by William Shaw
‘Well, I’m different. Have you found out whose arm it is yet?’
‘No.’
Cupidi stared at the young man for a second, then said gently, ‘Mr Clough. If you have something to tell us about the arm or who put it there, you know you have to tell us, don’t you?’
Ross looked grave.
‘Well?’
‘I’m not really ready,’ he answered.
Ferriter frowned, mouthed, ‘What?’ at Cupidi.
‘If you know someone or something that can help us,’ Cupidi repeated, ‘you must tell us. Otherwise you may be concealing an arrestable offence. Officially that’s called “perverting the course of justice”. Do you understand?’
He stood up decisively, but only to say, ‘Would you like a coffee?’ as if he’d suddenly remembered his manners.
When he was safely in the kitchen, Ferriter whispered, ‘He bloody knows something, doesn’t he?’
‘Do you take sugar?’ he called.
‘Give him a hand,’ said Cupidi.
Ferriter left the room. Cupidi waited until she could hear them both chattering.
Cupidi stood quietly and looked up and down the short hallway. To the right was the main bedroom, the door slightly ajar. Walking towards it, she nudged it with her foot and it swung open.
The room was untidy. A double bed covered in a dirty white duvet. The landlord’s room, she guessed.
There were two other doors, both shut. She tried the first; a bathroom. She closed it gently, then turned to the other door. The handle creaked as it moved.
‘Hello?’ said Ross, head poking out of the kitchen door.
He must have heard her.
‘I was just looking for the bathroom.’
He stared at her for a second. ‘Other door.’
After a minute, she joined them in the small kitchen. Ross handed Cupidi a cup of black coffee.
‘You were wanting to tell us something.’
‘I know, but it’s not ready. I don’t know why I made a big thing of it. It’s not important really.’
‘Tell us.’
‘What does an arm in a jar mean to you?’
‘You think there’s some kind of symbolic meaning to the arm being left at the art gallery?’
‘Obviously. An arm in a jar. It’s a signifier, isn’t it?’
‘Of what?’ asked Cupidi.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘When you took out the hand, was it like this –’ he held his hand loosely, the fingers loose, then bunched them into a fist – ‘or like this?’
‘Why would it make a difference?’
‘Obviously it would. You’re not answering my question. Was there anything else at the bottom of the jar?’
‘We don’t share details of an investigation. Why do you ask about the hand?’
He grinned. ‘The monkey trap,’ he said.
‘What monkey trap?’ said Ferriter.
‘Don’t tell me this didn’t make you think of the monkey trap? You know . . .’ He bunched his fist again.
‘That’s stupid,’ said Ferriter.
Ross looked surprised, disappointed by their lack of understanding. ‘Come and see, then.’
He opened the door of the room Cupidi had tried to look into and stood behind them.
‘I told you it wasn’t really ready.’
Pushing it back, the two police officers both peered in. ‘Bloody hell,’ said Jill Ferriter, looking around the small room.
TWENTY
Tap had a Boneless Banquet, Sloth a Zinger Box Meal. They sat in a booth not far from the door, boys side by side facing the man, who had taken his grey jacket off and laid it on the seat beside him.
‘Well, that barely touched the sides,’ said the man. ‘What’s your names?’
Neither of them answered. Tap opened another sachet of ketchup.
‘Come on. I bought you a meal. All I’m asking’s your names.’ He watched them eat, a small, irritating smile always on his face.
Tap wiped sauce from his lips.
The man lowered his voice, leaned forward. ‘Don’t think I’m stupid. You’re running away from something, aren’t you, lads?’
Under the table, Sloth nudged Tap with his knee. Tap understood. Don’t answer. Wouldn’t have anyway. They both knew that.
‘I’m Frank,’ said the man. ‘OK.’ He held up his palms. ‘I’ll call you Thelma,’ he told Sloth, ‘and –’ he nodded at Tap – ‘you’re Louise.’
‘You taking the pistachio?’
‘They were runaways,’ said Frank. ‘Like you.’
‘Who says we’re runaways?’
‘Oh come on. Thelma and Louise. It was a movie. Not heard of it? Suppose not. You’re too young. How old are you, anyway? Fourteen? Fifteen?’
‘Fuck off,’ snorted Tap.
‘Sixteen? Seventeen? What about your family? They know where you are? They’re probably worried.’
‘I actually doubt that,’ said Tap. But he thought about his mother and suddenly felt sad. Maybe this man had a phone on him. He hadn’t seen him use one, but he had noticed the way his jacket had hung before he’d taken it off. Side pocket, he guessed.
‘Where are you two staying?’
‘Nowhere in particular,’ said Tap.
‘What? In a place called Nowhere in Particular?’
‘Can I have another chicken burger?’ asked Sloth. Tap wondered how quickly the two of them could run from the restaurant. Would there be time to filch his jacket too?
But Frank looked back at Sloth for a second, then said, ‘Sure. What about you, Louise?’
‘What did you call me?’ demanded Tap.
‘Lighten up,’ said Frank.
‘Yeah. Lighten up.’ Sloth grinned.
‘You what?’ Tap mouthed at his friend as the man called Frank ordered the burger.
‘If you want to, you can stay over at my place,’ said Frank, putting the fresh tray in front of Sloth. ‘I have a spare bedroom. Till you get yourself sorted.’
Neither of the boys answered.
‘I expect you’ll want to discuss that.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll give you a couple of minutes to talk it over,’ he said, standing. With one hand he picked up his jacket, with the other, he retrieved his empty coffee cup. On the way to the toilet, he dropped the cup into the waste bin.
‘Reckon he’s a bender?’ said Sloth.
‘Reckon.’
Sloth nodded. ‘I’m so full I think my belly button just popped out,’ he said, pushing the tray away from him, though there was still food on it.
*
They sat in the back of Frank’s car as he drove them from the KFC to his flat, ten minutes away.
It was a small shared block. He let himself into the front door, picking up mail from the box. Frank’s apartment was on the second floor.
‘You look done in, lads,’ he said. ‘Sleep in my spare room.’
He showed them a small room off the hallway. ‘There’s only a single bed. What do you think we are, Frank?’
‘I don’t care what you are, mate. One of you can kip on the floor, then. Bathroom’s opposite the kitchen.’ He opened a small cupboard and sorted through a pile of towels. ‘Use these. You need a shower.’
‘Trying to say we smell, Frank?’
‘Yes.’
Sloth took a towel and went to the bathroom.
Tap said, ‘Can I make a call?’
‘Who to?’
‘My mum.’
‘Why?’
‘Just to tell her I’m all right. Don’t worry, I won’t tell her I’ve been picked up by a strange man.’
Frank hesitated, then reached in his jacket and pulled out his phone, pressed the security code, then tossed it over.
‘Frank,’ called Sloth from the bathroom. ‘There’s no lock on your toilet door.’
‘Afraid someone’s going to burst in on you?’
‘Try it on, and I’ll mess you up.’
‘Promises, promises.’
&nbs
p; ‘Serious, Frank.’
Tap tried the number, but it went straight to voicemail. ‘Hi. I’m on my luxury yacht in Barbados, darling. I can’t pick up right now.’
He left a message. ‘Hi, Mum. I’m OK. How are you? Just want to know you’re OK.’
‘You all right?’ said Frank.
‘Just going to have a lie-down.’
‘My phone.’ Frank held out his hand.
‘Oh. Right.’ Tap handed it back.
In the small spare room, Tap opened the wardrobe. It was full of Frank’s blue suits and beige coats. He ran his hands down a few jackets to see if there was anything left in the pockets, but there wasn’t.
The bed had a single duvet. It felt so good to be warm, to be fed, to lie on something soft. He lay, closed his eyes, listened to the sound of the shower across the hallway.
He was already half asleep when Sloth came in, a towel wrapped around him.
‘Shove over,’ said Sloth.
‘He said one of us could sleep on the floor.’
‘Stuff that.’
And, smelling of shower gel and shampoo, Sloth lay beside him on the small bed.
*
Tap drifted in and out of sleep for an hour. In the front room, Frank had the TV on Netflix. His phone went a couple of times. The muffled noise entered snatched dreams. When he woke, Sloth had turned in his sleep, and his friend’s arm lay over his chest, as if he was holding on to him.
Tap could smell the soap that lingered on Sloth’s skin. He lay, not daring to move in case he woke Sloth or roused him that much that he would move away.
Over the last four days he had been scared, dirty and lost. Right now it felt good. The feeling of weight of the arm, the shine of his skin, the thin hair that curved with the shape of his muscle. This moment.
But when he looked up, he saw Frank was at the door, looking at them, a knowing smile on his face.
Tap glared at him.
‘Just looking, Louise.’
The noise was enough to make Sloth turn to face the wall. Tap lay there a while, then got up and crept out of the room. Frank was sitting on the couch with a laptop and a cup of tea. The flat looked half lived in. There were shelves at one end of the room, empty except for a sports award of some kind and a book about the Sistine Chapel. ‘OK if I go for a shower then, Frank?’
‘Don’t leave the place in a mess like your lover boy. Keep the water off the floor.’
‘Bog off, Frank. He’s not my—’
‘Really? Whatever you say.’
The shower wasn’t like the one they had at home, a thin drizzle of water. This one, the water came out so hard it stung, but it felt good, pummelling all the sweat and dirt of the last four days out of him. Tap washed his hair and watched dark water swill down the plughole.
Afterwards he stood in front of the mirror, wiping it clean of condensation.
He needed a haircut for a start. Hair had grown on his face, too; not stubble exactly, just the kind of fluff he grew after a few days.
The young man who looked at him in the glass looked tired and scared, even after the nap. He opened the cupboard, looking for a razor, and, in amongst pill bottles and aftershave, found a plastic one. It hurt, scraping it across his face, and when he cleared the steam from the mirror a second time, he saw blood trickling into his mouth. He leaned forward to find the place where he’d cut himself.
A small flap of skin above his upper lip. He tore off a strip of toilet paper and held it against the cut. Red crept through the white.
He put his dirty clothes back on. Unlike Sloth, he didn’t feel comfortable hanging out around Frank in just a towel.
*
Sloth had dressed too. He was sitting on a dining chair, watching the TV.
‘Got any cigarettes, Frank?’ asked Tap.
‘Gives you cancer,’ said Frank.
‘Yeah. Got any cigarettes?’
No answer.
‘Can you lend us a tenner to get some? We’ll pay you back?’
Frank looked from one boy to the other. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m a mug.’
‘Far from it, Frank,’ Tap told him.
‘You can pay me back,’ said Frank. ‘Any way you like.’
‘In your dreams.’
‘Are you even old enough to buy ciggies?’
‘Course we are,’ said Sloth. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have invited us back to your place, would you?’
He sat up slightly, pulled a wallet out from his back pocket and opened it. ‘Don’t get cheeky, lads, else I won’t let you back in. Bet you like the wacky baccy, too, you two, don’t you?’
Sloth burst out laughing. ‘What you talking about?’
‘You know, weed?’
‘Wacky baccy? Nobody calls it that, Frank. Only social workers and lesbian vicars.’
‘Tell you what. Get some cigarette papers. I don’t mind a joint. I’ve got a bit of stuff stashed away.’
‘You’re trying to get us wavy? Get us all a bit stoned so you can have your wacky way with us? We’re not like that, Frank.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘So much as touch us, and we’d cut you up, Frank.’
Frank held up his hands. ‘Suit yourself, lads.’ He opened his wallet and pulled out a ten-pound note.
‘Is there a newspaper shop or something?’
‘Nearest is the Co-op.’
Tap and Sloth exchanged a look.
‘I tell a lie. There’s a new Nisa just on the estate, just over by the Fastrack stop on Brunel Way. Don’t go smoking them round here. I don’t want you hanging around outside my door either. Lowers the tone.’
It was grey outside. A thin drizzle had started falling.
‘Reckon he’s a fag?’ said Tap.
‘Don’t be a prannet, Tap. He’s a raging paedo.’
They waited outside the shop for ten minutes, watching people come and go. An old guy walking a pair of Jack Russells ignored them. A couple of men from a building site, arms red from the sun, told them to get lost. Finally they spotted two young women coming towards them, arm in arm, laughing, one short and bleach-haired, the other ginger, towering over her.
‘Oi, ladies,’ called Sloth. ‘Can I beg a favour? Will you get us some ciggies?’
‘Ladies?’ The blonde one made a joke of looking around her for them.
‘Aw.’ Ginger examined them. ‘You boys too young to buy your own?’
‘Bob along, boys. Kids ain’t allowed to smoke.’
Ginger burst out laughing. ‘Stunted that one’s growth already.’ She pointed at Sloth. ‘What do we get out of it?’
‘You can have one out the packet.’
‘Each?’ said Ginger, with a wink.
‘Yeah. Go on.’ Sloth gave them the ten-pound note. ‘Get us a lighter as well, will you? And some Rizlas.’
‘We’re not going back there, are we? Thought you said he was a paedo.’
Sloth said, ‘He’s got some wacky baccy, bro. Besides. He’s not exactly going to tell anyone about us, is he? We’re his little secret. And if he tries anything on . . .’
Afterwards, they sat with the girls on the bench of the bus stop, smoking. The girls had four cans of lager in a blue plastic bag.
‘You from round here?’ said the short blonde one.
‘Not really. What about you?’
‘Just down the road. Work at the shopping centre. It’s handy.’
‘What’s wrong with your lip?’ the ginger one said, peering at Tap. ‘It’s bleeding.’
The cut had stuck to the cigarette and opened up again. ‘Nothing. Just done it, shaving.’
‘Shaving?’ Sloth giggled. ‘When do you ever need to shave?’
‘Ah, God there. It’s dribbling down your chin.’ Ginger delved into her jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of tissues. Tap thought she was going to hand him one, but instead she leaned forward and gently dabbed it on his face, concentrating, tongue between teeth, like she was his mother or something.
<
br /> ‘Sit still, little boy.’ Oh so softly, she patted at the blood, all one-handed, holding her half-smoked cigarette out of the way with the other.
And, at the thought of his mother, whom he hadn’t spoken to in days now, he couldn’t bear the kindness of the gesture. He felt that huge black weight coming down on him again, pushing the air out of his body.
He stood up suddenly, tears pricking at his eyes, then flicked his cigarette out into the road. ‘Let’s go.’
‘What’s up?’ said Sloth.
‘I haven’t finished. I missed a bit,’ called Ginger.
‘Come on, Slo. Let’s frickin’ go.’
Sloth stood too, puzzled. ‘Where?’
‘What about your change?’ shouted the tall one.
‘Weirdos.’
But Tap was already halfway to the corner and Sloth was trying to catch up with him. ‘Where we going?’
‘I want that frickin’ smoke,’ said Tap. A bit of weed would calm him down; stop him thinking so much.
*
‘Bet he doesn’t let us in.’ Tap pressed the bell.
‘Course he will,’ said Sloth. ‘He wants your arse.’ But, as Tap leaned on it, the lock clicked and he almost fell inside.
Sloth was still laughing when Frank appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Quiet. The bloody neighbours.’ Then, standing in his hallway, in his flat, he remembered something, ‘Benjamin. Your dad phoned. He’s coming to pick you up.’
Sloth and Tap stopped, stared at each other.
‘My dad?’
‘Yeah. He must have had my number on redial from when you called your mum.’
‘You called your mum?’ demanded Sloth.
‘You were having a shower,’ said Tap.
‘I just told him I’d seen you wandering around. You looked hungry. Given you a bite to eat, nothing else. That’s right, isn’t it? Nothing else happened, did it, lads? I didn’t do anything.’
‘Benji don’t have a father.’ Sloth was shaking his head slowly.
‘He said he was your dad.’
‘On mum’s phone?’
‘When was this?’
‘’Bout twenty minutes ago.’ Frank looked nervous now. ‘Who was he then?’
Tap and Sloth exchanged a glance. ‘Let’s scarper,’ said Sloth.
That was when the doorbell rang again.
