The street lights are flickering on as I walk onto the small triangle of grass. The man I’d spoken to earlier about subletting a flat had chosen this place to meet. I’d tried to suggest somewhere but he’d been adamant: his rules or not at all.
We’d hardly spoken on the drive, the frustration at finding we’d been chasing a dead man keeping us both self-contained. It also threw into stark relief just how much we’ve got riding on this meet yielding results; if this fails, then we’ve got pretty much nothing. Also, I’ve not been able to sneak away and top up today, and I’m starting to feel a little jittery.
Which is bad because now all I have to do is wait. I choose a bench and try to look the part. Vermeer had earlier critiqued my attire, but as I’d stepped out of the car she’d commented that I actually looked the part. I gave her the middle finger, which just made her smile. All told, I’m starting to like her.
The air seems to be thickening around me. There’s an overflowing bin nearby and something’s rustling inside it. A young couple stroll hand in hand, oblivious to anything but each other. It reminds me I’m due to meet Sabine in a couple of hours. Which leads me on to Tanya, what Nellie had said earlier. I shouldn’t be feeling guilty about meeting Sabine, and yet there it is: guilt in all its ugly self-torturing, gut-churning glory. It swirls around me, swirls inside me, and before I know what I’m doing I’ve pulled my phone out and am thumb-typing a message to Tanya, which, once started, never seems to end. I read it back, then delete it all. My clammy hands shake as I put my phone away. An old man carrying a crumpled plastic bag shuffles painfully past and a young woman on a moped drones by.
A few minutes later a man slides onto the bench next to me. He’s short, wearing a similar tracksuit to the man Rashid had ID’d. He smells like he hasn’t washed in a while. He’s got a black string bracelet and doesn’t look at me when he speaks.
‘Help you?’
‘We spoke earlier about the flat.’
‘What you need?’ he asks.
‘I need to rent my flat,’ I tell him.
‘What you need, heroin, crack, meth?’ he says again.
‘I’m good,’ I tell him.
‘Heroin?’ he asks one more time.
I shake my head.
He finally takes a long, disappointed look at me, then gets up and walks away.
Half an hour later I send the man I’m waiting for a message, asking where he is. The little bubble pops up so I know he’s typing a response. It seems to take an age before disappearing again. I wait for the message but none comes. I wait a few more minutes, the jitteriness increasing with each passing moment, before deciding I’ve waited long enough.
I reach the car, parked three streets away to avoid detection, where Vermeer’s just finishing yet another phone conversation. She hangs up when she spots me, and, seeing the look on my face, gets out. Not for the first time I wonder who it is she’s always talking to.
‘No show?’ she asks.
I shake my head.
‘This case,’ she finally says. ‘Jesus. What now?’
‘I don’t know. I feel like we’re hitting a wall here.’
‘There must be a way to find this guy. He can’t have just disappeared –’
My phone goes off.
‘Hang on, maybe this is him.’ I pull it out to see it’s a message from the man. It’s almost eloquent in its simplicity.
FUCK U COP
It’s followed moments later by a second message, a smiling turd emoji.
It starts as a simultaneous pressing in and a swelling up from somewhere deep inside. My heart’s racing, I’m freezing hot, I feel sick as the raging black wolf erupts inside me. The jitteriness goes into overdrive. My vision clouds as I blaze to black …
I’m trembling, sitting on the kerb. I can hear barking. My heart ramps up again, before I realize it has passed. The barking is Kush in the car.
‘Jesus,’ Vermeer says.
She’s sitting beside me, and she removes her arm, which I now sense was over my shoulders. ‘You okay?’
There’s a weird taste in my mouth, sour and metallic.
‘Yeah … I’m all right.’
She looks at me. There’s concern there. Doubt too. She hands me my phone, the corner dented, the screen snaked with jagged cracks.
‘You threw it at the ground,’ she says in explanation. I press the home button and the screen still lights up, the messages still just visible.
‘Guess that Oscar isn’t in the running after all,’ Vermeer says, having looked at them.
I take a big, long breath in. I put my head back and stare at the sky.