Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

a gulp and feels the whisky burn as it scorches his sore throat: a peach-stone of repressed emotion all but blocking off his airways. He starts to type a message to Shonagh. Something poetic, he thinks. Something that shows she can still inspire him. Starts to think about the ways she makes him feel, deep down, beneath the endless layers of shared experiences and the drudgery of two decades of co-habitation. Has an image of a paper lantern. That soft, dusky glow: warmth and light, inviting but fragile; ethereal against the darkness. Wonders if he is feeling it, or imagining it, or plagiarizing it from something once read, and drains his glass before he can type a single word.

Tenses as he senses a presence behind him. Glances at the barmaid, who is staring at whoever is behind him. She likes what she sees, that’s clear enough.

‘Mr Orton?’

The voice has a local accent. Yorkshire, with a touch of something entirely unique. Rufus turns and looks into the handsome face of a well-dressed man in his thirties. He’s wearing a silvery-grey suit over a white shirt and thin red tie, and it hangs the way it would on a model. He’s slim, but he has the toned physique of an athlete. With his shaved head and angular jaw, brown eyes and perfect eyebrows, he looks as though he could be anything from a businessman to an enforcer for a drugs baron.

‘Who wants to know?’ asks Rufus, hoping that it will sound frivolous and charming.

The man doesn’t smile. ‘I do,’ he says, and reaches into his back pocket. Dangles a plastic lanyard in front of Rufus’s face as if trying to hypnotize him with a pocket watch. ‘Detective Constable Ben Neilsen. Humberside Police. I think you and I could do with a chat.’

Rufus falls into character. ‘Goodness! I’m, erm, well, of course … you’ll forgive me if I’m a little startled … haven’t spoken to a Rozzer since university – a little hoo-hah about climbing onto the roof of the bursar’s office … high jinks, eh? Years ago now, of course …’

The officer watches the performance with a little twitch of a smile on his face. Rufus realizes he’s not fooling anybody – just making a prat of himself.

‘Your glass is empty,’ says Neilsen, when Rufus rattles to a halt. ‘Let me fill it up and we’ll go have a sit down and a bit of a natter, eh?’

Rufus looks at the empty glass. Philosophically speaking, he’s always believed that any glass which isn’t entirely full, is perilously close to being empty. He nods. Changes his order from Bell’s to single malt.

‘Double,’ he instructs, pointedly.

The detective nods. Looks him up and down. Clocks the cuts and bruises. ‘You been in the wars, Mr Orton? Is that what Suggs did to you?’

Rufus doesn’t even take the time to think about it. Lies as easily as blinking. ‘Yep. Stinging a bit, but such is life. A few cuts and bruises never killed anybody though, eh?’

Neilsen stares into him, considering it. Shrugs, decision made. ‘Depends where you put the knife.’

TWENTY-NINE

They take a seat at the back of the bar, shielded by the fruit machine and a little wood and glass partition. Rufus doesn’t like to sit down when he drinks in public, lest he fall asleep and not wake up without the aid of a defibrillator. But though his experience of police interviews is minimal, he fancies he would be well served by co-operating.

Neilsen loosens his tie a fraction as he sits down. He’s got himself a sparkling water with a slice of lime – a drink that Rufus fancies he could replicate by squirting disinfectant into a toilet bowl and flushing the chain. Rufus takes a small sip of his whisky. Realizes he’s going to have to make it last, and discretely lets a little flow back into the glass. He feels like a philistine for treating a fifteen-year-old malt with such contempt, but he knows he’s committed far worse crimes against decorum. Somewhere, Shonagh has a photograph of him lapping expensive champagne from a dog bowl. It might well have been taken at their wedding.

‘Serendipity,’ says Neilsen, his hands in his lap, his manner suggesting an almost Zen-like sense of self. He smiles, a pleasant sight, and explains himself. ‘I’d feared having to drive over Harrogate way to track you down. Happy accident to find you’re still the right end of the M62. Staying with Miss Harris, are you?’

Rufus makes a conscious decision to be honest for as long as it serves him well. ‘Yes, Annabeth.’

‘She not joining you for a nightcap?’ he asks, his manner becoming more relaxed with each syllable. He alters his position, one arm thrown out across the back of the neighbouring chair.

‘Helping her son with some work,’ says Rufus, smoothly. ‘I feel a bit of an intruder, if I’m honest. Will slip back after last orders. I’m never really comfortable in somebody else’s house, but I’ve definitely had too much to drive home.’

Neilsen laughs, pleasantly. ‘Definitely? There’s a grey area, is there? How many units would you consider to be worth the risk?’

Rufus feels a little silly, but plays up to it. ‘Good job I’ve nothing to hide – I’d spill my secrets in five minutes, wouldn’t I?’

Neilsen gives what looks a little like a wink. Snaps his smile off as if flicking a switch. ‘We’ll see.’

Rufus plays with his glass. Doodles on the varnished table with the condensation. He can feel his hangover creeping in at his temples and the base of his skull – a horrible feeling when still unforgivably drunk. He stops being so genial. Meets the hard face with one of his own. ‘So,’ he says, ‘what is it I can do for you?’

Neilsen takes a breath. Holds his gaze. Sips his water without looking away. Puts the glass down, then reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, flashing a burgundy lining that complements the oxblood of his hand-stitched brogues.

‘I understand there was