by RJ Dark
I felt like ants were marching through my veins.
Nearly 10 a.m. I could go see Janine Stanbeck and see if I could find that book. Something about it was buzzing in the back of my brain. I would park right outside her house and drive straight back with the book. No way was anyone going to come and grab me in the time it took me to get to the door and back. If they tried I could run. I definitely felt like they wouldn’t be able to catch me.
Not today.
Not after four cups of Soulja Pep!
I went out the back. I wore a black baseball cap I could pull down, and if I hunched my shoulders I could tell myself no one would recognise me. Maybe all the caffeine was affecting my thought processes a little. But my mind was made up. I glanced up and down outside the shops. No one there so I ran over to my Ford Ka. It took three tries to get the key in the door. I started to wonder if maybe Soulja Pep! had more than caffeine in it. I’d check when I got back.
I stalled the car twice but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. On the way to Janine Stanbeck’s house I stopped off at a shop to pick up chewing gum and tried to have a chat with the guy behind the counter but he wasn’t interested in talking.
By the time I got to the house, the fizzing energy I’d been feeling had fled, along with the minty taste of the chewing gum. It had left behind a gnawing sense that maybe coming here had not been my best idea. Opposite Janine’s house, two men were lounging against the wall.
This was almost definitely a bad idea.
I decided to throw out the Soulja Pep! when I got back home.
But the two men had already clocked me and weren’t making any sort of move in my direction, so that made it likely that they worked for Mick Stanbeck, which in turn made it unlikely the Russians were going to sweep by and pick me up. I mean, Mick’s men would probably stop that happening.
Hopefully.
I got out the car, crossed the road and pressed the button on the intercom. Janine opened the door.
‘What do you want?’ Her son was hanging back, standing in the door of the kitchen. He needed someone to wipe his nose, and I found him difficult to look at – I’m not good with bodily fluids.
‘I need to look at your husband’s stuff again.’
‘You’ve looked.’
‘I need to look again.’
‘Are you wasted?’
‘No, just too much coffee.’
‘You look wasted.’
‘Too much coffee and not enough sleep. Can you let me look, please? It’s important.’
She rolled her eyes.
‘You’ll have to be quick,’
‘Okay.’ She moved aside and let me through.
‘You should wipe your kid’s nose,’ I said.
She stared at me and I think she considered pushing me back out the door, but at that moment, the phone rang upstairs. She turned and went up the stairs in front of me. She was wearing a very tight skirt in a silky material, covered with flowers. I tried not to stare at her backside, which was harder than you imagine as the stairs were steep and it was right in front of my face.
She left the kid downstairs.
Maybe she did that a lot. Maybe that was how his nose stayed unwiped.
At the top of the stairs, she pointed at her husband’s office room and went into her bedroom. She picked up her mobile from the bed, perfectly made, and stared at the screen, then answered it.
‘Hang on, calm down,’ she said and then looked up, gave me a very false smile and slammed the door shut. I tried to listen to what she was saying, but she kept her voice down. I gave up and went into the office to begin my search.
The office wasn’t as I had left it. Everything was still filed away on the cheap shelves or in boxes, but I’d left it tidy. Now it looked like someone had been through it in a hurry, looking for something. The computer sat on the desk, but the keyboard was askew, as if someone had been using it. I ignored the computer; it didn’t have what I was looking for. I was following a vague memory of a notebook with a picture of that house in it. Was it blue, navy blue? Or black? Was it in a drawer or in one of the box files? I couldn’t remember, still wasn’t sure about it or why I wanted to see it. Just a thing, tapping away at the back of my mind. I went through the box files, nothing. Then through the desk, carefully emptying out each drawer, even the one that was full of pens without tops, just in case it was somehow hiding at the bottom.
Nothing.
Had someone taken it.
Or had I imagined it?
Not in the drawers, not in the files. I sat back in the chair. There were boxes in one corner, and when I took the tops off, they were full of baby things, clothes and toys. They weren’t folded carefully or sorted in any way, simply stuffed in the boxes. I picked out a pink cloth elephant.
‘Mine.’ I turned, the boy stood there, he still needed someone to wipe his nose. I held out the elephant, and he stepped forward and took it.
‘My daddy knew the score,’ he said, and tapped the side of his head.
‘No doubt he did.’ I fished in my pocket and found an old tissue, held it out to him. ‘Wipe your nose,’ I said.
He looked at me as if I was talking another language.
‘My daddy knew the score,’ he said again, and I realised I was either going to have to stare at the stream of mucus running down his face or clean it off myself. I didn’t want to do either.
‘Are you looking for your mum?’
He shrugged his shoulders and hugged the pink elephant. I had the awful feeling this was the most attention he’d had in a while. ‘Come here,’ I said. He stepped closer. I reached out and used the tissue to wipe his nose clean. There was no bin, so I threw it on the box. A nice reminder of his childhood for someone later on. When his nose was clean, he blinked. His eyes seemed enormous; the tears he was fighting back filling his eyes, magnifying them. Then he leaned in against me, pushing his small warm body into mine. He was all bone, and for a moment I didn’t know what to do. Then I heard the noise he was making – quiet sobbing – and I remembered being small and feeling that way myself. I put my arms round him and he nestled further into me.
‘You miss your dad, huh?’
I felt his head move, nodding against me.
‘He asleep.’ Words escaping past tears.
‘Yeah, mine too.’
‘Do he wake up?’
I didn’t know how to answer that. I didn’t understand death myself, never mind how to explain it to a kid. Fortunately, I didn’t have to.
‘Cristophe! Get away from him.’ Janine stood in the door, mobile phone in one hand. ‘Mr Jones is here to work and then go away, and we want him to go away, so don’t disturb him. Go and play downstairs.’
I let go, and the boy pulled back. He gave me a look as if I’d betrayed him, then ran out the door.
Janine watched him go. ‘Are you finished yet?’ she said.
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, be quick, and don’t mess about with my kid, alright?’
I nodded.
She stayed in the doorway looking at me, I had the distinct feeling that in another time she would have lit a cigarette and pulled hard on it. ‘You’re not going to find my money, are you?’
‘That’s why I’m here. I’m doing my best.’ She continued to stare. ‘Has someone been through this room since I was here last?’
She shook her head, and I imagined her blowing smoke into the air.
‘Finish up,’ she said, ‘I’ve got things to do.’ Then turned around and when she reached the top of the stairs, she started shouting at the boy. I wanted to find the money because I had this idea in my head of Janine using it for her and the kid to escape the Edge, but the more I saw her, the more I thought money wouldn’t help, and Cristophe was likely to end up being one of those kids who fell down the back of society. It wasn’t as much about where you were raised, sometimes, but by who. Money probably wasn’t going to help Cristophe.
Where was that book? I’d put it somewhere for Jan
ine, because she’d asked me to give any of Larry’s work to her so she could give it back. I’d found it, but I hadn’t given it to her. I’d forgotten, because …
Because?
What had I done with it?
I had a clear image of placing it on top of the computer. Putting it aside so I would remember to give it back. I stood, moved over to the computer and closed my eyes. What had happened next?
Did something interrupt me? Yes. I remembered Janine coming in. She interrupted me. And then I banged the chair against the desk and a file fell off it.
I stared at the computer, smiled and reached down the back. The desk had a space for wires to come up through it and the notebook had slid off the top of the old-fashioned monitor and down the back, getting jammed in there. I had to stand on my tiptoes to reach over the old monitor to get it. My fingers scraped the spine. I leant in a little further, managed to grab the book and fish it out.
‘Are you finished yet?’ shouted Janine from downstairs. ‘I really need to go out.’ I opened the book, flicked through the drawings in it and found a sketch that looked like the house in Russian Frank’s office. That’s where I’d seen it before.
‘Yeah,’ I shouted back. ‘I’m done.’ I put the book in my inside pocket. ‘I didn’t find anything though,’ I said as I got to the top of the stairs. Janine stood at the bottom, keys in her hand.
‘What a shock,’ she said, and she opened the door for me. I’m not sure it was out of politeness.
Outside, I got a surprise. Jackie was leaning against the little Ford Ka, trying and failing to do a trick with a yo-yo. He lifted his face, glared at me, and went back to playing with his yo-yo as I approached.
‘I didn’t think you’d be out yet.’
‘Obviously, you didn’t’ – he tried to make the yo-yo climb back up the string and failed – ‘Cos I told you to stay in.’
He stared at me.
‘I couldn’t. I was climbing the walls.’
He stared harder at me. Then wound up the yo-yo, put it in his pocket and walked over. Studied my face.
‘Are you wasted?’
‘No, I just had too much coffee.’
‘You look wasted.’
‘I’m not, how are you even here?’
‘Good lawyer,’ he said. ‘No way anyone at the CPS was going to believe two known criminals over the word of a respected local businessman.’ He straightened up a little. ‘That’s me,’ he added. ‘To be honest, I think DI Esther just wanted to get me alone for a bit.’
‘I’m sure she did.’
‘Anyway.’ He took some chewing gum from his pocket and unwrapped a stick, put it in his mouth then offered the packet to me. ‘You find anything?’
‘I got the notebook, and someone has searched Larry’s office since I was last there.’ I took some gum. My hand was shaking. Thanks ‘Soulja Pep!’
‘But the book was still there?’
‘It had fallen down the back of the computer.’
He moved in even closer to me.
‘Are you absolutely sure you’re not wasted?’
‘Yes.’ I said.
He furrowed his eyes, then let out a little ‘huh’ and stepped back.
‘Drive us back to the office and I’ll look through the book’ – I tapped my chest where the book was hidden – ‘see if I can work anything out.’
I’d barely opened the book as we drove before my phone rang.
Caller: Mal? Malachite Jones?
I knew the voice, but not well enough to put a name straight to it.
Caller: I need some help, Mal, and you’re the only one I can think of.
Whoever was speaking sounded on the edge of hysteria.
Caller: They’ve taken my da.
Me: Wait, slow down, who has? And who am I talking to?
A breath. I heard the person on the other end of the phone mentally stop and gather themselves.
Caller: It’s me, Callum Callaghan. From school, remember? And the yard, and then I was jogging?
Me: Yeah, course I do, Callum, sorry, bad line. Who’s taken your dad? Is it the Russians?
As soon as I said that, Jackie’s head turned, locking on to me.
Callum: ‘Russians?’
He sounded confused.
Callum: No, it’s Trolley Mick. Mick’s taken him.
Me: But your dad works for Mick.
Callum: Mick thinks my da killed Larry – they’re gonna kill him, Mal.
Me: You need the police, Callum.
Callum: No police.
The line was bad, and I couldn’t tell if he was breaking up or the line was.
Callum: Look, Mal, I know Mick doesn’t show it, but he likes you.
Me: I’m not sure he—
Callum: They’ll kill him, Mal. Please. Just go, beg him for my da’s life.
Me: Go where? You really need the pol—
I was nearly thrown out my seat by Jackie swerving the car over to the side of the road and slamming on the breaks. He snatched the phone from me, ‘Do you know where he is?’Jackie dug open the glove compartment and about four years’ worth of old sweet and crisp packets fell out. He gave me a baleful look and mouthed, ‘Pen?’ at me. I shrugged, and he shook his head. ‘Say it again, Callum. Unit three, Richmile Estate. OK.’ He turned to me. ‘Mal, remember that address. How long ago?’ A space and his eyes widened. ‘Why did you wait that fucking long? Okay, well, I suppose Mal would be scared, so that’s what normal people do. You’re sure that’s where they’ll have him?’ Jackie nodded as he listened to the reply. ‘Okay. We’ll go. Tell me something, Callum – your dad told us that Mick sent him to get that van, was that a lie then?’ Another space. ‘Alright, it’s what he told you. Okay, we’re going now.’
Jackie handed me back my phone, put the car in gear, checked the mirror and pulled out into traffic. He didn’t look at me.
‘Are we going to go help Benny Callaghan?’
‘Well, we’re going to find out what’s happened to him,’ he said. We drove on for a bit. Jackie seemed to be choosing his gears very deliberately, driving in old-lady mode, staring straight ahead as he drove.
‘You’re not going very fast,’ I said.
He shook his head. Chewed on his gum. ‘No. I’m not.’ He brought the car to a stop at an amber light. He generally treated amber as a signal that meant ‘speed up and you’ll probably make it’.
‘Not quite how I imagine a rescue mission.’ He turned to me. Ran a hand through his hair then checked it in the mirror, His eyes flicked to the traffic light, seeing it was still red.
‘They took him last night, Mal. I don’t think arriving a couple of minutes earlier is going to make much difference to Benny.’
The light changed. Jackie put the car in gear and drove on, staring forward. He looked serious.
He looked older.
21
Calling Richmile Industrial Estate an ‘industrial estate’ was like calling me one of the Ghostbusters. It was four large garages; ill-kept corrugated steel over timber frames, set in the middle of a field on the moors next door to a derelict farmhouse. In the garden of the farmhouse was an overgrown tractor and two long, rusted containers – the type used on ships and trucks. The containers had once been blue, but time had left the colour as no more than a vague memory. Jackie brought the car to a stop behind the containers, so it was hidden from anyone who might be in the industrial units.
‘This is going to be bad, isn’t it?’ I said.
Jackie’s hands were locked around the steering wheel and he was pushing himself back into the car seat, staring straight ahead.
He nodded.
‘Doesn’t look much like an industrial estate, does it?’
‘Good place to grow weed,’ he said, staring at the fields and moorland where the heather had been parched brown by the sun.
‘Maybe this needs the police, Jackie.’
‘He called you.’
‘Why me?’
‘They’re criminals
, Mal, they don’t talk to the cops. That shit runs deep.’
‘What does he think I can do?’
‘Talk to Mick. But it’s probably too late.’ I didn’t say anything, and he sighed. ‘No cars, no vans. Nobody here.’
‘Maybe they didn’t come here.’
‘Maybe they’ve done what they need to.’
I didn’t like the sound of that much.
‘Maybe we should call the police then, Jackie?’
Jackie gave me a look. It was a look that said, ‘We are not going to call the police.’
‘Do you have a baseball bat in the boot, Mal?’
‘Of course not.’
Jackie gave me another look. It was a look that said, ‘You should have a baseball bat in the boot.’
‘Okay, you have the kit for changing the tyre though, right?’
I shrugged. ‘Never looked.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’ He got out the car and went round the back, opened the boot and I heard him pushing things about and swearing. When he came back, he had the wrench thing for getting the nuts off the wheels in his hand. ‘Come on then.’
I didn’t really want to go with him, but I didn’t have much choice. I had half expected Jackie to dash forward, bent over, moving from cover to cover like he was in an action movie, but he didn’t. He walked straight forward, occasionally shifting his grip on the wrench and keeping his eyes locked on the doors of Unit 3. I followed.
It was incredibly quiet.
Summer quiet.
The air was still and hot, and there was no breeze. The grass around the rusting tractor was so still and so green, it was easy to imagine we were walking through a single frame in a film. Birds sang in small, high voices, chirping out tunes, while crickets rasped, and Jackie walked forward.
My phone rang.
‘Shit.’ I dragged it from my pocket as the first bars of the song ripped through the quiet.
Jackie shot me a dirty look.
‘Sorry.’
A text from Beryl. I didn’t read it, just switched my phone off.
I started to say sorry to Jackie again, but he clearly didn’t want to speak to me just then, so I mouthed my apology.
He stopped in his walk toward the industrial unit, tapped his leg gently with the wrench and then strode over to the derelict farmhouse. We spent five minutes going through the dark rooms on the lower floor. They were all covered in graffiti, which I thought showed real commitment on the part of the artists – it was a long drive just to spray a penis on a wall. But apart from the spray-painted genitals and unreadable tags, there was nothing in the derelict house.
