Quickly, he turned his knot into a slipknot, testing it with his hands to make sure it ran smoothly. Then he placed it over his head, around his neck. He climbed on to the branch where the rope had been tied and perched there, knot tight, arms outstretched. As he prepared to launch himself into the air, into the unknown, a single thought ran round his head: would his brother do it like this?
But then, suddenly, he realised. If he killed himself, Maxwell had won. His power would be unlimited. As for his brother, he had his happy new family now. Would he even care?
A kernel of anger began to germinate inside him and he allowed it to grow. He tugged the rope from round his neck and threw it down, leaving the empty noose to dangle from the branch. He climbed down from the tree, tears on his cheeks; for the first time they were tears of rage, not terror and shame. He walked away deeper into the forest. From that moment he began to plot his revenge.
He wouldn’t be the victim any more. Now he would be the master. He turned back and saw the rope hanging, swaying gently in the breeze. Through the tears, he could just make out the ghost of a boy swinging from side to side, head at a pathetic angle.
When he saw Maxwell again he would be ready.
That night, after the customary beating – which Maxwell seemed to use as a kind of foreplay – it was business as usual. Maxwell, as always, pulled his erect penis from his pyjamas and shoved it into the boy’s mouth.
The boy took the swollen cock between his teeth and bit down, as hard as he could.
Maxwell screamed and tried to withdraw, but the boy held on, grinding his teeth backwards and forwards, deeper and deeper. He felt his mouth flood with blood. Still he didn’t let go.
Eventually Maxwell, on the point of blacking out, stopped struggling and the boy released him. Maxwell stumbled off the bed, groaning and whimpering like an injured animal. He fled the room, pyjama bottoms round his ankles, his penis hanging flaccid and mangled between his legs, to tell his foster parents what the boy had done.
The boy rose from the bed also and went to the bedroom. Spat blood from his mouth into the sink. Looked in the mirror and saw his eyes. He didn’t recognise them. They belonged to a different person, to the person he had become.
The incident was dealt with quietly. Maxwell was given urgent medical attention; the boy was removed from the household as soon as possible. No action was taken, but his case notes went with him. The authorities knew that he had savagely attacked an older boy, and that the attack had been of a sexual nature. Although the case notes stated that the boy may have been provoked – the foster carers’ children backed him up on that one – they conferred a new status on him. No longer did people look at him with scorn or pity. The balance of power had shifted. Now they looked at him with fear.
This had been the man’s first lesson.
Eventually he went away to university, left his past behind. He never saw Maxwell again.
At university he carried his new-found confidence before him. The pathetic victim had long since been left hanging on the old oak tree. He worked hard on his new persona: the rugby captain, the keen cricket player. He was tall, strong, charismatic. Even popular. People said he was a natural leader.
Over the years he perfected the precise science of human manipulation. And so successful was his new persona – his mask – that acting the part became effortless, requiring no thought. He was heading for the top and nothing could stop him.
But alone at night, in his dreams and fantasies, the scared, humiliated little boy he had once been came back to haunt him. He would wake bathed in sweat, trembling, robbed of the power he had fought so hard to achieve.
Soon he learned to be ready for the dreams. As the boy appeared, naked and vulnerable, the man was there to meet him. He would take hold of the boy, beat him till he huddled in the corner, utterly defenceless. And the the man would force himself upon the boy, repeating the unspeakable scenes he had enacted with Maxwell all those years ago. And then he would wake to find his heart pounding and his belly sticky with semen. Another small epiphany: one which convinced him he was now the powerful one.
After a while he would seek out these fantasies during the daytime. He told himself that he was merely keeping the past at bay, but he knew that wasn’t true. He revelled in images of sexual torture, scenes in which his victims, however bloodied and battered, were nevertheless somehow liberated by their tormentor, just as he had been.
Yet, satisfying though they were, the realisation was growing within him that fantasies alone would not sustain him forever. The dreams had awoken needs in him which had to be fulfilled. Soon he had gained enough power for that to be possible. For his dreams to become reality.
11: Home Invasions
Larkin stood at the corner of the sodium-lit street, dressed entirely in what he hoped was inconspicuous black: Levis, long-sleeved T-shirt, rubber-soled canvas shoes. Staring out into the gloom, his face was a mask of inscrutability but his demeanour belied his true feelings. He was hyped up, adrenalin shooting down his body like pulses down a wire, readying him for fight or flight.
The street consisted of semi-detached maisonettes dating back to the twenties and thirties, two storeys tall. Overgrown gardens, rusted gates. Heaton Park to the right, Heaton Road to the left. Noble’s home.
Larkin took deep breaths, trying to slow his heartbeat down. He knew he would be no use to Ezz in an excited state. He scoped the area, checking for observers. None. Good. He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. Most of Noble’s neighbours would be either inside their homes draining their minds into the TV, or out draining the dregs of Saturday. The street seemed to have a pall of thwarted ambition hanging over it.
Larkin looked down towards Heaton Park. The streetlights barely penetrated the deep lakes of darkness cast by the trees. As he watched, one of the shadows detached itself from the main clump and flowed along the street towards him. He blinked his eyes hard, not sure what he’d just seen. As he watched, the liquid shadow came nearer and began to assume human features. Zip-up bomber, tracksuit bottoms, kung-fu sandals, woolly hat pulled down hard. All black, absorbing the darkness. Ezz.
Larkin knew the burglar had cased the area earlier in the day: checking for hitherto unknown flatmates, identifying the make and strength of the lock, scrutinising the windows, noting any other security arrangements Noble might have in place, calculating the best odds for entry. He had observed the habits of the neighbours, seeing if anyone lived on the upper floor of Noble’s building, at either side, opposite; and if they did, what potential trouble they could cause. He never left anything to chance. If there had been even the remotest chance of the situation going belly-up, Larkin knew Ezz wouldn’t be here.
Ezz moved, feather-light, up the front path to the door and inserted something in the lock. He didn’t acknowledge Larkin, standing on the corner. Within seconds the door was open. Ezz was in.
Larkin stood in silence, holding his breath. Nothing happened. Suddenly, he saw a small flash of light from Noble’s window, fleeting; too brief for anyone else to have seen. The signal. He gave a surreptitious glance to either side, and thankfully found a deserted street with no walkers, cars, or twitching curtains. Taking a couple more controlling breaths, he crossed and entered.
With his surgically-gloved hand, Larkin carefully closed the front door behind him. He looked around, getting his bearings in the gloom. Off to the left he heard a swishing noise, then a thin beam of light clicked on.
“Couldn’t we just put the light on now that you’ve drawn the curtains?” whispered Larkin.
“No,” came the hushed monotone reply. “We don’t know that that’s his usual routine.”
“Sorry.” Larkin took out his own pocket flashlight, skimmed the area in front of him. White painted woodchip walls, bare to the dado, dark green from there to the skirting. Old, worn, brown check carpet covered the floor. A spring-shut flush door replaced the original panelled one. The hall alone screamed out Cheap Rent. He entered the front room.
The same white woodchip and brown checked carpet, complemented by a flecky, bobbly three-piece that had had its heyday long before Britain had embraced Thatcherism. Callaghanism, even. A charity-shop dining table and three chairs that looked like they wouldn’t last through a single meal occupied the back of one wall. Directly opposite sat a TV and video combination. Given the age and condition of what he’d seen in the flat so far, he expected them to be steam-driven. On close inspection he was surprised to find they were both virtually brand-new.
Kneeling down, his penlight in his mouth, he carefully checked the videos, stacked in their sleeves at the side of the TV. All home-taped; neatly inscribed, crossed out after viewing with a neat line with the programme that presumably replaced its predecessor printed underneath. Coronation Street. A wildlife documentary. Kavanagh QC. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Larkin got to his feet and scanned the room with the penlight once more. His eyes fell on the bookcase. A few paperbacks: Agatha Christie, P D James, nothing interesting. On the next shelf down sat a small pile of textbooks. He picked them up and leafed through them. All on social work, particularly pertaining to the welfare of children. That was only to be expected.
He crossed again to the table, where there sat a portable word processor and an old box file, which he opened. Inside was a copy of the Jobs and Appointments section of last Wednesday’s Guardian, the day on which social work jobs were advertised. He flicked through, clocking the ones Noble had ringed. All to do with children, most of them as care warden in various homes. Beneath that sat a second sheaf of folded-up newspaper. Larkin unfolded it and found the Lonely Hearts sections from all the local papers. He scanned the pages, again paying particular attention to the ads Noble had ringed. They had all been placed by women, most of them divorced. All of them mothers.
A frisson of disgust ran through Larkin as he read. As he replaced the papers, he realised that his hands were beginning to shake.
The box file also contained a transparent folder of photocopied CVs. He picked one out and glanced at it. It was identical to the one Jane had shown him, except it had recently been updated to include his work at the centre. He glanced again at the two named referees. One name stood out: Colin Harvey. Where had Larkin seen that name before?
Suddenly the penny dropped. Larkin scanned down the pile of books on the shelf – and there it was. The Care And Rehabilitation Of Persistent Juvenile Offenders by Colin Harvey. Larkin opened the book, reading paragraphs at random. As he read on, a shiver went down his spine; ice melted on his neck. Harvey was discussing childrens’ allegations of abuse by carers:
Allegations of this nature should be treated with a healthy degree of scepticism. Workers in any environment can develop close attachments, whether it be in offices, factories, whatever. Either sex, any age. But it must be remembered here that the children are exploring their sexual potential and beginning to realise the power that lies in their bodies. They are frequently mature enough to embark on sexual relationships both with other children and with adults. This can, of course, be quite natural. The child is often fully aware of what it is doing in having sex with an adult. It is seldom without consent or encouragement. It is rarely passive. It is never wholly innocent.
Larkin couldn’t believe what he was reading, Kids are begging for it? That was a paedophile’s argument.
He closed the book and checked Colin Harvey’s address on the CV. Northumberland. Significant, he thought, but he didn’t know quite why, yet.
Larkin felt a flashlight on his face and turned; Ezz was silently beckoning him into another room. Larkin rearranged everything as he had found it, and followed him.
The bedroom. Again, cheaply anonymous: plain duvet over heavy wooden bed, old, mahogany wardrobe full of Noble’s clothes, smelling faintly stale and sweaty. Ezz pointed to a locked door beside the wardrobe.
“I’ve been through everything in this room,” he murmured. “Nothing. If there is something it’ll be in there.”
“Can you open it?” Larkin asked.
Ezz didn’t even bother to answer. He turned to the door, clamped the torch in his teeth, drew something silver and glinting from his pocket and got to work. Within seconds the door was open.
The door led to what had once been a walk-in cupboard. Now, however, it was a shrine. The walls were plastered with pictures of children. Some had been clipped from catalogues and magazines: children in swimsuits and shorts, colour and monochrome, smiling for the camera. These were interspersed with pornography: children having sex with adults, fear in their eyes, tear-tracks down their faces. Blu-tacked over this collage were a number of polaroids. Children naked, vacant-eyed, staring numbly at the lens, a brick wall painted black as backdrop.
At the far end of the room was a table covered in a white cloth with a plastic recipe-book stand in the middle. Propped open on it was a kiddie porn mag, with two stumps of candle at either side. A mirror rested on the table behind the lectern, its edges decorated with more cut-out pictures of children. On the floor in front of the table were several wadded-up paper tissues. Larkin’s stomach turned over. He got the picture.
“Look,” said Ezz from behind him.
Larkin turned, trembling, to see Ezz pointing towards a shelf of video tapes. Larkin played his flashlight over the spines. Boys To Men. Special Love. Young Olympians. It went on.
Larkin looked at Ezz. The skinhead was always quiet, but he seemed now to contain a perfect stillness. A dangerous calm. Like a dormant volcano: one wrong tectonic shift and all hell would break loose.
“Ezz?” whispered Larkin.
Nothing. Ezz stared straight ahead, eyes boring into the videos. Through the videos, past them, to something beyond.
“Ezz?” Larkin moved his hand out to touch him, and suddenly felt his fingers being bent right back. Ezz had barely moved, yet he had grabbed Larkin faster than a striking cobra. Slowly he turned to face Larkin, his grip not slackening. His eyes were fixed, rage-filled, homicidal.
“Ezz, man, it’s me!” Larkin gasped. “What you doing?”
Ezz’s eyes slowly came back into focus. His grip relaxed and Larkin snatched his hand away.
“Fuckin’ hell!” said Larkin, flexing his fingers painfully. “You don’t know your own strength.”
“Have you seen what you came to see?” asked Ezz, his face unreadable in the shadow.
“I think so,” said Larkin, staring at the man in bewilderment. “Let’s go.”
They left everything exactly as they found it. No one saw or heard them leave.
They walked down the street, not speaking. When they reached Heaton Park, Ezz stopped; Larkin, recognising his cue, dug his injured hand into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.
“Here,” he said, drawing out the pre-arranged sum. It disappeared so fast, Larkin wasn’t sure he’d ever held it. “Thanks. I think,” he said.
Ezz nodded, once. “I want to know what happens to this bloke.”
“I’ll keep you informed,” said Larkin, but Ezz had already disappeared into the darkness.
Larkin went home. He was shaking uncontrollably now; the relaxation of his controlled adrenalin rush combined with his disturbing discovery was taking its toll.
As he entered his attic room, the red eye of the answerphone was blinking. His heart flipped over as he remembered the last batch of messages. This machine was becoming synonymous with disaster. He hit Play. One message.
A long pause: bar noise in the background. Then, “I don’t know if you’ll get this.” Moir. “I’m in Ruby’s Arms. I’m drinking alone.” Another pause. Larkin knew Moir would never be so straightforward, so transparent, as to ask him to come for a drink. But things must be serious – desperate even – for him to call. The final part of the message confirmed it. There was an Atlas-like sigh, then: “The boy – Jason. It’s a murder inquiry now.”
12: The Ghosts Of Saturday Night
Larkin made his way down the scuffed steps into Ruby’s Arms. The place
was an after-hours drinking club, unlicensed but officially tolerated, located in the basement of a big old house in the Gallowgate area of Newcastle. Ruby’s was somewhere to go when there was nowhere else left. It had been there for years and harboured a mix of customers that appeared bizarre to an outsider but perfectly natural to an insider: gangsters and hard men doing done deals in darkened corners, actors and theatre people, a liberal sprinkling of career drinkers with no homes to go to. Or at least not a place they chose to recognise as such. This, Larkin knew, was the category that Moir fell into. And also, increasingly, himself.
He spotted the big man seated by himself at a corner table in the main room. Through a doorway to his left was the pool room; to his right the toilets. Straight in front of him, the bar. This was where Larkin headed. He ordered two Budvars and sat down opposite Moir, who grunted in acceptance of the beer.
“You found him, then,” Larkin said. Not so much a question as a flat, hopeless statement. Moir nodded and gulped beer greedily from the neck of the bottle.
“Where?”
Moir took another swig, sighed. Then he started his story.
He had received a call from the force in Durham, they’d found a boy’s body in Hamsterley Forest, a local beauty spot. A labrador belonging to a picnicking family, the Duncans, had started scrabbling at the fresh earth in a patch of recently-planted saplings. The eleven-year-old daughter of the family, Gemma, had gone to chastise the dog and found it licking a small white hand protruding from the ground. Her screams had alerted the rest of the family; her father, Graham, had contacted the police.
By the time Moir and his team had turned up, the Duncan family had been sent home after giving anguished statements. The area had been cordoned off and was now swarming with white-suited Scenes of Crime officers. The body was in the final stages of disinterment as Moir strode up, flashing his warrant card at the officer in charge, Detective Inspector Brody.
Little Triggers Page 10