He climbed up the second set of stairs as quietly as he could. He reached the second landing and stood outside his door. His heart was pounding fit to burst; it filled his ears with rushing blood, blocking out any sound from the room.
With sudden force he kicked the door open, almost knocking it off its hinges, and stepped into the room, brandishing the candlestick, his breath ragged, adrenalin-fuelled.
At the far end of the room, on a chair in front of the window, sat a figure. Rays from the dying sunset cast an obscuring halo around its head. Apart from moving its arm to drag purposefully on a cigarette, the figure didn’t move. Larkin too stood still. The silence was palpable.
Eventually the figure spoke. “I hear you’ve been lookin’ for me.”
Larkin lowered the weapon, in recognition of the voice. It wouldn’t have helped him anyway.
“Hello, Ezz. How you doing?”
10: The Weekend Starts Here
Ezz. Larkin had known the man for about fifteen years, on and off, and was still no nearer to understanding him. Back in the early eighties, Ezz had been a contract burglar employed by Larkin (amongst others) to aid him in his work as an investigative journalist, both in Newcastle and London. Whenever there was a piece of evidence Larkin knew existed but couldn’t access, Ezz was the man. He had a one hundred per cent success rate, and had been well rewarded for it, while Larkin had been supplied with some spectacularly incendiary information. When it came to burglary, Ezz was the expert’s expert. He could enter a premises, do what he had to do, and leave, without the owners even noticing he’d been there. Years of practice had given him an unflappable serenity and mastery of physical movement that made him the best there was. While working he had perfect control: so light-fingered and nimble-footed he could have been a ninja. But he had a flipside: the need, outside working hours, to release his pent-up aggression.
It wasn’t a simple matter of getting drunk and picking a fight; Ezz needed to be goaded. He waited for violence to find him, then used the consequences as a form of therapy. Larkin knew that Ezz went ballistic to relieve the stress of maintaining the rigorous control that Ezz’s work demanded; but he suspected Ezz’s need for aggro went much deeper than that. The violence Ezz sought didn’t happen just for the sake of it; it was instinctive, emotional. It fulfilled a deep need, satisfied some sort of terrible anger. Larkin was amazed he’d never killed anyone; he’d come pretty close several times. He had never dared to ask Ezz about it, though. Ezz, Larkin had decided, was driven by some very deeply rooted and complex demons.
Of course, while Ezz didn’t actively start trouble, he encouraged it to come to him. He loaded the dice in his favour. He had spent years searching for the most contentious image possible and, through trial and error, had honed it to the point of hostile perfection: the skinhead.
He now had the look just right: twenty-four-hole DMs, faded jeans, braces, white T-shirt and Union Jack tattoos all the way up his arms. Shaved head, crooked nose, broken teeth. He was a walking threat. A danger to society. And the uniform distracted attention from his curiously vulnerable eyes.
His fighting method was simple: go somewhere promising (usually one of the rougher pubs), find a target (or two, or usually three), send them intimidating looks and wait for it to kick-off. He was rarely disappointed; and he hardly ever lost the fight. Occasionally he attracted the notice of the police and had done time in Durham because of his leisure pursuit. But never for burglary. Never for his true calling.
And that was one thing Ezz was very insistent about; he was a burglar, not a common thief. A professional. He would break into an office, an institution, a home – and take only what he had come for. No unnecessary damage. Strictly business. Nothing personal. That, he felt, was a violation.
Now, though, Larkin’s relief at discovering the identity of his intruder was turning quickly to irritation.
“How the fuck did you get in?”
Ezz shrugged, as if the question wasn’t worthy of an answer.
“You scared the fuckin’ life out of me! Couldn’t you just ring the bell like normal people?”
“Sorry,” Ezz said indifferently. “Habit.”
Larkin sighed. He was beginning to regain his composure. “Anyway, you’re here now.”
“You wanted to see me,” Ezz said again.
Same old Ezz, thought Larkin. No pleasantries, no small talk: just business, discussed in that same detached monotone he remembered so well. It was like conversing with a Dalek on methadone.
“Yeah, I did,” said Larkin. “I’ve got a bit of work for you. Tomorrow night. Bit short notice, but I’ll pay you.”
Ezz nodded slightly, as if that were no more than his due.
Larkin outlined his plan; Ezz listened, motionless. After Larkin finished there was silence. Larkin was patient, waiting for Ezz to utter. Eventually, he was rewarded: “I always work alone.”
“I know,” said Larkin, “but I need to be with you. I have to be there. This is important.”
There was silence again while Ezz thought.
“So what’s he done?” asked Ezz presently.
“It looks like he might have been abusing children.”
“You mean, sexually?” Was Larkin imagining it, or had Ezz’s icy monotone become a little warmer?
“Yeah, I imagine so.”
There was silence again. This time it seemed tense, menacing.
“All right,” said Ezz. “But you’re an amateur. And amateurs fuck up. You do exactly what I tell you.”
“Absolutely,” said Larkin.
Ezz stood up, and for the first time Larkin got a good look at him. He was still in prime condition; his arms and torso were like silk-wrapped rope. The sleeveless T-shirt emphasised his muscles. His arms were a picturebook of fascism: Union Jacks, bulldogs, home-made prison slogans crowding for space with Death Or Glory knives and hearts. No space for his mother’s name. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, it was his guts as well: a whole political agenda, in fact. Larkin knew Ezz didn’t subscribe to it, but that didn’t stop it looking authentic.
Ezz repeated his instructions; Larkin nodded, in confirmation. Then Ezz was off. No goodbye, just straight out the door and soundlessly down the steps.
Larkin crossed to the window, opened it to disperse the thick cigarette smoke. He glanced down at the street. No trace of Ezz. He hadn’t expected there to be.
He lay down on the bed. There was nothing else to be done till morning. He considered his options for the evening. Meet The Prof for a drink? No – he didn’t want him involved in any way, not this time. Phone Jane? No. He didn’t feel like talking to her at the moment. In fact, if he was honest, he didn’t feel like talking to anyone at all.
He swung himself off the bed and went looking for the discarded can of beer. That would keep him company. That would be a start.
Beer in hand, he slapped an old Tom Waits tape – one with unerasable ghosts limpeted to the songs – into the machine and lay back on his bed nursing his beer. His mind ticked over, relentlessly.
Jane: where was the relationship (if it could be called that) headed? No idea. Houchen? He felt uncomfortable about the man’s death, but not guilty. At least, not yet. He would try his damnedest to investigate it, though; he owed him that much.
Then after Houchen came Moir. Then Jason Winship, the missing child. Then Charlotte. Then he needed another beer. And so it went on, until the tape ran out.
Eventually, the hours were killed and the best part of another night had gone. Having successfully managed to stay this side of maudlin drunk, Larkin slept. And there were no dreams. At least, none he would admit to remembering.
Saturday morning. After getting up and shaking off his mini-hangover, Larkin felt his heart sink when the phone rang. He’d come to expect bad news.
It was Jane.
“Hiya.” She sounded doubtful, as if she wasn’t sure she should be calling. “How you doing?”
“Fine,” Larkin replied. There was a
n uncomfortable silence down the line. “Or did you mean, how was my job for you going?”
She gave a small laugh of embarrassment. “Well, both, really.”
“Well, as I said, I’m fine, and I may have something for you soon on that front.”
There was a catch in Jane’s voice. “Good or bad?”
“Depends how you mean. I think your suspicions were right, though. Don’t worry – I’m on to it. I’ll know for definite by tomorrow.”
“Why? What you goin’ to do?”
“I’ll – just know, that’s all.”
No response.
“Look,” said Larkin, “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how I’ll know. But you’d better start thinking about your next step.”
“Yeah …” Her voice trailed off. Larkin was just about to prompt her when she said, “Listen, d’you fancy meeting for lunch? I need to talk this through with somebody.”
He did fancy it. They arranged a time and place and hung up. And Larkin went off to get a much-needed shower, looking with distaste en route at the debris of the night before. Empty bottles and cans; a pile of tapes; CDs full of lonely music. His Friday-night life, the melancholic’s handbook.
In the shower he smiled to himself. It might just be a meeting to sort out damage limitation, he thought, but it was good to have something to look forward to.
Lunch actually turned out to be fun. They met in the Food Court of the Monument Mall, Jane having left Alison with another female worker from the centre, who had kids the same age. “They’re all goin’ to the park this afternoon. I doubt our Alison’ll even know I’m not there,” she said with a laugh.
Over jacket potatoes and cappuccino, they discussed the best way to approach the problem, so that the kids, the parents and the centre all came out of it as unscathed as possible. Larkin said he didn’t know how much of the evidence he hoped to gather against Noble could be used in a court of law. “But I do have a sympathetic friend in the police force. He’ll help us.”
“Thanks, Stephen,” Jane said. “I suppose we’ll have to bring in Social Services for Daniel and his family. It might help if I have a word with them before we do that.”
“It might.”
Jane sighed. “I know it sounds selfish, but I’m really worried about the centre as well. I don’t want it to close. We do good work. People need us.”
Larkin was hit by an idea. “I think I’ve got a friend on the council who owes me a favour. Worst comes to the worst I’ll have a word.”
“Aw, would you? Thanks.” She sighed again. “You know, we followed all the procedures with James … I dunno. You try and look out for them – the ones who get into these kind of jobs just to hurt kids – but they’re so convincing. I mean, I reckon I can spot a bullshitter when I see one, but he had even me fooled at first. No record, great references —.”
“I’m getting those looked into too.”
She smiled then; it lit up her face. “What a great guy you are!”
Larkin smiled, mock-modest. “I try.”
A shadow came back into her eyes again. “His references … he once said, joking-like, if we ever tried to get rid of him …”
“I know,” said Larkin. “And I shouldn’t have to remind you, I’ll be the one doing the media manipulation on this one. So don’t worry.”
Jane’s smile was back in place. Larkin studied her. The anxious frown that had been hardening her features had receded to allow a different range of emotions to take centre stage. She looked bright, positive, more like herself.
She was dressed in a long sleeveless denim dress with an open-necked collar, buttoned up the front, with stacked canvas sandals and small, round sunglasses perched on her head. And she was awakening in Larkin feelings long since repressed. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was showing obvious delight in what he had to say to her: a boost for the ego if nothing else, but it was still good to feel appreciated by such an attractive woman. She even smelled good. Larkin was feeling exhilarated – and scared.
“Hey,” she said, “did you hear about that fire in Bensham the other night? He was a journalist, wasn’t he?”
Larkin explained; Jane immediately apologised for her lack of tact.
“It’s not your fault,” said Larkin. “You weren’t to know. He was my partner. We weren’t close as it goes – but yeah, it is a loss.”
She didn’t mention Houchen again. Instead she looked at her watch and told him it was time for her to go and pick up Alison.
He walked her down to the bus stop on Grainger Street. Their conversation had slipped into a different gear since they’d stopped talking about Noble and Houchen: they were chatting easily, strolling along the pavement; to all intents and purposes like any other young couple. Larkin looked up. A perfect sun in a cloudless sky beamed down on Saturday-afternoon shoppers, busy buying merchandise to improve their homes and their lives. He smiled at Jane; she caught his glance and smiled back. Wordlessly, she slipped her arm through his. He didn’t remove it.
They walked like that for a while. Sometimes it all seems so easy, thought Larkin.
Eventually, they reached the bus stop and stood in silence, somehow indecisive. Waiting not only for the bus, but for something else as well.
“Listen,” said Jane, hesitantly, “what you doin’ tonight?”
Larkin gave a sad smile. “I’m busy.”
A light went out in Jane’s eyes. “Right. Sorry.”
“No, I mean it,” he said. “I am busy. I’m working for you, remember? Tonight’s the only night I can do what I have to do.”
She perked up a little. “Another night, then.”
“Yes,” said Larkin. “Another night.”
The bus, a bright yellow double-decker, chose that moment to arrive. But as Larkin prepared to say a matey goodbye, Jane turned to him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him full on the lips.
The kiss shocked Larkin’s mouth open and he felt her tongue quickly dart inside. Then she pulled away from him and went to board the bus. She turned and gave him a last little wink, while the other people at the bus stop pretended not to notice.
“Give us a ring!” she called.
“I will,” said Larkin, grinning broadly.
The bus pulled away. And Larkin stood there, dumbfounded, smiling like an idiot. As he walked back up the hill towards Greys Monument, he made a conscious effort for once not to walk in the shadows cast by the tall, Georgian buildings, but to stroll in the sunlight.
He sighed. Why, he thought, can’t my life always be like this?
Maxwell’s House
The man breathed a sigh of relief. It was all under control. His earlier, dark mood had disappeared, evaporated like spit on a griddle. In its place was a kind of euphoria.
He had a lot to be euphoric about. For one thing, the boy’s body still hadn’t been discovered; the frisson he felt from knowing where it was while the search went on high and low was something to be savoured. In addition, chicken was on the menu for the weekend. During the last few days he’d had an almost permanent erection, thinking about the pleasures that lay ahead.
Safe in his cocoon of confidence and power, the man allowed his mind to wander again. Back to his life before power. Back to when he was the victim …
After their parents’ death, his brother’s name changed; and with it, his brother. His brother became soft, hugging his new parents, laughing with his new brother and sister, allowing himself to feel comfortable in his new home.
The man hated what his brother was becoming: safe, secure and, most of all, distant. The man wanted – needed – his brother, and deep down, underneath the layers of hate and rage, he wanted what his brother had. But he would never admit it.
Despite his mother’s death, his life hadn’t improved. Shunted from one unwilling relative to another, he had finally ended up at the thin end of the wedge, in foster care. His new ‘parents’ did their best but with three children of their own and a low income, fostering was a way of m
aking ends meet rather than healing broken lives. In fact, they had already given a home to one foster child. Maxwell.
Right from the beginning, Maxwell had taken exception to the presence of the younger boy. Perhaps he thought he was being usurped; that the new addition to the household would receive whatever limited share of their carers’ attention had previously been reserved for him. To retain his power, stamp his authority on the situation, he became tormentor, torturer, and the younger boy his victim. It started with sly kicks, pinches, blows that could almost have been accidental. Then, as Maxwell grew in confidence, the casual violence became more extreme, more deliberate. He would beat the boy rigorously, scrupulously, being careful to leave marks only where they wouldn’t show. Beating became part of the boy’s daily routine. Maxwell knew by now that the boy was too scared of retribution to carry tales. And, having reached an age when sex governed every waking and sleeping moment, he took the next step.
He would wake the boy in the middle of the night, in the tiny, claustrophobic bedroom they were forced to share, and force his penis down the child’s throat. The first few times the boy had struggled, trying to pull his head away, unable to breathe; but his frantic movements had simply driven Maxwell to a greater pitch of sexual excitement and he had grabbed the boy and pumped all the harder. Eventually the boy had learned that if he lay still and passive the pain and fear would diminish. It reached the point where he was hardly frightened at all, even when Maxwell turned him over and buggered him until he bled. He knew he was powerless, a natural victim. Why fight it?
But one day, he snapped.
He didn’t have friends, playmates. Even the three children in the family didn’t want anything to do with the fostered boys. He did, however, have some idea of how boys his age were supposed to behave, and so he had been trying to make a swing. He had carried a rope to an old oak tree in a nearby wood, had thrown it over the sturdiest, highest branch he could reach, shinning up the tree to secure it. As he pulled the knot fast, he suddenly stopped, gazing at the rope as if seeing it for the first time. The rope wasn’t just a plaything – it could be an instrument of life and death. A hangman’s best friend.
Little Triggers Page 9
