Their father, who had long since faded out of their lives, died. The two boys were split up and farmed out to any relatives who would have them; then, in desperation, to a series of foster parents. His brother was eventually adopted: a new name, a new family. Safe. But he wasn’t to be so lucky.
And now, as he had so often done in those far-off days, he sat alone and in tears. Re-examining his past had been like pouring pure alcohol into a deep festering wound: the agony excruciating, cleansing.
But he couldn’t sit here all day. It was time to put on his mask of power and face the world again. No need to worry about the dead child: his people were taking care of that. All that was required of him was that he resume his everyday guise and act with complete conviction. He would return to his past again before too long; it was important to remember what he once was, what he had become. But life had to go on.
He had transcended pain and suffering; he had come through. And soon, no doubt, he would meet another wayward boy; a boy with no future, a boy who would quickly learn the harsh but necessary lesson of his past.
6: Burning Down The House
From a distance the red glow in the sky looked like Gateshead’s entry into the space programme. Close up it was a different story.
The house was old and, like all the others in the street, built of sturdy Edwardian stone and redbrick. Although it had been cheaply converted into flats and bedsits it had always looked to Larkin like the kind of element-defying edifice that would endure forever. He was currently having to amend his opinion.
The voice on the answerphone had belonged to Houchen. In the first message he was excited; there was something he had discovered that couldn’t wait and Larkin would be very interested. In the next, his voice was tense; where was Larkin and why didn’t he have his fucking mobile turned on? Larkin had left the house before hearing the third message reach its involuntary end. But he had heard enough to fear the worst and the closer he got to Bensham, the more he knew his fears were justified.
Houchen’s house was ablaze. The whole street had been cordoned off and there were two fire engines blocking the road. The firemen were moving into place with well-drilled precision: hustling people back behind hastily-erected barriers, evacuating neighbouring houses, unpacking equipment, getting suited and tooled up to enter the burning building. There was an enormous crowd staring, as if it were a spectator sport and they had wangled free admission. Just down the street, the first TV crew had appeared on the scene, unloading cameras, scoping out the most dramatic angle.
As Larkin hastily parked his car, an ambulance sped past him, its klaxon clearing a path through the growing mass of onlookers. A fireman pulled aside a section of the temporary roadblock so it could pass through, and Larkin seized his chance to sneak in behind it, staying on the opposite side of the ambulance so that the fireman wouldn’t see him.
As soon as he was inside the restricted area he stopped, dumbfounded. The fire was huge, a massive orange, red and yellow force of nature reaching about thirty feet into the air. The heat from it was so intense that Larkin felt sweat burst onto his skin spontaneously. The noise – big whooms of rushing air, explosive bursts as something combustible fed the fire’s appetite, crackles and crashes as the structure of the house began to char and disintegrate – was deafening. He could smell people’s belongings, their lives, both acrid and sweet, melting and being subsumed in the fire’s hunger. For all he knew he might have been smelling burning people as well. He stared at the fire, hypnotised with fear and wonder, knowing if he stood there long enough the flames would consume him too. Any closer and his leather jacket would start to bubble.
He was startled back to self-awareness by a figure running towards him: the fireman from the barricade.
“What the fuck are you doin’? Get behind the line, you daft bastard!”
The fireman grabbed Larkin and started to force him back. Larkin reluctantly did as he was told, allowing himself to be pushed behind the line. He still had a ringside view of the whole operation.
The firemen, lit by portable arc lamps, uncoiled hoses and pulled on breathing apparatus. One of the engines had been positioned with its ladder extended to an upstairs window; through billows of smoke, a gesticulating figure could just about be glimpsed. A fireman at the top of the ladder was beckoning to the figure, urging it to step out. Instead of doing so, the figure – a woman, Larkin assumed – handed out a small bundle. A baby. The fireman took the baby and hurried down the ladder, handing the fragile package to a waiting paramedic who walked briskly to the ambulance with it. From his calm expression Larkin guessed the baby wasn’t in any danger.
The fireman climbed back up the ladder and entered the building through the window; the crowd gasped and muttered. Simultaneously, firemen entered through the front door of the house, pulling hoses with them. All the while, another contingent of firemen kept up a steady bombardment of the house with high-pressure hoses.
The firemen at the upstairs window appeared with the woman in front of him. He gestured to her to step onto the ladder, which she gingerly did. A fireman was waiting on the ladder to escort her down to the ambulance. She didn’t appear to have been burned, but from her blackened skin and dazed expression, it seemed as if smoke and shock had got to her.
Larkin looked at the ambulance. So far the woman and the baby had been the only people Larkin saw being brought out. There was no sign of Houchen. Knowing that crafty bastard, thought Larkin, he’ll have his camera out looking for the best angle. Getting an exclusive. Or … Larkin ducked under the barricade and ran towards the nearest fire engine, encountering the angry, crop-headed fireman who had forced him back before.
“Have I got to tell you again?” the fireman barked, his gloved hand pushing into Larkin’s chest.
“Just listen a minute,” Larkin said. Something in his tone made the fireman stop in his tracks.
“What?” It was a statement rather than a question.
“I’m looking for someone. Houchen. Ian Houchen? He lives in that house,” Larkin indicated the burning building, “in the top flat. He was probably the first out. Where is he?”
The fireman looked straight into Larkin’s eyes. “Top flat?”
They both looked up at the top of the house. The fire had virtually eaten away the roof slates and was now persuading the roofing beams to collapse.
“You know this for definite, do you?” asked the fireman.
“He phoned me earlier, asked me to come over quick as I could. When I got here, this was happening.”
“Aw, fuck…” said the fireman.
As they stood looking at the house, the team of firemen who had recently entered by the front door hurried out. One separated himself from the others and began to stagger towards them, ripping off his facemask as he came. The crop-headed fireman moved towards him; Larkin, not wanting to be left out, did the same.
The fireman was in his early twenties, tall with dark hair. He was breathless and sweating and his uniform appeared to have been barbecued. The crop-headed fireman confronted him.
“What’s the score?”
“Ground floor’s cleared. Nobody there. Mother and baby son cleared from the first floor. The top floor’s completely blocked.”
“How?”
“Stairs have gone. No way we can get up there.” He sighed and looked over his shoulder at the house. “I know it’s a bit early to say, but it looks as if that’s where it started.”
The crop-haired fireman jerked his thumb towards Larkin. “This one says his mate lives up there.”
The younger fireman looked towards Larkin and shook his head. “Sorry, mate. If he’s there I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”
“Yeah,” Larkin said.
“We’ll have to calm it down a bit with the hoses before we can get a proper look in there. Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Larkin said again.
The three of them turned to gaze at the house. The blaze seemed to have been caught in time; it wasn’t doin
g much damage to the houses on either side. As they watched, there was an almighty crack, like vicious thunder, and the roof of the house, its timbers devoured by fire, collapsed.
The firemen at the front of the house instinctively scurried out of the way. Even Larkin took a couple of steps back. The crowd oohed and ahhed as if they were watching a fireworks display. The hoses kept up a constant stream. After a while they were the only noise. Everyone else was staring in silence.
The younger fireman was the first one to speak. “We’re sorry, mate.” He looked genuinely upset.
“Yeah,” Larkin said for the third time. He glanced over to the ambulance which was closing up its doors, getting ready to take the mother and child to hospital. The crop-headed fireman spoke.
“You’d better hang around, son. I reckon the police’ll want a word with you.”
“Yeah,” said Larkin. He was starting to irritate even himself with his newly-discovered monosyllabic tendencies. “Tell you what, I’ll just make a quick phone call.”
And with that he turned towards the cordon, skipped underneath it and jostled his way through the dispersing crowd which, after seeing the roof fall in, had decided that anything else would be an anti-climax. Then he made it back to his badly parked Golf. The TV crew were rushing forward for an interview with the firefighters as Larkin turned the ignition over, reversed, and was off. He wouldn’t stay and talk to the police. He had a feeling he’d said too much already.
7: Carte Blanche
The journalists stood huddled together in the main office of The News Agents. They were muted, downcast, shuffling from foot to foot. They already knew why they had been summoned.
Bolland swept in. For once, thought Larkin, he really did resemble Michael Portillo; not the smug, arrogant-bastard, leader-in-waiting demeanour, but the constipated look he’d worn when he lost his seat at the election. Bolland took up his customary position in front of the group, and addressed them in unusually halting tones.
“Now … erm … All right, everyone. All right …” Bolland gave a half-hearted knock on the nearest desk to quiet the non-existent noise. Larkin looked around. Knifeblades of sunlight penetrated the vertical blinds fronting the windows, but failed to pierce the mood of the silent group.
Everyone in the office had heard about Houchen, either from the TV or from Larkin. And everybody’s response had been the same; initial disbelief, then excitement that one of their own was actually making the news, then a kind of numbness as they realised that someone they knew – irrespective of whether they liked him or not – had died an horrific death.
After leaving the blaze, Larkin had phoned Bolland, filling him in on what had happened. Once Bolland had recovered from the shock (which hadn’t taken long) he had suggested that Larkin might want to write a first-hand account and sell it to The Journal, before their own reporters produced second-hand eyewitness accounts. Larkin had put forward a token argument on ethical grounds but Bolland smoothly countered with, “I’m sure it’s what Ian would have wanted,” finally adding, without a trace of irony, “If the positions had been reversed, it’s what he would have done.”
Larkin had given in and written it. He had treated it as an opportunity to get the events straight in his head, make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Of course, he didn’t tell the whole story: the answerphone messages he kept to himself.
Now Bolland had his staff’s full attention. Joyce’s eyes were red-rimmed and her face puffy from crying; without doubting the sincerity of her grief, Larkin reckoned there was something of the professional wailer about her. He could imagine her crying on cue when coffins appeared and brides floated down aisles; he didn’t know what that said about her life. Carrie Brewer, on the other hand, occasionally darted glances of a sort in Larkin’s direction which made him think she would happily set fire to a building with a friend of hers in it if it meant she ended up with an eyewitness story.
Bolland had finished relating the facts of Houchen’s death; he was now gearing up to deliver a eulogy that would give full rein to his effusive vocabulary. Larkin tuned out, his mind replaying the inevitable visit he had received earlier that morning.
He had just faxed his piece to The Journal and crashed out on the bed when the doorbell rang. He ignored it and turned over. It rang again. And again. The insistency gave him a fair idea of who it was. He got up, shrugged himself into his dressing gown and went down to answer it.
As expected, it was the police: two of them. The older one, who looked to be in his early forties, spoke first.
“Mr Larkin?” The man brandished his warrant card. “We’re— ”
“The Sweeney, and you haven’t had any dinner?” Larkin interjected.
The older man’s lips briefly flicked into a pained expression that could have passed for a smile. “Detective Inspector Umpleby. This is Detective Sergeant Grice.” The younger one bobbed his head. “May we come in?” he said, not waiting to be invited.
They all moved into the front room and sat down as Larkin sized his two guests up. Umpleby wore a black and white checked jacket, crisp shirt and tie and razor-creased black trousers, with thinning hair cut short and combed back and a neatly-clipped moustache sitting on his top lip. He reminded Larkin of a retired professional footballer, poured into his Sunday best and begging to be a pundit for Sky TV. A slight paunch was beginning to make its presence felt just above his belt. Just like a striker turned commentator, it looked like his glory days were behind him. And he carried the air of never having made it to the Premier League.
Grice was younger, rigged out in a smart three-button charcoal grey suit, black polo shirt, highly polished black boots. Hair cropped close to his skull. He resembled a pampered Rottweiler, or perhaps a failed Darwinian experiment into species regression: intelligent enough not to go looking for trouble, neanderthal enough to be in the thick if something kicked off.
The two policemen stared at Larkin, unsmiling, waiting for him to betray something. Anything. Larkin, knowing an interrogation technique when he saw one, stared right back.
Eventually Umpleby sniffed and looked round the room. “Nice place you’ve got here. Scandal and sensationalism must pay well.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Larkin quickly replied. “Not my style.”
“No,” said Grice, “we know what your style is. We know all about you.”
“My reputation precedes me, then.” Larkin held Grice’s look, allowed himself a small grin. He didn’t know these two or what their game was, but he wouldn’t rise to the occasion. “But never mind – it’s always a pleasure to be visited by the boys in blue. Tea, gentlemen?”
Umpleby and Grice were clearly taken aback, but managed to nod. Larkin excused himself politely and went into the kitchen. One nil to the home team, he thought.
Considering he was one man living alone, and all he’d done the night before was tip out an Indian takeaway onto a plate and open a four-pack of lager, the kitchen looked like a Russian nuclear reactor gone into meltdown. Globs of bright orange goo coated the sink and other surfaces; unnaturally radiant flakes of uneaten pilau rice and crimson stripes of keema nan added additional decoration. The air smelled of sour hops. He ignored it, boiled the kettle, filled the tea pot, put three mugs, milk and sugar on a tray, and returned to the front room.
“Out of biscuits, I’m afraid,” he said as he entered. The policemen didn’t seem to know whether to take him seriously or not. Good, thought Larkin: that’s what I wanted. He sat down.
Grice spoke first. “I presume you know why we’re here, Mr Larkin?”
“A new community policing initiative?”
Umpleby’s expression grew murderous, but his voice remained calm. “Ian Houchen, a colleague of yours, is dead. We’ve informed Mrs Houchen of her ex-husband’s demise – always a painful task. She couldn’t be of any help. We understand you were at the scene of the incident. Is there anything you can tell us?”
“I suggest you read my Journal article. Milk and sugar?”
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They grunted affirmatively; Larkin handed them their mugs.
Umpleby took up the conversational duties while Grice gave his tea a suspicious stare, as if it had been poisoned. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen your article yet,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to …?”
“OK,” said Larkin. “I got a call from Houchen. He asked me to go over to his place. I went. When I got there it was on fire. The fire brigade reckoned he was dead. That’s it.”
Umpleby nodded. “And this call you received. How did he sound?”
“Well — ” Larkin began.
“Did he seem distressed? Anxious? Was it a social call or was it work?”
“I …” Larkin hesitated. He sounded terrified. In fear for his life. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself. These two hadn’t done anything to earn his trust. Their confrontational, accusatory attitude had forfeited them their right to be told anything. “He just – called. Asked what I was doing. Asked me to come over. That was it.”
“And you spoke to him personally?”
Larkin swallowed, eyes downcast. “Yes.”
Grice leaned forward. “And he seemed all right, did he?”
“Fine. Had a bottle. Malt. Wondered if I fancied sharing it.” Larkin kept his eyes down.
“And this was something you often did? A matey get-together?” Umpleby again: suspicion in his voice.
“Sometimes,” said Larkin. He felt his mouth go dry; he cleared his throat.
“And he wasn’t … worried about anything? Nervous, like?” As Grice spoke, Umpleby turned to him: a coded message flashed from his eyes. Grice immediately fell silent. Larkin pretended not to notice, but it had the effect of a mild electric jolt. Suddenly, for some reason he didn’t yet understand, lying felt like the right thing to do with these two.
Little Triggers Page 6