The Rhythm Section. Mark Burnell

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      As I rise from the sofa, I become aware of how ill I feel. This doesn’t seem like a regular hangover; I ache all over and I feel sick. I am simultaneously hot and cold. Maybe this is my body protesting yet again at the way I have treated it.

      I assume that Proctor is still asleep. I move quietly. When we returned here last night, we didn’t talk much. He showed me where the bathroom was and I changed into the jeans and sweatshirt that I was carrying in my rucksack. Then he sat me on this sofa and poured me one whisky after another. I don’t remember how many it took to eradicate my in-built sense of caution. Exhaustion was to blame, but by the time I was ready to talk, I was ready to sleep. Proctor realized this and fetched me a pillow and some blankets. I suppose he thought we’d talk this morning. He’s going to be disappointed.

      He was wearing a worn leather jacket when he picked me up. I cannot see it in this room so I put on my shoes, gather my things, fasten the rucksack and pull on my overcoat. Then I open the door as quietly as I can and I tiptoe past Proctor’s bedroom, which is on the left, and make my way down the hall.

      My temples throb. I feel nauseous.

      Before I reach the front door, there is a final room on the left. Somebody could have used it as a second bedroom. Proctor uses it as an office. There are two tables in it; on one, there are box-files and correspondence, on the other, a computer. On the back of the chair between the two hangs his leather jacket. I creep into the office and run my hands through the pockets until I find his wallet. I open it up and ignore the cards. I am only interested in cash. He has eighty pounds; three twenties, two tens. I fold them in half.

      Which is when I hear him behind me.

      ‘Are you looking for something of yours?’

      Stephanie spun round. Proctor was filling the doorway, blocking her exit.

      ‘Or just something of mine?’

      The wallet was in her hand.

      Proctor was wearing track-suit bottoms and the same black shirt he had worn the night before. There had not been time to fasten the buttons. On one side of his head the hair was flat to the skull, on the other it stood out like bristles on a brush.

      He looked dejected, not angry. But Stephanie had long since learned to distrust appearances. He said, ‘All you had to do was ask. I would have given you money.’

      ‘Yeah, right …’

      ‘It’s true.’

      She squinted at him. ‘And why would you do that?’

      ‘Because I know about you.’

      His hand was outstretched, waiting for the return of his wallet. Stephanie stepped forward to give it to him. And then she charged, ramming his chest with her shoulder, knocking him off-balance. Clutching the wallet as tightly as she could, she sped across the hall and reached for the front door. But Proctor’s hand grabbed her shoulder, spinning her round. In an instinctive continuation of the movement, she raised a fist and punched him on the jaw. Proctor recoiled, amazed by her speed and strength.

      She tugged at the front door catch repeatedly but couldn’t open it. The knowledge came to her gradually, sapping her strength. She let go of the catch, her hand falling limply to her side. When she looked round, she saw the keys dangling from the key-ring that was hanging on the tip of his forefinger.

      His other hand was massaging his jaw. ‘Double-locked, just in case,’ he said.

      The front door was at the end of the corridor. Proctor had her penned in; there were no rooms to run to, no surprises left to spring. Stephanie’s reactions were automatic, a by-product of experience. She retreated into the corner and slid to the floor. Mentally, she began to go blank, closing everything down, numbing herself. When Proctor took a step towards her, she wrapped her arms around her head and pulled herself into the smallest human ball possible.

      ‘What are you doing?’

      She braced herself for the first blow.

      ‘I’m not going to hit you, Stephanie. I don’t want to hurt you.’

      Those very words had been the preface to a savage beating more than once. She knew that Dean West always tried a little kindness before administering his punishments. She stayed still, knowing better than to lift her head.

      ‘I’ll tell you what, I’m going to move back. All right? I’m going to move back to my office doorway and then I’m going to sit down on the floor, like you. And when I have, you can look up. Then we can talk. Is that okay?’

      There was no reply.

      ‘That’s all I want to do. Just talk.’

      She sensed his retreat before allowing herself to peep through crossed arms.

      ‘See? I can’t hurt you from here.’

      Stephanie felt dizzy. She swallowed.

      ‘Where were you going to go?’

      No answer.

      ‘Is there anywhere? Anyone?’

      She was trembling.

      ‘What about last night?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to tell me what that was all about?’

      She kept her head protected.

      ‘Look, I know you don’t trust me – there’s no reason you should – but I really have no interest in you, apart from what you can tell me. I have things to tell you too but if you don’t want to hear them –’

      ‘I don’t want to hear anything,’ she whispered.

      Proctor shook his head. ‘This is your family we’re talking about.’

      Stephanie shrugged.

      ‘How about if I asked you some general questions? Would you answer them?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘There’s nothing you need to know about me or about my family.’

      ‘I see. Well maybe you could just sit and listen. I’ll tell you what I’m working on, what I’ve found out, how I’m –’

      ‘Don’t you get it yet? I don’t care.’

      ‘No. I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all. If it was my family on that 747, I’d want to know why it went down and who was responsible. I’d want justice. For them and for everyone else on board. And for all their relatives and friends who’ve had to deal with the aftermath. That’s what this is about, you know. That’s what this investigation was when I started. A human interest story. What happens to the families and friends of the dead a couple of years down the line when it’s no longer news? How do they cope in the long term? You may not talk to me but there are others who have. I’ve seen their grief. I’ve felt it. Two years plus hasn’t diminished it. They’ve learned to live with it – some of them, anyway – but the wounds haven’t СКАЧАТЬ