Dead Bad Things

by Gary McMahon

  They reached the car and Sarah climbed behind the wheel, her hands gripping the cold plastic. She did not open the door for Benson. He could manage fine all by himself, and she didn't want him thinking she'd gone soft on him, like some frail little girly. She would only go so far to meet Benson, not even half way; the rest was up to him.

  A show of weakness: that simply wouldn't do. No, that wouldn't do at all. Despite everything she constantly fought so hard against, and all the personality traits she denied had ever belonged to her, Sarah Doherty was still undoubtedly her father's daughter.

  EIGHTEEN

  Sarah had been given foot patrol that day. A lot of coppers thought it was the short straw, the shitty shift, and preferred to pull a vehicle patrol, but Sarah liked to walk the beat. It made her feel closer to real police work – the old-fashioned kind, where you spoke to people and interacted with the community rather than spending your time filling out computer forms and logging notes onto a central database.

  She had struck lucky and landed the city centre beat. It was an easy shift during the day; Leeds United weren't playing at home and there was no sign of the stag-and-hen crowd who packed out the pubs and clubs every weekend, even during daylight hours. No, all she had to contend with was the odd shoplifter, some pissed-up old geezer stumbling across the Headrow and shouting at the traffic, or a minor RTA – a collision at a set of red lights, a harried taxi driver losing concentration at the wheel, a bus mounting the pavement and clipping a parked car.

  She was patrolling alone, with an arrangement to meet up with another constable later that morning. They were shorthanded, as usual, and Benson – who was usually her partner on foot patrol – had been seconded to the murder squad. His friend, Sergeant Reynolds, had specifically requested Benson's help on the case. He had not asked for Sarah – and again she felt as if she'd failed whatever obscure test he had put her through that morning.

  It was just after 10am. She had arranged to meet Eddie Knowles, her father's old informant, at half-past. She knew where the meet was supposed to be – she had guessed immediately, as soon as he'd mentioned that he had in mind the same place he always met up with her father.

  As its name suggested, The Vault was located in the old warren of vaulted cellars beneath a decommissioned Church on Clarendon Road. The Vault had been a registered charity since the early nineteen seventies, but had acted as an unofficial homeless shelter since about 1952. These days it served as one of only two recognised care centres for the city's homeless population, and had developed a good reputation and working relationship with the authorities along the way. So successful was the venture that several old residents of the Vault now worked there as volunteers – wardens, advisors, even part-time counsellors.

  Sarah's father had contributed a lot of money to the charity. Ostensibly they were police funds raised by charity events but in reality Sarah knew that these legitimate monies had also been mixed up with a substantial portion of winnings from his illicit gambling parties. He had never been that interested in the money – only in the risk involved in winning it.

  There was also the religious aspect.

  Sarah's father might have been a Grade A bastard, but he claimed to have believed in God. In her opinion it made him even more of a monster – during her relatively short time on the police force she'd already encountered a lot of people who used the cloak of organised religion to cover their tracks and justify their terrible acts, and as far as Sarah was concerned her father was no different to any other self-serving scumbag.

  In fact, he was worse than the lot of them. She was only now discovering how much worse that might be.

  She walked along the busy Headrow, taking in the late morning sights. Pedestrians dodged traffic as they crossed the road, most of them heading for The Light shopping centre and its multifarious consumer delights. A group of teenagers moved slowly on skateboards along the footpath and onto the paved area outside the art gallery. Sarah paused to make sure that they were not causing any damage, and then moved on towards the edge of the Ring Road, satisfied that she could leave them alone.

  Eddie Knowles was waiting for her outside The Vault. She had not seen him since her early teens, but he hadn't changed a bit. He had the same scrawny build, greasy nightclub-Elvis pompadour hairstyle and shady demeanour she remembered from all those years ago. She watched him as she slowly approached, and at first she thought that he had failed to spot her. Then, smiling, she realised that he was spying on her – pretending that he was looking the other way, but scrutinising her every move.

  "Hello, Erik." She stood before him, matching his height and easily a couple of inches broader than his narrow frame.

  "The name's Eddie these days, and I'll thank you to use it." His grin betrayed the fact that he wasn't really offended, just playing a role for her benefit and no doubt for his own amusement.

  "Good to see you again, Eddie."

  He raised a stubby hand-rolled cigarette to his lips, sucked on it, and exhaled the thin grey smoke. "Likewise, pet. I hardly recognised you, apart from the fact that you inherited your dad's cocksure swagger." He grinned again, flashing yellow teeth and a small, questing tongue. "Let's hope you don't have the cock, eh?"

  "Fuck off, Eddie. Let's go inside and get a cup of tea."

  "Aye. Good idea. I'm parched." He moved away from the wall and nodded at the small, chubby woman sitting at the reception desk behind the strengthened glass security doors. She moved a hand across the counter and buzzed them in. Eddie pushed through the doors – no outmoded display of chivalry here – and walked across the short reception area. "Mornin', Sheila. How goes it?"

  The woman smiled. She looked bashful, as if she was flattered by the attention of this shabby little Lothario. "Oh, get on with you." She nodded at Sarah, her face now rigid. "Good morning, Constable."

  Sarah smiled, took off her checkerboard hat and held it loosely by her side. "Don't worry; I'm not here on business. Just calling in for a little chat with my old friend, Eddie." She cocked her head to the side, indicating the subject of her explanation.

  The receptionist looked relieved. The last thing she probably wanted was trouble on her shift. "I'm afraid I'll still have to ask you to sign in – that means both of you, Eddie."

  "Aye, aye. No sweat." Eddie ambled over to the desk and signed an open guestbook with an absurd flourish, then turned and handed Sarah the pen. His fingers were dirty; grit was caked beneath the nails. She couldn't help noticing things like that: it was in her blood to tally the finer details, just in case they proved to be of importance at a later date. Her father's training; always her father's training.

  After signing in, Sarah followed her host out of the reception area and through another set of doors. They walked in silence along a hallway, and then entered through a set of wide double doors and went into the Vault Café.

  The café was quiet at this hour, and everyone was gearing up for the lunchtime rush. They served free meals between the hours of eleven and five, the kitchen and serving area staffed by volunteers and a few ex-residents of The Vault – people who had gained a lot of self-respect from their stay here and wanted to pass forward the good fortune.

  A few men, most of them with patchy beards and dressed in clothes inappropriate for the weather, sat around drinking tea. They exchanged words, looked around at Sarah and Eddie, and held great secrets behind their tired eyes. Eddie went to the serving tables and returned with a pot of tea and two cups.

  "Thanks," she said, pouring the drinks.

  "You want something to eat?" Eddie had stubbed out his cigarette in the lobby, but he looked as if he was already in need of another. His eyes had taken on a suspicious glaze and a muscle in his left cheek twitched every couple of seconds as a result of nicotine withdrawal.

  "No thanks, Eddie. I'll eat later. Wouldn't want to take food out of the mouths of the needy."

  He let out a single bark of laughter. "Fuck me, pet, that's exactly like something yer dad might've said, back in
the day." He clutched his cup with both hands and drank deeply.

  "So." Sarah put her own cup down on the table. "Why the name change?"

  "Aw, it's my real name, innit? I stopped using the stage name when I left the circuit. Haven't done a turn in years; not since I had some nodules (he pronounced the word nujoolz) scraped off me throat." His eyes twinkled, but it was a false glimmer. There was little genuine humour behind his expression.

  "And you've turned your back on other things, apart from the name? Is that right?" She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

  "Very direct, aren't you, love? That's something else you get from him." He winked. "To answer yer question, yeah I've put a lot of stuff behind me. I settled down and got wed, started behaving meself. After yer dad died… well, he was the only one left who even listened to me anyway. Things have changed on these streets, and not for the better. Back when I was sleeping here every now an' then, and not just popping in for elevenses, I was a known man, a bloke everyone respected." He licked his lips. "These days I'm just a sad old joke, a reminder of how things used to be."

  Sarah rubbed her hands together. She wasn't sure why she did it, but the motion relaxed her. "Oh, you're not so old, Eddie. Not so old and not so forgotten. I remember you used to give my old man a lot of tips. He swore by your little nuggets of information – said he'd struggle to solve a thing without you."

  Eddie shook his head, slowly. "Flattery, is it? Is that what you think will make me talk? Is that what they're teaching you these days?"

  "I'm sorry. That was crude. No, I don't think that's how I'll get you to open up. But I know what might." She reached into her inside jacket pocket and took out an envelope. "There's a lot of cash there, Eddie, and all I want in return is for you to tell me what everyone else probably already knows."

  Eddie's eyes lit up – and this time the light was real. "Oh, aye? What's that, then?"

  Sarah lowered her voice. "I want you to tell me what he did. About the little club he ran – the card school, the sex parties, and whatever else they got up to after hours and outside the station. I have my suspicions, but I need someone who was around at the time to confirm them."

  The room seemed to dim, the lights flickering softly. Sarah glanced up, at the ceiling fixtures, and watched as the bulbs waxed and waned. She thought she could see moths hovering around the light fittings, but the image vanished whenever she focused her gaze directly on that area of the room.

  "Maybe they forgot to pay the leccy bill." Eddie's voice was bitter, filled with a tone that was not quite regret but something similar, something that went a lot deeper.

  When Sarah looked back down at the table the envelope was gone. She smiled, and then looked up, back into Eddie's eyes. "All I want is info, Eddie. I'm not trying to rake up old ashes, or ruin anyone's reputation. A few weird things have happened, and I just want to put the old bastard's ghost to rest." Only then, when she said it out loud, did she realise that was exactly what she'd wanted all along.

  "Alright, pet. I'll tell you what I know, but as I said on the phone you might not like it. You know when a kid grabs a stick and stirs up a wasp's nest? Well, that's what you could have on your hands here. A fuckin' huge wasp's nest. And you could get stung." He refilled his cup but made no move to offer her another drink.

  "I'm all ears, Eddie. All ears and eyes." She smiled, to show him: to demonstrate how big her eyes were. Just like that big bad wolf in the fairy tale.

  The lights flickered again, but this time it was less erratic, as if they were following a rhythm. It lasted a few seconds, and then ceased. The room now seemed brighter than it had before, as if the power surge had resulted in a greater luminosity within the bulbs.

  "Your dad was the best and the most vicious copper I've ever known." Eddie stared right at her, deep into her big, bad wolf's eyes. "He was a bastard, but he was also the best friend I ever had."

  "Yes," said Sarah. "People's opinions seem to follow the same lines on this one." She smiled.

  "Well, he helped me off drugs back when that was all I cared about, and he helped me get a few gigs – first with his band, and then on my own. That's when I first started on the club circuit, and it gave me the best days of my fuckin' life. The best ones."

  His eyes misted over, as if he was back there, in his glory days, but then he returned to the moment. The past could not claim a man like Eddie for long: there were too many monsters back there to harm him.

  "I knew your dad was into some pretty hardcore stuff from the start, but at first I thought it was just gambling, and maybe a few whores. He arranged those sex parties. I think you already know this – that it might be one of those weird happenings you mentioned – but he got your mum involved. He took her along and bullied her into joining in, just to keep her quiet. I know that. I know because he told me. He laughed about it when he was drunk. He had a nasty side… but I'm guessing you already know that, too."

  Sarah held Eddie's gaze. He was testing her, feeling her out. If she looked away, or showed any sign of weakness, he might clam up and decide not tell her the rest. "Yeah. I do know about that. I know about all that. I even have the scars to prove it."

  Eddie nodded, satisfied that she could handle what he was saying. "It got worse. It went beyond all that. He had secrets from everyone, even from me and especially from his missus, from your poor old mum."

  A chair leg scraped across the tiled floor; the sound was too loud, as if someone had turned up the volume on a sound effects tape. Somebody laughed, and it turned into a whooping smoker's cough.

  "He and a few of his friends started taking repeat offenders off the streets and smacking them around. It started, God, back in the early Seventies, before you were even born. They were like a fuckin' vigilante squad, swarming into blocks of flats in Beeston and Bestwick in the early hours and dragging fuck-ups out of their beds. They took them to a place – I never knew where – and they kicked the fuck out of them, showing them the 'error of their ways'. That's what they called it – all formal, like. 'The error of their ways.'"

  He paused here, as if allowing her to take in the full impact of his words.

  "OK." She blinked; the lights were still too bright. "So they were, what, trying to clean up Leeds? Get rid of the scum?"

  Eddie nodded. "Aye, but they were doing it their way, not using the official channels. It went on for a few years, and then a low-level drug dealer was killed. After that, they stopped. They got away with it, and they counted their blessings and they went back to more traditional police work." His emphasis on the word traditional was almost funny: almost, but not quite.

  "Then what?" Sarah's throat was dry, but she was pleased to hear that her voice sounded just about normal. She wanted another drink but the teapot was empty – Eddie had finished the dregs. "What happened next?"

  Eddie let out a heavy breath and sat back in his chair. He rubbed his limp quiff with his small, bony hands, teasing it out. "Four or five years before you were born he found religion. Said he saw an angel."

  Sarah stopped breathing. She stopped and was afraid that she might not be able to start again. "I knew he was always a bit fanatical, but not when it started."

  An angel, just as her mother had claimed. Sarah felt cold inside; her gut tightened.

  Eddie made a sound deep in his throat: it could have been laughter or simply a snorting noise as he cleared his airways. "I can't be sure exactly when it happened. But he claimed that he met an angel, and this fuckin' angel taught him how to see the evil in people. Well, when I say people, what I really mean is, he said he could see the evil in little kids before it even developed. That he could see what kind of criminal a child would become before they knew it themselves. Like he could read their minds or see the future or summat."

  For a moment Sarah thought that she could hear distant music, and then, when she turned around to inspect the room, it faded. As if whatever the source of that music might be, it was now moving away, leaving her far behind. She t
hought of childhood carnivals, of leering clowns and tamed and beaten animals going through tired routines.

  A second set of doors, opposite the ones she and Eddie had entered, banged open but nobody entered the room. The doors hung that way, wide to the wall, for what seemed like well over a minute, and then they slowly closed. Beyond them, walking away, with its back turned towards her, Sarah glimpsed what looked like a robed-and-hooded figure. But no, that couldn't be right. Not here, not now. She must be seeing things.

  She turned back to face Eddie, who had gone pale. "Did he tell anyone else about this?"

  Eddie shook his head. "No. I managed to convince him that he was talking a load of old shite – he was drunk and stoned at the time, and working on too many big cases than he should've been. He was losing his grip. He never mentioned it again, and I had no reason to bring it up." Eddie was still pale: his cheeks looked as if they'd been smeared in flour.

  Sarah pushed away from the table, as if she was about to stand, and then changed her mind. She ran her hands through her hair, palmed her face. "Jesus, Eddie. Didn't you think to tell anyone? I mean, he was clearly losing his mind."