‘Don’t you want to hear the end of the story?’
‘Save it for later,’ Larkin said, and began to walk away.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Andy gaze pensively out of the window for a couple of seconds before bringing his pony-tailed head round to bear on two pretty young girls who had joined the train at Doncaster. Although they had been pretending not to listen to him, the pitch and level at which Andy had been animating his stories would have caught the ear of Helen Keller.
‘Hey ladies,’ he charmed, ‘you fans of Kevin Costner?’
They both giggled.
‘Well, you won’t be after you hear this …’
And off Andy went.
Larkin, meanwhile, stood in the corridor, staring blankly out of the window, watching the scenery rush past. Replaying his phone conversation with Lindsay.
‘Why Newcastle?’
‘Because that’s where the story is.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you’re perfect, darling. You were brought up there.’
‘What if I don’t want to go back?’
‘You do.’
‘What if I don’t?’
‘You do.’ Ice and steel had entered her voice; he knew it was futile to argue.
‘What d’you want me to do?’ he sighed in resignation.
‘Believe it or not, there’s been a gangland murder up there.’
‘Gangland? You mean, drugs?’
‘Yes. Very nasty. Some local dealer got knifed. Not all that exceptional in itself, but he was working for some very big hitters from a London firm. They’ve vowed revenge on the locals, and the stage is apparently all set for a potentially massive gang war.’
‘And you want me on the front line.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So what’s my angle?’
‘The funeral.’
‘The funeral? That’s all?’
‘For now. Wayne Edgell will get quite a send-off; I want you there to see it.’
Larkin thought for a moment. ‘Wayne Edgell? That sounds familiar.’ A mental lightbulb clicked on. ‘I went to school with someone called Wayne Edgell—’
‘I thought you might have.’
‘But I went to school in Grimley. That’s a small town, ’bout five miles outside Newcastle.’
‘I know. That’s where the funeral is. That’s where he was murdered.’
‘Grimley? Where I grew up?’
‘Exactly, loverboy. See how this job’s tailor-made for you?’
He was stunned. ‘When’s the funeral?’
‘Monday. But I want you there before then to nose around – get some background. The locals should talk to you, since you speak the lingo.’
‘I doubt that. North Easterners have very fixed ideas about founding sons who move away. Especially down south.’
‘Well, see what you can do.’
‘Will I have a photographer with me on this?’
‘Of course. You don’t know your arse from your Pentax! I know you like to work alone, but this time you’ve got a pal to keep you company.’
‘Who?’
‘Andy Brennan.’
‘Andy Brennan? That little South London gobshite? He’s a walking case for compulsory sterilisation.’
‘Maybe so – but if there’s a pic he’s not allowed to get, he’ll get it.’
‘OK. Do I leave straight away?
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Why not today?’
‘Because, darling, I have had the most godawful trying day, and what I really need is a good mind-cleansing fuck. My place. Eight o’clock sharp.’
And she rang off, leaving him to reflect on the inspired working relationship he enjoyed with his editor. Professional to the end.
Larkin had once vowed, in a dramatic, Scarlett O’Hara fashion, never to return to the North East. But as he stared through the window, reacquainting himself with half-forgotten landmarks, he found he was besieged by conflicting emotions. The places that had once marked the boundary of his whole world now felt strange, distant. It was like sleeping with a lover after a few years’ gap – the contours were familiar, but the quality of intimacy had changed.
The train passed Grimley. It had the same old greyhound track and chemical factory; the same church, shops, school and houses. Apart from being the unlikely focal point of a rather nasty little gangland war, it still struck Larkin as nothing more than a town for leaving.
The train sped on through Gateshead: a wasteland of industrial estates and row after row of dingy terraced houses interspersed with patches of bulldozed earth and rust-coloured tower blocks for a bit of variety.
Then the bridge. Despite himself, Larkin got quite a thrill seeing it again. The sharp drop to the Tyne on the north side, the steep sweep up from the Tyne on the south side – like passing over a moat into some giant medieval fortress. On the Tyne itself sat the floating nightclub he remembered from his adolescence. The lights were on all along the quay, casting the city in an unreal, romantic glow. Perhaps it was only because the lights gave it a rosy hue – but to Larkin, it looked like a place that could almost have possibilities.
He shook his head and walked back to his seat where Andy was cheekily inviting the two giggly girls to take a look at his equipment. He completely ignored Larkin, so Larkin collected his bags and prepared to leave the train. And as he stepped onto the platform he made a token effort to convince himself that he wasn’t just a little bit excited to be back.
Larkin was lost. The city had changed and the hotel wasn’t where he’d thought it would be; after plenty of asking around, he was eventually directed to the quayside.
Larkin had last caught a glimpse of Andy and his two new friends as they disappeared into The Forth on Pink Lane. Now alone, he walked through the darkening streets down to the Bigg Market, where he was greeted by a burgeoning mass of lads sporting shirtsleeves, pegged baggies and loafers, with styled, cropped hair, Boss aftershave and chemically inflated grins. Herding from bar to bar, they were gearing themselves up for Friday night’s fuck, fight or bag of chips, their broken noses and swollen stomachs testifying that two out of three wasn’t bad for starters. The women were all perms and fake tans on microskirted gooseflesh, going through the rituals, playing the game. Everyone looked immaculately turned out, Larkin noticed; they’d clearly spent their wages if they had a job, or their dole money if they didn’t, on trying to look and feel special. Either way the major growth industry seemed to be in Italian designer-wear; and, of course, the black and white stripes of the born-again football fans.
He left them to it in the primal disco thud of the Bigg Market – more like a cattle market, he thought grimly – and went down the cobbled streets of the Side, past Scott’s the Barbers, past the Keep and down to the quayside. He was surprised to find it gentrified; surprised and disappointed. Buildings once full of genuine character and individuality had been expensively refurbished and themed by big brewery chains. They bore names like, O’Hanrahan’s, Flynn’s: a phenomenon referred to by an Irish colleague of Larkin’s as Plastic Paddy pubs. They had traded in their often unsavoury pasts for a cheap, pseudo-antiquity. Larkin didn’t think it was a change for the better.
He walked along past The Red House and The Cooperage to find his hotel – another new building designed to look like an old one. Unfortunately it had failed to achieve the flat-roofed, red-brick warehouse style it strived for; it contained all the charm of a multi-storey car park.
He entered the reception, an area suffused with a beige opulence that even extended to the lightbulbs, checked in, and went up to his room. It was clean and impersonal, just like any hotel room. Just like his flat. The most pleasant thing about it was the view of the bridges.
He dumped his stuff, sat on the bed and flicked the remote through the TV channels. There was nothing to stimulate him, so he switched it off. He took out a book, flopped on the bed and started to read. Soon he realised he wasn’t taking in a word; he sighed, and pu
t it down. It wasn’t working. He knew what he needed. Picking up his jacket, he headed out.
The hotel bar was as welcoming and atmospheric as an airport departure lounge, so he struck out for the quayside where a suburban-smooth wine bar crowd flowed alongside him, their bankrupt smiles defying the recession even if it killed them. Larkin resisted the urge to push the smug bastards into the Tyne.
He eventually managed to get served in the Baltic Tavèrn; thank God somewhere still had an atmosphere of sorts. Plushly seated, with brick walls, it was noisier than he remembered, but it remained a place where a comfortable drink could be had.
Larkin took his beer and went to sit by the window. The last time he’d been in here, a row of old warehouses had faced the pub from the opposite side of the river; this had been razed and replaced by a steel, glass, concrete and brick monstrosity, seemingly designed by the creator of the Daleks. He looked closer: the new courthouse. He started to drink.
Half past eleven. The pubs were shut and Larkin was drunk. He had started the night trying to remember all he could about Wayne Edgell, which wasn’t much; eventually he’d given up and let the alcohol take over. And it had done so with alacrity.
Now he was slumped over the rail at the river’s edge, composing nasty little epithets for his Edgell piece about Newcastle’s decline, singing snatches of old Elvis Costello songs. He swivelled his head to look along the quay to a spot where he had once taken photos of an old girlfriend. His first love: a law student, nineteen, blonde and gorgeous. It had been a tempestuous affair; they’d begun it ready to die for each other, and ended it ready to kill each other. The relationship had come to its bitter conclusion shortly after they had traded punches on the Swing Bridge, when one of them had tried to throw the other off; he hadn’t seen her since. She was just one of the ghosts he carried around with him.
He started to walk, after a fashion, stumbling up the road, telling himself, as all drunks do, that he was perfectly sober. As he went past the courthouse steps, a couple emerged through the main doors. They were well dressed, well heeled, and well pissed-off.
‘I wish you weren’t so forgetful,’ an angry female voice said. ‘Having to leave the party early! You know what that meeting with Sir James could mean to me. To us.’
‘To you. Anyway, it was you who forgot the papers, not me.’ The second, male voice gave a snort of derision. ‘Don’t worry – Sir James will still be there when we get back.’
Something about the female voice gave Larkin a start. He’d heard it before. It was a voice that had once meant something to him … With an alcohol-fuelled sense of curiosity and effrontery, he ran to the bottom of the steps and jumped into the couple’s path.
The three regarded each other in stunned, freeze-frame silence for a second or two, until the action resumed with Larkin’s recognition of the woman.
Charlotte the bridge fighter.
Before he had time to reintroduce himself, a quick glance to his right clocked the fist of her heftily built companion as it powered towards Larkin’s jaw.
4: Ghosts
The bell rang. And suddenly Larkin was in the ring, fighting. Just as abruptly the fighting stopped, but the bell kept on ringing; he opened his eyes. He’d expected to be laid out on the canvas, but he wasn’t, he was in a bed. A strange one. He jumped up, immediately regretted it, and flopped back down. Whoever he’d been fighting had won.
The bell kept ringing. With shaking, fumbling fingers, he traced the noise to the bedside phone and picked it up.
‘Hello?’ Blearily.
‘Mr Larkin?’ A girl’s voice, squeakily cheerful.
Larkin grunted.
‘Call for you! Putting you throu-ough,’ she sang.
The line was connected. Then a ghost’s voice: ‘You made an exhibition of yourself last night, didn’t you?’
Charlotte.
‘Great. Just what I need. I feel like shit and now you phone up to make it even worse.’
‘Don’t swear, Stephen. And if that’s how you feel I’ll go.’
‘No you won’t. You’re too nosy.’
‘Oh, am I now?’
And Larkin was left holding a dead phone.
‘Boring conversation anyway,’ he said to the empty room, just to have the last word. Cutting him off like that – Birch the bitch hadn’t changed.
He lay back down on the bed and tried to fill in the gaps in his memory of the previous night. After a few seconds his booze-soaked synapses started to make connections – and with a groan he remembered the events that had left him feeling like Mike Tyson’s punchbag.
‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ Larkin shouted from the bottom step of the courthouse, where he had found himself after clumsily twisting from the path of the blow hurled by Charlotte’s beau. The man, who was built like a rugby-playing brick shithouse, made a second lunge towards him.
‘Charles, stop it!’ said Charlotte forcefully, placing a restraining hand on the Shithouse. He stopped dead and turned to her.
‘Do you know him?’ It was issued as a challenge.
‘Yes. He’s an old … friend of mine.’
Charles snorted and resumed his menacing surge towards Larkin.
‘And I want to talk to him.’ She placed herself directly in Charles’s path and stared deep into his eyes. Charles relented, but unwillingly, like a scrap-crazed pit bull terrier denied the kill.
‘Ungawa! Down, Lobo!’ Larkin said faintly, clinging to the guide rail, but his feeble humour went unappreciated. He tried to help himself up but the sudden exertion on top of the alcohol made his head and stomach spin. With a final withering look at Charles, Charlotte walked down the steps and pulled Larkin to his feet.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Think so,’ said Larkin grumpily. ‘What’s his fuckin’ problem?’
‘I expect he thought you were going to mug us.’
Larkin grunted, then made his eyes focus on Charlotte. She was older, of course, but in a pleasant, wholesome way; not battle scarred and haggard like himself, on whom the intervening years had taken a visible toll. Her blonde hair was now worn in a sensible bob; a discreet collection of lines around the corners of her eyes was the only tangible sign of any kind of maturation. She gave Larkin the same kind of scrutiny; Lord only knew what she made of him.
‘You’re looking well,’ she said, without much conviction.
‘I look like shite – but thanks anyway.’
They both grinned; Charles shuffled uncomfortably behind them.
‘It’s been a long time,’ she said.
‘And other cliches,’ said Larkin.
Silence. Charles took that as his cue to intervene.
‘Come on – we’re going.’
Larkin rounded on him, trying to sound calm. ‘Hey, mate, no need for that. We’re just talking. We haven’t seen each other in a while.’
‘And you won’t be seeing each other any more. We’re leaving.’ He grabbed Charlotte’s arm. Charlotte shrugged him off; again he stood mute. That pleased Larkin enormously; he made a great show of addressing Charlotte in a manner appropriate for a former lover. He asked her the usual questions of intimate strangers: how was she, where was she living, what was she doing. And she answered him: fine, Jesmond, working as a solicitor in Newcastle.
Then a pause, difficult for both of them.
‘You’ve done all right then,’ said Larkin.
‘I suppose so.’ Then, awkwardly, ‘I heard about what happened.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah.’
Charlotte filled the silence this time. ‘What brings you back here?’
‘Work. Still a journalist.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought there would have been any stories up here to interest you. Not compared with London.’
‘Me neither, but my editor thinks otherwise. This one involves Grimley, believe it or not. Apparently there was a gangland murder there, and I’m here to see
if it gets any big—’
The Shithouse jumped in. ‘I won’t tell you again, Charlotte. We’re going.’
Larkin’s fuse finally burnt out. ‘Look, mate, what’s your fuckin’ problem, eh?’
‘Listen to me, you little nobody. You’re her past. History. I’m her present, and unless she gets a move on and you crawl back into whichever hole you crawled out of, she won’t have a future.’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’ Larkin turned to Charlotte. ‘I can’t say your taste in men has improved. Does he support Sunderland as well?’
‘I’ve had enough of you, you drunken little shit.’
The booze, combined with Charles’s arrogance, had returned Larkin to fighting fitness. ‘Fuckin’ try it, cock-sucker. Come on! I’m ready for you.’
Charlotte turned away. ‘Stephen, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It’s not me, darlin’, that’s ridiculous. It’s fuckin’ needledick there. He’s the one who started all this. All I was trying to do was—’
Charlotte never got to find out what Larkin was trying to do, because at that moment the Shithouse took a swing at Larkin and connected with the side of his jaw. The blow knocked the drunken Larkin off balance; while he was trying to regain it, the Shithouse threw another punch that landed square in Larkin’s chest. This one lifted him off his feet, carried him through the air and plonked him on his back where he lay unmoving. But the Shithouse obviously hadn’t heard that you didn’t kick a man when he was down. He took a vicious swing at Larkin’s ribcage with his foot, and was about to take another when Charlotte grabbed his arm.
‘Stop it, for God’s sake!’
Fortunately for Larkin, he stopped. He looked at Charlotte, smirking. ‘That should settle him for a bit.’
Larkin was starting to come round; Charlotte bent over him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fuck do you think?’
‘There’s no need for language like that.’
‘There’s every fuckin’ need.’ He raised himself on his elbows. ‘Come on,’ he said to Charlotte, spitting blood with each syllable.
‘Where?’
‘Pilgrim Street nick. I’m going to report this bastard for assault. And you’re going to back me up.’
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