Candleland

by Martyn Waites

  There was an angry stabbing noise as Larkin was put on hold. He waited a couple of minutes then a familiar psychocockney voice came on the line.

  “Stephen Larkin. Well, well, well.”

  “Hello Charlie, how you doing?”

  “Well. Considering I’ve just had a close friend’s funeral to arrange recently.”

  “Ringo didn’t need a funeral,” said Larkin. “He’d already been cremated.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end. “You’re dead, Larkin.”

  “No Charlie, you are. You’re just still walking around, that’s all.”

  Silence on the line.

  “How many kids you killed today, Charlie? How many untraceables have taken a one-way trip to Dagenham, eh?”

  “You said you wanted to deal.” Charlie Rook’s voice was hot, bubbling, struggling to keep control.

  “Yeah Charlie, I do. I’ve got your CD. I’ve got Karen. You can have the CD back, but not her. That’s my side of the bargain. Your side is, you leave her alone. You leave me alone. And you will. Because I’ve copied the CD for insurance.”

  “Fuck off. No deal.”

  Larkin smiled. He was enjoying himself. “Then we go public. I’m a journalist, I know how to do that. Think, Charlie, this is your only chance. After today all bets are off. Are you in?”

  “I’ve got some conditions.”

  “No you haven’t. It’s my way or the highway, mate.”

  When Charlie Rook spoke next, he sounded like an underground nuclear test: planet-destroying heat inside, only tremors and cracks showing on the surface. “Talk, then, cunt. And it better be good.”

  Larkin talked, Charlie Rook listened. He didn’t like it, but he agreed. He had no option.

  Larkin had another call to make, no less important.

  He dialled the number. Andy answered. Larkin announced himself.

  “Fuckin’ ell, mate, where you been? You phone to say you’re fine, then nothin’! What’s goin’ on?”

  Some things never change, thought Larkin, and Andy’s one of them, thankfully.

  “I’m fine, Andy. Just had to put myself back together.”

  “And have you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good, cause you need to get back ’ere quick. These two’re gettin’ on me nerves, an’ –”

  “I’ve found her, Andy.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Who? Karen? You’ve found ’er?”

  Larkin was about to answer him when there was a commotion at the other end of the line. He heard Andy’s voice raised, another, more guttural voice interject, sound of the the receiver being fought over, then near-silence. The only sound in Larkin’s ear was heavy breathing.

  “Hello?” said Larkin.

  “It’s me. I heard Andy say you’d found her.” Moir’s familiar gruff tones sounded dry, uncertain. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, Henry,” said Larkin. “I’ve found her.”

  There was a huge sigh at the other end. It sounded like a zeppelin deflating.

  “How is she?” asked Moir. “Does she want to … Is she …” His cracked voice oscillated away to nothing.

  “Don’t worry, she’s fine. There’s just some things that have to be sorted out.”

  “What sort of things? Are you stoppin’ me from seein’ her?”

  Larkin sighed. He had known this was going to be difficult. “Look, she’s in a … situation. When that’s sorted, we’ll take things from there.”

  The words sent Moir ballistic. He had to be there, he wanted to know what was going on, what Larkin was keeping from him … and on, and on …

  And so, twenty minutes, one huge argument and one very reluctant capitulation later, Larkin, his supply of pound coins used up, replaced the handset and exited the phone box, ear ringing. After that, he needed a drink.

  That night, as Larkin lay on his bed in his room, eyes scanning an old paperback, brain too pumped to take in the words, there was a knock at the door.

  “Yeah?”

  The door slowly opened. There stood Karen.

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  “Sure,” said Larkin, swinging his legs off the bed and putting the book down. “Make yourself at home.”

  She carefully closed the door, sat herself in the armchair and gave him an awkward smile. Larkin picked up on it, threw it back at her, with what he hoped was something akin to reassurance.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked, gesturing towards the bottle of whisky.

  “No, no thanks,” she said quickly. “I don’t drink.”

  “Very wise,” said Larkin. “You don’t mind if I …” He held the bottle over his glass.

  “No. Go ahead. I don’t mind other people doin’ it, I just stopped drinking when I stopped the other stuff.”

  Larkin poured, sipped and sat down.

  “So,” he said, “you’re taking a risk by coming up here.”

  “I got Darren to clear a route for me. I wanted to talk to you.”

  Larkin said nothing, just continued to sip from his drink.

  Karen looked at her feet. “The other day, when you came to see me, I was a bit … defensive, shall we say.”

  Larkin smiled. “I didn’t take it personally.” An aggressive mask is often the best kind to hide behind, he thought. Especially if someone had been through what she had.

  Karen smiled back, glacier cracking. “I’ve been talking to Mickey. He told me what you’re gonna be doin’. The risk you’re takin’ for me. I just wanted to say thank you. I do appreciate it.”

  “That’s OK,” said Larkin, much more casually than he felt. The fear hadn’t kicked in yet, but it would.

  “Mickey’s told me a bit about you.” She smiled. “You were very determined to find me.”

  “That’s me, good old bloodhound Larkin.”

  They exchanged nervous laughter. It seemed to relax them more.

  “He also told me about Ralph,” she said. “I couldn’t believe it. He’s such a sweet guy. Caring.”

  Larkin swallowed his drink in two gulps. It hurt going down. “Yeah?” he said. “Well he didn’t use to be.”

  “People change. You said so the other day.”

  He was about to answer her when he noticed her lip trembling slightly.

  “Hayley used to say that too. She proved it with me.” Karen quickly got herself under control.

  The sight made Larkin’s anger about Sickert die down. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Look at your dad.”

  The ice began to reform. “Do I have to?”

  “He put himself out a lot to find you.”

  “He got you to put yourself out, you mean.”

  “No, Karen. I wanted to help him. He’s a friend. He’d do the same for me.”

  Karen gave a bitter laugh. “Really? That’s not the bastard I used to know.” The mask was moving back into place.

  “Then maybe you don’t know him at all.”

  Karen said nothing. She stared at her knuckles.

  “Look,” said Larkin, “don’t take my word for it. When all this is over why not give him a ring? Judge for yourself. I’ll give you another card.”

  Karen remained silent. Larkin wasn’t sure she’d actually heard him. Back to square one, he thought. Then she looked up. And smiled.

  “You don’t need to give me another card,” she said. “I’ve still got the last one.”

  “You tore it up.”

  “We have a thing called Sellotape.”

  They both smiled. Karen stood up.

  “Well, I’d better leave you to …” She trailed off, her words becoming awkward again.

  “Yeah,” said Larkin standing. “Thanks for visiting. Anytime you’re passing, you know, just drop in.”

  She laughed. “I will. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to be there, you know.”

  “I know,” she said, “but I want to be. Thanks again. I mean it.�
� She walked to the door, let herself out. Larkin heard her feet on the stairs, tentative, slow, then turning to silence. He was left alone.

  He walked back to the bed, poured another drink, threw it down in one. He needed to sleep, told himself the whisky would help. He put the light out, undressed, and climbed into bed.

  He tried to force himself to sleep but it wouldn’t come, so he just lay there staring at the shadows on the ceiling, the shades of grey, until eventually tiredness made a weary truce with his body and he slept.

  His dreams were uneasy but at least he didn’t remember them.

  And so the next day he sat in The Volunteer in Hackney, shoulders bunched in tension as if expecting a bullet between them. Trying to act casual, even confident, but the tightness in his chest, the shake of his hands and the smell of his sweat was giving him away. He drank his pint; easy, slowly, hoping the alcohol would calm him rather than anaesthetise him. There was no chance of either; he had enough adrenalin coursing round his body to power a small town.

  He waited, eyes on the mirror, eyes on the clock. Twenty-eight minutes past. Two minutes to go.

  He heard the sound of a car pulling up and parking outside. His heart flipped over.

  “BMW pulling up,” said the barman.

  Larkin nodded his thanks and took a deep breath.

  Suddenly the door opened. Larkin’s eyes jerked up to the mirror. He looked at the man, made eye contact. He was wearing an overcoat and carrying a shoulder bag, but apart from that he looked exactly the same as when Larkin had last seen him, even down to the Walkman stuck in his ears. Lenny Lothario.

  Lenny walked up until he was right behind Larkin.

  “Afternoon, Lenny,” Larkin said.

  Lenny looked twitchy, but since this was his natural state of being, Larkin couldn’t tell if the man was nervous or not. Probably not. Larkin suddenly felt something very hard being poked in his back. He stiffened.

  “Know what this is?” asked Lenny, giggling. “I bet you do. I’m here to get what I want. That disc and then revenge for what you did to Ringo. Don’t fuck me about, because from this range I won’t miss.”

  Larkin tried to swallow, but couldn’t. There seemed to be something the size of an apple stuck in his throat.

  Oh fuck, he thought.

  The Last Chance Saloon Bar

  Larkin swallowed, forcing the imaginary apple to go down. He found an adrenalin-soaked reserve of false bravery and spoke.

  “Listen, Lenny,” said Larkin, throat dry, “you fire that thing and you’ll be dead in seconds. You don’t believe me? Try it.”

  Lenny sneered. “Just gimme the disc.”

  “Lenny, I arranged to meet you here for a purpose. Look around you.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Larkin leaned in close. “Look around you, Lenny, but don’t make it obvious. I’m not here alone. All the men you see sitting round here, reading their papers, eating their crisps and drinking their pints are with me. All eight of them. And they’re well armed. One word, one gesture from me and they’ll blow you away so quickly you’ll be fucking atomised. Go on, look.”

  Lenny looked. He saw men dotted round the pub; hard, scarred men. Their jackets were open exposing handguns in easy-access holsters, their folded newspapers concealing the stocks of bigger pieces of ordnance. Their expressions were flat, unreadable. They were waiting for the word.

  “We’ve even got men on the roof,” said Larkin. “So do we understand each other now, Lenny?”

  Lenny, Larkin saw in the mirror, nodded. There was fear in his eyes.

  “Put the gun away, then. Sit down.”

  Lenny did as he was told. He sat on the barstool next to Larkin. Larkin allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Only a small one. There was still a long way to go.

  “Now,” said Larkin, “let’s get this over with, Lenny. Then you’re out of my life forever. You want the disc.” Larkin slowly put his hand into the left-hand side pocket of his cargo pants and, aware that Lenny was watching him like a hawk, carefully drew out the CD in its plastic cover. He placed it on the bar top.

  “Yours,” said Larkin. “In exchange for certain assurances.”

  Lenny said nothing. He unzipped the shoulder bag and brought out a laptop. He flipped it open, slid the disc on to the tray and started it up. His fingers flicked over the keys. A familiar, ugly image appeared onscreen.

  “This is the one,” said Lenny, flatly. He flicked off the laptop and packed it away.

  “Now,” said Larkin. “You’ve got the disc. Fine. Keep it. But remember that we’ve got a copy. So if anything happens to Karen, no matter how accidental it might look, this stuff goes public. You got me?”

  Lenny nodded. Larkin breathed another sigh of relief.

  “Now find the door, go and tell Charlie that.”

  “Karen was supposed to be here,” said Lenny, not moving. “Where is she?”

  “Right behind you,” said a voice.

  Lenny turned. At a table by the door sat an androgynous figure dressed in thick workshirt, jeans, boots, black puffa jacket, with a woollen hat on her head. Karen. She stood up, crossed to where Larkin and Lenny sat.

  “Hello Lenny,” she said. “You look surprised. Did you think I’d be too scared to face you? I wanted to see you.”

  “The boss wants me to bring you with me.” Lenny’s eyes were jittering between Larkin and Karen.

  “Which boss would that be, Lenny?” asked Karen. “Charlie? Or has Melissa taken over yet?”

  Lenny swallowed, his eyes darting nervously around the pub as if someone was listening. “How d’you know about that?”

  Karen laughed. Larkin could see that she was burning with anger, but she was channelling it, using it. Enjoying it.

  “Oh, I know lots of things, Lenny. Lots of secrets. Want to hear another?”

  Lenny didn’t reply.

  “Remember all those times you used to force me to have sex with you?”

  “I didn’t force you –”

  Karen didn’t let him speak. “What, you think I enjoyed it? I did it by choice? No, Lenny. All those fuckin’ awful things you used to like. All the stuff you did that made me physically ill afterwards. All those body fluids. Remember?” Her voice began to crack. “Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m HIV positive, Lenny.” There was a brittle kind of triumph in her eyes.

  Lenny’s face, already pallid, became chalk-white. “You … you can’t be. You were tested. All the girls were.”

  Karen smiled. It was like an arctic frost. “Melissa faked it for me. She also gave me the CD. Nice of her, eh?”

  Lenny was lost, staring into space.

  “HIV, Lenny. And you’ve got it. That means one day you’ll get full-blown AIDS. Then it’ll be a horrible, slow, painful death.” There were tears in her eyes. “Just like mine.”

  Lenny looked at her, stunned. “I might not … it might not have infected me.”

  “You think so?” asked Karen. “Then this will.”

  She spat right into his eyes.

  Larkin’s mouth fell open. That wasn’t in the script, he hadn’t been expecting that. Neither had Lenny. He reacted as if he’d just been hit with acid, pitching himself backwards off the stool, clawing at his face. He landed in a heap on the floor, writhing and struggling, frantically wiping his face with his overcoat.

  Larkin looked at Karen. Her face was shining with the kind of righteous vengeance that only the oppressed overthrowing the oppressor can ever feel.

  “Bitch!” screamed Lenny. “You’re gonna fuckin’ pay!” He grabbed hold of his Walkman, shouted into it. “Now! Now!”

  Larkin moved quickly. He tore open Lenny’s jacket and coat, ripped the Walkman out and examined it.

  “Fuck!” he shouted to the men in the pub. “This isn’t a Walkman! It’s a transmitter! He knows how many people we’ve got in here! And he’s just called for reinforcements!”

  The men dotted round the pub jumped to their feet, guns drawn. They scanned the pu
b, keyed up, ready.

  They didn’t have long to wait. Outside there was the screech of tyres, the sound of a car roaring nearer and the squeal of suddenly applied brakes.

  Then all hell let loose.

  Rifle shots were heard from an upstairs window, aiming into the street. In reply came bursts of automatic weapons fire. The rifle shots stopped. Silence.

  Suddenly, the windows of the pub shattered in a hail of rapid fire.

  “Down!” shouted one of the men. Most of the men dived for cover, upturning tables and pulling out wall seats, and began to return fire.

  Larkin dived to the floor, face down, hands over his head. He knew they would have no effect against bullets, but at least he could shield himself from raining glass.

  A couple of the men who didn’t reach cover in time were hit; spinning and dancing, the bullets jerking them around, blood paintwheeling from their bodies as they fell.

  Larkin was terrified. He had been in some rough situations before, but nothing like this. The noise, the movement, the terror … this was a war zone, as brutal as it was sudden.

  A sudden thought struck him: Karen, where was she? He risked a glance up. Lenny was pulling her along the floor, one arm round her neck, the other with a gun pointing at her head. The laptop was slung over his shoulder and he was slithering along the floor on his back, the heavy overcoat absorbing any glass, his legs powering his movement, Karen clutched on top of him.

  Larkin started to crawl, commando-style, towards them. Bullets popped and thudded into the wood of the bar, centimetres above his head. Lenny caught the movement, swung the gun towards Larkin, and fired.

  Larkin didn’t have time to think. With speed that amazed even himself, he rolled out of the way and under a nearby table, the bullets embedding themselves in the floor where he had been. Lenny noted his new position and took aim again, a look of intense manic glee on his face.

  There was nowhere for Larkin to turn to, so he pulled the table down in front of him as a makeshift shield, hoping that Lenny’s gun wouldn’t be powerful enough to penetrate the wood, but knowing that at this short distance it would blow the table to matchwood. He was trapped.

  Karen saved him. Just as Lenny was about to fire, she reached up and grabbed his gun hand. She didn’t succeed in wresting the weapon from his grasp or stopping the shot, but the pull she gave his arm sent the shot harmlessly wide.