DYING EMBERS an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘Time to start the washing-up, is it?’ she joked, struggling out of her overcoat.

  ‘Funny you should say that . . .’ He tossed her a tea towel and she caught it with one hand, the other still tangled in the sleeve of her coat. Mari and another girl stood at the kitchen counter, ogling her.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mari?’ Geri asked. ‘Never seen a teacher in jeans before?’

  Mari blushed. ‘Miss, yeah.’ But she seemed doubtful, nevertheless. She offered to help with the washing-up, which Geri took to be penance for her rudeness.

  ‘Has Vince been in?’

  Joe jerked his head in the direction of the café area, beyond Geri’s line of sight. ‘Been interviewing suspects all night.’

  ‘He’s trying to help, Joe,’ Geri said.

  ‘Aye, so you keep saying. Me, I’m not so sure.’ Joe walked away and entered into a boisterous exchange with a group of boys at the jukebox. A moment later, “Careless Whisper” began playing, and there was a burst of laughter from the boys. Joe threw Geri a mischievous grin, but she shook her head in disapproval.

  The atmosphere in the club was edgy; there was a charge of nervous energy, perhaps even of defiance. The last time Vince had come in to talk to them, many of the boys and girls — those Geri thought of as Baz’s followers — had left, but tonight, it seemed they would not be driven out. Geri felt they were showing solidarity. Was it for each other? For Joe? She couldn’t say. Perhaps for Frank. Perhaps they really did want to help find him.

  She sat with a group from her form and chatted — about valentine cards mostly — it seemed that some of the lads had borrowed heavily from Romeo and Juliet in their romantic scribblings.

  ‘Beats “Roses are red, violets are blue”,’ Geri commented.

  This prompted a competition for the silliest rhyme. Liam topped the others with, ‘So is your nose, but you have got the ’flu.’

  As the laughter and groans of protest died down, a quiet voice asserted itself.

  ‘You’re likely to snuff it, if you sniff too much glue.’

  Geri turned. ‘Barry.’ Callous, cold-hearted bastard!

  ‘Miss Simpson.’ When he said her name, it always sounded like insolence.

  ‘Nobody’s laughing,’ Geri said.

  He gave her one of his dead-eyed stares. ‘Who says I’m joking? I’m delivering an important message, Miss Simpson.’ He raised an admonishing finger at the subdued group around the table. ‘Don’t do drugs.’ Carl glared angrily at him, but he looked away after a moment or two.

  During the last week, Geri had seen Barry saunter around school like some New York gangster. Long overcoat, dark glasses, that arrogant swagger. He was playing a part — Geri had directed enough theatre to see that — and he was hamming it up. The trouble was, the children, at least the younger ones, couldn’t see through his little act. For them, Barry Mandel was the man.

  ‘Go home, Barry,’ she said, trying to quell the rage fizzing through her bloodstream. ‘You’re not wanted here.’

  He raised both eyebrows. ‘I don’t think that’s unanimous,’ he said.

  He was right, she realized, and the thought depressed her: not all of the children wanted rid of him. There seemed to be a division between those who despised Barry, and those who feared, or even respected him.

  From the corner of her eye, Geri saw a movement: one of the boys trying to sneak past unnoticed, had brushed against the coat rack, knocking her coat to the floor.

  ‘Leaving so soon?’ Barry said.

  The boy froze. Geri glanced at him, a sturdy-looking lad with a skinhead haircut. She did a double take. ‘Jay?’ He had been off school for the remainder of the previous week — a suspension, in all but name.

  ‘Barely recognizable, is he?’

  ‘What on earth possessed you?’ Geri demanded. His blond curls had been cut off, his head shaved to the bone.

  ‘Tell Miss Simpson what possessed you, Jay,’ Barry said.

  ‘Lay off, Baz.’ Joe had come over from the jukebox and stood at the edge of the group.

  Barry was about to say something else when Joe spoke again. ‘Lay off and piss off.’

  Jay stood between the two of them, hanging his head. Barry seemed to consider, then his eyes flickered in the direction of Vince. Joe had replaced the overhead strip lights in the café area with low-wattage coloured bulbs and glass shades, and the lighting in that part of the room was murky, but when Vince stood, anticipating trouble, he was hard to miss.

  Geri took a step forward, and Baz recoiled, almost jumping back in an exaggerated theatrical movement.

  ‘Watch it,’ he warned. ‘We’ve got a police witness this time.’

  Geri flushed angrily. ‘You’re a bad influence, Barry,’ she said. ‘You’re banned. I don’t want to see your face in here again — ever.’

  Baz looked from Geri to Joe, then across to Vince, who took a step forward. Baz laughed and turned away. ‘Coming, Jay?’ he said over his shoulder.

  For one awful moment, Geri thought that she would see a replay of the last time Frank had been into the club, and she expected Jay to shuffle meekly after him. Then Jay threw a frightened look in Joe’s direction. Joe stepped up and clasped one hand on the back of the boy’s neck.

  ‘He’s staying,’ Joe said.

  Barry turned back. ‘Funny,’ he said, drawing down the corners of his mouth. ‘A minute ago, I thought he was leaving.’ He shrugged and continued to the door. ‘Suit yourself.’

  While Vince bent to pick up her coat, Geri looked over at Joe. Both he and Jay were staring at the door as if they could see Barry’s retreating figure through it. Joe seemed to register her curiosity and broke into a rueful smile, and Geri felt the tension flow out of her. It was a relief to know that she wasn’t the only one Baz had such a profound effect upon. She returned Joe’s smile.

  ‘Why did you shave your head?’ Geri asked Jay, lowering her voice. ‘You know you’ll be suspended as soon as you go in tomorrow.’

  Jay shrugged and flushed right into the pale, smooth skin of his naked scalp. He kept his gaze on the floor, but Geri thought his eyelashes were wet.

  ‘Ne’er mind,’ Joe said, running his hand over the boy’s shining pate. ‘It’ll soon grow.’

  25

  The music was an insistent pulse, a throb of pure sexual energy. Vince moved a little to the rhythm, scanning the dance floor as he took a pull on his beer, eyeing the talent. He had been here an hour and the music, the mindless power of the beat, had worked its charm; this was better than booze, better than drugs for euphoric oblivion.

  At a diagonal he noticed somebody watching him: beautiful body, red Lycra top and leather pants, platinum hair. Vince smiled, nodded in the direction of the dance floor. The leather pants walked towards him, already moving to the insinuating beat of the music. They met halfway. Those eyes! Green, luminous, long-lashed.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ Vince said, bringing his mouth close to one small, delicately furzed earlobe. A nod — compliment accepted — no more than expected.

  ‘And you’re Vince.’ A smile at Vince’s surprise. ‘Saw you in here the other night. I’ve had my eye on you.’

  Vince wasn’t sure how to take this. ‘And you are?’ he asked, cursing himself for sounding like a copper.

  ‘Chris.’ The name was mouthed, finished with a pout that made Vince want to kiss those lips.

  They danced. A full hour of substitute sex.

  ‘I need food,’ Chris said, in a lull between tracks.

  ‘Let’s find somewhere,’ Vince said. ‘Or we could go back to my place.’ He was astounded at his own audacity, but knew he wanted more than vicarious sex with this fabulous creature.

  The green eyes shone from beneath the lashes, amused. Vince’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Your place, then.’

  They walked to the door together and Chris’s arm slipped around Vince’s waist. Vince forgot Ryan, forgot Frank, right now, there was only this feeling, and the feeling was fine.

>   The steps up from the club were narrow and Vince went ahead, stepping up onto the cobbles and gratefully breathing fresh cold air.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ DS Garvey and a few of his cronies. Vince turned to go back down the steps, but his dancing partner barred the way.

  ‘Oy, Vince!’ They had seen him.

  He turned to face them, trying to look unconcerned.

  ‘Wouldn’t go in there, mate,’ Garvey said. ‘It’s full of queers.’

  Chris stood beside him now, looking puzzled. ‘Mates of yours?’ he asked.

  Garvey was drunk, and his reactions were slow. He looked at the two men, focusing with some difficulty on Chris’s hand, which was now resting on Vince’s shoulder. There was a silence, in which the cogs and wheels of his sodden brain could be seen turning, then a broad, uneven grin spread over his face.

  ‘Bloody hell, Vince!’

  Vince stared stupidly at his colleagues. He felt sick and cold to the very core of his being. All he had worked for, his elaborate efforts to keep his personal life private, wiped out in an instant. He had always been so careful, checking and double-checking when entering or leaving a club or a gay bar, making sure there were no patrols about, people who might know him. But Chris was special, wasn’t he? Instant pyrotechnics. Christ! he thought savagely, how special can a fuck be?

  He shrugged Chris’s hand from his shoulder, reading the end of his career in the gleeful look on Garvey’s face. The end of twelve years’ hard graft. What kind of respect could he command when his team were sniggering at him behind their hands?

  ‘Have a nice night, girls,’ Garvey said. His mates dragged him away. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ This brought guffaws from the others.

  ‘Tourists!’ Chris exclaimed. He turned to face Vince, and there was a moment of awful realization. ‘Oh, God! You poor bastard — you’ve just been outed, haven’t you?’

  Vince stared after Garvey. One of his mates was humping a bollard while the others cheered him on.

  ‘Ey, mate!’ Garvey shouted.

  Chris looked at Vince and rolled his eyes.

  ‘You into bondage?’ A few people turned to see who the drunk was talking to.

  ‘Come on,’ Chris said, taking Vince by the elbow. ‘Ignore the twat.’ Vince lifted his arm, breaking his grip.

  ‘’S your lucky day,’ Garvey bellowed. ‘Ask him to get the handcuffs out.’ As if on cue, all five men dipped into their trouser pockets, brought out a set of keys and jangled them in unison, laughing like they had made some hysterically funny joke.

  Chris stared at him. ‘You’re a copper?’ he said.

  Vince turned abruptly and started walking. He could barely feel his limbs and one or twice he stumbled. He got as far as the high street and then he ran. He ran until his lungs and throat burned and his legs began to cramp. When he stopped, he was in among the run-down warehouses and empty mills on the east side of the city. He leaned against a wall and threw up.

  * * *

  Pale sunlight, filtered by a high layer of cloud, gave a metallic cast to the faces of Metropolitan Police officers converging on the four-storey building. It was cold, and a sharp wind whipped up dust-devils on the road.

  Their target was Anthony Barton-Willis, who owned the third-floor loft apartment in Chelsea. He was dealing cocaine and heroin to children as young as twelve. But this was no backstreet dealer — Barton-Willis supplied quality to quality; his customers were monied, and his parties were notorious throughout the city.

  Vince had gone to the back of the building, as instructed, and climbed the fire escape, creeping past the long, plate-glass window and positioning himself just above the doorway. His task was to stop anyone going up onto the flat roof.

  Seconds later, all hell broke loose. Screams tore the air, sounds of fighting. A small wooden casket was thrown through the window, showering glass onto the two officers stationed at the foot of the fire escape. The casket shattered on the ground, sending up a puff of white powder.

  A man came out onto the fire escape. He ran down the steps, taking the last few at a leap, and was tackled to the ground, beads of glass and bright red blood mingled on the grey flags as he fought the arresting officers.

  There was a movement to his left and Vince turned. A window swung open at the corner of the building and a boy climbed out. Standing on the ledge, he reached across to the drainpipe.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ Vince yelled. ‘You’ll kill yourself!’

  The boy laughed, slipped, screamed, grabbed the drainpipe with hands, knees and feet and laughed again. He was out of reach of the fire escape, but Vince shadowed him as he shinned up the drainpipe with the agility of a squirrel. He gained the rooftop in half a minute and ran to the edge.

  Vince yelled, holding up his hand, and the boy turned, giggling. His pupils were dilated, and his eyes danced back and forth, as if he could see something flickering at the edges of his vision.

  ‘You look a bit tense, Vinnie.’ He hopped onto the low ridge at the extreme edge of the rooftop, his arms spread wide. ‘A bit on edge.’

  Vince recognized him. A sweat broke out on his forehead, thinking about the terrible consequences of a wrong move — a wrong word. ‘Kyle,’ he said. ‘Come down.’ His voice was no more than a croak.

  ‘Why would I want to come down? I’m high, man! Try it, you’ll buy it. I’m high as the Eye, sky-scraper high — sky-high. I can fly!’ He pirouetted, wobbled, pinwheeled his arms and somehow regained his balance, then walked back along the ridge the way he had come.

  ‘Come down? It would be a come-down if I came down now. If I do, my dad’ll kill me. I’ll be grounded for good. Grounded for bad. You know Dad, Vince — he’s the man who kills the thrills when you pop the pills.’ He babbled on non-stop, some of it making sense, some not.

  ‘Just step off the ridge. We’ll talk about it. I promise, I’ll do what I can to help you.’

  The boy’s eyes changed, from hazel to icy blue. ‘You queer or something? Hey mate!’ he called down to the officers below. ‘He’s a fag. An arse bandit!’

  Vince took a step forward, raising his hands to quiet the boy.

  ‘Hey! Vince is gay!’

  ‘Stop it!’ Vince warned. ‘Stop this, Kyle.’

  ‘Stop it!’ the boy mimicked, lisping. ‘Stop it, I like it.’

  Vince took one more step and pushed. One light tap, no more than a fingertip’s pressure.

  The boy that was no longer Kyle flailed, trying to take hold of Vince, but Vince stood back. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and then he fell — no sound, then the dull thud of impact.

  Vince woke with a shout. His heart was hammering. It was pitch-dark, but he could still see the look of horror on the boy’s face as he gave him the gentle tap that sent him into oblivion. It was look on the face of the boy at the railway station, the same look on the face of the boy Mayhew had roughed up — and the boy who had screamed abuse after him from the station car park. Horror and fear and hate all rolled into one.

  * * *

  He waited for her. All night, he waited. Watching the moon, reflected from the slate of the roofs opposite, gleaming like fish-scales. He noted its passage over the sleeping houses, remained watchful as its pale blue light slipped over the rooftops and was lost to darkness. Still Lauren does not come.

  It’s Ryan he thinks about, mostly. He wishes he had taken photographs — maybe even a video. Next time . . . The thought startles him and he sits for several minutes, breathing hard, his nostrils flared, nausea threatening and then subsiding again.

  After a few short minutes the idea has become an embryonic plan. Next time . . . Such potent words. Next time he’ll find somewhere quiet, isolated where they’ll have time to . . . To what? To develop a relationship that isn’t dependent on a chemical cosh. Next time. He savours the notion that there will be a next time, and the thought returns unbidden at unexpected moments during the day.

  He sees Ryan on his knees, tears coursing down his face and that i
s the turn-on: the fact that he doesn’t want to do it, but he’s doing it anyway. It isn’t just the sex — he can have that any night of the week with the lads on the station, or casual pick-ups in the bars and night clubs in the city centre.

  He doesn’t want consensual sex. It’s submission he wants. The feeling of superhuman power he experienced as he stood over Ryan. That was better than sex.

  26

  Dean switched the cricket stump from his right to his left hand to wipe his palm on his trousers. He had waited all day for this, stealing the stump during PE and hiding it in his locker, avoiding Miss Simpson’s eye at registration, unable to bear her concern for him.

  Baz often went home across the field; he would meet one of his carriers, reclaim his stash and do a bit of dealing if there were any punters hanging around at the back of the sub-station. Its distance from the main building, and its secluded position facing onto the blank walls of the PE block, made it a safe meeting point.

  He tensed: Baz was coming! He could hear his long, loping stride on the wet grass. Dean took the stump in a two-handed grip. First the shins, then the head. His heart thudded dully, and he was sweating, despite the thin rain soaking through his jacket. The hole in his tooth gave sharp, stabbing reminders of its presence each time he sucked in air.

  He crouched at the side of the low building, out of sight. On the other side of the fence he heard voices — two women — and the rattle of pram wheels.

  ‘What you doin’, man?’

  Beefy, one of the Year Tens — Dean didn’t know his real name — had come around the side of the sub-station.

  ‘Fuck off, Beefy. This’s got nothing to do with you, right?’

  ‘If you’re after Baz, it bloody has.’

  Dean eyed him with sullen dislike, and Beefy laughed, astonished. ‘You are, aren’t you? Get real! Size of you, he’ll mash you to a pulp!’ He made a grab at Dean’s arm, but Dean pulled free, breaking cover, rushing at Baz and swinging the cricket stump.

  Baz’s eyes widened. His mouth dropped open, then he fell, yelling as Dean made contact with his knee.