Deadland

by William Shaw

  They widened the search to Binnie Road, but there, too, the houses seemed mostly empty.

  ‘Where’s Moon? He’s late.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind one of these houses,’ said Ferriter.

  ‘Really?’ Small modern estates, each with a tiny individual parking space outside the front door.

  ‘Maybe a fresh start. Go into sales or something.’

  ‘Shut up, Jill.’

  An old man was walking towards them slowly; he was huge, six foot or more, dragging a blue fishing box.

  ‘Wasting our time here,’ said Ferriter sadly. ‘Maybe it was the clothes shop, after all. Or maybe he was just on so much morphine he was talking gibberish. I’m hungry. We haven’t even had a proper breakfast yet.’

  The next door they approached had a notice below the bell: No Hawkers.

  ‘What’s a hawker?’ asked Ferriter. ‘Sounds like something out of Dickens.’

  As Ferriter pressed the button, Cupidi turned her head towards the passing man. ‘Excuse me, sir . . .’ And she described the boys for the twentieth time.

  ‘Left yesterday,’ he said.

  Ferriter turned her head.

  ‘They was camping out there for a few days.’ He pointed to the other side of the road.

  Cupidi tensed, stepped towards the man. ‘The two boys? You’re sure? Where?’

  Ferriter was excusing herself now, trying to get away from a conversation with the resident.

  ‘Can you show us?’ asked Cupidi. Ferriter was by her side now. Already there was something different about her. She stood a little straighter; her eyes were brighter.

  The elderly fisherman led them to the fence and pointed to a derelict shed about a hundred metres away.

  ‘They were squatting there?’

  ‘Didn’t do anyone any harm,’ said the man. ‘One of them was sick.’

  ‘Sick?’

  ‘Had the flu or something. They holed up. Nobody bothered them.’

  Opposite them a sign on the fence read: Coming Soon. Luxury Apartments.

  ‘How did they get in there?’

  ‘There’s a path – back there.’

  Cupidi walked further along the road and there, sure enough, a straight path cut across the marshland towards the river.

  ‘Come on,’ she called to Ferriter.

  ‘Oh Jesus. I never have the shoes.’

  Cupidi left the tarmac footpath and started walking across the uneven ground towards the shed.

  The sun was high now. An asymetrical ‘V’ of geese flew over her head.

  ‘Hold up.’ Holding her arms above her head, Ferriter was picking her way through brambles hung with black bags of dog shit.

  Looking back at her, Cupidi caught sight of the huge bridge crossing the Thames.

  *

  The boys had left their rubbish behind in the disused shed. A sleeping bag. The cigarette butts, an empty wine bottle, a pie wrapper and another from a packet of biscuits. Cupidi squatted, picked up discarded cellophane, read the wrapper. ‘Co-op. Look. It was them. Here.’

  ‘They were hiding, weren’t they?’

  Cupidi looked at the derelict land around them. ‘Seems like it.’ In the corner of the shed someone had been digging through loose earth. She poked the sand with a stick, but there was nothing there. ‘Look,’ said Ferriter. Freshly scratched into brick at the back of the small enclosure: Sloth. Ben-G aka TAP.

  As Cupidi was photographing the graffiti, her phone rang. She stood and answered it.

  ‘Where are you? You said you’d be in Ruby Tuesday Drive.’ The voice hostile.

  ‘He’s here,’ Cupidi told Ferriter.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Right now, I’d rather stay here hiding, like them boys,’ said Ferriter.

  They walked back the way they’d come. Moon was leaning against the bonnet of his Skoda, unsmiling. There was a white bandage across the bridge of his nose. ‘Well?’

  ‘Good morning, Peter. Sorry to hear about . . .’ said Cupidi.

  ‘It’s Sunday. I could be at home in bed. Recovering.’

  ‘How’s the . . . ?’ Cupidi pointed at his nose.

  ‘It’s broken.’

  Ferriter made no attempt to apologise.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he asked.

  ‘We have a significant lead on the two boys from Frank Khan’s flat.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Cupidi could see he was nervous in Ferriter’s company, but he was interested now.

  ‘I know there’s stuff between you and Jill. Today, we’re just working, all right?’ Cupidi crossed her arms.

  Moon looked from one to the other, trying to make up his mind whether he believed her or not.

  ‘Your two lads were here. The ones from Frank Khan’s flat.’

  ‘OK. How do you know?’

  ‘I asked Khan where he’d picked them up. He said around here.’

  ‘Why didn’t he tell me that?’

  Ferriter muttered something dark.

  Cupidi held out her phone. ‘They were staying over there.’ She pointed to the outhouse in the distance, beyond the fence. ‘A gentleman just ID’d them. I think those are their names.’

  Moon peered into the screen, mouthed the names, and then said, ‘Oh hell.’

  ‘What?’

  Moon looked from one to the other. ‘In that case, I’m pretty sure I know who one of them is.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  At the door was the man they had robbed, the man they had seen stab Frank. The same plain round face, the same jeans and brown jacket he had been wearing the day they had stolen his briefcase. The same earring. With a roar, Tap ran at him with the spike.

  The shock on the man’s face was only fleeting. He just stepped back and swept his left forearm in front of his chest, deflecting the iron pole, then grabbing on to it with his right arm.

  Tap tumbled in, fell to the floor; the man swung his body round and stamped his foot on the small of his back, blowing the wind out of him and pinning him to the ground. As Tap twisted his head round to struggle free, he saw the man standing above him, pole raised, spike down, ready to impale him.

  ‘Don’t. Fucking. Move.’

  The man leaned down, feeling Tap’s jeans pockets with his free hand, then his hoodie, looking for something. The phone, obviously. When he’d confirmed they were empty, he released him, closed the front door.

  ‘Where’s my mum?’

  ‘In bed.’

  ‘Let me see her.’

  The man jerked the spike down at him and Tap flinched.

  When he opened his eyes, the spike was just above his throat. ‘Why did you come back?’ the man demanded.

  ‘Nowhere else to go.’

  The man leaned down again, grabbed him by his hood and pulled him to his feet.

  ‘Upstairs,’ he said.

  His mother’s bedroom door was open; she was lying on the bed, covers on the floor. Her pale pink duvet was grubby, stained, and peppered with cigarette ash. The bruises on her cheek and arm were dark, fading to green. An empty bottle of supermarket vodka sat on the table next to her, beside a smaller bottle of sleeping pills.

  ‘What have you done?’ said Tap.

  ‘She gets lonely and she likes a drink, that’s all. I’ve been keeping her company while you’re away.’

  She was breathing slowly, chest rising and falling.

  ‘You’ve been hitting her?’

  ‘She’s a drunk. Sometimes she falls down.’

  ‘You’ve been buying it for her?’ said Tap.

  The man ignored the question. ‘So where is it?’

  The phone, obviously. ‘Haven’t got it. Threw it away.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Days ago. In a creek. Up near the river. Chucked it in the mud,’ he lied.

  Responding to the voices, Tap’s mum mumbled something in her sleep and rolled over in bed, grabbing the duvet as she turned.

  ‘I don’t believe you. You’re stupid, but not that
stupid.’

  ‘Swear to God, man. It was only a shitty little phone.’

  It wasn’t even fast, the way the man turned, reached out and grabbed him by the hair and, in the same movement, slammed Tap’s forehead against the wall. There was a flash of red light inside Tap’s head.

  And again.

  His ears were full of ringing noise. ‘I promise,’ Tap pleaded. ‘We threw it. What good is it to us?’ Slam. Back against the plaster, but this time his head slipped from the grip, and when he looked up again, the man was still holding a handful of his hair.

  ‘You’re a lying little prick.’

  It took Tap a second to realise he was free, but too dizzy to move. His legs seemed to be stuck in mud. He tried to walk, but stumbled forward into the man’s feet.

  The man kicked him, leaving him face down, breathing dust from the old brown carpet.

  He should get up. He should run away. He should start screaming. But he didn’t. Instead he lay crying.

  ‘It was the phone I called you on. You kept it. You said you could get it, last time.’

  ‘Yeah. But lost it. Swear to frickin’ God.’

  ‘Don’t. Lie.’ Another kick into the small of his back. ‘Your pal says you had it.’

  If they hadn’t stolen the man’s phones, none of this would have happened. But if they hadn’t, he wouldn’t have spent that time running away. How pathetic a life it was, he realised, that that was the best time he’d ever had. Two weeks with Sloth, together. Scared, hungry and sick, but finally alive, finally breaking through the greyness of it all.

  He heard the sound of drawers being yanked open in his mum’s room, saw clothes being tugged out onto the floor.

  The man returned with a belt. He moved with such simple, purposeful motions, grabbing Tap’s right arm, then his left, strapping them together behind his back. Then white searing pain in his arms and shoulders as the man pulled him up by the wrists that had been secured behind his back. Just as the scream emerged, the man’s other hand clamped over his mouth.

  ‘Shh,’ said the man calmly.

  The hand that had yanked him up set him briefly on his feet, then easily lifted him off the ground.

  He carried the unstruggling boy into the bathroom and laid him face up in the white enamel bath, then switched on a tap.

  The water was cold. It soaked the back of his trainers, then his trousers as it inched its way up. It rose slowly to his chest, chilling him. The man sat there, saying nothing. It seemed to take an age to fill the bath, but when the water reached Tap’s chin, the man leaned across and turned off the tap.

  Sitting on the toilet, seat closed, the man pulled out a phone and began texting.

  ‘What’s on the phone? The one we nicked?’

  ‘My future.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Survivor. Analyst. Battle. All that.’

  ‘It was never just a phone. It’s a bloody key, that’s what it is.’

  ‘What do you mean, a key?’

  ‘Where is it? That’s all you got to tell me.’

  ‘Why? ’Cause you’ll kill me anyway.’

  ‘Quiet.’ The man tapped his knees, as if he was waiting for something. And he was. A few seconds later, the handset rang.

  ‘Calm. It’s me. Control yourself,’ he was telling someone on the other end of the call. ‘Take breaths. That’s better.’

  Not long now.

  ‘No, I haven’t found it yet.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But I’ve got one of the boys here. I’ll get it out of him and then we can be finished with this.’

  The man listened.

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that. What happens to him is your fault, not mine. You started all this, remember. I’m just clearing up your mess.’

  Tap realised that the man didn’t care what he heard, which meant he was probably going to kill him.

  ‘I’m going to need a car. You have to come here.’

  Life was very easy to give up on; strange how much of a fuss some people made about it.

  ‘I don’t care. You have to do as I say or I’ll tell them where the rest of the body is and you’re in deeper shit than I ever was. I’ll give you an address. Pick me up here. Don’t write it down, just remember it.’

  And he took an envelope from his pocket. It was a letter from the council. URGENT: DO NOT IGNORE THIS. His mother had piles of letters like that. He must have found it on the doormat downstairs. The man read out the address printed on the front, repeated it.

  ‘When? Now. Quick as you can. Drive here, then wait outside. When I’m finished here, we can go and fetch your key and then we never have to see each other again.’

  Who was he talking to? Tap didn’t understand anything. There had been a couple of good weeks and now it was all gone. What a shit little life.

  The man looked up. Grabbed a hand towel off the rail and threw it into the water Tap was lying in.

  ‘Where’s your friend, Benjamin? The boy called Joseph?’

  ‘What?’

  The man repeated the question. ‘Don’t piss me about. Your mum told me about your pal. You and him. Besties,’ said the man. ‘He was the other one who stole the phone, wasn’t he?’ He held up the black handset again. ‘He’s got it, hasn’t he?’

  Tap didn’t answer. He had been cold when he had entered the house, now icy water was making him shiver.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Don’t know, buddy.’

  ‘I’m not your buddy,’ the man said. ‘Where is Joseph?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘What’s his number?’

  Tap turned his head away, towards the side of the bath.

  The man lifted the towel, sopping wet and laid it methodically across Tap’s head, arranging it on his face.

  The effect was immediate. Tap sucked air, but there was none. He panicked. The wetness of the cloth was suffocating him. He thrashed from side to side trying to loosen the towel, but the more he moved, the more the fabric clung to his face. It was surprising how quickly terror gripped him. All thought left him. Even the banging on the side of the bath seemed alien, as if it was someone else’s limbs thrashing.

  The desperation for breath was inseparable from pure fear.

  Then the man lifted the towel and he could breathe again, gulping air.

  Such a simple motion, lifting the cloth; the difference between life and painful death.

  ‘Where is he?’ A plain question.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he panted. ‘Don’t frickin’ know.’

  He would never tell him even if he did. The man lifted the towel again ready to drop it on his face.

  ‘Al? Is that you?’

  They looked round. Tap’s mum had woken and was calling from the bedroom. He dropped the wet towel back onto Tap’s face so he couldn’t cry out.

  This time he tried his best to control his panic. The man’s name was Al. Or at least that was the name he had given his mother.

  ‘Go back to bed,’ shouted Al.

  ‘I need the bathroom. Urgent.’

  As the oxygen left his blood, he began to lose control, thrashing from side to side, trying to shift the wet cloth from his nose and mouth where it blocked all breath. Mum was outside the door. ‘What’s that noise?’ his mother called.

  The man seemed to be counting seconds, as if he knew how long you could last without oxygen.

  After another age, he placed a finger in front of his mouth – Don’t make a noise – then removed the cloth.

  Tap gasped.

  ‘What are you doing in there?’

  ‘Want me to come out there and deal with you?’

  ‘I need the toilet.’

  ‘Go away. I’ll be out in a minute.’

  There was a banging on the door.

  ‘I’ll hurt you if you don’t go away,’ said Al.

  There was a weeping sound. Then: ‘Wet myself.’

  The man turned back to Tap. He held up his phone. ‘Call your frien
d. Tell him to come here.’

  Tap shook his head.

  This time he tried to fill his lungs before the wet towel covered his face but no breath was big enough. He lay still, not breathing, for as long as he could but there was no way of stopping his body using up the oxygen. Slowly it slipped away.

  Lying still, trying not to panic, watching the man’s lips mouth each second as it passed, counting along in his head. When the count reached sixty-five his lungs exploded in pain. He lost control of himself again. The movements were animal, coming from no rational place within him, a monolith of fear that blocked out all thought.

  How long did it go on this time? He didn’t know. It seemed like an age.

  He was aware that he was about to lose all sense of himself, to disappear completely, to black out. It felt as if the room around him had vanished and a calmness crept over him. He was dying. It was over.

  And then, again, he was breathing.

  ‘Tell me where he is.’

  At first he couldn’t answer. It was all he could do to fill his lungs with air.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Rather die,’ whispered Tap.

  The man frowned. ‘You don’t understand. I have nothing left to lose,’ he said.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Tap.

  The man seemed to consider this for at least a minute. ‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘I won’t kill you. I’ll kill your mother. And you’ll watch.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ said Tap.

  But the man had left the room and, with his hands tied behind him, however hard he struggled, Tap couldn’t raise his body from the bath.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  They stood on the neat new tarmac of Ruby Tuesday Drive, just across the road from the scrubland of Dartford Marshes.

  ‘Five days ago, this woman called up the police to say her son had gone missing,’ said Peter Moon. ‘She didn’t seem that worried because he’d bunked off before. He was a black guy, seventeen years old. I went to her house . . . showed her the photo of the two boys from the Co-op CCTV and asked if she recognised either of them. She took one look at it and shook her head. “That’s not him,” she said. “Definitely not.” But on the missing persons form they ask for nicknames too, don’t they? I remember his was Sloth. Couldn’t forget that. Had a laugh about it.’

  ‘Two names. Two boys,’ said Cupidi. She looked at her phone screen: Sloth. Ben-G aka TAP.