Kiss Her Goodbye Page 2

  "Stop it."

  "Remind you of Gem, eh?"

  He shouted. "Stop it." He stepped towards her. "You're disgusting."

  "Was she good, Joe? Was she?"

  He shouted, "Shut the fuck up."

  She pushed her face towards his. "Answer me. Was she a good fuck, Joe?"

  He opened the door and hurried downstairs. Last thing he wanted was to batter Ruth. It wasn't her fault her daughter was dead.

  That was the fault of the fucker who swore he'd look after her. Adam Wright had broken his promise. And now it was Joe's turn to break something.

  THREE

  Joe didn't know what happened to the rest of the afternoon. He'd needed a drink while he decided what to do about Adam, so he went to a few bars in the Grassmarket and had a couple of whiskies in each. Then he headed up Victoria Street and along the High Street. He had another couple in The World's End and was feeling relaxed until a very short man tried to pick a fight with him. Worried he might kill the little twat, he left.

  Twat. Twatt.

  He remembered Gemma telling him, "Dad, you'll love this. There's a village in Orkney called Twatt."

  It was getting dark outside when he got back to his car. He sat for a while thinking about the messages Ruth had left on his phone. Messages he hadn't heard yet. Fuck them. Fuck her. He started the engine and headed for Leith.

  Rain dotted the windscreen as he crawled along Restalrig Road. Still early yet. The telephone kiosk at the bottom of the road was empty. Give it an hour or two, there'd be a huddle of whores round what Tina called "the fuck box," hiding whatever sexual transaction was being conducted inside. Further along, a skimpily dressed trio tottered on high heels towards the car as he drove slowly past. One of them, an unlit cigarette dangling from her glossy lower lip, looked about fourteen. The other two were older, smoking for real. Ten feet away their pimp stood under an umbrella, a Rottweiler crouched at his feet. Joe drove on. No sign of her. Maybe she wasn't here yet.

  Since the police abolished the tolerance zone back in November of last year, she'd been a little harder to track down. She now moved in a random pattern around Leith. Normally he rang her mobile. If she was busy he left a message and she called him when she could. But… Shit, he didn't want to wait tonight. He'd drive down to the Shore. Try there.

  He was about to put his foot down when he spotted Tina's shiny white handbag gleaming in the headlights. He looked up, peering at her face, making sure it was her. He blasted his horn. She recognized the car and smiled. She was probably thinking her luck was in. Only eight o'clock and Bob was here with his dough. Yeah. Bob. That's how she knew him. Her little half-wave made her blouse rise and the flash of bare stomach made Joe shiver.

  He pulled over. Reached across to open the door.

  She beat him to it. "You're early." She tugged at her skirt. Lifted her arse. Tugged again.

  "If your skirt's uncomfortable," he said, "you can take it off."

  "That'll be a first."

  He didn't reply. After a while, still wearing her skirt, she leaned back in her seat and sighed.

  "Nice and warm in here," she said. "Snug."

  He drove in silence, trundling past Victorian tenements, a couple of newsagents, a pub.

  She shifted in her seat. "Problems?" she asked.

  "Could say that."

  "Wife?"

  He said nothing.

  "Why don't you leave her? Nice guy like you. Why stick around?"

  "Not that simple."

  She put her hand on his thigh and kneaded his leg. Her fingernails, what was left of them after she'd finished biting them, were green. "You smell of booze," she said. "You drunk? You shouldn't be driving, you know."

  "I've never been more sober in my life."

  She squeezed his thigh. His leg trembled under her fingers. "You're early tonight," she said.

  He was about to tell her he'd be away for a while when a couple of drunken arses stepped off the pavement ten feet in front of the car. One of them pointed his finger and tried to look threatening. Joe pointed right back at him. Didn't brake. Why should he? The bumper clipped the imbecile on the side of the leg. Joe saw him collapse in the mirror, spinning when he hit the ground. He clutched his knee. His friend gesticulated angrily.

  "Stop the car." Tina reached into the back. "You still keep the bat here?"

  Joe slowed to a halt. "Leave them, Tina."

  "Won't be a minute." Tina grabbed Joe's baseball bat from behind the driver's seat and leapt out of the car. Joe opened the door on his side and got out and leaned against the roof. The uninjured man was shouting obscenities, ignoring his friend. Tina strode up to him and jabbed him in the gut with the end of the bat. As he bent over, winded, Tina stepped back and took a swing at his jaw. The bat shuddered on contact. He fell over on his side and shut up.

  His friend looked at Tina, both hands clasping his knee. "Jesus," he said.

  Ignoring him, Tina grabbed his unconscious friend by the trouser leg and dragged him partially onto the pavement. Joe walked away from the car. Approached her slowly. She was struggling with the dead weight. He placed his hand on her elbow. "Let me do it," he said.

  She shook his hand off. "Take this." She gave him the baseball bat, then grabbed the other leg and hoisted the rest of the poor sod off the road. Tina offered her hand to the unconscious man's friend. He shook his head. Scrabbled to his feet. He waddled onto the pavement, tucked his head under his arm and started to cry.

  "Okay, now?" Joe held out his hand and Tina's fingers brushed against his. "Let's go," he said. They went back to the car. She insisted on driving. He sat back and closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the engine.

  "You going to put that away?" she asked him.

  Opening his eyes, he saw her glance at the baseball bat lodged between his knees. He picked it up and lobbed it over the back of the seat.

  She ran her hand through her hair. She had thick hair. Not like Ruth, whose hair was so thin that in places you could see her scalp through it. Probably from dyeing it all these years.

  He put his hand on Tina's bare leg. It was cold and smooth. He let his hand ride up her skirt.

  "You want me to stop the car and blow you? You pay for it, Bob. You ought to try it some time."

  He shook his head. He felt like going home to his bed. Cuddling up to his crazy wife. Falling asleep. But he could hardly do that, could he? What he wanted was to speak to somebody who knew Gemma. Tina was okay, but she didn't know his daughter. Cooper, maybe? Cooper knew her as well as anybody. He'd known her all her life. Yeah, he'd go see Cooper in a bit. Joe rummaged in his pocket, extracted his wallet and opened it. He counted a thousand pounds in twenties.

  "I'm not going to be around for a while," he said.

  "I might miss you."

  "Might?" He laughed. "You say the nicest things." He started counting the money again. Exactly a grand. Gently, he prized her hand off the steering wheel and pressed the money into her palm.

  "What's that for?"

  "Being so kind," he said.

  She leaned across and kissed him on the cheek.

  Tenderness. You get it where you can. Even if you have to pay for it.

  She drove to her flat, saying she wanted to bury the money he'd given her. She probably meant it literally. Under the floorboards or somewhere.

  She invited Joe in. He accepted. Cooper could wait. Joe had only been to Tina's flat once before and he'd been so drunk he remembered her bedroom, but not much else.

  In the hallway she flicked on the light, then hiked up her skirt and started to walk towards the sitting room with her arse jutting out.

  "Don't," he told her.

  She gave him a look he couldn't classify. Push him and he'd say she was disappointed, but she couldn't be, could she? After all this time. She wriggled back into her skirt. He followed her into the sitting room. Too tidy. It looked unlived in. A fitted kitchen was crammed into the right-hand third of the room. The surfaces were spotless and he c
ouldn't smell the slightest trace of cooking. Maybe she never cooked. Dined out every night. A different punter each time.

  "Drink?" She was bending over the fridge, holding one of those baby bottles of Stella. He nodded. She closed the fridge door and investigated a few random drawers before she found what she was looking for. "Got the bugger." Joe smiled when she brandished the bottle opener. She levered the top off the bottle and the beer fizzed. Joe slumped onto the settee. She put the bottle opener back in the drawer and handed him the bottle. She said, "Just going to put the money somewhere safe," and disappeared from the room.

  Joe pressed the chilled bottle to his cheek and stared at the blank television screen in front of him. Before long, Tina returned and joined him on the settee. He yawned.

  "Want me to open a window?" she said. "Fresh air might keep you awake."

  He shook his head. "Got a fag?" He took a mouthful of beer.

  She snapped open her handbag and dug out a pack of Silk Cut. "Didn't know you smoked." She offered him the pack.

  He took one of her cigarettes and put it between his lips. He'd given up more than two years ago. "Light?"

  She pointed an orange disposable at his face. He leaned closer. Sucked. The smoke bit the back of his throat. He coughed, eyes watering. He coughed again. She was laughing at him.

  "Fuck it," he said. "Been a long time. Too long. You have it."

  She took the cigarette from him and pasted it to her lips. "This is how us pros do it." She tilted her head back, puckered her mouth and launched a smoke ring towards the ceiling.

  His throat felt like it was stuffed with sandpaper, but at least he'd stopped coughing. He wiped his eyes and took a long swig of beer.

  "What's the matter?" she said. "Wish you'd tell me."

  "You got more beer?" He wished he could tell her, too. He'd have to go soon. Speak to Cooper. About Gem.

  She fetched another beer from the fridge. Got the bottle opener. Brought both items over to him. She sat down and kicked off her shoes. The straps left welts on her feet. Her toenails were green like her fingernails. "Well?"

  "I saw a kid back there. When I was looking for you. Looked like she should be at school. Or doing her homework."

  "That'll be Kylie. Runaway from Dundee."

  "I've never seen a kid soliciting, Tina."

  "Showed up last month. Three of them." Smoke trickled out of her mouth. She licked her lips. "Don't know the other two. They claim they're sixteen."

  "Not the ones with her tonight. They were old enough to know what they were doing."

  "No, the other two look like schoolgirls. I think they're local."

  "Shit," Joe said. "What's going on?"

  She leaned her head back and took a deep drag. "The older girls say it was almost unheard of before the police closed down the tolerance zone." She blew smoke at the ceiling. "You couldn't work underage in a monitored zone. Couldn't get away with it."

  The police introduced the tolerance policy in the early eighties. You wanted a shag, you went to Leith's Coburg Street. Worked beautifully for nearly two decades. Then, last year, local residents forced the police to designate a new tolerance zone in Salamander Street. For Joe, it was a bloody nuisance. It lasted little more than two weeks before the police shut down the zone permanently. Which, for Joe, was an even bigger bloody nuisance.

  Still, he coped. The more pernicious consequence was that the city, virtually free of child prostitution for nearly twenty years, was in danger of reintroducing something that made Joe's stomach turn.

  "Kids," he muttered. He faced Tina on the settee, suddenly feeling depressed enough to cry. He changed the subject before he embarrassed himself. "When my wife told me she was pregnant," he said, "I was angry."

  "Not surprised," Tina said. "No offence, but you're getting on a bit."

  "I'm talking twenty years ago. Round about the time the police introduced the original tolerance zone."

  "My mistake." She grabbed his beer and took a swig. Handed it back. "Go on."

  "I didn't want a baby," he said. "Too young to be a father, you know. Too irresponsible. Too busy having a good time."

  "Down Coburg Street."

  "Piss off. Not then."

  "Piss off yourself," she said. "Baby wasn't planned, I take it?"

  "Hardly."

  "Were you married?"

  "Nearly a year."

  "Was it good?"

  He looked at Tina. He'd enjoyed her company at least once a week for the last couple of years, but he'd never studied her face before. Glossy orange lipstick thickened her lips. Her nose was too big and had been broken in a couple of places. Dark blue mascara hooded her eyes. She was hardly what you'd describe as pretty. Pretty girls worked the lap dancing circuit if they could. The Fantasy Bar, Bottoms Up, Hooters. Best of the lot was the Western Bar, where the girls got to keep all the money they made. He studied Tina. No, maybe not so pretty, but she could handle herself, though. She'd been something else with that baseball bat.

  "Stop staring."

  "Piss off," he said. "Any more beer?"

  "You're delightful company tonight." She got up again. Opened the fridge door. "Last one."

  "Sometimes I wonder why Ruth married me," he said as she brought him the beer.

  "More to the point, why did you marry her?"

  "That would be telling." He gulped down half the contents of the bottle.

  "Why do I bother asking?" She put her arm round him and he let his head fall against her neck. "You can't even tell me your real name, Bob." She smelled of cheap perfume and smoke. "Even though you know mine."

  He sat up and drank the rest of the beer. "I prefer Tina."

  "And what's wrong with Ruth?"

  "You wouldn't want to know." He should talk to Ruth. The other one. Yep, if he wanted to talk to someone who knew his daughter, he should talk to his wife. Not Cooper. Maybe, he thought as he stood up, he was just a little bit drunk.

  FOUR

  Ruth, his wife, his delightful wife, was in the kitchen. Ah, bless her, the wee bundle of joy, she'd changed her clothes. She was sitting at the table, slouched over like she was suffering from stomach cramp, a mug of tea cradled in the bosom of her black dress. Man, could she suffer. Her eyes were crimson. Scattered on the table in front of her were half a dozen travel brochures. Joe could make out the covers of only three: Andalusia, Morocco, Tunisia. Her favorite holiday locations. Time to run away, was it? Her daughter was dead and Ruth was planning a holiday. She never faced anything.

  He dragged out a chair, sat down opposite her and tried to be kind. His tongue felt thick. "You shouldn't be on your own."

  Slowly, she lifted the mug to her mouth. She slurped, gasped, set down the mug. Her gaze drifted towards him. "You're so considerate."

  He waited a moment, then said, "What happened to Gem?"

  She held his gaze for a couple of seconds. Then she looked into her mug. "I don't believe you." She lowered her head and he noticed she was developing a cracker of a bald patch at the crown. Her head jerked upright. Spit flew out of her mouth when she said, "I don't believe you." Her face was screwed up, old, ugly. "You're a" — her hands flew into the air, fingers spread — "bastard, Joe."

  He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. When he took his hands away the overhead light seemed unnaturally bright. He looked up at it and winced. When he looked back down again she was staring at him, her upper lip curled. Her face was still old and ugly.

  She said through quivering lips, "Don't you care that your daughter's dead?"

  "I'm asking," he said. "What happened?"

  "You've got a cheek. You know it's your fault."

  He waited a moment. "I was nowhere near her. How can it have been my fault?"

  "She left because of you."

  "Bollocks."

  "Why do you think she left, then?"

  He stood up. "I don't have to listen to this shit."

  "You wish, Joe. You bloody wish."

  "What do you mean, she
left because of me?" He sat down again.

  "She was unhappy. You didn't talk to her about it."

  "I would have." He ran his hand through his hair. It felt thin, more like Ruth's every day. "I would have. What do you mean? Talked to her about what? I didn't know she wanted to talk. She didn't say anything."

  "How could you not know?"

  He tapped his fingers against his brow. "Why — why didn't she say? Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Why do you think she left university? Why do you think she left home and went to live on some godforsaken island with a relative she hardly knows?" Saliva gathered at the edges of her mouth. "Because she was happy?"

  Joe turned away. "What was upsetting her?"

  "I don't know." Ruth squeezed her mug between her hands. "Something happened. She wouldn't tell me what."

  "She wouldn't have—"

  "She would. You dumb bastard. You know she would have told you anything."

  "If she didn't tell you—"

  "Joe, she loved you." Ruth banged her fist against her heart. "God knows why, but she loved you."

  He felt as if all the blood had drained from his body. "Why didn't she say something? If there was a problem." He swallowed. "She should have said."

  "You never asked."

  "I didn't know. Fucking hell. I didn't know anything was wrong. Why would I ask?"

  "You should have."

  "Well, I didn't, you dozy bitch. How many times do I have to tell you?"

  "If you'd paid attention, maybe she wouldn't be dead." Ruth jumped to her feet and slung the mug at him. It missed, crashed into the cooker behind him and exploded. The side of his face was wet. He stretched his tongue towards his cheek. Cold, strong, black tea. Veins of dark brown liquid trailed across the pine table, bunching at the bottom edge of Ruth's travel brochure for Morocco. He looked sideways at the floor. Puddles of tea swelled on the linoleum.

  "Was that a full cup?" he asked. "Or don't I deserve that much wastage?"

  Her shoulders rocked up and down, the only indication that she might be laughing. Of course, she might equally be crying. "Actually," she said, "I'd drunk hardly any of it."