Cage of Bones

by Tiana Carver

  The fifth … absent. As always.

  There had been no welcomes beyond common courtesy. No catch-ups, no jokes. Just silence. Tension zinging in the air like taut steel cable in a high wind. The room cold from more than just air-conditioning.

  One of them had to start.

  ‘I think I speak for everyone here,’ the Lawmaker said, ‘when I say, what the fuck did you think you were doing?’

  The ice was broken but the room was still cold. The words expressed what the others had been thinking. They wanted answers.

  ‘Please,’ said the Portreeve, customarily positioned at the head of table, ‘try and keep emotion out of this. It clouds the issue.’ He turned to the subject of the inquiry. ‘But the Lawmaker is right and the point needs answering. What did you think you were doing, Missionary?’

  ‘Do we still need these stupid names? Can’t we all talk properly for once?’ A shake of the head from the Missionary.

  ‘We need them,’ said the Portreeve. ‘You know we do.’

  ‘They’re practical as well,’ said the Teacher. ‘Stops anyone listening in from gathering evidence against us. Should that arise.’

  ‘So I say again, Missionary,’ said the Lawmaker, ‘what did you think you were doing?’

  ‘You know we need money,’ said the Missionary. ‘For this deal to go ahead. And we need this deal. Otherwise we’re all … well, you know. So I just thought I’d dispose of one of the old properties. We don’t use it any more; valuable real estate, that.’

  The Lawmaker leaned forward. ‘And you didn’t think to tell any of us about this?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important.’

  The other three stared at the Missionary.

  Not used to begging, the Missionary gave a good approximation of it. ‘Look, I was miles away. I didn’t want the deal to go south; what was I supposed to do? I did what I thought was best for all of us. Thought I’d get a thank-you. Didn’t think I’d get this.’

  They kept staring at him.

  ‘I mean,’ the Missionary said, ‘I didn’t think he’d still be at it, did I? Not now, not after all this time.’

  ‘Really?’ The Teacher spoke. ‘Are you that naïve? Or just stupid?’

  ‘How was I supposed to know?’

  ‘Did you think he’d just stop? That he’d ever change? You of all people should know better.’

  The Missionary sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I just … didn’t think.’

  The Teacher leaned forward. ‘The cage is still there.’

  The Missionary shuddered. ‘Yeah. Well … I thought he’d have … others.’

  ‘He does,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘Reserve ones.’

  ‘Then why couldn’t he have—’

  ‘Because everyone has their favourite.’ The Portreeve spoke in a voice to end all argument. ‘He’s no different in that respect. All part of the ritual.’

  ‘I didn’t think there still was a ritual. I thought, you know, the deal going through and all that, looking to the future …’

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘We need to know what’s happening now. We need damage limitation. We need a plan.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said the Portreeve. ‘Progress report. Suggestions.’

  ‘I see it like this,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘There are three distinct areas we need to look at. One. What’s going on with the police investigation into the cage and the boy. Two. Making sure none of this impacts on the shipment arriving safely. Three. Making sure the ritual goes ahead.’

  The Missionary looked confused. ‘The ritual’s still going ahead? After all this?’

  ‘Has to,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘Too important not to. For him. He’s very angry at what happened. Very angry.’

  ‘The Missionary shuddered. ‘Right. Yes. Couldn’t we just …’ Knowing what the answer would be, he let the words trail away.

  The Teacher didn’t speak, just stared at him.

  The Missionary sighed once more. ‘God, what a mess.’ Then looked up, eyes dancing. ‘Wait. Does it have to be that one? Couldn’t he use another one?’

  ‘You know better than to ask that.’ The Portreeve shook his head. ‘It has to be the chosen child. The ritual demands it.’ Leaning forward. Ghost of a smile. ‘Or would you like to suggest your idea to him yourself?’

  ‘So we have no option,’ said the Teacher. ‘We need to get the child back.’

  ‘And,’ said the Portreeve, ‘the police investigation has to be controlled.’

  All eyes turned to the Lawmaker. Who gave a slow, weary smile. ‘All down to me, then. Again.’

  ‘Is the woman still a threat to us?’ asked the Teacher.

  ‘No,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘She met with a nasty accident this morning.’

  ‘Good,’ said the Teacher. ‘One less problem to worry about. It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s being taken care of. I don’t think there’ll be repercussions.’

  ‘Christ, what a mess,’ said the Missionary.

  ‘Of your making,’ said the Teacher.

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘We need to think, to plan. Come on, focus, concentrate. This is the most important thing you’ll do all year.’

  They all sat back, thinking.

  The only noise in the room the low murmur of air-conditioning.

  Then, focused and concentrated, they began to talk.

  Eventually, they had their plan.

  30

  Donna put the mug to her lips. Too hot. She set it back on the table at the side of the sofa. Took the cigarette from the ashtray, placed it between her lips, dragged down. Heard the paper curl and burn, felt the smoke fill her body. Took it way down. Blew out a stream of smoke, clouding her view of the living room. She held it in her fingers, looked at the glowing tip. The alcohol and drug tremble in her hands was subsiding, the tea and nicotine helping. She took another drag, curled her legs beneath her, looked at Ben playing on the floor.

  Escape. That was what she was thinking about. Escape.

  And Faith.

  And the lies she had told the police bitch.

  Escape. Donna knew all about it. Wrote the fucking book on it. If there was anything she was an expert in, that was it.

  Escape.

  That was how she had ended up where she was. How all the girls had ended up there, if they were honest. Which they weren’t, most of the time. Not to people who didn’t matter. And they were the ones they dealt with most of the time. Punters. Police. Council. Sometimes all three.

  But escape. Running away. They were all running away from something. Herself included. Abusive husbands. Rapist fathers. Or fathers, uncles and friends. Families that weren’t. Running. Always running.

  That was why they were all such fucking messes. Herself included. Running away, needing to escape.

  Escaping into anything. A different life. Being a different person. Different name. And the ways of escape. Pills. Booze. The rock and the pipe. The herb. Lovely, all of it. Comedowns could be a bastard, but so what? Just score some more. Get high again.

  Escape.

  Another mouthful of tea. Cool enough to drink. Another deep draw.

  Faith always said she was running. Escaping from something. Always had her stories. Donna never paid much attention. She had her own stories. Sometimes she told them. And when she did, she always changed them. Never the same one twice. But they were always the truth. At least they were at the time.

  But Faith’s stories. The same every time. Running from something big. Had to escape. Couldn’t say anything, but had to escape.

  Donna had never really listened. If it’s that big, she had said, why don’t you go to the papers? The TV? Get yourself on there?

  Faith had just laughed. You think they’re not in on it? It’s huge, I’m telling you. Massive. They’re all in it together.

  Donna had laughed then.

  Keep me head down. Best way. Keep meself safe. And Ben. Especially Ben. ’Cos that’s who
they want really. If somethin’ happened to me, it would be him they’d want.

  And that had been that. Donna had let her go on. Silly girl. Silly little stupid messed-up girl.

  Lots of the girls talked like that. Booze fantasies. Crack dreams. Spliff psychosis. And they were all true, the stories, all real. Donna never paid it much mind. Her stories were true too. When she was telling them.

  But Faith … she hadn’t let up. Ever.

  If somethin’ happens to me, she had said one night, eyes pin-wheeling on skunk and vodka shots, anythin’, an accident, anythin’. Somethin’ happens … it’ll be them. After me. They’ll have got me. An’if they do that, an’if that happens … You’ve got to promise me … promise me …

  Donna had taken a hit off the skunk and promised her.

  Haven’t told you what yet. Promise me … you’ll look after Ben. Don’t let them take Ben. Whatever you do, don’t let them take Ben.

  Donna had thought she was talking shit, but looking in her eyes, her bloodshot, broken eyes, she had seen that her best friend was completely serious.

  So she had promised her. Whatever.

  Faith had seemed relieved. They will come, you know. In a big car. Two of them. Both men. Wearin’ suits. Like Jehovah’s Witnesses. But they’re not. They’re not …

  And then the drunken tears had started.

  Promise me … promise me …

  And Donna had promised once more.

  She sucked the fag down to the filter, crushed it in the ashtray.

  That copper. Martin. Hard-faced bitch. Fancied herself too. But she wasn’t as hard as she thought. Donna was good at reading people. She had to be in her line of work. Too many girls had got into the wrong car only to be found up in the woods at the Stour estuary with their brains smashed in by a claw hammer. So she had taught herself to read people. And Martin had been easy.

  Easy to read.

  Even easier to lie to and get away with it.

  There was something behind her eyes. Some kind of damage. Hurt. And anger. Lots of anger. Donna would put money on there being a man behind it. Which was why she had sent her after Daryl.

  She smiled.

  Wished she could be there when Martin stomped in, accused him of being a pimp, of having something to do with Faith’s death. Oh, that would be priceless. Because Daryl was their pimp. Or used to be. Pimp and ex. She hoped he would get into something with Martin. Knew he would. Hoped that the bitch copper was angry enough and psycho enough to make something of it.

  She wouldn’t like to put money on the outcome of that one.

  She smiled, took a mouthful of tea. Grimaced. It was cold. She uncurled from the sofa and crossed to the window. Looked out.

  And there it was. A big car. On the opposite side of the road.

  A shiver ran through Donna. Her stomach flipped over.

  Coincidence, she thought. The council out looking for benefit fiddlers again.

  She looked closer. Two men sitting in it. Both wearing suits. Neither Jehovah’s Witnesses.

  They were looking at her house. They were waiting.

  Shit. Shit shit shit.

  Her hands began to shake from more than last night’s booze and drugs. She had to do something. Anything.

  Ben was still playing on the floor. Absorbed in his own world of make-believe. She looked again at the window, then down to the boy.

  Thought of her friend. That silly girl. That silly little stupid messed-up girl.

  Tears sprang to the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t grieved for Faith. Her best friend. Her lover. And she wouldn’t now. Things like that didn’t touch Donna. She told herself so all the time. She was too hard for that. She had to be.

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand, ran her hand down her jeans.

  ‘Come on, Ben, get your stuff together. We’re goin’ out.’

  ‘We goin’ to see Mum?’

  Donna felt the tears threaten again, pushed them back down. ‘No. We’re not. We’re … goin’ out.’ She forced a smile. ‘It’ll be an adventure. We’re runnin’ away. Come on.’

  The little boy stood up, went upstairs. Donna looked round, tried to think what to do next. They had to get away. Far away. They needed a car …

  She smiled. Went into the kitchen. Took out the biggest, sharpest kitchen knife she had. She never used it for cooking. But it came in handy to scare off psycho punters.

  A car. She knew just how to get one …

  31

  The pub had large rectangular windows. Huge, bare. Inviting passers-by to look in, saying to the world: we have nothing to hide. Nothing untoward goes on in here. We’re a friendly, happy place. Come on in.

  Rose Martin knew that was nowhere near the truth.

  The Shakespeare liked to think of itself as one of the roughest pubs in Colchester. Villains and criminals were drawn to it like the terminally self-deluded and desperate were to X Factor auditions. And like those X Factor auditionees, the pub’s clientele were a similarly hopeless and pathetic bunch. Petty and low-level, bungling and inept. The pub nurtured these no-hopers, fuelled their delusions, lubricated their lack of success until failures talked themselves into winners. Kings of a cut-price castle. Until the real world hit them like an icy blast from the North Sea.

  Until closing time came.

  Rose Martin had dealt with this place many times in a professional capacity, both in uniform and out. Mopping-up operations on a weekend, banging heads together, proving she was a tougher uniformed officer than her male colleagues. Or then with CID, chasing after one of the failures who believed – wrongly, of course – he was ready to move up a league.

  She knew this place.

  As she walked in, she felt the adrenalin rise within her. An old response kicking in, her hands automatically clenching into fists, body going into fight-or-flight.

  Fight, definitely.

  She had also attracted attention. Made immediately as filth. May as well have a big neon sign round her neck. The solitary drinkers dotted round the place had either looked up at her as she entered or put their heads down, eyes averted. On tables of two or more, hands had swept the surface, gone underneath, where they would stay until she had left. A gang of lads clustered round the pool table stopped playing, stared. Gripped their pool cues like tribal warriors holding spears.

  She moved further into the pub. The air was rank. Cigarette smoke no longer disguising wood ingrained and rotted by stale beer, or a toilet that hadn’t been recently cleaned, or a deep-fat fryer that hadn’t changed its oil since Tony Blair was prime minister.

  The walls were drab, bare. Chairs that had survived being used as Saturday-night brawling weapons clustered round old, scarred tables. Vinyl banquettes lined the walls, a patchwork of gaffer-covered slashes.

  Rose walked up to the bar. The barman was large and neckless. His stubble-shaved head went straight into his faded Hawaiian shirt. His face was as open and welcoming as an evangelical church to a married gay couple.

  She showed him her warrant card. She needn’t have done. ‘I’m looking for Daryl Kent. He in? I was told he’d be here.’

  The barman appeared to be thinking. Weighing up being a grass against not co-operating with someone who could get his pub investigated. He settled for nodding in the direction of the youths playing pool.

  ‘Which one?’ she said.

  ‘Dark lad. White hoodie.’ His lips didn’t move as he spoke.

  She nodded by way of thanks and crossed the floor to the pool table. Spotted Daryl Kent straight away. He was mixed race and angry about it. Or at least angry about something. His eyes narrowed, features set into a scowl. Body tensed, ready to leap, begging for trouble.

  ‘Daryl Kent?’

  He checked his gang first, a quick look either side. They moved in closer behind him, pool cues gripped tight. He looked back at Rose. ‘Who’s askin’?’

  She showed him her warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Rose Martin.’

  ‘Five-O.’ Pleased
with himself, like he’d just unravelled Fermat’s Last Theorem.

  She waited. ‘Daryl Kent.’ A statement not a question.

  A small nod. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can we talk?’

  Another look round. ‘Talk here. My bredrin’s safe.’

  Rose inwardly rolled her eyes. Talking like a New York gangster or a Jamaican yardie when he had probably been no further than Marks Tey.

  ‘You were Faith Luscombe’s boyfriend. Right?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘That a yes?’

  ‘Yeah. Some. Not no more. Bitch was skanky.’

  ‘Certainly isn’t no more, Daryl, because she’s dead.’

  It was like she had slapped him. Suddenly a different persona appeared. Shock passed over his features, followed by fear. Suddenly she sensed he was uncomfortable with his bredrin around him.

  ‘Seriously?’ His voice small, incredulous. A child’s response.

  ‘Seriously. Where were you last night, Daryl? Or this morning?’

  He backed away from her, into the pool table. Fear spreading over his features. ‘Naw, naw … not me. You ain’t stitchin’ me up for it.’

  ‘Where were you, Daryl?’

  Another look at his bredrin. They had dropped back away from him. Suddenly not that close. Rose was enjoying herself now. Putting this arrogant twat in his place.

  ‘With my … my new woman.’

  ‘What, your mum?’ She couldn’t resist it.

  His bredrin sniggered. Daryl became angry.

  ‘Not my mum. Cheeky bitch. My new woman. Denise. Was round at her place.’

  ‘Right. And do you pimp her out as well?’

  ‘What?’ Shock and incredulity.

  ‘Get her to have paid sex with other men and then take her money off her? I thought you of all people would know what a pimp does.’

  ‘I ain’t no pimp.’

  ‘No?’ Rose’s anger was increasing. ‘I hate liars, Daryl. I really do. Such a lack of respect, being lied to. But you know what? I hate pimps most of all. Scum. Lowest of the low. Cowards, living off women. Too lazy to get themselves work.’

  ‘I ain’t no pimp!’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘No I ain’t …’ Another look round to his bredrin, who weren’t helping him. They had drifted away from him now. He was on his own. His anger increased. Rose saw his lips move, eyes dart. Trying desperately to think of a comeback. ‘But if I was a pimp,’ he said, ‘I’d turn you out. Show you some respect for talking to me like that.’