Candleland

by Martyn Waites

  Mickey Falco was the one to break the moment. “D’you two know each other, then?” The lame question was asked out of genuine curiosity.

  At these words, Sickert managed to pull his eyes from Larkin. At the same time his adrenal glands kicked his body into fight or flight and, wisely, he opted for safety. He turned and ran from the room.

  Larkin, his body in a similar state but acting at the opposite extreme, quickly followed him.

  Sickert ran down the hall to the front door. Larkin was after him, but Sickert had a better knowledge of the layout and locks of the place, plus a headstart. By the time Larkin reached the front door it had been slammed shut, with Sickert on the other side.

  Both Mickey Falco and Andy were shouting now, out of the room, but Larkin either ignored or couldn’t hear them. The red mist had descended, sharpening his vision to one man, one objective. Shrugging off restraining arms, he fumbled open the door and ran outside.

  Sickert was across the road, pelting through the barren park. Larkin, his rage gifting him with immunity from any oncoming traffic, ran into the road. He reached the pavement on the other side, vaulted the low brick wall, and was into the park, also running.

  Larkin knew Sickert couldn’t outpace him. The cycling couldn’t stave off the ageing and it was starting to tell on the man. Sickert’s breath escaped in ragged bursts, the cold air turning it to instant clouds. Feet seeming to get heavier and heavier with each step, he began to resemble an old steam train breaking down.

  Larkin saw Sickert reach the playground and allow himself a glance over his shoulder. He picked his pace up. He could see Larkin was gaining. Turning back to face the front, Larkin watched as Sickert stumbled on a discarded glass bottle, missed his footing and fell. A swing was directly in front of him and he made a desperate lunge for the chain to break his fall. He missed and sprawled over it, the swing hitting him flat in the chest, knocking all the air out of him. Within seconds Larkin was on him.

  He grabbed Sickert by the shoulders, forced him round, face to face, and looped the chain of the swing round both his arms.

  Larkin looked at Sickert, but didn’t see the old, jowly man in front of him; ashen, unable to run away. No, his twisted eyes saw the City big noise, the amoral, immoral yuppy high-flyer he’d brought down. The man who had lost everything because of Larkin, the man who had forcibly removed anyone Larkin cared about as a consequence of those actions. That was the man Larkin saw when he drove his fist into Sickert’s face, shattering the cartilage of his nose, bruising his own knuckles, savouring the pain.

  Larkin took another swing, then another. Suddenly, he felt the air supply to his throat being forcibly, violently cut off. His hands sprang to his neck. Some kind of hard, polished restraining device. Mickey Falco’s stick.

  He felt himself being pulled backwards and fought against it. It got him nowhere, the grip on his neck was too strong. Instead, Larkin went with it, allowed Mickey Falco to pull him off Sickert and down on to the playground’s blighted tarmac.

  As soon as Larkin was prone on the ground, the cane was released. He gave it a beat, then sprang up, ready for round two. Or thought he did. The sudden lack of air had made him nauseous and lightheaded; he could only manage a slow climb to his knees. He saw Darren untangling Sickert from the swing.

  “Leave him alone!” Larkin rasped. “The bastard’s mine!”

  Larkin lurched towards the old man, oblivious to everything but his rage. Had he been more aware, he would have heard a swift, rushing sound approaching the left side of his head, but he only felt the painful crack as Mickey Falco’s cane connected.

  Small starbursts of blackness began to explode in front of his eyes. His body involuntarily stopped struggling and began to relax. He decided to watch as the starbursts increased in size. He found them fascinating and they began to take all of his attention. There was something he was supposed to be doing, but he couldn’t quite remember what. The starbursts grew bigger until they blotted out everything else altogether.

  Then all he saw and felt was the comfortable embrace of darkness.

  “He’s back.”

  It sounded to Larkin like a voice through the fog. He opened his eyes and found a young, crop-headed man was staring impersonally into them. It took a few seconds for Larkin’s mind to click into place, then it all came back to him.

  He struggled to his feet, intent on starting round two with Sickert, but a sudden wave of nausea swept over him, buckling his knees, sending him back to the tarmac.

  Larkin looked across to the swing. Andy and Mickey Falco were untangling Sickert from his chains, the man’s nose now resembling a thrown tomato. For the first time Larkin saw Sickert as he truly was: an old man, pathetic, trembling. No longer a murderer. On realising this, the fight went out of Larkin and his body sagged. He felt Darren’s hands on him, helping him up.

  “You all right now?” Darren asked.

  Larkin nodded.

  “You’re not going to start again?”

  “No,” Larkin mumbled.

  Mickey Falco limped over to him. “All right?”

  “You fuckin’ hit me,” moaned Larkin.

  “Look what you done to him,” Mickey Falco said, flicking his thumb at Sickert. “Come on now, up you get.” He extended his free arm, pulled Larkin off the ground.

  Sickert chose that moment to be escorted past. A flash of tired hatred buzzed behind Larkin’s eyes. He stared at Sickert.

  “I’ve paid,” Sickert wheezed in a small voice. “I’ve paid my debt.”

  Mickey Falco quickly placed himself in front of Larkin, discouraging any attempts at confrontation.

  “I’ve made my peace,” Sickert coughed, his voice rising. “Have you?”

  He stared at Larkin. Larkin stared back, said nothing. Andy led Sickert away.

  As they moved towards the house, Mickey Falco and Darren turned to follow.

  “I want to talk to you,” Larkin said to Mickey Falco’s back. There was no response. Larkin started after Mickey Falco who was walking quickly, throwing out his right leg as he went, leaning heavily on his stick. Larkin caught up with him, put his hand on his shoulder, spun him round.

  Mickey Falco turned, eyes like coals. Larkin took an involuntary step back; it looked like the man was about to attack him. If it was the case, then Mickey Falco managed to control it. He fixed Larkin with a flat, level stare.

  “What’s he doing here?” Larkin demanded, pointing at Sickert.

  Mickey Falco said in an even voice, “Candleland’s got volunteers from all sections of the community. Ralph’s doing day-release from an open prison with us. He’ll be properly out soon.”

  “Open prison?” spat Larkin. “Fuckin’ open prison? D’you know what that cunt did to my wife and son?”

  Mickey Falco’s gaze flinched, but he managed to absorb the shock of Larkin’s words well. His eyes were soon steady again. “Whatever Ralph did was in the past. In the eyes of the law and society he’s paid for his crimes. He’s now trying to make amends.”

  Larkin’s anger continued to rise. “What about in my eyes, eh? What about making amends to me? Has he done that? Has he fuck!”

  Mickey Falco seemed to think long and hard. When he eventually spoke, it was in the carefully modulated tones of the mediator. “I can understand your anger. I can understand your pain. No one’s arguing with you about that. But for Ralph, and for us at the refuge, that’s all in the past. What it looks like now is an assault on a member of my staff. Now I’ve got to go and get some medical treatment for him then see if he wants to press charges. Speaking of medical treatment, that was unfortunately a nasty knock I gave you. It might have cracked something or worked something loose. You’d better get that checked out.” He began to walk off, then turned. “Look, I’m very sorry about all this, mate, I really am. Now, I have to go. But I’ll be in touch.”

  Larkin watched the man’s retreating back. He wanted to shout something, scream something, anything that would make him understand, m
ake things clear. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. There were no words, there was nothing he could say.

  Larkin stood alone in the playground. His guts, his head churning with conflicting, overlapping emotions. Sophie, Joe, Sickert … the whole thing was never far away from the surface of his mind. It informed both his waking and sleeping life.

  He had, in his own mind, devised no end of pain, no end of torment for Sickert. Thinking those things had helped to keep the memories caged. But seeing the man himself, knowing that whatever nasty fate Larkin had devised for him wasn’t happening, or wasn’t going to happen, had given him a sudden rush of clarity. The lid was suddenly removed from his pressure cooker heart and all the guilt, the self-pity, the whole range of noxious, destructive emotions, over a decade’s worth of razor-painful memories came bubbling over.

  Larkin turned away from Candleland. The cold, damp, foggy mist was hovering over the park. The daylight hadn’t managed to disperse it. He started walking, putting as much distance between himself and Sickert as possible. He knew his car and Andy were also there, but they weren’t important at the moment. He had to get away, be alone, think.

  Soon, the fog, the distance, had obscured Candleland. Larkin looked round for roads, exits from the barren grass, but could see none. The fog began to turn to drizzle. Larkin, without any idea where he was going, kept walking.

  In the Darkest Place

  The pub was old, overlooked, hardly visited. Weak, dusty sunlight filtered down in opaque shafts through the grubby high windows, illuminating the cracked lino, made even brighter-looking by the dark, aged wood interior. High ceilings and tobacco-stained walls, the place seemed church or cathedral-like, with torn, vinyl-padded booths and wrought-iron-legged tables replacing pews, an old, scarred mahogany bar standing in for an altar.

  A sparse and elderly congregation, there out of habit more than belief: a couple of domino players, continuing the same forty-year-old game, an old man sitting alone, staring ahead, finding meaning and memory in the shadows of the ceiling, a wino in the far corner, lips moving in conversation with invisible companions, occasionally making audible pronouncements on the imminent end of the world and the procedures necessary to be saved. A barman – bored, listless, age indeterminate – dutifully ministered to their needs, needed but not wanted. Like the pub they were slowly dying, no one to replace them when they’d gone.

  And there sat Larkin. Alone in a corner booth, large shot of whisky, pint of strong lager in front of him. He couldn’t remember how he’d got there, what route he’d taken from Candleland, how long he’d been there, how much he’d had to drink or what time of day it was. He was there, it was now, that was enough.

  The wino rose from his seat and, tired of his imaginary companions, decided to address the pub.

  “We’re livin’ in the endtimes!” he shouted. “Repent! Repent now and be saved! Be baptised in the waters, accept the son and be born again! Escape the flames! Repent!”

  A lorry rumbled past, shaking the pub doors.

  “It’s the Rapture! The Rapture is upon us!”

  “Shuddup an’ drink your drink,” the barman said in the bored voice of the perpetual straight man. The wino noiselessly sat down, began to address his invisible companions once again.

  Larkin ignored it, instead he sat steadily drinking, head throbbing. His mind completely focused on a single pinpoint of rage, guilt and betrayal: Sickert. By putting pen to paper, or finger to word processor, Larkin had destroyed his life. In return Sickert had put finger to trigger and destroyed Larkin’s.

  Larkin, in what seemed to him a previous life but was only twelve years ago, had been a crusading, investigative journalist. He had taken regular, accurate aim at the amoral, immoral yuppy highflyers of the time and brought them down one by one. Larkin’s theory had been that, just as the Nazis had been Hitler’s theories put into practice, these were Thatcher’s theories let loose on Britain.

  Ralph Sickert, an already very rich, middle-aged stock-broker who had embraced Thatcherism with an evangelical fervour, had been one such target. The time was right for a City scandal and Larkin duly obliged by amassing a pile of evidence on Sickert’s fraudulent dealings, and publishing them. Sickert’s colleagues and acquaintances distanced themselves from him, scapegoated him. He was left completely ruined, bankrupted and blackballed. It drove him, he said at a later court appearance, temporarily insane. Insane enough to grab a shotgun and come hunting for Larkin.

  Unfortunately, Larkin wasn’t there. He too hadn’t been immune to the joys of the Eighties and was, at that time, passed out on some tart’s stomach, a head full of Jack Daniel’s, a nose full of Bolivian and his balls well drained.

  This didn’t stop Sickert. He wanted blood, he wanted to hurt, so he took aim at the nearest available target. Larkin’s wife, Sophie, and their son Joe.

  Larkin put his head down, trying not to think about what had happened next. He noticed his empty glasses were now full. He had been so involved with his memories he couldn’t even remember making the trip to the bar. Or trips. He had no idea how much he’d had to drink.

  His mind, as it had done so many times since that time, tried to imagine what must have happened. His hand trembled as it raised the glass.

  After a few mouthfuls, the throbbing in his head got worse. He screwed up his eyes, trying hard to shift the pain, feeling needles attack his skull. He sat helpless, teeth gritted, as his surroundings warped in and out around him. Reality was uncapped and the pub drained away into a psychedelic barrage of painfully twisted colours.

  Fuck Mickey Falco, he thought, fuck Sickert, fuck all of them …

  And then he saw her. In amidst the colours, the pain, the noise. Sophie. Sitting on the seat next to him, smiling, bright and alive. Like she’d never been away.

  “Sophie …” His hands reached out to her, didn’t quite connect. He tried again.

  “Sophie, talk to me! Speak! Tell me you’re here, you’re alive!”

  And then another sharp stab to the head, so bad his eyes slammed shut with the pain.

  Eventually, it started to subside. Abstracts became solids, solids became shapes, shapes became remembered surroundings. Gasps became regular breathing. Slowly, he opened his eyes. She was gone.

  “Hey mate,” Larkin heard a voice say.

  He looked around. The barman was addressing him. “Hey mate, don’t you start.” His voice had a weary, imploring quality to it. “I’ve got enough with him –” he jerked his thumb at the old wino, “– over there.”

  “No,” said Larkin weakly, “she was there, she was real …”

  “Yeah, mate,” said the barman and walked back to his station.

  Larkin looked around. It had felt real, she had been there. He shook his head, trying to ease the throbbing. It was no good. Alcohol and concussion didn’t go together. But still …

  He ordered another drink. No beer this time, just the whisky. She had been there, she had been real. Down in one, not touching the sides. Glass down, another. He had to see her again, had to get her back. Then, suddenly, he knew where to go next.

  Down in one again, thump. No more here. He’d need an off-licence for the next part. Larkin lurched towards the door. As he did that, the wino rose to address the room again. The door slammed shut behind Larkin, cutting off the man’s rant. It didn’t matter, Larkin had heard it before. He knew all about the end of the world.

  Larkin knelt, eyes screwed tight shut, bottle cradled in hand. He didn’t feel the cold or the rain. He had no idea of time. He wanted Sophie.

  He had bought a bottle of cheap, generic whisky, the kind that burned on the way down, and started in on it. She had returned to him briefly in the taxi. Then disappeared again before he could touch her. He had kept drinking then, in his desperate attempt to hold her, bind her to him.

  He had practically fallen out of the taxi, almost breaking his precious bottle in the process, and began looking for her.

  Eventually, he found what he was looking fo
r. He knew the spot, the last place he’d seen either of them.

  He had knelt down, taken another few gulps of liquid, holding down the impulse to gag on the cheap liquor and allowing it entry to his system, hoping it would work its magic. He screwed up his eyes again, working with the pain in his head, willing her to appear before him again.

  And there she was, kneeling casually beside him, smiling prettily. He had never seen a face so beautiful. The rain, the cold disappeared; blue sky and warmth was everywhere. He had never known such sudden serenity, such deep happiness. He never wanted it to end.

  He stretched out his fingers, gently brushed her face.

  And pulled them away with a start. Where he had expected warm skin, he found cold marble. Where he had expected features, eyes, eyebrows, nose, mouth, he found engraved letters.

  Tentatively, he touched her again, trying to make out the words. He found the first one:

  SOPHIE

  That was what he had expected. He touched her face again:

  SOPHIE ALICE HETHERINGTON-LARKIN

  Her name. Her full married name. Oh fuck, he thought, stomach lurching. This wasn’t right. Clouds began to gather in the blue sky. The temperature took a sudden, swift drop. He put his head back expecting to feel sunshine. Instead he felt rain.

  He touched her again, felt numbers this time, dates. Her date of birth and her date of –

  The pain hit him again, warping his reality, twisting his vision. When he opened his eyes it had all gone; the warmth, Sophie, everything. All that remained was the pain.

  He was back in the cemetery, kneeling before a headstone, row after row behind him. Thousands of small, discreet headstones. Geometrically straight row after geometrically straight row, a coffined caravan site. Surrounded by decomposing flowers, rotting remembrance. Brief lives, small reminders.

  He looked at the stone in front of him:

  SOPHIE ALICE HETHERINGTON-LARKIN

  Her dates, and then:

  BELOVED DAUGHTER OF ANNE AND CHRISTOPHER HUSBAND OF STEPHEN