.

  ‘Scottish. She’s from Glasgow, I believe.’

  Wrapped from head to foot in clingfilm.

  ‘It was all I could find to put her in, I don’t want traces in the car.’

  ‘Have you fucked her?’

  Money changed hands, the woman-chrysalis was placed on his bed. Harteveld pressed Bliss’s hands, he squirmed at the touch, hideous.

  ‘You’re the only one who would understand.’ Harteveld was twitching. ‘I know you can deal with it, because, frankly, I’m afraid I can’t.’

  After Harteveld had gone Bliss closed the door and paced the flat, chewing the inside of his mouth, drinking cherry brandy. He talked to himself for a while, in senseless, protracted sentences.

  She was in the bedroom, face down where Harteveld had thrown her, her hands folded against her belly, her face smeared and flattened under the clingfilm. He liked the clingfilm, liked the way it held her. Even alive she would have been unable to struggle. Licking his lips, a faint scum of perspiration on his forehead, Bliss crossed to the bed and started unwrapping her, unfolding her arms, turning her over, inspecting her.

  She had a tattoo on her forearm. The lividity was faint on her front, the majority of the blood had sunk down to the backs of her thighs, her buttocks and shoulders. Harteveld must have kept her lying on her back for some time.

  ‘That’s right. You put your feet up.’ He jabbed a finger into the pitted thigh and smiled. ‘You big-titted sow.’

  A fountain of exhilaration lifted from the pit of his stomach. This reminded him of UMDS, the first delighted realization that the dead cannot object to being poked, prodded, insulted, spat on and fucked. He could jism on her face, in her mouth, in her hair. There was nothing she would say no to. A big juicy-mouthed doll for his use alone.

  But then, with a shudder, it occurred to him that she had already been used—Harteveld would have done all of those things to her already. There might be traces of him left. He hurried into the bathroom for a bowl, a tablet of Wright’s Coal Tar soap and a face flannel. Joni’s photograph, photocopied a hundred times and pinned to the walls, smiled at him.

  He ran water into the chipped enamel bowl and swilled the flannel around. The zebra finches in their cage skeetered across the perch, banging into each other, shaking their feathers. Joni gazed at him, making him shift uncomfortably, scratch his neck, all those little eyeballs staring—

  And then the idea of what to do with the body slowly took shape.

  Back in the bedroom he washed the girl, formulating his plan, carefully opening her legs and squeezing water into her, allowing it to trickle out onto a towel under her buttocks. He repeated it time after time until he could be quite certain that anything left of Harteveld was gone. He wanted her clean, new for him.

  It was dawn when he finished; he was due at the hospital at 9 a.m. Lola Velinor, his boss, was a stickler for time-keeping. Somehow he’d reward Velinor for her rigidity. He didn’t know how yet, but he would pay her back. Sweating, in spite of the December chill, he bundled the corpse head
first into the chest freezer, folded her legs in after her and went to work.

  Over the years in personnel he had made sure he had access to every cupboard, every office, every nurse’s station. He knew St Dunstan’s inside out and soon found what he wanted: suture material, a pair of Halsted mosquito artery forceps, a surgical needle and a scalpel. In Lewisham he bought a wig, make-up, a set of brushes and a finely balanced pair of Wilkinson’s scissors.

  Back at home he changed into surgical scrubs, took the girl from the freezer and placed her in the bath to defrost while he busied himself preparing. By 8.30 she was ready: on his bed, the wig in place, the make-up on, bloodied fat and tissue from the breasts removed in a Tupperware container and flushed down the drain with steaming water and a helping of Fairy liquid. He’d seen the procedure in books in the library and thought he’d done it rather well. The blue stitches did nothing to improve the appearance of her breasts, but better that than the big, fleshy cow’s tits: they reminded him of Joni’s deliberate destruction of her body, the one he’d so nearly possessed, so honestly, in the car that night.

  The last touch—truly inspired—was the bird. If one opened the thorax (the incision didn’t need to be as long as a classic TA) and sliced through the fleshy fan-shaped pectoralis major muscle and gently lifted up the sternocostal flap underneath, the marbled bones in their filmy visceral pouch revealed themselves. Just like a side of beef. Just like the bodies at med school.

  The bird struggled as he slipped it inside; for a moment he thought it might free itself, flap around the ceiling spraying foul matter on him, but he leaned in, pressed the skin closed and hurriedly sewed the wound closed.

  He put his ear to the cold breast.

  The bird fluttered weakly. Just like Joni’s whispering heartbeat that night.

  Then he fucked her, twice, holding on to her cold shoulders, breathing sour breath into her purple face. And in the end it was, if not perfect, at least better than his own soft hand.