Suffer the Children

by Adam Creed

  ‘The bastards! Pennington didn’t say a bloody word. I was with him last night. Sod them! Sod them all!’

  As he goes into his bedroom, Josie can hear him banging and cursing, then a mobile phone rings and the place falls silent. Staffe speaks and closes a door and Josie is left to drink her coffee in a resounding lull.

  Staffe’s heart beats double time. ‘I don’t really know,’ he says. His stomach turns, slowly, super-slo-mo. He sits on the edge of the bath and takes a deep breath, feet tapping sixteen beats to the bar.

  ‘What made you call me?’ says Sylvie.

  He stares blankly at the wall and sees the tiles as if for a first time. They are cheap and white but the border course is handmade, from Cordoba. He bought it from a shop in Acton when he first got the flat. When Sylvie saw the tiles she asked if they were his choice and said he had taste. ‘That’s obvious,’ he had said, running his hand up her back, pulling her towards him.

  ‘The Cordoban tiles are still here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m in the bathroom, Vee.’

  ‘Will, you’re being weird.’

  ‘You said you liked the tiles and I said …’

  ‘Have you been drinking? You’re not drinking again, are you, Will?’

  ‘I haven’t had a drink all day.’

  ‘Will!’

  ‘I’m joking.’

  The line goes quiet and he thinks he can hear her sniff. She says, ‘I said you had taste and you said that was obvious. You touched me. I have to go, Will.’

  ‘I need to see you, that’s all.’

  ‘Will …’

  The phone goes quiet. Just hearing her voice transports him back through the years. His words stick, like a nervous kiss. ‘What is it?’ he says.

  ‘If you wanted to see me, you should have just said.’ She says the time and place and the phone goes quiet again.

  Staffe summons the courage, takes a deep breath, and says, ‘Sometimes, I really miss you, Vee.’ But the line is dead. He can’t fathom whether she heard him or not.

  Staffe and Josie drive east along Embankment. The sun is low and golden, casts long shadows down the road to Westminster. It could make you believe in a yellow-brick road; the queues for the Tate are already snaking down towards the river promenade. Staffe wishes that just once he could have an ordinary Sunday morning that took in the papers and a gallery; a late, long lunch in a dark pub on the river and then a fifties film or the cricket highlights.

  Instead, he hangs a right at the Albert Bridge and winds his way against the traffic, on to Kennington Lane.

  Josie says, ‘It’s over there. Above the estate agent’s. Take a right after the pizza place. It leads up to Cleaver Square. I used to have a boyfriend who lived there. We can get in the back way.’

  Staffe wants to know about the boyfriend. Why they split up. Was he good to her? Maybe she cheated on him.

  ‘Here. Just here,’ she says.

  Staffe parks, peruses his catch-all ring of keys. The back way in is easy enough. The entrance to a block of flats juts out and he obscures himself in its nook while he heaves himself up, scuffing his shoes as he clambers. He scrapes his shin on the ridge bricks but with a final effort he is over. The padlock on the gate is standard and Staffe soon finds a key on the ring that unlocks it. He lets Josie in and slides back the bolt.

  Steel stairs lead to the first floor and as they climb, Cleaver Square comes into view. People walking dogs or sitting on the benches, lolling in pairs at the tables of the pub that’s not open yet. The higher they get, the more Staffe and Josie are exposed. Staffe knows if he’s caught, he’ll not just be off the case. Suddenly, he feels weak.

  The first key he tries doesn’t get close, so he has to bend down, look into the aperture of the lock then inspect the keys.

  ‘Staffe!’ hisses Josie.

  He puts the key to the lock and it goes all the way in, but it’s too late. Below, a man with a dog on the other side of the road has stopped while his dog takes a shit. He calls up, ‘Breaking in, are we? I should call the police.’ He’s smiling.

  Staffe calls out, ‘We are police. And if you don’t clear that shit up, I’ll have you doing community service.’

  The man’s smile goes and he looks down, forlorn, at the pile his dog has just produced. Staffe turns the key and pushes the door open. He looks down, watches the man scurry away, leaving the dog’s mess for somebody else to cope with.

  Inside, three doors lead off the dark corridor with its threadbare brown carpet. The place is musty and Staffe opens the doors as he goes. There is a small kitchenette with two bugs in the washing-up bowl, then a toilet, and finally a large room with two floor-to-ceiling windows looking down on Kennington Lane.

  ‘This place hasn’t been used for months,’ says Josie.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not been used since VABBA were here.’ He looks through the drawers of a cheaply veneered reproduction desk. ‘You check the filing cabinet.’ The drawers of the desk are empty, save a few paper clips and some dog-eared menus to the local takeaways.

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling, sir.’ Josie drapes her short suede jacket on the back of a velour wingback. It slips off, unnoticed.

  Staffe picks up the phone and gets a dead line. There is an old fax machine on a low table but it has no papers, in or out.

  ‘There’s nothing at all in these,’ says Josie.

  ‘What a waste of time,’ he says, looking at the desk. In its left pedestal are three drawers; he crouches down, pulls the empty drawer out completely and sets it down on the floor.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Staffe gets down on his knees and reaches into the drawer’s void with his outstretched hand, dragging his cupped palm back towards him. He feels scraps of paper on the rough plywood. The detritus will have fallen down the back of the drawer when it was once overloaded and he scoops it out. As he sifts, cross-legged on the floor, Josie stands by the window, pulls the dirty nets to one side and looks down for danger.

  The pile of papers comprise yet more menus and an A5 VABBA flyer, a Tube map of London and a child’s picture of their school with matchstick figures waving and big yellow smiles on their faces. There is also a telephone bill, from 2006. He flips through the pages quickly and sees that the bill is itemised. He smiles to himself and slides it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Finally, there is the torn wedge of cheque-book stubs. He puts the stubs into his hip pocket and stands up, slides the drawer back into its void and says, ‘Nothing. Let’s go.’

  They leave quickly, closing all the doors as they go. Josie peers through the narrow gap of the cagily opened outside door. Down below, standing outside the gate are two men in suits, looking up. They see Josie and she gasps.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s two men down there. They saw me. I think they’re waiting for us.’

  ‘Shit!’ He sighs and opens the door, shows Josie through. He follows her down the iron steps, raising a hand to the waiting men and sussing out who they are. He slides the bolt of the gate and goes on to the street, extending a hand to the older of the two men. ‘Wonderful day.’ The man takes his hand but before he can say anything, Staffe says, ‘You’re from the estate agency.’ He looks the man right in the eye and smiles. ‘You don’t remember me? We used to be the tenants. Just looking for a copy of the old lease.’

  ‘Ah. Right,’ says the older man.

  ‘We thought we’d better check,’ says the younger one, looking Josie up and down, fidgeting with his tie.

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ says Staffe, thinking how desperate for business these poor souls must be, working on Sunday.

  ‘I thought we had all the keys,’ says the older man.

  Staffe taps his pocket. ‘The lawyers said to give them back to them. They need to do an inventory.’ He crosses the street and waves a hand at them as he goes, walking past his car. He keeps going towards the square, touching the cheque stubs, and considers a good thing he could do.
>
  ‘Will!’ says Marie, standing back from the Kilburn doorway and opening her arms, inviting him to hug her. She is beaming all over her face and for a moment, as she wraps her arms around him, he surrenders to the softness of her small body. Her head nestles in the crook of his neck and shoulder as she squeezes him.

  ‘I can’t say how glad I am, how pleased I am about you letting us use your place.’ She stands back and holds him, still, by the hips. ‘Come and say hello to Paolo.’

  ‘Marie, there’s something I need to do.’ He puts a hand in his jacket, fingers the fat cheque he has come to give her.

  ‘Me too.’ She holds his hand and leads him into the lounge. He can smell drink in her wake, even though it’s not yet midday. The sun streams into the lounge. Takeaway cartons litter the coffee table and there is a bottle of vodka on the floor by Paolo’s chair. Which is Staffe’s chair. The man who once beat his sister is sitting, one leg draped casually over the other and rolling a cigarette, in Staffe’s chair. It is an American-style spoonback he paid two hundred for, fifteen years ago.

  ‘Hi, Paolo.’ Staffe tries not to stare at the yellowing bruises.

  ‘Dude,’ says Paolo without getting up.

  Staffe wants to tell him to be careful with his cigarettes on the chair but he thinks twice. Then he says, ‘Watch those cigarettes on the chair.’

  ‘Will!’

  ‘It’s valuable.’

  ‘Don’t be like this,’ says Marie.

  ‘No worries, man,’ says Paolo. His yellowed eyes hood down, heavy, and even though he is clearly southern European, he has an affected New World, upwards intonation to his speech.

  ‘I’m not being like anything, Marie.’

  Marie retreats towards the door and beckons Staffe to follow her. ‘Can’t you see we’re happy!’ she hisses. ‘Can’t you be happy for us?’

  ‘I’d like nothing more,’ says Staffe. He takes hold of her hands with his and squeezes them softly. ‘Really. Believe me. I just worry about you.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re worrying about your furniture.’

  He takes hold of the cuff of her loose-fitting, bright and swirly, long-sleeved hippy blouse and runs his hand up along her arm. The sleeve of the blouse ruches up, shows her pale, naked arm. He holds the sleeve up with his left arm and with the right he touches the yellowing bruise. ‘These didn’t come from the good fairy,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Will, but he loves me and I love him. If you don’t want us here, we’ll go.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Sometimes, Will …’

  His mobile rings. It’s Josie and he decides to ignore it.

  ‘I’m happy for you, Marie. Honestly I am. I just know what …’

  ‘And I know what you’re like, Will. You’re not exactly a role model when it comes to relationships, are you?’

  He wants to tell her that he wishes he’d done more to help her when their parents were killed. He wants to have someone else to blame for the way she has turned out. ‘Marie …’ He hears a whoosh! And something hits him on the head. Something soft. At the top of the stairs, Harry is standing with his hands above his head as if he has scored the winning goal at Wembley.

  Staffe holds out his arms and as Harry runs down the stairs, he drops to his knees. Harry launches himself from the fifth step and Staffe catches him. He holds his nephew tight and hears his own words vibrate on the boy’s head as he says into his ear, ‘You look after your mummy, Harry. Look after your mummy.’

  He knows that if he gives her the money, Paolo will blow some of it. But he also knows that some of it will make things better for her and Harry. He cradles Harry in one arm and stands up, pulls out the cheque. ‘I want you to have this, Marie. Here, take it. Please.’

  She looks at it, trying to be casual, but her eyes go wide. She narrows them as soon as she can. ‘It’s too much, Will.’

  ‘It’s for you and Harry.’

  ‘But not Paolo?’

  ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘I’m trying to make us a family, Will. Say goodbye to Paolo.’

  Staffe looks back into the room, sees Paolo burning a corner of his hash resin. ‘He’s got other things on his mind,’ says Staffe and as he lets himself out he can hear Marie sounding off at Paolo. He chastises himself for stirring things up, then chastises himself for not stirring things up more. He makes a quick prayer that his sister comes to no harm and clicks open the car but before he can get in, his mobile goes off again. He answers without looking. ‘Hi Josie.’

  ‘It’s not Josie,’ says Pulford. ‘We’ve had some bad news. Nico Kashell tried to top himself last night. They’ve been asking what we said to him, saying we should have told them to put him on suicide alert.’

  Staffe looks back up at the flat and wonders what damage he might be leaving in his wake. He gets in the car.

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘The governor rang me. We’re on Kashell’s visits list.’

  ‘Nobody else knows?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’ll tell Pennington. You say nothing.’ He shuts down his mobile phone and turns off his police radio, leans back in the Peugeot’s driving seat and rests his head. He closes his eyes and breathes deep, in, out. Deeper. In, out. He pictures the air in his lungs burning clean, burning to a shining silver and his pulse slows, slows further until he opens his eyes, looks at the VABBA phone bill. The only number he recognises is Debra Bowker’s. The call was made eighteen months ago. Not necessarily sinister.

  As he drives, he takes out the cheque stubs, flicks through, wondering if he needs a trace putting on the account. Pulling on to the High Road, with the winos and Sunday shoppers stumbling and milling, he puts the brakes on, pulls in. The car behind blares its horn, swerves and gives him the V’s. But Staffe doesn’t care. He’s looking at the blue-black fountain ink figure of 50,000 on one of the cheque stubs. Underneath is a single letter, ‘J’. The date is 20 September 2005 – a week before Nico Kashell reputedly killed Lotte Stensson.

  *******

  ‘You look like shit, Rick,’ says Josie.

  Johnson holds the mug of tea in both hands. He looks like death warmed up. They are in a cafe opposite Smithfield market, just round the corner from Leadengate. It’s old school, from the days before the media and City types took the area over with their offal eateries and gastro shacks.

  ‘Thanks, Josie. I feel a lot better for that.’

  ‘How are the kids? Still keeping you on your toes?’

  ‘Smethurst gave me a ring, says he wants me on board the AMIP ship. You too?’

  Josie nods.

  ‘And what about Staffe?’

  Josie studies her empty cup of coffee. Bites her lip.

  ‘What is it, Josie? What’s he done now?’

  ‘I need to get hold of him. I think I might have dropped a bollock.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘We broke into some premises and I left my jacket there.’

  ‘Which premises?’

  ‘You’ve heard him talk about VABBA?’

  ‘He’s still barking up that tree, is he?’

  ‘We didn’t find anything. You won’t tell Pennington, will you? Or Smethurst.’

  For a moment he has a devilish glint in his eye, then the tiredness bites back. ‘You know, Josie, you can tell me if he’s dragging you deeper than you want to go. I can help.’

  ‘It’s not dragging me deeper that worries me. I think he might be going out on his own.’

  ‘Upriver?’ says Johnson, mainly to himself. He looks outside and a slow cloud rolls a shadow over the market. He can’t remember the last time he saw a cloud in this stifling summer. He shivers, pulls the jacket across his chest and calls for the bill.

  *******

  Prison Sundays are bad news. It is twenty-three-hour bang-up for everybody bar Christians and as he is shown across the yard to the new healthcare wing, Staffe sees a gaggle
of the prison faithful slouching towards the chapel, all smoking, all with an effortless profanity on the tips of their tongues. Surprising, how popular God can be.

  ‘Thank God for his next-door. He could have been a lot worse,’ says the duty governor.

  Staffe feels a pang of guilt for the prints he left on Nico Kashell’s desperate prison life. ‘I’d like to speak to his next-door.’

  ‘Wedlock?’ The governor shoots a wry smile. ‘It doesn’t quite work like that, Inspector. Maybe we can arrange an interview some other time.’

  The governor flicks the keys from his pocket and catches them in mid-air. He selects one from a ring of many and twists as he puts it to the lock and kicks open the heavy steel door. He does the whole thing without breaking his stride. Staffe wonders how many tens of thousands of times a year he does the same thing.

  ‘He’s up and with it,’ says the governor, ‘but I can’t let you have more than ten minutes. He’s weak.’

  ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘Hang and slash. He meant it all right. The inmates call it double bubble. You hitch up to the top of the window, plaited sheet around the neck and then you slash up along the wrists with two safety blades wedged in a toothbrush and kick the chair away. Bleed as you swing. Luckily for Kashell, Wedlock was listening out, heard him saying a prayer. We reckon he must have sounded the alarm even before Kashell slashed up.’

  ‘Not exactly a cry for help, you’d say.’

  ‘Oh no,’ says the governor, striding into the hospital reception, picking up the visitors book and scanning down as he shows Staffe to Kashell’s bedside with a slow sweep of the arm. He hands Staffe a pen and indicates where to sign the book. ‘Ten minutes. There’s an alarm bell above each bed and an officer back on reception.’ And he’s gone.

  Kashell has dark rings around his eyes and dressings on each of his wrists. ‘Can’t you leave me in peace?’

  ‘Didn’t your blessed revenge bring you the peace you thought it would, Nico?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know the half.’

  ‘Or is that it, Nico? Is it only half the story, when you take someone’s life. Once they’ve gone, you can’t forgive them, can you? Is that what you really want, to forgive, to let the hate go?’