Burning Crowe

by Geoff Smith

  'Who are you?' she said.

  He recognised her immediately as the blonde from the pictures. But he didn't answer. He didn't have a good answer to give. He thought about it some more - then gave up and told the truth.

  'I'm looking for Zack,' he said. 'I'm a friend. Are you Zack's girlfriend? Are you - Lilith?'

  She took her time, looked down at her phone and smiled.

  'It's not Lilith. It's Lola. And I don't recognise you,' she said. 'Have you been at St. Stephen's long?'

  Bart felt a flush of embarrassment. She didn't seem at all afraid and that made him nervous. He sat on the chair by the desk and he leaned forward.

  'My name's Bartholomew Crowe,' he said.

  'Well that name's made up,' she said.

  He gave her his card.

  'Truth,' he said. 'You see my name really is Bartholomew Crowe and I really am a private investigator. And I am trying to find Zack Richards. Your boyfriend I think. I can't tell you who's paying me, but honestly, I think we both want to help him out. And we both want to keep him safe.'

  'And I'm supposed to take you seriously?'

  'Why wouldn't you?'

  She gestured at his clothing.

  'Because you're wearing a school uniform.'

  He winced at that.

  'So do you know where Zack is?'

  She looked at the card. She looked at it for a long time, turning it over in her hand.

  'How did you know my name?'

  'I didn't, remember? Anyway, I'm an investigator. So I guess I investigated.'

  'I don't know where Zack is,' she said. 'And by the way, if I did, I wouldn't tell you. I'm Lola Golden by the way. Hi. You know, you really shouldn't be in here, should you? I mean, you're not a student here. And you are in an actual student's room. And you're in a stupid disguise so I'm guessing you don't have permission. I suppose that makes you a criminal doesn't it? And seeing as you've just told me who you are and you've given me your card. I suppose that I could tell the police or the school about you being here and -' She looked at him directly, and her eyes were big and blue and calm. 'What I'm thinking is, that you should probably tell me everything that you know, because if you are a friend it would be a real shame if you got arrested, so -'

  Bart ran both hands through his hair and pulled it forwards.

  He said, 'Okay, so what about you? Why are you skipping assembly? And why are you in another student's room? And what did you just put in the drawer of Zack Richards' desk? I mean, you're not supposed to be here either, right?'

  She raised her eyebrows and she gave him pitying smile.

  Bart said, 'Okay. Okay. Look, I'll tell you what I can, but honestly, I've only just taken the job and I reckon that whatever you know, you probably know more than I -'

  A noise. A clump. Something hitting the door.

  They froze. Someone in the corridor.

  The handle rattled.

  The door swung open and a cleaners' trolley clattered in. It was followed by a tall man, young, with dark, spiked hair, grey jeans, a tabbard worn over a biker jacket and a mop in his hand.

  'On the floor!' the young man growled. And he came at them with the mop, jabbing with the stick end. Bart raised his hands. He dropped to his knees. Lola followed suit. And then the two of them were lying there side by side on the thin carpet.

  'Now don't you move! Don't either of you fuckers fucking move okay!' And he shook the mop and he kicked Bart in the ribs. 'Hands out in front where I can see 'em! Both of you. Now stay!' And he pulled off the tabbard and he threw it at Bart's head but the impact was disappointing so he kicked him in the ribs again, just for good measure.

  And the young man turned the room over. He cleared the shelf, emptied the cupboard and the wardrobe. Folders, books and clothes raining down on Lola and Bart, who found himself on the receiving end of several more kicks as the young man clomped about.

  Then Lola said, 'Ray, Go home! We can still fix this if you go now, okay?'

  He stopped. He thought for a moment. Then he shoved the mop in her face.

  'You're a silly bitch! You don't fucking know anything! You don't know fucking shit! And if I hear you talk again, I swear down, I am going to crack your fucking head.'

  He pulled the drawer from the desk. Paper spilled out. Receipts, a notepad, a calculator and hundreds of red foil hearts.

  So, Lola was a romantic.

  The young man in the biker jacket tore at the paper lining on the the underside of the drawer. Then he stopped. He dropped the drawer to the ground. The wooden corner came down on Bart's head. Gritting his teeth, he moved his hand to check for blood.

  There wasn't any.

  And for a moment the room was silent.

  Then Raymond said, 'Get in! Oh get in! Oh yes! You - fucking - beauty!'

  He knelt down and he grabbed Bart's hair.

  'Do I know you?' he said, inspecting Bart with suspicion.

  It had already clicked for Bart. Ray was the lad from the hotel. Barbara Feathers' son. He tensed, anticipating a thump to the jaw that never came. Everything went strangely silent. And then, from his position near the ground he saw two big feet in expensive trainers. And the voice that went with the shoes was deep and sure.

  'All right you three lummocks, line up! Come on now. Stand up. In front of the bed and looking this way - now, thanks.'

  He was a hulk of a man and he filled the doorway, blocking the exit. Seriously built, like the guys you saw on YouTube, his shoulders broad and his neck so thick that it blended into his head with just his ears protruding.

  Raymond let go of Bart's hair.

  'You two as well now. Get up! Come on. Let's find our way to the bottom of this madness shall we?'

  Bart and Lola stood up, and the three of them lined up in front of the bed.

  Raymond dropped the mop and his fingers tapped at his pockets.

  Lola's hair was badly messed and Bart had a carpet burn on his left cheek and a cut behind his ear where the drawer had hit.

  With a black Nike track-suit, black trainers, and a gold chain necklace, the man moved slowly, like a rapper onstage, psyching the crowd. Just looking at them for near to a minute. His eyes were puddle green and his dark hair was cut short.

  'All right then, Lola,' the man said. 'How about you tell me just exactly what's going on here, and whether or not I should be calling the police.'

  Lola half-heartedly fixed her hair. She didn't smile, but looked serious and honest.

  'Yes Mr. Hasland,' she said, and she paused. 'I'm afraid I was skipping assembly, Sir. You see I wanted to leave a message for Zack. For when he gets back, you know?'

  Hasland lifted a single eyebrow, the rest of his face unchanged.

  'And who the Hell are you then?' he said to Bart. 'You got anything to say there, fella?'

  'No Sir,' Bart said. 'Nothing to say, Sir.'

  'Really?'

  Bart had hoped the uniform would be enough. Hoped there wouldn't be too many questions. Hasland leaned in close to Bart, sensing something was amiss, trying to place the boy. And Raymond saw that Hasland was distracted, he took his chance and bolted. Reacting fast, Hasland reached out to block him, and he grabbed the collar of the biker jacket. But Raymond was fueled by desperation and blind panic. He writhed free of the thing, and he barreled down the corridor at break-neck speed. Hasland threw the jacket to the floor and bounded out after him into the corridor. But Raymond had gone. His footsteps drumming down the stairs.

  'Shit!'

  Hasland took his phone from his pocket, and started to dial.

  Lola followed him out, and she reached across him and she laid her hand across the phone.

  'No, Sir,' she said. 'Wait. Please.'

  Document C

  An email from Bartholomew Crowe to Colin Crowe: 11/11/19. 10:58 a.m.

  First off Granddad, you're 100% right. I am 100% not dead.

  Right now, I'm standing outside a private school in Ramsgate. I'm meeting a girl who can help with my case. I wo
uld tell you more, but I don't think I can, and you know what? I don't think I want to.

  And you want to know why I didn't tell you what I was doing? Well okay. I'll tell you. I wanted to hurt you. I still do. I definitely want to hurt Julia Crowe, or Julia Spence, or whatever it is she's calling herself now.

  Except she's the one person I can't hurt, isn't she?

  She gets to mess me up, and she gets out of it, scot-free - and that pisses me off. I'm not going to lie.

  And yes, I am pissed at you too Granddad. Because you KNEW, didn't you? You knew - about the whole thing! What Julia was going to do. You must have known. But you didn't stop her. And you didn't even think to tell me.

  You say I'M selfish. You say I'M a coward. Well I say what about YOU?

  Did it make you feel important being in Mum's confidence? Was it good for your ego?

  Tell me I'm wrong if you like, but don't expect me to believe you.

  So you know what Granddad? I've decided. I'm not going to be a passenger in my own life anymore. I'm going to get involved. And I'm not playing at being a P.I. I am a P.I. My business card says I am. The law says I am. And most important, I say I am. So I'm done with school. And I'm done with family too. Family lie. Grades mean nothing. You know, I could work really hard for the next three years, four or five. I could go to university, do a graduate scheme or a law conversion. I could use Dad's contacts to hook me a job I don't deserve. And then at the end of it, what? I'll get a nice little pension like you - or maybe a car crash, like Dad.

  No thanks.

  Thanks for your mail.

  Bart.

  7

  He pressed send and stood outside the school and he stared at traffic and waited, his head filling with emptiness, cars passing, a white van. He jolted when she tapped him on the shoulder. He span around, and then she appeared, grinning on the other side of him, Lola.

  'Good work detective,' she said, checking her phone.

  He tried to laugh it off.

  'Thanks for meeting me.'

  'That's okay,' she said. 'Listen, Bart. I'm sorry, but I have to ask. You don't want to do anything bad to Zack do you? I mean, you are on my side, aren't you - I can trust you - can't I?'

  'I don't - I mean yes - yes - yes you can trust me. Satisfaction guaranteed!'

  And he tried a cheesy smile.

  'Don't joke,' she said. Her heavy eyelids fell as she scanned his face. 'Yes. You know what, I think I can.'

  'So what did you say, to Mr. Hasland?'

  She looked back at the screen and shifted her weight as she spoke.

  'Just that it could be bad for me if the police arrest Raymond. That's all. I've had some dark times. People here, well they're sort of protective of me, I suppose.'

  Bart tried looking over at her phone but she sensed him snooping and she slipped it into her pocket.

  'What kind of dark times?' he said.

  'Not today,' she said. 'But another time, really, okay?'

  A wry smile on her lips, and her big eyes looked up as he fumbled around in his pockets, pulling out the photos and rifling through, looking for the right one.

  'How do you know Raymond Feathers?' he said. 'Does he work here? At the school I mean?'

  Lola laughed. Her face lit up and her teeth gleamed.

  'No! God no! Ray doesn't work.'

  'What does he do?'

  'Well that's the question isn't it? I suppose Ray's a sort of a sole-trader. That's Business Studies.'

  He showed her the photograph, a group-selfie from a night out - Zack and Lola and the lad with the big brown eyes like a deer in the headlights.

  'Can you tell me about this guy?'

  It was almost a double take. She paused and gave Bart an evaluating look.

  'Okay,' she said. 'Well, obviously that's me and Zack, and the other boy is Torin Malone.'

  'Can I meet him?'

  'No. No, you can't meet him.'

  'Listen I really would appreciate your help -'

  'He's dead, Bart.'

  'I'm sorry I -'

  'There was a fire - at a casino where Torin worked. You know Torin did dumb things, drug things, all the time. But he was a lovely boy. Always had a smile.' She was welling up. 'I'm sorry. Can we talk about Raymond now?'

  He nodded.

  She dabbed her eye with her fingers.

  'Well,' she said. 'You probably know Zack does a bit of dealing, weed mostly. Trust, remember?'

  'Trust,' Bart said. 'So Ray is what? Like a business partner?'

  'I suppose he sort of is, yes. He knows the area really well and he stores the stuff and sells some on. Listen, the Ray you saw today was a total thug but - he can be quite sweet. He's just not very bright. Not too good under pressure. I wonder if Zack's being away is getting to him?'

  'Do you know what he found, Raymond I mean, under the drawer?'

  'Oh God,' she replied. 'Something small! Honestly I don't know Bart. I'm sorry. I really don't know. I can tell you where you'd find Ray now though if you like.'

  She took out her phone, thumbing the screen.

  'Do you know why Zack has disappeared?'

  She blinked and she blanched slightly.

  'Everybody wants to disappear sometimes, Bart. He did send me a text you know, after he left. Like five days ago.'

  She held out her phone for him to see.

  [Keeping a low profile. Be in touch babe. Zack. Xx]

  A string of text messages followed that one. All from Lola. None had a response.

  She said, 'At the end of the day I don't know why Zack does half the things he does.' She smiled. And it was a big, bright, honest smile. 'I suppose it's a part of his charm.'

  8

  Athelstan Road was ragged and tough. Victorian terraces lining the road like a beige and brick militia, a frontier-land where decay met gentrification, crisp redevelopment ebbing in from the coast. The Bel-Air Hotel was stubbornly holding to the decay of years past. Its sign was yellow and blue, but smashed with its innards exposed and its light bulbs removed. The ground floor and basement were boarded, and every window was boarded too. The double doors were fitted with a heavy metal brace.

  There were four young men in Bart's wing mirror. Track suits and slip-ons and a dog on a string. And one of them banged the Mini as he passed. He swore loudly and made an obscene gesture. He laughed as he walked on, and his mates laughed too. Bart got out of the car. But he didn't follow and he didn't shout. Cowardice, not wisdom.

  He crossed the street to the main doors. The brace was fastened with heavy bolts, so he took the stairs to the basement until he was ankle deep in drink cans and fast food containers. But the window was boarded and the door was blocked.

  'Ya get in round back, mate!'

  Another young man in a track suit and cap stood at the top of the stairs. He held a rollie in his left hand and the smoke lingered round his fingers and wrist.

  Bart looked up.

  'Okay. Thanks.'

  The lad didn't move but his top lip curled, showing his yellowing teeth.

  'Show ya if ya want.'

  Bart squinted upwards.

  'Great. Thanks.'

  The young man's eyes were glazed and there were red spots around his chin. As Bart climbed the stairs he touched the wall, as if he were worried about losing his balance.

  'S down ere,' he said.

  And he set off up the street at pace until he came to an alley between the houses. It was neat and wide and it had an overhanging first floor that made a kind of arch. The young man rested his hand on a nearby wall and he hunched over and he breathed deeply until he could toke on the cigarette.

  'And this goes all the way down?' Bart asked.

  'Yeah yeah.' He pulled up one leg of his tracksuit trousers, a grey tag beneath. 'I'd take you down mate, but I got this thing on an I gotta dash.'

  Bart said, 'Okay, well, thanks.'

  The young man leaned back against the wall and re-lit his fag.

  'Thing is mate,' he said, 'I gotta
get down Westgate, meet my parole officer. Only I really need a few quid, for a taxi, or I'm gonna miss it.' And his eyes opened wide with urgency.

  Bart took out his wallet and gave him a twenty. The young man held it, staring at it, open-mouthed as if waiting for the punchline. Then his nose twitched and his little eyes narrowed.

  'Yes mate!' he said. He broke out his best toothy grin. 'Laters, yeah?'

  He patted Bart on the arm and he set off on a staggering walk towards the shops at the end of the street.

  *

  The alley divided the gardens of two adjacent streets. It was wide, and it was overlooked from both sides. Someone must surely have seen him already.

  He looked into the gardens and he tried to work out which one was the Bel Air. One of the gardens contained a trampoline and coloured toys. Another had pot plants and pergolas. So that only left one. A plastered wall, high, with broken glass cemented on top, and a solid looking wooden gate with two padlocks. One was a combination lock. A pick wouldn't help there. He noticed the house next-door had a wheelie bin and the glass didn't continue down the side.

  He landed in the walled yard, knees jarring. The space was paved with chequerboard slabs, weeds sprouting through the gaps. In one corner of the yard was a potting shed with a hatch on one side like an ice-cream kiosk. A conservatory extended along the width of the building and every window was boarded with a thick rectangle of nailed on ply.

  A metal bracket had been fitted to the door and another padlock to keep intruders out. He knocked on the door. Waited. He knocked again. Then he set to work with the picks and the rake. It took longer than he expected, and he dropped the rake twice. He was about to give up when the lock sprung.

  Bart paused.

  Was breaking into a squat even a crime?

  It shouldn't have bothered him. But somehow it did.

  'Hello?' he called, not too loud. He didn't want the neighbours to hear. 'Zack? Zack Richards? Raymond Feathers? Are you in there?'

  Nothing.