Heaven's Light

by Hurley, Graham

  Owens was blowing into his cupped hands, trying to restore a little warmth. He looked like a man on the edge of flu. He squinted at the photo. ‘Got beaten up,’ he said briefly. ‘Pub brawl last summer.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘The Whippet.’

  ‘Political?’

  Owens shook his head. ‘Too many snakebites,’ he said. ‘He likes to fuck about when he’s had a few.’

  Tully leafed quickly through the file, absorbing the contents as he went. Haagen had come to the attention of the Special Branch via a publication called the National Front News. Since October he’d been writing a regular column. There were photocopies of the column and Tully slipped one out. It seemed to boil down to a ferocious attack on Albert Speer, Hitler’s architect. Speer, wrote Haagen, had been a brilliant organizer, sorting out the bottlenecks in German industrial production. He’d sensibly put the Jews to work in slave-labour camps and achieved a series of minor miracles with the V2 programme. More or less single-handedly, he’d kept Hitler’s war going. But all that good work had been wrecked by the noises he’d made before his own death in 1981. He’d condemned the slaughter of the Jews. Worse still, he’d labelled the Führer ‘a monster’. ‘Who knows?’ Haagen had snarled in his closing line. ‘Maybe Speer was a closet Yid himself?’

  Tully read the column again, fascinated. It was a strange combination of scholarship and rant. In places it read like a degree treatise; in others it was the purest garbage. Tully slipped the photocopy back inside the file.

  ‘So why the interest?’ Owens queried, blowing his nose.

  Tully told him briefly about Liz. A friend of his had a daughter. The girl was up to her neck in hard drugs and the mother was blaming Haagen. Owens looked across at Tully and sniffed. His coat was covered in long brown hairs and he smelt powerfully of golden retriever. Tully wound down the window, letting in a blast of cold air.

  ‘What else have you got on him?’

  ‘Not much. Lives down here. Signs on at the DSS every other Thursday. Claims not to be working.’

  ‘What about the newspaper stuff?’

  ‘Says it’s unpaid, according to the benefits people. Apparently he’s working on a book, too. Something about the League of St George.’

  ‘League of what?’

  ‘St George. It’s a branch of the NF. Way out to the right. Cops all the real loonies.’

  ‘Including our friend here?’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s too bright for that.’

  Tully rolled up the window. Owens looked chilled to the bone. ‘I’ve been talking to the Met again,’ he went on. ‘Five have got a wire on one of the NF lines and our lads at the Yard have been getting a look at the transcripts. Bloke I talk to’s a pal of mine and he thinks they’re on to something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Some kind of event. Down here.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’ Owens fumbled for tissues. ‘Only there’s a financial problem.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Exactly. They’re planning something big and they don’t want to fuck it up by under-spending. I gather we’re talking transport, mainly. Plus collaterals.’ He indicated the photo on the dashboard. ‘That was our friend’s word for it.’

  ‘Does he figure on the transcripts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what does he mean by collaterals?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  ‘What do you think he means?’

  Owens looked at him and Tully sensed that at last they were getting to the heart of it. Special Branch attracted a certain breed. They were far from stupid and they never made a move without devoting a great deal of thought to the consequences. So why had Owens phoned him last week? Why the sudden interest in the National Front?

  ‘This event, whatever it is,’ Tully said carefully, ‘why tell me about it?’

  Owens looked briefly pained. Then he reached for the file. ‘Most of these guys are animals,’ he said. ‘They come down for the piss-up and the aggro. All they ask for is a target. The softer the better.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think your mate Haagen’s found them a target.’

  ‘Who?’

  There was a long silence. For the second time Owens checked his watch. Then he slipped the file inside his coat, nodding at the newly painted bulk of the Imperial Hotel, clearly visible across the Common.

  ‘There’s a bloke called Seggins,’ he said. ‘I gather you’ve had dealings.’

  Tully stared at him. Arthur Seggins, the previous owner of the Imperial, was a small-time entrepreneur who’d been making a fortune from bogus DSS claims. The last time Tully had seen him was on completion of Zhu’s purchase when he’d returned the evidence that could so easily have put Seggins in court.

  ‘You’re telling me Seggins is a target?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Owens’s hand at last found the door handle. ‘I’m telling you Seggins has signed on with the NF boys.’

  There was no sign of Zhu when the limo returned to the hotel to collect Hayden Barnaby. It was mid-morning but already the temperature was heading for thirty degrees and Barnaby felt the heat engulf him as he stepped out of the air-conditioned cool of the towering hotel atrium. He slipped quickly into the back of the limo, sinking into the soft leather as the car surged away. The rendezvous at the prison with Flora Li had been fixed for eleven o’clock and he sat back, stretching his long legs, wondering exactly where the meeting might lead. He and Zhu were to spend the afternoon discussing plans for the Imperial’s Southsea opening. Zhu had already signalled his desire for a lavish eight-course banquet and was preparing to fly in a special team of chefs and front-of-house waiters to ensure that every last detail was authentic. Whatever Flora had in mind couldn’t take longer than an hour.

  They drove along the coast, back towards the airport. The other side of the expressway was thick with inbound city traffic while, overhead, neatly uniformed workers tended the rich green loops of ivy trailing over the concrete flyovers. Both sides of the expressway were lined with soaring apartment blocks, each carefully sited around little clumps of co-ordinated trees. Winding past at a steady fifty miles an hour, this intricate urban landscape felt like a page ripped from an architect’s sketchbook, every detail and perspective carefully planned. After the colour and bustle of the downtown shopping area, this was another Singapore, no less impressive, and Barnaby found himself musing on the lives these people must lead, caged by constant exhortation.

  There’d been something slightly frightening in the sheer intensity of Flora’s self-belief. She belonged to a society that worked. It was her job, her responsibility, to make it even better and all that stood in her way was the tiresome weakness of the human condition. Barnaby fingered the beautifully stitched leather, remembering the sight of her leaving the restaurant. She walked like a model, erect, purposeful and, like everyone else he met in Singapore, left behind her the scent of something immensely expensive.

  Changi prison lay to the north of the airport. The driver used a pass to negotiate his way through two sets of security checks and at the third gate Barnaby handed in the scrap of paper Flora had given him. The guard studied it briefly, eyed Barnaby, then muttered to the driver. In a corner of the big courtyard ahead were parking spaces for visitors. They were to wait there.

  Minutes later, Flora emerged from a long low building set apart from the main prison compound. This morning she was wearing a dark knee-length skirt, severely cut, with a tailored jacket to match. Her hair hung down her back in a French braid, secured at the top by a twist of scarlet ribbon. Barnaby watched her walk towards the car. In Manhattan, he thought, she’d have been a bond dealer or an advertising executive, someone with a big desk, a hectic sex life and wonderful prospects. Here, she preached the gospel of hard work, family values and incessant self-improvement.

  She bent to the car, offering Barnaby a tight smile through the tinted glass. He opened the door, feeling the first prickles of heat even as his fee
t touched the tarmac. Flora was hoping he’d slept well. She had much to show him.

  Barnaby followed her into the welcome chill of the building she’d just left. At the end of a corridor, she led him into a small office. From the wall across the desk, an enormous pair of eyes stared at newcomers. Across the top of the poster, above a line of Chinese characters, the message read ALERT! TOGETHER WE CAN STOP CRIME!. Barnaby stepped closer, trying to decipher a much smaller line of type at the bottom. ‘Crime Watch’, it went. ‘Special Issue for the Festive Season.’

  Barnaby smiled, aware that Flora was waiting for his reaction. She had a small leather zip-up briefcase tucked beneath one arm. In her other hand, she held a thick sheaf of papers. She gave them to him.

  ‘This is Mr Zhu’s idea,’ she said at once. ‘He thinks you should see the bad side, too.’

  ‘Bad side?’

  ‘This is a prison. We’re not perfect, Mr Barnaby.’

  She shepherded him towards the door. Changi, she said, was one of two prisons on Singapore Island. The regime was tough and widely publicized. That, in itself, served as a deterrent to crime but there were also big fines and, for serious offences, the certainty of the death penalty.

  They were walking down another corridor. Right and left, through squares of wired glass inset in steel doors, Barnaby could see rows of iron-framed beds. The dormitories appeared to be empty.

  ‘You hang lots of people?’

  ‘Last year,’ she glanced over her shoulder, ‘seventy-six.’

  ‘And does it work?’

  ‘They die, sure.’

  ‘I know, but…’

  They were at the end of a long hall. To the right, through another door, Barnaby could hear movement, an occasional voice, the shuffle of footsteps. Flora was looking at her watch and frowning. For once, she seemed hesitant.

  Barnaby glanced down at the briefing papers. According to the Minister of Trade and Industry, Singapore manufactured more than half the world’s supply of computer disk-drives. He looked up again. Flora had half opened the door. Inside, Barnaby could see what looked like a gymnasium. There were climbing bars on the walls and thick ropes hanging from iron rings in the ceiling.

  He heard a sharp hissing noise, then a fleshy smack and a deep-pitched grunt, semi-human. Puzzled, he stepped round the door. On the far side of the gym stood perhaps a dozen men. They were all naked. One was spreadeagled over an upright wooden frame, similar to an artist’s easel. His hands and his ankles were strapped, and Barnaby could see what looked like a handkerchief twisted between his teeth. Several metres behind him, at the end of a length of coconut matting, stood a short, squat man in a sky blue Adidas tracksuit. He was carrying a long thin cane and, as Barnaby watched, he flexed it in his hands then swept it left and right, producing the hissing noise again. Finally, he turned round. With a curious skipping motion, he came sideways down the coconut matting, slashing at the man’s back, putting all his strength into the blow. The man jerked with the impact, shaking his head, and Barnaby saw his eyes widen and then shut tight as the footsteps came dancing down the mat again and the cane descended for a third time. Each blow raised a long, scarlet welt across the pale skin and Barnaby realized that the grunting noise came not from the man lashed to the easel but from the daunting figure in the tracksuit.

  The flogging went on, five lashes, six, and some of the other men had turned away, not wanting to watch. At last the man in the tracksuit tossed the cane to one side, mopped his face with his bare hand then gestured towards two attendants, clad in spotless white tunics. They ran to the easel, released the straps and helped the wounded youth towards a long trestle table, keeping him at arm’s length to avoid soiling their clothes. There was a bowl of something yellow on the table and they began to sponge away the blood on his back, telling a couple of the other men to hold him up as they did so. Barnaby watched them at their work, sickened by how slick and familiar this operation had obviously become. The next luckless target was already being tied to the easel, his legs spread wide, the muscles of his back visibly tensing.

  Barnaby felt the touch of Flora’s hand on his arm. She was wondering about coffee? Did he take milk? Sugar? Barnaby shook his head. He was looking at the man in the tracksuit. Occasionally, when he caught someone’s eye, he’d smile.

  ‘What have these guys done?’ he asked. ‘Why the punishment?’

  Flora looked confused, then began to apologize. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought Mr Zhu had told you.’

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘This is our drugs rehabilitation unit.’ She gestured at the man spreadeagled at the end of the coconut matting. ‘There’s a note on the success rate in your briefing. Mr Zhu thought you might be interested.’

  Jessie was sitting in her usual position next to the door when the group turned on Lola. The session had started at two o’clock, half an hour earlier than normal, and so far Jessie had managed to deflect the odd asides that, on a different day, might have developed into something ugly.

  There were nine in the group including the staff member they called the moderator. The moderator’s name was Alan, a thin, cadaverous ex-junkie from Camberwell who’d survived a year-long rehab course in a similar set-up near Oxford and then become a founder member of the Merrist House community. Jessie had leaned hard on him during the five weeks of her assessment module but now knew that she could expect little help if the groups got rough.

  A languid black twenty-six-year-old called Chester was currently under attack. The three-hour session was designed to develop emotional honesty and openness and two of the younger residents felt that Chester had no interest in either. So far, he’d got no further than mumbling something about not wanting any of this shit. In group terms this was the verbal equivalent of turning his back and Jessie winced, knowing that this kind of reaction was bound to unleash the real pit bulls in the room.

  One was called Brent, a small, thick-set, aggressive youth from Reading. His face and upper body were cratered with acne and he’d demonstrated his indifference by adding a number of heavy-duty tattoos. Jessie and Lola knew about the tattoos because recently Brent had developed a habit of appearing semi-naked on the corridor outside their room up on the first floor. On the street, Brent’s problem had been alcohol, not hard drugs, and Lola had twice had to fend off his attentions, warning Jessie he was close to psychopathic. Brent had been referred to Merrist House as a condition of discharge after an ABH conviction. Out of his head on vodka, he’d crushed a glass in a student’s face.

  Now, cleverly, he was carrying the attack to Lola. In what passed for group dynamics, Jessie had come to recognize this as one of the subtler tactics. If Chester wouldn’t be goaded by frontal attack, enlist him in someone else’s war until he opens up enough to present a worthwhile target of his own.

  The group sat in a wide circle. Brent was bent forward on his chair, directly opposite Lola. ‘You’ve been on the phone again,’ he said. ‘Fucking squawking. Squawk. Squawk. Look at me. Squawk. Squawk.’ Lola turned her head away. Brent might have been a bad smell. ‘Well?’ he yelled at her. ‘Haven’t you?’

  Lola nodded. Normally her voice was low. Often, in their room, Jessie had to strain to catch what she was saying. Now she looked Brent in the eye.

  ‘What if I fucking have? What’s it to you?’

  ‘It’s everything to fucking me. Everything.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re telling me something. You’re telling me what a tragic little cunt you are. Crying your fucking eyes out all the time. Me, me, me. That’s what you’re saying. Me, me, me, and that squitty little daughter of yours. Candelle? What kind of fucking name’s that?’

  Jessie could see the colour draining from Lola’s face. Brent was so pleased with the reaction he seemed to have abandoned Chester altogether.

  ‘Well, cunt?’ he screamed. ‘Are you telling me I’m fucking wrong or what?’

  Lola was looking towards Alan. Her hands were shaking. She wanted he
lp.

  ‘You’re out of order, Brent,’ Jessie heard herself saying. ‘You don’t have the first fucking idea.’

  Brent turned on Jessie. The veins were cording on the sides of his neck and his face was scarlet. ‘Was I asking you? Little Miss Tight Arse?’

  ‘No, but I’m telling you just the same. One day you might have a daughter, God help her, and then maybe you’ll understand.’

  ‘Understand, understand.’ Brent mimicked Jessie’s accent. Before Merrist House, Jessie had never given a thought to the way she spoke but the last six weeks she’d been crucified for her manners and her pronunciation. Getting through an entire sentence without an obscenity, she’d quickly discovered, was the very worst form of verbal insult.

  Brent had stopped to draw breath. Chester appeared to have gone to sleep. Lola, her head down again, was fighting to control herself.

  Another youth stepped in. His street nickname was Manik and Jessie knew him from her days with Haagen, trying to score in Pompey pubs.

  ‘Look at you,’ Manik sneered, gesturing derisively at Lola, ‘the fucking state of you. Brent’s right. All you fucking want is sympathy. Me, me, me.’

  Brent took up the chant. Lola had been flashing pictures of her daughter since the day she’d arrived at the place. She was so fucking thick, she thought they’d protect her.

  ‘Too fucking right.’ Manik nodded vigorously. ‘Fucking dishonest, that. Don’t touch me. Don’t be nasty to me. I’m a mother, look, proof, my little Candelle.’ He leaned towards Lola and blew hard, the way a child might blow on a birthday cake. ‘Oooops!’ he said. ‘Sorry! Just blown the little cunt away!’

  Brent barked with laughter. One or two others in the group sniggered. Lola was sitting bolt upright, her knees pressed together, her hands bunched into tiny fists. Jessie wanted to reach out, touch her, comfort her, but group rules prohibited physical contact.

  Very slowly, Lola got to her feet. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. She unzipped the jeans and pulled them down. Underneath, she had a pair of black bikini briefs. She pulled these down too, her eyes never leaving Brent’s face.