by Gary McMahon
Light bled down the stairwell as a door on the upper storey was opened. "Up here." It was the same voice from the phone and the intercom: it even seemed to contain the same static hiss. But that was silly. Trevor knew that his mind was playing tricks and if he wasn't careful he would come close to a state of panic.
He started to climb the stairs, heading towards the open door. Yellow light spilled onto the worn carpet and down the steep staircase, lighting his way. It was like following a trail of dull fire, or a pathway formed by embers. Again, Trevor tried to clear his head of these silly thoughts. He was romanticising the situation, and if he continued to do so he would ruin it. Part of the fun, after all, was the seediness of the encounter. He was self-aware enough to know that, and honest enough to admit to his weakness.
His fear evaporating and his confidence growing, blooming like a flower in his chest, Trevor stepped onto the landing and walked through the open door.
"Hi there." A large man sitting on an old Raleigh Chopper bicycle smiled at him. He was smoking a joint. A thick cloud of smoke hung in the air; evidence that the roll-up was not his first of the evening. "Nice jacket. You must be Trevor. I'm Sammy."
"Hello, Sammy. Yes, that's right. I'm Trevor. Thanks for seeing me at such short notice."
The man grinned around his spliff. "Oh, that's OK. Isn't it, Don?" He turned his head and looked at a battered leather sofa that was pushed up against the wall near the wide entrance to a small kitchenette, his greasy ponytail swinging like a fat rat's tail.
"Aye," said the tallish, well-built man on the sofa. He was holding a beer can and blinking as if he'd only just woken up. "No bother. No bother at all."
"Thanks," Trevor said again, set off kilter by the men's lazy attitude. From the telephone conversation he'd had he expected them to be more defensive, perhaps even to put on a clichéd hard man act. But they were just a couple of dopers, getting high on their own gear.
"So," Sammy held his joint between his fingers. He stared at Trevor. "What do you need this evening? What can we get you to dampen your fire?"
The man on the sofa – Don, was it? – giggled softly.
"I was told… Derek told me that… well, that you could supply something to suit my needs." His lips were moving but they felt awkward, like rubber: two water-filled condoms glued to his jaw.
"No, no, no," said Sammy. "I need you to be more specific. You have to tell me what you want, mate. That's how it works, you see. I don't know you, even though our mutual fiend," – he laughed here, proud of his little quip – "Derek has introduced you. That's why you have to tell me up front what you want. Let's just say I'm paranoid." He smiled. His teeth were yellow, the gums receding. His cheeks were bruised with broken capillaries. "I'm sure you understand."
They were a suspicious lot, these people. But Trevor could understand their reticence; perhaps if he'd been more circumspect himself, he might not have been exposed as a fraud and a childmolester by that bastard Usher.
"Well?" Sammy wheeled the Chopper backwards and forwards across a small area of floor. He pretended to rev the handlebars, like a small child playing motorbikes.
"I'd like some chicken. Some young chicken. I want to have a little boy." He licked his lips. "Is that honest enough for you? Do I pass the fucking test, friend?" Anger surged through him for an instant, but then faded. He was too horny to maintain his rage.
"That's lovely," said Sammy, revving his bike handles. "That's just too fucking perfect." He grinned, flashing his dirty teeth.
Don, over on the sofa, began to laugh. It was a soft sound, almost like weeping. Trevor glanced over just to check, and saw the man's face shining beneath the cheap lighting in the cramped room. He winked at Trevor, shaping the fingers of his right hand to resemble a gun and cocking the trigger of his thumb.
Trevor looked away, feeling like he needed a shower. The sense of collusion between himself and these men was making him feel sick.
"This way," said Sammy, hauling his bulk off the bike frame. "Downstairs. We keep them in a nice basement room, where they can be all safe and sound. They're my chickens, and I like to call it the Roost." He waddled towards the small kitchen area, where there was another door Trevor had failed to see until now.
Trevor followed. He glanced again at Don, but the man had slumped over onto his side to sprawl on the cushions, stoned.
"Just through here and down the other stairs," said Sammy. His huge backside was barely contained by his torn, faded jeans: an acre of buttock cleavage hung out above the beltline.
Trevor was led through the door and down a flight of wooden stairs, these ones seemingly constructed by some cowboy builder who had no clue regarding the nature of structural stability. Trevor clung to the banister as they descended, and as Sammy's bulk caused the whole staircase to twist and shudder, he prayed that he would make it to the basement level in one piece.
At the bottom of the stairs was a large open space with a concrete floor and soundproofed walls. Along a narrow corridor Trevor could just about make out the edge of what looked like a steel cage. He could hear quiet weeping. Somebody was singing – it was a traditional nursery rhyme: Three Blind Mice. The effect created by the combination of crying and the highpitched singsong voice was eerie, as if Trevor had stepped into an obscure antechamber of hell. He fought a brief but intense battle between fear and desire.
Desire won. It always did.
"It's along this way, Trevor." Sammy waddled towards the corridor. At first it looked like he would be too big to make it but to Trevor's surprise he managed to fit through the gap. "Keep coming."
Trevor walked across the concrete floor. His hands were flexing, making fists. His mouth was bone dry. He followed the big man along the short corridor, glancing to the side and into an unoccupied cell. There was a single bed shoved against the wall, and a coil of rope on the floor.
The singing stopped abruptly.
At the other end of the corridor the room opened out. There was a huge plasma television screen with an inbuilt DVD player mounted on the main wall. Spongebob Squarepants was running with the sound turned off. A low table beneath the huge screen held an array of video equipment: several monitors, a computer keyboard, some kind of control box. Trevor glimpsed the inmates of the cells in fuzzy monochrome before he saw them in the flesh, but as he properly entered the large room he turned and stared at them through the bars.
As far as cells went, these ones at least gave a nod in the direction of comfort. Each one contained a double bed with silk sheets, a table and a chair, a recliner, a wash basin and toilet, and a double wardrobe. There were framed paintings of nudes hanging on the concrete walls and the steel bars were draped with what looked like Christmas streamers. There were six barred cells built against the wall, with a boy in each. The boys were relaxing. Some of them were watching the television, staring blankly at Spongebob's undersea antics, and others were lying on their beds looking up at the ceiling. One of them was reading a book – Trevor stared at the cover and saw that it was a Roald Dahl novel.
"Welcome to the Roost," said Sammy, spreading his arms wide and smiling at the boys.
None of the boys smiled back. They ignored the two men in their midst, allowing the moment to wash over them. They were used to this, these boys, these chickens; it was just another day in the terrible prison cell of their life.
"Take your pick. It's quite a varied collection; the united colours of Benetton. I pride myself on diversity." Sammy, smiling, stepped to the side and approached the bank of monitors. He pressed a button on the control panel and the upstairs room, with his friend, Don asleep on the sofa, appeared briefly on one of the small screens.
The boys were beautiful. They were immaculately clean and dressed in expensive clothes. No two of them looked the same. There was a blonde one, a dark one, a vaguely oriental one, a black one, an Asian one and a strange pale one who just stood in the corner staring out through the bars.
This last one unnerved Trevor. The boy stepped
forward as he watched, moving close to the bars. His small hands came up and gripped one of the bars, the thin white fingers snaking around it. His hair was mousey brown, his eyes were bland, and he was very thin. He looked blank, a clean slate, as if nothing in the world had touched him. There was nothing behind his eyes, just a vast indifference, and Trevor found himself backing away from his infinite gaze.
"Our newest acquisition," said Sammy. "You don't like him? He doesn't say much, I'll give you that. But he's pretty."
Trevor shook his head. "I like that one," he said, pointing to the slight blonde boy in the end cell. The one who – if Trevor squinted and looked at just the right angle – looked a little like his dead brother. "Yes, that one will do me just fine, friend."
The boy smiled like he was obviously taught to. His slack lips curled up to reveal white teeth, a small, moist pink mouth. But his eyes… his eyes were terrified.
"You have an hour," said Sammy. He walked to the cell door and opened it. The boy stepped back, not quite cowering but clearly wanting to curl up into a ball on the floor. "He's good, this one." Sammy's bulk blocked the entrance to the cell. "He's one of our most popular chickens. He cries at the right times and he likes to call you Daddy."
"I don't want that," said Trevor, moving across the room. He was aware of the pale, silent boy watching him. Those dead eyes were upon him, creating a cold spot at the small of his back. "But I would like to call him Michael."
Sammy stepped to the side and Trevor walked into the cell. The door clicked shut behind him and Sammy turned the key before pocketing it.
"Hello, Michael," said Trevor, almost in tears. "It's been a long time, brother. A very long time."
"Back in an hour," said Sammy, heading for the stairs. But Trevor didn't even hear him.
TWENTY-FOUR
Sarah was sitting motionless in the dark, trying to make sense of things, when she heard someone ringing the door bell. She knew who it was; it could only be Benson. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece but it had stopped hours ago. The hands were frozen at 9pm. What the hell is it with these fucking clocks, she thought. If I'm not hearing phantom ticking then they're stopping on me, halting time.
She stood and crossed the room. Behind her, the clock started ticking again. When she glanced back at the clock's face the hands were poised at 11.15.
Even time was turning against her, trying to spook her.
She walked to the front door and opened it. Benson was standing on the steps with his head bowed. The air was heavy with the threat of rain. It was cold. Benson looked up, unsmiling. He looked tired.
"Hi," she said, stepping back, into the hallway.
"Hi, yourself," he said, following her inside.
"How was your day with the murder squad?" Try as she might, Sarah could not keep the mocking tone from her voice. She wanted Benson to know that she felt cheated, deserted. That she should have been included in the investigation.
"Yeah, sorry about that," he said as they walked along the hall and went into the living room. "I tried to convince Reynolds to bring you onboard but for some reason he wasn't having any of it."
"I don't think he likes me," said Sarah, lowering herself onto the sofa. She flexed her bare feet on the carpet and then swung her legs up and slid them beneath her bottom.
"I think you might be right." Benson sat next to her. His hand moved reflexively to rest upon her leg. "Sorry."
"It's not your fault. Because of my – because of Emerson – I seem to have a lot of baggage with certain people on the force. Most of it I don't even understand." She placed her hand over his, a subtle show of solidarity. The problem was she didn't think that it was a genuine gesture. She felt apart from Benson in a way that she never had before in their short relationship. He'd been different from usual at the crime scene in Roundhay Park that morning, and she'd been given a glimpse of a side of him that she didn't like. It made her wonder how much more of himself he was keeping hidden from her, and if those other parts of his personality were just as unpleasant.
"We didn't get anywhere, if that makes you feel any better."
She glanced at his face. At the scars on his cheeks and his dull, flat eyes. The room was still dark; she hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. "What do you mean?"
"The lab boys have turned up nothing on our original body – the one in the dentist chair. We still don't know who he is. The other two, from this morning, are still being examined. We have fuck all to go on here. No prints, no residue, no traces of DNA. The bodies are clean." In the gloom, with the shadows pressing in from the corners, it looked like Benson was smiling.
"Want a drink?" She got to her feet and went to the drinks cabinet. The whisky bottle was half empty and she couldn't even remember when she'd bought it. Taking Benson's lack of response as an affirmative, Sarah poured two large measures and carried the glasses back to the sofa.
They sipped in silence, and then Benson put his glass down on the floor and turned his body slightly towards her. "So. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" He licked his lips. The darkness made his face look flat, like a mask.
"I've found something out. Something about Emerson Doherty."
Benson tilted his head to one side. He looked like an inquisitive dog. "So tell me – if you want to, I mean. I know how you are with this family stuff, so don't feel under any pressure. I know I've been pushing you a bit, but it's just because I want you to include me more in your life."
She nodded. Then, something occurred to her. "It cuts both ways, you know."
Benson reached down and picked up his glass. He held it against his lips for a second, and then took it away. "How do you mean?"
"You've never really told me much about yourself either. I mean, I know very little about your background, where you grew up, the things that shaped you. I might be the one who plays my cards close to my chest but I've actually shared more with you than you have with me." She was right. It had passed her by before, because she was so caught up in her own problems, but Benson rarely talked about his own past.
"You never thought to ask." He took a drink, emptying the glass.
"OK," said Sarah. "I'll accept that. I have been a bit self-involved, but you've hardly volunteered much information. Neither of us has, so let me start this off." She took a deep breath. "Let me tell you what I've found out, and we can go from there."
Benson adjusted his position on the sofa, sitting up straight with his back pressed against the cushions. He nodded. "I'm listening."
"I found some photographs in his stuff. Nothing much, just a few snapshots of him at these sex parties he used to organise. You know about those, right? Every fucker else seems to."
Benson shrugged. His powerful shoulders rolled high in the darkness. "I had heard rumours… everybody has."
Sarah bit her bottom lip, and then blew a burst of air out through her nose. "Well, it turns out that he made my mother go along with him. He forced her to join in, even though she didn't want to. He needed to keep her quiet, you see, so he used the photographs of what was done to her as a threat. If she ever betrayed him, he would show them to her family, her friends… anyone he could, just to hurt her."
The words were streaming from her like water now. She couldn't stop them.
"I also met up with an old informant of his, and it seems that he was doing a lot more than throwing kinky parties. He was involved in all kinds of criminal activity – gambling, drugs, whores, God knows what else – and laundering the money he made through various police charities. He was good. The only people who knew were the ones who were in on the whole thing. Nobody else heard as much as a whisper."
Benson wriggled on the sofa. He looked uncomfortable. "Jesus, Sarah. I didn't know… I mean, everybody's heard stuff about the card schools and him and his mates skimming a few quid on the side, but not at that kind of level."
"It gets worse."
Benson said nothing.
Sarah leaned back, stretching her legs at an angle a
nd resting her feet flat on the floor. "I'm not sure who else was involved in this, but there was some vigilante activity. Emerson and some of his buddies on the force started to abduct criminals and 'teach them a lesson'. They kicked the crap out of a lot of people and warned them off whatever it was they were doing. My theory is that these fuckers were interfering with Emerson's sidelines. So he took it upon himself to get them out of the way."
Benson was staring at her. Even in the darkness, he looked pale.
"A drug dealer was killed. I don't know how, but they murdered him, possibly by accident, possibly not. I don't know. The whole thing was covered up and they stopped their little games. Well, most of them did. Only Emerson carried on."
Benson jerked to his feet, taking a few steps away from her. Sarah was shocked by his sudden movement, but she hid it well. "Is this all true? Can you trust your source?"
