by William Shaw
When they got home, Zoë went upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door. She was spending so much time on her laptop these days.
FOUR
‘Told you. Shouldn’t have trusted him,’ said Sloth.
‘Do you know another song, bro? That one’s old.’
Saturday morning was sliding towards afternoon; they were sitting on Sloth’s bed, despondent, smoking the last of Tap’s weed. ‘Watch me. I’ll go jihadi on him,’ said Sloth.
Tap laughed. ‘Mikey? He’d smash you in if you even tried.’
They had waited four hours outside Mikey’s house last night, getting cold. The estate had been quiet. Anyone young had gone into town; the old ones stayed in watching TV. The red motorbike never came back.
There was only a sniff of petrol left in the moped’s tank. On the way back home they’d run out of fuel and had to push it. After half a mile, exhausted, they had wheeled it off the road into a gap in the hedge and abandoned it there, walking the rest of the way without it.
Friday night, when they should have been out in town attempting fake IDs in the local bars, they had sat playing Spyro on Sloth’s PlayStation and working their way through Tap’s weed.
In the morning, Sloth’s mother came back from her shift at the hospital, picked her way across the room and pulled the curtains back.
‘Mum.’
‘This room smells disgusting, Joseph. Put your laundry in the bin downstairs at least.’ She tugged his window open for him. She turned towards them. ‘You two boys happen to know anything about Mr Richardson’s motorbike?’
‘No.’
‘Someone stole it yesterday.’ She was looking at them, frowning. ‘He says they seen a couple of youngsters taking it.’
Sloth shook his head, cool as anything. ‘That’s terrible, Mum. Not heard anything. Let you know if I do.’
‘You do that, Joseph. And you, Benjamin.’
‘Will do, Mrs Watt.’
She paused at the door, looking tired. On nights at the hospital, she was more than ready for her bed now. ‘Joseph. I saw they’re looking for kitchen staff at the Wetherspoons.’
‘Told you, Ma, I’m too young. You got to be eighteen.’
‘Not in the kitchen. Mind you go down there today.’
‘Right, Mum. Will do.’
When she finally closed her bedroom door, Sloth stood, shut the window again and went downstairs to find the home phone. Back in the room, he threw the handset at Tap. ‘Call him again.’
‘He doesn’t pick up. Ever.’
‘Leave him another message then.’
While Sloth fired up the stub of the spliff, Tap dialled the number which went straight to voicemail. ‘Uncle Mikey. Hit me back, man. I’m not at home, case you’ve been trying to reach me there. I’m at Slo’s house. It’s—’
‘Don’t tell him my address. I don’t want him knowing my address.’ Sloth grabbed the handset off him. ‘Give us our money, man! You stole it.’
Tap snatched the phone back. ‘Don’t.’ He ended the call.
‘He’s got our cash. I’m skint.’
‘He’s not like that, Uncle Mikey.’
‘He’s full of shit,’ said Sloth. ‘Like you.’
Sloth lifted his hoodie off the floor and started putting it on. The pay-as-you-go Alcatel from the man’s shoulder bag fell out of his pocket. He picked it up. ‘How much would we get from this one?’
‘What have you got that for?’
‘Ain’t worth nitch. Thought I put it back in the bag.’
‘Anything on it?’
Sloth fingered the keys. ‘Nah, man. It’s locked.’
They finished the spliff and sat down on the bed. Sloth and Tap had been going round each other’s houses since Year 6 at school, staying over, getting up to the same mischief. They usually had Sloth’s place to themselves because his mum was out at work or asleep. Tap’s mum never worked, but she was out a lot too, or sleeping it off.
‘What we going to do?’
‘Nothing to do.’
Seventeen was a bad age, too old for kids’ stuff, too young for anything else. The weekend was worse than the week if you had no money. Without cash, there was nothing to do in this town.
‘I could borrow some paper off my mum,’ Tap suggested.
‘Pff.’
‘Don’t say that. She might have some.’
‘Sure.’
‘She’s not that bad, these days. Not really.’
‘Yeah,’ said Sloth, encouragingly. ‘Maybe she’s getting it together, your mum.’
‘Think so. She’s making an effort. Just had a little slip, that’s all.’
‘Good for her, bro.’
Tap nodded. ‘Right. So I should go and ask her if she’s got any money we can borrow.’ He got up and started pulling on his shirt. ‘Coming?’
‘No. You’re all right, bro. I’m not bothered.’
Probably better that way, thought Tap. Because after everything they’d just said, he didn’t like his friend to see her if she was a mess.
*
All their lives they had lived in this scrappy North Kent town where there was never anything to do.
Tap got home just after midday; a 1950s pebble-dashed two-bedroom terrace on West View Road, just east of the town centre. A rusting bicycle frame which Tap had been meaning to fix leaned against the wall by the white uPVC door.
Mum was sitting at the breakfast table with a mug of tea and a cigarette, Heart FM on the radio, dressed in the same clothes Tap had seen her in yesterday, lips still covered in a trace of lipstick, eyeliner spreading into the wrinkles around her eyes. She looked bad.
‘Got any money, Mum?’
‘Good morning to you too, Benjamin.’ There was a pile of washing-up in the sink. ‘What have you been up to, Benjamin Brown?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked cautiously.
‘What I said. What kind of trouble have you been getting yourself into?’
Tap took the sharp knife from the wooden block and opened the bread bin. The loaf inside was spotted with mould. He dropped it into the rubbish, returning the blade to the block. ‘You’re the one who gets into trouble all the time, Mum.’
She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ she said quietly.
In the cupboard he found a can of beans.
‘Annie Lee says there was a man here just now, knocking on doors, looking for you.’
The tin fell out of his hands, onto the floor and rolled across the vinyl.
Annie Lee was an ancient next-door neighbour who had lived round here all his life, had to be in her eighties at least. You had to watch out for her, because she was always putting something into her dustbin in the hope of meeting someone to talk to, and when she started she was impossible to stop.
‘Where were you?’ Tap asked.
‘I was out, wasn’t I? Just got back five minutes ago. Was having this cup of tea before going to bed. Annie came rapping at the door, moment I got in.’
Tap bent to pick up the can, dented from the fall. He rolled it between his palms, feeling the unevenness. ‘Heard anything from Uncle Mikey?’
His mother frowned. ‘Why would I have heard anything from him?’
‘This man. What did he look like?’
‘So you have been up to something, then?’
‘Mum. I was just asking.’
His mother curled her upper lip. ‘What have you and Mikey been doing?’
‘Nothing. Just wanted to talk to him about stuff.’ He dug his finger under the can’s ring pull, and paused. ‘Did Annie Lee say what he wanted, this man?’
‘He wanted to know where you lived. And your mate.’
‘He asked for Sloth by name?’
‘Just said he was looking for you and a young black lad. What’s up, Benji?’
Tap chewed his lip. ‘When was this?’
‘I don’t know. Probably fifteen, twenty minutes ago. Wouldn’t surprise me, you being in some trouble.’
‘Thanks for all the likes, Mum.’
‘Don’t be cheeky.’ She rubbed her stomach. ‘God. My guts ache.’
‘Can I borrow your phone?’
‘What’s wrong with yours?’
‘No credit.’
She pulled her handbag onto the table and dug around in it. ‘Stick it back in when you’re done. I’m knackered. What a night I had. Should have seen me. I was on form.’ She stood, put her arms round him, and kissed him on the cheek, leaving him with the smell of cigarettes and make-up.
*
First time he dialled Sloth’s house it went to the answering machine so he tried again. Second time Sloth picked up.
‘What?’
‘It’s me. There’s a man looking for us,’ Tap said, keeping his voice low in case his mum was listening.
‘What?’
‘He was here, like, twenty minutes ago, before I got in, asking for both of us. Annie Lee talked to him. Probably told him all kinds of stuff about us. Know what she’s like.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘What about your uncle Mikey?’
‘Nothing.’
And then, over the phone, Tap heard the noise of the doorbell at Sloth’s house. ‘Shit.’
‘Don’t answer.’
The bell rang a second time.
‘They’ll wake Mum.’
‘Look out the window. Can you see? Who is it?’
‘Can’t frickin’ see. Wait.’
‘No, no, no. Don’t answer it.’
‘Keep your hair on, Tap. I’m only looking through the curtains. It’s your uncle Mikey I think. I can see his motorbike parked outside. Think he’s got the cash?’ Tap heard the sound of Sloth clattering downstairs. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
For just a second, Tap relaxed. If Mikey had the money, everything would be fine.
A thought struck him.
Mikey had never been to Sloth’s house. They hadn’t told him Sloth’s address. Tap’s scalp started to tingle. Was it just the weed, or was something very wrong? Picking up his mother’s handset again, he called Sloth a second time, but the phone rang until voicemail kicked in.
He called it again.
And again.
And again.
FIVE
The way Peter Moon just felt it was all right to walk around her flat naked. Jesus, thought Jill Ferriter.
She had windows, like anyone else. Even if she was on the seventh floor. He was in the living room now, not even underpants on, lifting up cushions, peering underneath them. From the kitchen area, she watched the muscular curve of his spine as he bent. He had patches of hair on his shoulders that she had noticed before. She shuddered.
‘I heard it buzzing,’ he said.
He was on his hands and knees now, looking under the sofa. Was she expected to go round looking for his phone too, because he’d put it down somewhere and couldn’t remember where?
The kettle clicked off. She poured boiling water into a cup.
‘I had it last night. I know I did. I wasn’t that drunk.’
She must have been, though. In the Flying Boat for Friday drinks after work. Everyone from Serious Crime there, apart from McAdam. Even Alex Cupidi, though she left after they all said they were going clubbing. In Cameo, afterwards, she and this girl who did the prosecution paperwork started on shots. She took such good care of her diet, avoiding toxins and trans fats, then spent three hours pouring any shit down her throat.
‘What’s that smell?’ he asked.
‘Chamomile tea. Do you want one?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Haven’t you got coffee?’
‘No.’
He turned to her, full frontal. ‘Everybody has coffee.’
She shook her head. ‘Not me.’
‘Could you phone it?’
She dialled his number. ‘Can you hear it?’ He was off again, crawling around the floor on all fours, peering under furniture. ‘Have you looked in your trousers? Or your jacket?’
‘Yes,’ he said, irritated.
‘Worried your mum is wondering why her baby didn’t come home last night?’ Jill Ferriter was just a constable, but she had her own flat. In a few days’ time she would be twenty-five. A quarter of a century. Peter Moon, detective sergeant, three years older than her, still lived with his mother in a bedroom with his old school books and football trophies.
‘I messaged her from the taxi,’ he said, missing the dig. ‘Will you go and listen in the other room in case I dropped it somewhere?’
God. They had caught a taxi. She didn’t even remember that. Another lurch in her stomach. She put down her tea, undrunk, and went back to the bedroom.
‘Was that the last time you used it?’ she called, dialling the number again. ‘Bet it’s in the cab.’
‘No. I heard it buzz just now, I tell you. Listen.’
She listened. He was right. There was a faint buzzing coming from somewhere and it stopped the moment the call went to voicemail. ‘Hi. Peter Moon here. I can’t get to the phone. Wait for the squeak.’ She spoke into the handset. ‘Message for Sergeant Peter Moon. If you want to sit on my sofa, wear bloody trousers.’
‘What?’ he said from the living room.
She dialled it again. The buzzing was close. She paused, listened, then pulled back the duvet. It was there, tangled in the linen. She picked it up, and was about to say, ‘Found it,’ when she noticed the details of five missed calls were on the lock screen. The last three were from her just now; but two before that were from the office. There was a text message too: U havin a good night? ;-) ;-) Oh God. Everyone knew.
‘Where was it?’ he asked, when she came into the living room holding the handset out in front of her.
‘Get your clothes on,’ she said.
‘Give us a chance,’ complained Peter Moon.
‘Who’s that texting you?’ She put the phone under his nose.
He took the device, looked at the lock screen and had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Oh. Jesus. Sorry.’
‘Get dressed, Peter. Go home.’
‘Bloody hell.’ He stood, bollock naked, examining his call list. ‘The job called. Something must be up. I better get in touch.’ He started dialling.
‘Pity’s sake, get some clothes on first.’ But the phone was already against his ear.
She shouldn’t have got that drunk. Right now she just wanted him out of her flat so she could hoover, change the sheets, stick them in the hottest wash her machine had, and put fresh scent in the dispensers.
‘An arm?’ Moon was saying. ‘What? A human arm? Bloody hell.’
She went back to the bedroom, picked up his clothes from the floor and carried them through to the living room.
‘Whose arm is it? Actually I’m not at home.’ She was about to drop his shirt and trousers and the rest of it at his feet when she heard him say, ‘Who told you? Yeah. Jill’s place. I’ll get in a taxi and get home, then head straight there.’
‘What the actual . . . ?’ said Ferriter. ‘You just told someone on the job you were at mine?’
‘They knew already.’ He put his hand over the phone. ‘I don’t know how they found out. Honest. Swear to God.’
Still holding the clothes, she walked out to the small balcony and looked out over the town. Her flat. It was her own. She had bought it with the money she’d inherited when her mother died. She loved this little outdoor spot, with the metal table and chairs and a string of solar lamps. It was her special place. Some evenings, even in winter, she would sit there, looking out at the lights and listening to the noise below her. She was above it all, untouchable.
She held Peter Moon’s clothes over the railing and looked down at the parked cars.
‘What are you doing?’ he mouthed, ear to his handset.
‘Get your bloody things on or I’m dropping them.’
‘I have to go home first,’ he was saying to whoever he was talking to. ‘Have a shave.’
She dropped a shoe.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
The shoe fell between two parked cars, bounced and ended up underneath a Kia.
‘What are you doing? You mad cow. Jesus. OK. I’m getting bloody dressed.’
The second one landed sole up on the tarmac just as her own phone started ringing.
SIX
Tap ran the half-mile between his house and Sloth’s, taking the shortest way across Central Park, zig-zagging past biddies with shopping trolleys, leaping over dog walkers’ leads, swerving off onto the flower beds to avoid toddlers tantruming on the path.
By the time he got to Phoenix Place his lungs were hurting: too much weed. Sloth’s street was a cul-de-sac, but you could get to it by a cut-through by the flats. Tap slowed as he rounded the corner, tucked himself behind the front door of the block, chest heaving, and took a quick look down the short road.
Beyond the flats stood a terrace of small houses. It was a nicer neighbourhood than the other side of the park where he and his mum lived; bigger cars, not so much debris on the streets, homes with flower pots hanging outside. Sloth’s place was in the middle of the row.
Why was he worried? Maybe Mikey had figured out Sloth’s address after all. Maybe he had brought round the money he owed them. He probably didn’t want to come round to his house and end up tangling with Tap’s mother, specially not when he’d told him his mum was using again. It was just the weed making him paranoid.
Peering round the yellow brick of the flats, he looked towards Sloth’s door. As far as he could see, there was no motorbike outside.
An old man emerged from the front door of the block and turned in Tap’s direction, hesitated, nervous of the young man in a hoodie.
Old people were so anxious. How could you live your life like that?
‘Boo,’ whispered Tap, still out of breath from the run.
‘’K off,’ said the old man, turning the other way, deliberately walking the long way round to avoid him. Pathetic, really. These people, they had no idea how scary life really was.
Cautiously Tap walked closer to Sloth’s house. Still no sign of Mikey’s motorbike.
Sloth’s mum’s nets were always drawn, her windows always clean. Tap put his face up against the glass and looked in. The front room was dark. On the opposite wall, framed family photos of weddings, birthdays and graduation days stared back at him, but the room was empty.
