Suffer the Children

by Adam Creed

  ‘You killed her?’

  ‘He wasn’t supposed to confess. Everybody had alibis.’

  ‘Everybody in VABBA?’

  ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘What about the fifty grand?’

  In the half light, Staffe sees Jessop’s mouth goes slack. His eyes turn from angry to sad. ‘What fifty grand?’ he says.

  ‘The fifty grand VABBA paid you to do all this, to live out their fantasies of revenge and record it all. You recorded it all for them, didn’t you?’

  Jessop stands up again, rests his boot on Staffe’s chest and puts all his weight on it, supporting himself on the banister. ‘You think this is for money? Do you, my friend? Do you!’

  Staffe can’t get his breath. He thinks he will pass out, thinks his breastbone is about to crack, breaking into pieces and piercing his lungs. ‘Please,’ he wheezes, his eyes filling with water. Life draining away.

  Jessop bends down towards him. Staffe has adjusted to the dark now and through the glaze of his own watery eyes, Jessop’s sad face comes bigger and bigger. He smells a chemical.

  ‘You know, Will, if you could see yourself the way you were when you first came to Leadengate – you were washed up. You had nowhere to go. But I saw a spark. Nobody else did, just me. I took you on and it was the right thing to do. If only we could see ourselves as others do, eh, Will? That would be something.’

  The smell gets closer, stronger. It’s a smell Staffe has come to recognise. And with the last blots of sensory perceptions running into each other, he feels the damp rub of gauze around his mouth and nose. He tries to hold what little breath remains, but he can’t and as he breathes in, he slips away.

  Monday Morning

  Pulford minimises victimvengeance.com and the ‘snuffcast’, as Nick Absolom calls it, disappears into its icon at the bottom of the screen to reveal the homepage of Poker-Rich. Pulford rubs his face, the way you would rub a whiteboard clean. He leans back in his chair and takes the mouse. The cursor hovers over Join Game. He looks down at the financial statements on the floor and blows his cheeks out. He leaves the cursor where it is and goes into his tiny kitchen, makes himself a black coffee because there is no milk. He tries Staffe’s mobile again and gets the answering service, doesn’t bother to leave another message. He curses Staffe and goes back to his workstation.

  You’re only ever one game from a change of luck. One more punt might turn the tide that got him into this predicament. He raises the mug to his mouth and it burns his lips. He takes it as a sign and says, ‘Fuck it. Fuck you!’ and closes the site down, turns the computer off. He looks at the pile of statements and sits cross-legged on the floor, making separate piles of HSBC, Ladbrokes, Paypal and Barclaycard, putting the most recent bills on the top. He rounds the totals down to the nearest hundred and tots up in his head, adds on another seven hundred for last month’s unpaid rent. He might get two and a half for the MR2 but he still owes the finance company three grand. All in all, he’s looking at twenty-two grand. Eight months’ salary. His parents keep asking him when he’s going to buy a place of his own, get a foot on that ladder. They don’t know he’s sliding down snakes.

  A black suit hangs on the back of the door, ready to be worn to Karl Colquhoun’s funeral. Even though he’s not on the AMIP team, he will go, thinking it might rule a line under the case before he throws himself back into his backlog of car-ringing gangs, DVD smugglers, extortionists and immigrant sweatshops.

  He goes back to the kitchen and pours the coffee into the sink, takes a pair of scissors from the second drawer down and returns to the lounge, cuts his credit cards, one by one, into tiny pieces. Halfway through, he rubs his eyes and punches the pedestal of his desk. ‘Idiot!’ he says to himself. ‘Bloody idiot!’

  *******

  The ceiling is dirty and a paper lantern hangs from the cracked, off-centre ceiling rose. Staffe rubs his eyes, wipes his mouth. He can tell they have fashioned this entire flat from a single old room, probably for a servant in a moderately well-to-do family. He remembers what happened last night. Was it last night? And he waits for the anger to surge at him, but it doesn’t. He feels calm, kind of distant from himself: separate from the space he is in.

  He considers the quality of the refurbishment, sitting up and looking around at the bare room. No books, no ornaments. The sun streams in, showing the window smears. He stretches and yawns. He feels fresh, kind of brand new.

  ‘Jessop,’ he says, softly, standing slowly. He paces sedately around the room, opening drawers and crouching to look under furniture. The place has been packed up and shipped out. There is a pile of dirty clothes in the corner by the kitchenette and junk mail in the paper basket, but apart from that no sign of life, except… except a single sheet of paper Blu-tacked to the microwave in the kitchenette. Staffe squints until it gradually comes into focus. It is handwritten.

  Please, my friend. In the name of whatever friendship we had or will ever have, let this go. Don’t follow. This will be resolved soon. Trust me.

  J.

  He ambles across to the window in the slope of the roof and bends to take in the view across North London’s rooftops, remembering some of what his old friend had said last night.

  Staffe feels a vague compunction to call Smethurst but considers that Jessop has left him untethered and unharmed. Thus, he is disinclined to snitch on his old friend – even though the man did, after all, assault him. He begins to recall that he is suspended from the case. Yes, he is definitely suspended from the case. But he feels less miserable about this than he ought.

  As he makes coffee, the ceramic of the mug feels soft and he thinks that his fingertips might not be entirely his own. He tries to pick his way though the conversations he had last night, remembering what Jessop told him about Lotte Stensson and Nico Kashell. Jessop has now fled far, of that he feels certain. He has probably gone to meet up with the woman. He can’t quite remember her name.

  If he called Smethurst and put him on to Jessop, would it lead to Nico Kashell being released? Probably not. In the absence of a confession from Jessop, nothing has changed. And what does Staffe really know about Nico Kashell; what that poor, broken man wants for his life.

  What good has come of this long, protracted case of vengeances? Would good come from the incarceration of Bob Jessop? Only if he is to kill again; or if the law must always be an end in itself. He resolves to consider this.

  Staffe lets himself out and slips into the long, blue day. His tread feels light, as though his feet barely touch ground. He walks briskly, not really knowing where he should go. He has a notion that he will be watched, or followed, and switches sides of the road, looking around as he goes.

  Looking at the papers on the news-stand tells him it is Monday and the position of the sun in the sky implies it is late morning. In the Sainsbury’s on Kilburn High Road, they are queuing at the checkouts already. Perhaps people queue all day every day.

  They always say, ‘Why do you bother, Staffe? You don’t have to work.’ Every day could be like this – nothing behind him, nothing ahead and God knows what new people he will meet, what joys and hardships he might encounter without having to do something about them.

  What has Jessop done to him?

  He wonders where his friend is now. On a plane or a boat. Has he found a kind of peace? Or love?

  Staffe cuts off the High Road, not far now from his own house. He will call on his sister. That is what he will do.

  Marie opens the door to the Kilburn house and she beams a broad smile when she sees him, throws her arms open wide and takes him in. She smells of something green, he thinks. Turquoise, perhaps. The house is spick and there are fresh flowers on the coffee table – lilies. He knows he might tell her to be careful the stamens don’t fall on his fabrics. They stain. But he thinks she will probably know this for herself. Paolo gets up from his knees. He has a rag in his hand and there is a smell of lacquer. Has he been cleaning the hearth? He too is smiling and he extends a han
d, shakes Staffe’s firmly. The swelling around the bridge of his nose is down and the bruises on his eyes are fading.

  ‘Sprucing the place up, Will. I hope it’s all right,’ says Paolo.

  Staffe sniffs up, can’t smell tobacco smoke.

  Behind him, he hears a scream and a whoop and something crashes into the backs of his legs, hard enough to knock him off balance. Paolo stops him from falling to the floor.

  ‘Harry! Be careful,’ shouts Marie.

  ‘He’s fine,’ says Staffe. ‘Just fine.’ He reaches down for Harry, picks him up and presses the infant’s head hard to his cheek.

  ‘Take me park, Uncle Will,’ says Harry. ‘Take me park.’

  ‘He’s been doing my head in all morning,’ says Marie. ‘Strange you’ve come now.’

  ‘Can I take him?’

  ‘Paolo and I have got to see about a car. We’re getting a van, a small van with some of the money. Paolo’s going to start on the restaurants again. He has such green fingers you know, for the herbs. We’re going to lease a place out Surrey way. He’s going to show Harry how to grow.’

  ‘Take me to the park!’ screams Harry.

  ‘Can I?’ says Staffe.

  ‘Of course you can. It’s meant to be,’ says Marie.

  *******

  Pulford looks at the jagged plastic snippets of the hole he is in. He scoops the credit-card cuttings together with a cupped palm and puts them in the bin, then showers, gets into his black suit and tries Staffe a final time, but gets no response. He trousers his mobile and picks up his keys, warrant card and notebook and takes a look around the room, hoping he has put something behind him.

  Just as he is about to lock up, his mobile vibrates, then breaks into his ringtone – the chorus of the Clash’s ‘I Fought the Law’. Staffe gives him stick for it, says it might advertise what he is. Josie thinks it’s funny. Johnson thinks it’s sad. Everyone has an opinion, which is why he keeps it. He looks at the screen, sees it is Leadengate.

  As he raises it to his ear, he feels afraid.

  ‘Thank God somebody’s answering me,’ says Pennington. ‘Where the hell is Staffe?’

  ‘What is it, sir? Can I help?’

  ‘Tell him to get in touch with me. Tout suite!’

  ‘Can I tell him what it’s about?’

  Pennington pauses, eventually says, ‘You tell him there’s been a major breakthrough. Smethurst has cracked it, no thanks to you and your so-called boss.’

  ‘Cracked it, sir?’

  ‘Don’t come the innocent with me, Sergeant, and don’t think that you can always hide behind people like Staffe. You should have told me you knew it was Jessop. Nobody’s bigger than the law, Sergeant, and you can tell Staffe that. Nobody!’

  *******

  Staffe watches Harry from the park bench. He goes up to the other children and joins in even though they are strangers. The mothers and fathers smile into next week at him and twiddle their fingers at Staffe as if to say what a good job he is doing. He will take Harry to Hamleys later in the week and maybe buy him a rugby ball. He will teach him to pass and kick, take him to see a game when the new season starts.

  Harry is on the roundabout now, playing nicely with younger and older children. Staffe feels a warm glow, and stares off into infinity. There will be something of Staffe’s mother and father in the boy. There may be something of Staffe in the boy, but will it ever show itself? Could it possibly transcend the difference between him and Marie? He tries to get his head round where her free-spiritedness comes from. Could it be the same place as Staffe got his – before it died?

  He reaches down into his pocket and pulls out his dead phone. He tries turning it on and can’t recall if he turned it off or if the battery is dead. It sparks up and sings its jingle. He will call Sylvie. She said he could. She said not to be a stranger. Didn’t she?

  A jangle of unread text messages. Six missed calls, all from Pulford and Pennington. He highlights the most recent and presses ‘Call’.

  ‘Staffe! Thank God, where the hell have you been?’ says Pulford.

  The case comes to him, like many segments from different dreams. ‘I’m due some leave, Pulford. I’m going to take it.’

  ‘Pennington’s been on. He says Smethurst has got Jessop for the Colquhoun murder.’

  ‘Got him?’

  ‘Did you know it was Jessop? Pennington thinks you did. He reckons you were protecting him. Why didn’t you tell me, sir? He thinks I am in on it.’

  ‘Nobody knows anything, Sergeant,’ says Staffe. He crosses one leg over the other and leans right back into the bench, watching the top of the trees sway against the wide, blue, unclouded sky.

  ‘You sound strange, sir. You’re coming to the funeral?’

  ‘Funeral?’ He can hear the children shouting and squealing. They sound further away.

  ‘Karl Colquhoun’s funeral is at two o’clock.’

  Staffe looks for the sun, tries to work out what time it might be.

  ‘I’ll come and get you,’ says Pulford.

  ‘When you say they’ve got Jessop, what do you mean? Have they got him?’

  ‘I reckon Pennington thinks you know where he is.’

  ‘He’d be wrong.’ Staffe looks down, away from the sky and across to the swings and slide. There is nobody there. The children have gone. The parents have gone. He stands, looks all around him.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘How would I know where he is?’

  ‘You went to see him. You’re friends.’

  Staffe looks at the playground. He knows something is wrong. ‘Harry!’ he shouts. ‘Harry!’

  ‘Who’s Harry? Sir, are you all right?’

  He clicks off the phone and walks towards the swings and slide, calling ‘Harry, Harry!’ as he goes. He climbs the steps of the slide, feels his pulse booming inside his head. He looks to the four corners of the park. There are several couples, strolling. A handful of people are starting picnics or having a snatched lunch on the benches. But no Harry. He calls his name again, louder. Far away, a woman pulls her child close to her and scurries away.

  There is a copse of trees fifty yards away and Staffe jumps down the steps, runs across the grass to the trees. Halfway, he stops dead in his tracks. He thinks of Tanya Ford and the rag he found in that copse. He is suddenly struck, like a leather cosh across the back of the neck, by how real the world is. ‘Harry!’ he calls, sprinting hard for the trees. He ducks his head and calls Harry’s name, time and again inside the copse. The twigs scratch at his face as he crashes all the way through and out the other side. A lump forms in his throat and his stomach is tight. Suddenly, all the blood seems to drain from the muscles in his legs. He sinks to the ground and rests up against the trunk of a tree. In the distance are railings and, beyond, a pond. He sees a boy being led away by a man.

  ‘Harry,’ he calls. ‘Harry!’

  The two of them turn around. Harry pulls away from the man’s grip. The man looks up. He is smiling. Harry runs towards Staffe and the man jogs after him. Staffe gets to his feet, clenches his fists as he runs towards the pond. Halfway, Harry runs into his midriff, knocks all the wind out of him. He bends double, holds Harry tight. The man’s jog peters to a walk and he says, ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being funny, but are you his dad?’

  Marie is out and Staffe isn’t carrying a key to his Kilburn house so he tells Pulford to get hold of Josie and meet him outside the Scotsman’s Pack and hangs up. As he puts the phone in his pocket, he feels something sharp. He pulls out a torn foil blisterpack of pills, empty. He studies the name of the medication Jessop must have forced on him but it makes no sense. Wellbutrin. He slips the foil pack back into his pocket and takes a tight hold of Harry’s hand. ‘Let’s go and play with some of my friends, shall we?’ As he says it, he feels dreadfully sad and he can’t help but hope that Jessop is safe and sound.

  In the Scotsman’s, a few old boys have their elbows on the bar, looking at the racing pages and pinching snuff whilst
they grumble about jockeys and how the whole game is a fix. They don’t know why they bother. But they do.

  Staffe is sitting in the snug at a table by the window, teaching Harry to play pontoon. It’s not a kids’ pub, but Staffe had reminded the landlord, Rod, of who he was and what happens to people who withhold evidence. Harry has a J2O with a straw and Staffe has a large malt.

  As he approaches uncle and nephew, Pulford sees there is further cause for concern: Staffe is smiling, looks thoroughly relaxed, and appears to be at peace with the world.

  ‘Get yourself a drink, Sergeant,’ says Staffe.

  ‘We’re already late. The funeral started five minutes ago.’

  ‘These things go on forever.’

  ‘Smethurst is there.’

  ‘Bully for Smet.’

  ‘I think you’ll need to get your story straight.’

  ‘Story? I’ll rely on the truth, thank you very much, Sergeant.’

  Staffe’s eyes look heavy, but his glint is bright. An easy smile curls in one corner of his mouth. He looks as if he hasn’t had a shower in a week. ‘You need to do what you can, say what you can to protect yourself, sir.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘Sir, I don’t like to say, but … what’s wrong? You seem different.’ Pulford looks at the glass, the sun lighting up its golden barley. ‘How many of these have you had?’