“OK, you’ve made your point,” said Larkin. “Now can we get back to what we came here for?”
Diana’s face became a closed book. “I have nothing to tell you. I do not know where they are.”
“But you have seen them? You did help them after they ran away from Les?”
She might as well have been carved from stone. “I cannot help you.” She stood up. “Please leave.”
Andy was quickly on his feet, making for the door. Larkin wasn’t so fast.
“Please –” he began to implore.
“No. I cannot help you. It is unfortunate for your friend. But I cannot help you.”
“Can’t or won’t?” asked Larkin.
“Goodbye.”
Larkin reluctantly made his way down the stairs after Andy, Diana escorting them off the premisies. At the door Larkin turned to her.
“Look,” he said, scribbling Faye’s number on the back of his business card and passing it to her. “If you think you can help call that number. Please. We just want to see she’s all right.”
Diana’s stone-like mask almost softened for a second.
“Goodbye,” was all she said, and closed the door.
Andy set off for the car.
“Wait,” said Larkin.
Andy stepped back on to the pavement. “What?”
“Let’s walk this way.”
They set off down the street towards the shops.
“Why are we doing this?” asked Andy.
“Because she lied to us,” Larkin replied. “She knows something, and since she’s the nearest thing to a lead we’ve got, we’re going to have to watch her. So I don’t want her to know what kind of car we’ve got.”
Andy nodded, head down studying the paving stones.
“So,” said Larkin, once he realised nothing more would be forthcoming from Andy. “What happened back there?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he mumbled. “I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life.”
Larkin smiled. “I don’t believe that for one minute.”
“Oh, fuck off,” grumbled Andy.
They stopped short of the main street, crossed the road on the right and walked slowly round the block to where they’d parked the Saab. They climbed in and had the car ready to go when a minicab pulled up directly outside Diana’s flat, blocking the street.
“Look,” said Larkin.
As they watched, Diana emerged, fur coat back in place. She scoped both sides of the street, checking for Larkin, Andy or anyone else. Instinctively the two of them ducked beneath the dashboard.
Satisfied that no one had seen her, she climbed into the minicab and off it went.
“Follow the money?” Larkin asked Andy.
“Follow the money,” Andy replied.
Leaving a couple of beats to allay suspicion, Larkin put the car into first and, as inconspicuously as possible, began to follow.
Homeless
“Shagged,” sighed Larkin, flopping down on the sofa. “Put the kettle on, Andy.”
Andy turned towards the kitchen then stopped, hesitant. “Yeah, I … D’you fancy somethin’ a bit stronger?”
Larkin nodded. “Sure.”
“I’ll open some wine. Red.” Andy stood there, unmoving, a perplexed look crossing his features.
“You OK?” asked Larkin.
“Yeah …” He was struggling towards something. “I shoulda known. I shoulda known … She didn’t … smell right.”
Larkin barely suppressed a grin. “Surprised you’d let a little thing like that bother you,” he said. “Or maybe it wasn’t such a little thing, I don’t know. Anyway, she was a lot better looking than most of the women you manage to beg to sleep with you.”
Andy opened his mouth to reply but couldn’t find the words. He reddened, turned and left the room, re-emerging with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He wordlessly set them down on the floor, poured, handed one to Larkin. As he stood up he announced, “I’m gonna take a shower,” and left the room.
Larkin, alone now, sipped his wine. Thoughts roaming, he tried winding down.
Although he had put on lights and heating, the house still felt empty, lacking in warmth. Missing that vital spark. He knew what that spark was. Faye. The house needed her. Larkin was looking forward to seeing her again.
He took another mouthful, thought back over his day. It seemed to him that there was a subconscious link, a thread, uniting all the people he’d met and the situations he’d encountered. Of wanting to belong, looking for acceptance, finding home. Tara putting up with abuse, coping with dependency; Diana with her reconstructed room, her reconstructed identity.
And then there was Karen. Although he didn’t yet have any concrete results, Larkin believed he was moving closer to finding her. He couldn’t say how, it was just a feeling.
A sudden thought struck him, sending a frisson down his spine. What if she’d gone back to Edinburgh? Gone back home. His mind speedily worked over the possibilities and calculated the odds. Slim. Very slim. Everything indicated she was running away, not going back. There would be no sense in her going back. He doubted she could ever go home again. That was a feeling he was familiar with.
He thought of his own childhood home, a small town just outside Newcastle called Grimley. Apart from a work-related visit which had resulted in Andy and him slugging it out in the British Legion, he hadn’t been back there in years, hadn’t wanted to.
Home. He wondered if there would ever be anywhere he could call home. Perhaps this would be the house. Although he hadn’t known her long, he knew he liked Faye. A lot. Probably more than he could admit to himself. The murderous end to his marriage had left him unable and, for the most part, unwilling to face commitment again. Could things be different with Faye? He didn’t know. And he didn’t want to think about it; it was a path of speculation he couldn’t afford even to look down yet.
The wine was finished and Larkin went into the kitchen in search of another. He had settled himself back on the sofa and was idly flicking through channels, not stopping long enough on each one to get involved, when Andy re-emerged, dressed and wearing enough aftershave to keep Boss going for a whole year.
“Going out? Off to reaffirm your fragile heterosexuality, then? Have casual sex with some woman too drunk to remember her own name?” asked Larkin with a smile.
“Piss off,” replied Andy, blushing, and left.
Larkin wasn’t alone for long. The key turned in the lock and he heard Faye and Moir’s voices. They made their way to the front room.
“Hi, Stephen,” said Faye pleasantly. She was wearing a long, woollen overcoat and fake fur hat, and was busy unwrapping a long scarf from around her neck. Larkin caught flashes of cleavage from underneath as she did so. The effect was both simultaneously erotic and homely.
“You on your own?” she asked, with what Larkin might have only imagined was a trace of guilty embarrassment.
“Yep. Just me.” He pointed to the wine bottle. “I’ve just opened this if you want to join me.”
“I’ll go and get a glass,” she said, seemingly happy to have found a decent exit line.
Moir entered next, mumbling greetings and dropping himself into a chair opposite Larkin. He sat there with a look of apprehensive expectation on his face.
“So how was your day?” asked Larkin.
“Fine,” replied Moir impatiently. “Faye took me to an art gallery and we had lunch in Chelsea. How ’bout you?”
“I’m sorry,” said Larkin. “My hearing must be going. I thought you said art gallery there for a minute. And Chelsea?”
Moir reddened, his gruffness returning. “It was just somewhere to go, for fuck’s sake. Now what happened to you?”
Larkin smiled. “Thought we’d lost you there, Henry,” he said. “New clothes, lunch in Chelsea, not the Henry we know and love.”
Moir’s eyes flashed fire. “Just tell me what the fuck happened,” he rumbled ominously
“That’s mor
e like it,” said Larkin, and proceeded to apprise him with a truncated version of his exploits. At some point Faye entered, handed Moir a coffee, poured herself a glass of wine and perched on the arm of Moir’s chair. Larkin decided not to notice.
“So then we followed her,” he said.
“Where to?” asked Moir expectantly.
“I’m not sure.” Once the minicab containing Diana had left the street, Larkin and Andy had given chase in the Saab. They had stayed a few cars behind and, despite not being familiar with the roads and having to make a few intuitive leaps as to lane structures, had managed to follow without being detected.
The minicab eventually pulled up outside of a huge, old Victorian house in Hackney. Diana got out, cast a quick glance either way, and entered the building. Larkin and Andy, hidden just around the corner, managed to avoid being seen. The minicab pulled away. Diana had been absorbed into the house and it now stood still, silent and imposing in the encroaching dusk.
“What now?” asked Andy.
“I don’t know,” replied Larkin. “That house looks different from the kinds of places we’ve been to so far. I don’t think we can just barge in.”
“I know what you mean,” said Andy. “How about we do a bit of a stake-out?” he said, smiling. “We could be like Starsky an’ ’Utch.”
“Yeah,” said Larkin. “All we need is the junk food and the white stripe down the side.”
“An’ I wanna be Starsky,” said Andy.
“Piss off. You’ve got blonde hair. You can be Hutch.”
“No way! He was the borin’ one! Let’s have a quiet night in? Not with you, mate. I wanna be Starsky!”
And that was how they sat for the next hour or so, watching the house, keeping the boredom at bay by discussing the comparative merits of Seventies American detective series. As the time wore on and nothing happened, they used up the popular ones and had to resort to the increasingly obscure.
“Now, Longstreet,” said Larkin, “he’d have been crap at surveillance work.”
“How come?”
“Because he was blind,” explained Larkin. “The car chases were pretty good, though.” He sighed, looked at his watch. “In all the time we’ve sat here, no one’s gone in or out. Shall we call it a night?”
Andy nodded. Agreeing to resume watch the following morning, they had made a note of the house’s location and headed back to Clapham.
Larkin finished speaking and sat back, refilling his glass.
“So,” said Moir, frowning and rubbing his chin, “you’ve got no idea what this place is?”
“None at all,” replied Larkin. “Could be the most important thing I’ve yet come across, could be a dead end. Hopefully we’ll find out more tomorrow.”
Dinner followed. Since no one had had the time or opportunity to prepare anything, it consisted of a Chinese take-away. Larkin was happy to eat anything as the wine had sent his head reeling. Faye was happily quaffing, but Larkin noticed Moir hadn’t touched a drop. He’d had coffee while listening to Larkin and Coke – Diet Coke at that – during his meal. Larkin thought it best not to mention it.
After dinner they adjourned to the front room and watched some vapid, inconsequential television. It was just what Larkin needed after the day he’d had. He now knew why soap operas and game shows were so popular. Escape and release, passive and vicarious. Moir, he noticed, still wasn’t drinking.
Eventually Larkin had to go to the toilet. On returning to the front room he managed to walk in on the end of a comet’s tail of conversation between Moir and Faye. On sighting him they immediately stopped and coaxed smiles onto their faces. This is becoming a very annoying habit, thought Larkin.
“Well,” said Moir, standing up, “I’m going to bed.” He glanced at Faye. The look would have spoken volumes if Larkin had been able to translate it.
“OK,” said Faye, weighting her look with equal, yet different, meaning. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Moir didn’t move. His eyes remained locked with Faye. Larkin thought he’d wandered into the final of the World Staring Championships.
Eventually their gazes unlocked and Moir made his way past Larkin to the door. “Thanks,” he said, turning as if in afterthought. “Thanks again. For today.”
“Don’t mention it,” replied Larkin.
“Tomorrow …” Moir mumbled. He looked at the floor as if expecting to find the correct words there. “Tomorrow if you need … me … I’ll be there.”
“We’ll see,” said Larkin. “Good night, Henry.”
Moir left the room. Larkin resumed his seat on the sofa and refilled his wineglass.
“Is there some left in that bottle?” asked Faye. Larkin said there was.
Faye crossed over to re-fill her glass. A glass which, Larkin noticed, was already over half full. Instead of returning to her seat, she sat down next to him. Subtle, thought Larkin, I don’t think.
“So,” said Larkin, because he felt he had to say something, “you had a good day, then?”
Faye nodded. “Yes. I know Henry’s got his problems, but when you get to know him, he’s good company.”
He’s probably different with you than he is with me, thought Larkin. “I noticed he wasn’t drinking tonight,” he said.
“No,” replied Faye. “I think that’s one of his problems. He’s trying to address it.”
“Good for him.”
They lapsed into silence, the only sounds their lips on their wineglasses.
Larkin knew he had to ask the next question. Even if he didn’t want to hear the answer. “So,” he said, “what was all that about before?”
“Oh,” Faye replied, reddening. She lost eye contact with Larkin in making her reply. “I think you could say Henry and I were … defining the parameters of our relationship.”
“So you’re having a relationship?” Larkin asked, too quickly to stop himself.
Faye looked at him, this time catching his eye.
“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business,” he said, backpedalling.
“No,” said Faye, “I’ll tell you. But it’s not what you think. I like Henry. A lot. But he’s not …’
“Damaged enough?” Larkin finished for her.
Faye reddened again. “I know how it must look,” she said, “and I can understand the way you’re feeling. I was going to say, Henry’s not my type. But at the moment he needs someone. I’m there for him.”
“He’s very fond of you,” said Larkin.
“I know,” she replied. “But … I can’t explain it to you. It’s different.”
Larkin nodded. He said nothing.
“Anyway, Stephen, it’s getting late.”
Larkin made to stand. Faye stopped him by placing her hand on his thigh.
“What I meant was …’ She addressed her hand. “The other night. It doesn’t have to be a one-off. Not if you don’t want it to be.”
He felt his cock stiffen involuntarily. There was something about this woman, some chemical thing perhaps, that made him immediately horny. Yes, he wanted her. He wanted her badly, like a craving that couldn’t be satisfied, and he wanted her now. He looked at her, her exquisite body, her beautiful face, and their eyes locked.
“What about Henry?” he asked.
He saw her eyes. And that’s when he realised. His own lust had stopped him hearing it in her voice, but nothing could obscure it in her eyes. She looked like her arm was being twisted behind her back, as if someone or more to the point, some compulsion, was forcing her to ask him to bed. Her expression was divided between lust and a painful need. Larkin couldn’t work out which percentage was which, but he could guess.
“Henry’s in the future,” she whispered, eyes dropping. “You’re here. You’re now. I want you tonight.”
“Ah, that’s it,” said Larkin. “Me for tonight. But it’s something bigger with Henry, isn’t it? Something you don’t want to rush into and maybe spoil. But you’ve got needs and I’m here to take care of them. Is that
it?” He kept his voice as steady as he could, gasped out between longings for Faye.
She said nothing, just kept her head down, moved her body closer, grabbed him harder.
“No Faye,” he said, in a voice that took every ounce of self-control. “No.” There was so much more he wanted to say, so much more he could have said, but it would have done no good.
Faye nodded and immediately withdrew her hands. She stood up, tipped her head back and drained her wineglass. Larkin was treated to a close-up of her body, curved, beautiful, bounteous. His erection was straining, his fingers were tingling at the thought of touching her. It would be so easy to give in, relent and grab her, devour her beautiful body, say fuck the consequences, fuck the morning-after mutual shame session … So easy … All he had to do was reach out his fingers …
She put down her glass and silently left the room without looking at him. He heard her mount the stairs, make her way to her room. Once he heard her door close he breathed a sigh – of relief or loss and despair, he didn’t know – and sat back.
He picked up his glass and took a long, deep comforting mouthful of wine.
No, he thought, with a bitter tang of regret, no matter how comforting, how pleasant it is to stay here, this place will never be my home.
Candleland
The playground was deserted, made bleaker by the cold grey February sky, the trailing fog that seemed in no hurry to disperse. The swings, slides, climbing frames and roundabouts looked thin, old and skeletal. It felt abandoned, a framework for a park that would never be finished, never be substantiated. Now decrepit, rusted with broken promises.
Larkin and Andy sat on an old brick wall scarred with graffiti, pulling their jackets around them to keep out the damp, chill air. The park they were in probably had a name in some file in some town planner’s vault but, to them, it was just a barren piece of land, a compulsory purchase order in waiting. Still, it afforded a good view of the house opposite, and that was why they were there.
They had left the house in Clapham early, Andy protesting that he’d just got in, Larkin saying that was fine, whatever Andy had scored and taken would keep him buzzing for a few hours yet. Larkin had wanted to get an early start because he knew the traffic would be bad crossing London and, since they didn’t actually know what went on in the house Diana had disappeared into, thought it best to get there as early as possible.
Candleland Page 12
