The Half Life Of Stars Part 11

'I found a letter among Daniel's things,' I say, pulling the note out of my bag. 'It's not much to go on. I just thought if I could find out who this Annie woman was, she might know something.'

'Do you mind if I take a look?'

I hand the note over to Chloe. She takes an age to read through it.

'Well,' she says, quietly, running her eyes over the words. 'It seems like your brother was...in love.'

'Can I take a look?'

She hesitates. She pa.s.ses the letter to Tom.

'Right, I see...does Kay know anything about this?'

'No, she doesn't...and I don't want her to. Not yet.'

'Of course,' says Chloe. 'It wouldn't do her any good. But we don't know any Annies, do we Tom?'

'No. I'm sorry.'

Michael studies their faces intently; he thinks he's being subtle but he's not.

'Do either of you like j.a.panese food?' he says, suddenly. 'Is sus.h.i.+ the kind of thing you like to eat?'

'Me, no, can't stand the stuff. Chloe likes it though, don't you Chloe?'

'Well, it's good for you. It's healthy.'

'She's into all that healthy stuff. I prefer a good steak and chips myself.'

Michael strokes his chin.

'So the pair of you have contrasting taste in food stuffs. Interesting, very, very interesting. Now, did either of you ever go to a restaurant called Jin Itchi in Soho? Did either of you ever go there with Daniel?'

What is he doing? Why does he have his thumb pressed into his cheekbone like that? Why is he narrowing his eyes at them? He thinks he's Columbo or something, he does. I bet he's thinking about buying himself a trench coat.

'Not me, never heard of it. Chloe?'

'No...no, I haven't. Why do you ask?'

'Well, it seems like Daniel went there a lot. Last winter, he was in there at least a couple of times a week.'

'And this is important, because?'

I distract Michael with another filo parcel and fill them in on the waitress and the Yonigeya. Tom and Chloe politely nod along.

'It's an interesting story, I'll grant you. But just a coincidence, surely?'

'I don't know, Tom, it's difficult,' I say. 'Right now it seems coincidence is all we've got.'

We pick at a croissant and drink some more coffee but it's obvious that we've outstayed our welcome. We chat a little longer, begin our goodbyes then Tom ushers us both to the door.

'If I think of anything else,' he says, 'I'll call you. And I'll see what I can dig up on this Annie woman.'

'Please. I'd appreciate it. And in the meantime...'

'Don't worry, we wouldn't dream of it. We won't breathe a word of this to Kay.'

'Well, that was odd, wasn't it?'

'Was it?'

'They seemed s.h.i.+fty the two of them, don't you think?'

'I think they were embarra.s.sed. We'd probably caught them in the middle of something.'

'You think they'd been having s.e.x?'

'I don't know, possibly.'

Michael thinks about this. For quite a long time.

'Well, I bet you a million quid that Tom knows exactly who this Annie woman is. It's obvious, I could see it in his face.'

'Why wouldn't he tell us, if he knew?'

'He's probably seeing her friend. I'll bet Tom was having a bit of extra curricular as well.'

'Tom, no, I don't think so. He doesn't seem the type.'

'Of course, that's it it. I bet they're swingers.'

'Who?'

'Tom, Chloe, Daniel, Kay. I bet it's all key parties and orgies and p.o.r.n nights and bas.e.m.e.nt dungeons round their house.'

'Seriously? This is what you think?'

'Claire, you'd be surprised what goes on,' he says, knowledgeably. 'Not sure about Daniel, he's a bit too uptight, but Kay would definitely be up for it. Those glacial women, those cool, icy blondes. They're always the most uninhibited when it comes down to it.'

And I know what this is all about with Michael. It's purely a case of wishful thinking.

The two of us agree to meet up later for a mealour first new 'date'and I head on back to my flat. I've left it in a bit of a mess. The floor is littered with clothes, record sleeves, damp towels and pizza boxes, all evidence that I've not been looking after myself properly. I've not been taking care of anything. Bills remain unpaid, emails remain unanswered and there's a stack of paperwork piled up on my makes.h.i.+ft desk. It's easy enough worksome museum pamphlets that need translatingmaybe I should bite the bullet and get down to it.

I take off my coat, light the gasfire and get into a rhythm pretty quickly: English to German, German to French, French to Italian, then back to English. It's all to do with the way that the brain works. I don't translate the words as such, I'm able to think in the language that I'm using. It feels good, actually; relaxing. It's the same when I'm translating face to face. It's easy for me. I can understand people this way, people that other people can't. Some like to call this interpreting, but I don't interpret. I translate translate. That's the whole point. It's already there, on the page or in the mouth of some other person, all I have to do is pull it out. It's easy. Clear. Uncomplicated. People tend to say what they mean in these circ.u.mstances. There's hardly any margin for error.

My work keeps me focused and occupied and it must be at least half an hour before I notice the blinking light. There's a message waiting on my answer-phone and its discovery makes my cheeks flush and tighten. I can't help hoping it's good news; I can't help thinking it might be Daniel.

'Claire...are you home yet? It's Tom. Look, it might not be much, but give me a call when you can, I just thought of something.'

Standing on the Dock at Southampton

'I was right, wasn't I? About the orgies. That's what he called you up to talk about? He wants to invite us down to their secret dungeon?'

'Yeah, Michael, that's right. That's exactly what it was.'

Michael smirks and fold his arms.

'So where are we going, then, Shorty? I thought we were going out to eat.'

'We are.'

'Where? Out of town?'

'The docks.'

Michael twists his head and stares out of the window, struggling for a moment to get his bearings.

'Docklands? Are you serious? You know it'll be way overpriced...full of bankers and city trader a.r.s.eholes and...hey, this isn't the way to docklands.'

'I didn't say dock-lands. I said the docks. Southampton to be precise.'

We are both of us freezing out here. Standing on the quayside beneath the cranes and the creaking derricks, with the wind sawing skin off our faces. It's late now, gone eleven, and the whole place appears to be deserted. s.h.i.+ps tower over us, ten storeys high, their giant hulls scabbed with flakes of rust. In the distance metal clangs hard on metal, an eerie, otherworldly sound. Proof there is life out there somewhere. Proof that the two of us are not alone.

The man we've come to meet is Alexi Resel: a sailor, a Russian, a convict; a long-forgotten name that Tom plucked from an old appointment book. Daniel's law firm is strictly legitimate. On occasion, it turns out, it's not.

'I don't know about this, Claire. I don't think this guy's going to show. We don't know who he is, we don't know what he did, we're not even sure how he knows your brother.'

We've been waiting here almost twenty minutes, but there's no way I'm letting Michael make us leave. I'll be a block of ice before he moves me. I'll be the weeds that grow out of the asphalt blocks. Tom thinks this man has information that I need and besides, it's already too late. I suspect that gaunt figure is him.

He approaches from the north of the s.h.i.+p yard: hands in deep pockets, head stuffed in hat, body stooped low against the wind. It's hard to determine his age, difficult to say exactly where he came from. The harbour entrance is in the opposite direction, so I'm guessing he must have stepped off a boat. He is lopsided, slim and slow moving; his skin so raw and weather-beaten it looks like a strip of tree bark. He wears a polo neck, waterproofs and a heavy black coat, an outfit that swamps his narrow frame. None of this makes him look any less threatening, in some ways his weaselly shape makes things worse. It feels like he's playing a trick on us, masking his strength with an elaborate ruse.

'Thomas said you know Russian?'

This is the first thing he says to me. I try hard to smile; my facial muscles weak against the wind.

'Yes,' I say. 'I do.'

He nods. From now on we'll speak only in Russian.

'I'm not meant to say anything. To anyone. I don't think I should have come.'

He says these things simply. They are facts. He doesn't look anxious in the least.

'Mr Resel, please, I'm his sister. I didn't know where else to go for help. On the phone you told Tom you might help me. You said if I came in person you might help.'

Alexi sighs hard and spits. He has a pouch of tobacco lodged deep in his ravaged cheek that's turned his saliva dark brown. He coughs and sniffs and gathers a thick glob of it between his lips. It spittoons from his mouth, high and with some speed, and lands shuddering on the dockside like the skin of a tiny chocolate custard. Michael is fascinated, disgusted, a little awed: all the more so because he can't understand what we're saying.

'This is your husband? This man?'

'No, not my husband. A friend.'

'You trust this man? I can trust him?'

'Yes, he's OK. You can trust him.'

Alexi stares at Michael, so intently it makes Michael shrink.

'I don't think I can trust this man. I don't think I have anything to say. I think you have journey for nothing.'

He turns up his collar and motions to leave, and against my better instincts I reach out and grab for his arm. I'm scared. I am. I don't know where to begin with this man and it unnerves me. I have no point of understanding; no insight into his life. I try not to think too much, to fret fret too much. Translating his words will get me through it. too much. Translating his words will get me through it.

'This is not something you should be involved with,' he says, crossly, pus.h.i.+ng my hand away. 'This is not the place for you to be.'

Michael says 'hey' and steps forward; thinks better of it, and retreats.

'I know that,' I say. 'But I'm lost here. I don't know who else I can ask.'

'If people find me talking to you, I am in trouble. Do you understand that, city girl? In your thick fur coat? Worried about your big rich brother.'

He speaks to me like I should be ashamed. I swallow hard and try again.

'My brother helped you once, didn't he? Tom said that he helped you in some way.'

'Yes,' he says, staring at me. 'He saved my life.'

'Maybe you could tell me about that?' I say, gently.

'Maybe you don't want to know.'

It's galling how little you can know a person. Unimaginable that my brother should know a man like this. Daniel so upright and proper and prim, friends with a man like Alexi Resel. Maybe friends.h.i.+p is pus.h.i.+ng it too far. These are simply two men that came across one other. Alexi when he needed a lawyer, my brother pulled in to do a favour for a friend. Tom doesn't even know the full story. All that he told me, all that he knows, is that Alexi was once accused of murder.

'Tom says it wasn't your fault...the man who died. He says that it was a s.h.i.+pping accident.'

'You think so, city girl? Is that what you heard? How do you know it wasn't my fault? When the winch flew out and cracked his skull in two, how do you know it was not on purpose? When his brains fell out onto the dock. When they shrank and puckered and cooked from the salt, perhaps I planned for this to happen to this man.'

'Did you?'