The Echo

by Minette Walters

  "Yeah, but—"

  "Trust me. If Lawrence says your name's Terry Dalton and you're aged eighteen, then the police will believe him. He's very convincing. He looks like a cross between the Pope and Albert Einstein."

  "He's a fucking lawyer. If you tell him the truth, he'll have to pass it on to the cops. That's what lawyers do."

  "No, they don't," said Deacon with more conviction than he felt. "They represent their client's interests. But, in any case, I won't tell Lawrence anything unless I have to."

  Terry was grinning broadly as he left the interview room. "You coming?" he asked Deacon and Lawrence as he passed them in the waiting room on his way out.

  They caught up with him in the street. "Well?" demanded Deacon.

  "No problem. It never crossed their minds I wasn't who I said I was." He started to laugh.

  "What's so funny?"

  "They warned me off you and Lawrence because they reckoned you were a couple of chutney ferrets after my arse. Otherwise, why'd you be hanging around when all I was doing was making a statement?"

  "God almighty!" snarled Deacon. "What did you say?"

  "I said they needn't worry because I don't do that kind of stuff."

  "Oh, great! So our reputations go down the pan while you come out smelling of roses."

  "That's about the size of it," said Terry, retreating behind Lawrence for safety.

  Lawrence chuckled joyfully. "To be honest, I'm flattered anyone thinks I still have the energy to do anything so active." He tucked his hand into Terry's arm and drew him along the pavement towards a pub on the corner. "What was the term you used? Chutney ferret? Of course I'm a very old man, and not at all in touch with modern idiom, but I do think gay is preferable." He paused in front of the pub door, waiting for Terry to open it for him. "Thank you," he said, gripping the boy's hand to steady himself as he carefully mounted the step at the entrance.

  Terry threw an anguished glance over his shoulder at Deacon which clearly said—this old guy's got his hand in mine, and I think he's a fucking woofter—but Deacon only bared his teeth in a savage smile. "Serves you right," he mouthed, following them inside.

  Barry Grover looked up rather guiltily as the security guard opened the cuttings' library door and stepped inside. "All right, son, let's have you out of here," said Glen Hopkins firmly. "The office is closed and you are supposed to be on holiday."

  He was a blunt-spoken, retired Chief Petty Officer, and after much deliberation, and having listened to the vicious gossip about Barry that came from the women, he had decided to take the little man in hand. He knew exactly what his problem was, and it was nothing that a little practical advice and straight speaking couldn't put right. He had come across Barry's type in the Navy, although admittedly they were usually younger.

  Barry covered what he was doing. "I'm working on something important," he said priggishly.

  "No you're not. We both know what you're up to, and it's not work."

  Barry took off his glasses and stared blindly across the room. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Oh, yes, you do, and it isn't healthy, son." Glen moved heavily across the floor. "Listen to me, a man of your age should be out having fun, not shutting himself away in the dark looking at snapshots. Now, I've a few cards here with some addresses and telephone numbers on them, and my best advice to you is to choose the one you like and give her a ring. She'll cost a bob or two and you'll need a condom, but she'll get you up and running if you follow my drift. There's no shame in having a helping hand at the start." He placed the prostitutes' cards on the desk, and gave Barry a fatherly pat on the shoulder. "You'll find the real thing's a damn sight more fun than a boxful of pictures."

  Barry blushed a fiery red. "You don't understand, Mr. Hopkins. I'm working on a project for Mike Deacon." He uncovered the pictures of Billy Blake and James Streeter. "It's a big story."

  "Which explains why Mike's at the other desk helping you, I suppose," said Glen ironically, "instead of out on the town as per usual. Come on, son, no story's so important that it can't wait till after Christmas. You can say it's none of my business, but I'm a good judge of what a man's problems are and you're not going to solve yours by staying here."

  Barry shrank away from him. "It's not what you think," he mumbled.

  "You're lonely, lad, and you don't know how to cure it. Your mum's the nosy type—don't forget it's me who answers the phone if she rings of an evening—and if you'll forgive the straight-speaking, you'd have done better to get out from under her apron strings a long time ago. All you need is a little confidence to get started, and there's no law that says you shouldn't pay for it." His lugubrious face broke into a smile. "Now, hop to it, and give yourself the sort of Christmas present you'll never forget."

  Thoroughly humiliated, Barry had no option but to pick up the cards and leave, but the shame of the experience brought tears to his eyes, and he blinked forlornly on the pavement as the front door was locked behind him. He was so afraid that Glen would quiz him on how he'd got on that he finally made his way to a phone booth and called the first number in the pile that the man had selected for him. Had he known that, in the simplistic belief that sex cured all ills, Glen habitually passed prostitutes' cards to any male colleague whom he deemed to be going through a bad patch, Barry might have thought twice about what he was doing. As it was, he assumed his virginity would become common gossip if he didn't fulfill Glen's ambitions for him, and it was more in dread of being the butt of office jokes than in anticipation of pleasure that he agreed to pay one hundred pounds for Fatima: the Turkish Delight.

  *9*

  "Now," said Lawrence, when they were settled at a table with drinks in front of them, "perhaps Terry would like to tell me why I'm here."

  Terry ducked the question by burying his nose in his pint of beer.

  "It's quite simple—" began Deacon.

  "Then I should like Terry to explain it," said the old man with surprising firmness. "I'm a lover of simplicity, Michael, but so far you've only confused me. I am very doubtful that Terry is who he says he is, which means you and I could be in the invidious position of accessories after the fact to a crime he committed previously."

  A resigned expression settled on Terry's face. "I knew this were a bad idea," he told Deacon morosely. "For a kickoff I don't understand a bleeding word he says. It were like listening to Billy. He was always using words the rest of us had never heard of. I told him once to speak fucking English, and he laughed so much you'd of thought I'd just told the best joke in the world." His pale eyes fixed on Lawrence. "People get hung up on names," he said fiercely, "but what's so important about a fucking name? If it comes to that, what's so important about a person's age? It's the age you act that matters not the age you are. Okay, maybe my name isn't Terry and maybe I'm not eighteen, but I like 'em both because they give me respect. One day, I'm gonna be somebody, and people like you will want to know me whatever I'm calling myself. It's me that's important—" he tapped his chest above his heart—"not my name."

  Deacon passed Terry a cigarette. "There's no crime involved, Lawrence," he said matter-of-factly.

  "How do you know?"

  "What did I tell you?" demanded Terry aggressively. "Fucking lawyers. Now he's calling me a liar."

  Deacon made a damping motion with his hand. "Terry ran away from care two years ago at the age of twelve, and he doesn't want to be sent back because the man in charge is a pedophile. To avoid that happening he's added four years to his age and has been living under an alias in a squat. It's as simple as that."

  Lawrence clicked his tongue impatiently, unintimidated by Terry's seething anger beside him. "You call it simple that a child has been living in dreadful circumstances without education or loving parental control during two of the most important years of his life? Perhaps I should remind you, Michael, that it's only five hours since you were telling me you wanted to be a father." He raised a thin, transparent hand towards Terry. "This young man is
no harmless stray who can be left to his own devices now that you've prevented the police from exercising their responsibility towards him. He's in need of the care and protection that a civilized society—"

  "There were Billy," broke in Terry fiercely. "He were caring."

  Lawrence looked at him for a moment then took the photograph Deacon had given him from his wallet. "Is this Billy?"

  Terry glanced at the haggard face then looked away. "Yeah."

  "It must have grieved you to lose him."

  "Not so's you'd notice." He lowered his head. "He weren't that bloody brilliant. Half the time he were off his head so it were me looking after him.''

  "But you did love him?"

  The boy's hands clenched into fists again. "If you're saying me and Billy were sodding poofs, I'll belt you one."

  "My dear boy," murmured the old man gently, "such a thing never crossed my mind. I dread to think what kind of world you inhabit where men are frightened to express their fondness for each other because of what others might think. There are a thousand ways to love a person, and only one of them is sexual. I think you loved Billy as a father and, from the way you describe him, he loved you as a son. Is that so shameful that you have to deny it?"

  Terry didn't say anything and a silence developed. Deacon broke it eventually because it was becoming uncomfortable.

  "Look, I don't know about anyone else," he said, "but I had a terrible night last night, and I wouldn't mind calling it a day. My personal view is that Terry's a streetwise kid with a hell of a lot going for him—he's certainly got more brains than I had at his age—but there's a spare bed in my flat, I look to be spending a miserable Christmas on my own, and I'd welcome some company. What do you say, Terry? My place or the warehouse for the next few days? You and I can enjoy ourselves while Lawrence does the worrying about the future."

  "I thought you said there was no food," he muttered ungraciously.

  "There isn't. We'll grab a takeaway tonight and go looking for turkey tomorrow."

  "Except you don't really want me. It's only because Lawrence reckons you'd make a lousy father that you thought of it."

  "Right. But I have thought of it, so what's the answer?" He looked at the bowed head. ' 'Listen, you miserable little sod, I haven't done badly by you so far today. Okay, I don't know the first damn thing about parenting but a small thank-you for the efforts I have shown wouldn't go amiss."

  Terry grinned suddenly and raised his head. "Thanks, Dad. You've done good. How about we make it an Indian takeaway?''

  There was a gleam of triumph in the lad's pale eyes which came and went too swiftly for Deacon to notice. But Lawrence saw it. Being older and wiser, he had been looking for it.

  Lawrence refused Deacon's offer of a lift home but took down the Islington address in case he was contacted by the police. He advised Terry to use his few days' grace to consider whether a return to the warehouse was in his best interests, warned him that his true age and identity would undoubtedly be discovered if and when he was required to give evidence against Denning in court, and suggested he think about regularizing his position voluntarily before he was forced into it. He then asked Terry to call him a taxi from the phone at the bar and, while the boy was out of earshot, he cautioned Deacon against naivety. "Retain a healthy skepticism, Michael. Remember the kind of life Terry's been leading and how little you actually know about him."

  Deacon smiled slightly. "I was afraid you were going to tell me to embrace him to my heart with expressions of love. Healthy skepticism I can cope with. It's what I know best."

  "Oh, I don't think you're quite so hardened as you think you are, my dear fellow. You've accepted everything he's told you without blinking an eyelash."

  "You think he's lying?"

  Lawrence shrugged. "We've had a conversation filled with references to homosexuality, and that troubles me. You'll be very vulnerable to a charge of attempted rape if you take him back to your flat. And that will leave you no option but to pay whatever he demands from you."

  Deacon frowned. "Come on, Lawrence, he's completely paranoid on the whole subject. He'd never let me near enough to touch him so how could he accuse me of rape?''

  "Attempted rape, dear chap, and do please recognize how effective his paranoia is. He's lulled you into thinking it's safe to take him home, which I'm bound to say is not something I would feel confident doing."

  "Then why were you pushing me into it?"

  Lawrence sighed. "I wasn't, Michael. I was hoping to persuade you both that Terry should be returned to care." He was watching the boy as he spoke. The barman was trying to give him a telephone directory which he seemed reluctant to take. "Tell me, what will your reaction be when he screams and tears his clothes, and threatens to run to one of your neighbors with stories of imprisonment and sexual assault?''

  "Why would he want to do that?"

  "I would imagine because he's done it before and knows it works. You really mustn't go into this with your eyes closed, my dear chap."

  "Great," said Deacon, lowering his head wearily into his hands. "So what the hell am I supposed to do now? Tell the little bastard to get stuffed?"

  Lawrence chuckled. "Dear, dear, dear! What a fellow you are for losing heart. The least generous but probably most sensible course would be to hand him back to the police and let the social workers deal with him, but that would be very unkind when you've just offered him Christmas in your flat. Forewarned is after all forearmed. I think you must honor your invitation to the poor lad but keep one step ahead of him all the time."

  "I wish you'd make up your mind," growled Deacon. "Half a minute ago the poor lad was planning to con me out of thousands."

  "Why should the two be mutually exclusive? He's an unloved, ill-educated, half-formed adolescent who, through living rough, will have learned some sophisticated tricks to keep himself in clothes, food, drink, and drugs. The truth may be that you're exactly the person he needs to bring him back into the fold."

  "He'll run rings around me," said Deacon gloomily.

  "Surely not," murmured Lawrence, looking towards the bar, where Terry had finally asked the barman to locate a minicab firm for him in the directory. "At least you have the advantage of literacy."

  Barry experienced only humiliation at the hands of Fatima, who spoke very poor English. The light in her bed-sitting room was dim, and he looked in fastidious alarm at the tumbled bed which still seemed to bear the imprint of a previous client. There was a strong Turkish atmosphere in the frowsty room which owed more to Fatima herself than to the array of joss sticks burning on a dressing table.

  She was a well-covered woman, somewhere in her middle years, with a routine that was well-established and made no allowance for time-wasting. She recognized rapidly that she was dealing with a virgin and looked repeatedly at her clock, while Barry stumbled through an inarticulate introduction of himself as he tried to work out how to extricate himself from this dreadful situation without offending her.

  "One hunra," she broke in impatiently, stroking her palm. "And take zee trowse off. Who care you call Barree? I call you sweeties. What you like? Doggy-doggy? Oil?" She pursed her full lips into a ripe rosebud. "You nice clean boy. For a hunra and fifty Fatima do sucky-sucky. You like sucky-sucky? Sounds good, eh, sweeties?"

  Terrified that she wouldn't let him go without some sort of payment, Barry fumbled his wallet out of his coat pocket and allowed her to remove five twenties. It was a mistake. Once the money had changed hands, and when Barry didn't immediately start shedding his clothes, she set about doing it for him. She was a strong woman and clearly expected to fulfill her side of the contract.

  "Come on, sweeties. No need to be shy. Fatima she know all the tricks. There, you see, no problem. You beeg boy." With deft hands she plucked a condom from a nearby drawer, applied it with consummate artistry, and proceeded to practice her Turkish delights at speed. Barry was no match for her skill, and matters reached a conclusion in seconds. "There you are, sweeties," she sa
id, "all done, all enjoyed. You really beeg boy. You come back any time as long as you have a hunra. Fatima always willing. Next time, less talk more fun, okay? You pay for good sex, and Fatima give good sex. Maybe you like doggy-doggy and fondle Fatima's nice round arse. Now put zee trowse back on and say bye-bye." She had the door open before he was properly dressed and, because he didn't know what else to do with it, he put the condom in his pocket. She called after him as he walked away: "You come back soon, Barree," and his heart swelled with loathing for her and all her sex.

  "What was the old guy saying to you while I was on the phone?" demanded Terry suspiciously as he and Deacon made their way back to the car.

  "Nothing much. He's concerned about your future and how best to handle it."

  "Yeah, well, if he does the dirty on me and goes to the police, he'd better watch his back."

  "He gave you his word he wouldn't. Don't you believe him?"

  Terry kicked at the curb. "I guess so. But he's a bit fucking heavy on the hand-patting and calling everyone dear. D'you reckon he's bent?"

  "No. Would it make a difference if he were?''

  "Bloody right it would. I don't hold with poofs."

  Deacon inserted his key in the car door, but paused before turning it to look across the roof at his would-be passenger. "Then why do you keep talking about them?" he asked. "You're like an alcoholic who can't keep off the subject of booze because he's dying for his next drink."

  "I'm not a bloody poof," said Terry indignantly.

  "Then prove it by keeping off the subject."

  "Okay. Can we stop at the warehouse?"

  Deacon eyed him thoughtfully. "Why?''

  "There's things I need. Extra clothes and such."

  "Why can't you come as you are?"