Eventually the receptionist returned along with a dark-haired woman, dressed casually, with sharp, intelligent eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses.
‘I’m Kaye,’ she said, shaking hands. ‘Come with me.’
Peta was ushered through a door, up a flight of stairs. The walls, in contrast to the reception area, were covered with primary-coloured murals depicting an idealized, child’s view of a multi-racial, multi-ethnic world. Characters were smiling, sharing possessions, enjoying a happy, if unrealistic, life.
‘Some of our students’ work,’ Kaye said as they walked up. ‘The art class is one of the most popular we run here.’
‘What kind of students have you got?’
‘You saw some of them in the foyer,’ she said. ‘Anyone who’s fallen through the net, basically.’
‘What kind of problems?’
‘The usual. Homelessness, abuse, alcohol, drugs. Mental health. Sometimes all together, sometimes in different combinations. We run all sorts of courses, help them back on their feet and into society.’
‘Good success rate?’
Kaye shrugged. ‘We try to perform miracles every day.’
They reached the first floor. Kaye took Peta into a large room with chairs and tables stacked against one wall. Kaye closed the door behind them, pulled two chairs from the stack, sat down. Peta did likewise.
‘Mary Evans told me about you. Now, as Richie’s caseworker I should say that he’s responding very well to the work he’s doing here. Very well. He’s stopped drinking, is attending AA and taking art and computing classes. So if you’re going to say something that’ll upset him, trigger off a relapse, then we won’t be going any further.’
‘We’re not police’ said Peta. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong. We just want to know if he’s got any ideas about who’s making these calls.’
Kaye looked at her watch. ‘Ten minutes. That’s all I can allow. If you want to speak to him further it’ll have to be another time. And I’ll be in the room too.’
‘Fine. You work with vulnerable people. I don’t want to compromise that work.’
Kaye smiled. ‘Exactly.’
Kaye left the room. Peta glanced around the room, reading posters on the walls, absently scratching her arm. It was like the kind of treatment centre she had attended to control her growing alcohol addiction and to receive counselling. It all came back. She knew they had been trying to help but it had still felt like going to the doctor, waiting to be told she had cancer. She shivered at the memory.
She knew that the guys in reception, the drinking school, weren’t a different species. They could be anyone. Just one wrong turn and it’s there but for the grace of God.
The door opened. Kaye led in one of the men from reception. Not one of the drinking school. He sat down next to her. Tall, rake-thin, skin red and blotchy, his face unshaven. Wearing supermarket jeans and T-shirt, hair sandy-coloured and thinning, short. Looking at least in his sixties, his face lined, his breathing laboured. But his eyes drew Peta. Pale, watery blue, holding intelligence and a hard-won compassion; they had seen things no one rightly should, but they were determined not to harden over. He smiled, stretched out a hand.
‘I’m Richie.’
Peta shook, introduced herself.
Richie Vane’s hand was warm, clammy. Peta could feel it vibrating as she shook it. Richie Vane’s whole body was shaking slightly, like he was just in focus. Peta didn’t know if it was the cumulative effect of years of self-abuse or just nerves at meeting new people. Probably a bit of both.
‘Mary said you’d be comin’ to see me,’ he said.
‘Did she tell you why?’ said Peta.
Richie Vane nodded. ‘Trevor Whitman.’ He smiled. Peta saw damage in that smile, wondered how much of it was irreparable. ‘Trevor Whitman. Blast from the past.’ His accent had traces of the north but was mostly flat, neutral. Could have come from anywhere, belonged nowhere.
Peta’s notes on Richie Vane: a true believer in the Hollow Men, but along the way that belief had been perverted. The loyalest of the loyal, he had begun to separate from the group, head off on his own, claiming to be undertaking some shadowy, secret work. Dangerous and daring missions, potentially lethal. The others had laughed it off, but suspicions had grown. Maybe he was Special Branch, MI5. Feeding stories to the media, even. They froze him out, not trusted. Uninvolved.
Then the real reasons became apparent. Drugs. Harder than hard. Heroin and cocaine speedballs for the highs, prodigious amounts of acid for the trips, cannabis, beer and whisky for the comedowns. A self-medicating pharmacological experiment. That was Richie Vane’s dangerous, daring and potentially lethal mission.
They cut him loose. Drugs they didn’t mind; instability and unreliability they did. Richie’s spiral had been a swift downward one. He had remained lost for years, presumed dead, until a chance encounter with Mary Evans had led him on a slow climb up rehab mountain.
‘Have you spoken to Mary?’ said Peta.
A small smile crept around the corners of Richie Vane’s face. He nodded. ‘Trevor’s been havin’ some nuisance calls.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why? Why’s he think that?’
Peta frowned, wondering how much to tell him. ‘Because … because the person said something, apparently. Something from the Hollow Men.’
‘Like what?’
Richie Vane seemed sharper than Peta had been led to believe. ‘Some old password, I think. I don’t know for sure. He didn’t tell me.’
Richie Vane nodded, the smile creeping around his mouth like ivy on a crumbling old building. He rocked slightly, back and forth. ‘Right. Aye. She’s a good ’un, Mary, a good ’un.’
‘Right,’ said Peta. ‘So any ideas?’
Richie sat back. ‘About what?’
‘Who’s making the calls.’
Richie let out a guttural, phlegmy sound from his ruined lungs which may have been a laugh. ‘You’re jokin’, aren’t you?’ Another smile, the grin of a dry alcoholic. ‘Ancient history. All that happened to another man, not me.’
‘You don’t keep in touch with any of the old crew?” said Peta.
‘Just Mary. My fairy godmother. Checks on me now an’ again. Makes sure I’m on the straight an’ narrow.’ He sounded like it was both an inconvenient arrangement and paradoxically one he drew strength from.
‘None of the others?’ said Peta. ‘Abdul-Haq?’
Richie made a face. ‘Wanker.’ Kaye leaned forward, looked at him. ‘Not expressin’ a racist slur. My opinion is not based on his ethnicity or religion.’ He sounded like it was a well-worn phrase. ‘Was a wanker when I knew him, he’s an even bigger one now that he thinks he’s doin’ God’s work. Can’t turn on the telly without seein’ him shoutin’ about somethin’.’
It seemed like Richie Vane was going to go on a tirade that would take some time when he abruptly stopped. ‘What they said on the phone. Was it T. S. Eliot?’
Peta’s mouth fell open, momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change. ‘Well …’
Richie Vane smiled. There was some kind of twinkle in his eye. ‘Was, wasn’t it? T. S. Eliot. Bet it was from “The Hollow Men”. Bet it was.’
‘Why?’
‘Bomb code.’
Peta leaned forward. ‘What?’
‘Bomb code. When somethin’ was gonna happen, somethin’ was planned, there would be a phone call. Quotin’ a few lines. Bomb code, we called it.’
‘Always for a bomb?’
‘Not necessarily. Anythin’, really. But it meant there was somethin’ about to happen.’
Peta was about to ask another question, but Richie’s mind had taken off at another tangent. ‘Heard Trevor was back. Always liked him. Good bloke. Very fair.’ He looked at the floor. ‘Y’know. To me, like. Not gonna badmouth anyone for, you know. Not now. Not after all those years.’ He was shaking even more than he had been when he had first entered the room.
Peta leaned forward to quest
ion him further, but Kaye looked at her watch. ‘Sorry. I think that’s all the time we can allow you. Don’t want to overdo it.’
‘OK. Thanks, Richie.’
He nodded, body shaking slightly less, coming to a standstill now that the ordeal was over.
They shook hands. Kaye stood up to usher Richie out but he didn’t leave.
‘So, eh …’ Richie Vane looked at his hands, the shakes not completely gone. ‘What are you, like? Private detectives? Somethin’ like that?’
‘Something like that.’
‘D’you wanna new recruit, like? Eh? Someone to work the streets? I could do it, you know. Got contacts I bet you could never get.’
‘I bet you have,’ said Peta.
He made a phone sign with his shaking fingers, nodded. ‘Bear it in mind,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, if I hear anythin’ where can I get in touch with you?’
Peta handed over her card. Kaye looked concerned as she did so. Peta imagined it wouldn’t be in Richie Vane’s possession for very long.
Richie Vane touched his nose, gave a wink. ‘If I hear anythin’ …’
‘Right you are.’
He looked hard at Peta. Smiled. ‘Mary said.’
‘Said what?’ Peta’s voice flat, uninflected.
‘Lillian’s daughter. God, yeah, family resemblance is strong.’ He nodded. ‘She nearly joined the Hollow Men.’
‘Lots of people say I look like my mother.’ said Peta.
‘Spittin’ image.’ He scrutinized her again. ‘And your father.’ Another nod.
‘Philip Knight.’
Richie Vane frowned. ‘Who?’
Peta’s chest fluttered. ‘Philip Knight. He was my father.’
Richie shrugged, no recognition of the name in his eyes. ‘Don’t know him. No, Trevor was—’ Seeing the look on her face, he said nothing more.
‘What?’ Peta said, her voice rising.
He nodded at Kaye, agitated. ‘I want to go now.’
‘What d’you mean about Trevor? Trevor was what?’
‘Please don’t excite Richie,’ said Kaye.
‘Him?’ Peta was almost shouting. ‘What about me?’
Richie was on his feet, Kaye guiding him to the door. ‘Sorry.’ He shrugged as he was escorted from the room.
Left alone, the colour drained completely from Peta’s face. She looked like a ghost. Kaye returned, saying something about not antagonizing her client, but Peta didn’t listen. Kaye walked her down the stairs and out of the building. Peta didn’t hear a word she said. She got straight in the car, slammed the door, locked it behind her. Put her face in her hands.
‘What did he mean?’ she said out loud. ‘What do they mean, all of them? What are they trying to tell me?’ Tears were welling, panic rising. She tried to keep it all in.
Put her head back and screamed.
23
Peta didn’t know how long she sat there in the car, waiting for the tears to stop, the wave of fear to ride out of her body, but it was beginning to get dark when she opened her eyes again. She took a deep breath. Another. Looked at her hands. They were shaking as much as Richie Vane’s had been.
She rummaged in her bag, reached for her mobile, powered it up. She needed someone to talk to. She had a message.
‘Hi,’ said Donovan’s voice, ‘it’s me. Hope you’re OK. Listen, I’ve been trying to reach you. I had that meeting with Abdul-Haq. It went, well, I’ll tell you when I see you. Thing is, this is what I’ve been trying to reach you for. I’ve tracked down Maurice Courtney. The last of the Hollow Men. He’s in London and he can see me tomorrow. I know that we should get together and compare notes from today, but I thought it best to follow this up. So I’m off to London tonight. I know I won’t see him till tomorrow but I thought it … there’s some things I need to take care of down there. First.’
She knew what that would be.
‘So I’ll see him tomorrow, then come straight back. Give me a ring when you get this. Actually, do it later. I’ll be driving. I won’t hear you.’ He gave something that sounded like a sigh and a laugh. ‘Oh, well. Hope you’re OK, like I said. Speak to you later.’
She put the phone down. Sighed. Picked it up again, called Amar. Got voicemail.
‘Amar, give me a ring when you get this. I’m … Just give me a ring.’
She was about to try Jamal but just didn’t have the energy to press the buttons.
‘Oh, what’s the fucking point?’ she said out loud.
She switched the phone off, threw it on the passenger seat. She wanted to talk to her mother. But she didn’t dare. In case she said something Peta didn’t want to hear. But she needed something. She needed help. She looked at her shaking hands again. Listened to what her body told her.
She knew what she wanted. Knew where she had to go.
Started the car.
Drove into the city centre.
Jamal didn’t know what else to do. He had tried everyone’s number, got voicemail for all of them. What was the point of having a mobile if it was never on? He hadn’t left messages. He didn’t know what to say.
Instead he had walked down to Amar’s flat, rang the bell. No reply. Beyond a joke now.
He let himself in with his key. No Amar. His laptop was set up, lights blinking away on it. He must still be monitoring Whitman’s phone, thought Jamal, routing the signal to his work mobile. The one Jamal had been calling was sitting on the table.
He sighed, sat down. Didn’t know what to do with himself. Who to talk to. He couldn’t call the police; they would trace it, haul him in. No one to talk to, to help. There was nothing he could do. He knelt on the floor, started going through Amar’s DVD collection. Hoped he could find something there to lose himself in. Get those images out of his head.
Knew it wouldn’t work.
It was going to be a long night.
*
Amar stood at the bar in Camp David, the rhythm of the music pulsing through his body. He felt connected. Happy. Alive.
He had sat in his flat all afternoon, monitoring the airwaves, letting his mind wander, reaching conclusions. Getting shot and nearly dying had changed his perspective on things. He had been happily throwing his life away before the shooting, out of his head with drugs and casual, unprotected sex, playing Russian roulette with his body. Nearly dying had caused him to reassess that. He hadn’t had a drink, taken a pill, done a line or had sex for months.
And it was starting to affect him.
Because the shooting had taught him something else. Life was too short. It was for living, for taking hold of life and getting everything you possibly could out of it. So there he had sat, watching lights blink, listen in to ghost conversations, wait for Whitman’s phone to spring to life. And it hadn’t happened.
Yeah, he had thought, his hand unconsciously stroking the pitted skin of his stomach through his T-shirt. Life’s too short. So he had put the phone on relay, stood up, walked to the bathroom without his cane, got ready and gone out.
He stood watching. Groups gathered round small tables on square stools that he didn’t think he would be able to get up from if he sat down. So he stood at the bar, the lights bouncing off bare brick wall, sipped from his bottle of Becks. The alcohol, long absent from his body, hit like a liquid endorphin rush. He had been eyed up on entering, just as he had done. He took another swig, tried to ignore the clichéd house remix of a Scissor Sisters track pumping out of the sound system, looked around. A few possibles, some definites, some definitely nots.
He smiled to himself, back in the swing. Like it was only days, not months.
Men smiled, threw him glad eyes. Mostly definitely nots, so he ignored them. Kept looking. Clocked a guy at the end of the bar, half in shadow. Big, muscled, with short, razor-cropped hair. Jeans, T-shirt and denim jacket. Promising.
Amar took his drink, moved slowly along. Stopped in the man’s line of vision, waited. Eventually he looked up. A rough face, nose broken a couple of times, not reset too well
, a flecking of small scars. But his eyes. Soft. Lost. Something broken in there.
Amar found an instant connection.
He caught Amar’s glance, turned away. Amar waited, kept looking. The man slowly turned his head. Hurt eyes on Amar. Amar smiled, moved nearer.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Buy you a drink?’ Just like he’d never been away.
He said nothing, just looked scared. Amar knew what scared him. Himself. Wanting to connect, seeing only what holds him back. We’ve all been there. One time or another.
‘Just a drink,’ said Amar. ‘I’m having one.’ He motioned to the barman.
‘Same … same as you,’ the man said. He pushed his empty beer bottle along the bar towards Amar. Hand shaking.
Amar smiled, ordered the drinks.
‘First time here?’
The man nodded, eyes on the bar. ‘For a while.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t bite. Not unless you want me to.’
He looked like he wanted to smile but couldn’t. Took a mouthful of beer instead. Amar reckoned those beers weren’t the first of the night.
‘So what’s your name, then?’
His mouth opened. Amar waited. This would be the turning point. The rest of the night decided on whether he gave a truthful answer. And Amar would know.
‘Kev,’ the man said. ‘My name’s Kev.’
‘Amar. Nice to meet you.’
And Amar knew he was telling the truth.
Peta opened the door of the Forth, paused for a few seconds on the threshold, entered.
She walked up to the bar, music pounding in her ears, people all around her. Fear of suicide bombers and riots hadn’t stopped drinkers coming out, enjoying themselves. But then, as she knew, there wasn’t much that stopped drinkers coming out.
She waited patiently to be served, the queue at the bar three deep in places. She had ample time to back out, to listen to that voice in her head, getting smaller the nearer she got to the bar. Someone was served, turned, took their drinks away. A space. She grabbed it.
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