Deadland

by William Shaw

  Sloth’s mum would be fast asleep upstairs now. He’d ring the bell but she went nuts if you woke her after a night shift.

  There was no point trying to shout up to him either, because Sloth’s room was at the rear of the house, so he walked back towards the flats, then round the end of the terrace and back down the next road, to Sloth’s small garden.

  The back gate was always locked. He hauled himself up over the fence and dropped onto the path.

  First thing he noticed: the kitchen door was open, which was unusual.

  Tap stuck his head into the small kitchen. A hint of last night’s food hung in the air. ‘Slo?’

  No answer.

  A little louder, but not too loud. ‘Sloth. You there?’

  He went through into the hallway and peered up the stairs. Everything seemed quiet.

  He knocked on Sloth’s door – ‘Mate?’ – then opened it to the thick, familiar waft of trainers and weed, but the room was empty, looking just as it had been three-quarters of an hour earlier, except without his friend on the bed.

  So where the hell was he?

  Maybe Sloth had gone to find him and they’d missed each other, crossing town? Maybe he’d got the money after all. But why had he left the back door open, then? Sloth hadn’t been that stoned.

  He was still standing in the doorway to Sloth’s room when a hand touched his shoulder.

  He jumped, spun round, and there was Sloth’s mother, in a large white nightie.

  ‘Christ. What you doing, creeping up?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Benjamin?’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘You thought what?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  She looked at him disapprovingly, arms crossed in front of her chest. ‘Where’s Sloth?’

  ‘His name is Joseph.’ He stared at a small glob of moisturiser on her forehead that she had missed before going to bed.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘How did you get in here, anyway. He give you a key? I told him you’re not allowed a key.’

  ‘He’s not in his room. Where’s he gone?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Her Guyanese accent was always stronger when she was angry. ‘I’m just trying to get some sleep without you banging on my front door and ringing the bell. Go away. You’re not welcome here.’

  Tap blinked. ‘I didn’t ring the bell.’

  ‘Don’t you lie to me, boy. You woke me up, ringing it.’

  ‘Wasn’t me. Swear to God, Mrs Watt.’

  She shrugged, disbelieving, and retreated to her bedroom, padding back across the laminate floor. Her door had a sign hanging on it: My worries are few because my blessings are many. Before she closed it behind her, she said, ‘Let me sleep, Benjamin, please.’

  Downstairs, he locked the kitchen door, then left by the front, looking both ways before stepping out onto the path. Out in the open, he felt anxious now, just like that old man. He broke into a run again, this time heading up Lowfield Street, and into town.

  Ten minutes later, he was pushing his nose up against the glass of the KFC, but Sloth wasn’t in there. He looked up the High Street and saw some lads who had been in his year at school standing outside Primark, sharing a cigarette. They gazed at him with contempt as he approached them. ‘Hey. Any of you seen Sloth?’

  ‘Joseph? No, mate.’ The tallest of them shook his head. ‘That black lad you mean? Your boyfriend? You still hanging round with him?’ A snigger.

  ‘Can I borrow your phone to call him?’

  ‘Give me a fag and you can.’

  ‘Haven’t got any.’

  ‘’K off then, scrounger.’ He turned his back on Tap. It was like being back at school again with them. He’d hated them then, too.

  This place where he had lived all his life: he loathed everything about it. Pathetic people who would live and die here. Sloth and him had never been in the in-crowd.

  He was about to walk away when a fat lad named Dennis, who always wore khaki like he was a commando, called, ‘Oi, Tap. What about Mikey Dillman?’

  Tap’s head snapped round to look the boy in the eye. ‘What about him?’

  ‘What happened to him? What’s the story?’ Dennis was close enough that Tap could smell his breath.

  Tap looked at him, frowning. ‘What do you mean, what happened?’

  ‘Who do you think shot him?’ Dennis asked.

  Shot him? Tap wasn’t sure he’d heard properly. ‘What?’

  ‘Shot him.’

  Tap felt an unexpected prick of tears at the corners of his eyes, a brittleness in his chest.

  The other lads looked round, interested now.

  ‘On the radio this morning,’ Dennis said. ‘My mum knew him.’

  ‘Dennis, your mum probably shagged him.’

  ‘Shut up,’ shouted Tap. ‘Shut up, shut up. What did they say?’

  ‘Somebody shot him,’ said Dennis. ‘Honest to God. Gangland assassination, they said. Found his body at a scrap metal yard out towards Crayford Ness. He’d been shot, like, a million times.’

  Tap tried not to let the shock show on his face.

  ‘Had it coming,’ said one of the boys. ‘Bad lad.’

  ‘’K off. He’s dead?’

  ‘Your mum used to muck about with him too, didn’t she, Tap?’

  Tap nodded cautiously. ‘While back, yeah.’

  A man on a maroon mobility scooter honked at them, even though there was plenty of space for him to go round. Tap stepped back, away from the group of lads, to let the man pass, trying to let nothing show on his face, and all the time thinking, what the hell was happening? And if Mikey was dead, who was that on his motorbike, ringing Sloth’s doorbell? Though he already had a pretty good idea.

  SEVEN

  ‘You were having some fun last night,’ Cupidi said, as she approached Ferriter.

  ‘Don’t. You should have stopped me.’

  ‘I know better than that, Jill.’ It was hardly a surprise, being called in to work on a Saturday. The spring had brought a reprise of the norovirus with it, thinning a team that had already cut back to achieve efficiency savings. After declining for years, robbery, rape and violent crime stats were all up.

  Six days ago a student had been killed in a drunken fight on the University of Kent campus in Canterbury. It was not a question of trying to find who was guilty – both the fatal blow and the face of the killer were clear in a CCTV recording taken from behind the bar – but every violent death made a mountain of work.

  More draining, resource-wise, was yesterday’s body, found last night in a scrap metal yard just outside Erith. A man shot twice, once in the chest, a second bullet in the side of the head. Michael ‘Mikey’ Dillman was a local hoodlum, known to police. The man’s wallet and phone were on him, so it wasn’t likely to be a robbery.

  ‘I feel like hell. OK if I drive?’

  ‘Sure you’re up to it?’

  Hungover or not, Ferriter still looked annoyingly well-kempt. Called in at short notice, Cupidi was in jeans and an un-ironed white T-shirt. As she got into the passenger seat, Ferriter started the engine of the unmarked Sierra. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be waiting for Sergeant Moon?’ Cupidi asked.

  ‘Can’t he find his own bloody way?’

  ‘Give him another five minutes.’

  ‘First hour of an investigation,’ Ferriter said. The first hour was the most important, supposedly.

  Cupidi was keen to get under way too, but she looked at her watch. ‘It’s been sitting in a ceramic jar for a week at least, they said. It can wait a little longer.’

  Reluctantly Ferriter turned off the engine. ‘Weird one, eh?’

  ‘They’re all weird.’

  An arm had been found inside a jar, an artwork by an artist Cupidi had never heard of.

  ‘Bet it’s worth an extra million or two now.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be a motive?’

  ‘Got to admit, it’s a possibility, isn’t it?’ Ferriter sat, hands on the st
eering wheel. ‘I don’t think Moonie’s coming. Let’s just go, can’t we?’

  ‘One more minute.’

  And then Peter Moon was there, loping around the corner at Bank Street, running his hand through his short hair, unusually dapper in a slim-fit suit. For a copper he was stupidly good-looking. Cupidi would look twice as dowdy standing next to these two.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said as he pulled open the back door. ‘Didn’t realise you were being called in too.’

  ‘Again?’ Cupidi said.

  ‘You took your time,’ complained Ferriter, starting the engine. ‘Could be halfway there by now.’

  ‘Had to go back to my mum’s first, didn’t I? Get a change of clothes. Freshen up.’

  ‘Were you a dirty stop-out last night, Peter Moon?’ asked Cupidi.

  Moon didn’t answer. Cupidi could almost feel the heat from Jill Ferriter’s red face from where she was sitting. ‘Oh,’ she said as the penny dropped.

  ‘Thanks a fucking bunch, Peter Moon,’ muttered Ferriter as she pulled out into traffic and headed out of town onto the Canterbury Road, heading up to the M2. ‘Arsehole.’

  ‘Weird though, isn’t it?’ Moon continued blithely. ‘An arm is what I heard. What’s that about? How come nobody noticed it? Probably thought it was by Picasso or something.’

  ‘What you on about?’ Ferriter said, irritated.

  ‘Picasso.’

  They crossed the M20 on a flyover, lorries roaring beneath them. ‘Bet you never even been to the Turner, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t think so.’

  ‘I mean, Jill, I like good art, obviously, but that contemporary stuff . . . They’re taking the mickey, aren’t they?’

  When they pulled over to fill up with petrol, Moon went out to get them some bottled water and crisps.

  ‘The morning after the night before,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘It’s not like I believe in regretting mistakes.’ Ferriter watched Moon in the shop. ‘I don’t. Except last night’s.’

  ‘I thought you liked him.’

  Ferriter said nothing.

  ‘Going to be a long day,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘And how. You won’t tell anyone, will you, boss?’

  ‘It’s him you should be saying that to.’

  Ferriter looked away. ‘Don’t I know it.’

  ‘Are you going to be OK?’

  But Moon was making his way back to the car with a plastic bag full of snacks for him and Cupidi; Ferriter didn’t answer. ‘They didn’t have Chilli so I got you Caramelised Onion and Balsamic Vinegar.’

  Ferriter made a face; she disapproved of crisps. She drove on the dull road north towards the other coast.

  ‘Wonder where the rest of him is.’ Moon popped open one of the packets. ‘Not being funny, but I don’t suppose they’ve checked the other sculptures and stuff for him yet.’

  ‘If it’s a him. Could be a her,’ suggested Ferriter.

  ‘It’s an arm. He or she might not even be dead,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Oh,’ said Moon. ‘Shit.’

  They knew nothing yet. Apart from the fact that there was an arm. Out of nowhere, a gust of rain splattered against the windscreen.

  EIGHT

  This place could be freezing when the rain came down.

  Tap had hung about in Silverland Arcade for an hour, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, until the cashier had said, for the third time, with more menace, ‘If you’re not playing the slots, get out.’

  So he dodged the April showers and made it to County Square shopping centre, which was warm, at least. He sat on a bench, head in his hands, trying to think.

  Mikey was dead. God, he had looked up to Mikey. The only decent man his mother had ever hung around with, his own dad included. Wanted to be like him, with a place of his own, playing his own music, loud as he liked, putting whatever he wanted on the walls. All that stuff.

  The thing about growing up is learning who you care for.

  What if Sloth was dead too? This was all his fault.

  It couldn’t be happening. This was nuts. This town was too boring for anything like this. Yet Dennis had told him. Mikey had been shot.

  A mum came out of the Muffin Break Bakery and Cafe opposite and parked her pushchair in front of the bench, sitting down next to Tap. Pulling a Danish pastry out of a paper bag, she broke off a bit and gave it to the small boy in the buggy. The toddler gobbled it down, then reached out a pudgy fist for more.

  Tap realised how hungry he was too. He had eaten nothing all day, but he didn’t even have fifty pence on him.

  The small boy giggled. ‘Don’t be greedy,’ said his mum, and popped a bit into her own mouth. ‘Ooh,’ cooed his mother. ‘Don’t cry.’ And she held out a second piece for him, then hesitated. ‘Shouldn’t really,’ she said. ‘Not good for him, all that sugar.’

  ‘Ah, he’s OK,’ said Tap. ‘Go on.’

  The mum, who was probably only a couple of years older than Tap, smiled and gave the baby the piece. The little boy popped it into his mouth and grinned at Tap, flakes falling from his lips onto his Babygro.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tap spotted a security man approaching. He shunted an inch closer to the mother, leaned forward towards the baby, so they could look like a family: him, the baby and the young mum. ‘Sweet one, isn’t he?’

  The mother laughed. ‘Only sometimes. You should hear him when he’s going at it.’

  ‘Pair of lungs on him?’

  ‘Takes after his dad,’ said the woman.

  The boy’s eyes darted from one face to the other, smiling.

  The security guard passed on. ‘Great little lad,’ said Tap.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m lucky.’

  ‘Look after him,’ said Tap as she wrapped the rest of the pastry up in the paper and threw it into the bin at the end of the bench, then stood.

  ‘Nice talking to you,’ she said, and wheeled the pushchair away.

  Tap contemplated digging out the empty fag packet in his pocket and throwing it away so he could then dig in the rubbish to fetch the rest of the pastry back; he’d seen homeless guys doing that and it always looked pathetic.

  There would be food at home, though. He would risk it. Just once. He would get some stuff and leave. Hide out somewhere for a few days. No idea where though.

  *

  He lingered in the alleyway at the north end of West View Road. Nothing looked unusual. There was no sign of the man, or of Mikey’s red Suzuki.

  Before emerging onto the street, he put his hood up. One last glance up and down the road, then he loped out, walking towards his house, half expecting to hear the roar of a motorbike behind him.

  But there was nothing, just a radio playing Ed Sheeran. Annie Lee was out as usual, sweeping the pathway, though it looked clean enough. ‘I told your ma there was a man looking for you, Benjamin. And your friend, Joseph.’

  ‘What you go telling him where Joseph lived for, Annie?’

  ‘The man was civil to me. Not like some people.’

  ‘You seen him again?’

  ‘No. He went.’ She pushed the broom across her pathway.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Don’t really remember. Like nothing much. He had a little earring. I don’t like that in a man.’

  How had the man found out where he lived? Had Mikey told him? Walking on, he slotted his key into the door, opened it, looked around one last time, then slipped inside. ‘Mum?’

  No answer. The radio was still playing Heart FM. She would be fast asleep, anyway. The house looked normal, familiar.

  ‘Mum? Got some bad news. About Mikey.’

  In the kitchen he looked around for anything to eat. The can of beans he had pulled out of the cupboard was there on the table, slightly misshapen from where he had dropped it. Taking a spoon from the drawer, he tugged the ring pull on the top and started eating the contents cold, stuffing them into his mouth, barely chewing. He noticed
his hand shaking as he lifted the beans to his lips.

  The plastic wrapper for a fresh pair of washing-up gloves lay on the floor, which was odd. Had his mum decided to do some cleaning? When she was drunk, though, who knew what went through her head?

  In the cupboard under the stairs he found his old school Star Wars backpack, returned to the kitchen and, between mouthfuls of beans, started adding whatever he could find to it, but there wasn’t much: two cans of rice pudding, another of mandarins, a half-eaten jar of peanut butter and a Pot Noodle. He opened the freezer and saw a packet of fishfingers, but ice had built up around it. He turned and looked for the sharp knife that his mother kept in the wooden block. It wasn’t there. Funny. Hadn’t he put it back there this morning? He peered into the sink, but it wasn’t there either.

  Instead he found an ordinary table knife and dug away at the ice with it until his fingers hurt from the cold. When he tried pulling the pack out, it ripped, spilling fishfingers onto the floor. Stupid. He picked them up and dropped them, loose, into the side pocket of the backpack. Finishing the beans, he put the empty can back down on the kitchen table, then moved to the front room, where he peered through the curtains, looking up and down the road. All clear. Upstairs, he paused outside his mother’s half-open door. She would be fast asleep. These days, like Sloth’s mum, she slept through most of the day. Sometimes, after a heavy night out, she snored, but today she was quiet.

  In his bedroom he pulled a waterproof out from under his bed and added that to the bag, along with a pair of pants, some socks and a couple of T-shirts.

  He was just scrabbling through his bedside drawer to see if there was any change in there when he heard an engine outside.

  Definitely a bike; the motor stopped. Frickin’ frick!

  He moved to the bedroom window.

  *

  When he was about twelve his mother had brought home some dinosaur curtains that she’d bought in a bring-and-buy sale. He had been too old for them then. Now he stood behind them listening to the bike’s engine, afraid to even twitch them in case he gave himself away.