by Peter Boland
Truck used the bulk of his body to shoulder open the stiff door. Inside, the hallway was just as dingy as Savage remembered and the smell of urine hadn’t faded.
A door to the right of them opened and the big black-bearded wizard-looking guy stood there, still in his boat-sized sandals. “Got any food?” he asked. A flicker of recognition flashed in his eyes when he saw Savage. “Where’s my smoked-salmon picnic?”
Savage ignored him.
“Get back in your room, Dink,” Truck said.
Dink obeyed and closed his door.
Before they climbed the stairs, Vlad banged on the door next to Dink’s, and said, “Rosie, if you need anything, you come and see us, okay.”
There was no reply.
Vlad shrugged. “I guess she’s not speaking to us today.”
Savage followed them up the stairs, trailing cheap aftershave emanating from Vlad and a non-stop monologue from Truck about being in Gladiators. He gossiped about all the other guys on the show and how they were nothing but a bunch of pussies and muscle marys and gym bunnies, whereas he was the real deal. “You know,” he said. “That’s why I think they chose to keep me in reserve because I was too hard, too powerful, a real fighter who would’ve hurt the contestants. Beat them senseless.”
Savage kept his mouth shut but the guy was already starting to annoy him. Nothing more tedious than a man whose one claim to fame had set sail and sunk long ago with all hands on deck. Savage could have told him what being beaten senseless was really all about. Being made to stand cold and naked in the same position for days with nothing to drink, then getting dragged into a cell and hit on the back with heavy wooden sticks by angry Iraqi guards until you weren’t sure whether you were alive or dead, or in some hellish limbo in between. Not being hit by bouncy balls in front of a TV audience, packed with mums, dads and twelve-year-olds.
Vlad stopped at the first landing, and interrupted Truck’s gladiatorial monologue. “Oh, if you see us out in Southampton, in the street or in a pub or whatever. You don’t talk to us, you don’t look at us, you don’t come near us, okay. You’re dole scum. Get it.”
“Got it,” said Savage.
“Good boy,” said Vlad, patting him on the head. Savage could’ve snapped the guy’s wrist in a second, hit him in the throat and sent him cartwheeling down the stairs. Savage quickly banished that little fantasy from his mind. He had to keep playing the ‘grey man’.
They arrived at the top of the house, on the small square landing with the two rooms facing each other.
Truck got out a key, opened the door and walked in, followed by Vlad and Savage. The place looked just as it did before when Savage was there with Tannaz and Luke.
“This is yours,” said Vlad, looking in the open wardrobe. “Looks like the loser before you left some of his crap here. Ah, a Harrington jacket, nice.” Vlad lifted out the jacket and shrugged it on. His wrists protruded far out of the sleeves like a child who’d outgrown his school clothes. “Too small,” he said, taking it off and dropping it on the floor.
“Tell him about the last guy,” said Truck.
“Yeah, last guy in here killed himself. So sweet dreams.”
“Why’d he do that?” asked Savage, tentatively.
“Look around, genius,” said Vlad. “This is as bad as it gets. Skid row. Who cares, he was a nobody. Can’t even remember his name.”
Savage wanted to break the guy’s nose, and everything else in his body. Dave was a somebody. Somebody who was missed. Somebody who was going to be avenged, that was for sure.
Truck held out the key to Savage. He went to take it but Truck snatched it away. “You remember to give us something each week, or it’s section twenty-one for you.”
“Yeah, we’ll let you off this week, ’cos you’re new, and we’re nice guys.”
They laughed again. Savage forced a smile.
Truck tossed him the keys.
Just then a small stick-figure of a man appeared at the door. He was older than Savage with a dishevelled thicket of a beard and little pebble glasses perched on the end of his red nose. A ratty navy-blue fisherman’s cap drowned his pinlike head, completely covering his ears. With a dressing gown wrapped tightly around his little frame, he clutched a small bottle of vodka.
“Archie!” said Vlad warmly.
“Hello, gents,” said Archie with a gravelly voice. His accent was traditional Hampshire. Someone unkind would have described him as sounding agricultural or like a pirate. “This week’s payment.” He held out the bottle of vodka to Truck who snatched it from his hand.
“Now this is a good tenant,” said Vlad. “Pays his dues.”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Archie replied, cracking out a wobbly salute and standing to attention. He gave a throaty laugh that turned into a hacking cough.
“Jeez,” said Vlad. “We’re getting out of here before we catch something.” Vlad and Truck disappeared down the stairs.
When they were out of earshot, Archie said, “Don’t worry about those guys.”
“Should I be worried?” asked Savage, throwing his bin liner of clothes on the bed. “They said the last guy in here committed suicide.”
“Ahhh, they’re just trying to scare you.”
Savage was desperate to find out more and whether this Archie could shine a light on what happened to Dave. It was too early for that. He’d have to be patient. If he started asking too many questions too early on, Archie, like everyone else connected with Wellington, would join the conspiracy of silence. Better to let it happen naturally. Something was bound to slip out.
Archie said, “Just be sure you’ve got something to give them when they come round. Cash preferably or booze. Don’t worry, though. If you’re short we all try and help each other out and that. You know, look out for each other. Hey, you wanna whisky?”
“Er, it’s a bit early for me yet. I’m going to make myself a tea.”
Savage pulled his one luxury item out of his bin bag, something he couldn’t live without, even if he was undercover—a travel kettle, along with a chipped metal mug, a gargantuan box of value teabags and a handful of small long-life milk cartons. Not as good as real milk but he didn’t need to refrigerate them which meant he could keep them in his room.
“Want one?” asked Savage.
“Nah, I prefer a whisky in the morning. Kick-start the day. Come and hang out with me when you’ve made your tea.”
“Sure,” said Savage. “I’m John by the way. John Savage.”
A shake of hands followed. Archie’s handshake was surprisingly firm.
After making his mug of tea, Savage stepped over the small landing into Archie’s room, which compared to Savage’s was like an Aladdin’s cave. Archie had decorated it with bits of junk and things he’d found in skips. There were old road signs, traffic cones and shelves full of empty booze bottles, some filled with stones, others filled with sand and gravel. Old air fresheners hung from the ceiling, dozens of them. To save space, Archie didn’t have a bed. Instead he had a hammock slung from one wall to the other. At the far end of the room a single broken window was patched over with cardboard and Sellotape. Savage could feel an evil draft coming through.
Beneath the window was an old, tatty writing bureau with a small kettle perched on top. Archie pulled a key from his dressing gown and unlocked the wooden flap that lowered to create a desktop for writing on. Inside, instead of paper and envelopes, lined up in a row were bottles of whisky and more bottles of whisky. Savage wondered how a man on benefits could afford a drinks cabinet with such a vast array of whisky brands.
Archie selected a bottle, unscrewed the lid and took a hearty slug. “Ah, that’s better,” he said.
“Wow, this is quite a place you have here,” said Savage. There were only two seats available. A bean bag, haemorrhaging little white polystyrene balls, and a wonky office chair, missing a w
heel, both almost certainly salvaged from a skip. Savage opted for the office chair. “Shouldn’t they fix that window up there, it’s freezing in here.”
Archie laughed and started coughing again. “Nothing gets fixed here. Besides, I’ve got this to warm me up.” He gave the whisky bottle a shake.
“Well, you should at least try and seal it up with something better than Sellotape and cardboard. No wonder you’re coughing so much.”
Archie waved away Savage’s concerns. “Hey, did you meet Dink on the way in?”
“Dink? The big guy?”
“Yeah, short for Dinky.”
Savage couldn’t see the point in shortening a name that was already fairly economic to start with.
“Ask you for food and that?”
Savage nodded.
Archie continued. “Yeah, he does that to everyone. Like a gatekeeper, that one.” Archie took another slug of Scotch. “Speak of the devil.”
Swivelling his office chair around, Savage took in the enormous outline of Dink standing in the open doorway. Gripping the doorframe with his shovel-like hands, the giant looked red-faced and ready to rip off Savage’s head.
“Where’s my smoked-salmon picnic?” he growled.
Chapter 20
Dink was twice Savage’s size. Powerful, like a grizzly bear in open-toed sandals. He could certainly do Savage some permanent damage, judging by the furious look on his face. Savage couldn’t let that happen. He also couldn’t jeopardise his mission here by acting like an ex-SAS operative, and pulling any slick moves. He would have to defend himself without making it look like he knew how to defend himself. Not an easy task. Savage stood up and calmly closed the door so Dink’s left hand got caught in the door jamb, crushing the tips of his fingers. A deep howl came from the other side.
Archie leapt past Savage and said, “No! Stop!”
He quickly pulled the door open again, revealing the vast giant now sitting in a heap on the floor, clutching the throbbing end of his left hand. Fat tears dribbled down his face, soaked up by his sprawling black beard.
Archie put his arms around the big man. “Dink’s a gentle giant, he’d never hurt anyone.”
A wave of guilt washed over Savage. It was clear now that Dink was nothing more than an overgrown child.
“I’m sorry,” said Savage, crouching down next to him. “I thought you were going to attack me. I got scared.”
“Dink would never attack anyone,” said Archie. “He just gets angry when he’s hungry that’s all, don’t you, big guy?”
Dink rocked his head backwards and forwards, more tears dropping from his eyes.
Savage had completely misread the situation. Dink wasn’t scary or mean, but he was definitely harbouring some emotional issues.
Gasping spasmodically through his tears, Dink said, “I’m just so hungry all the time. I can’t stop it.”
“Even after you’ve eaten?” asked Savage.
“Yeah, all the time,” Dink replied.
“Have you seen a doctor?” said Savage. “They can help with stuff like that.”
“I don’t have a doctor.”
“What happens if you get ill?” Savage asked.
“My mum used to do all that for me.”
“Where’s your mum?”
“She died so I had to come and live here.”
The wave of guilt for hurting Dink turned into a tsunami. He could see it now. Dink was a lost little boy without his mum, trapped in the body of a giant man. He needed looking after, not to be left to fend for himself in social housing.
Dink brightened a little, cuffing his damp eyes. “But it’s okay, Mr Wellington’s men were really kind, told me that Mr Wellington said I could live here forever, without worrying about bills.”
“Really?” Savage didn’t like the sound of this.
“Yeah,” Dink wiped the last tear from his eye. “They said I could swap my mum’s house in Chilworth for the room I’ve got.”
“Chilworth?” asked Savage. “That’s that nice area with all the big houses.”
“Yes, my mum had a real big house. I didn’t know how to look after it. All these bills kept coming in. Made me confused. So I gave them my mum’s house so I could live here for free. No bills to worry about. I just had to sign some forms.”
“Oh, jeez,” said Savage, shaking his head.
“What’s the matter?” asked Dink.
Savage let out a worried sigh, not exactly sure about how to respond. “Dink, I think your mum’s house would have been worth far more than a room in this place, even with the bills included.”
Dink looked like he was about to cry again. “Really?”
They’d taken advantage of Dink. Wellington had swindled him out of his inheritance and all Dink had to show for it was a filthy room in a rundown HMO.
It suddenly dawned on Savage that it may have been better if Dink didn’t know this. Savage quickly countered. “Then again, you don’t have to worry about all those silly bills, and you don’t have to fill in all those housing-benefit forms.”
“Oh, they made me sign a housing-benefit form too,” said Dink.
“They did what?”
“I get housing benefit too. It’s paid straight to Mr Wellington.”
Savage and Archie exchanged worried glances.
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Dink.
Neither Savage or Archie said anything.
Dinky’s eyes changed, darkening like deep tunnels. He was slow-witted but even he could see he’d been screwed over. Wellington had got his house. He was also getting his housing-benefit cheques. A double win, getting paid twice for the same thing.
Wellington was far more ruthless and evil than even Savage had imagined.
Dink’s eyes glazed over. Then he said, “I want my mum.” He stuck his right fist into his mouth and began gnawing the skin off it.
“It’s okay, Dink,” said Archie, putting his arm around him. “Come on, big guy. It’s not so bad. You’ve got me.”
“And me,” said Savage.
All Dink could do was bite his knuckles in between asking for his mum. In Savage’s experience there was no purer or more primal sign of unbridled fear than a grown man crying for his mother. He’d heard even the most battle-hardened soldiers dying in war zones crying for their mums. In all those scenarios, there was nothing he could do, except grip their hands and stay with them until they slipped away. But he could do something about this.
“We’ll get this sorted,” said Savage. “You need to stop biting your hand. You’ll hurt yourself.”
Dink just wanted to self-harm or overeat to make the pain go away. Savage could understand that but he had to stop it.
“Archie, have you got anything you could give Dink to eat?”
“Pot noodles.”
“Take too long.”
“Pork scratchings,” Archie offered.
“Perfect.”
Archie disappeared in his room and returned with a couple of bags of pork scratchings. Dink snatched one of the packets out of his hand, tore it open and devoured it, then the other one without taking a breath. His teeth crunched the salty snack to smithereens, crumbs tangling in his beard. Having his mouth occupied at least stopped him from biting his hand, which was now covered in small puncture wounds across the tops of his knuckles.
“I’m taking you to see a doctor right now,” said Savage. “Get you some help.”
“That’s not a good idea,” said Archie. “They’ll take him away.”
Dink looked worried. “I don’t want to go away. Please don’t make me leave.”
Archie was right. There was a strong possibility he’d be held under the mental health act. Pumped full of drugs. They’d never let him out. But if he didn’t get help, Dink would do himself some serious damage.
; “Tell you what, Dink. Change of plan. We’ll find you a support group to attend. You can talk to other people with the same problems. It’s a good way of sorting out stuff in your head. Get good advice. Meet new friends.”
“Will there be any food?” Dink asked.
Savage laughed. “Maybe tea and biscuits.”
“Then I’ll go, if you come with me.”
“Of course,” said Savage with slight reluctance—this wasn’t a good start. Not the actions of the grey man. He was supposed to be keeping a low profile and fading into the background, not acting like a counsellor. However, he felt terrible for misreading Dink, and couldn’t leave the poor fellow to face the demons in his head. He argued with himself that he was sticking to his plan, sort of—do a few good deeds, gain their trust, be accepted by them. It was just happening a lot faster than anticipated.
He turned to look at Archie who’d been strangely quiet, a bland, unreadable expression on his face, like he was weighing up whether this was a good idea or not. For a moment Savage thought he detected a fleeting concern in his expression. It vanished, and then he spoke. “Can I come?”
“Why not? We’ll all go, bit of moral support,” Savage replied.
Chapter 21
It didn’t take them long to walk back from the Adult Education Centre where they registered Dink for a local help group that held meetings twice a week. The centre was just a stone’s throw away, in Itchen by the river. At first, Dink didn’t want to go in. So, like a child, Savage had to bribe him with food and said he’d cook them all something nice and healthy the next day. Dink still wasn’t convinced, balling his fists, getting ready to gnaw on them. Savage countered by saying Dink could have as much of the food he was going to cook as he wanted. He finally agreed to go in. Dink didn’t utter a word as the woman at the reception area explained the purpose of the meetings and other services the centre offered. He sat mesmerised, soaking up everything that was said.
As they wandered back, Dink remained quiet. Savage was tempted to ask him what he thought. He decided not to push the guy. Baby steps, Savage thought, baby steps.
