The Suburbs of Hell (13 page)

‘Sam’s very nice,’ Donna said. ‘He’s sweet through and through. And he’s not “poor old Sam”, either. I think he’s younger than you are.’

‘He looks older,’ Linda considered. ‘Than a white man of that age, I mean. They do, don’t they?’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ said Donna.

‘Why doesn’t he live with you?’

‘He wasn’t invited,’ Donna said. ‘I didn’t think we were ready for that.’

‘Such caution,’ Linda said, ‘at your time of life. Oh, tell me, sister-woman, is it true about black men? I long to know.’

‘I wouldn’t have a clue,’ said Donna, shortly.

‘You mean you’ve never—?’

‘No. We’ve never.’

‘You take my breath away,’ Linda said. ‘You must be a throwback. They haven’t made girls like you since Elvis was a boy. Not even a feel of a suspender?’

‘I can’t explain,’ Linda said, ‘but it’s for his sake that I’ve left it like this. And that was him tooting then, wasn’t it? I’d better go now, if there’s no point in staying.’

‘There isn’t,’ Linda said. ‘So you and I are pretty much in the same boat, gal, sex-wise.’

‘True?’ Donna said. ‘Oh, the messes people get themselves into.’

‘Why don’t we run away together?’ suggested Linda. ‘Let’s go into a nunnery. I’m sure Dave Stutton would be happy to take over my household duties.’

‘Lock the back door,’ Donna said. ‘I think I’ll go and do it now, for my own peace of mind.’

‘Piss off, sister,’ said her friend. ‘Don’t keep that nice fella waiting for everything.’

In the warm taxi parked in front of Donna’s little house, Sam said: ‘You’re quiet. Something on your mind?’

‘Yes,’ Donna said. ‘It weighs a ton.’

‘Gonna tell me?’

‘I don’t think I can. No, I definitely can’t. Not yet. It’s just talk. We all saw with Greg Ramsey what careless talk can do.’

‘You’ve heard,’ Sam said, grim-faced, ‘some talk about me?’

‘About you?’ Donna said. ‘No, of course I haven’t. Who would be talking about you?’

‘You mentioned Greg Ramsey.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Donna, uncomfortably.

He laid his arm along the back of the seat and leaned against the door, watching her pale profile looking straight ahead. ‘Tell me about that. Tell me what you thought.’

‘I thought it was horrible,’ she said. ‘And horribly sad.’

‘And him calling me a jungle-bunny and that, and a killer—what did you think of that?’

‘Honestly, Sam,’ Donna said, ‘I didn’t really listen to what he said. It wasn’t his words I noticed, it was everything else about him.’

‘How did you think I coped with it?’ Sam persisted. ‘Did you think I was dignified? Did you think I handled myself like a man?’

‘You were very good,’ Donna said. ‘Very dignified.’

‘You didn’t wonder, did you, if p’rhaps he knoo something about me, something about the murders?’

She jerked her head and stared at him, her lips apart. ‘Sam?’

‘Did you? Did you, Donna?’

‘I’m going indoors,’ she said, groping for the doorhandle. ‘You’re scaring me. If it’s a joke, it’s not like one of yours.’

‘No, no, no,’ he soothed, touching her neck with his fingertips. ‘I’m sorry, little gal, I rushed into that clumsy, like. What I meant was, someone who was there has been talkin about it, and suspectin Greg Ramsey knoo something the coppers don’t know.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Donna, relaxing a little. ‘That bloody Dave. Well, it might have been Frank, but I bet it was Dave—that hairy wally.’

‘I don’t need to repeat my question,’ Sam said. ‘Just for a moment you was terrified. You thought you was sittin in a dark car with a murderer.’

‘Oh, don’t go on, Sam,’ Donna begged. ‘I’m very jittery tonight. Some day I’ll tell you why. Anyway, I want to go to bed, so goodnight.’

But she did not move to kiss him. All the moves had to be his.

‘Can I come in for a while?’ he asked, whispering into her ear.

‘No, Sam,’ she said, a little fretfully. ‘I just want to sleep. Don’t pester, dear boy.’

‘Marry me,’ he whispered.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Still no. I’m not ready.’

‘Live with me, then. Be my live-in lover.’

‘Sam, don’t nag.’

‘Why do we never get anywhere? Why do
I
never get anywhere? Nothing moves. You string me along.’

‘That’s not fair,’ she said. ‘To put it plainly, for once, I just don’t happen to have fallen in love. I’ve been waiting—for your sake I’ve been waiting—and it hasn’t happened.’

He drew back from her, and slouched behind the wheel again. His voice when he spoke was hard. ‘It wouldn’t have been like this if I’d been white.’

She turned an indignant face on him. ‘You take that back! That’s got nothing to do with it.’

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘No—sorry. I spoke out of turn that time.’

‘Oh, Sam,’ she said, softening, ‘I am so fond of you. You were sweet when you used to come into the shop and buy things you didn’t need. What did you do with all that sticky-tape and torch-batteries and stuff? You are a sweet bloke, Sam, I really mean that. And you did get me out of a hole, when you talked Ken Heath into letting me rent the house. I liked you so much, I thought it would go further. But it didn’t.’

‘It’s because I’m black,’ he said. ‘Because that crazy kid came out with what you’re all thinkin, and ole Rastus just stood there and took it. He int a man, ole Rastus, he don’t stand up for himself; he’s just a grinnin, docile animal. Except at the full moon, p’rhaps, and then his primitive jungle nature come out and he go round killin people.’

‘Sam—’ she said.

‘Well, I’m leavin,’ he said. ‘I’m leavin all of you. Ole Rastus done got tired of Tornwich. He’s gwine back home with his pocket full of tin, O doodah day.’

‘Going where?’ she asked.

‘Yas, ma’am, dat am one big question. Ipswich might not be too easy, bein as I’ve got the reputation of bein a triple murderer. Thass a bit too near, Ipswich.’

‘You don’t have to go anywhere,’ she said. ‘You’re just bitter for the moment, but it’ll pass. Not that there aren’t more interesting places in the world than Tornwich. Like the Caribbean.’

‘Shit,’ Sam said, banging with both hands on the steering wheel. ‘Oh holy shit. All you Honkies want to make me believe thass where I come from. Well, I don’t. I int never been there. I don’t believe I should like it. I don’t want to be no foreigner. Why do you stop there, anyway, you Honkies: why don’t you tell me to piss off back to Africa?’

She moved towards him and put out an arm, but he pushed her aside and leaned across to open her door. ‘I don’t want no white trash in my car,’ he said. ‘Rude woman. I done hear about you white ladies, always tryin to get into the brothers’ underpants.’

She got out and slammed the door, but then appeared by his window and knocked on the glass. He wound it down, and glowered up at her.

‘Sam,’ she said.

‘Doodah,’ he said.

‘Shut up, Rastus,’ she said, ‘I want to talk to Sam. Sam, you are a very sweet guy. No woman should be close to you—should be close if she can’t be—what you need. In the end, I didn’t measure up. I wish I could, but that’s the way it is, Sam.’

He went on gazing at her, his face tilted. She bent and kissed his forehead.

‘Hell, I’m going to cry,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think we can be friends, after a while?’

He lifted one hand from the steering wheel, and performed the Suffolk feint of spitting in the palm. He held out his hand without a word, and she clasped it.

‘It’s a deal,’ she said. ‘Well, goodnight, ole buddy.’

He watched her unlock her door, then close it on the light. He started his engine and moved on.

At a pub on the main road he pulled up and got out and rapped on the locked door. Presently the landlord, who was washing glasses, peered out and recognized an old friend. He sold Sam a bottle of whisky.

Harry was trying to mend a lamp which the little dog, tangling itself in the cord, had brought to the floor. Nothing except the bulb had broken, but something had gone wrong with the switch. He had it in his big unhandy fingers, trying to work out how to set the fault right.

Near his chair a fire of driftwood leaped in the grate, and polished brass winked with the flames. The cat and the spaniel, long accustomed to one another, slept side by side on the mat. Close to his hand was a glass of neat whisky. He had been attempting his repairs with a sharp-pointed knife, but put it aside, and sat thinking. Presently he placed in his mind the tool he needed, and got up and climbed the two flights of stairs to Dave’s bedroom.

It was a long time since he had been in that room, and he looked around it approvingly, because it was as shipshape as he liked things to be. Dave’s possessions, which were few, were all stowed away. There was hardly a sign of him in the room, except for a framed photograph of his drowned father.

Harry gave the familiar face a melancholy smile, and then frowned slightly. The thought had occurred to him that it was there precisely so that he would see it, and feel more indulgently towards Dave as a result.

He dropped on to his haunches and peered under the bed. The toolbox was at the back, against the wall, and in front of it was a small package wrapped in newspaper. He fetched that out and left it on the floor while he dragged out the heavy box, which he lifted onto the bed.

While he was rummaging through the tools something sharp gouged his finger. He drew out his hand violently and stepped back, and the box teetered and crashed to the floor.

‘Oh, shit,’ he said, looking at Dave’s parcel in the midst of the scattered tools. Two gashes had appeared. He squatted over it. Underneath the newspaper was plastic. He poked one of the gashes with his finger, then peered in.

He rose and stood in the middle of the floor, staring at nothing. ‘My God,’ he whispered to himself. ‘My God, so that’s it. The little bastard.’

He turned to the smiling face of the fisherman, and gazed at it vaguely.

The banging on the street door two floors below, the yapping of the dog, took a while to register with him. When they did, he gave an urgent glance at the mess on the floor, but decided to do nothing. ‘Let him
know
I know,’ he muttered, and went out and slammed the door.

The man on the doorstep was Black Sam. ‘You, boy,’ said Harry, looking distrait. ‘Parky, innit?—but a nice clear night. You comin in, or what?’

‘I’d like to come in for a bit,’ said Sam. His speech was slurred.

‘Why, boy, I do believe you’re pissed,’ said Harry. ‘That’s something I int never sin before. You lose your licence and you’re in dead shtook. Well, come in to the fire.’

When he was seated opposite Harry, with the dog sniffing at his shoes, Sam said: ‘You’re bleedin, Harry. Your finger.’

‘So I am,’ Harry realized. ‘Well, here’s the medicine for that.’ He dipped his finger into the whisky beside him, then shook it in the air to dry. Little ribbons of blood hung suspended in the glass. ‘Best antiseptic I know,’ said Harry. ‘Can I give you one?’

‘Don’t think so, thanks,’ said Sam. ‘No, I shall give it a rest.’

‘What brought this on,’ Harry wondered, ‘this sudden change in your sober habits?’

‘Just—ah, the blues,’ Sam said. ‘Pissed off, therefore pissed. I saw all your lights on, and I thought I’d give you a look. Tell me to bugger off if you’re busy.’

‘You make yourself at hoom, boy. Look at that good fire. I’m glad there’s someone here to admire it.’

‘Dave not indoors?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘He goo off roamin around in that van, I dunno where. Most of his dole money goo on petrol, I reckon.’

The fire caved in, and Harry got up to poke it and put on coal. ‘Harry,’ Sam said, to his back, ‘I’m in a hell of a state.’

‘I believe you,’ Harry said. ‘You int workin, are you?’

‘No, I got the day off. I started drinkin last night. I know that don’t solve nothing. I know that’s all there again when you sober up.’

‘What is it, Sam?’ Harry asked. He sat down again, but on the edge of his chair, looking into Sam’s face. ‘Spit it out. Trouble with Donna?’

‘Yeh,’ Sam said. ‘That too. We int together no more, as of last night. And my job’s goin, I can feel it sort of escapin from me. Christ, Harry, I don’t know where to go, I don’t know what to do, with this hangin over me. People are sayin I killed three people, and drove one crazy. Last night, just for a moment, even Donna believed that. Just for a moment, thass all, but after that, Jesus, how could we ever be like we used to be again?’

Harry took his eyes away from Sam’s, which were slightly bloodshot, and directed them at the floor. Stony-faced, he said: ‘I’ve heard some talk like that. But that won’t last, Sam. Believe you me, boy, when they see you gooin about your daily business in the usual way, they’ll start to laugh at themselves after a while. I on’y hope it weren’t nothing I said that put that idea into young Greg’s head. Because he’s at the bottom of it, of course, but that int really his fault, bein so sick.’

Sam had sat up straighter.
‘You
said something to him?’

‘I might have,’ Harry said. ‘In the beginnin there was some talk, some theories, about you among others. And that fair got my rag out, and I might have sounded off about it in front of Greg, I don’t remember.’

Sam, with a grim mouth, said: ‘Thanks, mate.’

‘I told you I’m sorry,’ Harry said. ‘Anything I said was to make them laugh at the stoopid idea. How else could I deal with it, Sam, bein on your side? I thought I was doin my best for you, that’s why I spook out.’

‘Yeh,’ Sam said, noncommittally; but he did relax again. ‘Okay. Thanks.’

‘I’m a bit out of sorts tonight,’ Harry said, restlessly. ‘I’m a bit—whass the word?—occupied. I wish you’d have a drink. Or how about a coffee, that might do you a bit of good.’

‘No, thanks,’ Sam said, and stood up.

‘You off already? Well, not such a bad idea. You goo and sleep it off, boy, and in the mornin things will look brighter. Like you say, the bottle never solved anything.’

Sam was at the door giving on to the street, waiting for Harry to let him out. He said: ‘Things go. Like a landslide. Suddenly there int nothing left.’

‘Thass the drink talkin,’ diagnosed Harry. ‘Very depressin stuff, if you’re depressed.’