Sight Unseen

by Graham Hurley

  ‘No one I can see.’

  H nods. Wes leads the way round the back. He doesn’t even have to give the door a push because it’s open already. I’m standing in the sunshine gazing at a length of orange rope hanging from the branch of what looks like an apple tree. At the end of the rope is an old tyre.

  ‘It’s for the dog, love.’ Wes again. ‘Probably a pit bull. They clamp on and hang for ever. Old Pompey trick. Warms the dog up for the real thing.’

  He lopes across to the tree and produces a sizeable flick knife. Seconds later he’s cut the rope and now he’s coiling it around his raised arm.

  Back at the house, H is standing in the open doorway. Even from where I’m standing, it’s difficult to put the smell into words. Blocked drains? Rancid cooking oil? Curdled milk? More dog mess? More weed? Take your pick.

  We’re in the kitchen now. I’m looking at a drift of takeout cartons that never made it into the bin and a fresh curl of dog turd at the foot of the fridge. One of the taps over the kitchen sink appears to have broken and no one’s washed up for days.

  H is shouting for Dooley. When nothing happens, Wes dumps the coil of rope on the kitchen table and checks the two rooms downstairs. Then I spot a pair of legs descending from the floor above. I meet her in the hall. This is the face in the window. She looks middle-aged but she’s probably younger. She’s stick-thin. She has an urchin haircut dyed bright green with mysterious bald patches. Her nails on both hands are bitten to the quick and she’s wearing a single plastic thumb ring, the deepest black. Her rolled-up jeans are filthy and the Levellers T-shirt has definitely seen better days. There are traces of old bruising beneath her left eye and when she opens her mouth there are more gaps than teeth.

  ‘Evie?’

  ‘Yeah. What of it?’ She’s looking at H. She doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to find strangers in her house.

  H wants to know about Dooley. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Just tell us, love. Don’t fuck about.’

  ‘I said I don’t know. That’s the truth.’

  H takes her into the front room. There’s no carpet, no furniture, no ornamentation of any kind. Just a couple of deckchairs and a widescreen TV.

  H can’t believe it. He’s asking about the deckchairs. WDDC is stencilled on each frame.

  ‘Nicked them off the beach,’ Evie explains. In the brightness of the light through the front window I can better see the traces of old bruising beneath her left eye. Her feet are bare. A single toe ring in that same black plastic.

  Wes has appeared in the open doorway. H gestures up at the ceiling and Wes nods. I listen to the soft pad of his footsteps as he mounts the stairs. For a big man he moves like a ghost.

  H is asking when Evie last saw Dooley. She starts to tell some story about a mate of theirs with a problem baby but then she loses interest in the lie and chews at a reddened finger. Moments later comes a grunt and then a thud from upstairs before a commotion on the landing and a volley of oaths.

  ‘That’s him.’ Evie yawns. ‘Must have come back early.’

  Wes is wrestling Dooley down the stairs. H and I join him in the hall. Dooley is a big man, running to fat. He’s naked apart from a pair of Calvin Kleins and there’s a parrot tattoo on the side of his neck where the whiteness of his torso gives way to a summer tan. His face is scarlet, probably the Frosty Jack, and like Evie he’s obviously given up on dentists.

  ‘Who the fuck are you lot?’ he wants to know.

  H doesn’t bother with a reply. Instead, he tells Wes to take him into the kitchen and make him nice and comfortable.

  I think it’s occurred to Evie that this little episode might not end well. She wants to know what the fuck’s going on. I’m in no position to tell her and H has never been much interested in explanations.

  ‘Take her for a walk, yeah?’ H is looking at me. ‘Half an hour should sort it.’

  Evie doesn’t want to go for a walk and says so. She wants to stay here. She wants access to the fridge and afterwards she wants a bit of peace and quiet. H ignores her. We follow him into the kitchen where Wes has just finished trussing Dooley to the single chair. The orange of the rope is perfect against the blue of the CKs and Dooley has already given up struggling.

  ‘Whatever you want,’ Dooley says, ‘just fucking take it.’

  This seems to amuse H. He tells Wes to look in the fridge. The fridge is empty except for half a litre of milk, a single miniature Mars bar and a small object wrapped in cling film. Wes takes the latter out and gives it to H. H unwraps the crystal, gives it a sniff, and then opens up the dripping tap and sluices it down the sink.

  Evie, watching, can’t believe her eyes. ‘Cunt!’ she yells. ‘That was fucking mine.’

  H ignores her. Once again, he says he wants me to get her out of the house. Then he turns to Dooley and gives him a wink. ‘Put the kettle on, Wes,’ he says.

  TWENTY

  Evie and I make a leisurely tour of the estate. Evie is still barefoot and whenever we come across other pedestrians I notice that they’ll cross the road rather than get anywhere near her. At first, she doesn’t want to talk. Whatever I ask her, however hard I try, she refuses to even acknowledge me. Only when I tell her we might be police does she show a first flicker of interest.

  ‘You’re not Filth,’ she says. ‘You’re too fucking clever for that.’

  ‘Clever how?’ I try and push this a little harder but she isn’t having it.

  We walk on in silence. Then she suddenly pulls me to a halt. ‘What about my Brett, then? What’s going on back there?’

  I tell her I have no idea. It happens to be the truth but she doesn’t believe me.

  ‘You’re gonna fucking hurt him, aren’t you? Is this to do with last week?’

  ‘What happened last week, Evie?’

  ‘You’re telling me you don’t know that, neither?’

  ‘I know nothing. Except that Brett can get violent.’

  ‘You mean we fight? That’s true. We’re as bad as each other. On the Jack he can be an arsehole. Me too, when the mood takes me.’

  ‘And he pimps you out? Have I got that right?’

  ‘Yeah. But it’s fucking easy, isn’t it? I know most of these men. They’re knobs, all of them. Men are slaves to their fucking dicks. Shut your eyes and it’s over. Job fucking done.’

  ‘Is that Brett talking or you?’

  ‘Me. Brett hasn’t got a brain cell left. Without me he’d be wetting himself. Nursemaid, me. Full-time carer. You fucking make sure that man doesn’t get hurt. If he does, right, it’s down to you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’ She frowns, as if the question’s only just occurred to her. ‘So who the fuck are you, anyway?’

  I’m wondering whether this is the time to mention my son in a bid for more information, but decide against it. There’s something utterly wasted about this woman’s life and I find that truly scary. The single Mars bar in the fridge. The bruises. The blackened stumps that were once teeth. The toe ring. The smell. This is Bridport, for God’s sake. This little town is the aspirational proof that there’s life beyond Brexit, beyond the yawning gaps between rich and poor, that you can surround yourself with interesting shops and wonderful food and cheerful strangers that will wish you a very good morning and mean it. Yet here we are, one of us barefoot, en route back to the wreckage of two lives and doubtless countless others.

  We round the corner. We’ve been gone for more than half an hour. Number nine is in sight at the end of the road. One of H’s phrases has been haunting me all day. ‘Tell me about county lines,’ I say.

  Once again she stops. I get the impression that smiling doesn’t come easy. ‘Fuck me,’ she says. ‘You are Filth.’

  We can hear the gasps of pain from outside the kitchen door. Evie kicks it open with her bare feet. Dooley is doubled over, his hands cupped over his sodden CKs, and steam is still rising from his lap. He must half-hear the d
oor because his head comes up. His nose has been pulped and there’s blood everywhere. Tears are pouring down his cheeks and bubbles of pink saliva have appeared at the corner of his mouth. The last time I saw anguish like this was a crucifixion fresco in the coolness of a Venetian church. Nails through the palm and a crown of thorns, I suspect, might have been a kindness compared to this. Wes, I will later learn from H, has been kettling again. I feel physically ill.

  ‘More, boss?’ Wes glances up at H.

  H shakes his head. He’s adopted the bedside manner of a hospital consultant. He thinks the treatment is working nicely. Time to bring matters to a halt. ‘That’s fine, Wes. I don’t think we need to bother Mr Dooley any further.’

  ‘You want me to untie him?’

  H nods. He’s taken off his jacket and for the first time I notice the blood on his knuckles.

  The moment Dooley slumps free of the rope, Evie is on her knees in front of the chair, her arms around him. Not for a moment do I question Danny’s account of this relationship – the ceaseless violence, the drink, the drugs, the sheer brutality of the man – yet it’s incontestable that poor, wasted Evie still holds a candle for this monster. It’s there in front of me. She’s trying to kiss him, to comfort him, to soothe him, to make all the pain go away. She’ll phone for an ambulance, get him to A&E, let them sort him out. She won’t leave his bedside. Not tonight, not ever. I turn my head away, ashamed to be a witness at so intimate and yet so grotesque a moment. Venice again, I think. Una vera pieta. Christ.

  TWENTY-ONE

  We return to the hotel. I’m still trying to come to terms with what I’ve just seen in Dooley’s kitchen. This is way, way beyond anything I’ve ever imagined. Some of the scripts I’ve read have made room for stagey helpings of violence, and some of H’s friends have hinted that Malo’s dad is unsentimental when it comes to settling debts, but this is flesh and blood, not fiction or hearsay, and it turns my stomach. Dooley is no angel but no one deserves what happened in that kitchen.

  Not that H appears the least bit bothered. Wes fancies a spot of lunch and H treats him to an all-day breakfast at the local Wetherspoons. Dooley, I learn, has got himself on the wrong side of the new masters of the Bridport drugs scene and had been expecting a visit for a while. His old dealer, who never let him down, had been chased out of town a while back, leaving Dooley and a number of other regulars at the mercy of a bunch of Somali kids from London.

  At first, the news was good. Incredible gear. Incredible prices. But then the ask for both crack and heroin went up and up and Dooley found himself looking at a sizeable debt. Worse still, the London kids weren’t interested in his offers of Evie in part-settlement. At this point, says H, Dooley made the mistake of not taking the kids seriously. When they threatened to torch his house, he laughed in their face.

  ‘They said that? Said they’d burn the place down?’

  ‘They did, according to Dooley. He was getting a bit cagey by this time but Wes had the kettle on. You start at the knees and head north. Most blokes, they’ve worked out what happens next and a splash is normally enough.’

  This is repugnant, largely because H appears to take it for granted that everyone accepts the rules of engagement. So how did Mr Dooley feel?

  ‘He wasn’t keen at all and it took longer than it should for me to suss why. The kids were having problems all over. Unpaid debts. Thousands of quid. And punters going missing. They needed someone to grass these people up, find out where they were.’

  ‘And that was Dooley?’

  ‘Big time. They gave him freebies in return, but Dooley knew that one day these mates of his would realize what he was up to and come looking.’

  ‘And he thought that was us?’

  ‘No chance. He’d no idea who we were but that’s not the point. The point is he has names, phone numbers, texts.’

  ‘We’re talking about the kids?’

  ‘We are. And by the time Wes had emptied the kettle, we had the lot.’

  H pushes his plate aside and puts an iPhone on the table. I know he’s showing off, and I hate what he’s done, but I can’t resist a peek. The phone, it turns out, belongs to Dooley.

  ‘Here. Look.’

  H has brought up a text from one of the London kids. Morning, my people. Wake and bake. New flavas in Stardog import (3.5 for £40). Big bitz available. Buddy cheesecake (3.5 for £40).

  I read the text a second time. I’m clueless about Stardog and Buddy cheesecake but I recognize textbook marketing when I see it. They might be flogging holidays or DIY special offers. There’s something else, too, even more disturbing. My people. So simple. So hundred per cent confident. And so scary. No wonder Danny’s Suze keeps her kids chained to the sofa. Better give them long days of crap television than risk them out on the streets.

  ‘What about the kids themselves? Who are they?’

  H bends to the phone again. Lately I’ve noticed that his keyboard skills are nearly as slick as his son’s.

  ‘These kids are the infantry. Dooley stored them in a file of their own.’

  H opens the file and swipes through the names. Humpty. Rooster. Tick Tock. Shagro. No photos. No more clues. Just the names and a number. Very county lines, I think. According to H, these are the kids who deal the drugs on the street, grow the market, make sure no one ever goes short. He says they used to do something similar in Pompey back in the day but never had the proper technology. For a moment I think I’m detecting a note of faint regret but then he swipes again and perks up.

  ‘So who’s Larry Fab?’ I’m peering at the names on the screen.

  ‘He’s the boss man on the ground here.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Dooley. Larry Fab’s the enforcer. He happens to be white. Dooley thinks he’s down from London. This is the guy you never want to mess with. He’s also the one you go through to get to the Plug.’

  ‘The Plug?’

  ‘The main supplier. You never see him. You never meet him. Dooley says he stays in London, lives on the phone, pulls all the strings. This little town would be an outpost in his empire. You’d have to go along the coast for the real killing. Weymouth. Bournemouth.’ He offers me a tight smile. ‘Pompey.’

  I nod, sit back. Wes has doubtless heard all this before but I’m impressed.

  ‘So where does Malo fit in? Or Clem? You’re telling me they’ve been buying drugs off these people? Is that the way it worked?’

  ‘Dooley doesn’t know but he recognized both the names. He said the kids talked about them sometimes, especially Clem. She made a big impact, her and the bike. They called her the Inca Queen. Dooley says that’s serious fucking respect.’

  ‘But they were punters?’

  ‘He’s no idea. All he knows is that she was rich. That’s what the Somali kids talked about. All the time. Colombia. Rich daddy. Oodles of the laughing powder. You know how these things work. All she’s got to mention is the word Bogotá, or maybe just Colombia, and the kids are off and running. She should have kept her mouth shut. Malo, too. Even this place is a jungle.’ He taps the phone. ‘These kids can smell money at a thousand yards. She’s in a clearing. She’s unprotected. She’s staked herself out and waited for the hyenas to arrive. The rest of the script writes itself. Ransom demand on Malo’s phone? A million dollars cash? Piece of piss.’

  A bunch of hyenas is a powerful image and I suspect it’s probably close to the truth. These people are predatory. Clem and Malo were theirs for the taking. The pair of them roar down on the Harley for a night in leafy Bridport and after that it all goes badly wrong. Wrong pub. Wrong company. The wrong word. In the wrong ear. Easy.

  ‘You think they set her up, the Somalis?’

  ‘I think they may have done. Mateo’s mate, O’Keefe, goes on about these people not knowing their arse from their elbow, but that’s code for him bumping into something a bit new, something he’s not quite sure about. These kids fit the bill. They wouldn’t normally bother with kidnapping. Unless they want to giv
e someone a slapping and then make a grand or two when they give him back, they don’t have to. The money’s out there on the streets. They’re minted already.’

  ‘So why bother with Clem?’

  ‘Because she was irresistible. There’s a phrase Dooley used just now. He said the Somalis love to strut their stuff. It’s all front, all ego. A million US? No problema, amigo. This is what we can do. Just watch.’

  I nod. I think I understand. There’s an obvious question here and it’s been bothering me since we walked out of that house.

  ‘What next?’ I ask.

  H drops Wes and me at the station in Dorchester after Wes has finished his treacle pudding. H says he has a couple of issues to raise with his son and if I was Malo I suspect I’d be heading for the hills. The train is nearly empty. Wes will be getting off at Southampton en route to Pompey while I continue to London.

  We’re clattering through the New Forest. So far Wes has been catching up with emails while I read a copy of the Guardian someone has left on the adjoining table. Last year, under difficult circumstances, I got to know a freelance journalist called Mitch Culligan and this morning’s edition includes a piece he’s done on the collapse of local government. No one would accuse Mitch of putting a smile on the nation’s face but he cares deeply about issues that pass most people by and he has a gift for calling out politicians who should know better. I’m finding out why it doesn’t pay to be a child in care in Northampton when Wes draws my attention to something out of the window.

  I look up. In the middle distance, among the parched grassland, a gaggle of ponies are foraging for something to eat. Wes thinks the smallest one’s really sweet. Seconds later, suddenly curtained by trees, they’ve gone.

  I’ve decided I like Wes. He has a slightly dreamy air, as if he’s not quite ready to leave adolescence, and his attention to the smaller courtesies of life seems completely unforced. He holds doors open for me. He readied a chair at the table in Wetherspoons. And he insisted on carrying my bag when we got to the station and joined the queue for a ticket. He’s also extremely good looking and when – for the second time – he apologized for giving me a fright the night he fitted the tracking device I told him it didn’t matter. ‘Not your fault,’ I said. ‘I’m blaming H.’