Moir had been in the kitchen when they’d left. Dressing-gowned, drinking coffee. Hair stuck up on end either from uncomfortable pillows or haunting, disquieting dreams. He half-heartedly invited himself along, making good on his promise of the previous night, but Larkin declined the offer.
“We don’t know what that place is yet,” Larkin had said, “wait till we know more about it.”
Moir’s reaction was either one of disappointment or relief, Larkin couldn’t tell which. Probably both.
Larkin was also leaving to avoid a confrontation with Faye. Judging from the resolute silence coming from her room, she was doing the same thing. As he crossed the hall to leave, however, he glanced up at her room. The door which had been fractionally open was suddenly pulled shut. OK, he thought, if that’s how it’s going to be, that’s how it’s going to be.
They had arrived just before nine, stopping off for take-out coffees from a cafe they’d passed, the East London urban streets oozing with rat-running, car-driving commuters. The street the house was on was full of large Victorian houses, mostly flat conversions, across the way from a nondescript park.
The house they wanted was the one on the end. Large, redbrick, with a surprisingly well-maintained front garden.
Larkin had parked the car a couple of houses up. They watched. Nothing happened for about twenty minutes, then the front door opened and a figure emerged. Mid-twenties, medium height, slim, pretty and black. Wearing white jeans, boots, overcoat and scarf. A large bag hung from her shoulders.
“Know her?” asked Larkin as she walked past the car.
“No, but I wouldn’t mind,” replied Andy.
Larkin smiled. “Didn’t you score last night?”
Andy became sullen, reached for the styrofoam cup of coffee. He took a sip, replaced it on the dashboard. The movement covered his mumbled reply.
“Pardon?” asked Larkin in an amused tone.
“I said I didn’t, right?”
“What, not even your old standbys?”
“There was none o’ them there!” Andy said, his voice high-pitched with indignation. “The only one there was this old slapper who’s had more rides than Lester Piggott.”
“And why did that stop you?”
Andy looked at Larkin in exasperation, as if he was trying to explain Darwin’s theory of natural selection to a bunch of Southern redneck fundamentalist Christians. He shook his head, sipped his coffee.
They sat in silence for a while after that, watching, drinking coffee. Eventually Larkin spoke.
“Well,” he said, crunching up his cup, “nothing’s happened and if that girl comes back and sees we’re still here she might get suspicious. Fancy a walk in the park?”
Andy didn’t, but went anyway.
Sitting on swings no child would touch, a plaintive, rusty squeak accompanying their idle movements, Larkin and Andy waited and watched.
They watched a man cycle past. For some reason the man looked familiar, but Larkin couldn’t think why. He scrutinised the cyclist: middle-aged, wearing jogging bottoms, dun-coloured cardigan and generic trainers, trimmed but thinning grey hair, controlled paunch. Ordinary mountain bike. Larkin couldn’t get a good look at his face and the fog didn’t help. As they watched, the man pulled up to the house, dismounted, pushed the bike round the side. They waited. He didn’t reemerge.
“Know ’im?” asked Andy.
“I don’t know,” Larkin replied. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn’t work out what. The man made him feel slightly uneasy, but he didn’t know why. If he were Spider Man, his spider sense would have been tingling.
“I don’t know,” Larkin said again. “Maybe if I’d got a good square-on look …” He sighed. “Never mind,” he said, and filed the man away in the back of his mind, a niggling itch beneath the cap of his skull.
“I think we’ve learnt all we can from sitting here, don’t you?” asked Larkin.
“Yup.”
“Shall we pay them a visit?”
Andy laughed, watching his breath turn to cloudy vapour. “I thought you’d never ask. I’m doin’ meself permanent damage sittin’ on ’ere in this weather.”
Larkin jumped down on to the balding grass. “Then let’s go. You never know, they might have the kettle on for us.”
Larkin rang the bell. They waited but not for long: the door was opened by a young man, mid to late twenties, medium height, cropped hair and goatee, wearing a loose, well-pressed checked shirt falling over equally well-pressed stone cargoes. Boots.
“Yes, can I help you?” His voice wasn’t unfriendly, just professionally curious. Wary.
“Yeah,” said Larkin. He was at a disadvantage here and he knew it. Going on first impressions, though – the house, the man in front of them – told him his best option was to play it straight. “I don’t know that you can,” he said. “My name’s Stephen Larkin, this is Andy Brennan.”
Larkin gestured to Andy, who nodded. The man’s eyes lit up slightly on Andy’s nod, but Larkin caught it. The man was gay.
“We’re both journalists although we’re not here in that capacity. We’re doing a job for a guy called Henry Moir. We’re trying to find his daughter.”
“Really.” The man’s attitude hardened. “And who might that be?”
“Her name’s Karen. We think she’s either using her real name or her adoptive one. Shapp.”
Another change took place on the man’s features; surprise, fear? Larkin couldn’t read it.
“What makes you think she’s here?”
“I don’t know that she is. We’ve been looking for her. The trail led here.”
“How?”
“We followed this bird Diana here,” said Andy. “She a friend of yours, by any chance?”
The man looked from one to the other, sizing them up, coming to conclusions.
“Wait there,” he said, and slammed the door in their faces.
Larkin and Andy looked at each other.
“I think we struck a chord,” said Andy.
“Or hit a nerve,” replied Larkin. “Anyway, I think you’re in there.”
“Do me a favour,” said Andy wearily.
Larkin smiled to himself. “Twice in two days. I think someone’s trying to tell you something.”
Andy turned, face burning. “Now leave it! It’s not fuckin’ funny! Any more o’ that, an’ I’ll ’ave you!”
Larkin laughed. “Careful what you say. That phrase has got a different meaning in Newcastle.”
Andy stepped forward, looking like he was about to do some damage, but at that moment the door was reopened by the same young man. He gave a small blink of surprise when he saw the two of them squaring up to each other.
“Come this way,” he said, stepping aside to admit them.
The hallway was a cross between homeliness and functionality: rugs and ornaments versus cork noticeboards and small filing cabinets.
Larkin looked down the hall, catching a glimpse of a kitchen. Again the pattern was the same; comforting chairs and tables with commercial-sized stainless steel cooking utensils. It was as if the place was trying to be a home but doing so on an institutional level.
He also caught a glimpse of the cyclist in the kitchen – a fleeting look at the back of the man’s right shoulder. No help whatsoever, just that vague niggle. He filed it away and followed their crop-headed host.
The man opened a dark wooden door, letting them in to a room that might once have been a small sitting room or study but was now a small office. The walls were lined with filing cabinets and shelving. Larkin checked out the books: child psychology, child development, social studies, legal procedure, current affairs. There were government papers and reports and also, incongruously, what appeared to be a complete set of Dick Francis paperbacks. A well-used Bible took pride of place near the desk. On a lower shelf was a portable CD / radio / cassette player surrounded by tapes and CDs. Larkin clocked the titles: The Best of Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin, Queen
Of Soul, Marvin Gaye – What’s Goin’ On. Time warp taste, but good taste. On the desk was a PC and printer, next to that a small CCTV monitor.
Behind the desk sat a man. Middle-aged, shaven-headed, powerful-looking. He wore grey suit trousers, the jacket of which was slung over the back of his chair along with a plain wooden walking stick, green checked lumberjack shirt and red braces. His face gave nothing away.
“Thanks, Darren,” the man said, his voice like sandpaper over chrome.
Their guide excused himself and, with an unreciprocated little smile at Andy, left the room.
“Sit down, please, gentlemen.” The voice had unreconstructed East End authority. It was used to being obeyed. They did so.
“Now then,” he said, pointing at Larkin, “my little birdie tells me that you are Stephen Larkin, and you –” he pointed at Andy, “– are Andy Brennan. My name is Mickey Falco. What can I do for you?”
Larkin launched into his spiel once again, keeping it brief. Mickey Falco listened intently and impassively. Larkin reaching the end, stopped talking. Silence.
“Jackie Fairley,” said Mickey Falco eventually. “Poor, poor Jackie Fairley. She was a diamond. One in a million.” His sorrow seemed genuine.
“Yeah,” said Larkin. “So we hear.”
Mickey Falco looked him straight in the eye. They were intelligent eyes, like a fox’s. “Who’d you ’hear that from?”
“The police. I spoke to them. They’re still investigating.”
Mickey Falco shook his head. “Old Bill, bless em, will never solve it. I’m sure they’d make the effort for one of their own, but they wouldn’t know where to look.”
Larkin was about to press him further on that when he spoke again.
“Now. You reckon I know where these girls Karen an’ Hayley are, that right? What gives you that idea?” Mickey Falco asked.
“Nothing,” replied Larkin, “apart from the fact that we’re sitting here talking about it.”
Mickey Falco gave a small smile, exclusively for his own benefit. “D’you know what ‘here’ is, gentlemen?”
They both shook their heads.
Mickey Falco settled back in his chair. “Then I’ll tell you. This is Candleland. We’re a refuge. A safe house. If kids, young adults, are in trouble, for whatever reason, and they ain’t got anywhere else to go, they come here. Or get brought here. Problems with parents, pimps, pushers, if they’ve been abused, victimised, runaways, whatever. We take them in. And we try to help them. Not sayin’ we work miracles, mind, just sort them out, turn them round, point them in the right direction and let them toddle off.”
“And has Karen been here?” asked Larkin.
“She’s been here. They’ve both been here,” Mickey Falco replied.
“And are they here now?” asked Andy.
Mickey Falco studied the two men intently, as if he was trying to X-ray his way through their bodies and read the intentions of their souls. Larkin didn’t flinch, kept his gaze fixed. Showing he had nothing to hide.
“Karen,” began Mickey Falco, his mind apparently made up, “Karen had got herself into a spot of bother when she came to us.”
“What kind of bother?” asked Larkin, sitting forward.
“Her and her mate Hayley … offended someone.” He stopped talking, searching for the right word. “Someone … influential.” Mickey Falco kept his eyes fixed on Larkin and Andy, gauging, measuring their responses all the time.
“Who?” asked Larkin.
“You ain’t got any idea?”
“Course we don’t,” replied Andy. “Did you miss that bit about why we’re ’ere?”
Mickey Falco smiled as if Andy’s response amused him.
“Gentlemen,” said Mickey Falco, “now, there’s something I haven’t asked you. And it’s important. If, or, I dunno, when, you catch up with Karen, what you gonna do then? What’s your plans for her?”
Larkin was beginning to get irritated. “We don’t have any plans for her. All we want to do is let her know her father is concerned about her and that he wants to meet with her. Beyond that, it’s up to the pair of them.”
Mickey Falco said nothing, just nodded absently, as if reaching a conclusion within himself.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said eventually, “I think that’s as far as we can go today.”
Larkin and Andy looked at each other. “That’s it?” said Larkin.
“That’s it,” said Mickey Falco. “Time for you two to skedaddle. Mickey’s got work to do. Now, I hope I’ve made it clear that the location of this refuge is a secret,” he said, leaning forward, “and I want it to remain so.” His eyes hardened, turning to bright, glittering ball-bearings of metal. “But I don’t suppose I have to tell you gentlemen that again, do I?”
“We found it easily enough,” said Andy, trying not to be unnerved by the stare.
“No you didn’t,” replied Mickey Falco. “You had no directions. You were just following someone’s trail. You didn’t know where it would lead.”
Larkin nodded to himself. Yeah, he thought, that seems to sum up my visit to London so far.
“Now,” said Mickey Falco, handing over two pieces of paper, “if, and I stress the if, we are to talk again, I’ve got to get you two checked out. Names, addresses, phone numbers, work contacts, the whole lot, please.”
“Photos?” asked Andy.
“Got them,” said Mickey Falco, showing them two colour ten by eights. “CCTV hidden behind the front door. Digital camera hook-up. Expensive but necessary.”
“I’m impressed,” said Larkin.
“Good. So you should be.”
“So if we go along with you on this,” said Larkin, waving his piece of paper, “will it be worth our while talking to you again?”
“Depends, depends, depends. On if you are who you say you are,” said Mickey Falco. “On whether we think we’ve got something we can tell you. It’s not a game. We have to protect ourselves.”
Larkin, reluctantly, nodded. He picked up a pen from the desk and, like Andy, began to fill up the paper in front of him.
There was something about Mickey Falco, something that didn’t immediately compute. There was the obvious fact that he was running a refuge with everything that entailed, yet there was something more. They’d seen glimpses of a much harder nature, like he had a titanium skeleton, unbreakable. Larkin knew this was a man to tread warily round, respect.
“Stick your phone number on there where I can contact you,” said Mickey Falco.
“And when will that be?” asked Larkin.
“If and when I reckon you’re cleared,” he said in an offhand way. He took his stick from the back of the chair, leaning heavily on it. “Thank you for your interest, gentlemen, I’ll get someone to see you out.” He pressed a buzzer on his desk.
“One thing,” said Larkin, standing. “Candleland. Where does that name come from?”
Mickey Falco smiled. “Are either of you two Catholic?” he asked.
They shook their heads.
“Didn’t think so. Well,” he said, pulling himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much, “you probably know the practice? Lighting candles for departed souls? Now I might be something of an iconoclast, but the way I see it, the souls don’t have to actually be dead, just lost, missing, disappeared, whatever. And that –” he gestured with his free arm, “– is where we are. Candleland.
“You see,” he said, voice gaining the precise authority and oratory of the street preacher, “Candleland is a wasteland. The land of the missing and the dispossessed. It’s all around us. But the citizens don’t want to acknowledge it’s there. Just bumble about their lives, refuse to believe it exists. But somebody has to face up to it. Somebody has to be here to help.” The words sounded incongruous in the man’s East End accent – incongruous but truthful. “And we’re a candle, a beacon. We let them know there’s somewhere they can go.”
Larkin smiled to himself. He thought of Jane Howell, a woman he’d left b
ehind in Newcastle. She was now doing the same thing. “Good,” he said.
“An’ it’s also the title of Ian McCulloch’s first solo album,” said Andy.
Mickey Falco regarded him as if he’d just sprouted an extra head. “Pardon?”
“Ian McCulloch. Lead singer with Echo and the Bunnymen. First solo album.” He looked between the two, reddening. “They’ve reformed now.”
“Glad to hear it,” rasped Mickey Falco.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in.” The door opened behind them. “Well, gentlemen.” Mickey Falco made his way slowly round the desk, leaning heavily on his stick. He shook hands with them. “I’ll be in touch with you. Ralph here’ll show you out.”
Larkin turned to go and was confronted by the middle-aged cyclist he’d seen earlier. The man stepped back suddenly, shock on his face, as if he’d been physically struck. He had recognised Larkin.
Larkin scrutinised him, mentally searching for the right file.
Then click. The tumblers moved into place, the long-closed door of his mind opened and the buried memory leapt up at him. He had never buried it that deeply in the first place; it was a shallow grave memory.
His legs went weak, his heart tumbled into sickening somersaults. He now knew who the man was. How the hell hadn’t he sussed him earlier?
It was Ralph Sickert. The murderer of his wife and son.
Battlefield
Larkin just stood and stared. He couldn’t move, he was rooted to the spot. No words, no coherent articulation came into his head, just jump-cut collage images, white noise, static. His body physically aped his mind; arhymetic heartbeat, limbs suddenly shaking. He could feel, hear and, at the corners of his eyes, see the pulse of his blood.
The room dissolved away. Larkin became unaware of everyone – everything – else as his concentration focused narrowly on the other man. Sickert was doing likewise. Time stopped, they stood transfixed by each other like mongoose and snake.
Candleland Page 13