The hallway leading to the front door was completely impassable. Fire had all but devoured it. He saw Anne Marie’s Spirit House in the corner, the gaudily painted wooden construction that she had bought in some hippy shop years ago that was supposed to trap bad spirits in, completely aflame. It was useless now.
He looked round, panic rising within him once more. He was trapped. No way out, without getting burned alive.
He let out a scream. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair …
Then stopped, tried to control himself. Think. There must be some way …
The window. It had a balcony. A small one, but a balcony, none the less. If he could just get out there …
He moved quickly to the window, flung it open, stepped out, dropping the T-shirt and savouring fresh air. He leaned out, checked both sides. No fire there. He looked over the rail. Fourth floor. A long way down.
He leaned further over the balcony. There was another one on the floor below, just underneath him. If he could climb over, lower himself down, swing in …
It was a risk. But it was better than staying in a burning flat.
Rob didn’t mind heights. He was used to them after his years as a roadie with different bands. Shinning up lighting rigs held no fear for him – he had even done it when he was drunk and stoned and never had an accident. But that was years ago. When he was younger and felt immortal. Before he got fat and lazy.
He had no choice. He had to do it.
He pulled himself up on to the balcony railing, trying to get his balance. He could hear AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ coming faintly from the bedroom. That gave him the faith he needed. A deep breath, then another and he swung himself over, holding on tight. He looked down, and tried to reach the balcony below. Lowered himself so he was hanging by his arms. He tried to swing his body outwards then in. If he could do that and jump at the same time, the force should carry him on to the balcony below.
He swung himself out and, heart hammering in his chest, let go.
His arm was outstretched, trying to grasp the rail.
He missed.
Rob fell through the air.
Jack was scared. More scared than he had ever been in his life.
Tom Haig had led them from the restaurant to an aged, white Escort van parked in a secluded side street just off Clayton Street.
‘Here we are,’ he said, still smiling. He opened the back doors. ‘Bit of a squash, I’m afraid.’
Abigail took her phone out, began to dial. Tom Haig’s expression changed.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘My dad. I said I would.’ She put the phone to her ear.
Tom Haig glanced quickly round, checked there were no passers-by and grabbed the phone off her, throwing it as far as he could.
‘Hey,’ she shouted, ‘what—’
‘Shut it, you stupid bitch,’ he hissed through clenched teeth, then slapped her face. She gave a gasp of pain then crumpled to the ground.
Jack watched stunned, unable to move, as if this was a film he was watching, not real life. Haig turned to him. Jack saw no trace of the smiling, avuncular old man in the restaurant. His eyes were hate-filled black dots, his lips were spittle-flecked and his face was red. He was breathing heavily, moving menacingly towards him.
‘Your turn now, boy …’
Jack tried to move, but was too late. Haig punched him hard in the face. His hands came up and his neck snapped back. He went down too, joining Abigail on the ground. Haig stood over him.
‘Just in case you get any ideas …’
He brought his heavily booted foot back, let it fly into Jack’s ribs. And again. The pain was immense. Jack had never experienced anything like it. He didn’t know which part of him hurt most. He started to cry out. Haig bent down beside him.
‘Shut it, you fucking monster.’
Jack, terrified, did as he was told.
He was aware that Abigail was stirring. He watched, helplessly, as Haig grabbed her and pushed her into the back of the van. She was as scared as he was, and went without argument. Then Haig turned back to Jack, pulled him up. Jack began to scream.
‘I said shut it …’
A slap to the face kept Jack quiet. Haig pulled him to the back of the van then let him drop. He bent over as if pain was attacking his midriff, breathed hard, his face contorted. If Jack hadn’t been in such agony, he would have thought about running.
With what seemed like a huge effort, Haig pulled himself back together, pointed to the back of the van. ‘Get in …’
Jack, despite the pain, did as he was told.
Once inside, Haig crawled in after them. ‘Turn round …’
Jack fell on his stomach, felt his broken ribs move. It was like someone had taken a knife to his insides. His hands were grabbed behind him as Haig tightly attached a pair of PlastiCuffs. He then turned his attention to Abigail.
‘You going to give me any trouble?’
Abigail shook her head quickly.
‘Good. Hands behind your back.’
Abigail did so, but pulled them away at the last minute and turned on Haig, aiming her nails for his eyes.
‘Bitch,’ said Haig, managing to move slightly as she raked his cheek. He struck out at her with his fist, landed a blow on her collarbone. She fell backwards.
Haig looked down at her and took out a knife from his jacket pocket. ‘You want me to get creative? Eh? Do you?’
‘No, please, no …’ She was starting to sob now.
‘Good. Now get on your stomach and don’t try anything else because I’ll fucking use this.’
She did as she was told. Haig attached PlastiCuffs to her too.
With them both tied and helpless, Haig slumped back against the wall of the truck. Jack glanced up at him. The man looked tired and he was still clutching his stomach. Breathing heavily, face a mask of horror and hatred.
Jack’s emotions were cascading through him. He didn’t know what to think, to feel, how to process what was happening. Who was this man? What did he want with them? How soon could he get help? Could he get help?
With another huge gasp, Haig pushed himself off the wall, looked at the pair of them. Smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.
‘Right … we’re going to … take a little … drive …’
Jack, through all his pain and confusion, found his voice. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Haig gave a little laugh. ‘Because I want to.’ Then a cloud darkened his features. ‘Because I have to. I’m going to show your mother … who’s in charge … I’m going to show her … show her …’ Coughing stopped his words. He rode it out, regained his composure, spoke again. ‘Don’t worry. No one’s going to … to save you. You’re going to die. Because … I’m going to kill you. But, but … before I do, you’re going to be, to be … famous …’
‘But … who are you?’
Haig laughed again, his eyes lit by a dark, twisted light. He attempted a mock-Darth Vader voice. ‘I am your father, Luke.’ Then laughed again until a coughing fit stopped him.
And Jack realized that, whatever had happened to him so far, his troubles were only just beginning.
Anne Marie glanced down at the phone in her bag, then back up at Donovan, fear in her eyes. He shared her apprehension, but tried not to let her see. He failed.
‘Oh God,’ she said.
‘Answer it,’ Donovan said, his voice as quiet and as calm as possible. ‘See who it is.’
She nodded, trusting him. ‘He – hello …’
‘Hello, Anne Marie.’
She took a sudden intake of breath, gasped, as if she was about to start a panic attack. Donovan knew without asking who it was. Tom Haig.
Donovan mouthed the words ‘Keep him talking’ at her and, once she had nodded that she understood him, ran out of the room.
He went downstairs into the main office. Amar had just shut Flemyng in the kitchen, telling him to stay there until they could decide what to do with him. He turned as
Donovan entered.
‘He’s calling, Amar,’ said Donovan. Anne Marie’s phone. GPS. Get it traced.’
Amar rushed to his computer, sat down in front of it, moved the mouse and knocked the live feed from Brighton off the screen.
‘Haven’t heard from Jamal in a while,’ he said.
‘We’ll worry about that later,’ said Donovan. ‘Let’s get this sorted first.’
Amar’s fingers moved over the keyboard. He brought up Anne Marie’s number, started to trace the call. ‘Keep her talking,’ he said ‘Should take me about a minute or so if he’s local.’
Anne Marie’s voice came out of the speakers. ‘I knuh – know it’s you, Tom.’
‘Yes,’ said the other voice. ‘And you don’t sound pleased to hear from me. Well, you should be. Because I’ve got someone here with me. Someone you’ll want to talk to.’
‘Oh God,’ said Donovan.
Amar’s fingers played over the keys. ‘Little bit longer …’
‘No … no …’
‘He’s a fine-looking boy,’ Tom Haig said, unable and unwilling to keep the relish from his voice. ‘Well, he was. Still, he’s a credit to you. Needs his father, though.’
Anne Marie tried to choke back sobbing.
‘And he’s got a girlfriend. Good lad.’
Donovan froze.
‘Wuh – what?’ said Anne Marie.
‘Little Abigail. And Little Jack. What a lovely couple they make.’
‘Fuck …’ Donovan’s heart was beating double time. His legs felt weak. ‘No, no, no …’
‘Now what shall I do with them? Hmm?’
‘Got it,’ said Amar. ‘Scotswood.’
‘Be more specific!’ Donovan shouted.
Amar, concentrating, didn’t take offence at Donovan’s anger. ‘The Elms,’ he said. ‘Tower block.’ He frowned. ‘Why a tower block?’
‘I don’t know. Keep them talking, see if he says anything eke. I’m going over there.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No. You stay here. Anne Marie needs someone with her. And you’ve got to man the phone line.’
‘But you can’t go on your own. He’s a fucking nutter.’
‘I’ll go with you.’
The two of them looked up. Flemyng was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
‘Amar’s right. You need someone else with you. I know you don’t think much of me but I can still do …’ He shrugged. ‘… something. Please. Let me help.’
Amar and Donovan exchanged a glance. They had little option.
‘OK,’ said Donovan. ‘But you do exactly as I tell you. And don’t fuck about. You got that?’
Flemyng nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘Right,’ said Donovan. ‘Come on.’
He ran out of the building, Flemyng following.
‘So, Anne Marie. It’s finally come to this.’
She chokes back tears. Can’t answer him.
Tom Haig continues. ‘You see, I’ve been thinking. And I’ve come to a few decisions in the last few days. I don’t want your money any more. It was never about that anyway. But it would have helped, especially now.’
‘Wuh – what d’you mean?’
‘I’ll tell you. I’m dying, Anne Marie. Cancer. Stomach to start with, but it’s spread to my bones, apparently. And there’s nothing they can do to stop it.’
‘Cancer …’ A part of Anne Marie is elated at the news. ‘So you won’t be around to hurt me any more.’
He laughs. It is cut short by a coughing fit. He gets himself under control before answering. ‘No, I won’t be around any more. For you or anyone else. So I thought I would sort things out before I go. One last time.’
A shudder goes through Anne Marie. ‘What d’you mean? What’s sortin’ things out?’
‘The usual things people do in this situation, apparently. Seeing friends and family. Saying my goodbyes.’
She absorbed the impact of the words. ‘Friends an’ family … you mean Jack, don’t you?’
‘Of course. It’s only right that a father should want to spend some quality time with his son while he still has the chance. Set him right on a few things.’
‘Where are you?’
He laughs. Your old home. Right back to the beginning. Full circle.’
‘What d’you mean? My old home? What old home?’
‘In Scotswood.’
‘That was demolished.’
‘I know. But not the one where you lived. The one where you killed. Where the person you are now was born.’
‘No …’
‘Yes. And what a view. Perfect for having a dad-to-lad chat with my son.’
And then something happens within Anne Marie. Driven by her maternal need to protect Jack, she finds her voice. And when she speaks again, her voice is strong enough to overcome the fear she has of Haig. ‘You’re not his father. You’ve never been his father. You might have provided a seed that formed him, but you’ve never – never – been his father.’
The vehemence behind her words shocks him. He falls silent for a few seconds. Anne Marie continues.
‘You’ve gone quiet, Tom. But then you don’t like it when people answer you back, do you? You don’t have power over them, control over them when they do that, do you? You don’t like it.’ Her voice gets stronger. ‘I’m tellin’ you now. Let him go. An’ Abigail. Let them go an’ we’ll say nothin’ more about it. You can go. Just …’ And here her voices wavers. ‘… just let them go.’
He hears the hesitation, assumes it is weakness, pounces on it straightaway. ‘Bitch.’ He hisses the word. ‘You fucking bitch. Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do? Eh? You’re nothing. You’ve got no power, nothing. You’re helpless. Useless.’
‘And what are you, Tom?’
‘Better than you. I’ve spent my whole life clearing up after people like you. I’ve been a dustman cleaning up human shit.’
‘I know, Tom. You’ve said that to me before. Lots of times.’
‘Well, I’m tired of it. Tired of listening to weak, useless bastards and their weak, useless excuses for why their lives are so shit. Any excuse, so long as they don’t blame themselves. And I’ve tried to help them. And are they grateful? Are they fuck. It’s cost me my career, my health and now this. My life. Because this cancer is stress-related. That’s what the doctor said. So it’s your fault.’
Anne Marie continued talking. She didn’t stop to question where this new-found strength was coming from. ‘Mγ fault? Now who’s blamin’ other people?’
A roar of anger is her only answer. She waits for it to subside, holding her breath, hoping Jack is still all right.
‘Why?’ he says once his voice is under control again, ‘why should you live and not me? Why should you enjoy yourself and have a life to look forward to, bearing in mind what you’ve done? Eh? You’d have nothing if it wasn’t for me. If I hadn’t sorted you out once you left prison, you’d have nothing. You’d be back inside by now. I gave you everything. Everything.’
‘That’s not how I remember it.’
‘Then you’re a liar as well as a bitch.’
‘Tom,’ she says calmly. The calm surprises her. But she accepts it, works with it. Rationalizes in a split second what is happening. He is her fear. Her greatest fear. And now she is no longer running away. She is finally facing him and she is no longer scared. ‘Tom. What you’ve done is far worse than what I did. I know what I did was awful and I pay for that every day of my life. I’ll never stop payin’ for it. But I have to keep goin’. And I have to live with it. But there was a reason for what I did. Not an excuse to hide behind, a reason. Now you did somethin’ far worse. You killed all those boys. And you don’t care. And you don’t have a reason for it. You just have an excuse. You think that makes you stronger? It doesn’t. It just makes you weaker. Not superhuman, less than human.’
He is silent. All she can hear is his breathing.
She waits. Says nothing.
‘I’ll be in touch. When I’ve got something I want you to listen to.’
The phone goes dead in her hand.
‘Tom? Tom?’ She redials, can’t get through. She throws the phone down on the sofa, stares at it.
‘Oh no … oh no …’
28
Donovan was behind the wheel of the Scimitar, pushing it as hard as he could, on the way to the west side of the city, to Scotswood. He had heard the whole conversation, Amar having patched it through to his earpiece. Beside him in the passenger seat, Flemyng kept trying to talk. Donovan kept ignoring him.
‘Thank you,’ said Flemyng. ‘For the chance to help, I mean.’
‘Fine.’
‘I mean, it’s good of you. I really appreciate it. And I do want to help.’
‘Good.’
‘You see, I don’t think I’ve got … once something like this gets out, and it will get out, I’m sure of it, I’ve got nothing to go back to. I’ll lose my job, that’s for certain. I’ll be ostracized. And I’ve done so well recently. Kept my, you know, in check …’
Donovan barely looked at him when he spoke, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, his hands on the Scimitar’s steering wheel. ‘Listen, Flemyng, whether your friends won’t talk to you any more because you like shagging kids and the university won’t want you near students is not top of my list of priorities at the moment. I’ve got more important things to worry about.’
‘Fine. Sorry. Right. It’s just that …’ He sighed. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. What I have to go through. I—’
‘Flemyng?’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re here on sufferance, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So shut up. And suffer. In silence.’
Flemyng fell silent. Donovan pressed a button on his earpiece. ‘How you doing, Amar? Got a better fix on the signal?’
‘Think so,’ the voice said in his ear. It’s the one nearest the river, when you drive up to them off the Scotswood Road. I think he may have them on the roof.’
‘That’s what I thought. That thing he said about the view. Brilliant. Just what we need.’
‘Should I call Nattress?’
‘Might be worth a try.’
Speak No Evil Page 27