by Mark Morris
‘Ignore what Glenn says,’ I told her, ‘and I’m not just saying that because of the history between us. You do what you’ve set your heart on, and don’t let anyone sway you. I know your mum’s proud of you, and so am I.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ she said, and sighed.
‘But?’ I asked.
‘But what?’
‘But that’s not the only thing that’s bothering you, is it? There’s something else.’
This time the sigh was big enough to make her shoulders slump as if the air was leaking out of her. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Well, maybe not to the untutored eye,’ I said, ‘but I’m a psychologist, remember. I’m trained to notice these things. I can always spot those little signs of discontent – the downturned mouth; the constant sighing; the tears running down the cheeks; the scribbling of the suicide note; the noose around the neck…’
‘All right, Sigmund Freud,’ she said, poking me in the ribs as a smile crept back on to her face, ‘you can shut up now.’
I took a long drag on my cigarette, giving her space to breathe, to think. Sure enough, after a few seconds, she said, ‘Can I talk to you about something?’
I spread my hands. ‘Talk away.’
‘Not here,’ she said, looking around. I couldn’t see who she thought might be listening – the rest of the smokers standing out in the cold with us were strangers – but her expression was furtive all the same. ‘Let’s go inside, get a drink and find a quiet corner in the downstairs bar.’
‘Lead the way,’ I said, taking a last drag on my cigarette before dropping the stub, stamping on it and following her back inside.
There was a little round table next to a group of fat, beardy blokes in T-shirts who were laughing a lot. Candice squeezed herself through to the built-in padded leather bench that ran the length of the wall while I queued at the bar for drinks. By the time I got back she was texting on her phone, a troubled expression on her face, her fingers tapping the tiny keyboard so swiftly they were almost a blur. The tink of our wine glasses on the wooden tabletop and the glassy scrape as I pushed hers towards her caused her face to bob up and produce a tired smile.
‘Cheers,’ I said, sitting down and raising my glass towards her, ‘and happy birthday again.’
‘Cheers,’ she responded, the Sauvignon Blanc catching the light in little darting shimmers as she lifted her glass and touched it to mine. As I took a gulp of my plummy Merlot she barely wet her top lip before putting her drink back down. She pressed her hands together, aligning her fingertips, and hunched her shoulders as if she was drawing herself in. Her eyes flickered downwards and her lips tightened, as though she’d spotted something unsavoury in the bottom of her glass.
‘Think a bit harder,’ I said. ‘My mind-reading powers aren’t what they were.’
This time my comment didn’t provoke even the twitch of a smile. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘This isn’t easy.’
‘Why? Because it’s embarrassing? Because it’s complicated? Because you think I’ll be angry?’
She made a face, snatched at her glass and took a hefty swig. The beardy blokes on the next table burst out laughing, drawing her gaze for a moment. Then she said, ‘You know I’ve got this boyfriend, Dean?’
‘The one you’re hiding from us?’
‘I’m not hiding him.’
My comment was meant as a joke, but her reply was enough of a snap to make me raise my hands. ‘Sorry if I touched a nerve. You mean the one who couldn’t come to your party because he had to work a shift at Nando’s?’
‘Yeah… but that’s not the reason.’
‘Not what reason?’
‘The reason why he couldn’t come.’
I looked at her and frowned, but she purposely averted her gaze. ‘So what is the reason?’
It wasn’t only the expression on her face that told me she was in trouble; it was her body language too. She held herself stiffly, the tautly clenched muscles in her neck and exposed arms making me think of a rabbit or deer poised to flee at the slightest sign of danger. I felt a flutter of nerves in my stomach; it was a feeling I hadn’t had for a long time, but it was instantly familiar nonetheless. It seemed to take an age before she said, ‘He’s scared.’
Even now I hoped I was reading the situation wrongly, that my sudden apprehension was misplaced. ‘Scared of meeting us all?’ I asked, but she shook her head.
‘Scared of being out in public. Scared of being seen by… certain people.’
‘What people?’ Unconsciously my voice hardened. ‘What’s he been up to, Candice?’
My daughter flinched as though I’d raised a hand to her. ‘Don’t get angry with me, Dad. None of this is my fault.’
I controlled myself, took a swig of wine. ‘I’m not angry with you, sweetheart. I’m just worried about you. It’s obvious that whatever this boyfriend of yours has done, it’s had a knock-on effect. So why don’t you tell me what you’re involved in?’
‘I’m not involved,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t mean they won’t take it out on me.’
‘Who?’ I asked, and this time the nerves didn’t just flutter in my stomach, they cramped.
The beardy guys on the next table burst out laughing again, and I glared at them. One had a Dalek on his T-shirt, which was stretched across his fat belly. He caught my eye, and instantly the mirth dropped out of his face and he glanced quickly away. I might be a psychology lecturer these days, but I apparently still have the kind of face that makes people uneasy.
Instead of answering my question, Candice said, ‘Did I tell you that Dean was an art student?’
‘You have now.’
‘Right, well… one night about, I dunno… eighteen months ago, he went to this party in Shoreditch with some friends of his, and met this guy, Mitch, who told Dean that he was a businessman. Mitch talked posh, and had a really expensive suit, and a girlfriend who looked like a model, and Dean was pretty much in awe of him, even though Mitch was only two years older than him. In fact, Dean said that Mitch made him feel like a kid – not in the way he treated him or anything, but just because he was so confident and… sorted, you know?’
I nodded and finished my wine. I could have done with another, but I didn’t want to interrupt Candice’s flow.
‘Anyway, in spite of this, Mitch was really friendly towards Dean, and asked him what he did, and seemed really interested in Dean’s art and everything. They talked for a bit and then Mitch told Dean he had some really great grass and he asked him if he wanted to go outside for a smoke.’
Candice stopped there and gave a little shrug. She reached out almost shyly and ran a forefinger through the frosting of condensation on the side of her glass.
‘By the way, I don’t want you to think Dean’s a druggie or anything, Dad, cos he’s not. He just smokes a bit of pot now and again when he can afford it.’
She glanced at me and I wafted a hand to show it was of no consequence. Where I grew up the use of recreational drugs was an everyday occurrence. Taking a couple of Es or some speed, or smoking a joint to chill out, was no different to having a few pints down the pub. That doesn’t mean I would have condoned Candice popping pills every day, but despite the recent scare stories about marijuana causing long-term mental health problems, I didn’t know anyone whose brain had become fucked up just from smoking the odd joint.
Encouraged by my response, she said, ‘So Dean and Mitch went out on the balcony. And while they were there Mitch started asking Dean about his student loan, how he managed to live on a pittance, all that. At first Dean thought Mitch was taking the piss, but then Mitch said he knew a way that Dean could earn a bit of extra cash.’
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘He wanted Dean to sell drugs for him?’
A look of shame crossed Candice’s face. ‘Only grass. There’s no way Dean would have touched the hard stuff. And it’s not like he was getting kids addicted or anything. He was only selling it to other students who would have got it somewhere el
se.’
‘So what went wrong?’
Candice sighed. ‘At first Dean was only getting a few ounces a time off Mitch. Every week or two Dean would meet some contact of Mitch’s in a pub or a park or somewhere, and Dean would hand over the cash he’d made from selling the stuff, and would get ten per cent back for himself, and the contact would give Dean more weed to sell. Then the last time they met, two weeks ago, Mitch’s contact told Dean that Mitch was pleased with the way things were going, and that this time he was going to arrange for Dean to have a few months worth of grass all in one go, so that he and Dean wouldn’t have to meet up so often.’
‘I’m guessing he told him it was less risky that way?’
Candice nodded.
I sighed. ‘So how much did Mitch let him have?’
‘Fifty ounces. It was too much for Dean to carry home, so one of Mitch’s men drove it round to Dean’s flat.’
I whistled. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of weed to take possession of. How much does an ounce go for these days? Hundred and fifty?’
If Candice was surprised by my knowledge she didn’t show it. ‘More like two hundred.’
‘So that’s ten grand’s worth of weed your boyfriend had hidden in his flat.’ I could see where this was going. ‘Didn’t he suspect anything?’
Candice shook her head. ‘Why would he? He’d known Mitch for over a year, and Mitch had always been straight with him. And Dean had built up a client base of about fifty people, which worked out at an ounce per person. Dean said an ounce would last the average user about ten to twelve weeks.’ She shrugged. ‘The maths seemed to add up.’
‘But?’ I said.
‘But the next day, when Dean was out, his flat was broken into and the entire stash was stolen.’
I sighed. ‘Did the burglars take anything else?’
‘No,’ said Candice in a low voice.
‘Sounds like they knew exactly what they were looking for, doesn’t it?’ I muttered.
Candice was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘Dean reckons the guys who did it were enemies of Mitch’s, that they were from a rival gang.’
‘Maybe they were,’ I said, ‘but I’ll bet that when Dean told Mitch what had happened, he didn’t get quite the response he expected.’
Candice grimaced. ‘Dean rang Mitch straight away. He thought Mitch would be angry about the burglary, but sympathetic to Dean. But Dean said Mitch was really cold. He told Dean that it wasn’t his problem.’
‘And that he still wanted his money?’
Candice’s face flickered with distress, and she swallowed as if trying to hold back tears. When she next spoke her voice was low, strained. ‘Dean was set up, wasn’t he, Dad?’
I shrugged, but tried to sound sympathetic. ‘Looks like it, sweetheart.’
‘But why? Why would Mitch do that? Dean was making money for him.’
‘Yeah, but only dribs and drabs. People like Mitch are greedy, Candice – and totally ruthless.’
‘But why pick on Dean? He can’t afford to pay Mitch back.’
‘Because he’s weak. Because he’s vulnerable. And because if enough pressure is put on him and he gets scared enough, he’ll find that money somehow.’
Candice looked stricken, like she didn’t know which way to turn. Gently I asked, ‘Is that why you’ve told me all this?’
She looked surprised. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Because you want to know if I can lend you the money? Clear your boyfriend’s debts?’
Shame and disappointment chased one another briefly across Candice’s face, but they were quickly replaced by hope. ‘Can you?’ she asked. ‘We’d pay you back, Dad, honest.’
‘How much does Dean owe altogether? Ten grand?’
‘Plus interest. Fifteen in all.’
I tried not to flinch. ‘And when does he have to pay it by?’
‘Mitch gave him two weeks, but that was nine days ago. He’s got till this Friday.’
‘Fuck me,’ I murmured, looking down into my empty glass.
‘Can you help us, Dad?’ There was no pretence in Candice’s voice now. Her words were a desperate plea.
I sighed. ‘I wish I could, sweetheart, but I’m not that plush. I do all right, I make enough to get by, but I haven’t got a lot of savings. I’ve got maybe… six, seven grand in my account. You’re welcome to that if you want it.’
‘Could you maybe borrow the rest from the bank?’ Candice suggested. ‘I hate to ask, but… we’re desperate, Dad.’
I felt a flare of anger – not at Candice, but at Dean, for dragging my daughter into his mess. ‘And tell them what? I can’t just borrow nine grand from the bank without offering an explanation.’
‘Can’t you make something up? Tell them Kate needs an operation or something?’
I scowled. ‘I’m not dragging Kate into this. And I’m not lying for the sake of your boyfriend, Candice – not with my record.’
She put a trembling hand up to her face. Now she really did look as though she was about to burst into tears. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ she said, her voice so low in the crowded room I could barely hear her. ‘It was unfair of me to ask.’
I glanced quickly around the pub, but no one seemed to be paying us any attention. I still had a burning knot of anger in my belly, but I kept my voice calm.
‘What about Dean’s parents? Can’t he ask them for a loan?’
She gave a brief, jerky shake of the head. ‘His dad’s dead. And his mum’s not that rich. And she’s ill a lot of the time, in and out of hospital. He says something like this would really upset her.’
She’d be a lot more upset if her beloved son was found in a skip with his throat cut, I thought.
‘Hasn’t Dean got stuff he can sell?’ I suggested. ‘A car? A computer? An iPhone? At the risk of sounding like an old codger, don’t you kids have all sorts of fancy gadgets these days?’
‘It’s not enough, Dad,’ Candice’s voice was dwindling. ‘Mitch wants all the money in one go. We’d never be able to raise enough.’
‘I’m sure he’d be open to negotiation. Half now, half in a few weeks’ time. People like Mitch might be evil bastards, but at the end of the day they’re more interested in getting what they think is owed to them than in meting out punishment. Physical violence is messy and hard to hide. It often leads to the police getting involved, even if the victim is too scared to go to them himself.’
Candice listened to me intently, but as soon as I’d finished she shook her head. ‘That might be what it was like in your day, Dad, but people like Mitch aren’t bothered about the police. One of Mitch’s guys told Dean that if he didn’t come up with the money in time, his loved ones would suffer. He knew Dean’s mum’s address, and he said something like “Wouldn’t it be a shame if your pretty girlfriend suddenly lost her looks?”’
Candice’s crumbling resolve gave way, and all at once tears were running down her face.
‘I’m scared, Dad,’ she blurted through her sobs. ‘I’m scared of what’s going to happen.’
My guts were twisting now, partly with fear and anxiety, but mostly with a boiling rage. How dare this dumb, fucking boyfriend of my daughter’s get himself into a situation where she might be harmed! How dare some vicious, jumped-up low-life threaten and frighten my little girl!
The natural response of the average law-abiding citizen might have been to advise Candice to go to the police and tell them everything. Far more preferable for her boyfriend to get a rap on the knuckles, they might say, than for her to end up badly hurt or worse. But I knew better than to suggest such a thing. I knew that although the police would take Candice seriously – maybe even seriously enough to find Mitch and bring him in for questioning – their hands would effectively be tied. They wouldn’t be able to detain him for long without evidence, and people like Mitch usually had all the bases covered. Besides which, Mitch had no doubt already informed Dean that if he did go to the police, and if Mitch was arrested, then plans already laid wo
uld immediately spring into action – plans which would most likely involve certain of Mitch’s friends paying visits to both Dean’s mother and girlfriend.
Reaching across the table, I took Candice’s small, limp hands in mine and gave them a squeeze. With more confidence and conviction than I was feeling, I said, ‘Nothing’s going to happen, Candice. Nothing at all. I promise you that.’
She looked at me through swimming eyes, and the desperate hope in her face almost broke my heart. ‘What are you going to do?’ she whimpered.
I thought about the past I’d vowed never to go back to, the telephone number I’d once been given that I’d vowed never to use.
‘I know some people,’ I said. ‘People who’ve been around a lot longer than this Mitch bloke, and who’ve got a lot more influence.’ I felt my stomach clench again, but I kept my gaze as steady as my voice. ‘I’ll give them a call. They’ll soon sort this out for us, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.’
THREE
KATE
The bomb dropped from above, a direct hit that crushed my ribs and expelled the air from my stomach in one painful gasp.
‘Dadeeee!’ the bomb cried, slithering off my belly and snuggling with a wriggle of limbs into the warm gap between my left arm and now-aching torso.
Before responding I drew in an experimental lungful of air and slowly breathed it out again. I was surprised and relieved to discover that everything seemed to be working normally. With sleep-gummed eyes I squinted at the squirming creature in the crook of my arm, its fan of tousled, chestnut-brown hair shaking and bouncing as it burrowed into a more comfortable position.
‘Morning, trouble,’ I murmured.
The tumble of chestnut locks suddenly jerked upright to reveal a sleep-creased little face. ‘I’m not trouble!’ a voice piped up indignantly. ‘You’re trouble!’
‘I don’t dive-bomb people when they’re asleep,’ I pointed out.
