Ralphie stopped walking. Amar did, too, sliding back into the shadow of a doorway, watching. Ralphie looked around, head on one side. listening. Amar pushed himself back, remained still, hardly breathing. Heard only distant traffic, rain and wind.
Ralphie – slowly, cautiously – resumed his walk.
He turned right again, down Derland Street. More derelict, empty buildings. Empty shells. At the corner with Waterloo Street was a building site. Dating from the 1930s, the building had started life as commercial premises and had, at various times, been a straight bar with a club licence and strippers, two gay clubs complete with fetish rooms and, most bizarrely, a Teutonic-style beer cellar. Now it was in the process of being gutted and turned into luxury urbanite flats. Scaffolding on all sides; the ground floor and basement that had once housed the gay club were now open, walls and windows gone, only structural supports, rubble.
And shadows.
It was from out of these shadows that a figure emerged. A middle-aged man with greying hair, wearing an anorak, jeans and a nondescript air. The kind of person who looked unthreatening, who wouldn’t remain too long in the memory, who used that as a shield.
The kind of person who got away with abusing children.
The man walked up the steps, looked furtively about, then walked away, back into the night.
Back to his family, thought Amar.
Ralphie hadn’t moved. He stood against the window of an abandoned second-hand record shop as if waiting for a signal.
A second figure emerged from the basement of the building. Amar recognized him straight away. Small, light-skinned black boy. Avirex jacket.
Jamal.
Ralphie, on seeing him, crossed the road. Jamal saw him approach, waited. As Amar watched, the two looked around, made furtive conversation, then walked down the concrete steps together.
Amar counted slowly to thirty, then crossed the road.
He reached the steps, tried to squeeze noiselessly between the great metal mesh screens that had been erected to keep out trespassers, walk down the steps. At the bottom he blinked, allowed his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, looked around.
Rubble, trestles, the odd bucket, length of wood. Movement on the periphery of his vision: rats.
Amar ignored them, kept himself in shadow, listened.
Wind and rain, whistling and spattering.
Beyond that, sounds were coming from the back of the building. Sounds he recognized. Slowly, looking out for debris and other obstacles, he made his way towards them.
Although gutted and unrecognizable from its previous incarnation, the layout hadn’t yet been altered. Amar tried to remember it, overlay that with what was before him now, minimize impediments, pinpoint the source of the sounds.
They were coming from the shell of a room to the right and back, what he presumed must have been a storage area behind the bar. As he approached, he realized he was right; the bar was still there. He walked up to it.
Dimly lit by the diffused, ground-level streetlighting seeping in through an overhead grate, he saw them. The bulk of Ralphie taking up most of the space, Jamal kneeling before him.
Amar hadn’t planned for this moment, how he would actually approach Jamal, because he didn’t know how he would find him. He needed to do two things: stop Ralphie, make Jamal feel safe.
He looked around. Saw a thick, square baton of wood. About a metre long, four centimetres thick.
Perfect.
He carefully picked it up, watched rats scurry away at his approach, then crossed the room until he stood at the corner of the bar, behind Ralphie. There wasn’t much space in the room; his first shot would be his only one.
He gripped the wood with both hands, centred himself. Headache, nausea, chest pains all gone. He focused, brought the stick back …
‘Ralphie!’
And let it go.
Ralphie stopped dead on hearing his name. As he was turning his head to the source, the bar hit, connecting with the side of his head: his ear, his cheekbone. He recoiled from the blow, lost his footing, stumbled against the wall. His hands went to his face, he began to wail in agony. His erection rapidly diminished.
‘Shut up,’ said Amar as sternly as he couldn manage, ‘or you’ll get another.’
Amar held on to the stick. He looked at Jamal. The boy was struggling to his feet. Even in the dark, Amar could see how wide his eyes were. He was preparing to run.
‘Jamal, wait.’
The boy stopped, surprised to hear his own name used.
Amar pressed forward his advantage. ‘Jamal, listen to me. I’m not police. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you.’
Jamal still looked fear-stricken, ready to bolt.
‘Joe Donovan sent me,’ said Amar. ‘I’m a friend of Joe Donovan.’
The name had an impact on the boy; his posture changed. He became slightly less fearful, more inquisitive. Amar kept talking.
‘Joe Donovan. I’m a friend of his. I’m here to take care of you. To get you somewhere safe.’
Ralphie groaned loudly again, tried to get to his feet, hand on his face. ‘I think I’ve broken something … You bastard. What you do that for? What’ve I ever done to you?’
‘You fuck children and boast about it,’ said Amar.
‘I’ll fuckin’ ’ave you,’ said Ralphie unsteadily, painfully, on his feet now. ‘Get the law on to you.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Amar. ‘Law won’t touch a child abuser. And, anyway, you’ve got to get past me first.’
Ralphie stared at Amar.
Amar hefted the bar. ‘Ready?’
Ralphie looked at the wood, at Amar. Looked right in his eyes.
Made his mind up.
‘But I paid for him,’ Ralphie said, attempting to regain his dignity. ‘I want my money back.’
‘The boy’s not for sale,’ said Amar. ‘No refunds. And tuck yourself in.’
Ralphie fumbled with his zipper, tried to hold eye contact. Failed. Knowing he was defeated, he rubbed his ear and grimaced, turned and left the building.
Amar waited until he was sure the man had gone, then turned back to Jamal. The boy had his back pressed against the furthest wall. Amar realized he was still holding the wood, dropped it.
‘It’s OK, Jamal,’ he said. ‘You’re safe now.’
Jamal kept staring at him. ‘Yeah? I trusted Joe Donovan an’ nearly got me killed. Why should I trust you?’
Amar sighed. Felt suddenly tired. It had been a long day.
‘I don’t know why you should trust me, Jamal,’ he said, his voice weary. ‘No idea. But Joe Donovan asked me to look for you, and I’ve spent all day doing it. I’m not here to hurt you or use you or anything like that. I’m here to take you home, yeah? Make you feel safe.’
‘Where is Joe Donovan?’
‘He had to go away for a few days. But I can give you a bed for the night. No hassle.’
Jamal stared at him.
Amar rubbed his face, held his hands out, palms upwards. ‘What more can I say? It’s up to you.’
Jamal thought. Amar didn’t move. Eventually Jamal nodded.
‘OK,’ he said.
Amar smiled. ‘Good. Come on, then.’
They picked their way through the debris and up on to street level. Amar allowed Jamal to lead.
‘Right,’ said Amar, once there, ‘let’s get a taxi.’
Jamal seemed reluctant to move.
‘What?’
Jamal looked around. ‘Lemme get somethin’ to eat first, yeah?’
Amar nodded. He felt hungry, too; first time in days.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll join you. What d’you fancy? Indian? Chinese?’
Jamal looked around. ‘Ain’t that a kebab place on the corner?’
Amar smiled. ‘Kebab it is.’
They went to get their food.
Falling into step together.
24
Donovan couldn’t sleep.
In h
is bed in a room in a chain hotel in Swiss Cottage; the hotel full of American or European tourists or middle-management business travellers.
Files and notebooks thrown all over the floor, old laptop plugged in on the desk, raided minibar evidence on all available surfaces. He had tried to lose himself.
Failed.
They had driven straight there after leaving Crouch End, Donovan monosyllabic and introspective all the way. Only speaking to insist the cost be put on the Herald’s credit card. Once in the hotel, Peta, thinking it not her place to extend unsolicited advice and that he would want some time on his own, had taken off to the pool. Donovan to the minibar.
They had regrouped, eaten dinner in the hotel – Donovan only picking – and, at Peta’s suggestion, started work in his room.
Going through old notes, old compuer files, Peta helping him.
‘What am I looking for?’ she asked.
‘Wansbeck Moor, travellers …’
He had tried to throw himself into it. He brought her up to speed, told her about Wansbeck Moor, its traveller problem and the steps they had taken as a community to get rid of it.
‘Can see their point,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I’d be pissed off, too.’
Donovan was too tired to argue with her. He sighed. Flopped back on the bed.
‘Look,’ Peta said, ‘d’you want to talk? Will it help?’
Donovan sighed. ‘Probably not.’
Peta opened her mouth, about to say something more, but Donovan sat suddenly upright.
‘Tosher …’ he said. ‘That was his name, Tosher …’
Peta looked at him, confused.
‘Tosher …’ He repeated the name like a ruminative mantra. ‘He was one of the travellers. Contacted me, wanted to tell me what he’d seen. The truth about what was going on, he said. Something more.’
Donovan got off the bed, crossed to the laptop, began looking through files.
‘And did he?’
Donovan didn’t look up. ‘Never got the chance. You know what happened to me then.’
Peta said nothing. Looked at him. He was looking at the computer screen but not seeing it. Seeing something much further away, something she didn’t want to share in.
She kept looking through the piles of paper and notebooks on the floor.
They worked quietly for some time. The night noises of the city intruded faintly into the room, the desk lamp and bedside lamps throwing out concentrated pools of light.
Donovan forcing himself to concentrate.
‘Here’s our boy,’ said Donovan eventually. ‘Tosher. Real name Anthony Langrish.’
‘So what’s this got to do with Colin Huntley?’ asked Peta.
‘No idea,’ said Donovan. ‘At least not yet. Perhaps there is a connection. Perhaps Tosher, a.k.a. Anthony Langrish, can help us.’
‘And how do we find Tosher, a.k.a. Anthony Langrish?’
Donovan took out his new laptop, plugged it in to the hotel’s broadband socket.
‘We hope luck is on our side,’ he said.
It was. Trawls through various electoral rolls and subscription-only Internet directories had given an address for him in Essex. They consulted the atlas, decided that would be the next day’s activity. Then it was time for bed. Peta checked he was OK, then made her way to her own room.
But he wasn’t OK. Sleep, he had thought, would come heavily and quickly. But it hadn’t. Whatever respite he had found in work had been only temporary.
Every time he had tried to sleep, the dreams had returned. And with them the ghosts. All jumbled up; all pressing down on him.
All blaming him.
David living Jamal’s rent boy life.
Annie making him wait outside their bedroom while she was inside with another man.
Abigail screaming at him from the picture frame.
Maria, shrouded and bloodied, telling him she would be alive if not for him.
All pressing down on him.
He rolled from the bed, eyes screwed tight, knuckles pushing into his temples.
He made his way to the minibar, raided it again.
But there was nothing left. Everything in miniature, too small to be effective. He curled up on the floor, making a noise he couldn’t classify, trying to force it from his body. Tears fell, unnoticed.
Trying to clear his head, he stuck one of the CDs he had taken from his old home into the laptop. Johnny Cash: Solitary Man.
He flicked through the tracks, rejecting them in turn. ‘I Won’t Back Down’. ‘Solitary Man’. ‘I See A Darkness’.
‘The Mercy Seat’. Too tired to reject it, he let it play.
Nick Cave’s covered murder ballad; a death-row con dying on the electric chair. Refusing to confront his actions or consequences until death finally forces one last confession from him.
Then that noise again.
Johnny sang in his Old Testament prophet growl that the mercy seat was waiting …
The JCB tearing up his brain.
Johnny sang that he felt his head was burning …
His heart.
His soul.
David …
Annie …
Abigail …
Maria …
Johnny sang that he was yearning to be done …
The JCB … tearing …
To be done …
Tearing …
Something to take away the pain … anything …
He had something.
And anyway, Johnny sang, he told the truth …
Donovan crawled on his knees to the holdall, brought it crashing to the floor, contents spilling out. He rummaged through, throwing his belongings everywhere, not caring where they landed, pain blotting out everything else.
He found what he was looking for.
An eye for an eye, Johnny sang, a tooth for a tooth …
His revolver.
And he wasn’t afraid to die …
His heart beat wildly, his chest heaved.
The pain … JCB …
He spun the chamber.
Placed the barrel to his forehead.
Began to squeeze the trigger.
Smiling, almost in relief.
A knock at the door.
‘Joe? You OK?’
Peta’s voice.
Donovan opened his eyes. Looked around as if waking from a dream. His heart was beating wildly, his chest heaving. He looked at his hand. The gun.
Johnny Cash now singing ‘Would You Lay with Me in a Field of Stone?’.
‘Joe?’
Donovan tried to speak, found his throat hard and dry, like sun-baked clay.
‘Ye – yeah?’
‘The music’s very loud and I heard you shouting. Are you OK?’
‘Just … just a minute …’
He stuck the gun under the pillow. Moved towards the door, stopped when he saw his reflection in the mirror. In CBGBs T-shirt and boxers, his eyes red-rimmed, his face wet and tear-tracked. He wiped it on his shirt.
Opened the door.
Peta couldn’t hide her shock at his appearance.
‘Joe …’
Donovan said nothing.
‘Can I come in?’
‘It’s … erm …’
‘I think I’d better,’ she said and walked in. Then stopped, looked around.
‘What … what d’you want?’ Donovan couldn’t face her.
She turned to him. ‘I’ve just heard from Amar. He’s found Jamal. He’s safe. I thought you’d want to know.’
‘Yes. I do. Thank you.’ He sighed.
Peta shook her head. Looked at him. There was warmth and compassion in that gaze. More than that, understanding.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think you should be left alone tonight.’
Donovan said nothing.
‘I’ll get my duvet. Be back in a minute.’ Peta left the room.
Donovan looked around, sighed.
Johnny now singing that he was just a
wayfaring stranger, that there was no sickness, toil or danger in the bright land he was heading to, only his loved ones who had gone on.
Donovan was suddenly weary beyond tears.
25
Caroline slept. Colin watched her.
She was curled up on her side near the radiator, a couple of old, stinking blankets wrapped round her to keep out the cold. She slept long, deep and often, Colin had noticed, her body shutting down, protecting itself.
Colin sat back against the wall, cradling his injured arm. It had been strapped up; a field dressing, nothing more. It still hurt, needed proper medical attention. No chance of that.
Caroline’s face. Peaceful in repose.
But he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, dreaming.
What she now thought of him.
‘What’s going on?’ she had said. ‘Why are you here?’
Colin had sighed, sat back against the wall.
‘Oh Caroline,’ he said, ‘I’ve done a terrible thing …’
And he told her.
‘It started with your mother’s death,’ he said. ‘Everything … everything started then.’
Caroline looked at him, confused, patiently waiting for him to continue.
‘It was a …’ He sighed. ‘A bad time. A difficult time. The cancer had … well, I don’t need to tell you, you know. You hadn’t moved out, then. It was hard. To come to terms with. And then there were the travellers.’
Caroline tutted, shook her head. ‘I don’t know why you let them get to you so much.’
‘You know why.’ His voice, snappy and sharp, made Caroline jump. She stared at him. He looked away.
Silence stretched, became almost a presence in the room.
He continued. ‘Every year they came … with their mess, and their fires, their washing strung out, their rubbish thrown all over the place.’ He gestured, his chain rattling against the pipe. ‘And the children … running round naked, filthy … feral. The noise, the revving engines at all hours, lorries coming and going, loading and unloading God knows what in the middle of the night … and all that shouting, swearing, rolling home drunk …’
Caroline nodded absently. ‘I know, Dad.’
‘We knew they’d be back. So we thought we’d outsmart them. That’s why we bought that land. Worth it, too, we thought. Even if that farmer did charge us over three times what it was worth.’
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