Dead Point Read Online Free Page B

every stride, long legs flashing, pale legs.
    ‘Jesus, women,’ said Warren, tone pure resentment now. ‘Fucking looks, all the bastard’s got is looks.’
    ‘For some things,’ I said, ‘all you need is looks. The key to the garage, he have that on him?’
    He said nothing.
    I looked upon the empty winter street, trees penand-ink lines against the sky, first hint of closure now, the imperceptible dimming of the light that some part of the cortex recognises.
    Nothing more to be gained from this encounter. I said my thanks. Warren didn’t seem eager to leave the comfort of the old, squat American V-8 beast.
    I said, ‘Warren, Robbie, any form?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘A person of interest?’
    He didn’t congratulate me on my intelligence, opened his door. ‘Thought you’d never ask,’ he said. ‘As I understand it, definitely. The car that attended, they called in, next thing two drug squad heavies are there, the uniform boys are back on the road.’
    I said, ‘I’m not cross-examining here but are you still saying they actually believe this bloke’s an OD?’
    Warren turned to me, a shrug, his eyebrows went dot, dash, dot, dash above the friendly salesman’s eyes. ‘Believe?’ he said. ‘I dunno what they believe. Believe in a Big Mac and large fries. They
say
there’s nothin says anythin else. What they
believe
I haven’t got a clue, mate.’
    ‘Any chance of a snap of the bloke?’ Cyril didn’t have one.
    He sighed. ‘I’ll see. Duty calls. Cheers.’
    I watched him go. He crossed the street, walked down some distance, crossed back and went to his car. He didn’t drive off immediately, waited a while. A cautious man. Still, there was every reason to be cautious if the drug squad was involved in the matter of Robbie Colburne.

The Prince of Prussia was busy for a Thursday evening, any evening, at least twelve customers. To the left of the street door, a table of young people in black and shades of grey lowered the average age of the patrons by about 25 years. As I came in the person nearest to me, a cropped-haired blonde, said, ‘I mean, he’s too
exhausted
for sex and then I get up to pee, it’s like 2.30 a.m., he’s on the net perving at this bondage porn. Extreme bondage. It’s his net-pal in Canada tied up like a salami. How gross is that?’
    ‘Well, the net’s essentially a passive medium,’ said the woman next to her.
    ‘This was active,’ said the blonde. ‘He was interacting. I know interacting when I see it.’
    I didn’t move, looked around the room. The Fitzroy Youth Club were in position at the far end of the bar, within easy reach of the door marked GENTS.
    At the black and grey table, a shaven-headed man, scalp the colour of the underside of an old tortoise, said, ‘I can tell you guys worse.’
    I couldn’t go without knowing worse, couldn’t move.
    ‘I had this partner,’ said the man, fat finger pushing at his round dark glasses, ‘he comes home, he’s faceless, right, he’s with this Arab taxi driver and he goes: “Meet Ahmed or whatever, he’s your co-driver for the night.”’
    A thin woman with a beaky nose leaned forward, shook her head and made a contemptuous sound. ‘Worse? Jesus, grow up, I’ll give you worse.’
    Conquering my desire to hear baldy’s poignant tale eclipsed by some other speakable act of sexual unmannerliness, I moved to join the three men at the end of the battered bar. They were not young, not shaven-headed, not in black or fashionable shades of grey. They were ancient and in colours from the chewing tobacco, snuff and washed-out old mauve cardigan end of the spectrum. Of depravity, they could know a great deal: more than 230 years of experience sat in this brown corner.
    ‘So, Jack,’ said Norm O’Neill, nodding at my reflection in the speckled mirror we faced, ‘deignin to grace us with your presence.’
    I said, ‘I don’t have anywhere else to go.’
    ‘Had to take a taxi,’ said Eric Tanner, the man next to him.