by Ian Chapman
She leapt up and grabbed hold of me, wrapping me in a tight embrace, kissing me and muttering on.
I slid free and was off and out, her still at my side, following me along Back Lane. The mist had cleared. Men hung round the workshops that made tackle and ropes, mingling with shoppers who came from the stalls along the North Quay carrying lumps of meat and filthy vegetables. Amongst them drunks spilled out of the George and Dragon, getting air or looking for a fight.
Sophie yanked at my arm when we came to her shop.
‘This is all so good,’ she said.
‘Yeah?’ We stood in front of the shop window. It was filled with old toys and books on stands. Busted ornaments and bits of machinery. Crap, really, that no one wanted. The place had been a phone shop or something in the past, the name still visible under Sophie’s sign. She called it Faeston Phantasmagoria, whatever that meant. ‘Look, I have to go.’
She kissed me again and went into the shop, dusting broken computer equipment on a stand.
For the rest of the afternoon I skulked around town. Three drunks decided to take turns pissing down from the bridge on Bay Road. We had a little chat that ended with one having a bust lip and getting rounded up. I marched him to Round Up Central, dropping him off. Aside from that there was just a couple of fights by the Skinners Arms. Sailors letting off steam. Even when I had one fella pinned against the wall I was thinking about Sophie and her plans. Nico and his. Whatever Becky was up to.
Everyone had plans apart from me.
At the end of the day I reported to Round Up’s town office underneath the Globe. Nico was at his usual spot, that dirt-encrusted table, a whisky bottle before him. He was playing cards with Tyler and Noah. They nodded but Nico didn’t look up. For a while they carried on playing.
‘Good day?’ said Nico. His shades were down so it was hard to tell if he was talking to me.
‘Not bad.’
There was a roar of laughter from the bar upstairs.
He sipped whisky. ‘Round ups?’
‘Just the one.’
‘Oh.’ He smiled at this. ‘One is one. Anyhow, that’s you done. See you tomorrow.’
The three of them played cards, as if I’d gone.
‘I have a question,’ I said.
‘A question?’ Nico held the card he was about to place, looked at me over his sunglasses with a raised eyebrow. ‘What kind of question?’
‘About what we were talking about. That babysitting job.’
He took a breath, placed the card. ‘That kind of question.’ He looked at Noah and Tyler, then dropped his cards face down, shoving his chair back and walking to the back door, the one to the yard. He stood there until I joined him then we went out. It was a long thin yard with brick walls on each side, all topped with broken glass. The concrete paving was cracked and flaked with a drain set to the right surrounded by dried scum. At the far end was a door to the lane, bolted in several places.
Nico shut the door behind us as the seagulls soared above us. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘You want me to do some babysitting. For the fella from the tank.’
‘And?’
‘Just want to know a little more. About him.’
‘What’s to know?’
‘Who is he? What condition he’s in, you know…’
‘Really? You want to do this?’ He sighed, messed with the buttons on his suit. When I didn’t reply he carried on. ‘His name is Casper. We worked that out from a letter he had on him. He’s got a few bruises but otherwise, fine. All right?’ He grabbed hold of the door. ‘Happy?’
‘What was the letter?’
‘The letter? Nothing. Just a thank you note or some shit. All right?’
‘Yeah.’
Back inside he slumped back in his seat and picked up his cards, throwing one down. Noah and Tyler gave me a nod as I left but Nico didn’t react.
I stopped halfway along High Row, alongside the ships. There were only a few crew members on them, the odd man doing maintenance. It was low tide and the gang planks sloped down to the decks. Some would set sail late tonight but most would wait until the morning.
I headed home, avoiding Sophie’s shop and flat, passing men full of beer.
Then I stopped and turned right, heading the other way. I crossed Harbour Bridge, still marked from The Incident: sections bent and scorched. Bay Road had been cleared of the lorry’s wreckage but the tarmac was gouged and melted. As the road twisted off to the left I took Hillside Walk towards High Town, the best part of Faeston. Where Becky was. The path took me up the cliffside in a long sweep. Partway up I stopped and looked back at the town. The late afternoon sun caught the water in the harbour; reflected off windows and metalwork on the ships. It lit the wind turbines as they slowly turned. The turbines that kept the water pumping and docks working, the railway running: where whisky, raw materials and fuel came down from Scotland. Food and luxuries from abroad travelling back up. From here it looked like a place that had all the answers, somewhere facing forwards not back. Then I saw the great block that was Round Up HQ. Where the tank and Casper were held.
I carried on up the hill to the Bay Hotel.
It was a big old building on the edge of High Town. It had rows of tall windows and blocks of chimneys topped by rows of black pots. They’d kept it in good nick, even giving it a lick of paint every year.
The bar was half empty when I went in. There were a few lone drinkers and a big group all dolled up in old-world clothes, probably from on one of the passenger ships that came in once a week. Down from Aberdeen or Edinburgh. Places that hadn’t completely fallen apart. A couple of waiters drifted around. They picked up glasses, refilled drinks. This was a different world from the pubs at the quayside with their drunks and fights and tarts after business. I went up to one of the waiters and ordered a whisky then took a seat at a table away from the door, well away from the group.
My drink came and I sipped it. Looked out of the window across the town. At the sea that went on forever, empty apart from a couple of boats, probably trawlers trying to haul a few decent fish from the dead water. It was like the town was on the edge of the world. The rows of houses were now in darkness and the ships down in the harbour invisible. Only Round Up HQ stood out. I watched as it slipped into darkness.
The chair next to me shifted and Becky slid onto it, leaning on the table. She tapped my glass, the bracelet on her wrist jangling.
‘Mind if I join you?’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘My pleasure.’
She wasn't in her usual leathers but a thin jacket. It was undone and she wore a light top underneath: purple, patterned, reminding me of someone from my past. Someone gone. Her bright lipstick made her look like she was on a date. Waving her hand at waiter she ordered a gin with tonic. I asked for another whisky, a double. I knocked back the first.
‘You planning on getting drunk?’ she said.
‘Maybe.’
Music started to play, ancient pre-recorded stuff that wheezed through speakers around the room. It was some classic rock song, fast guitars, loud drums.
‘This is some town,’ she said. ‘Lights and music. Fuel you can afford.’
‘Yeah. It has its benefits.’
The whisky and gin arrived. She told the barman she was in room twelve, then examined the glass, sipping it, closing her eyes, savouring it.
‘Good?’ I said.
She nodded, taking the slice of lemon out of the gin, turning it round, staring at it. ‘You know, I’ve been looking for you for some time.’
I laughed. ‘Me or the lemon?’
‘Both.’
I played with my glass, kept my eyes on it, not on her. I’d let her talk, see what she gave away.
‘It’s just…I don’t know.’ She waved a hand around, putting the lemon into her mouth, chewing it, dropping it back into the glass. ‘Most places are so crazy. People wrapped up in stuff.’ Giving a shrug she took a drink, raising her eyebrow. It was hard not to compare
her to Sophie, measure them against each other. One mysterious, dangerous. The other settled, sensible, in a quirky sort of way.
Becky held her glass on the table, both hands on it. ‘I know I said too much the other night, about Round Up, the tank, but I wanted to be straight with you…set things out before you got the wrong idea.’
‘And what idea would that be?’
She faced me, smiled. ‘That I was just coming on to you. Another woman after you. I’m sure there’ve been a few.’
I said nothing, let silence say whatever she wanted it to say.
‘So, Trent, you know what I want. The question is, will you help me?’
The music went off and there was the burble of conversation. The bar had filled up in the last few minutes, mostly couples, all dressed up, pretending this really was somewhere fancy.
‘Depends on what you want,’ I said.
‘Not a lot. See how he is. Talk to him.’
The music started up again, this time a pop song, a female artist from the twenties. Becky was being careful. Maybe she was wise not to trust me. Not to give away too much. Still, I needed to know she wasn’t playing games. That this wasn’t a test from Nico.
‘How will I know it’s him?’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have a load of people in custody. How will I know it’s your brother?’
She laughed. ‘You can ask him. That would do it.’
I had a slug of whisky, swilled it around to let it burn a little. ‘Tell me about him.’
She waved at the waiter, called him over, stretching up so her jacket was tight on her body. ‘Want another drink?’
‘Go on.’ Maybe her plan was to get me drunk. Or maybe she just liked to drink.
She ordered the whisky and gin then stood up. ‘Let’s head outside.’ She walked off towards the door. I followed her.
Outside the air was cooler, fresh. Tables and chairs were set out on a flagged patio overlooking Faeston. The sun had set and lit the clouds a dull orange. The town was in shade, dotted by what few lights there were. Voices came from the harbour, distant shouts and whistles. Machinery droned at the docks, all backed by the constant growl of the wind turbines, their blades dark shadows. The spotlights on cargo ships and warehouses made them seem to float above the rest of the town. The sea stretched off into the black, featureless.
She sat at a table. ‘There aren’t many towns where you can do this,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten how amazing the sea could look.’
‘You can’t see the filth at night.’
‘All that water. Makes me want to strip off and go for a swim.’ She smiled at me. ‘You a swimmer?’
‘Not really.’ I didn’t let myself think about her in the water, naked.
The waiter came over and gave us our drinks. Becky thanked him. After a sip she spoke again. ‘This is so good.’
‘You were going to tell me about your brother.’
‘Casper? What did you want to know?’
She’d passed the first test, knowing his name. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘You mean the tank?’
She took another drink, her eyes on the shadowed town. For a few seconds she stared and said nothing. Then she faced me. ‘Eblis. That’s what it’s called. The tank. Coming through town was a mistake. He hadn’t planned that.’
‘What had he planned?’
She shrugged. ‘Casper will tell you more.’
‘And what was he doing in a tank?’
‘He’ll tell you.’
‘Is that all I get?’
‘For now.’
‘Come on.’
‘Our plan was, is, to go to Scotland. Somewhere better. Safe. He was in the tank I was on the bike.’
A couple came out, both in their fifties, drunk. They staggered around laughing then went back in.
‘I’ve said too much already,’ said Becky.
I took a drink and waited to see if she’d add anything.
‘Once you’ve spoken to him, seen he’s okay, we can talk some more?’
‘I guess so.’
She gazed off at the sea. ‘It just goes on forever doesn’t it.’ She laughed. ‘Casper can’t —’ She stopped herself. ‘We’ll chat after you’ve seen him.’
I finished my whisky and stood up. I had all I needed. ‘I think it’s time for me to go.’
Becky took my sleeve, a strong grip. ‘Hey, it’s your round next. And the night’s only young. There’s lots to do.’ She smiled and leant forward. ‘I have a room here you know.’
I slid out of her grip. ‘Thanks for the drinks.’
She stood and joined me. ‘Listen, thanks for doing this. Watching out for Casper.’
‘Let’s see what happens.’ I walked back to the building. She walked along side me. I stopped at the doorway. ‘I’ll come find you. Once I’ve talked to him.’
‘Thanks.’
As I pulled the door open I motioned for her to go first. She stepped through but stopped and turned, so that I walked into her. Our bodies were pushed together, face to face, my chest shoved up against hers. She gripped me and held me there.
‘If you want to make sure it's him,’ she said, ‘ask him about this.’ She pulled her top down a little to show a mole on her left breast. ‘Think you'll remember?’ her voice was low, her breath on my face, warm, gin and lemon scented. She stepped away, smiled. ‘See you soon.’
‘Yeah.’ I made my way across the bar and carried on out, away from the hotel. I walked back fast, thinking about Round Up and things I needed to do to the bike.
Thinking about anything but Becky.
CHAPTER NINE
Casper
THE NEXT MORNING I took a walk on the beach. It was one of the things that had first attracted me to the town, reminding me of long gone holidays. Jamie, my old partner — he’d had a thing for beaches. That was the last thing we’d done together, sit on a beach further down the Northumbrian coast, me and him chatting. Shortly before I dissolved our partnership.
Not that the beach at Faeston was much to look at. It was gouged and holed where sand has been removed for building work, conditioning soil, anything. Rubbish lay strewn about: busted devices with no use — computers, phones and TV sets. Relics from a different time. And of course there was the sewerage. Turds washed up that hadn’t caught the tide.
Despite all the crap and junk, it felt good to walk along it, below the cliffs that protected High Town, the entrance to the bay just ahead. The stonework appeared out of the late summer fret as the sun burnt down through it. I was thinking, weighing up where this was all going. Whether I was right to tag along with Becky. Get involved with her brother.
It wasn’t like I wanted to stick with Round Up. I wasn’t even keen on the town anymore. This was where I’d ended up not somewhere I’d chosen. It had been easy to pick up work but I’d never planned to stay forever. I’d been drawn into the place; found a decent flat. Fixed the Triumph up and gone to the races. Sophie had latched onto me and made us into a couple. I’d got used to living in Faeston.
If living was the word.
I stopped by a rock pool and sat on a busted TV set. It was a really old one, a great box of cracked plastic. The tube had gone but the rest of it lay cock-eyed in the sand. I picked up a handful of stones and threw them into the water. Something brown floated around in the pool.
I was bored. Sick of the routine of Round Up. It was all about controlling and playing power games. There was no one with any sense of the outside. Their world was the town. They didn’t want to know about other places or how people did things elsewhere.
Becky wasn’t like that. She was a real outsider. Full of ideas and energy. She wasn’t someone to hang around in one place. Make a home and pretend the old-world still existed. She was more interested in being on the move and free to go where there were opportunities.
More like me.
But she was an odd one. There was lots she wasn’t telling me. Too much. And her brother
was an unknown.
Jamie used to always go on about having a plan. And Gary. Now it was time for me to have one.
I’d got stuck in Faeston. Stuck in a rut. It had been fine for a while but it was time to go.
I walked off the beach and into town.
When I got to Round Up Central Nico wasn't there. But Will was, sitting up in the control room that had once been the security office. He grunted at me when I told him about the interrogation, that I’d been picked to do it. Before he led me off I grabbed a pencil and piece of paper.
Our footsteps echoed off the walls as we walked along the corridor. The only breaks in the grey concrete were the low, barred windows and bare light bulbs every two metres. Round Up were allowed a much electricity as needed and Nico made sure they got it.
I’d not really thought about what I was going to ask Casper. Anyway, I’d work it out as it went along. As usual.
We turned a corner and Will stopped at a steel door. There was a narrow slit two-thirds up sealed by a metal flap: it was one of the secure rooms, where we stuck troublemakers when they were brought in.
‘This is it.’ Will took out a key and put it in the lock. The mechanism turned with a dull clank. ‘There are two of our men inside with him. I’ll wait outside.’
‘I don’t need the men.’
‘Well you’ve got them.’
The door swung open. There was no light. The only illumination was from the small window high up on the far wall. Three people stood in the cell: two Round Up men, who I didn’t recognise, and the prisoner, Casper. He had blond hair, cut short, almost shaved. He was in his thirties, a similar age to Becky. His face was bruised and he had a black eye. He looked as if he was having difficulty staying upright. Before the three of them was a table with a seat at either side.
‘This is the interrogator,’ said the Will.
I went in and he left, shutting the door behind him.
One of the guards watched Casper but the other one just stared ahead. At the locked door.
I approached Casper, trying to ignore them.
Normally we did Round Up interviews two on one. Prisoner versus good cop and bad cop. Sometimes bad cop, bad cop. I didn’t like having the two guards in the cell.
