Burning Crowe

by Geoff Smith

Bart's fists clenched and he said, 'You haven't answered.'

  Zack said, 'I'll tell you what. How about you answer my questions first.' And he shoved Bart in the chest. 'Who are you working for, Crowe? Well? Come on. Tell me. I'm here. You've found me. What now?'

  And he pushed Bart again.

  Bart threw a punch, but it barely contacted, and he lost his balance and fell. And Zack was on him in an instant, kneeling on his chest, pulling off Bart's beanie. He grabbed a clump of Bart's hair. And he shook Bart's head. And his left fist thumped hard against Bart's right cheek.

  'You've been following me, haven't you, Crowe?'

  Saliva trickled from the corner of Bart's mouth.

  'Yes!'

  Zack took a deep breaths and his gaze drifted from Bart to the empty middle distance. He sounded distant when he spoke.

  'Buddy, I'm asking you again. Who are you working for?'

  Bart lifted his head but then the fist swung down again. It slammed Bart's head against the sand, and Zack leaned forward. He laid his forearm across Bart's throat, and he pushed.

  'You're working for Lori aren't you, you fuck?'

  Bart shook his head as best as he could.

  'Can't say,' he rasped.

  Zack increased the pressure on Bart's throat.

  'Okay,' Zack said. 'Guess what, detective? I'm going to give you some free fucking information. No charge. Special offer. So you'd better fucking well be listening. Are you listening, buddy? Are you?'

  Bart tried his best to nod.

  'Y-.'

  'Good. My mum - my proper mum - lives in Argentina, and she's a mess. Total fuck up. And guess what else? I fucking well love that woman to death. But my stepmother - Lori Cole or whatever the fuck she's calling herself nowadays - is - a - total - fucking - bitch! Got that? And if you are working for her -'

  He released the pressure on Bart's throat but kept a hold of his hair. He scooped up a handful of sand, held it, and threw it in Bart's face.

  'So, if you are working for her, I tell you, you better check, and double check and check again every-fucking-thing she tells you, because most of it is total fucking crap and you're a fucking idiot if you fall for it.'

  He grabbed another handful of wet sand and pushed it into Bart's face, rubbing it in. The cold, rough sand entering his mouth and nostrils.

  'You know, before that bitch married my dad, I didn't even have to go to fucking school. I had tutors. Went everywhere that Dad went, or sometimes off with Mum. And now what do I get? Poky little rooms in second-rate boarding schools in crappy little towns like this. But fuck, you probably think she's got my best interests at heart don't you?'

  And he grabbed a double handful of sand from behind Bart's head and he dumped them on Bart's face.

  'Oh come on!' Bart said spitting sand from his mouth.

  'You know what I think?' Zack said. 'I think Lori would fucking love it if I'd killed Raymond. And she'd love it if I didn't kill him but went down for it anyway. My fucking stepmother. Fucking joke! You know what I think, Crowe? I think she wants to destroy me. And I think that she hired you - the worst, most useless, pathetic detective she could find - so that she looks like she's doing everything she can to find her wayward stepson while all the time she's giving me all the fucking rope I need so I can fucking hang myself.' He placed his forearm back over Bart's throat and he leaned in close, until their faces were just inches apart. 'You know what else?' he said, and his speech was slow and venomous, 'She knocked it out of the park hiring you, didn't she? You are the most useless, most pathetic, all out fucking worst detective of all fucking time.'

  And he spat in Bart's face.

  It tingled on his cheek and then was lost to the throbbing of bruises and the sting of cold sand. Zack stood up, and he stamped on Bart's stomach, winding him. He pulled back his left foot, made to kick Bart's head - but then he stopped.

  'You know how I know you're Lori's?' he said. 'Glenn Golden would never hire someone like you. He likes tough guys, not pussies. Oh and, Crowe, just so you know. If you follow me or you hassle my girlfriend again, I will come back for you, and I will properly fuck you up. Have a nice evening.'

  And Zack Richards trudged away, up the beach to the road. Then he ran and was gone.

  Bart rolled up onto all fours, panting heavily. He forced himself to his feet, set off in pursuit. Pain churned in his gut and sand and spit burned on his face.

  He reached the main road, looking every way. A Smart Brabus drove past. Dark, metallic, new. A young guy with blonde hair at the wheel. Zack Richards. And, driving past, Zack saw him standing there, and he gave Bart the finger from the still de-misting side window.

  23

  Back in his room he fell into a doze and he rolled on his phone in his sleep. It had left its imprint on his cheek and its white light beamed into his eye. It took him a few seconds to register. The phone ringing. Lola Golden. Missed call. No message. A text.

  [Will be at Sheldons from 8:30 tonight. Come by if you want x]

  *

  With its Victorian brick and sash windows, Sheldon's looked okay. And inside it wasn't exactly what you'd call elegant, not tasteful, but it was okay. Maroon and white walls, grey bench seating, a pool table. Old school. Three guys and a girl were playing. Bart recognised two of them - friends of Lola's from The Jazz Rooms. Their clothes new and their voices crystal hard. One of the boys was staring at him. Bart looked back and the boy turned away, a comment for his friend, and they laughed and they slapped each-other on the shoulder. Then he saw Lola. She was at an adjacent table with a slim, dark haired girl in black jeans, and she touched her friend's forearm as Bart approached.

  'Speak later then,' the girl said to Lola.

  And the girl slid past Bart and joined the boys at the pool table.

  Lola said, 'Gin and tonic, ice and lemon.'

  She didn't look at him as he placed the drinks down. She didn't speak.

  Bart said, 'I'm sorry - about - you know. I'm sorry I upset you.'

  She wrapped her fingers gently around the glass.

  'So are you here professionally, Bart, or are you here as a friend?'

  'Well - honestly, I think both.'

  'But which is it first, friends or professional? You have to choose.'

  'Friends,' he said and he swallowed.

  She said nothing for a few seconds and he tried to read her.

  'Give me your hand.'

  He laid his hand flat on the table and she wrapped her fingers under his palm. Her big, blue eyes were intense and soft, and she stroked his thumb from the base to the tip between her thumb and forefinger, the gentlest grip.

  'You know Bart,' she said, 'friends trust each other - and I'll trust you -' Her finger and thumb stroking his index finger, pausing at the tip. '- but - I can't have you telling my dad about what I choose to do, or what I choose to say -' Then his middle finger. '- or - who I choose to be with -' Second index finger. 'You can understand that, Bart - can't you?' When her fingers reached the end of his little finger she squeezed.

  And Bart said, 'I'm going to give the money back. Honestly. And he only said I should be there for you. I only had to tell him if -'

  'Don't,' she said. 'Keep it. Keep the money. Dad's relentless. If it's not you I suppose it'll be someone else -' She squeezed his hand tight. 'And I'd rather it was you.'

  She stared at him then, for the first time not thinking about what she was going to say next, and she noticed the swollen flesh, blueish and purple round his right eye.

  'What happened to your face?' she said.

  'I had an argument,' he said. 'But you should see the other guy. He looks much better than I do.'

  She smiled.

  'You want to take a walk?'

  'Sure,' he said.

  He took her hand. She slid out from the seat. He passed her her navy coat, black scarf and hat. She had her hair loose. It spilled down over her shoulders. He liked it. She waved at her friends, and the girl and one of the boys waved back, the other b
oy pulling out his phone and tapping on the screen.

  The high-street was on a steep slope, and they walked downward, past the cafe where he had eaten with Simmonds, and further, across the busy road, down towards the sea-front. At night, even with the street-lights on, the town was dark, and shadows of women and men danced around the edges of his vision. And sometimes they emerged - suddenly close - real people for a moment before they vanished back into the void. Lola huddled close to him as they walked, and her shoulder bumped his upper arm. He was grateful for her closeness. Being with her like this.

  And Lola said, 'Dad really really hates Zack, you know?'

  Bart felt the swelling in his face and the aching of his chest and his gut.

  'He seems like a person it's easy to hate.'

  She took a while to answer and he thought he saw her smile.

  'Yes,' she said. 'I suppose he is.'

  They didn't say anything for a while, walking, her hair brushing his shoulder.

  She said, 'Have you arranged to see Francesca?'

  'I saw her yesterday in Stratford. Actually I ended up staying over at hers.'

  He felt Lola's hand tighten on his, and he wondered if she knew all this already.

  'So you like her then?' she said.

  'She's nice,' he said. 'But it's not. I mean. It's not anything really.'

  Lola raised an eyebrow.

  'Really?' she said.

  They turned left to the bay. The sea was still and coloured lights glimmered, reflecting on the water. They walked down and onto the sand, down, until they could hear the gentle lapping of the water.

  Lola said, 'The other night. When you told me about your mum. It meant a lot. I mean really. God! You must think I'm such a flake!'

  'I don't think you're a flake.'

  'And so I suppose - you know I thought - I'd tell you about mine.'

  'Go on.'

  'Well -' She paused. She laughed and held his arm tight. 'Okay. This is harder than I thought. Listen, my mum died when I was eight. She was shot. Someone shot her.'

  'Okay,' said Bart.

  'The thing is, though, when I think about Mum now, I do remember her, sort of, like how kind she was to me. And I can remember how she would go away a lot. You see she had to look after her sick auntie. And I remember how she would always hug me and cry when she went. And when she came back she'd always have a present. And I remember the arguments too. Mum and Dad. There were lots of those. They'd always start about something really small like the washing up or something, but then they'd be shouting about other things, things I didn't understand. And then Mum would cry and Dad would storm off. They argued a lot. But the thing was, for me, Dad was always around, and Mum wasn't. And so as I got older I started to take Dad's side on things. I didn't even know what I was saying half the time. And I just wanted Mum to show she cared about us. She was away like all the time.

  'But anyway, one day, Mum went running on the coast, which she'd been doing for about six months I think, and some lunatic shot her, point blank, in the back. Then she was gone. Quick as that. But you know, and this is the horrible bit, Bart - I wasn't even that sad. Not really. I mean, sometimes I'd pretend I was. I don't really know why. For attention I suppose.

  'And I've got pictures of Mum now, but without them I used to find it really hard to even remember what she looked like. I couldn't make her come alive in my head. And when I think about her now - I still can't, not properly - I sort of imagine she's another me - like it's not even her at all - does that makes sense?'

  Bart put his hand around her waist. She held it there, still for a moment. Then she pulled it tighter.

  Bart said, 'I can see you cared about her.'

  'You know they never caught him,' she said. 'The shooter. It was like some kind of random attack, like a mugging or something.'

  'Is that what you think?' Bart asked.

  'I think what everyone else thinks. I suppose, you know, in the end, you have to accept that the world knows best.'

  She pulled his arm around her again and Bart felt her pressing against him. He leaned down and she raised her head to meet his. Her lips were cool and soft. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and they kissed again. And then again. And he looked into her eyes but then she looked so sad and he didn't want to kiss her any more, so he pulled her head against his shoulder and he held her, and for over a minute neither of them spoke.

  Then Lola eased away from him. She held his hands in hers.

  'Bart,' she said. 'When you do talk to Dad about me, you will check with me first, you know, I mean can we talk about what you're going to say?'

  He took a small step back, looking into her sad eyes.

  'Okay,' he said. 'I promise.'

  And she wrapped her arms around his neck and she pulled him close and she kissed him on the lips once more.

  'Take me home, Bart,' she said.

  Document H

  An email from Colin Crowe to Bartholomew Crowe: 15/11/19. 21:22 p.m.

  Dear Bart,

  You are making a mistake. You are conflating the murder and the disappearance. Remember, the murder is for the police. Zack Richards is for us, so you should stick with him. It's a business you're running here.

  And as for Mr. Golden's money, my advice is don't return it - give it back and you'll just insult the man. It's his money. He pushed it on you. You didn't ask for it. Sooner or later he's going to want something in return, and if he asks too much, you can give it him back.

  People say not to mix business with pleasure, don't they? But in your case, Bart, I'm glad you did. At the end of the day, you are eighteen years old, and I say if there's fun in life to be had then you should take it. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself.

  One further little point.

  Your friends. Sophie, and the boys, the tall one and the other one. They clearly care about you Bart, and you're lucky to have them, so when they visit don't forget to put them first!

  And for Christ's sake enjoy yourselves or there'll be bloody Hell to pay.

  Granddad (still waiting for that phone-call).

  24

  'Ah Mate,' said Connor, and he flattened his slicked hair as he squeezed into the Mini's passenger seat. 'So, what's it like then, chillin' at the beach while the rest of us are slavin' it at school?'

  'Living the dream,' Bart said. 'How's life at the drive-through? You still lovin' it?'

  'R-R-Roasted!' Noah called from the back seat.

  Connor laughed.

  'It pays the bills, mate. Funds my decadent lifestyle - mostly,' he said.

  Sophie said, 'Connor's in love. Ask him about Ellie.'

  'What Ellie? You mean Ellie, Ellie?'

  'The very same.'

  Connor grinned.

  'A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell.'

  'So there's kissing to tell about then?' Sophie laughed.

  'And then some,' Connor said, and he laughed too, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his apps and messages.

  'That means he doesn't want to talk anymore,' said Sophie. 'Just look at him, Bart. He's just so cool isn't he?'

  Noah said, 'So Bart you gonna tell us about that black eye or what bro?'

  'Smile!'

  Connor held up his phone and clicked.

  *

  Bart slid the plastic tray onto the table, and the four of them helped themselves to burgers, fries and fizzy drinks.

  Noah said, 'I don't think I've ever eaten at a Wimpy before. And look at this guys - it's a mega-burger!'

  He bit into it dramatically. Connor took a picture.

  'Ts-awll-righ!' Noah said.

  'Don't talk with your mouth full. It's disgusting.' Sophie looked through the window at the misty, winter beach. 'It's nice here, Bart. I've never been before.'

  Bart said, 'Yeah, I've had a rough time these last few days, but you know, I like it too. Don't know if you guys ever feel it, but sometimes, at home, it feels like everyone's posing the whole bloody time. 24/7 - the best places, the best stuff
. I don't know. But it's different here. I mean there's posers here too but -.'

  'I do know,' said Sophie. 'Maybe it's the sea. I mean, it's like there's something - anchoring - about it, isn't there?'

  With his mouth full Noah snorted.

  'Okay,' Sophie said. 'Bad pun.'

  Connor put his hands on the table and pushed himself back in his seat.

  'You do know how much crap you're both talking, don't you?' he said. 'It's exactly the same here as it is, like, everywhere else. It's just a place. Good for a bit of fun, sure, but you wouldn't want to live here. Not really. I mean, I wouldn't want to live here. I mean, look around. It's a shithole.'

  Noah patted his friend's back and said, 'You can see why the girls like him so much, can't you?'

  Connor grinned.

  'And you love me too, Noah Heath,' he said. 'We both know it. I'm irresistible. How's your lentil burger, Soph?'

  Sophie did her 'ha-ha' face and Connor smiled and bit dramatically into his quarter pounder.

  Sophie shook her head.

  'Nobhead,' she said.

  'Let's go down to the beach,' Connor said. 'Swimming in November! Smash it!'

  *

  'So let me get this straight,' said Noah. 'You're looking for this guy. You find him. And then the guy you found beats you up?'

  He was already laughing, and weirdly, Bart found that he was laughing too.

  'I reckon that's pretty much right,' he said.

  'Fuck man. You are seriously the worst detective in history!' And he wrapped his arm over Bart's shoulder. 'Still, it's nice to know you're not good at everything. What's it like being a loser, loser?'

  And Bart launched himself at his friend, pulling Noah down into a headlock. And they wrestled and then collapsed together, laughing on the yellow-white sand.

  Connor and Sophie walked up ahead. They turned. Connor took snaps of the two friends writhing about, and more as they sat up, grinning like idiots.

  Sophie came back and took Bart's hand.

  'Come on, Bartie-Boy. Let auntie Sophie look after you.'

  He got to his feet and she brushed the sand off his coat. She picked up his hat and she ruffed up his hair, sand falling out on his shoulders.