He nods, wondering whether to pursue it or not. Decides not to.
‘So,’ he says, ‘tell me about—’
There’s a noise from downstairs.
‘Who’s that?’ she says, getting up from her chair. ‘We’re supposed to be alone here. Who’s that?’
He thinks he knows. When he speaks it’s in his calmest, most reassuring voice. He doesn’t want to spook her.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘It’s only—’
16
‘—my daughter.’ He shouted down the stairs. ‘Just up here, be down in a minute. Put the kettle on.’
Anne Marie looked at him warily. Unsure whether to believe him or not, body tensed for fight or flight.
He sensed her unease, smiled. ‘Shall we have a coffee break? I can introduce you if you like.’
Anne Marie sat back down in her chair. Realizing there was no imminent emergency, she relaxed, reached for the cigarettes. ‘Fag break?’ she said.
Donovan smiled. ‘Why not?’
He stood up, moved towards the door. As he crossed the room he thought, once again, how proud he was of the Albion offices. He knew in a sense that it wasn’t much to be proud of, but the place was his and it worked. He was looking forward to showing Abigail round. He wanted his daughter to be proud of her dad for something.
He walked downstairs to the reception. More white space, an iMac on a desk, Abigail sat behind it. Swinging on the chair, hands between her legs. Donovan couldn’t get over how she had grown. She wasn’t the baby daughter he carried with him in his head. She was a teenager, tall and slim and from a distance looking much older. But, as she had already proved in the diner, capable of dealing with any unwanted attention. Dressed in teen uniform of skinny jeans, Cons, tight-fitting T-shirt and short jacket, with her brown hair stuck into some kind of elaborate knot that would have taken Donovan hours to master but which Abigail had probably done in seconds. He was proud of her but guiltily so – he had been absent for much of her upbringing.
He felt his emotions being torn, tried not to dwell on them. Let actions dictate the way forward. He smiled at her.
‘You need a receptionist,’ she said.
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Kettle on yet?’ he said.
‘And the kitchen is where?’
‘I’ll show you.’
He led her through the main office, once again with pride. Three desks, again sporting iMacs. Filing cabinets and more film posters. Michael Caine in Get Carter dominated the back wall. Donovan’s idea of a joke.
‘This is the main office,’ he said.
‘Bit quiet,’ said Abigail.
‘As I said. They’re all away working.’
One of the iMacs was on, the screen showing images. Abigail stopped to look. ‘What’s that?’ she said. The image was of a doorway. Big and closed, in daylight. Nothing seemed to be happening round it. Faint sounds of traffic, pedestrians talking, moving past.
Donovan stopped walking, crossed over to join her.
‘A live feed,’ he said.
‘Where from?’
‘Brighton.’
Abigail watched the screen. Nothing happened. ‘Bit boring. If you were setting up a webcam you could have picked somewhere with a bit more action going on. I mean, Brighton’s got more going for it than an old door.’
‘It’s work. That’s the house we’re watching.’
She looked at him quickly then back to the screen. ‘Oh. Right.’
Donovan looked at it, not wanting to let her in on his thoughts, then straightened up, smiled at her. ‘Right. Coffee?’
He walked into the kitchen through a door at the back of the office. Abigail followed him. He filled the kettle from the tap, began to spoon coffee into the cafetiere.
‘There, see. Water, kettle. Coffee. Simple, really.’
Abigail gave him one of her patented teenage sarcastic smiles. Then she looked at what he was doing, frowned. ‘Why don’t you just use instant? I thought that’s what you were supposed to drink in offices. Drink instant coffee then spend all morning complaining about it.’
‘I think you’ve just answered your own question,’ he said. ‘I never drink instant coffee. There isn’t much I’m fussy about, but coffee’s one thing. And it has to be the right coffee too. Java or Italian. Nothing else. And warm milk, preferably steamed.’ He smiled. ‘If your grandma and grandad could hear me now …’
She gave a polite smile in return, nodded. Her grandparents had been dead for several years. Living down south they had got together as often as they could, but they had never truly connected, not on a close familial level. They had been proud of their son, he knew that, being the first in the family to go to university, taking up a career they could never have dreamed of, moving successfully to London, with beautiful wife and gorgeous children. His dream life. He was, in a way, quite relieved that they hadn’t been there to see it all fall apart.
And now he was back in the north-east, in Newcastle, his hometown. As far away from that dream life as ever.
‘So how do you take it?’
‘White. Sugar.’ She looked at the amount of coffee he was spooning in. ‘Not too strong.’
‘Comin’ right up,’ he said with a terrible American accent. He busied himself with the coffee. ‘So how was Seven Stories?’
She shrugged. ‘OK. Interesting, you know, but …’
‘You’re a bit too old for it.’
She smiled. ‘May be. A bit.’
He had sent her to the children’s literature museum while he was working with Anne Marie. It was just down the road and, although expensive to get in, he had enjoyed it. But he knew what she meant. And he knew that since he had given her the money for it she didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
‘No problem.’
‘But I enjoyed it. Thanks.’
‘Good. Then it was all worthwhile.’
The kitchen door opened, hesitantly. They both turned. Anne Marie entered, stopped when she saw Abigail. Eyed her warily. Donovan knew that this was inevitable. Anne Marie was revealing her innermost feelings and unloading her most difficult memories in this space. It was understandable she felt territorial. He had better not exclude her or she might stop talking.
‘Anne Marie,’ he said, again using his most open and unthreatening voice, ‘this is my daughter, Abigail.’
Anne Marie stepped into the room, shook hands with her. Smiling, but still unsure. ‘Hello,’ she said, putting her cigarettes away. She turned to Donovan. ‘I just went for a smoke outside. Bit of fresh air.’
‘That’s fine.’ He smiled. ‘It’s allowed. Coffee?’
She said she would. Donovan busied himself making it.
‘Abigail’s just up for a few days from her mother’s. Visiting.’
‘Ah.’ Anne Marie looked between the two of them. ‘You’re not together then. You and your …’
‘We’re not, no.’
Anne Marie nodded. As she did that, Donovan realized that although he had been probing this woman’s background and getting her to open up, she barely knew anything about him. He knew this was a professional arrangement and it shouldn’t matter, in fact it was better that way, correct, but with Abigail standing in front of him and his own background being revealed, he felt slightly uncomfortable.
The coffee was ready. Donovan suggested they go upstairs to drink it. They did, Anne Marie still slightly wary of letting someone else into the space.
‘So,’ she said to Abigail, sitting down on the sofa, ‘what are you goin’ to do with the rest of the day?’
She shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Go round town, maybe. See if—’
Anne Marie’s phone rang.
Jack slid the key in the lock, cautiously opened the door. He didn’t know whether he should do it fast or slow. He suspected Rob would still be around, sleeping off his hangover from last night. He wasn’t pleasant to be around at the best of times but when he was hungover, Jack believed he was about as bad as humanity got.
No sound. He had expected snoring – Rob’s usual daytime noise – but he heard nothing. Jack breathed a sigh of relief and walked into the living room.
Where Rob was sitting on the sofa.
He looked up. The cup of tea he had balanced on the arm of the sofa threatened to decorate the floor. His hair was sticking out at impossible angles, his face looked red and puffy, as if the previous night’s alcohol had settled beneath his skin and was getting hot and sweaty trying to force its way out. A creased and folded tabloid lay on the arm of the chair, a pen in his hand. Studying form. His mood of initial shock at Jack’s entrance was soon replaced by his default setting – anger.
‘What you doin’ here?’
Jack stared at him. What did he say? The truth or a lie? Another decision. He hated making decisions.
‘I’m … I just … I forgot something.’
Rob thought about that for a second. It must have sounded plausible and didn’t involve him so, thought Jack, he found it acceptable. He turned away from Jack, took a mouthful of tea.
Jack stayed where he was. He couldn’t believe that was the end of it. No argument, no fight. Rob noticed he was still there, turned to face him again.
‘What you standin’ there for, then? Go an’ get what you want.’
Jack didn’t reply, just moved straight into the bedroom. He shut the door, sat on the bed. Sighed. This was his safe house, the place where he could be himself. Whatever else Rob was, he respected Jack’s privacy. He never came in without asking first and never stayed longer than was absolutely necessary. Jack should have respected him for that and it was a credit to him, but mere were too many things in the debit column that more than counterbalanced it.
He had decorated it with the things he recognized as his own. His posters, his music, his books. My Chemical Romance. Bowling For Soup. An old Kurt Cobain poster. His shelves of books, mostly all dark fantasy: Darren Shan, Scott Westerfeld. They may have all been made by someone else, but they all expressed his worldview perfectly.
He wanted to get changed, wondered whether he could risk it with Rob in the living room. Not that he was a stickler for uniform, but he may notice something if Jack went past dressed differently. Jack decided to risk it.
He stripped off his uniform, replaced it with jeans, a T-shirt and his jacket. Kept the trainers on. Couldn’t change them. He checked himself in the mirror, relieved to see no real damage to his face, played around with his hair. He wasn’t too bad-looking. Not really. Not that he had ever had a girlfriend, but he had seen some looking at him. At least he hoped that was why they were looking. Anything else, his stomach flipping, was unthinkable.
He walked through the living room. Rob didn’t look up. He was out the front door and away.
The elation he felt as he walked down the pavement towards the end of the estate was short-lived. The reality of the situation fell on him like a sudden cloudburst. He had been thrown out of school. He had nowhere to go, no one to talk to, nothing to do.
He sat down on a wall, heart as heavy as a stone lodged in his chest.
He took his phone out. He thought long and hard before dialling. But there was no one else to turn to, there was nothing else he could do. She would be angry but hopefully would listen to his side of the story. He knew she was busy – he didn’t exactly know with what – but she would understand. He hoped she would understand.
He pressed speed dial. He didn’t need it, he knew the number by heart. Waited. She answered.
‘Hello, Mum,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Listen … I’ve got something to tell you. You’re not going to like it …’
‘Excuse me.’ Anne Marie answered her phone, listened. Her eyes widened, shock crossed her face, then anger. ‘What? What d’you mean you …’ She listened again. The anger gradually subsided ‘Right Fine.’ She listened further, anger au but gone, replaced with resignation. ‘Right.’ She sighed, looked to Donovan then at Abigail. ‘Yeah. You’d best come here then.’
Donovan frowned. Anne Marie ended the call. She looked at the other two, gave a weak smile.
‘I think I’ve found you somebody to go round town with,’ she said.
‘That the kid you want?’
Tess Preston risked a glance round the corner. The boy was sitting on a low wall, talking on his phone. God, didn’t any of them go to school round here?
‘Yeah, that’s him.’ She turned back to the two boys. ‘You’ve done well on this one, lads. Earned your money. And quick, too. You’d only been gone, what, ten minutes? Good work. I’m impressed. And I’m not a woman who’s easily impressed.’
Pez looked pleased with himself. Even Renny seemed to be allowing himself a slight loosening in the tension of his features.
The next line, Tess knew, would be the make or break one. ‘Course, I can’t pay you just yet. Not just for this.’
Renny’s features tautened. His angry, pinched face bore straight into Tess’s. ‘Why not? We found him like you asked, we showed you where he is, like you asked, why the fuck can’t you pay us, then, eh?’
‘Aye,’ said Pez, tentatively, anger making him find his voice, ‘we did what you asked us to do. That’s not fair.’
‘Yeah,’ said Renny picking up the theme and developing it with more menace, ‘it’s not fair. You owe us, you southern bitch. So fuckin’ pay up.’
Tess looked round. Collins had elected to stay in the car. She risked a glance over. Collins was studiously ignoring her. She was on her own. She couldn’t back down, she knew that. At least not yet.
She tried to brazen it out. ‘All you’ve done is point him out to me. I still don’t know where he lives, who he lives with, anything like that. That’s what you’ve got to find out before I pay you.’
‘Fuck off. We want payin’ now.’
Tess had had enough. ‘And what will you do if I don’t?’
Renny actually growled. Tess couldn’t believe her ears, she had heard nothing like it. She flinched, expecting sudden violence. None came. Instead Renny had regained his composure and was now smiling, a look of animal cunning in his eyes.
Tell ’im,’ he said.
Tess swallowed. ‘What?’
‘That’s what I’ll do. Tell ’im. That kid. Tell ’im you’re lookin’ for ’im. Tell ‘im you wanted us to spy on ’im. Aye, that’s what I’ll do. Tell ’im. An’ see what ’e says.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
Another unpleasant smile from Renny. ‘Is that a dare?’
Tess backed off. She knew she had no choice. She couldn’t risk the fact that Renny might do what he intended. He was certainly unhinged and angry enough and, since he hadn’t been paid, had nothing to lose. Tess had underestimated him.
‘All right,’ said Tess. ‘I’ll pay you. And that’s it, right? You’re off the clock. That’s the end, OK?’
The boys looked at each other, nodded.
Tess slid her hand into her coat pocket, brought out her work wallet. The two boys’ eyes never left it.
‘There’s fifty quid. Thanks for your time.’
‘Each,’ said Renny, looking at the rest of the money going back into the wallet.
‘For pointing out a boy? I don’t think so,’ said Tess.
‘Fuck you, then.’ Renny turned and started to walk towards the kid.
‘All right, all right … fifty quid each.’ She took her wallet out again, counted off more bills.
‘Now that’s it. Finito. No more. You got that?’
Smirking, Renny and Pez slipped away.
Tess turned and, keeping one eye on the kid, walked back to the car, got in. Collins was staring straight ahead, practising his smoke rings. Tess got behind the wheel, slammed the door.
Collins exhal
ed a particularly elaborate circle of smoke.
‘That went well,’ he said, without looking up.
Tess felt her cheeks burning. ‘I’m never having fucking children,’ she said, her voice suddenly high, dry and raspy. ‘But we’ve got the kid. It’s down to us now. Let’s follow him.’
Collins said nothing, just puff, puff, puff.
‘So back to work, then,’ he says. He puts the recorder on the table between them, switches it on again.
‘Yes, back to work.’
She smiles but it still seems as if a cloud has appeared over her. A cloud she can’t shift. Or won’t be able to shift until her story has been told.
‘OK. We were talking about Bristol. How you left there quickly. Faster that you intended.’
She nods, volunteers no more information.
‘So … why?’
She shrugs.
‘You mentioned a predator?’
She sighs. That’s got nothin’ to do with … with anythin’ you want to know about. I don’t want to talk about him.’ She sounds adamant.
‘Right. OK.’ He has filed that away, he will try again later. ‘So where was it next?’
‘It’s all about protection,’ she says suddenly.
‘You mentioned that before.’
‘Well, it is. I mean. If you can’t protect your family, what’s the point? What’s the point of havin’ one? What’s the point of me talkin’ to you now?’
‘Right.’
‘I mean, look at Jack. He’s a good lad. A really good lad. I couldn’t have that, that … thing gettin’ ahold of Jack. Hurtin’ him. Twistin’ him. The poor lad’s got enough to go through without that. So I ran. That’s why I ran. To protect my son.’
‘Right. And you couldn’t go to the police.’
‘No.’
‘There were other outlets, other things you could have done. The newspapers, the TV …’
She sighs. ‘You don’t get it, do you? What if I had gone to them? With my background? Bein’ who I am? Who I was?’ She glances quickly down at her bandaged hands. He catches her do it. ‘Look, I know it’s supposed to be secret, but he knew. What if he tells them? That would be as bad as him comin’ after you. No. I did the right thing.’
Speak No Evil Page 15