Candleland

by Martyn Waites

  “There used to be a girl who lived here. Karen. Scottish accent. Remember?”

  The kid shook his head.

  “Thought not,” said Larkin. “You probably weren’t born then. What’s your name?”

  “Karl.”

  “OK Karl,” said Larkin. “Think harder. A girl called Karen. Scottish. Yes?”

  “You’ll have to ask Theo,” muttered Karl, his head aimed at the floor.

  “And who’s Theo?” asked Larkin.

  Suddenly he heard the sound of a key in a lock and turned towards the front door. It opened and there stood the huge, mixed race-guy with the pit bull that Larkin had seen the day before. He was still dressed for a summer’s day, still exposing skin. It was hard to tell who looked the fiercest.

  “Theo!” shouted Karl, relief all over his face.

  That answers one question, thought Larkin.

  Theo ignored Karl and stared straight at Larkin. “You’d better have a good reason for bustin’ into my house, you motherfucker, or you’re dog-meat.”

  Oh fuck, thought Larkin.

  Larkin knew he had to think quickly and act even faster. Weighing up his options he swung the gun on to the dog.

  “That bastard comes near me and he’s dogmeat,” he snarled, with a toughness he didn’t feel.

  Theo and the pit bull stopped in their tracks.

  “Sit over there.” Larkin gestured to where Karl was. Theo, eyes burning with anger and hatred, perched himself on the edge of the worn-out sofa, body erect, like a firework waiting to explode. The dog stood beside him, eyes never leaving Larkin.

  “You’re makin’ a big mistake, man,” said Theo.

  “We’ll see,” Larkin replied. “Now that I’ve got your attention, though, I want to ask a couple of questions. Karl says you’re the man with the answers, Theo.”

  Theo stared at Karl, mentally snapping the boy’s bones. Karl looked from one to the other, not knowing who to be the most scared of.

  “I’m sorry, man,” Karl was almost in tears. “He said he was a friend of Lonnie’s …”

  Theo looked sharply at him, as if he’d been slapped. Then gradually, a look of slow understanding crept over his features. He sat back, relaxing slightly. A bitter smile curled the edges of his lips and he managed to dredge up a short phlegmy laugh.

  “Fuckin’ Rayman,” he said.

  Larkin was taken aback. “What?”

  “You’re from him, ain’tcha? He put you up to this, fuckin’ foolish old cunt.” Theo’s confidence seemed to be rising with every word. He puffed his chest out, rippling his pecs in the process.

  Larkin was thoroughly confused. This wasn’t what he had expected. He tried not to let it show, though, since he was still the one with the gun, the one in control. But not for long if he didn’t do something about it.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” spat Larkin.

  “Yeah you do,” Theo replied. “Rayman. He’s doin’ it again. I bet he gave you some bullshit, got you riled up, stuck a shooter in your hand an’ sent you here.” He sneered at Larkin. “What he do? Give you his poor old Jamaican shit? You been ’ad, man.”

  Despite the gun, Larkin felt his grip on the situation slipping. He gave it one last go. “I don’t give a fuck about that. Just tell me about the girl. She was Scottish. Name of Karen.”

  “I din’t have no Scotch girl. You got the wrong man.”

  Theo sat, arms folded, thinking he was in charge now. Larkin decided something drastic was needed to refresh his memory. He pointed the gun at the floor between Theo’s feet and fired.

  His legs jerked up, trying to dodge the bullet and the splinters. The dog sprang back, barking as it went. Karl covered his eyes and screwed his eyes tight shut. The noise of the blast was deafening in the small space. Larkin’s ears were ringing like he had been to a Metallica concert.

  “Don’t fuck me about!” Larkin shouted, probably too loud because of the ringing. He knew he would have to move quickly in case the noise alerted the police, although he doubted they would venture into this area. “Tell me!” he shouted.

  “That Scottish bitch was sent by Rayman,” Theo blurted out. “To fuckin’ Trojan Horse the door open, just like you. Her an’ that other whore, they tried to rip me off. It got nasty, the cops came, an’ I had to fight to get my name back.” He sounded sullen and sulky now.

  “Why does Rayman want to get in here?” asked Larkin.

  Theo looked at him like he had two heads. “Whassamatter with you, you thick or somethin’? I got all the trade in this area. I got the dealers, the suppliers. I’m the man. He’s nothin’, he’s history. He wants my business!” Anger was welling up inside Theo.

  “Listen,” said Larkin, his own anger rising as he realised how he had been used. “I don’t care about you and Rayman. I just want to know what happened to the girl. Tell me, then I’m gone.”

  Theo fidgeted in his seat. Either his attention span was wandering and he was getting bored, or some tiny living creatures from the sofa were trying to make their home in his clothes. Even the dog was looking restless. “How the fuck do I know? Whores like that, junkie whores, come and go all the time. After the police came I never saw them again.”

  Larkin stood for a moment, weighing his options. That looked like all he was going to get. “OK. I’m going to walk out of this door, then I’m gone. Out of your life forever, right?”

  Theo just sat there. “Fuck you, man.”

  Larkin turned to the door and undid the locks, all the time keeping an eye on the two men and the dog. Especially the dog. It looked like a muscle-formed spring, coiled and ready to go at any second. He opened the door to leave, but got no further. For there stood Rayman and Kwesi, all razor smiles, both holding two of the meanest twelve gauge-pump-actions he had ever seen, both itching to use them.

  “Well, Stephen, my man, how’s it going?” said Rayman, crossing the threshold.

  “You fucking used me!” snarled Larkin.

  Rayman gave out a laugh. “Used you? You white liberals always ready to listen to a poor black man with a sob story.”

  “I’m not a liberal,” growled Larkin, anger and fear fighting for prominence.

  “So you say,” he laughed again. “But you listened. An’ you believed me.” He turned to address Theo. “I’m in charge now, boy. You’re history.”

  Hatred burned in Theo’s eyes. “The bosses’ll get you.”

  Rayman gave out another cold laugh. Mr Cheerful. “The bosses don’t scare me. They’ll do business with me. Like they used to with you.”

  The two men stared at each other. Theo and his pit bull against Rayman and his human pit bull. Larkin decided to leave them to it and quietly made for the door.

  “Where you goin’?” asked Rayman without turning his gaze away from Theo. “Don’t you wanna know about your girl?”

  “Theo told me. You were her pimp, right? You got her stoned, made her come on to Theo, and when he was distracted tried to muscle in on his patch. But it didn’t work. Is that what happened?”

  Rayman shrugged. “Sounds about right.”

  “So where is she now?”

  Rayman gestured with his left hand. “Vanished like the mornin’ mist …”

  Larkin looked at Theo and Rayman. They were standing in the middle of the room, eye to eye, toe to toe, squaring off to each other, lost in their own private grudge war. Karl sat on the sofa, eyes darting between the two, wishing he were somewhere else. Larkin reckoned they were no longer a threat to him so he made his way to the door, holding onto the gun just in case he was wrong. He moved past Rayman, who didn’t remove his eyes from Theo. He laughed.

  “A pleasure doin’ business with you boy. Drop by anytime.”

  Larkin looked at him, wanting to say something – anything – just to have the last word. Nothing came. Karl looked up as Larkin reached the door. His expression was one of wonder that Larkin was able to walk out so easily, mixed with envy and fear because he couldn’t do t
he same.

  Too late, mate, thought Larkin. You’re in it for life. However long that’ll be.

  He clashed the heavy steel door shut behind him as he left.

  Larkin stood outside on the street, looking from right to left, shaking from rage, anger and adrenalin. The road was deserted. He swore under his breath and turned left. Glancing down at his quivering fist, he was amazed to see Karl’s gun still in it. He looked round for a place to dump it and, seeing a litter bin that was still standing, headed towards it.

  No, he thought, if I dump it there, some kid might find it. And then, on the heels of that thought, another one: some kid already had it. I took it off him.

  In the gutter was a drain with a broken grille. Perfect, he thought, and dropped the gun down it. He heard the satisfying plop, then took the other gun, the one Rayman had palmed him, out of his pocket and sent that one down too. As he stood up to go, he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye, something that made his heart skip a beat. Theo’s pit bull coming towards him at full pelt.

  It was too late to retrieve either gun, so he turned and ran. But it was no good, the dog had his scent and was after him, a relentless missile of slavering muscle and bone, bounding along at breakneck speed.

  Larkin ran as fast as he could. His legs raced, his heart pounded and his lungs had a sharp menthol ache as breath went in and out. He gave a quick glance over his shoulder, checked that it was still gaining. It was. His attention elsewhere, he didn’t notice a chunk of gutted engine debris on the pavement in front of him. He hit it with his foot, stumbled, tried to right himself, but it was too late. His balance lost, he went over.

  The dog was still bearing down on him and even if he made it to his feet, there was no way he could outrun it now. He lay on the pavement, his mind racing. He was done for. Suddenly he saw a whole rusted wheel hub, minus the tyre, lying to his right. Just as the dog was almost on him, he grabbed it.

  The pit bull leapt, jaws open, primal blood lust in its eyes. Larkin quickly brought the wheel hub up, groaning at the weight, and caught the dog on its neck. He heaved with all his strength, putting his rage at Rayman and Theo into it, and propelled the dog high in the air, over his head.

  Larkin dropped the hub and turned sharply. The dog landed on its back, looking more surprised than anything. It started growling, readying itself for another attack. Larkin was on it fast. He swung the wheel hub, catching the pit bull as it charged on the side of its jaw. It went down and he heard something crack, accompanied by a reluctant whimper. The injury didn’t keep it down for long though, and it soon righted itself, ready for another charge.

  Larkin was running out of options when suddenly from around the corner came the screech of tyres. He looked up to see a Saab, his own car, come hurtling towards him, Andy at the wheel, driving like the hordes of Hell were pursuing him.

  Larkin got to his feet, the dog still running towards him. Andy sized up the situation immediately and drove the car straight for the pit bull. He mounted the pavement and with a dull thud, machine and canine connected. The dog was thrown up in the air, coming to land against the concrete wall of one of the tower blocks.

  Larkin ran round to the passenger door and dived in. With another squeal of tyres, Andy spun the car around and they were off. He gave a cock-eyed smile to Larkin as he drove.

  “Cavalry to the rescue!” he shouted, laughing.

  Larkin just stared at him, panting, shaking. “Where the fuck have you been?” He was furious. “All you had to do was wait in the street and pick me up when I came out.”

  Andy knew that Larkin was in no mood to argue. “I couldn’t get parked!” he said, indignantly. “If I’d stopped anywhere round there the fuckin’ wheels would have gone, wouldn’t they? I’d ’ave ended up on bricks. So I just circled round.”

  “You’re so fucking unreliable! D’you know that?”

  It was Andy’s turn to be angry now. “Unreliable? Unreliable? Who just saved your fuckin’ life back there? Ay? Ay?” He stared at Larkin, taking his eyes off the road, and narrowly missed an oncoming car. “If it wasn’t for me you’d be half a fuckin’ pound of badly wrapped mince by now.”

  Larkin fell silent. Andy had a point, but he wasn’t prepared to admit it yet. They sat like that for a while, until Andy asked Larkin how it had gone. He told him.

  “I was used, Andy, fucking used.”

  “And we’re no further forward.”

  Larkin sighed heavily. He was coming down from the adrenalin, the post-rush blues were kicking in. The truth of the situation was begining to sink in. “Nope. A dead end.” And then in a smaller voice, “We’ve lost her, mate.”

  They drove back towards Clapham in silence.

  The Land of the Blind

  By the time they had reached the High Courts of Justice, Larkin had had enough. He told Andy to pull in and started undoing his seat belt. Andy, his expression puzzled, had done as he was asked and, to the accompaniment of car and bus horns, allowed Larkin to get out.

  “I just need to walk for a bit,” Larkin shouted into the car above the din. “Sort my head out. Think. I’ll see you at home later.”

  Andy, protesting loudly and looking perplexed, had driven off, leaving Larkin standing alone on the pavement.

  On the way back from the Atwell Estate, Larkin had found the silence in the car to be interminable. His initial anger at being used had subsided and the enormity of his task, of finding Karen with his one slender lead gone, was just sinking in. He had deluded himself into thinking it would be as easy as walking into Theo’s place. But now she could be anywhere, she could be nowhere.

  He didn’t want to face Moir with the news of the dead end, not just yet. He wanted to go home with something positive, another strategy in mind. To do this he needed to be alone, and walking was one of his best ways of thinking.

  He looked at the Law Courts, the sandblasted, white stone façade giving an appearance of either innocence untarnished or too much whitewash. Larkin didn’t dwell on it. Instead he pulled his jacket around him and headed down The Strand.

  It was the commuter hour and all around him suited hordes made their way, heads down in single-minded determination, to their tubes, trains and homes. Swirling amongst them were tourists, gaudily dressed, as if in defiance of the late winter weather, and others, the hip and the wannabes, out for a night on the town. The shops of The Strand were a curious alternation of London exclusive and tourist tat: designer dresses and accessories next door to plastic policemen’s helmets and postcards of painted breasts. The neon signs of the theatres glowed in the dusk; clarion calls to the faithful, they offered escapism and enlightenment in varying degrees and combinations to the middle class. They also offered air conditioning, plush seating and a warm ambience; an environment where even the most difficult, uncomfortable idea could be safely digested and discussed in comfort. The grand hotels, all polished gold signs and liveried doormen, looked more like theme parks to an age of vanished elegance than functioning places for travellers as they played host to hordes of brightly anoraked Europeans and Americans.

  At first glance, it looked like a typically prosperous West End street. But as doors closed, it told a different, more truthful story. In the doorways lay the homeless, huddled up inside filthy blankets, lying on stained, damp cardboard. The lost boys and girls: dirty, defeated, literally hopless, their hopes, fears, addictions and struggles rendered insignificant when placed against the scale of the overbearing buildings. It was hard to tell if they were dead or alive as February laid its bite on them.

  Larkin could remember a story he’d reported on a few years ago when the community-minded shopkeepers of The Strand tried to club together and pay for street cleaners to hose down their doorways at hourly intervals during the night, as a disincentive to homeless people to sleep there. When questioned on this, they claimed it was “bad for business”, but didn’t elaborate on who would be using a closed shop in the middle of the night. Eventually, wiser, or at lea
st more circumspect, heads had prevailed and the scheme hadn’t gone ahead. But the thought had been there. And, Larkin didn’t doubt, was probably still there now.

  They sat now, some begging for change, some just staring, a couple sucking on a home-made Coke can crack pipe, while the rest of the pavement traffic wilfully ignored them. The commuters were oblivious to them, oblivious to everything but their need to get home. They strode with blinkered vision, making their way to a dinner that was more habit than necessity, followed by a night slumped in front of Eastenders, Chris Tarrant and Peak Practice, all in glorious cathode ray narco-vision; a banal comfort that was beyond those in the doorways. The young, hip, well-dressed crowd circumvented them with practised ease as they hopped from bar to restaurant to bar. Two separate cities existing side by side, the second a fallout from the first. The seen and the unseen. The Land of the Blind and the Kingdom of the Invisibles. The gulf between them looked huge but, as Larkin had seen before, it wasn’t. A few bad business decisions, a couple of personality flaws and you could easily slip from the top world to the bottom one, where it was harder, if not impossible, to get out.

  Karen could be here, Larkin thought. She could be under one of those blankets right now and he would never know. He could spend days, months, looking for her and she would have been here all the time.

  A sudden impulse gripped him, one he had to restrain himself from carrying out. He wanted to rip the blankets off each person, see if she was there; and if she wasn’t, interrogate each and every one of them to find out what they knew about her. But he didn’t. Instead he just kept walking, kept thinking, and realised he was no nearer to finding her.

  His walk took him down to the Embankment and over Hungerford Bridge to the South Bank. The bridge was primarily a railway track over the river with a footpath to one side. At each end of the walkway sat a beggar holding out a cup for change, a little guilt tweak for the well-heeled off to the National, NFT or the Festival Hall. It seemed to Larkin, as he tossed a few loose coins into a cup and became the recipient of desperate, but rehearsed, “thanks”, that he was crossing over a privately run toll bridge.