The meanest Flood

her own body tilt towards spasm as she imagined the abandoned shrieking of her son.
    ‘Mum,’ Hannah said, handing her the telephone. ‘Are you deaf? It’s been ringing for ages.’
    Alice took the phone and put it to her ear. Her hand was shaking. She didn’t want news. If it was the worst news she didn’t know how she would cope with it. Rather, she knew that she wouldn’t cope at all. She didn’t want Hannah to see her mother implode, to see her disintegrate while listening to a voice on the telephone. ‘Hello,’ she said. Her own voice seemed as though it came from elsewhere in the room. It was as if her various body parts and organs were distributed in the spaces around her. There was little cohesion to the Alice she’d thought herself to be. Her skin no longer seemed to contain her. ‘Mrs Richardson?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘My name’s Bonner. I’m an associate of Sam Turner.’
    ‘Sam,’ Alice said. ‘Is he there? Can I speak to him?’
    ‘No, he’s not here at the moment,’ the voice said. Croaky, hesitant. ‘It’s about your son.’
    ‘Yes?’ Alice’s voice was a whisper, her eyes wide open. ‘Sam wants you to go to his house. You know where that is?’ The man said something else but his voice faded as an obstruction in the airways gobbled up his words. ‘What?’ Alice said. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘Do you know where Sam lives?’
    ‘Yes, I heard that. I know where he lives, but you said something else.’
    ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
    ‘Is Conn all right?’
    ‘I’m sure he is, but Sam will explain. You’re to go there right away.’
    There was a click as the party at the other end switched off his mobile. ‘Wait,’ Alice said. ‘Is Conn there? Is he with Sam? What is this all about?’
    The dialling tone in her ear. She looked at the phone and put it back in its cradle. She got her coat and slipped her boots on and walked towards the stairs. She turned back for an instant to talk to her daughter. ‘I’m going out.’
    ‘Where?’ Hannah said. ‘What’ll I tell Dad?’
    ‘I’ll be at Sam’s house.’
    ‘Sam’s house?’
    ‘Sam Turner. Conn’s all right. He’s with Sam.’
     

39
     
    The only positive thing you could say about the house was that it was clean and tidy. The magician didn’t think much of the area. Densely populated by socio-economic class IV and V whites, net curtains everywhere, young, very young women with babies. Everyone in the street wearing trainers. There were a group of youths standing outside a video shop when Danny arrived and it had been as if someone had tapped each of them on the shoulder simultaneously. A silence fell and they turned as one to watch his approach. Danny kept going, didn’t flinch. He could see the idea of a mugging forming in one or two of their brains but his charisma kept him safe.
    Sam Turner’s terraced house was at the quiet end of the street. It had a fresh coat of paint and the magician let himself in through the front door. He shook his head at the simplicity of it. His opponent was a private detective who had, apparently, never heard of a three-lever lock.
    Apart from a small kitchen area the ground floor contained a table and three chairs, off in one corner was a desk with the other chair from the dining set, and a couple of easy chairs in front of a small wood-burning stove. One wall was shelved with books and videos and CDs, and a small CD player was standing at the back of the desk. The telephone was hanging on the wall next to a black and white portrait of a laughing young woman. Probably the man’s latest partner.
    There were some papers on the desk but the magician collected all of these together and placed them in a drawer. He put his bag on the chair by the desk. He took out a length of green nylon rope and his shining bayonet. He removed a new face-cloth and a roll of masking tape and placed all of these articles on the desk.
    He hyperventilated for a while, squatting on the floor and taking short shallow breaths, then, leaving the bayonet where it was, he took the rope, the face-cloth and the masking tape upstairs and placed them neatly on Sam Turner’s bedside table next to a paperback novel by Henning Mankell. The bed was unmade and on the floor were a discarded T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. The magician curled his upper lip in distaste.
    Shortly after he rang the woman called Alice Richardson there was a knock on the door. Danny stood behind the curtain and looked out of