The Insider. Ava McCarthy

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      Dillon peered out at them. ‘Which one is yours?’

      Harry pointed to a corner house with a canary-yellow door. She’d smartened it up herself with a fresh coat of paint the week before. One of these days she’d buy her landlord out. Her profession paid well, and she’d accumulated enough savings now to start thinking about a mortgage.

      Dillon slammed to a dead stop, scuffing the kerb. Harry hauled herself up out of the car and led the way through the front door.

      The building had a basement and three floors, and Harry lived in an apartment at ground level. It had once been an elegant drawing room where butlers served tea. Now it was a place where Harry ate breakfast in bed any time she felt like it.

      She trudged down the hall, aware of Dillon’s presence like a stalker behind her. They reached her apartment, and Harry froze. The door was open.

      She edged up to the threshold, hesitating. Dillon stood behind her, looking in over her shoulder.

      ‘Oh my God,’ he said.

      Her apartment looked as though a pack of wild dogs had been cooped up in it for ten days. Her sofa had been slashed, the black leather ripped apart to expose chunks of yellow sponge. All her paperbacks had been swept from the shelves and lay in slippery piles on the floor.

      Harry took a deep breath. She stepped inside and picked her way through the carnage in the room. It was like wandering amongst the bodies of old friends. The mirror from over the fireplace had been hurled to the floor, the glass smashed. Her only picture, a playful print of dogs playing poker, had been wrenched away from the wall, splitting the plaster where the nail had been. The print lay propped up against the mutilated sofa, its brown-paper seal gouged out at the back. Harry stared at it, her arms hugging her chest.

      Dillon’s voice called out from the kitchen: ‘Take a look at this.’

      She dragged herself over to join him, her shoes making a crunching sound on the flagstones. It turned out to be sugar from a bag that had been dumped upside down on the floor, along with everything else from her kitchen cupboards.

      Harry gaped. The entire contents of her kitchen – tins, saucepans, jars, food from the fridge – had been piled in the centre of the floor. The cutlery drawers had been upturned and chucked on to the heap. The cupboard doors stood wide open, empty shelves exposed. It was like a crazed attack of spring-cleaning.

      Harry sank back against the doorframe. Jesus, who would do this? Dillon circled the mound of food, shaking his head. She sighed and trudged back along the corridor to check her bedroom. It was in the same disarray as the rest of the apartment; drawers ransacked, clothes strewn about. She’d never wear any of them again.

      The red light blinked on her bedside phone, a mute demand for attention. She noticed a familiar, well-worn book that had landed face down on her bed. It was spread open so wide that its spine had cracked, and it lay there like a broken bird. She picked it up and some of the pages fluttered out. It was a book her father had given her when she was twelve: How to Play Poker and Win. On the inside covers, front and back, was a series of annotations written in blue marker. They recorded some of the poker games she’d played with her father. It was a habit she’d learned from him. After every hand, he’d make detailed notes, jotting down the cards that had been played. He never forgot a hand, and he never got beaten by the same bluff twice.

      She’d been six or seven years old when her father first started taking her to his poker games, often staying out till three or four in the morning. She’d picked up some of her best swear words at those games. Usually she’d end up asleep on a sofa, her eyes smarting from cigarette smoke. Later, as a teenager, he’d brought her to London to visit the casinos in Soho and Piccadilly. At the time it had all seemed grown-up and exciting, but in retrospect it was just bad parenting.

      She turned over the flyleaf of the poker book in her hand. The inscription was still there, as she’d known it would be.

      A mi queridísima Harry,

      Never be predictable. Play a random game and keep ’em guessing, but always fold on a 7-2 offsuit.

      Un abrazo muy fuerte,

       Papá

      She smoothed her thumb along the broad handwriting. Then she closed the covers and cradled the book with both hands so that the pages wouldn’t split.

      Dillon poked his head round the door. ‘Your office and bathroom are both trashed.’

      Harry swore. She’d seen enough. She slapped the book on her bedside locker and marched back out to the living room, ignoring her throbbing knee.

      Dillon followed her. ‘I’ll call the police.’

      ‘It’s okay, I’ll do it.’

      Dillon paced up and down the room while she phoned her local police station. She reported the details to a sympathetic sergeant who said they’d send someone round. Then she snapped the phone shut and burrowed under the pile of books on the floor till she found the Golden Pages directory.

      Dillon stopped his pacing to watch her. ‘Now what?’

      ‘Locksmith.’ She flipped her phone open again and had a businesslike conversation with Express Locksmiths, who assured her that an engineer would be out in ten minutes. Harry could feel her energy levels pick up. Absurd how a burst of activity could fool you into thinking you were in control.

      She perched against the sofa and massaged her neck and shoulders. They felt stiff and bruised, as though she was headed for a bout of flu. Then she remembered the blinking light in her bedroom, and went back to listen to her messages. There was only one. She recognized her mother’s throaty voice, made low and fruity from years of heavy smoking.

      ‘Harry, it’s Miriam.’

      There was a pause as she heard her mother pull on a cigarette. Harry had been addressing her mother by her Christian name since the day she’d left school. It was as though by unspoken mutual agreement the mother–daughter dynamic had dissolved once she’d turned eighteen.

      ‘I’ve been trying to reach you all day, and all I get is this wretched machine,’ Miriam continued. ‘Could you please take a minute to pick up the phone and call me.’

      Harry closed her eyes and fixed her lips in a tight line. Then she jabbed at the delete button and returned to the living room, where Dillon was still on patrol.

      She looked at her watch. ‘It’s late. You head on home, there’s no need to stay.’

      Dillon waved a hand at her. ‘I’m staying.’

      She felt a tiny squeezing sensation in her chest and realized she was glad to have him there. Then she looked at the destruction all around her, and dared herself to cross a line.

      ‘Is that offer of brandy still open?’ Her voice had come out a little louder than she’d planned.

      Dillon turned to look at her with his tucked-in smile. ‘’Course it is. Let’s make it a double. You’ve had a rough day.’

      He came to a sudden stop next to the damaged painting, and bent down to examine it. He poked his hand through the rent in the backing board. ‘Why would СКАЧАТЬ