In the Dark

by Mark Billingham

  ‘Community spirit?’

  He pointed. ‘Smack on. Plus, it’s a decent earner, tell you the truth. Half a dozen of these places, turn each of them round in a month or two, flog them back to the brewery. Can’t go wrong.’

  ‘Still got the flats, though? I thought you had the contract to do up that block in Deptford.’

  ‘Oh yeah, never busier.’ He leaned back on his chair, looked around. ‘Just had to take on a few more chippies, sparks, painters, whatever.’

  ‘And . . . other business?’

  The man rubbed his hands against the sides of his jeans, sucked at something in his teeth. ‘Come on. Since when do we go there, Paul?’

  ‘Only asking, mate.’

  The man picked up his smoothie bottle and held it close to his face with the label facing Paul. He smiled. ‘Until proven guilty, Paul. You know that.’

  Paul swept the discarded shells and inedible pieces of prawn into the plastic bag; dropped in the empty bottles. ‘You said you’d thought about it,’ he said. ‘What I was asking.’

  ‘I did. I have.’

  ‘So, what can you give me?’

  Clive was back loitering behind the bar. He was asked to take the rubbish away and keep himself busy.

  ‘You’re not going to like it, Paul.’

  ‘Why is this such a big deal? I’d’ve thought you’d be only too happy to give me some names. You’ve got no love for any of these bastards.’

  ‘It’s not about love. It’s about honour.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘You’re asking me to grass.’ He held up a hand as Paul started to protest. ‘End of the day, that’s what it boils down to.’

  ‘It’s a favour,’ Paul said.

  ‘That’s never been how it worked with us.’ His face asked the question before his mouth did. ‘Has it?’

  Paul sat back, smoothing down the plastic sheeting with his palms, taking a breath. ‘What about some smaller stuff, then? Just bits and pieces.’

  ‘Same thing applies.’

  ‘I’ve got to give the brass something, for Christ’s sake. Let them think I’m still doing some work.’

  ‘There are no gradations with this stuff.’

  ‘Fine. I get it.’

  ‘You can’t be a bit of a grass; same as you can’t be a bit pregnant. All you can be is a bit of a cunt.’ He waited until Paul looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.’

  Paul nodded, but he’d stopped listening. He knew he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. He suddenly found himself thinking about Helen, about where she was going today.

  The door from the street banged open suddenly and a kid walked in; sixteen or thereabouts and out of it. He looked around, confused.

  ‘Can you get a drink in here or what?’

  The man at the table turned towards the back room, but Clive was already on his way over to the door, shaking his head and waving his arms in front of him. ‘Sorry, mate, the place isn’t open yet.’

  The kid started shouting about how the door was open, asking if he could just use the toilets, then threatening all sorts as he was pushed back out onto the street.

  Clive threw the bolts top and bottom and turned back to his boss. ‘My fault. I never locked it after Mr Hopwood came in.’

  The apology’s acceptance was lost in the explosion of glass as the brick came through the window and the scream of chair legs against the wooden floor. Clive moved quickly for a big man: he was halfway out of the door before the brick had crashed into the base of the bar.

  Paul stood up and walked to the doorway to watch. He saw Clive get hold of the kid’s jacket as the kid tried to dodge between parked cars.

  The man at the table picked a piece of glass off the plastic in front of him. ‘What can you do?’

  Paul continued to watch as Clive pushed the kid up against a wall on the other side of the road, pressed his face into the grey brick and talked, close to his ear.

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul.’ The man stood up from the table and smoothed down his sweater. ‘I can’t be somebody else.’ He took a few steps in Paul’s direction. ‘You can. You can make other people think you’re somebody else. You have that gift. It’s not me, though.’

  Across the road, Clive pushed the kid slowly down to his knees, maintaining the pressure on the back of the head so that the face scraped every inch of brick as it went.

  Paul could see the red stain from forty feet away.

  ‘Lunch on me next time, then.’ The man joined Paul at the doorway. ‘What about a bit of dim sum, up west? I know you like all that.’

  Paul said that sounded good, and nodded towards the street. ‘I think you’ve just lost a potential regular, Frank.’

  When Paul left, the kid who had thrown the brick was sitting on the pavement spitting out sticky strings of blood and moaning. Feeling around inside his mouth. He watched Paul unlock the car and stood up; asked if he could have a lift to the hospital.

  Paul tossed his jacket into the car. ‘I saw what happened,’ he said. ‘He didn’t touch your fucking legs.’

  SIX

  Helen had been in her pyjamas and dressing gown since she’d got back from the health centre. She’d padded from room to room tidying up, had made a desultory effort to reorganise the kitchen cupboards and then given up. Decided she’d be far happier trying to eat her own body weight in crisps and Dairy Milk, letting the hand that worked the TV remote get all the exercise.

  She half-watched Deal or No Deal, losing interest when the big-money boxes were opened, and thinking about that afternoon’s visit to the doctor.

  Everything was ticking along very nicely, apparently . . .

  The head was not engaged as yet, but that could happen any time from thirty-six weeks onwards, so there was nothing to worry about on that score. The baby’s weight was almost exactly where it should be. Tick. Her blood pressure was fine, he said. Tick again, well done. She nodded as the doctor rattled off the figures and wondered about his: he looked a little red-faced and she couldn’t help wondering if he had a bottle of something in a desk drawer. The baby’s lungs were almost fully developed now, he said, taking a good-sized breath as if to demonstrate what it was that lungs did. And he could survive unaided if need be, the clever little sod. In fact, all he would be doing in Planet Womb from this point on was lying about and putting on weight.

  Helen reached across and took a second slice of cheese on toast from the tray next to her. The least she could do was pitch in.

  All ticking along very nicely then, until the doctor had asked how she was. Until he took off his little round glasses, turned away from his computer screen and asked her that.

  ‘In yourself,’ he’d said.

  She could tell by the look on his face that he’d seen tears at this point in proceedings plenty of times before. That he was putting hers down to the hormone fairy overstaying her welcome. He proffered the box of tissues and asked if there was anyone she’d like to talk to. She shook her head and blew her nose, wondering how he’d react if she looked up and said, ‘I don’t suppose you could get my boyfriend in here, could you? There’s plenty we should be talking about . . .’

  Helen hopped through the channels without finding anything she fancied. Decided that when Paul got home she’d tell him that, if they were strapped, they could save thirty-odd quid a month by getting shot of the satellite TV.

  She brushed away the crumbs from her pyjama top and realised that it was wet. She pulled the back of her sleeve across her face, unwilling to get up and fetch tissues. She had no idea when Paul would be getting home, or where he would be getting home from, and acknowledged that this was the way things were now, more often than not.

  Only so much any doctor could tell.

  Every box ticked, except one.

  The journey north took them the best part of an hour, and Theo only got the Audi above forty for about one minute of it. He enjoyed the thump of the extra bass-bins Easy had put into the back, though, and the leath
er seats, and the green LEDs on the dash.

  Just beyond Highgate Village they cruised past a large house set well back from the road on the other side of a pond. Turned and cruised back again before parking up two streets away.

  Theo turned down the music. ‘Place has got pillars, man.’

  ‘Yeah, and a proper damn alarm,’ Easy said. ‘You not see that thing flashing?’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket and studied it, shaking his head. ‘We just going in and out, man, five minutes. Don’t need safes and antiques and all that.’ He jabbed at another of the addresses on his list. ‘Let’s try the one in Southgate.’

  As Theo took the car back down towards the North Circular, Easy explained how it worked. He told him about his friend who worked as a baggage handler at Luton airport, and helped himself to the odd camera, MP3 player and the like. Who copied down home addresses from luggage tags which he passed on to Easy for a few quid and a wrap of something nice every now and again.

  ‘Everybody’s happy,’ Easy said.

  ‘Does Wave know about this?’

  Easy drew his head back and stared. ‘What does that matter?’

  Wave. Top man in the street crew. Plenty he was answerable to, of course; plenty nobody ever saw. But round the estates and on a few square miles of Lewisham streets, Wave was the one asking the questions.

  ‘Wave’ because of the hair: the Afro that sort of fell from one side of his head to the other. And for other reasons of his own invention: ‘Because sometimes a wave can be there for everyone to enjoy. To ride on or to splash about in as they choose, you check me? Other times that thing can get big and come down like a tsunami or some shit. That wave can fuck you up if you don’t watch out.’

  ‘Said what the fuck does that matter?’

  ‘Just asking.’

  ‘This is my thing.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Theo said.

  ‘Wave got far too much else to worry about,’ Easy said. ‘Plenty poking up his arse, remember?’

  Theo nodded. Yeah, he remembered.

  He finally got a chance to put his foot down on an empty stretch through Finchley, catching a couple of green lights on the bounce. He remembered Easy taking him through it all one night, a few weeks after he’d got back from Chatham. Sitting in a KFC with a Coke and nuggets, and Easy sketching out his world on a napkin.

  Three triangles, one on top of the other.

  ‘This top one’s like the upper distribution,’ Easy said, stabbing at the highest triangle. ‘Import, smuggling operations, all that. Serious money, and most of it going in white pockets, you ask me.’ He drew a line down to the middle triangle. ‘This is the warehousing and the factory, yeah? Breaking the gear up and cutting it. Them in white coats and what have you, chopping in the lactose and the caffeine powder and the rest of it.’

  ‘And laxatives, right?’

  ‘All that, yeah. Get off your face and shit your pants at the same time, whatever.’ He moved slowly down to the bottom triangle and drew a line hard around the sides, the pen cutting through the napkin as he went over and over it. ‘This is where we are, which is the crucial part, you get me, T? Down here at the bottom you got your lookouts, that’s important. And then moving up a bit there’s the runners and the sellers going back and forwards all day from the street to the house, one in one out, with the money and the packages . . . And then right up near the tip of this triangle there’s the men who are holding the cash and whoever’s in charge of the stash, you with me?’

  Theo turned the napkin around and stared at it.

  ‘And here’s the beauty part,’ Easy said. ‘Everyone can move up.’ Now he demonstrated with his hands, moving them through the air. ‘Everyone, you listening? Moving up the sides of the triangle and further up from one fucker to the next.’ He took the napkin back and pointed. ‘Right here, just below the tip of the bottom triangle, that’s me, you get that? Number two and still climbing, OK?’

  Theo nodded, seriously doubting it.

  ‘Up there at the top, that’s Wave. He’s like a pig in shit, for real, but there’s serious pressure up there too, man.’ Easy finished his Coke and sat back in his chair; started tearing the napkin into tiny pieces. ‘Plenty pressing down on you from up above, and plenty poking you in the arse . . .’

  They pulled the same casual drive-past at a smallish semi in Southgate, and Easy told Theo to park at the end of the road. The house was between street lamps, with no sign of an alarm.

  ‘Sweet and simple,’ Easy said.

  He went to the boot and dragged out an empty suitcase. Pissed himself when Theo asked what it was for. ‘Well, it’s handy for bringing stuff out, you get me? And I’m thinking, you know, theirs will be in Majorca or Lanzarote or whatever, same as they are.’ He kissed his teeth and grinned. ‘And you’re supposed to be the clever one . . .’

  Once they were in the house, Easy had the DVD player in the case within a minute or two. He told Theo to stay downstairs and grab whatever else he could, while he went through the rest of the place.

  Theo knew the house was empty, but it still scared him to see Easy charging about so full of himself. He crept around the kitchen and the living room, poked through a pile of magazines on a low table. There was a small office built in under the stairs; a computer tucked under the desk, a keyboard and large monitor on top. Theo nudged at the mouse with a gloved finger and a picture appeared on the screen: a woman and three children, beaming from a swimming pool; a multicoloured lilo and the sun bouncing off the water behind them.

  A different holiday.

  Easy came thumping down the stairs and Theo stepped away from the desk. He looked at the suitcase which Easy was now carrying with both arms. ‘Decent pickings?’

  ‘Another DVD in the kids’ room, digital radio.’ Easy slapped the suitcase. ‘Brand-new iPod in a box, man.’ He nodded to Theo. ‘You?’

  Theo pointed at the computer and shrugged. ‘Nothing portable, man. I reckon we’re done.’

  Easy looked around, then nodded and leaned in close to Theo. ‘I pissed on the bed up there.’

  Theo stepped away, grimacing. ‘That is so completely rank, man.’

  Easy was enjoying himself. ‘I never, man, fuck’s sake, what do you think?’ He hoisted up the suitcase. ‘Gonna start calling you “Toy”, T. Like one of them kid’s things . . . robots or whatever. You are so easy to wind up.’

  Helen woke at the noise of the key in the door and lay there listening to Paul coming in. The coughs and sniffs. The grunt as he dropped on to the sofa to take off his shoes.

  She heard him going into the kitchen, heard the squeak of a cupboard door, and hoped that he was making himself something to eat. With luck, she might be asleep again by the time he came to bed.

  He came into the bedroom a few minutes later and she stayed turned away from the door, knowing he was getting undressed as quietly as possible so as not to wake her. Laying his watch down nice and gently. She could smell garlic when he climbed in next to her and she knew that he’d been out to eat.

  People from work, most likely.

  It wasn’t the first time that she’d asked herself if he might be having an affair, and she was still thinking about it when she heard his breathing shift, and knew he was asleep.

  Not the first time, but as always there was one thought that nagged harder than the ‘Who?’ and the ‘Where?’ Harder even than the ‘How could you?’

  One thought.

  What right have I got to complain?

  He could feel the cash in his back pocket when he sat down. He reached around and took out the notes, dropped them on the coffee-table. Two hundred in tens and twenties, Easy had given him. Passed them across when he’d dropped Theo off; before he’d pointed his fist towards Theo’s and walked back around to the driver’s side of the car.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘You helped out,’ Easy said.

  ‘I did nothing.’

  It was way too much. Theo knew that Easy wouldn’t be get
ting anything like that for what they’d just lifted from that house. He guessed that his friend was just showing off.

  But still . . .

  ‘This the kind of paper you could be getting,’ Easy said. ‘If you moved up.’

  ‘And how’s that happen?’

  ‘I talk to Wave and make it happen.’

  ‘Simple as that?’

  ‘You just need to move up that triangle, T.’ Easy made that gliding motion with his hand again. ‘Spend a little more time indoors, get some of these kids running around for you. Come out on a few more trips like this with me, yeah? Fun and cash, what more d’you want, man?’

  Theo thought briefly about waking Javine to show her the money, but he knew it was a stupid idea. She was like his mum: she didn’t want to know. Right, Theo thought, but she liked the money well enough when she had it. She’d be trying to decide which shoes to buy while she was shaking her head and telling him she didn’t want to know where the cash had come from.

  But it had to come from somewhere, didn’t it?

  When the Audi had roared away, he’d seen a group of kids watching from the shadows near the garages; their looks eating up the car.

  Now, he moved the cash to one side and put his feet up on the table. Sat there listening to the noises of the estate - to the rhythms and the raised voices that sang against the concrete - and tried not to think about a picture on a computer screen.

  SEVEN

  Paul had left home before seven, beating most of the traffic through Brixton and into Kennington, but he had clearly not been the only one hoping to get the office to himself for an hour or two. Quite a few early birds were wearing pinched, Monday-morning faces when he got in. Not that most of them didn’t look every bit as pissed off on any other day of the week.