‘Yeah.’ Pearl nodded. ‘Part of me wants to write back, tell them how much I miss them and go and see them. Try and make things like they were before. But then I think . . . it won’t be like that, will it? Because before was a lie. They were planning all this . . . this monstrous stuff that I never knew about and I was supposed to just go along with them. And I couldn’t. And no matter what they say or do it won’t make up for it. But then I think . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘It’s up to you,’ said Lila after a while. ‘I can’t choose for you. I can only tell what I did. You might be, I dunno, different.’
‘It’s just so . . . hard. You never think these kinds of things will happen to you.’
Lila gave a harsh laugh. ‘Tell me about it.’
Pearl fell silent. Neither spoke. Pearl eventually broke the silence. ‘Thanks. For listening, anyway.’
Lila shrugged. ‘What are friends for?’
Pearl smiled at that. Lila did also.
‘Fancy an episode of Dynasty?’
‘You’re on.’
‘I’ll make some coffee.’
Pearl got up from the armchair, went into the kitchen. Lila watched her. Felt that balancing universe thing again. Realised she didn’t have to cling on to the rock quite so hard now. That she could stand on her own.
Any further thought was cut off. There was a knock at the door.
‘Can you get that?’ called Pearl from the kitchen.
She got off the sofa, went to open the door.
There stood the black biker she had seen previously. He smiled at her.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘We’ve met before, remember?’
‘Yeah.’
He smiled. ‘I should have introduced myself properly. I’m Quint. A friend of Tom’s?’ His upward inflection made the statement into a question. ‘Anyway, he said I should look in on you. You know, see you’re OK. That OK? You must be Lila, yeah?’
Lila didn’t answer.
Quint laughed. ‘Least you didn’t say no. So I reckon that must be yes.’ The smile dropped. ‘Can I come in? Want to talk to you.’
Lila’s first reaction, her gut instinct, was to say no. But she overrode it. Tom had told her about him. She had kind of expected him to be in touch. But something still told her she didn’t want him in the house.
‘Please? Freezing out here.’
Lila reached a decision. She moved aside, let him enter.
‘Thanks,’ he said, going past her.
She closed the door behind him.
Part Three
HANGED
That same night in Manchester
‘Shit . . .’
Foxy opened his eyes. Couldn’t see anything, his vision all blurred and smeared black. He closed them, tried again. Wiped his hand across his face. That hurt, like dragging needles, but at least he could see, if not fully. He blinked again. There. Some kind of liquid in his eyes, thick, viscous. He blinked again. Put his hand to his face, looked at his palm. Realised it was blood. And something else in the pooled blood in his palm. Small, glittering shards. Glass.
He tried to pull himself into a sitting position and felt pain like he had never known before. His body wouldn’t respond, his left side refusing to follow commands. Then he remembered. The crash. He looked up. Through the blur he saw the BMW wrapped around a lamppost, the windscreen shattered and himself in front of it. He worked out what had happened.
When the police arrived, everyone in Foley’s gang had driven off straight away, looking for any exit the police hadn’t covered. They all panicked, drove any which way. Foxy tried to keep a cool head. He tried to work out which exits the police would have blocked, come up with alternative routes around them. He could still get away with this, he thought. Still convince them he was on their side. That all the easy money and pussy, the drugs and the violence, hadn’t turned him. Salvage something. He just had to get out of the estate to do it.
He pulled himself up using the front bonnet of the car and the lamppost. They were almost one since the crash. He gasped for breath, pain singing through his body like a choir of demons. His right arm hung uselessly at his side. His first thought: get away. Get help. He heard a noise. The passenger seat airbag had inflated, saving that half of the window from splintering. The cry came from behind it. He pulled himself round to the side of the car, looked in. The girl he had been with, Hayley, was still sitting there. Trapped.
‘Oh god . . .’ She began to move, coming round slowly, then faster as she realised what was in front of her face, fought with the airbag, thinking it was suffocating her.
‘It’s all right,’ Foxy said, or tried to say. His mouth didn’t seem to be working well. ‘It’s all right . . .’
She managed to fight her way through the bag and out of the car. Unsteady on her legs from both high heels and the shock of the crash, she was bloodstained but not to his extent. Her wide eyes told him that shock was setting in. He didn’t have time for that. He had to get away. And her as well.
‘Come on,’ he said, letting go of the bonnet and reaching out his good hand, wobbling as a result, ‘we’ve got to go.’
The night came back into focus for her now and she realised where she was, what must have happened. Then she looked at Foxy. And started screaming.
‘Shut up, you stupid bint, shut it . . .’ Anger straight away. He didn’t have time for this.
‘Your face, shit, what’s happened to your face?’
He moved towards her, she pulled back instinctively. He could hear voices, see lights, getting nearer.
‘A fucking car crash,’ he said, or tried to. The words sounded fine in his head, mangled as they left his mouth. ‘Now come on.’
He made to grab her, pull her with him. She flinched away once more.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, tears forming in her eyes. ‘No, I’m not, this is . . . not fun anymore. I’m scared, Foxy . . . I’m scared . . .’
‘Come on then.’
‘No . . .’ She refused to budge. The tears came freely now. ‘I want to go home. I want my mum . . .’ She kept shaking her head. ‘This is . . . no . . .’
The voices, loud, angry, were getting nearer. He grabbed her arm, dragged her along with him. Unsteady on his feet, but determined. She refused to move.
‘The fucking law’s coming, come on . . .’
She didn’t move. ‘The law? The law . . . I’m going to tell them, Foxy. Tell them I wasn’t involved, tell them it wasn’t me. I’m going to tell them . . .’
‘You’re coming with me . . .’ Another grab for her. He didn’t have the strength to compel her to move and his words weren’t helping. He had to impress on her the seriousness of the situation, just how badly and quickly they needed to get out of there.
His heart was hammering, pumping blood round his body, out of his body. He needed to move. He needed attention. With no other choice, he pulled his gun out, pointed it at her. He had never been firearm trained. In fact his Glock had barely been fired, except for practice in the Worsley Woods. But he was used to brandishing it in order to get attention, make someone follow his orders. That was usually enough.
‘Now.’ He pointed it at her.
She just stared at him. ‘Foxy, what you doing?’
‘We’ve got to go. I can’t . . .’ Weakening now, a different kind of darkness than the night dancing before him. ‘Come on . . .’
‘I’m not moving.’ Her voice edging towards hysteria. ‘I’m staying here. I’m not . . .’ She closed her eyes, pretended she wasn’t there. ‘I want to go home . . .’
Anger overtook him once more. He couldn’t leave her here, she would try and control the narrative – his narrative – close down his own attempts to come out of this any kind of hero. But she wouldn’t come with him. And he couldn’t hang around here any longer. He made one last attempt to get her onside.
He grabbed her
once more. ‘Come on.’ Started walking, hoping he had enough strength to drag her with him.
‘Get off me . . .’ She shook off his grip easily.
He tried again, pulling at her. Again, she resisted.
Then came the shots from behind. The sound of bodies running towards him.
‘I don’t have time for this . . .’
He pulled her along beside him and she twisted her ankle, falling over her heels. She crumpled to the ground in a heap. He bent down, pulled her up.
Just as a bullet whistled past the side of his head.
Shit . . .’
Crouching, he returned fire. Hayley dragged herself to her feet, began running. Towards where the gunfire was coming from.
‘Stay here you stupid bint . . .’
Another bullet, even closer this time. He could see bodies in the distance. Moving slowly towards him. He raised his gun, fired blindly, unable to see clearly.
Later, he told himself that it was an accident. That he hadn’t meant to hit her. He had just been desperate, blacking out, even. But he did hit her. Several times. Damaged nerves from the crash, he told himself later. His trigger finger must have spasmed.
He also told himself that pulling up a nearby manhole cover in a desperate display of strength and dropping the gun down it, waiting for the splash as it hit running water in the sewer below, then replacing the cover was just his instinct as a copper kicking in. Nothing more.
With no energy left, he collapsed next to her.
It wasn’t me. I didn’t do that. It . . .
The questions would have to wait. The voices and those bobbing flashlights were getting nearer.
*
When they found him, he was still alive. But he would never be the same again.
36
Foley was escorted through the prison once more. Not just by an officer but also by Baz. It wasn’t that Foley didn’t feel safe inside at the moment, just that he felt it best to have protection from someone he could trust. And he didn’t trust the officers. They didn’t just hate him, they despised him. His money paid for his life inside as well as keeping them onside, but it also meant that a higher bidder could turn them away from him. And things had been very fucking strange recently. Since Clive had arrived inside, in fact. And Eccleston. And until he could get rid of this feeling of unease, Baz would accompany him everywhere he went.
Outside the main building, round the corner, ignoring the drizzle and mist, the dankness from the moors, the prematurely grey day. Walking the pitted tarmac footpath by the perimeter fence, the razor-wire creating a double obstacle before the outer wall could be reached. The space between the fence and wall was a graveyard of failed escape attempts and contraband that never reached its target. Foley had seen it so many times he ignored it. This was his everyday life. His home.
He stood outside Dr Lousia Bradshaw’s hut. Turned to face the wall, smiling, in a mockery of what the officer would have him do, waited for that same officer to knock on the door. It was opened.
‘Come in,’ said Louisa, seeing Foley standing there. Then she saw Baz, seemed confused.
‘He’s with me,’ said Foley.
‘I don’t think—’
‘He’s waiting outside. He’ll be no trouble.’ Foley turned to the officer. ‘You can go. Come back when I’m finished.’ Like dismissing a servant.
The officer, disgruntled but knowing where his money came from, left.
‘Right,’ said Foley, summoning up a smile, ‘let’s go.’
He stepped inside. Lousia followed. Baz took up his sentry position. Tried to ignore the cold and damp.
Inside Foley walked towards his usual armchair, sat down. He could smell the coffee but it didn’t have its usual siren call today. He had too much on his mind. A burden ready to be unloaded.
‘So,’ said Dr Bradshaw, settling down in the opposite chair with a notepad on her lap, coffee at her side. ‘How’ve you been, Dean?’
Foley opened his mouth to speak. He often started with wit, barbs or charm. Only when he couldn’t come straight out and say what he wanted to, had to work round it, circle slowly down. But not this time. Straight in.
‘Not going to lie, things have been difficult.’ He squirmed as if the chair was uncomfortable. ‘Since I last spoke to you.’
‘In what way?’ Pen poised.
‘I . . .’ He had planned what he would say as they walked across. Before that, even, the night before. Rehearsed his words and even her anticipated responses, planned what he hoped the eventual outcome would be. But sitting there, facing her, the words wouldn’t come. And he couldn’t think of anything to say to talk round it. ‘I . . . it’s been difficult.’
She waited, gave him time, space, to gather his thoughts. Find his voice.
‘It’s this . . . it’s what you said to me last time. Got me thinking.’
‘About?’
‘About . . .’ He sighed, leaned forwards, agitating his hands. ‘This ex-copper. This narc. I’ve thought about him for years. Wondered where he was, what he was doing, whether he was alive or not, was he fucking up someone else’s business, pardon my French, you know? And I thought . . . what I would do when I got hold of him. What I’d always threatened to do. Make him pay. All of that. And like I said he’s here now, right in front of me . . .’
‘And?’
Foley shook his head. Looked at his hands is if expecting to find the answer there. ‘I don’t know. Just don’t know.’
She waited.
‘I mean, last time we were talking about revenge.’
‘We were.’
‘And how good it felt when I took it into my own hands. Administered it myself.’ His voice relished the word administer.
She nodded slowly, keeping eye contact, encouraging him to continue.
‘Well . . . that’s it, isn’t it? Taking pleasure in punishment. Doing what’s right. Letting everyone know you’ve done the right thing. A warning to anyone else thinking of starting. Don’t mess. Don’t take the piss. And, you know, the satisfaction of a job well done.’
‘We talked about that. You said it was the way things had to be. What was expected of you.’
He nodded.
‘Now you’re saying you got satisfaction from it? From hurting surrogates of your father?’
Foley jumped at the mention of the name, like he had just been shocked. ‘Surrogates.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah.’ Another nod. ‘I suppose . . . I’ve said it so it must be. But it’s more than that, you know? You look at yourself and . . .’ He stared at her, fists raised before his eyes. ‘It’s for its own sake.’
‘Can you explain?’
He looked at his fists again. Rotated them before his gaze. Saw them in another time and place, glistening with blood and gore, knuckles sore and distended. Clenched so hard he couldn’t immediately unlock them. And his body pumping with adrenaline, sweat and blood on his skin, soaking his clothes from both sides, lungs burning hot as a steam engine’s furnace, arms just pistons, parts of a machine. But his mind content. At the nearest thing to peace he had ever known. Justice served. The natural order restored.
‘I see,’ said Dr Bradshaw.
Foley looked up, startled. Had he said all that aloud? From the look on the doctor’s face it seemed he had. He said nothing, suddenly embarrassed.
‘You’ve described a high that’s certainly attractive to you,’ she said. ‘And attainable. But I suspect that violent euphoria becomes harder to attain the longer it goes on. Am I correct?’
Foley thought back again to the punishment beatings. How, even before Mick Eccleston had betrayed him, the highs were getting harder to reach, more difficult to maintain. Like they were further away and he had to grasp for them, strain to catch them. And when he did he barely held on to them. And that in turn made him even angrier. But it had been a weary anger. An unpleasant one.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Bang on.’
‘And how d’
you feel about that now?’
Foley didn’t answer immediately.
‘You said as soon as you heard this man had entered the prison you wanted to see him. And when you saw him you wanted revenge for everything he’d done to you. Is that correct?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘But you didn’t know if you would do it yourself or get someone to do it for you. And if you did, you feared it would sap the enjoyment from it. And now you don’t know if you even want to do it at all?’
He nodded, shifting around once more. ‘You see, I’ve been having . . . dreams.’
‘What kind of dreams?’
‘Bad ones. Ghosts, even. Like I’m being haunted. And I wake up . . . well. Not in a good state.’
‘Tell me about them.’
Foley was reluctant to delve any further but knew that he had to. This might be his only chance to make things right with himself. To find some kind of peace. To know which way was forwards. ‘There’s me and him. And we’re back in Manchester, the night it all went tits up. The night he betrayed me. And we’re there again and . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It gets weird then. Like the whole thing starts to melt away. And I’m shouting at him, You’ve done this! You’ve taken all this away from me! And there’s cars disappearing, and money . . . all of that. Until there’s just me and him left.’
‘And where is this?’
‘I dunno. Like . . . nowhere. And it’s like a western. Just me and him facing each other. And I’m armed, I’ve still got my gun, see. And he’s got nothing. He’s just standing there. And I try to raise my gun arm to take aim. I try to feel the anger inside me, let it do its job, let me shoot him, and I want to keep shooting him until there’s nothing left of him and I’m all out of bullets. And I’m shouting how much I hate him and he’s just standing there. And I try to bring my arm up . . .’ He mimes the action. ‘But I can’t. Can’t move. Can’t do anything.’ He sat back, panting.
Neither spoke.
Eventually Foley laughed. Unsteadily. ‘Just a dream, eh? Can’t go around reading too much into that bullshit, can you?’
The Sinner Page 18