Green Light Read online

  GREEN LIGHT

  JG ALVA

  PROLOGUE

  William Bennet was running.

  He was forty nine years old and he was homeless. He hadn’t always been homeless. He’d been married once. That had been a long time ago; it scared him to wonder where the time had gone. A traditional church wedding, he could still remember the way the sun felt on his face, how the church smelled, the tight itchiness of his collar, and the blind, consuming happiness for his impending nuptials. No man had ever been so happy, before or since. He loved his wife. They had a home, he had a good job. In that moment, listening to the church bells ring out, there was nothing he wanted that he did not already have.

  Eight years later and he had lost it all.

  If he could still recall how happy he had felt on his wedding day, then he could also recall the roaring terror that had blown through him like a hurricane when he had finally understood that he had lost his wife forever. Death might have been kinder. Instead, she had simply moved in with another man. William believed himself to be a good person. He wasn’t the smartest of men, but he was a good person. Kind. That should have been enough. He had always been told that that was enough. But the truth was, that wasn’t the case. His wife didn’t care that he was good. His wife had left him because in the end he hadn’t been enough; whether he was good had never factored into the equation.

  He felt that same roaring terror now.

  He wasn’t fit. He couldn’t run. Most days he sat on the street with a cardboard sign balanced in his lap, and a small bag for change open at his feet. The nights he spent drinking. Lager. Beer. Cider. Vodka, if he had the cash. It was his favourite thing to do. Anything to obliterate the memory of his wife’s face…

  So he wasn’t a fit man; he had neglected his body too long; running was unfamiliar to him, and so his body protested even though he continued to push it to do his bidding, this insane sprint. His lungs burned, his legs ached, his head throbbed, his heart pounded. Everything hurt.

  Despite all that, he sprinted down the alley, running blindly and at some speed, in a mad dash to be away from the terrible thing behind him.

  It had been the shock that propelled him. The murder. As if he was a projectile snapped from an elastic band. Just out, and running.

  He was so consumed with panic that he never saw the Ford Focus driving down the road toward him. He never saw the road. The driver was distracted – not by anything in particular, but by repetition: he had driven this route a hundred times in the last six months, to visit an elderly relative. It was a quiet, uneventful journey. Nothing much happened on it.

  And then the collision.

  William Bennet felt the blunt force trauma in his right hip, but there was no corresponding pain. Instead, it was the force he felt, echoing up, through his stomach and chest, and out to his limbs. It was as if he had been blasted with a sudden hurricane wind. His pelvis and his femur broke in thirty seven places, pieces of bone bursting through the skin, his femoral artery severed and gushing inside his trousers almost immediately.

  There was sound, so loud it blotted out all sensation. His mind spun.

  A weightless moment…

  And then his body hit the road like a bag of sticks.

  His left kneecap shattered. His left arm broke in two places and his shoulder dislocated. William finally felt these things, and tried to scream. As he opened his mouth, the momentum of the collision pushed his body along and tipped him forward, so that his head hit the ground at nine miles an hour. The tarmac tore most of the skin from his forehead and nose and knocked out eight of his teeth. He never had the chance to scream. He choked on blood and half a dozen of his own molars.

  The driver of the Ford Focus slammed on his brakes, and the car skidded to a stop.

  By the time the driver had recovered enough from his shock to check on the man he had hit, William Bennet was already dead.

  But in those quiet seconds after he had been hit, as he lay dying in the road, William had three thoughts.

  One was: no one here knows my name.

  The second was: no one in the world cares that I’m hurt.

  The third thought was even briefer, skirting over his synapsis in a fraction of a second; it had been about the thing that had propelled him along the pavement to this moment, this end.

  The third thought was: why had he been killed?

  Then there was only blackness.

  Forever.

  *

  CHAPTER 2

  There was a woman sitting outside of the café.

  Sutton Mills saw her on his first circuit around the Baltic Wharf Estate and thought nothing of it. It was a pleasant morning in July, and there seemed like no reason why she shouldn’t be there, outside, enjoying the sun. And she was not the only one: there were more than three dozen people about, milling, walking, talking; people pointing out the prettiness of the view, or taking pictures of it: the New Cut – with its dammed and bracketed waterways – and the modern but rustic housing on the other side of it, the rows of houses on the hill, the suspension bridge beyond. The tide was in and the water was calm, almost black, lapping ever so gently against the stone docks. Seagulls cried out nearer the gorge, and about it all there was a sense of a more continental landscape…as if they had all been transported across the Channel by some special kind of magic. Maybe it was the quality of the light, that particular golden shade that made Caravaggio’s work so startling, that gave all of his models such wonderful skin tones. A Mediterranean sun.

  But by his second circuit Sutton had become convinced that something was wrong with the woman, that she did not belong there.

  He couldn’t say where this misgiving originated from – beyond some kind of primordial, atavistic remnant in his grey matter, an ancient alarm system from a bygone age – but he trusted it nonetheless. Something was up.

  He started to sweat. He wasn’t pushing himself just yet but he was beginning to feel the muscles tighten in his calves, thighs and back. The monotonous motion of pounding the pleasant pedestrian walkway around his home freed his mind to tackle other things, and so almost against his will it dwelt on the woman outside of the café. She was blonde, young, short, slim; perhaps in her early to mid-twenties. She had an oval face, and large dark eyes. Attractive. There were other reasons why she stuck in his mind. He had been aware of her attention on him the first time around, and was not discomfited by it…but the second time he caught her watching him there was something fixed about it that disturbed him. She knew him, or knew of him. And watching her from the corner of his eye as he passed, he thought he might know her too. She looked familiar…but he couldn’t for the life of him place where he might have seen her before.

  He continued running, and she didn’t come after him.

  But something else snagged in his mind.

  She was alone, which in itself wasn’t alarming, but the fact that she had not bought any refreshments from the café behind her was.

  No food.

  No drink.

  She sat there, the table empty in front of her, and stared at him as he jogged past.

  Trouble.

  On his third circuit, she had gotten up from her seat and stood in his path. The intensity of her gaze had been dialled back, but her eyes were so large and so dark it was hard not to be held by them.

  He slowed as he approached her, and prepared to act…or more correctly react. The woman was about to do something, and he may have to counter it, depending on what it was.

  She hesitated…and then she spoke.

  “You’re Sutton Mills,” she said.

  He kept moving lightly on his toes. In case he had to do something: either defend himself or run. This wouldn’t be the first time an angry young wom
an had come at him with a knife.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Do you remember Maggie?” The woman asked. “Maggie Douglas?”

  He stopped moving.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “She needs your help.”

  *

  CHAPTER 3

  Sutton Mills was an arresting figure, but perhaps not in the way he hoped. He was big enough to cause alarm in some; too tall to blend in anywhere; too heavily muscled in his arms and shoulders for anyone to believe he worked behind a desk. Upon seeing him, people mistakenly thought he was foreign; maybe it was the dark hair, grown long to cover his ears; or maybe it was the shape of his skull – the hard cheek bones, the heavy brow. Under the brow, dark eyes peered out distrustfully on a world to which he did not belong. A thin blade of nose bisected them. There was something about the nose, as if it had been broken and reset. The mouth was wide, and the chin was a little hard. A cruel face. Perhaps.

  The woman regarded him nervously. She craned her head to look up at him, but did not meet his eye. He took this personally.

  But by the time they reached the sixth floor and the lift doors opened, Sutton realised who she was, and he became more puzzled than insulted.

  He owned the penthouse waterfront apartment on the western side of the Baltic Wharf Estate, that privileged gated community on the south side of the river. It was all red brick, rustic and, he supposed, rich. There were as many Ferraris as there were Volvos; sensible rich as well as insensible rich. He was neither, but at the same time he lived reasonably comfortably. He painted; portraits mostly, but some other things too: designs, graphic or otherwise; the occasional picture of a favourite horse or pet; a commissioned piece for a minor celebrity or person of privilege. All of which earned him money…just not enough. He could live, but it wouldn’t be much of a life, not on that salary.

  So he did other things too.

  He opened the door to his flat and ushered the young woman inside.

  Now that she had him, she was uncertain, almost afraid. She acted like his head might split open wide enough to gobble her up.

  “How do you know Maggie?” He asked.

  “Don’t you know who I am?” She challenged him. “Don’t you recognise me?”

  Maggie had a daughter: Angela. Blonde, skinny, with big dark eyes. It was obvious that this skittish thing had to be her.

  But if that was the case, then there had been some kind of personality transplant in the interim, since that little girl had been cool, calm, sensible, and self-contained. This one vibrated nervousness with every breath.

  He didn’t want to be maneuvered into anything, so thought it best to play ignorant, until he knew more about the situation.

  “Should I?” He countered.

  He could see the disappointment tighten her features. For a moment, her eyes were lost.

  “No,” she said, resigned. “I suppose not.”

  The woman didn’t elaborate, and Sutton didn’t probe. Instead, he indicated one of the two sofas arranged in a comfortable L shape in the living room. She hesitated, and then sat. He moved to the kitchen to get himself a drink, calling back an offer to his guest of a similar libation.

  Which she declined.

  “You’re sure?” He asked.

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  He had some water in the fridge. He took out the bottle and drank from it, all the while keeping an eye on the stranger in his flat. The water was cool and delicious; the woman was equally cool and delicious, but not in the same way. She looked about the room, and he wondered how she saw it: the balcony doors and its view over the docks; the balcony itself, with the wooden garden furniture; the easel in the corner, next to the filing cabinet, with a dozen half-finished sketches scattered atop it; the proliferation of paintings and prints that adorned the walls, some of them his own.

  What must she think?

  That he was too ostentatious by far. That it was too much like showing off. That he had better not puff out his chest and parade around like a peacock, or she’d be forgiven for thinking he was a horse’s ass.

  But why should he care?

  Who was she to him?

  He put the bottle back in the fridge and asked, “how is Maggie?”

  “She’s fine,” the woman said stiffly, hands clasped in her lap. She started, as if she had forgotten something. “Well, no, she’s not fine. That’s why I’m here.”

  He came back into the living room. He desperately wanted to take a shower, but he didn’t know if he could trust this woman enough to leave her alone in his flat; if she would be alright, if left unsupervised; or if she would accidentally burn the place down. She had that air, of unpredictability.

  “What’s wrong with her?” He asked.

  She blinked up at him.

  “Well…” Angela said, and then stopped. It was as if she did not know how to go on. She checked his face, and then braced herself. “She’s talked about you. A couple of times. She said…” Warily, her eyes flicked up at him, and then away. “She said you owed her a favour. That she did a favour for you once. Well, she sent me here to collect.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Sutton said, sitting on the other sofa. The shower would have to wait.

  Angela didn’t turn toward him, but he saw her mouth hanging open for a moment before she snapped it shut.

  “What?” She sounded shocked.

  “I know Maggie,” he said, hooking a hand over the back of the sofa. He put both feet up on the table. She looked at them with something like disdain. “She would never ask for that favour back. Never. I gave that promise knowing full well that she would never cash it in. In fact, we both knew it. We laughed about it. So she didn’t send you. You came of your own accord.”

  Irate, but avoiding his eyes, she said, “does that mean you won’t help her?”

  “Does she really need my help?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if I can’t help her?”

  “Why not? Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Maybe it’s beyond my skillset.”

  “But…you don’t know what the problem is.”

  “You haven’t told me. All you’ve done so far is lie. Which is not a very good start.”

  Angela turned her head away slightly. A small act of contrition?

  She said, “okay. Alright. She didn’t send me here. You’re right. She’d never ask. So I’m asking for her. She needs your help.”

  Angela finally rustled up enough courage to meet his stare. Those big brown eyes filled up her whole face, large, liquid, and intense. It was as if they burned with an inner fire.

  He could have sworn her heard a small popping sound when he dragged his attention away from them.

  “What can I do?” He asked, shifting on the sofa. “I’m just an artist. From what I remember, she’s pretty self-sufficient. And less inclined than most to accept help. Should it be offered. And she’s got money. And money usually gets you out of problems, not into them. So what can I do?”

  “I don’t know,” Angela said, desperate. “But you’ve got to do something. She needs help.”

  “So what is it?” He asked, scratching a cheek. He hadn’t shaved, and it was as if he were picking at sandpaper. “What’s happened that’s so bad that you had to come and ask a total stranger for help?”

  As if reciting a poem in class, Angela said, “my name is Angela Everleigh. I’m her daughter. Her daughter by her first husband. I’ve been watching her fall apart bit by bit now for the last month and I can’t watch it any longer. I…I had to do something.”

  “But why come to me? What am I to you?”

  Avoiding his eyes, she said, “she’s talked about you sometimes. Over the years. She’s said…good things. I don’t usually trust my mother’s impressions of men, she’s been duped so many times, but…I remember you. A long time ago. You might have changed but…you were good then.” She looked down at the floor, but not before Sutton
saw real suffering and sorrow in her expression. It was as if he were somehow to blame for all her woes. Which was baffling, as all he knew of this woman was a memory of a little girl in pigtails playing in a garden. Which garden? He didn’t know. Someone’s garden. “I thought you might remember me, but…it must be almost fifteen years ago now. So I’m not surprised that you don’t.”

  He didn’t know who she thought he was, but he doubted that it had much to do with a reality beyond the one in her head. But he had a suspicion, and he didn’t like it.

  As he stared at her, she looked up suddenly. He saw something flit behind those unusually attractive eyes. It might have been hope. It made them seem very bright and alive, a marked contrast. Angela wasn’t a drab woman, in fact she was altogether very lovely, but some effort had been made to refute that: she was wearing loose clothes of no particular design or expense, that were totally at odds with her good frame; she wore no make-up; no jewellery or rings or bracelets adorned her person. She had a straight back, and good shoulders. A body for expensive clothes, he thought. There was usually a reason why a pretty woman might dress herself up to be very unpretty. He wondered idly what Angela’s was.

  “Tell me what the problem is,” Sutton heard himself say. “And if I can help…”

  He shrugged.

  She nodded. That was a fair deal.

  “It’s Green Light,” Angela said. “Her business. Her livelihood. If she’s not careful, if she doesn’t fight…then she could lose it all.”

  *

  CHAPTER 4

  Angela had a big black Volvo Estate, which was far too much car for such a small woman. She was so careful with it in traffic that Sutton guessed she must be borrowing it. She handled it with unfamiliarity and a little trepidation…like a dog on a leash that hasn’t been house broken yet.

  Much like she was handling him.

  She had somehow persuaded him into the unfamiliar car…but of course she used the only thing she had: the emotional tie to Maggie. She would take him to see her, and thus he would gain more information about the problem. It was never definitively stated, but the impression she conveyed was that Maggie would like to see him too. Sutton had agreed readily enough. He hadn’t seen Maggie for so long that he felt guilty about it.