Read Online Cold Light by John Harvey - Free Book Online Page A

Cassette . What he still had to acquire was a CD player.
    But there he’d been, not so many days before, sauntering down from Canning Circus into town, sunshine, one of those clear blue winter skies, and glancing into the window of Arcade Records he had seen it. Among the Eric Clapton and the Elton John, a black box with the faintest picture of Billie on its front; ten CDs and a two-hundred-and-twenty-page book, seven hundred minutes of music, a numbered, limited edition, only sixteen thousand pressed worldwide.
    Worldwide, Resnick had thought; only sixteen thousand worldwide. That didn’t seem an awful lot of copies. And here was one, staring up at him, and a bargain offer to boot. He had his check book but not his check card. “It’s okay,” the owner had said, “I think we can trust you.” And knocked another five pounds off the price.
    Resnick had spent much of the morning, between readying the duck for the oven, peeling the potatoes, and cleaning round the bath, looking at it. Holding it in his hand. Billie Holiday on Verve . There is a photograph of her in the booklet, New York City, 1956: a woman early to middle-age, no glamour, one hand on her hip, none too patiently waiting, a working woman, c’mon now, let’s get this done. He closes his eyes and imagines her singing—“Cheek to Cheek” with Ben Webster, wasn’t that fifty-six? “Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me.” “We’ll Be Together Again.” The number stamped on the back of Resnick’s set is 10961.
    So much easier to look again and again at the booklet, slide those disks from their brown card covers, admire the reproductions of album sleeves in their special envelope, easier to do all of this than take the few steps to the mantelpiece and the card that waits in its envelope, unopened. A post mark, smudged, that might say Devon; the unmistakable spikiness of his ex-wife’s hand.
    The duck was delicious, strongly flavored, fatty yet not too fat. Certainly Dizzy had thought so, up on to the table with a spring before Resnick had noticed, enjoying his share of breast, a little leg, happy finally to be chased off down the garden, jaws tight around a wing.
    Resnick sliced away the meat from where the black cat had eaten and shared it amongst the others, Miles rearing up on his hind legs, Bud pushing his head against Resnick’s shins, Pepper patient by his bowl.
    As well as those he had set to roast around the bird, Resnick had cooked potatoes separately and mashed them with some swede, sprinkled that with paprika, poured on sour cream. Sprouts he had blanched in boiling water before finishing in the frying pan with slices of salami, cut small. Polish sausage he had simmered in beer until it was swollen and done.
    He had not long finished foraging for his second helping when Marian Witczak called him on the phone. “Charles, how are you? I have been meaning all day to wish you a merry Christmas, but, I don’t know, somehow it has all been so busy.”
    Resnick pictured her, alone in the extravagant Victoriana of her house across the city, drinking Christmas toasts to long-departed Polish heroes, pale sherry in fragile crystal glasses; sitting down, perhaps, to play a little Chopin at the piano before taking some general’s memoir or some book of old photographs down from the shelf.
    â€œSo, Charles, you must tell me, my presents, what did you think?”
    They were still on the hall chest, neat in their snowy paper, white and red ribbon tied with bows.
    â€œMarian, I’m sorry, thank you. Thank you very much.”
    â€œYou really like them?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œIf only you knew how much time I spent deciding, well, I think you might be surprised. But the colors, the design, it had to be just right.”
    Socks? Resnick thought. A tie?
    â€œEven so, I have kept the receipt. Should you decide to take it back and exchange