Dance of Ghosts by Kevin Brooks Page A

whisky. I drank half of it, topped it up, then lit a cigarette and went into the bathroom. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I was surprised to see that my face wasn’t too badly mashed up. There was an ugly red swelling on the side of my head where the first punch had landed, a deep gash above my left eye, and a nasty-looking cut on the bridge of my nose. But apart from that, and a split bottom lip, it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been.
    I drank more whisky and leaned in closer to the mirror, my attention drawn to a very faint indentation in the swollen red skin on the side of my face. When I looked even closer, I could just make out the outline of a ring-sized skull embedded in the broken skin. For some reason, I found myself smiling for a moment … but it didn’t last long. Smiling hurt too much.
    I turned to one side and cautiously examined the back of my head. It didn’t feel so good – bruised, swollen, painful to the touch – and when I took my hand away it was thick with blood. The rest of my body felt pretty bad too – my belly, sides, shoulders, legs … everything ached like hell. I opened the cupboard over the sink, found some painkillers, and swallowed them down with a mouthful of whisky. Then I turned on the shower, running it as hot as it would get, and as the steam built up, misting the mirror and opening my pores, I got undressed and looked down at my beaten-up body. It was a mess – bruised all over, swollen and discoloured, the skin cut open and red-raw in places – but, again, there didn’t seem to be any serious injuries.
    I finished my cigarette, dropped it in the toilet, and got into the shower.
    I stood there for a long time, ignoring the pain as the hot water rinsed all the blood and dirt from my skin, then I turned the shower to cold for as long as I could bear, which wasn’t long, then I got out and carefully dried myself, put on my ratty old dressing gown, went back into the front room and sank down into the armchair beneath the high window.
    Another glass of whisky, another cigarette …
    I looked at the clock.
    It was just gone midnight.
    Rain-mottled street light filtered in through the window, lifting the darkness just enough to show me the shapes of things. Shelves, furniture, walls. Things. I glanced up at the clock again, watching the second hand sketch its slow, blind circle …
    A moment in time – gone.
    And another.
    And another.
    And another …
    The seconds passed, taking too much away.
    Taking nothing.
    I was tired. Drunk. My head was throbbing. I wanted to close my eyes and not open them again until everything was all right. But I knew that nothing was ever going to be all right.
    I didn’t want to think about anything – Anna Gerrish, her mother, her father … Genna Raven, the silver-grey Renault, the faceless men who’d beaten me up. I didn’t
want
to wonder who they were or why they’d attacked me. But what else did I have to do?
    Just as I was starting to think about it though, muffled sex sounds began lumping down through the ceiling. Rhythmic creaks,
oomfs
and moans … the sounds of coupling bodies.
    Bridget and Dave.
    I turned on the television, cranked up the volume, and searched through the channels until I found something I didn’t mind too much. It was an old film, a Western – either
Rio Bravo
or
El Dorado
. I can never remember which is which. This was the one with John Wayne, Dean Martin, and Ricky Nelson … not that it really mattered. I set the volume loud enough to cover the noise from upstairs, filled my glass with whisky, and drank myself to sleep.

8
    At some point during the night I must have got up out of the armchair, turned off the television, and got into bed. I have no recollection of doing it, but when I woke up in the morning, the television wasn’t turned on any more, and I was definitely in my bed, and – as far as I knew – no one else had been in my flat. So it must have been me.
    It was still quite early, not