"Blackwater" - читать интересную книгу автора (Iggulden Conn)

CHAPTER TWO

DENIS TANTER WAS NOT the sort of man to frighten you on first meeting. In fact, when I was placed at his table during a New Year’s Eve party I hardly noticed him at first. He was short and compact, like a featherweight boxer. He’d been one in his twenties, I discovered later, and he still had the posture and freckled skin that flushed easily. He had a good grip, and red hair, which was just about all I took in before I was pulling crackers and trying to remember how I’d ended up sitting with strangers on a night meant for family. I didn’t see him as a threat and he really wasn’t at that point, not to me. I’ve met a lot of men like him over the years and they usually dismiss me after the first brief clasp of hands. I’m not one of the breed, or something. They rank me as harmless and move on. I could leave more of an impression if I tried, but I just can’t make myself care about the little rituals of life, especially between men.

Maybe that has hurt me. My wife Carol was doing her usual social duty with the other wives, sounding each other out on income, children and education. I’ve seen attractive women who can raise female hackles up to fifty yards, but Carol slips under the radar, somehow. She always dresses with a bit of class and she’s one of those who seem to be able to match earrings with a bracelet so there’s always a polished feel to her. God save us from beautiful women. They have too many advantages.

Once or twice I’ve caught the end of one of her private smiles, a glance or wink, or some more subtle signal that says ‘at least we understand’ to a complete stranger. It works to disarm women, but it also works on men. I usually see it coming, from the casual touching and standing a little too close to seeing them drive past me as I walk home. There’s nothing quite so depressing as peering into a car as it goes by in the rain. There used to be arguments. Once, when I still cared enough, I struggled with a man on wet grass until he scrambled away, leaving me with a broken nose. It’s amazing how sticky blood is when it’s on your hands.

I wouldn’t have chosen the marriage for myself, not like that. We used to scream at each other, and twice she locked me out of the house. Maybe I should have left, but I didn’t. Some people just don’t, and I can’t give you a better reason than that. I loved her then. I love her now. I know she’s scared of a thousand things – of growing old, of having children. I tell myself she takes these men into our bed when she can’t bear herself any longer and that sort of lie helps more than you might think. These days I just don’t ask her about the nights she spends away. I don’t let her come to bed until she’s washed the scent off her, and somehow we get by, year after year. I love her and I hate her, and if you don’t know how that works I really envy you.

When I was twenty-two I went with Carol to a club in Camden. I’ve known her forever, you know. My brother was with us and he had a pretty thing named Rachel on his arm, a girl who danced every Saturday at the club. She wasn’t paid for it, but they had a raised stage there and no one objected to the sight of her moving as well as she did.

That club was almost completely dark and heavy with heat and music. Whenever you thought you could catch a breath, a dry ice machine would kick in and the dance floor would fill with choking whiteness. We got ourselves drunk on large bottles of Newcastle brown ale, and when the right tune came on we climbed onto that raised section to join her. It was larger than I realized and there were people against the wall behind us as we stamped and cheered. It was hotter than you’d believe and I had my shirt off, but I was slim enough and young enough not to give a damn what anybody thought.

Some of that evening goes and comes in flashes, but I do remember my brother’s girlfriend whipping her hair round and round next to me, so that it struck my chest and shoulders hard enough to sting. I loved it.

A man came out of the shadows by the back wall and asked Carol to dance. He was short and slim and swayed slightly as he stood there. I could see he was drunk and I didn’t think he was a threat, just as I missed Denis Tanter on that first night. Maybe that’s my problem. I just don’t see these people coming.

Carol shook her head in that sweetly apologetic way she has and pointed to her loving husband, spoken for, sorry, you know how it is. He stared where she pointed before shrugging and turning away. That should have been it.

I didn’t realize anything was happening until I was struck on the back of the head. Have you ever been knocked with very little force and had it hurt like you were on fire? There are pressure points all over your body, like little traitors to your self-esteem. The way that drunk hit me was the exact opposite. I felt it had been really hard, but somehow it didn’t hurt at all. I looked around in confusion, thinking I had been bumped by someone passing by. The little bastard was standing directly behind me, his eyes shining in the strobe lights. It was Carol who shouted over the noise of the music that he’d tried to butt his head into mine.

He was completely blank with drink, and as he grinned at me I suddenly couldn’t bear it. I shoved him in the chest with both hands and he fell flat at the feet of a dozen strangers. I remember thinking that if he got up I’d have to jump down from the stage and lose myself in the crowd. I don’t fight people in clubs. I refuse to be ashamed of the fact that I don’t enjoy the rush of panic adrenalin the way others seem to.

My heart was beating so fast that I felt lightheaded and ill. Acid came into my mouth and I swallowed hard, wincing. Carol came to stand at my shoulder and the pair of us looked down at him. He still looked harmless as he lay sprawled and his grin never faltered. Even then, even though he’d gone for me already, I didn’t think he was dangerous.

My brother had managed to miss all the excitement with a trip to the bar. By the time he returned, Carol and I had moved quietly to one side of the little stage, with a solid wall to our backs. I’ve said I didn’t think he was a threat, that little man, but I didn’t want to dance with my back to him, either. My brother didn’t know anything about it, of course. He passed out the drinks and carried on dancing and whooping with the crowd. God, we were young then. He’d taken off his shirt as well, even prouder of his wiry frame than I was of mine.

I saw my attacker coming out of the darkness. My brother was dancing where I had been dancing and he was dressed almost exactly the same. The man smashed a bottle over the base of his skull and the two of them hurtled off the stage to the dance floor, parting the crowd as they fell.

I froze for a moment, and I’m not proud of that. It felt like the music had stopped, but of course it hadn’t. Carol screamed and then I moved, jumping down and grabbing hold of two slippery bodies, locked together. My brother had been taken completely by surprise, but as I heaved at them he was grunting and fighting like a madman. I could see the whites of their eyes and bared teeth. The pair of them were straining at each other’s flesh with desperate strength. I couldn’t break my brother’s grip. My hands slipped on the skin, and to my horror I realized there was a hell of a lot of blood coming from somewhere. There was broken glass everywhere and beer and blood on my hands. I reached down again, and at that moment the dry ice machine kicked in. Thick fog filled the dance floor and we all went blind.

I strained to take a breath, terrified that I was going to be punched or cut while I couldn’t see. I still had a hold of slippery skin, and somewhere below me they continued to gouge at each other in a frenzy, causing as much pain and damage as possible.

I heard the bouncers coming at last and there were pointing hands and shouting people everywhere. I felt strong arms pull me away. God knows where Carol had gone to at that point. I didn’t blame her for getting clear of it. I blamed the evil little drunk that the bouncers threw out of a back entrance.

My brother was lifted to his feet looking like a wild man. He was dazed and covered in trails of blood right down his bare chest. The bouncers took him to their own bathroom somewhere in the back of the club, and I went with him to wash the muck off my hands. It really is amazing how blood can gum up your fingers. Even a small amount can go further than you think.

We were alone in that echoing bathroom and I felt like an actor behind the stage. The music had continued right through what happened and we could still hear the thumping rhythms, though they were far away. All right, I hadn’t been involved, but I’d been afraid and I was bloody. I felt like I’d survived a battle. Away from the crowds and the danger my spirits rose quickly enough, even when I saw the gash in his neck from the bottle. It seeped sluggishly, producing a dark, heavy trail that would not be staunched.

He looked at it in the mirror and I saw how pale he’d gone.

‘We should get you to hospital, for stitches,’ I told him. He was still stunned and I didn’t want him to ask why he’d been attacked by a maniac for no reason. I knew it should have been me and I felt enough relief and guilt to be lightheaded.

When he turned to me, I could see he was raging. I handed him a wad of toilet paper for his neck.

‘He could have killed me,’ he said, dabbing at the wound while he stared back at himself in the mirror. ‘Where did he go?’

‘He’ll be long gone by now,’ I replied. ‘The bouncers threw him out.’ He shrugged, pulling on his shirt over the pad of tissues. He swore as he saw his trousers had been gashed and that there was more blood staining the cloth.

‘He owes me,’ he said.

I followed him out.

He should have gone home, that man, whatever his name was. He shouldn’t have been standing at a bus stop only fifty yards from the club. That was his second mistake of the evening, and sometimes just one can get you killed. When he saw my brother stalking towards him, he should have run, he really should. Instead, he just grinned the same soft grin, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

My brother hit him hard enough to put him down, cutting his knuckles on the man’s teeth. Then he kicked him as he lay there, twice before he even curled up. I should have stopped it then. Hell, I should have stopped him leaving the club and just insisted on taking him to hospital. I didn’t, though. I wanted a little revenge as well. I could have been killed that evening. I’m not proud of it, but there was a debt to be paid.

Another kick to the head and it should have been over, but two more muted thumps kept him down. I couldn’t see the man’s face, and I didn’t want to. I was slow holding my brother back, but in the end, when it was late, I did. I take comfort from that. I am not him, even when I’m full of anger and spite. I am not. He would have kicked that man to death. Maybe he did.

We left him there on the pavement and I did take my brother to hospital to be stitched and flirted with by a nurse. I read the next day’s papers looking for news of a killing in Camden, near the Underworld club. There was nothing.

When we met Denis, Carol still drew men in when she was hungry, though she’d learned a few things about keeping them at arm’s length as well. For years I hadn’t had to deal with one of her hangers-on, those peculiar males who would pretend to be a caring colleague or a friend while they waited for her to fall into bed with them. It was usually enough to have a quiet word, just to let them know I knew. I didn’t need help until we met Denis Tanter. Even then it might have been enough to turn a blind eye to a few afternoons in hotels until she had scratched her itch.

You think the first time is going to kill you, but it just doesn’t. The night is the worst one of your life, but when sleep does come it turns off your imagination. You wake up the next day and she’s there making breakfast and everything is all right again. I could have lived with that, I knew I could. The problem with Denis Tanter was that he wanted Carol all to himself.