The Mercy Seat

by Martyn Waites

  It was getting dark. The security man on the gate would become suspicious if Mikey didn’t leave soon. He tried to pretend, roll-up on his lips, that he was wating for someone. That he was a copper’s nark.

  It wasn’t a million miles from the truth.

  Then: chucking-out time.

  He clocked all the faces as they came and went, searching.

  Mikey had no plan. Was he going to scratch Keenyside’s car? Stab him? He didn’t know. So he watched, waited, hoped an idea would emerge.

  More people left the building, came past him, ignored him. Civilian staff on their way home, mostly. Mikey began to feel foolish. What was he going to do? What could he do? He was about to give up, go home, when he came out.

  Keenyside.

  Mikey took a drag, dropped his butt, ground it out under his heel. Swallowed hard. His throat dry, like ash and embers.

  His hand went to the knife again, fingered the handle. His heart was beating fast. He didn’t know whether to approach or watch. However, events soon dictated he would be a spectator.

  Keenyside swept from the building, arrogance worn like a kevlar vest; bullets would bounce off him. But there was something else. Something unusually set and determined about his features. Keenyside made for his car, the only Jaguar on the lot. But didn’t reach it.

  A woman burst from the building after him. Mid- to late twenties, Mikey reckoned, although he was no good at those sorts of things, dark-haired, thin. Could have been attractive if she had made the effort. But she hadn’t. All her effort seemed to have been used up just to function. She was dark-eyed, haunted-looking. Hair unwashed, clothes plain and tired. Face devoid of make-up.

  ‘Alan,’ she called to him, ran across.

  Keenyside sighed in tired exasperation, turned to her.

  Mikey struggled to hear what was being said, picking up only occasional words:

  ‘Promised, Alan …’

  ‘… go on, Janine. It’s finished …’

  ‘… don’t know … feels … left me like …’

  And body language.

  Janine: imploring, almost begging, barely restrained hysteria bubbling beneath the surface. Eyes fixed on him like a drowning woman to a life raft.

  Keenyside: arms folded, defensive. Unmoving, not letting her in. Eyes looking anywhere but at her.

  After a final speech that left her in no uncertain terms where she stood, Keenyside got into his car and backed out. Janine had to jump out of the way as he manoeuvred past her. He made for the gate; it lifted and he was off, speeding up the West Road, not once looking back.

  Janine ran alongside the car and out into the street. She watched it recede, shoulders slumped, like her final hope had just disappeared.

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Excuse me …’ Mikey had walked up slowly behind her.

  She jumped, turned. Mikey could tell instantly from the look she greeted him with that she found him frightening, repulsive or at the very least unpleasant.

  ‘Please,’ he said, raising his hands, ‘I’m not … not goin’ to … hurt you …’

  She backed away, unconvinced.

  ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s Keenyside. Alan Keenyside.’

  Her mood changed at the mention of his name. Still cautious, she became curious. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I know him as well. And I think you like him as much as I do.’

  She kept staring at him. ‘So?’

  Mikey scratched his head. Sighed. ‘I came here today to … to do him some harm. I don’t know what. And then you came out. And then …’ Mikey shrugged.

  ‘What’s he done to you, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Taken my life away.’ Anger accompanied his words.

  Janine nodded. Recognition in her eyes.

  ‘Listen,’ said Mikey. He felt awkward. ‘Maybe we should … get … together …’

  She looked like he’d just made an improper suggestion.

  ‘No, no, not like that …’ He was conscious of his waving arms, his red face. ‘No, I mean … talk. He’s done us both wrong, from the sounds of it.’ He shrugged. ‘Y’know. Problem shared, an’ that. Two heads … Find a way to … I don’t know. Deal with him.’

  Janine stared hard. She made up her mind.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But I’m phonin’ a friend, tellin’ them where I’ll be.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Just so you know.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  She checked her watch. ‘Listen, my shift’s nearly finished. Wait here and we’ll go to a pub when I come out.’

  She went back inside.

  Mikey watched her go, lit another roll-up, began working his way down it.

  For the first time in ages, he smiled.

  Keenyside loved the summer. But the summer was gone. Instead, he sat and stared at the autumn rain.

  He closed his eyes, tried to will the season back. Apart from his villa in Lanzarote, his mock-Georgian executive home in Wansbeck Moor, Northumberland, was the place he most enjoyed spending those summer months in. The warm air, sweet from honeysuckle and lobelia in nearby gardens, the pastel-pink and blue sunsets. He would come home with the other commuters, shed his work clothes, take up tools of leisure; hedges would be trimmed, lawns would be mowed. Later, he would cook meat on his gas-fired barbecue and, along with his wife and children, dine al fresco on the decking-wood patio, drink bottled beer and sip Australian Chardonnay.

  They would talk, laugh, smile. Be content in each others’ company. He was a good husband. A good father. His two children were helped with their homework, praised for their schoolwork, allowed out to play with their friends.

  He sighed. Opened his eyes. That had never happened. Only in his idealized fantasies. The house was a money hole, the mortgage a monthly struggle. The car on the drive; its payments unmade for the previous month. From beyond his study door came the over-raucous sounds of the twins, their voices shrill and overeducated, even at their early age. Like strangers to him. And his wife in their bedroom, trying on her latest must-have designer creation that his near-maxed-out credit card had taken a hammering for. And the villa would have to go.

  He breathed in, exhaled, hoping all the stress and tension would leave his body too. It didn’t. He took a large mouthful from the glass of malt in his hands, hoping that would help. It didn’t.

  The house was meant to be his refuge, a retreat from the job; the mindless violence, the filth and squalor of the lives he had to come into contact with, the scum on scum killings. Human garbage, and he was the one who had to cart it away. A retreat from his past. A way of escape.

  He sighed. No good. No escape. He thought of Palmer’s face that afternoon.

  ‘Investigated?’ Keenyside had said.

  The chief super could barely contain a smile. ‘Only rumours, little ones. Ripples.’

  ‘Yeah, before a tidal wave,’ Keenyside said. ‘I know.’ He looked around the room. Back at Palmer. ‘What can I do?’

  Palmer looked surprised. Shrugged. ‘Not my place to say. Just thought you ought to know.’

  Keenyside felt something well within him. Panic. Fear. ‘Can’t you … say something? Put in a good word? Stall it? I mean, you’ll be dragged along too.’

  Palmer’s gaze became hard and cold. ‘Don’t know what you’re taking about.’

  Keenyside stared at him. Couldn’t speak.

  ‘In feudal Japan,’ said Palmer, gaze unwavering, ‘disgraced samurai fell on their swords.’ He sat back, fingers steepled. ‘Think on it.’

  Keenyside couldn’t think. Heard only his heart pounding, his blood rushing in his ears.

  ‘I have a meeting to attend. So …’

  And that had been that.

  His glass was empty. He couldn’t remember drinking it. He refilled it.

  He sighed. Autumn. The season of death and dying. Leading to winter, the prison season. Lockdown.

  Rain lashed the windows. Stormy
Northumberland weather.

  Walking through the station he had felt eyes on him, mouths moving behind hands, words coming in whispers, heads nodding. He tried to ascribe it to paranoia, but could feel it.

  Marked.

  But by who?

  Names had gone round and round in his head all day since Palmer told him, until it had spun. None of his team had grassed. He was sure of it. They were on the books with him. Had nearly as much to lose as him.

  Then who?

  Janine had been off with him. But that was only to be expected. Like the others, she was following the pattern. And he loved it. The power. The complicity of corruption.

  But she wouldn’t have had the nerve. Not the way he had left her.

  So who?

  He looked around his house again, seeing it as nothing more than an expensive prison, his family as grinning jailers. He wanted to stand up, take hold of something heavy and smash everything. The wide-screen TV. The DVD player. The hi-fi system. His wife’s crystal collection. No one but him could wreck everything. Break it all up.

  Break free.

  He felt himself hyperventilating, beginning a panic attack. Forced himself to calm down.

  He looked at his watch. He had to speed things along.

  Stop pissing about, being lenient. Patient. Put his plan into action.

  Move that payday closer.

  The escape. Really escape.

  Not to Wansbeck Moor or Lanzarote.

  To a land further away, where it was summer all year round.

  16

  The street was dark when the Saab convertible pulled up outside the block of flats. Donovan, body still aching but unimpaired, exited the passenger side first. Amar uncurled himself from the cramped back seat, bemoaning convertibles for the lack of space in the rear. Peta got out of the driver’s side, centrally locked the car.

  No more taxis. No more subterfuge.

  No more hiding.

  ‘My pride and joy, this car,’ Peta had told Donovan when they had gone to pick it up from the car park it had been left in.

  ‘Taking a risk, parking it in Byker.’

  She laughed. ‘Anybody touches this is taking a risk.’

  Their plan. Peta and Amar, along with Donovan, return to the flat. Maintain surveillance but let Father Jack know they are on to him. Make him force his hand.

  Maria stay at the hotel. Wait for Sharkey, try to reach Jamal on his mobile.

  In through the communal entrance smelling of stale air and vinyl flooring and up to the flat. Peta put the key in the lock, opened the door. They stepped inside. Donovan closed the door behind them. Peta hit the light switch.

  And stopped dead.

  Sitting by the window, before the cameras, was Father Jack.

  ‘This belong to anyone?’ He held up the minidisc.

  Four figures holding baseball bats detached themselves from the shadows and ringed the three. Faces twisted, bodies cranked up for violence. Waiting for their corpulent master’s Pavlovian command.

  The cameras had been wrecked.

  Donovan looked at Jack. The fat man didn’t look well. He had changed clothes into a looser Hawaiian shirt and bigger chinos. His stomach was distended even further, pushed out by the wadded dressing covering his injury. His skin looked sickly; he was sweating. He smelled bad. The hand that held the disc shook.

  He looked haunted, a ghost that didn’t know it was dead.

  ‘Called in some favours …’ Father Jack gestured to the bat-wielders. ‘Gym candy and a bad attitude. Perfect for me … bad for you.’

  Father Jack held the disc up.

  ‘You’re going to … suffer for what you’ve done to me …’ Anger broke through his pain. ‘So this is your last chance.’

  The three of them looked at each other, expectant.

  ‘Ready to make a deal?’

  The Gate. Short strips of franchised bars and fast-food restaurants topped off by a multi-screen cinema. Blockbusters churning in perpetual rotation. The décor, all metal and neon, dated as soon as the last screwdriver was packed away.

  Maria stood on the top level of the high glass-fronted building, looked down on the city, her feet tingling with vertigo, watched ordinary lives being played out: people driving cars, buses, leaving just-closing shops, entering bars, restaurants, going home. Ordinary lives. The other city.

  ‘Man, this feels like you’re standin’ on air, an’ shit. Man could fall an’ keep fallin’.’

  She turned round. Jamal had materialized at her left, was staring down at the street, eyes avoiding hers. Dressed identically to the last time she had seen him; but his emblematic urban armour of Avirex and box-white trainers had lost their shine and lustre. He hopped from foot to foot. She caught his eyes. He looked more than agitated. Scared.

  Tread carefully. ‘Thought you wouldn’t come.’

  Jamal shrugged, aimed for casual, his tension giving him away. ‘Said I would, didn’t I?’ Shaking slightly as he spoke.

  He had said a lot more than that. Maria had left a message on his mobile voicemail, reminding him who she was, asking him to get in touch so they could go ahead with what he had agreed with Donovan. His response had been surprisingly swift.

  He told her he had to meet her. Had something big to tell her. Like, major big. And to bring her handbag ’cause it was going to cost her. He had arranged the place and time, hung up.

  ‘So,’ said Maria, smiling unthreateningly, like he was a wild animal she didn’t want to spook, ‘what have you got to tell me?’

  ‘You got the money?’

  ‘If what you’ve got to say turns out to be the truth, then—’

  ‘No. Now. I gotta split.’ There was pleading in his eyes, his voice. ‘I need it now.’

  Maria sighed. ‘I’ll have to hear what you’ve got to say first.’

  Jamal weighed his options. Nodded.

  Maria waited.

  Jamal’s eyes darted around, as if the half-deserted level was full of eavesdroppers.

  He shook his head. ‘Not here.’

  ‘Well …’ Maria looked around, saw the restaurants. ‘You hungry?’

  Jamal shrugged again. And again his eyes gave him away.

  Ravenous, she thought.

  ‘Come on, then.’ She walked towards the escalator. ‘I’m buying.’

  Jamal pretended nonchalance, but almost ran to get there.

  Nando’s was quite empty. It took them hardly any time at all to get their food.

  As with other branches of the franchise, the restaurant was all exposed dark beams, flagged terracotta floors and rough adobe walls. Was it just her, thought Maria, or was the idea of being sold a fake sense of history along with her meal unsettling? Especially in a steel and glass edifice like the Gate.

  She filed the thought away for future reference. Saturday colour supp. piece, perhaps.

  Jamal had wolfed down his peri-peri chicken and fries and corn on the cob in record time. So much so that she had ended up giving him part of hers.

  Jamal drained his glass of coke, sat back satiated.

  ‘Enjoy that?’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. Now, business. What have you got to tell me?’

  The smile disappeared. He began speaking but ended up stammering, tongue-tied.

  ‘Just take your time,’ she said, trying to calm him. ‘There’s no hurry.’

  Jamal looked grave. ‘There is. I gotta go.’

  He took a deep breath, continued before she could say anything else.

  ‘The disc, yeah? It’s two guys. Talkin’.’

  Maria nodded, interested, encouraging.

  ‘One of them is that reporter guy. The one who turned up dead.’

  Maria felt her heart quicken. She struggled to stay seated. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The other guy—’

  ‘Look, Mr Myers …’

  ‘The other guy …’

  He told her. Slowly and carefully. The man from the TV. The newspapers. The missi
ng man.

  Him.

  Jamal finished speaking. Maria sat there stunned, her heart smashing furiously like a John Bonham drum solo. She wanted to jump up, run from the restaurant, start screaming orders into her mobile, get the staff moving. If this was true, it was going to be one of the major stories of the year.

  If it was true.

  ‘Can you prove this?’

  ‘Yeah. If I had that disc you could hear for yourself.’

  ‘Where is the disc now?’

  A shadow crossed Jamal’s features. ‘Father Jack,’ he mumbled.

  Maria took the mobile from her bag. ‘I’ll phone Joe.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ The words were said quietly; she didn’t hear.

  ‘No reply,’ she said, putting the phone down and looking at Jamal. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Si.

  He was unmoving …

  ‘Listen,’ said Jamal, pleading desperately. ‘I’ve told you what you want to know. I need that money. Now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just …’ He looked as if he would bolt, scream or burst into tears. ‘I need it …’

  Maria sighed. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I can authorize a thousand pounds. But I have to wait and see if your story checks out.’

  Jamal almost pounded the table in frustration. ‘I gotta have it, like I gotta disappear, man …’

  That was the last thing Maria wanted. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘I just need to make a couple of phone calls. Go get another cola or something.’

  Jamal sighed, then, when he knew she would say no more, made his way to the drinks dispenser.

  ‘Right,’ said Maria, folding up her phone and replacing it in her bag. Her notebook, open before her, was filled with copious notes.

  She had spoken to several journalists on her own paper, trying to piece together the facts behind Colin Huntley’s disappearance.

  He had vanished the previous Tuesday, telling his cleaner that he would be back late or stay overnight. He lived alone following the death of his wife. His only daughter lived in Newcastle. He lived in a village in Northumberland. Wansbeck Moor.

  His work colleagues talked of him as being anxious, distracted in the days before his disappearance. ‘Like he was building up to doing something he wasn’t looking forward to,’ one fellow worker had said.

  The day had been booked off work, so no one had thought anything of it. But when he failed to make a prearranged dinner appointment with his daughter on the Wednesday night, the police were called. And an official investigation started.