Speak No Evil

by Martyn Waites

  ‘OK. Fine. Then you’re welcome to stay.’

  ‘Thank you. How long?’

  He smiled. ‘Long as you like. Treat it like your home. Or home from home. Your mother can contact your school, sort it with them. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Right.’ She looked out of the window again.

  He started to walk away then turned back to her. ‘Hey, Abigail.’

  She turned. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Good to have you here.’

  She smiled and felt relief and relaxation in that smile. She only nodded again, not trusting her voice to speak. She turned back to the window, looked out again.

  ‘Right,’ she heard her father say behind her. ‘Breakfast …’ He went into the kitchen.

  Missing the tears that sprang into her eyes. Good. She didn’t want him to see them.

  She kept looking out of the window at the new city.

  She smiled.

  ‘Thanks for coming. Short notice, really appreciate it.’ Tess Preston had polished up and trotted out her best estuary accent in the hope it would impress. She was desperately trying to lose the Posh Bird tag the guys in the office had given her.

  ‘No problem, Posh Bird.’ Well, that was a waste of time.

  Tess looked at the man. Ray Collins looked like a street-fighting gnome. He was a seasoned old Fleet Street hack in his forties, with long, greased back shoulder-length dirty grey /blonde hair and matching beard, an oily, mottled complexion, wearing jeans, work boots and a battered leather jacket that, like its owner, had seen plenty of action in super soaraway skirmishes and various tabloid warzones over the years. He was, Tess knew, one of the best photographers she could get. Or get from the office at short notice.

  ‘What’s the story, then?’ Ray Collins’s voice was authentic cockney geezer, gravelled and roughened by years of Benson and Hedges, whisky at all hours and screaming from the terraces at Upton Park.

  They walked through the front doors of the hotel to the car park, Collins hefting his camera bag on to his shoulder, towards Tess’s Golf. She was proud of her Golf. Not the biggest, best or fastest car but a damned good place to start. Unfortunately it also had dreaded Posh Bird connotations, but she couldn’t manage everything.

  They got in the car. At close range, Tess noticed Collins smelled of tobacco and old leather. Tess didn’t mind. To her it was the smell of success. And success was what she was about. Especially now. She was so excited by what she had discovered she was practically buzzing.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ she said, heading the car east along the quayside. ‘I tell you. This is going to be the biggest story of the year. Huge.’

  Collins nodded, said nothing. Took a cigarette out of the pack, stuck it in his mouth, lit up.

  Tess grimaced immediately. She hated smoking. She wasn’t that keen on drinking, but she knew they were things that had to be tolerated if she was to make it in this racket. Her fingers went to open the window but she stopped herself. That’s not what a pro would do. A pro would grin and bear it. A pro would join in.

  ‘You got a spare one?’ she asked.

  ‘These aren’t Posh Bird fags.’

  Collins exhaled. Tess found herself momentarily driving through fog.

  ‘You were sayin’. Biggest story of the year an’ all that.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tess hadn’t been able to get the woman she had seen out of her mind so she had spent the night going through her scrapbook. She carried it with her everywhere she went. It was her diary, how she measured her life. Proof of who she was and what she had achieved. If her house were on fire it would be the first thing she would save. It would be the only thing she would save.

  She had leafed through it, hoping to find the story that went with the woman’s image. She knew it was something big, something important, but she couldn’t place exactly what. She went all through the book, left to right, right to left, open at random pages, nothing. There was no story. That got her doubting. Maybe it was someone off the TV after all. She thought even more. Went through her notes, her phone, her laptop.

  And eventually she found it. The story. And she was right. It was a big one.

  She had phoned her editor. She didn’t care that it was the middle of the night, or that she wasn’t senior enough to have her mobile number. This was news. Big news. She would thank her for it.

  Once her editor had finished bawling her out for calling in the middle of the night, she said: ‘This better be fucking good. Or you’ll be looking for another job in the morning.’

  Tess assured her it was good. The best. ‘Remember a few years ago, that child killer?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The female one. When she was a kid she killed another kid. In the Sixties.’

  ‘Mae Blacklock. As was. What about her?’

  She swallowed hard, tried to keep the tremble out of her voice. ‘I know where she lives.’

  ‘Good for you. So does everyone. You’ll get your P45 in the morning. Good night.’

  ‘No wait …’ This was it. Make or break. She swallowed again, started. ‘That’s right, yes. Someone found out where she was living. We all went down there. I can remember it because it was one of my first stories. I was a trainee at the time. Then there was this court injunction stopping us from printing. Because of her son, or something. He didn’t know who she really was.’

  ‘That’s right. So what?’

  ‘The kid’s nearly sixteen. Or turned sixteen. They moved her but I’ve found her again.’

  Her editor was interested, but she felt that interest could go either way.

  ‘And listen to this. There’s been a murder. Right on her doorstep. A boy. Stabbed. Coincidence? I think not.’

  She had her full attention now, she knew it.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I checked up on it. Where she last lived, in Hull, when she was nearly outed, there was a murder there, too. A boy. Knifed to death. She moved straight afterwards.’

  ‘Fuck …’

  Tess allowed herself a small smile. ‘You see what I mean?’

  ‘You got a photographer with you?’

  ‘No, we’re using agency for this.’

  ‘I’ll get one sent up.’ She paused. She could guess what she was thinking. ‘You sure about this? Definitely her?’

  Tess thought of seeing the woman the night before. Was it coincidence she was on a part of the estate journalists wouldn’t venture into? ‘As sure as I can be.’

  ‘Get some corroboration. And some photos. They got any floral tributes up? Any of that shit?’

  ‘Plenty at the school gates.’

  ‘See if you can get a snap of her beside them. Killer’s guilt, or something.’

  Tess felt a ripple of excitement running through her. Not a ripple – more like a wave. ‘Will do.’

  She thought again. ‘Tess, the last time this fell apart because of the boy. Because the Press Complaints Commission said it wasn’t in the public interest. So we couldn’t publish. I don’t want that to happen again. It needs to be airtight.’

  ‘What would you suggest?’

  ‘Get me photos, a story, someone close to her going on record. A testimony. “I let evil killer babysit my kids.” Something like that. Get me airtight, get me overwhelming public interest and we’re good to go.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Soon as. Airtight and legal can do it on the run.’

  Tess grinned. ‘Got it.’

  ‘And Tess?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Don’t ever phone me in the middle of the night again. For whatever reason. Or I will fucking sack you.’

  She put the phone down. Tess danced round the room.

  ‘Biggest story of the year, an’ all that.’

  Ray Collins was irritated that Tess hadn’t answered him.

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I’ll tell you.’ She told him.

  Another plume of smoke, another grunt. ‘So she’s gone for it an’ sent me up.’

  ‘Th
at’s it.’

  Collins sucked the life from his fag, threw the butt out of the window. Tess hoped he would leave it open, air the car out a bit but he closed it straightaway. She would have to have it fumigated after this job. But the money she would make in bonuses would be worth it.

  ‘I think the kid’s nearly sixteen,’ said Tess. ‘Or sixteen now. We can move on it straightaway. Get some shots, reaction, that kind of thing. I’ll try to find someone to talk to on the record. And there’s something else.’ Tess grinned. This was the part she had kept until last, the part that would, even if it wasn’t true, make her reputation. ‘The story I came up here to cover. A kid’s murder. Happened on the estate she lives on.’ She assumed an American accent. It was as unconvincing as her estuary one. ‘Coincidence? I think not.’

  The accent was wasted on Collins. ‘So what? I get some photos of the kid? Of her?’

  ‘Yeah. That kind of thing.’

  ‘So you know where she lives?’

  ‘I know the area. But not the flat itself.’

  ‘We gonna find out?’

  ‘That’s where we’re going now.’

  ‘Bit risky all this, innit? Legal been on to it?’

  ‘She says if we make it airtight it’ll be of overwhelming public interest. We can get round it that way. So let’s do it.’

  Another grunt from Collins, another cigarette. Not the response Tess had been hoping for. Tess also thought that now wasn’t the time for a lecture about the health risks of passive smoking.

  Now was the time to break the story of a lifetime.

  ‘So tell me about Jack.’

  She lights another cigarette, takes a mouthful of coffee. A large one. Uses both actions to think before answering. ‘What d’you want to know?’ she says eventually.

  He shrugs. ‘About him. His life. His upbringing. Has it been difficult for him moving around the country, not being able to settle in one place for too long?’

  She shrugs this time. Again it’s a cover for her thoughts. ‘S’pose so.’

  ‘Has he ever said anything? Acted in a certain way about it? Tell me about him’

  She sighs, knowing the questions aren’t going to go away until she answers mem. ‘He’s a lovely lad. A really lovely lad. I think the sun shines out of him. I do.’ And she does. He sees it in her wistful smile, in the summery glaze creeping over her eyes. ‘He’s my world.’ She stubs her cigarette out as she gets talking. He’s noticed she does this as her defences come down. ‘All those years, in prison an’ everythin’. I just wanted somethin’, someone. To …’ She pulls back, takes a mouthful of coffee, gives an apologetic half-smile. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘This sounds wanky when I say it out loud.’

  He smiles, encouragingly.

  ‘But …’ She shrugs again. ‘It’s true. I did want somethin’ like that. Someone like that. I used to have lots of time on me own, I was always kickin’ off. I wasn’t what you’d call a model prisoner for a lot of the time, I mean I even escaped once. But yeah. I used to think that. If I had somethin’ to love or someone waitin’ for us when I got out. An’ when I got out I had Jack.’ A smile splits her face. A true one this time, no half measures. ‘An’ he’s my world. My big, beautiful boy.’

  ‘Is it tough on Rob knowing you think that about Jack?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He knows. That was part of the deal when I met him. An’ he was fine with it. But Jack … he’s a bright boy. Really. Reads all the time. He deserves the best. The best I can do for him.’ She sighs. ‘That’s why I’m doin’ this, isn’t it?’

  He senses there’s more to come. He waits.

  ‘But I do worry about him.’

  ‘Only natural. Don’t all mothers worry about their children? All parents about their sons?’

  She leans forward, wanting to make sure he understands what she means. ‘Not all mothers did what I did when they were eleven years old. Not all mothers spend the rest of their lives payin’ for it one way or another.’

  ‘No, I just meant—’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I know.’ She sighs again. ‘I just worry. I worry that whatever was in me is in him. Maybe it’s somethin’ psychological. Maybe it’s hereditary. Maybe it’s … I don’t know. A bad spirit, or something.’ She tries to laugh but it sounds hollow and unconvincing even to herself.

  He says nothing.

  ‘I mean, I know it can’t be. But I just worry. That it’s in the bone.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘It. The bad shit. It’s supposed to be psychological, because of my upbringing an’ that. Because of my mother. Like they said. But I worry that he’s like me. That he’s too much like me.’

  She reaches for another cigarette.

  ‘I worry that she’s put somethin’ in me an’ I’ve passed it down to him. I worry that he’s goin’ to turn out like me.’

  13

  ‘How. You. Aye, you. What are you lookin’ at?’

  Jack’s head came up sharply from the hardback library book he had been reading. The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. He was completely engrossed in it. He was unaware that he had been looking at anyone. He recognized the voice straight away. Renny. The little, stocky, shaven-headed kid who was quickly becoming obnoxious.

  Jack had hoped his day at school would go OK. Put everything that had recently happened behind him, just get on with his life. The reporters were still hanging round the school, along with police. Floral tributes to Calvin Bell were piling up at the gates and in the alley on the estate he had died in. Plastic-wrapped mostly, some with little teddy bears attached or Newcastle United scarves. Hand-written cards talking about what a loss he is and asking God to put him with the other angels. Jack wasn’t a cynic, but he doubted that angel was a word Calvin Bell had often been described with. Or any kid round here.

  He could see a reporter standing in front of the school gates, instructing his cameraman to get a good shot of the flowers before delivering his speech to camera, his face mournful as if he’s personally upset.

  ‘I’m talkin’ to you. Fuckin’ weirdo. Fuckin’ spazz.’

  Renny moved closer to Jack, Pez trailing behind him. Jack hadn’t made many friends and spent most of his break-times alone, reading. He loved getting lost in books, having other worlds open before him. So much better than the real one. Even the one he was reading about. Concentration camps, the Second World War.

  Renny stood over him. Jack ignored him, tried to keep reading.

  ‘Saw you last night. Out with your mother. Holdin’ hands, weren’t you? Fuckin’ weirdo. Fuckin’ paedo mother.’

  Jack’s hands started to shake as he gripped the book even harder. He refused to rise to it, just kept his head down.

  ‘You ignorin’ me?’

  Jack was doing exactly that. He stared at the words, not understanding them. All he could see was the shadow of the other boy.

  ‘How. I’m talkin’ to you.’ The boy’s voice had taken on a harder edge. Nastier. Much nastier.

  It was no good. He had to look up. And widened his eyes in surprise. Renny was sporting a black eye, cuts and bruises on his cheeks. His eyes were aflame, angered, like he had been stopped in the middle of a fight and wanted to finish it. With whoever he could find.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ Jack asked, closing his book but keeping his place with a finger.

  Renny was taken aback. He hadn’t anticipated that question. His mouth moved but the words were slow in emerging.

  ‘Never … never …’ His anger overtook him again. ‘What the fuck’s the matter with you? Eh? You a fuckin’ puff? Eh? What’s the matter with your face. Puff. Paedo mother an’ a fuckin’ baby for holdin’ her hand an’ a puff. That it?’

  Jack frowned. He couldn’t follow the words but he knew the boy was building up to something and he knew it wouldn’t be good. For him.

  Renny stood his ground before him, balling and unballing his hands into fists. Snorting through his nostrils. Jack knew that it would only take one more word, o
ne more sentence. He knew that whatever came out of his mouth next would be the excuse Renny needed to take a swing at him. Jack was shaking, his legs vibrating inside his trousers, his hands holding the book unable to keep still. He hoped it didn’t show.

  It was clear to Jack that Renny had his agenda of aggression and that now it was no longer a question of if but when. He would have to be ready for him. Or get up and walk away. That was what he tried to do. Renny blocked his way.

  ‘You startin’, eh?’ Renny pushed into Jack. ‘Eh? Eh?’

  Renny pushed him backwards. He stumbled on the wall he had been sitting on, angling his legs for balance, putting out his arm to keep upright, not letting go of his book, or his place in the book. Renny moved in. Jack waited for the punch.

  ‘Fuckin’ puff, fuckin’ puff …’

  Renny swung his arm back, telegraphing his intent. Jack moved to the side as he did so, hoping to dodge the blow that he knew would be aimed at his face. It connected with his shoulder, sending shockwaves of pain all the way down his left arm. He let out a gasp, tried to move out of the way.

  ‘Bastard …’

  Renny was coming for him again. Not trusting himself to get away so quickly this time, Jack brought his right hand up, still holding the library book. He removed his finger, no longer bothered about marking his place, and held the book round the spine. Then, summoning up as much rage as he could manage, brought it down sharply on the bridge of Renny’s nose.

  Renny howled in agony. Blood began to pump from his left nostril. Playing the advantage, Jack smashed the spine of the book underneath Renny’s nose, along his top lip. It was a move someone had taught him years ago. There was a cluster of nerve endings there and if they were hit hard enough and sharp enough the blow could make the biggest opponent crumple.

  Jack hit him hard and sharp. Ignored the blood that spattered the book, just watched the other boy reel backwards in pain, his hand to his face, and fall to the ground.

  Jack looked at Pez who was standing there as if struck by lightning. He was about to say something to him but didn’t get the opportunity.