Skegs cleared his dry throat, said hello in return.
‘What brings you here?’
The noble rebel was gone. Hard, cold Karl replaced him. ‘You got money for me?’
Skegs dug into his pocket, forked over some notes. Karl positioned himself away from Skegs, other punters and any CCTV cameras that might have been watching, and counted it.
‘Good,’ he said, turning back. ‘Need anythin’?’
Skegs shook his head. It wobbled as if it was loose.
‘Right.’
Karl looked at Skegs, the look telling him their audience was at ah end. Skegs didn’t move.
‘Was there somethin’ else, Skegs?’
Karl sounded irritated, his voice sharp-edged.
‘I nee … need to talk to you, Karl.’
Skegs was beginning to shake.
Karl held up his hand, shrugged.
‘So, talk.’
Skegs looked around, checked for listening feds, the way Karl had taught him. He mumbled something.
‘Speak up.’
‘I said, I wuh-want out, Karl.’ Skegs shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I can’t do this any more.’
Karl looked at him, his eyes flat, dead. Then he turned back to the video game, fed some coins into it.
‘OK.’
Skegs couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Really?’
Karl punched some buttons, gestured to the joystick.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘have a go.’
Karl moved aside. Skegs moved in. The theme tune started and Skegs was now the noble rebel, fighting against tyranny.
The game began.
‘You want out, Skegs, fine by me.’
Karl watched the screen, checked Skegs’s progress.
‘You … you sure?’ Skegs’s voice distracted by heroics.
‘Just return any unsold stuff an’ walk away.’ Karl’s voice, focused, controlled.
‘I thought you’d give us bare trouble.’
‘No. Up to you, innit? I remember when I was your age.’ Karl spoke with a wise, world-weary wisdom, the voice of someone forty years older than Skegs, not four. ‘I was offered the chance to make money. Like you. So I weighed up the pros and cons. The risks an’ benefits. An’ I did it.’
They both flinched as Skegs narrowly avoided an attack by a concealed Imperial fighter.
‘An’ here I am. Rich an’ successful. Shoot ’im.’
Skegs fired. The Imperial fighter exploded.
‘You don’t want that,’ Karl continued, ‘fine. I’ll put you back on the street an’ that’s that. To your left.’
Another attack, another successful counterattack.
‘Yeah?’ said Skegs.
‘Yeah,’ said Karl. ‘But it’ll be hard. You’ve had money. You’ll have none. You’ve had a job. It won’t be there any more. You’ve tasted my stuff. It won’t be free any more. You’ll have nothing to do.’ Karl put his mouth to Skegs’s ear. ‘The street’ll claim you.’
Skegs struggled to avoid an unexpected attack.
‘You’ll probably need somethin’ to help cope with the days. So you’ll come to me. An’ you’ll have to pay.’
One laser blast and Skegs was dead.
Game over.
Skegs watched the screen. The theme tune played. No high-scoring roll call came up. Skegs couldn’t hide his disappointment. He stood still, head down.
‘How d’ya know?’ Skegs mumbled. ‘How d’ya know I’ll be on drugs?’
‘Because I know.’
Skegs looked up, right at Karl. At his hardly blinking eyes. At the threat and authority in his body. At his creepy self-assurance. And Skegs was scared. He knew then that he would end up in a gutter somewhere on heroin or crack, dependent on Karl. Because he knew Karl would see to it.
Karl smiled.
‘Off you go. If you’re goin’.’
‘I’ll stay.’
Skegs’s voice was quiet, dumbly acquiescent.
‘Good.’
Karl could barely conceal the triumph in his voice.
Skegs turned and, shoulders slumped, began to walk away.
‘Oh, Skegs.’
He turned. Karl beckoned him back. Karl put his arm round his shoulder, suddenly matey, and smiled.
‘Just had an idea. To show that we’re all in business together, to demonstrate solidarity, like, why don’t you an’ Davva come round to my flat tomorrow night?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. We’ll get some booze, some blow, some skunk. Make a night of it.’
‘Aye, Karl, that sounds champion.’
‘An’ I tell you what.’ Karl’s voice dropped, became conspirational. ‘I’ve got this girl I’m workin’ on at the moment. Primin’ ’er up, gettin’ ’er ready. You see, I’m thinkin’ of diversifyin’. Gettin’ a few girls workin’ for me. I’ll bring her along an’ all. Let you two have a go on her. See if she’s ready to be turned out. What d’you reckon? You up for it?’
Skegs could feel the erection beginning in his jeans.
‘Aye, am I.’
‘Off you go, then.’
Karl watched him go, proud of the way he had manipulated the boy. Knowing he had ensnared him for life.
Or for as long as Karl had use for him.
He turned back to the machine. He didn’t want to be a noble rebel any more. He wanted something more visceral, more violently celebrational.
He found it, put his money in, unholstered his weapons and got to work.
As the body count increased and the on-screen blood and gore thickened, he found himself getting hard.
He began to think of Suzanne and what he had planned for her. It made him harder still.
He dodged bullets. He dispatched death without letting it touch him.
No longer noble or a rebel.
He was immortal.
The doorbell rang. Claire went to the door, opened it.
Despite the late hour, she wasn’t in bed. She had been expecting the call.
‘I think I owe you an explanation.’
Tony Woodhouse stood on her doorstep.
She left the door open, walked away. Tony entered, closing it behind him. He limped to the living room, found her sitting on the sofa. Arms crossed, legs clasped together. He stood, looked at her.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘I suppose you had to find out sooner or later.’
She said nothing, waited for him to continue.
‘It’s heroin,’ he said. ‘You were right. I’ve been on it for years, ever since—’ he gestured to his shattered leg ‘—this. It hooked me.’
‘So how come no one’s … how come we never found out?’
‘Because it’s a clean supply. It’s a painkiller, that’s all. Heroin. Diamorphine. Breaks down the morphine inside the body. And that takes away my pain. Like I’ve always said, it’s the shit it’s cut with that fucks you up. Unfortunately, it’s very addictive.’
‘You should know. You run a treatment centre for the stuff.’
‘I know. Suppose you could say I practise what I preach.’
He smiled. Weakly.
‘Why don’t you try to come off it?’
He shook his head. ‘How can I? What would happen to the Centre if word of this got out? And what if I did get off it? I’d just have to replace it with something else. The pain’s not going to go away, you know. No, there are some things you can’t get rid of, can’t shake off. I’m stuck with it.’
She looked at him, eyes boring into him.
‘It’s OK. It’s a clean supply.’
‘Where from? No doctor round here would prescribe this.’
‘A friend. Who deals in this kind of thing.’
Claire stared, unblinking. The penny dropped. ‘That gangster. Tommy Jobson.’
Tony looked surprised. ‘How d’you know about him?’
‘Stephen. Stephen Larkin. The journalist. I’m seeing him. I was out with him tonight.’
Tony looked around. ‘Is
he here now?’
‘No. I told him I didn’t feel well. Wanted an early night. I thought you’d come round.’
‘Just like old times.’
‘Yeah.’ Claire laughed mirthlessly. She realized she was shaking with emotion. ‘Old times. You mean when you felt lonely and fancied a fuck you would turn up here.’
Tony sighed. ‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘Not at first, not. But then I told you I loved you. And you backed off, told me there was somebody else. And because of her you couldn’t get involved with anyone else.’
‘There was. There is.’
‘Didn’t stop you coming round here for a fuck, though, did it? And creeping out before the morning. Letting me wake up alone.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And that makes it OK?’
Tony sighed again, shook his head. ‘This other person. It’s … complicated. She’s someone I’ve known for years. We used to be very close until I involved her in something I shouldn’t have done. And I’ve always regretted it. We tried to keep each other at arm’s length. But we couldn’t. We’re still close. But she’s got responsibilities. So we just … talk on the phone. Or one of us does. The other listens. But that doesn’t take care of everything.’
‘And I did? Thanks a lot.’
He tried to speak, but closed his mouth again. The correct words weren’t there.
They remained that way, Claire sitting, pulling herself in close, Tony standing, feeling uncomfortable.
‘So what happens next?’ Tony said eventually.
‘I don’t know,’ said Claire. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
Tony nodded.
‘I understand if you want to tell people about this. But I would ask you not to. Not for me, for the sake of the Centre.’
Claire looked straight ahead, over Tony’s shoulder, at the picture on the wall. Charcoal etched on paper.
Black and white.
‘I want you to leave now. I think you’ve said enough.’
Tony opened his mouth to speak, to say something that would resolve the situation. But Claire wasn’t looking at him. Wasn’t listening. He walked slowly towards the front door, let himself out. The door closed behind him, the click of the lock a small, final sigh of relief.
Claire stayed on the sofa, immobile. Looking at the picture, seeing beyond it.
A figure detached itself from the darkened bedroom, came over to the sofa, sat next to her.
‘You OK?’ asked Larkin.
Claire’s eyes began to well, her lower lip to quiver. He put his arm gently round her and she yielded to him, burrowing her face into his shoulder.
She sobbed soundlessly. He held her.
‘Take me to bed,’ she said eventually. ‘Take me to bed. And don’t leave me in the morning.’
‘OK.’
Larkin stood up, bringing her up with him. He walked towards the bedroom, not letting her go.
They went inside.
Closed the door behind them.
Tanya was hungry.
She knelt on the filthy floor of her flat, bare and balled up beneath the dust-covered light bulb. She was shivering. Hot. Cold. She clutched her stomach, felt the pain blading round her body.
Her stomach was a cavernous, convulsing space bordered with sharks’ teeth gnashing angrily at her insides. It raged, it growled.
It hungered for something more than food.
She clutched herself, fingernails digging through flesh, rolled on her side. Gasped with pain.
Once, she had had needs to fulfil, desires, like other people. Normal people. Home. Family. Love. Happiness. Respect. Those things were long gone now, eaten up, subsumed: only the ghost of a memory remaining. A dusty image.
In their place was the hunger, the craving: a writhing black pit inside her, surrounded by pumping, blood-laden walls. Not a monkey on her back but an angry, empty void demanding to be filled; physically, spiritually, mentally.
She had money. She had worked for it. Hard. But the boys hadn’t come. They hadn’t left enough stuff. It was never enough. It hadn’t lasted.
No good.
She searched round on the floor, through the carpet, looking for crumbs to pick up, specks to suck. Nothing. Just dirt. And dust. Everywhere dust. All around her. From dust she came, in dust she was.
No good. She would have to go out.
She stood up, slowly made her way to the bedroom, pulled on a sweatshirt, jeans, trainers – nothing was clean any more – raked together the money that men had given her to use her body, left the flat, stumbled downstairs into the darkness.
She knew where she was going. Which flat. She had vowed never to go there again after the men there had made her hurt inside, made her bleed for her smack. Took her pain as payment. But this time she had money. It would be different.
She crossed streets, clutching her stomach, blind to everyone and everything but her own need.
Tanya reached the flat. The door, battleship steel and bolted into place, had a reinforced slot through which money passed in, gear out. She rang the bell. The slot opened.
‘Aye. What you want?’
Tanya pulled the wadded-up bills from her pocket, stuffed them into the slot. Her face contorted with pain, her eyes tearing over.
‘Give us some gear.’
Her voice rasping and cracked.
‘How much?’
‘That much! That much! Just … please …’
The money was taken, the flap closed. She heard voices, laughter seeping round the edges of the thick steel.
She shivered, stamped from foot to foot. No good. The pain moved when she moved.
The flap reopened. A small, tinfoil-wrapped bundle appeared.
‘There you go, pet. ’S a good mixture, that. Somethin’ special, just for you.’
Laughter behind the voice, the speaker joining in.
‘Hey, pet, you wanna come in here? Have a little party? Give you a good time.’
The laughter exploded. Tanya ignored it, snatched up the bundle, pocketed it. The flap closed. She turned, began to hurry back to the flat.
The pain was even more intense, tempered with the knowledge that it would soon be assuaged.
‘Nearly there, nearly there, nearly there …’
She repeated the phrase over and over again. A train-like mantra.
She reached the flat, let herself in.
Straight into the bedroom, works out. The bundle unwrapped. Looking for an uncollapsed vein, finding one between her fingers. Hands shaking, nearly too unstable to hold the spoon over the lighter.
That familiar fizz and bubble.
That smell.
She almost smiled in anticipation.
Breathing deeply, holding herself steady, concentrating.
Drawing it up intd the hypo.
Looking at it through the plastic.
Her lover. Her life.
The colour looked different, but she couldn’t think about that now. She had to have it.
Had to.
The vein was pushed, tapped, made prominent.
The needle inserted.
In. Back. In. All the way.
And out.
She lay back on the mattress, waited. For that beautiful, exciting numbness to take over her body, to transport her away.
She waited.
But it never came.
Instead, her heart became an old, corroded battery pumping acid through her veins.
Her bones were being pipecleaned with barbed wire.
Razor-toed ballerinas danced furiously inside her muscles.
She rolled over, screamed. It came out as a muffled gag, a bleach gurgle.
‘Somethin’ special, just for you.’
Laughter behind the voice.
She clawed at her body, tried to rip the poison out.
Couldn’t.
Sobbed tears of molten metal.
‘Please … please …’
The words more in her head than her mouth.
Carly, that was her name, Carly.
‘I’m sorry … Oh, God, I’m sorry …’
Tossing from side to side, vomiting and shitting her insides out.
A nuclear bomb detonated inside her head, her heart. The fallout poisoned her body. A final corruption.
She screamed. It was choked off, gurgled away.
And Tanya stopped fighting.
She lay still, the pain, the life bleached from her body.
Empty, lifeless eyes staring at a bare bulb sun.
No more sadness. No more happiness.
Just oblivion.
And dust.
17. Then
‘Thuh-there’s our boy.’
The BMW was parked opposite the gates of Newcastle United’s Chester-le-Street training ground. The players were going through their paces. Bibbed and tracksuited, dodging cones, doing sprints, jogs and five-a-sides.
Nev grunted. ‘Like a bunch a’ puffs. Look at their hair.’
‘Nuh-not a fu-fan, Nev?’
Nev shrugged. ‘Not a man’s game any more.’
Tommy smiled. ‘When wuh-we’ve finished, our buh-boy won’t be playin’ eh-eh-eh-any games any more.’
Nev grunted, shrugged.
‘Teach him a luh-lesson.’
Tony finished training, showered. He was feeling good, happy. Tingling from more than just exercise. He was no longer training with the reserves. Big Jack had him with the first team. That gave him a warm yet giddy feeling inside. The first team. His future: here and now. It was happening.
He dressed, threw his gear into his sports bag, made his way into the car park.
He unlocked his car, threw the bag on the back seat, looked up.
‘Shit.’
The warm and giddy feeling disappeared, replaced by something sour and shivering.
Tommy Jobson and Big Nev were crossing the car park towards him. Tommy was smiling his shark smile, Nev was his usual colossal self, as dangerous and threatening as an out-of-control petrol tanker.
‘Hel-hello, Tony. How you duh-doin’.’
Tony stared at them, fronting it. Hoping the sudden shake in his limbs couldn’t be seen.
‘Hello, lads,’ he said. His voice sounded high, tight and strangled in his own ears. ‘What brings you here? Autograph hunting?’
‘Nuh-not interested in the rest,’ said Tommy. ‘Juh-just you.’
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