Blood Is Dirt Read Online Free PDF

headlights on full beam, rippled across the coconut palms and silhouetted two figures on the pavement. The car slowed and stopped. The lights died. One of the figures bent to window height. There was a discussion. The door opened and the figure who’d done the talking got in.
    â€˜It’s a pick-up, Napier. This is a smart part of town. Girls come here to get taken for a ride by men in Mercedes. That could have been you if they’d showed.’
    I walked off to the edge of the palms about thirty or forty metres and kicked a hole in the sand.
    â€˜Maybe they didn’t show because of you,’ he said to the back of my head.
    â€˜I didn’t crash, I was invited, remember. You cleared me with your big man. And anyway, I’m going now. I’ve got dinner. You want to stay, you can find your own way back.’
    I urinated for at least two minutes. I closed my eyes to the relief spreading through me. The wind got up and blew with some force through the palms and their leaves clacked together like empty scabbards. I walked back to the table shivering, suddenly cold and clammy in the salty breeze.
    â€˜Napier,’ I called, seeing he’d moved from the table. I looked around for the red glow of a cigarette butt, knowing he wouldn’t have been able to hang on. I made a 180-degree sweep of the coconut grove. The Hotel Croix du Sud’s gate lights winked on the other side of the boulevard, the aura of the new conference centre lit the night sky, the Novotel and its car park looked as if they were out in a sea of black, but there was no Napier. I shouted his name. The breeze took it off me and shuttled it through the trunks of the palms, but nothing came back.
    Just like that—he’d gone.

Chapter 3
    I ran like a wild man through the trees looking up and down and all around until I was dizzy and freaked at finding myself in the imagery sequence of a sixties TV drama. I walked back to the car and drove home, trawling the streets like an idiot, hoping for a sight of Napier. Everybody was African apart from four huge sailor types who’d washed their hair in beer and, now that they were fragrant, had their rods out casting for some dangerous sex.
    The lights were on at my house, our house. I parked up behind Heike’s year-old Nissan Pathfinder, a car that came with her job, that came with a housing allowance to pay the rent. I sat with my forehead on the steering wheel and worried at the Napier Briggs fiasco like a cat with a dead mouse trying to pretend there’s still some life in it.
    I went upstairs to our part of the house and found a single place setting on the dining-room table with an empty bottle of Bourgogne Aligoté beside it, which was better than our usual Entre-Deux-Mers. With Heike’s smarter salary we’d moved off the paint-stripper gut rot from tetrapaks and we didn’t drink whisky called Big V any more. It was minimum Red Label now.
    Heike was asleep on some cushions on the floor, a half-full ashtray next to her head and a tumbler with melted ice in the bottom with nearly a full bottle of nothing less than Black Label by the chair leg. Were we celebrating? I took a right turn into the kitchen and found the lamb tagine on the stove and lit the gas underneath it. I went back into the living room and snitched the Black Label and poured myself a good two fingers. I stirred the tagine and found some cold cooked rice in the pot next to it.
    â€˜I waited and I waited for the birthday boy,’ said a tired voice from the door.
    My birthday! Goddamn. Hit forty and go senile. What year is it?
    â€˜How old am I?’ I asked her reflection in the window.
    â€˜Come on, Bruce, it’s not all that bad.’
    â€˜Forty-one?’
    â€˜There you are—mind like a steel trap. What happened to you this evening?’
    â€˜I got held up.’
    â€˜What’s new?’
    â€˜I lost someone.’
    â€˜Someone you’d already found?’