Only Darkness. Danuta Reah

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      She remembered the last time she’d talked to him about poetry. He’d picked up a copy of The Waste Land from where it was lying on Debbie’s desk. What had this got to do, he’d wanted to know, with the lives most of the students led? ‘A lot,’ Debbie had retorted. And was it going to help them with what they really needed in their lives – a way to make a decent living? ‘It teaches them how to think.’ Debbie wasn’t giving anything away to anyone about the value of studying literature. He’d argued the point good-naturedly for a bit longer and she’d wondered at the end of it if he’d been winding her up.

      ‘You can borrow that, if you want.’ She was surprised when he said he would. ‘I thought you didn’t see any point in poetry,’ she said.

      ‘I didn’t say that.’ He was still turning the pages, but not really reading.

      Aware that it sounded a bit blunt, Debbie asked, ‘Is it right that you used to be in the police?’

      He looked at her. ‘Who’s been talking to you? Yes, for ten years.’ He didn’t seem to mind her question, but something told her not to ask any more.

      ‘Let me show you this.’ She took the book out of his hands, and started leafing through it. ‘This one. That end bit there.’ She was looking at the lines towards the end of ‘The Shield of Achilles’, the bit about the ragged urchin in the weed-choked field. That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third/ were axioms to him, who’d never heard/ Of any world where promises were kept/ Or one could weep because another wept. He read it through and looked at her, waiting. ‘Didn’t you meet that boy a hundred times when you were in the police force?’

      He was still reading the lines. ‘Yes, you see them all the time.’

      ‘That’s what I meant. Poetry has a lot to do with their lives.’

      He grinned, acknowledging both the point, and the fact that she wasn’t prepared to let the argument go. ‘OK, but you can romanticize as well.’

      ‘I don’t think that romanticizes. It calls raping and killing axioms.’ She was standing close to him as they read the lines, and she was aware of the warmth coming from him, the smell of a laundered shirt, the faint smell of sweat.

      He nodded, but cut the topic off. ‘Right. What’s the problem.’ He listened while Debbie outlined the concerns that she had working in Room B110 at night, where the curtainless windows, brightly lit, looked out on to the street and gave any passer-by a clear view of who was – and who wasn’t – in there. She told him about some trouble she’d had with youths in the street the night before. He looked at her – ‘Why didn’t you report it at the time?’ – making a sudden switch from friendly to official. She had seen him use this device to wrong-foot people, and now it derailed her.

      ‘There wasn’t anyone around to report it to,’ she protested, sounding defensive in her own ears.

      He thought for a moment and seemed to make a conscious effort to move back into a more relaxed stance. ‘I know there’s still a problem with security in the evenings. You could do with mobile phones really, the teaching staff.’ He gave her a quick smile. ‘But that’d be the rest of my budget.’ After he’d made some notes, he said, ‘What was the other thing?’

      ‘Oh, well …’ Debbie was a bit uncertain now, unsure of his reception, but he leant back against the wall and waited, so she told him about her encounter at the station. He listened in silence. ‘Should I tell the police?’ she said.

      ‘Yes. Next question.’

      ‘Do you think it had anything to do with the murder?’ Debbie tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice, but something must have come through, because he narrowed his eyes and his face went serious.

      ‘I’ve no idea, Deborah. You’ll have to tell them and let them work it out. Why don’t you bring your car when you’re working late?’

      ‘Because I haven’t got one. I don’t drive.’

      He looked exasperated, but Louise turned up before he could say anything, and the conversation turned to more general college matters. After a few minutes he left, promising to get back to Debbie about Room B110.

      Louise was packing a pile of marking into her briefcase. ‘A bit of leisure activity,’ she added, seeing Debbie look at it. ‘Doing anything interesting this weekend?’

      Debbie felt low. ‘I hate weekends. I’m not going anywhere, I haven’t got anyone to go with and even if I did I’ve got so much work I couldn’t anyway.’

      ‘Fancy a drink this evening?’ As Debbie accepted Louise’s invitation, she thought that the older woman must have seen how down she looked. Debbie, the youngest lecturer in the English and humanities team, was usually known as the most cheerful, having, as Louise pointed out, a lot more energy than the others, ‘and the chance of a future that will get you out of this dump.’ They agreed to meet later at Louise’s house. Louise didn’t like pubs much, and Debbie felt like a quiet evening.

      Rob Neave was home in his flat, listening to music and letting his mind drift. Maybe things were getting better. They didn’t seem to be getting any worse. The flat was tiny, a bedsitter, really, but called a flat because it was self-contained. He had a small kitchen and a bathroom to call his own, and that was all he’d wanted at the time. He’d taken the first offer on the house he used to share with Angie, the first offer that would cover the mortgage. All he’d taken from the house were his stereo and some pictures. He’d bought everything else he needed – a bed, a chair, carpets, curtains, a cooker. It was all he could manage to do, to find a new place to live, a new job.

      The evening stretched in front of him, bleak and empty. He could go out – but where and why? He could stay in, read, listen to music, like he’d done for the past countless number of evenings. He wondered about giving Lynne a ring, going over to her place, talking a bit of police shop, picking up the gossip, spending a couple of hours in her bed. It would be a distraction, something to do. Though she’d probably be busy at this short notice.

      Maybe it was time to move on. Staying here, everything was a reminder. Places he went to, people he saw. He’d found a letter waiting when he got in, from an ex-colleague, Pete Morton. Morton had gone into the security business up in Newcastle, Neave’s childhood city. He’d written to ask if Neave was interested in joining him. There’s a load of work here, Morton had written. I’m starting to turn stuff down. Neave thought seriously about the offer, about going back to Newcastle. He needed to get away.

      Applying for the job at City College had been part of getting away. He didn’t know anyone there, and no one knew him. The job had looked interesting as well. The place was wide open, equipment was walking out through the front door, the buildings were being vandalized and staff and bona fide students were starting to feel intimidated. It had been a challenge he’d enjoyed, imposing a system on to the anarchic world of post-sixteen education. It had given him something to think about, but he’d done as much as he could there.

      He knew he wasn’t particularly liked. It didn’t worry him. He had the capacity to get on well with people, inspire trust – it had been an asset in his last job, but he didn’t need it now. His face in repose looked boyish and good-humoured, and his eyes, despite – or perhaps because of – the lines under them that seemed to be a permanent feature now, tended to look as though he smiled a lot. When people found out he wasn’t the easy-going person he seemed, they resented it. But he got results.

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