by Kevin Brooks
I looked at my watch.
It was 10.45, a lot later than I’d thought.
I quickly towel-dried my hair, hung my wet clothes on a drier by the door, and went out to find Nancy.
‘I’m sorry, Lili,’ she told me. ‘I really don’t know where William is.’
We were in the sitting room now, sipping from mugs of steaming hot, and very strong, tea. I’d quickly explained the situation to Nancy – about the gig and William and everything – but so far she hadn’t been able to help. William hadn’t said anything to her about the gig, she told me, and she hadn’t seen him since he’d left the flat around six o’clock. It was tempting then to ask her about Joe’s birthday party, but I’d already had a pretty good look around the sitting room, and I hadn’t seen any evidence of either a party or a birthday. No birthday cards, no cakes, no balloons, no presents. So, unless Little Joe’s birthday party had been the most unparty-like party imaginable, I had to assume that William had been lying.
‘Did he say where he was going?’ I asked Nancy.
She shook her head. ‘He rarely does.’
‘What about when he’d be back? Did he give you any idea …?’
‘No …’ She looked at me. ‘Actually, come to think of it, I don’t think he had his guitar with him when he left.’
‘No, he wouldn’t have,’ I told her. ‘He left it at Curtis’s place on Saturday.’
‘Oh, right …’ She took another sip of tea. ‘Joe might know something … I’ll give him a shout.’
‘Don’t wake him if he’s asleep,’ I said.
‘Asleep?’ She laughed. ‘That boy never sleeps.’ She turned towards a door at the far end of the room. ‘Joe!’ she called out. ‘Can you come here a minute, please?’
The door opened almost immediately and Little Joe stepped into the room. Apart from the fact that he was a few inches shorter than William – and a couple of years younger, obviously – he looked almost exactly the same as his brother. Same face, same hair, same eyes … even his posture was virtually a carbon copy of William’s.
‘This is Lili,’ Nancy told him. ‘She’s looking for William. Do you know where he is?’
Joe looked at me, then looked back at Nancy and shook his head.
‘When did you last see him?’ Nancy asked.
‘Just before he went out.’
‘Did he tell you where he was going?’
‘No, he just went out.’
‘OK …’ She smiled at him. ‘Lili plays in William’s band.’
He looked at me. ‘You’re in Naked?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m thinking of forming a band.’
‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘I’m going to be the singer.’
I smiled. ‘Good choice.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ He looked at Nancy. ‘Is William in trouble?’
‘No, love, he’s not in trouble … we just want to find out where he is, that’s all.’
Joe just nodded.
Nancy smiled at him again. ‘I’ll see you in a minute, OK?’
After another quick nod, and a brief glance at me, Joe went back through the door and closed it quietly behind him.
‘Wow,’ I said quietly. ‘He’s the spitting image of William.’
‘I know,’ Nancy said, smiling. ‘And he’s getting more and more like him every day.’
‘How old is he?’
‘He was thirteen in June.’
So I was right about the birthday party. William had lied.
I glanced at my watch. It was 11.05.
‘Are you all right for time?’ Nancy asked.
‘Well, I’d better get going really, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not.’ She got to her feet. ‘If William does come back tonight, what do you want me to do?’
‘You couldn’t just punch him in the head for me, could you?’
She laughed. ‘No problem.’
‘Actually,’ I said, standing up, ‘you know what’s going to happen, don’t you?’
Nancy nodded. ‘He’s going to be at the cinema when you get back.’
‘Exactly.’
‘He’ll be sitting there, calm as you like, smoking a cigarette and drinking beer, wondering what all the fuss is about.’
‘Yep.’
‘And then you’ll come in, soaking wet again and really fed up –’
‘And I’ll punch him in the head.’
‘Exactly,’ she said, and we both burst out laughing.
On the way out of the flat, I thanked Nancy for the T-shirt and jeans and told her that I’d get them washed as soon as possible and give them to William to bring back to her.
‘Why don’t you just bring them back yourself,’ she suggested. ‘There’s no rush to get them back, and it’d be lovely to see you again. And you can pick up your clothes while you’re here.’
‘Yeah, OK,’ I said. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Good.’ She smiled at me. ‘Well, I hope everything turns out all right tonight.’
‘I’m sure it will.’
She unlocked all the bolts and chains on the front door, went to open it, then paused. After a moment’s silence, she turned to me and looked me in the eye.
‘William has a good heart,’ she said quietly. ‘He doesn’t always do the right thing, and there’s no excuses for that, and sometimes he gives the impression that he doesn’t care enough about other people’s feelings. But deep down, in his heart, he’s the most selfless and truly caring person I’ve ever known.’ She smiled sadly. ‘That probably doesn’t make any sense at all, does it?’
‘Yes, it does,’ I said. ‘It makes perfect sense.’
25
It didn’t dawn on me until I was leaving the tower block and heading back across the square to West Green Road that Nancy hadn’t given me any explanation for all the questions she’d asked before letting me in. I didn’t need an explanation, of course, I knew that she was just checking to make sure that I was who I said I was, and I knew why she was doing it. But she didn’t know that. Or maybe she did? Maybe William had told her that he’d confided in me … and maybe that was why she hadn’t said anything about the four kids either, or asked me how I’d worked out exactly where she lived …?
Or maybe, I thought, she just didn’t want to talk about those kinds of things?
Not that it really mattered.
She was nice, that was the main thing.
And I liked her.
The rain was really starting to pour down again now, and there was a stormy stillness to the air that felt as if it was going to break any minute. I hurried out onto West Green Road, hoping that I wouldn’t have to wait long for a taxi. And I didn’t. Just as the night sky seemed to lower itself to the ground, darkening the rainswept street, and the first faint roll of thunder crackled through the air, I saw the welcoming yellow light of a black cab coming down the road.
I put my hand out, stepped back as the taxi pulled up, and got in the back.
It was 11.20 now, and as the taxi rumbled along Green Lanes I wondered if I should ask the driver to stop at a phone box so I could ring Curtis and let him know where I was and what was happening. I’d thought about calling him from Nancy’s flat, but then I’d remembered that she didn’t have a phone. I looked out through the rainswept windscreen and saw the blurred red glow of a phone box up ahead, and I was just about to ask the driver to pull up beside it … but then I changed my mind. Islington wasn’t that far away now. The roads were free of traffic. I’d be back in less than fifteen minutes. And what good would ringing Curtis do anyway? If William was there, he was there. If he wasn’t, he wasn’t.
I sat back and gazed out at the passing world.
Despite the thunderstorm – and the fact that it was gone eleven o’clock on a Sunday night – the streets were still fairly busy. It was well past closin
g time, but a lot of the pubs hadn’t finished for the night yet, and even in some of those that did look closed there were figures moving around in dimly lit back rooms. There were people sheltering from the rain in shop doorways, people hanging around in kebab shops and mini-cab offices … there were people smoking joints and drinking from cans of Red Stripe …
And there was William.
My first thought when I saw him was that it had to be someone else, someone who looked just like him. My mind was playing tricks on me, that’s all it was. It was dark, it was raining … I couldn’t see clearly through the rain-dazzled glare of the streetlights …
But even as I wound down the window to get a better look, I knew that it was him.
He was with three other men, and they’d all just come out of a shabby little pub called the Black Horse on the corner of a side street and were heading off down the street, away from Green Lanes. I didn’t know what it was that stopped me from calling out through the window to William, but there was just something about him … something about the men he was with, something that didn’t feel right. He seemed so different somehow, so unlike the William I knew. Harder, older …
He looked heartless.
And I got the feeling that if I did call out to him, he’d either ignore me, pretend that he didn’t know who I was … or just tell me to fuck off.
‘Can you stop here, please?’ I said quickly to the driver.
‘Sorry, love?’
‘Stop here. I want to get out.’
‘Right here?’
‘Yes!’ I snapped, looking back through the rear window.
He pulled up at the side of the road, about thirty yards past the pub. I gave him a £5 note, told him to keep the change, and ran off up the street towards the pub.
By the time I got there, William and the three men were halfway down the side street, about forty yards away from me. I waited on the corner, keeping out of sight, and watched them. Two of the men were in their mid-twenties, the other one was older, around fortyish. The older man was unshaven, wearing a heavy black overcoat, workman’s boots, and a flat cap. One of the younger men was pale and thin, with long brown ratty hair, the other one had bushy black hair and a beard. Ratty was wearing a faded denim jacket. Bushy was dressed in a parka. They all looked like the kind of men who were used to walking the streets at night.
I looked at my watch.
It was almost 11.30.
If I jumped in a taxi right now, I could still get to Islington by midnight. If I ran after William and dragged him into a taxi, we could both still get there on time.
I looked down the street again.
William and the others were turning off into another little side street now, and I noticed that all three men glanced quickly over their shoulders as they went. I hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to do, and then I looked back along Green Lanes to see if there were any taxis in sight. If there’s one coming, I promised myself, I’ll take it. But if there’s not …
A black cab was approaching, its yellow light on.
It drew level with me, slowing down as the driver caught my eye …
And then, as I looked away, it drove straight past.
I shook my head, wondering what the hell I was doing, and then I started to run.
The road they’d turned into was a grubby little backstreet that ran alongside a railway track. Most of the streetlights were out, and the rain was still lashing down, and for a moment or two I thought I’d lost them. I stood on the corner, breathing heavily, trying to see where they’d gone … but all I could see in the thundery darkness was a row of dilapidated houses, a couple of parked cars, and a patch of wasteground at the end of the street.
‘Shit,’ I muttered.
I took my hat off and ran my fingers through my hair.
I carried on looking.
Nothing moved.
I looked at my watch. 11.35.
‘Shit.’
Lightning flashed, ripping across the sky, and I thought I saw a movement at the end of the street, to the left of the wasteground. A vague shadow, shifting across the ground. I kept watching, waiting for the next bolt of lightning … and then I heard a low creak, the sound of a heavy wooden door opening, and just for a moment a pale light flickered in the spot where I’d seen the shadow.
Thunder rumbled.
The pale light went out.
A door slammed shut.
I put my hat on and headed up the street.
The railway track was on a raised verge behind the houses on my left, and when I got to the end of the street I saw that the track carried on over an arched brick bridge that followed the perimeter of the wasteground. Some of the arches under the bridge were empty, but most of them were clearly in use as workplaces. They had big wooden double doors at the front, heavy machinery outside, signs that said CRASH REPAIRS, MOTS, SCRAP WANTED. They were all locked up, all silent and dark …
All except one.
It was the second workshop along. A battered metal sign on the wall said WARWICK MOTORS. There was no window at the front, and the double doors were closed, so I couldn’t see inside, but there was definitely somebody in there. A pale light was showing through a gap at the foot of the doors, and in the light I could see faint shadows of movement. I moved a little closer, hoping to hear something, but with the roar of the rain all around me, and the thunder still rumbling away, it was impossible.
I looked at my watch.
11.40.
I looked up, startled by a sudden screeching sound, and saw a freight train rattling along the track above me. As it approached the arches, the beam of its headlights lit up the darkness either side of the bridge, briefly revealing that one of the arches – the one nearest to me – was actually a tunnel that led through to the other side of the bridge.
I waited for the train to pass, then looked at my watch again.
11.41.
I’ll just take a very quick look, I promised myself, heading for the tunnel. If I can get round the back and see inside, if I can find out what William’s doing in there … that’s it. I’ll just take a very quick look, and then I’ll definitely go.
The rain had flooded the tunnel, and I had to slosh my way through a good couple of inches of dirty black water, but I was already soaked to the skin anyway, so it didn’t really make much difference. On the other side, a narrow track ran all the way along the back of the bridge, giving access to the workshops in the arches. In the gloomy darkness, I could just make out that the track was bounded by a wire-mesh fence on the left, beyond which was another stretch of wasteground, and it was cluttered with all kinds of rubbish from the workshops – old tyres, rusted engines, mouldy car seats, cardboard boxes. I followed the track, moving carefully through all the debris, trying not to make too much noise, and made my way to the back of Warwick Motors. There was a metal door, heavily padlocked and chained, and a small window, high up on the wall. I went over to the door and studied it for a while, trying to find some kind of gap to look through, but it had no keyhole and was fitted flush to the wall. I stepped back and turned my attention to the window. It was boarded up on the inside, but there was a faint patch of light showing through a hole in the bottom right-hand corner. And if the light could get out, I assumed, I should be able to see in.
The question was … how to get up there?
The window was at least four or five feet above my head, and the wall was a sheer face of brick – no ledges, no handholds, no way of climbing up. I looked around, searching for something to stand on, and saw a large oil drum a few feet along the wall. It looked pretty old and rusty, but it was the only thing I could see that was big enough to get me up to the window. I went over to it and lifted the lid, hoping that it wasn’t filled with anything that would make it too heavy to move, but luckily all it contained was a few screwed-up newspapers and some dirty old cloths. I grabbed hold of the rim and carefully ro
lled the drum along the wall until it was directly beneath the window. I made sure the lid was on tightly, pressing it down with the palm of my hand, then I took a deep breath and hoisted myself up onto the drum. It wobbled like crazy at first, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought it was going to topple over, but somehow – by crouching down and spreading out my weight – I managed to steady it. I waited a few seconds, praying that no one had heard anything, then – very carefully – I began to straighten up. With a foot on either side of the drum, and using my hands to creep up the wall, I slowly raised myself up until my head was just below the window. I paused for a moment then, looking up to locate the exact position of the gap in the boarding. As I’d thought, it was in the bottom right-hand corner – a fist-sized hole where the wood had rotted away.
And I could see through it.
I was still about six inches below the window, so all I could see so far was a small section of brick roof and one end of a fluorescent light-fitting … but as I inched my way up towards the window – holding my breath now, my eyes glued to the gap in the board – more and more of the workshop came into view: the far wall … shelves full of tools, machinery, car parts … posters of half-naked women, the far side of the workshop floor … a stripped-down motorbike, the shape of a car beneath a sheet of tarpaulin …
And then I saw them. In the middle of the workshop, four men sitting at a table. The man in the flat cap, the two younger men … and William.
They were talking, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Their faces glowed in the flickering light of a small paraffin lamp on the table.
There were other things on the table too: papers, maps, files, a bottle of whisky … electrical apparatus, wires and cables, switches, circuit boards … sawn-off sections of tubular piping, bags of nails …
And guns.
‘Shit,’ I whispered.
The guns were laid out on a sheet of sacking – two pistols, a rifle, and what looked like a machine-gun – and as I stared through the gap, not wanting to believe my eyes, I saw the man in the flat cap pick up one of the pistols and pass it to William. William took it from him and examined it, nodding his head. He said something to Flat Cap, and the other two laughed. Flat Cap drank from a glass, lit a cigarette, took the pistol back from William, then smiled and patted him on the shoulder. William took a cigarette from a packet on the table, lit it, and sipped whisky from a glass. He said something to Flat Cap again. Flat Cap looked at Ratty. Ratty nodded, said something to William, and gestured towards a pile of large plastic sacks stacked on a pallet against the wall. The sacks were printed with a picture of a ruddy-faced farmer standing beside a ploughed field, and underneath the picture, in writing that I could only just make out, it said AGRICULTURAL FERTILIZER.
