The Glister by John Burnside Read Free Book Online Page B

project. That's the last thing they need.” He listened for a second, trying to judge the quality of Morrison's faraway silence. He seemed satisfied. “I think we're agreed on the best way to handle this,” he said. “You just stay there. My people will be right with you.”
    Twenty minutes later, a man whom Morrison recognized vaguely as Jenner arrived in a black van. He was dressed in a suit and tie, but he looked like a ditchdigger, with his huge hands and his flat nose. He parked the car by the telephone box and got out. “You must be Morrison,” he said. He had that air of calculated affability that let you know he didn't give a fuck about you or anybody else.
    Morrison nodded. “I really think Mr. Smith—”
    Jenner laughed. “Mr. Smith doesn't do this line of work,” he said. “That's why he's got people like us.” He looked Morrison up and down in the half-light. “Well,” he said, “people like me, anyway.”
    Morrison wasn't offended. He felt sick to his stomach by now, and he was beginning to understand what he had done. Being insulted by a navvy in a suit was the least of his problems. “Listen,” he said, “maybe we should take a step back—”
    Jenner took hold of his arm. “It's all right,” he said. “Just show me where the kid is, and I'll sort it out.”
    “But what do we tell his family?” Morrison said, trying to slip his arm free.
    Jenner tightened his grip. “We don't tell anybody anything,” he said. “Mr. Smith asked me to make it very, very clear to you that this is strictly entre nous.” He leaned closer. Morrison could smell his aftershave now, and he felt sicker than ever. “Is that very, very clear?” he asked.
    Morrison nodded. He was trying to remember what entre nous meant. “Clear,” he said finally, pulling his arm free just as the man let go.
    “Good,” Jenner said, cheerfully. “Now. Where's this body?”

    After he had been shown to the den among the trees, Jenner told Morrison that he wasn't needed anymore, and the only full-time policeman on the east peninsula walked back up to the road in a haze of exhaustion and misgivings. He didn't look back. Two days later, he had called Smith, to find out what he was supposed to do next, but Smith's secretary said he was away on business.
    “When will he be back?” Morrison asked. He knew she was lying, and he knew that she knew he knew.
    There was a moment's hesitation at the other end of the line, before the woman answered. He recognized her voice, she was a woman he had known in school, but he had to think for a few seconds before he could place her. Elaine Harris. That was it. A plain girl, with very pronounced grayish freckles on her arms and face. “He'll call you on his return,” Elaine said, her voice flat and slightly hard. By her tone, Morrison could tell she was looking to someone—probably not Smith, maybe Jenner—waiting for instructions.
    “It's quite important,” Morrison said. “It's police business.” He felt stupid as soon as he said it, as if he were making an idle threat and, at the same time, playing a role for which he wasn't quite right.
    “He will certainly call you on his return,” Elaine Harris said and, before Morrison could think of what to say next, she hung up.
    For a long time after that, Morrison had wanted to quit. His small world had fallen to pieces, and he didn't know how to put it back together again. He felt as though someone had broken into his body in the night and switched everything to its lowest setting: his blood, his heart, his nervous system—they were all just barely working, just ticking over. Every now and then, when he was alone, sitting at his desk or lying awake in the middle of the night, alone even when Alice was lying right next to him, it came to him that he would probably live like this for another thirty or forty years, then die without anyone even noticing. He lost interest in work, in his garden, in Alice. She seemed to want to help but, as