Read Online Devil in the Wires by Tim Lees - Free Book Online Page A

fireworks, eh?”
    â€œTraffic’s bad,” I said. It wasn’t, but I didn’t want him hurrying me.
    â€œYou should have taken the train, Chris. Much quicker.” He mumbled something which may have been a swearword. Then he said, “I can’t stress the importance of this. If there’s anything you know about this Dayling chap—­anything he said, or hinted at, or said as a joke, even, or—­”
    â€œYeah. I get the idea.”
    I’d spent the last ten hours going over what I knew about Andrew Dayling, and realizing it wasn’t very much. I’d thought I’d known him, but all I’d really had was an opinion of him, which was not the same thing. We’d worked together, kicked back afterwards. I’d thought him pleasant, but a little shallow, something of a play-­actor. When he was drunk he’d talk about a girlfriend he’d once lost, the great love of his life, but it always seemed to me that he was mourning an asset, like a house he used to live in or a car he used to drive. The self-­pity, though, was real: a streak of misery and maudlin sentiment that would attach itself like a barnacle to any passing topic. Invariably, if I got inquisitive and started asking questions, a barrier came up.
    And then there were his arms. “Have you seen his arms ?”
    I’d stolen a few glances while we’d been in hot countries where long sleeves just weren’t practical. The scars were old, I think, most of them. They weren’t easy to see; but once I’d tuned in, I saw them clearly enough. Most were straight lines, very thin, extending several inches; others curved, or zig-­zagged, so the effect was of some faded tribal tattoo.
    I’d meant to ask him about them. I’d meant, I suppose, to ask if I could somehow get him help, counseling, whatever. That would have been a nice thing to do. Perhaps I’m unobservant. I don’t understand about cutting. I know that ­people do it, and do other things, and that it brings some kind of relief, perhaps due to the pain, or the endorphins released, or maybe it just takes their minds off what’s been bothering them. I don’t know. But in the end, I had the same reaction most ­people have to such things. Repulsion, or that weird fascination where you don’t like it but you still can’t look away, and then . . . detachment. And I-­don’t-­want-­to-­deal-­with-­this.
    In my case, I was also thinking: do I want him with me on a job? Can I trust him? And I never said a word to him. I skated along on his cheery, confident self, which I now saw more and more must be a mask. The only time I challenged him at all, it was in an abstract sort of way, trying to broach a subject I could not, at that point, even put a name to.
    I’d told him he’d no need to look so pleased each time I walked into the room. I was getting tired of his matiness, his endless cheeriness. I told him straight: I said it was an act.
    He brushed it off. “We all put on an act, though, don’t we?”
    I was younger then; I said I didn’t think we did. I got annoyed with him, yet he couldn’t see—­couldn’t conceive—­of a world in which ­people didn’t hide a part of themselves. And it may be he was right. I’m older now, less idealistic. The world’s a darker and more complex place, these days.
    â€œWhat’s in here,” he said, tapping his skull, “I mean, what’s really in here—­you wouldn’t let it out, would you?”
    â€œDon’t see why not.” I nursed my beer, watching a TV screen across the bar.
    He said, “Have everyone see what a petty, mean, fucked-­up mess you really are?”
    â€œYou mean me?” I said. “Or just anyone?”
    There was a hardness to his eyes I’d never seen before, but gradually it slackened and his face relaxed, and he