Larkin nodded. “Look, Mickey. We have to talk. About Charlie Rook –”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. And we will.” He sighed. “We’ll have that talk soon. But not tonight, eh?” His face looked pained.
“OK.” Larkin nodded.
Mickey sighed, took a swing. “So,” he said, “you healin’ alright, then?”
“Yeah,” replied Larkin. “I can move my arm, put my weight on my foot for long periods and my ribs only ache when I laugh. Lucky I don’t laugh much.”
Mickey gave a faint smile. He went on to talk about organising Diana’s funeral. It sounded like something he’d had plenty of practice at. Larkin mentioned this.
“Yeah,” replied Mickey, his gravelly bass voice rumbling over the word like an articulated lorry. “More than I care to remember, unfortunately. Occupational hazard.”
Larkin nodded. “So,” he said, “since we seem to be in the mood for talking, how did you get this job?”
Mickey laughed. “You mean I don’t seem like the obvious choice to run a place like this?”
“Something like that.”
“Well I’m not. And since we’ve got nothing else to do and the bottle’s still half full, I’ll tell you. But I’m warnin’ you, it’s a long one.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Larkin.
So the two men sat huddled in the dark room, warmed and lighted only by the bedside light and the whisky bottle, talking away the night. Mickey told Larkin the story of how he came to be at Candleland, which was also the story of his life.
Mickey explained that he had been born into a family of second-generation Italian immigrants in Dalston, East London. A family used to living on the wrong side of the law.
Mickey smiled. “I was trouble, I was a tearaway, restless. Couldn’t keep still.” He had found his options limited by his background and environment, so he drifted into a life of crime.
“You’ve got to remember, though,” he said, pointing with his whisky glass, “this was the time of the Krays, the Richard-sons. It was glamorous to be a gangster. It was also a damn sight more lucrative than anythin’ else you were offered.”
“You mean the hours were good, the suits were sharp, that it?” asked Larkin.
Mickey smiled. “Somethin’ like that. Anyway, I soon found out that glamour an’ reality have little in common. I went to work for this London family – I won’t say which one – an’ it was a real eye-opener, I can tell you. They were into anythin’ an’ everythin’ they could make money out of.” He leaned forward to emphasise the word. “Anythin’. Girls, drugs, porn, protection, you name it, they did it. An’ they didn’t care how they did it. An’ I did it with them.” He gave a bitter laugh. “All that about bein’ gentlemen? Only fightin’ their own kind? Bollocks.”
Larkin nodded. As Mickey’s memory travelled back, so did his accent. Any refinement was stripped away, his tongue became native.
Mickey continued. He told Larkin how he became good at what he did and how successful he was at it, moving quickly up the ranks until he was running a few things.
“But was I ’appy? No. It was violent, sordid, an’ depressin’. Not glamorous. Glamour belonged in fuckin’ ’ollywood. An’ then everythin’ changed.” He stopped talking.
“How?” asked Larkin, coaxing him along.
Mickey paused, searching for the correct tone. He found it and continued. “I won’t go into the details,” he said, with no malice in his voice, “but I was set up, stung.”
The police carted him away, stuck him in a cell and went to work on him. He said nothing, gave up no one.
“When they saw that wasn’t workin’ they offered me all sorts of deals, immunity if I grassed up me mates, new identities, the lot.” He stopped again, lost in remembrance.
“And did you take them up on their offer?”
“Only the new identity. I said I wanted to be Sean Connery.” He laughed at the bravado of it, but his eyes betrayed a different, darker memory.
“Anyway, when those bastards got the message that I wasn’t talking they charged me. Brought me to court, found me guilty, gave me six years.” He sniffed, took a swallow of whisky. “Could have been worse.
“But prison, that changed everythin’ for me. You see, I’d always been bright, always loved readin’. Not somethin’ I wanted to let on to my old associates about, but now that I was banged up for twenty-three out of twenty-four hours of the day, it was somethin’ I had the time for. Even did a degree. Sociology. An’ you know what? I bloody loved it. It made me see everythin’, what I’d done, where I came from, the lot, in a whole new light. It confirmed all the things I’d thought and felt, but just buried. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was in the right.
“Now, somethin’ else happened to me in prison. Just as profound. I became a Christian.” Seeing the look on Larkin’s face, Mickey smiled. “That’s a turn-up for the books, innit?”
“I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t.”
“Well maybe not one the Church of England would recognise, but Christian all the same.”
“I’ve heard a lot about prisoners being born again,” said Larkin. “And if you’ll excuse my cynicism, I’ve never been convinced.”
Mickey Falco smiled. “Neither was I till it happened to me. I used to be sceptical. I used to think it was your ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card. You know, get God, smile at the parole board, keep your nose clean, an’ off you went. But since it happened to me, well …” He smiled. “Let’s just say I’m more of a believer now.”
Mickey declined to go into details of his conversion, because he said it would make him sound preachy. Larkin was grateful for that.
“An’ I hate bein’ preachy.” Mickey leaned forward, well into his story now. “Now I know it’s not for everyone, but the way I look at it, I needed a new code to live by, an’ I found them at the right time. I’ve stuck by those rules, an’ they’ve been good to me. That’s all I have to say about it.”
“I’ve got to admit,” said Larkin, “you don’t strike me as a typical Christian. You swear, you drink …”
Mickey smiled, gave a look heavenwards. “The big fella doesn’t mind. He knows I’m under a bit of stress.”
Mickey had then become friendly with some Christian volunteer visitors who ran various projects in socially deprived areas. Since his parole was coming up and he was a model prisoner by this time, he was allowed out on day-release.
“Like Ralph Sickert,” said Larkin, edgily.
Mickey looked at him, eye to eye. “Yes. Like Ralph Sickert.” He didn’t bite, just got on with his story. “Anyway, I worked somewhere not unlike this place and when I was released and came back to London, I started work here, Candleland.”
“So what made you go in for this line of work?”
“Payback,” said Mickey. “Pure an’ simple. I used to be a bastard, I hated what was done to me an’ what I did to others. This was a chance to start again. Do somethin’ useful. That’s why I’m ’ere.”
He stopped talking, poured himself another drink. “But that’s not the end. Because my old associates found out I was back and paid me a visit. They knew I hadn’t talked so that was a big plus in my favour, but then I had to convince them I wasn’t a threat to their operations, that I had retired and started a new career.”
Mickey’s accent, Larkin noticed, had come up to date along with the story.
“They told me no one retires unless it’s in a box, but since I’d kept my mouth shut, not turned Queen’s evidence, they’d make an exception in my case. But still they had to leave me with something. A warning not to cross them in the future.”
“And what was that?” asked Larkin.
Mickey tapped his right leg with the cane. “This. Shattered. It healed eventually, but the best I can hope for is to always walk with a stick.”
“And the worst?” asked Larkin.
Mickey’s face was blank. “I don’t want to think about that.” He took another swig. “So a
nyway, I never saw them again. Most of them, anyway. I’m still in touch with a few. Not above usin’ them for a bit of strongarm when the need arises.”
“When does the need arise?” asked Larkin.
“Oh, you know,” said Mickey lightly. “If there’s a problem with a pimp or an abusive parent. If someone needs sortin’.”
“Doesn’t that conflict with your Christian principles?” asked Larkin with a sly smile.
Mickey smiled back. “No. You see, it’s all a question of what you believe to be the greater moral good.”
“Dodgy argument,” said Larkin. “Didn’t Stalin say something similar?”
“That’s not what I meant an’ you know it,” said Mickey. “It’s an everyday problem we all have to cope with. Not just Christians. Not just me. Everyone. Even you.”
Larkin nodded, put in his place. “And then you were put in charge of Candleland,” he said.
“And here I am now,” said Mickey. “Loud and proud.” He sat back and drained the last of his whisky.
His accent and intonation, Larkin noticed, was now a mixture of rough and smooth, his two worlds sitting comfortably together, able to straddle both with ease.
“That’s quite a story,” Larkin said.
“Yeah.” Mickey rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched. “I’m out of it.” He stood up. “Sorry to have gone on so much. But thanks for listening. I wasn’t in the mood for going home.”
“I don’t blame you. Anyway, it’s been good to have someone to talk to.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow night,” said Mickey. “You can bore me then.”
Larkin smiled. “Right,” he said. Then his face clouded, became serious. “Look, about Diana. If there’s anything I can do, arrangements, money, whatever.”
“Thanks,” said Mickey. “But you already did what you could to help her. She wouldn’t have made it this far if you hadn’t been there to help.”
“If I hadn’t been there in the first place she might have been alive now.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” said Mickey. “You can play that game of ‘What If right back to the womb. It won’t get you anywhere. We’re all responsible for our actions. And you tried to help. Thank you.”
Mickey stuck out his hand. Larkin shook.
“I’ll try and creep out softly so I don’t wake any of our guests downstairs,” Mickey said. “But I’ll see you tomorrow. An’ this time I’ll supply the whisky.”
They said their goodnights and Mickey left, looking lighter but still burdened, closing the door in what was, for such a rough-hewn man, a surprisingly gentle way.
Mickey was as good as his word. The next night he was there, bottle in hand. He sat down, twisted the cap, found two glasses and started pouring.
“Make yourself at home, Mickey,” Larkin said needlessly.
Mickey passed him a glass. “Your turn tonight,” he said.
“Thought I might get out of that,” said Larkin.
“There’s this bookshop in Paris,” said Mickey, “that lets you stay there if you’re travelling an’ you’re skint. All the owner asks is that you tell him your life story. We’re like that here.”
“Well,” said Larkin, taking a large gulp of whisky, “I suppose you could say things are either pre or post your mate downstairs.”
“You mean Ralph?”
“Right.” Larkin started from the begining. His working-class upbringing in the North East, his politicisation by his left-wing father. His brief stay at college, his early writing career, taking fuel and inspiration from the punk movement. “I tried the approach they had to music with investigative journalism. You know: destroy, destabilise, bring down the government. That sort of thing. Or at least make people think.” He laughed regretfully. “It didn’t work, of course, but I attracted the attention of people in London with a large chequebook, and off I went.”
“Were you sellin’ out?” asked Mickey. “Is that how it felt?”
“Not immediately. This was the Eighties, Thatcher and all that. I couldn’t wait to have a go at her on as broad a canvas as I’d been given. Not that it mattered in the long run.”
“And then you did your piece on Ralph?”
Larkin thought for a moment, deciding how much to reveal. Mickey had been straight with him, he would do the same in return. So he took a gulp of whisky and explained how he became a victim of his own success, the kind of person he was supposed to hate. Shallow, vain, obsessed by money. Coked out of his brains most of the time, more concerned with being seen at the right parties than writing. He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I was a monster. I was the enemy.”
He stopped talking, lost in the past. Mickey said nothing, just sat in silent encouragement.
“But,” said Larkin, continuing, “I still kept writing. If not biting the hand that fed me, then taking little nips at it.”
“And you were married by this time, yeah?”
“Yeah. Sophie was a model. She was so beautiful I couldn’t believe she was interested in some working-class kid like me. So I married her. Course, everyone said she only ever wanted me for my money, but I didn’t believe them.” He sighed. “Now we’ll never know.”
He knocked back the whisky, poured another one.
“And then there was little Joe. My son. And I thought I was having it all. Wife, kid, hugely successful career, as much booze and drugs as I wanted, women lining up to shag me. Ah yes, the world and its legs were open to me and I just dived right in.”
Larkin stopped for another drink. His hands were trembling. He felt his words were leaving him naked, exposed. He could stop, of course, but he didn’t want to. He had to tell all the story, exorcise the ghosts.
“And then there was Sickert,” he said.
Mickey nodded. He knew that part. “And afterwards?”
“Afterwards?” Larkin gave a small, joyless, snort. “I fell apart. Completely. Guilt moved in and never moved out. I saw things as they really had been. I’d been a bad husband to Sophie and she was well pissed off with my behaviour by this time. I’d been a crap father to Joe, hardly ever saw him, just stuck him with whichever nanny was working for us that week. And I’d been bad to myself. The booze was taking a toll, the coke was a serious problem. And I’d betrayed my work. My vision.”
“So what did you do?”
“Nothing,” spat Larkin. “I just let the guilt do its thing. I thought of all the things I’d done wrong, the betrayals I’d made and where they’d got me. Then the guilt turned to self-pity, the self-pity to self-hatred. I hated myself. And I deserved to hate myself.” He paused and thought. “And Sickert. I fucking hated him.”
Larkin drained his glass. Still, his hands trembled. “I was like that for years. I dropped out of sight. I lost everything. And I never forgave.”
“Never forgave who?”
“Who d’you fuckin’ think? Me,” said Larkin, breath juddering with emotion. “Me.”
“Is that still the same now, then?” asked Mickey in a quiet voice.
“Course not,” Larkin retorted quickly. “I’m writing again, aren’t I?” he said, trying to build up confidence in his voice. He was shaking. “It’s sharper, more focused than it has been for years. I’m getting a buzz from it and it’s picking up attention, getting an audience. Up in Newcastle.”
“So why are you down here, then?”
“You know why,” snapped Larkin defensively. “I’m looking for Karen. I’m helping a friend.”
Mickey nodded slowly. “And what else are you looking for?”
Larkin’s head shot up, eyes wet and red-rimmed. “Nothing! I’m not looking for fucking anything! What you on about?”
“Is there something you’re trying to get away from, then?” asked Mickey quietly.
Larkin put his head down again, sat hunched in silence. Eventually his shoulders and chest began to heave spasmodically. He was crying.
Mickey Falco made no attempt to interfere. He just sat watching, empathising. Silent.
&n
bsp; “Oh God,” said Larkin eventually, his voice hushed and choked, “I’m really scared …” He was acknowledging something for the first time.
Mickey said nothing.
“It could all turn to shit again …” said Larkin. “Look what happened last time …”
“You’re afraid of the future, of committing yourself to anything,” said Mickey eventually, his voice full of quiet authority. “Because you won’t let go of the past, yeah?”
“Don’t,” said Larkin, quietly.
“You can’t stop blaming yourself for what happened to Sophie and Joe? And if you do, try and move on, you’ll feel like you’re dishonouring their memory, is that it?”
“Leave it,” Larkin said, head still down, voice getting louder.
“We can all change,” said Mickey softly, “we can all let go. Reinvent ourselves. But it takes guts to do that. You have to want to do it. And you wouldn’t be dishonouring their memory. You’d just be breaking free –”
“Well that sounds fucking lovely, Mickey,” snarled Larkin, voice trembling. “But that’s easy for you to say.”
“Yeah,” said Mickey, his voice sharpening, “it is easy to say. But it’s bloody difficult to do. I know, I’ve done it. I’ve changed my whole life.”
“Good for you.”
“Yeah, good for me.” Mickey sat forward. “And there were people in my past, victims of my former life, that I’ve wronged. But I’ve just got to forgive and move on. It’s not easy. But it can be done.”
Larkin sat in silence, head bowed.
Mickey opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then decided to continue. “Look at Ralph.”
Larkin’s head shot up, eyes burning.
Mickey continued. “He knows what he did was wrong. He’s accepted that. But he’s trying to change.”
“So he says,” spat Larkin.
“And we have to believe it,” replied Mickey softly. “Take the other night. He saved your life.”
Larkin stood up. “So what? So fucking what? He saved mine, took two away from me. Does that make us even?”
“He could have left you where you were,” continued Mickey, quietly. “He had every right to, considering what you did to him the other day. How you messed up his face. But he chose to help you.”
Candleland Page 19
