Trevor and Lorraine had obviously discussed their son’s behaviour, but Larkin doubted they – particularly Trevor – had had any idea as to the extremity of the situation. The dawning horror in Trevor’s face told him that. Jane discussed her suspicions and Larkin’s involvement. She told them what Larkin had discovered – omitting any mention of his unorthodox methods. In short, she confirmed their worst fears.
Larkin sat silent throughout, occasionally nodding to corroborate Jane’s words. He kept his eye on Trevor; the man’s rage was visibly growing with every sentence he heard.
“So what we’ll do now,” Jane was drawing to a conclusion, “is call in Social Services. And the police.”
“I don’t want either o’ them round here,” said Trevor menacingly.
“They’ll have to come,” said Jane; her conviction and firmness quelled him. “Daniel will have to be given a full medical examination – and some counselling. So will you. Social Services will then place him on the ‘At Risk’ register — ”
“At risk – from who? It’s not us that’s been doin’ this!” Trevor exploded, jumping to his feet.
“They know that,” Larkin’s voice was reassuring, measured. “They’ll have enough to put Noble away, don’t worry.”
Trevor began to pace the room, a feral animal trapped in its cage. “Bastard! Fuckin’ bastard!” He moved towards Larkin. “They’d better have enough on ’im, otherwise I’ll take the cunt out mesel’!”
An oppressive, heart-thudding silence fell on the room as the implications of what was being said sunk in. Trevor’s anger had reached a momentary pitch; he sat back in his chair, shaking, fumbled a Silk Cut from the packet, fired it up, drew the smoke down deep. It seemed to calm him.
“But,” began Lorraine, tremulously, scared of re-igniting the rage, “isn’t it difficult to prosecute cases like this?”
“Sometimes,” said Larkin. “Depends how co-operative the offenders are.” And how good a lawyer they’ve got, he thought. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble over this.” He prayed that was true.
Another heavy slab of silence descended.
“So what happens when he’s on this register thing?” asked Lorraine.
“His behaviour’ll be monitored for three months,” Jane answered. “After that they’ll have another conference. Don’t worry – Noble’ll be well out of the way by then. Everything’ll be fine.”
Lorraine started to nod, slowly at first, then building up a steady rhythm, her head rocking backwards and forwards, her features starting to redden and scrunch up. Then the tears began: ragged sobs of pure grief.
Trevor gently placed a consoling arm around her; the gesture seemed so alien to him that it looked like he was in danger of crushing her to death. He stared defiantly at Larkin and Jane; his hostility told them, in no uncertain terms, that they had no business intruding at such a moment.
Larkin and Jane took the hint.
“I hated having to do that,” Jane said, dragging on a supportive Silk Cut as they walked back to her place.
“I’d have been surprised if you didn’t.”
“I mean – they’ve tried so hard to make a good life for Daniel. And it hasn’t worked out. Since Trevor lost his job ’e’s been at a loose end, poor sod.” She sighed. “Must really fuck you up, that. Redundant at twenty-six. Just – being defined by that word …”
Larkin nodded sympathetically.
“It must be enough of a struggle for them without this happenin’.”
The sun, high now, glinted off nearby windows and buildings, giving the streets a harsh, unrelenting sheen. To their right a children’s playground was surrounded by a chainlink fence, the swings, slides, roundabouts and climbing frames rusting and flaking on the concrete, like skeletal remains of long-extinct beasts. It seemed an appropriate metaphor for Daniel’s damaged childhood.
“I mean, look at that place,” said Jane, pointing angrily to something that resembled a grounded, low-budget spaceship. “Shopping centre. They redesigned it – but forgot to put any fuckin’ shops there. Now pensioners have to get on a bus to cash their pensions and go to Kwik Save. Rebirth Of The Region? A fuckin’ joke!”
She stomped ahead, indignant. Then she turned back to him.
“I mean — ”
He cut her off. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I agree. It’s a shithole – so let’s not stay here.”
She looked at him, questioning.
“Yeah,” he said, “it’s a sunny day, I’ve got money in my pocket – let’s have a day out.”
“OK,” Jane said, slightly taken aback. “What d’you have in mind?”
“How d’you fancy Sunday at the seaside?”
15: In Absentia
In —
Curl —
Hold it …
Out —
Down.
And again.
In —
Curl —
Hold it …
Out —
Down.
The rhythm of the weights consumed Ezz’s conscious mind. His hand, white-knuckled, gripped the barbell. Up to his shoulder – flex – down again. Face red, neck muscles taut, he changed hands and started the sequence with the other arm.
It was the reappearance of the face that had driven him to the gym. He’d returned to his flat from his night’s work with Larkin and felt … strange. Somehow changed. His hands had started shaking and, with a shudder of realisation, he had known what that meant: he was going to lose control. The pressure and anxiety had begun to build up inside him, and he had only one chance of containing it. So he had pulled on his running shorts and gone.
Over the town moor he went, breath tearing at his chest, legs close to buckling, feeling like half his bodyweight was melting away as sweat. He kept driving on. His lungs begged him to stop; pain shot up his arms, increasing their weight and uselessness. The midnight darkness of the town moor was blotted out by the negative-image sunbursts exploding behind his retinas. He ran faster.
But he knew it was no use. The problem was in his mind, not his body. He would outrun the face, lose it for minutes at a time while the mechanics of breathing occupied his body. But whenever he regained control of his physical equilibrium the face would reappear, reminding him that respite was only temporary. He kept on running.
Eventually his legs fell away beneath him; with sight gone and lungs burnt out, he collapsed, panting in a heap, pooled in his own sweat, his mind slipping in and out of oblivion. He couldn’t see the face. He couldn’t see anything.
After lying on the moor for what could have been hours, he slowly pulled himself to his feet and began to make his painful way back towards town. To his immense relief, the face hadn’t reappeared. Yet. But Ezz knew there was plenty of time.
Not wanting to return home, in case the face haunted his dreams as it had in the past, he walked round aimlessly. The next time he looked up he realised he had arrived at Larkin’s house. He didn’t question what had drawn him there; he accepted that some inner voice, working on a subconscious level too deep and serious to be ignored, was working inside him, directing his actions.
He turned up at the house just as a car was drawing away. Whoever was inside it – two men, it appeared – were in a hurry to leave. Ezz didn’t want an unnecessary confrontation, not the way he was feeling, so he concealed himself in the shadowy doorway of an off-licence opposite as the car sped by. Once it had gone he crossed the street and looked into the house through the hall window.
The first thing he saw through the gloom was the devastation. As his eyes adjusted, however, he could just make out a night-shrouded figure stumbling towards the back of the house. Larkin. As Ezz listened, he heard a door slam shut, heard the sound of a man hauling himself painfully over the garden fence. He decided to follow.
Years of clandestine surveillance had given Ezz an instinct for predicting human flight behaviour. He anticipated Larkin’s route down the Metro line, correctly estimating th
e probable site of his reappearance further down, by the church at Jesmond. Ezz shadowed him all the way to his car. Once he saw Larkin was safely settled in for the night, he returned home.
But he couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to sleep. The face was drifting at the corners of his mind. He dressed, took a couple of capsules that he kept for such occasions as these, and went to see Larkin.
After that he found his hands were beginning to shake again; more worrying, his breathing showed signs of convulsing into the spasms of a panic attack. Fearful of what might be about to happen, he headed for the gym, and the possibility of escape.
The gym he frequented was on the first floor of an old warehouse, opposite a strip joint off Westgate Road. It was a place where career hard men went to become even harder. A place where Ezz wasn’t just known – he was respected. And it was there that he had worked his muscles until his limbs had turned to granite.
He put the free weights down and stood stock still, trying to quieten his body. He knew, objectively, that it was no accident the face had reappeared after working over Noble’s flat. He knew what he had found there was directly to blame. He also knew that Larkin was, in some way, on his side. Perhaps the only way to get some peace would be to stick to Larkin, follow this thing through with him. Shadow him. He closed his eyes, breathing shallow, and —
It was coming back. Shaking – panic – it had started all over again. He knew then that he would never be free of it; no matter how far he went, what he did, the face, and the terrible memories it summoned, would always be with him. No matter how hard he tried, he could never kill it. If he hadn’t gone beyond such things, he would have cried.
There was only one thing for it. He pulled on the gloves and stepped up to the bag. The few people using the gym parted to let him pass, perhaps recognising the urgency of his need. He positioned himself in front of the bag and gave it a few practice hits. It felt good. Steadying. Suddenly —
There was the face again. Etched on the bag. He focused, swung at it, gave it a roundhouse with his right, and the face disintegrated into a thousand tiny particles. It was gone. He couldn’t believe it. He’d defeated it!
But as he watched, fear clutching his insides, the face slowly reformed, assumed the same position. Sneering: belittling him, mocking him. He hit it again, harder this time. The same result.
So he hit it again. And again, harder. And again. And again, and again, and again …
Twenty-seven minutes later he was pulled from the bag, his body unable to take any more punishment, his mind far out of reach. They had to prise his arms from the bag, so tightly had he clasped it.
As he was laid out on the floor, his arms started to flail. He was still punching: still fighting. Trying to defeat an adversary only he could see. And he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t.
The Strawberry opposite St James’s Park was doing only minimal trade. The height of summer: no students, no football, just sad solo drinkers who had stumbled into the city centre on a Sunday afternoon. Lost, lonely; virtually all men. None of them talking, but silently acknowledging the others’ presence. The brotherhood of the bottle, drinking away the seventh day of the week – the ghost of the other six.
Moir sat alone in a corner, nursing his third pint. He had woken up at home, sprawled on the sofa. For the first few seconds of waking he hadn’t known who or where he was, had been able to breathe easily. But slowly, identity had oozed back into his empty mind, replacing the temporary comfort of alcoholic amnesia with a full, painful, realisation of just what sort of man he was.
Trying to stand induced the maximum effects of his hangover and he rushed to the toilet. Stomach empty, he felt more human, but the physical purging of his body didn’t extend to his mind. He replayed the events of the previous night, and found that he could remember it all. His good memory, even when drunk, was sometimes a blessing – but in this instance nothing but a curse.
He showered, hoping the scalding water would sweat the remaining booze out of his skin. Then he dressed and quickly left the house. More and more he was finding that he couldn’t bear to be in the place for longer than was absolutely necessary.
Moir headed for his den on Stowell Street, where he arranged all the updated reports on the discovery of Jason’s body carefully on his desk. He’d photocopied them and dropped them off the previous evening before going to Ruby’s, knowing that he would be here again today. He had nowhere else to go – and the gloom of his private office was, for him, a more conducive working atmosphere than the strip-lit, flush-doored, sterile CID incident room.
He stared hard at the photographs, the written reports and statements, though he already knew them all by heart. He was looking for clues, connections; something hidden which would suddenly reveal itself. But nothing came. He sat there for quite some time, but he knew that ultimately his forensic meditation wouldn’t uncover the truth. His team was working on it – there was nothing for him to do.
The pictures of Jason, alive and dead, began to blur into one until Moir no longer knew which was which. Slowly the images began to dance before him, metamorphosing into a different face, a face he knew and loved.
Moir left his den and started walking. He ended up at The Strawberry, where he ordered the first of his afternoon’s drinks. Although he wouldn’t admit it to himself, he was drinking because he needed to, not because he wanted to. He never took pleasure in it, and only sometimes found comfort. But those times were enough.
He sat himself opposite the payphone: staring at it, seeing Karen’s face in his mind. He willed himself to stand up, walk across the pub, put the money in, pick up the receiver and dial. He’d rehearsed the conversation over and over again; going through every possible permutation, every possible outcome.
He would do it. He would phone.
He looked at his near-empty glass on the table. He thought of Jason. Nothing he could do for him now. Karen. Yes, he thought, he would phone her. He drained his glass and stood up.
But he’d have just one more pint first.
Feet, legs and arms were all abused and aching. But Ezz didn’t care.
When he’d been pulled from the bag in the gym he was incoherent with rage and exhaustion. He had struggled upright, shrugged off offers of support and stumbled into the shower – water as hot as his skin could bear without blistering. Then he was off again, searching for some way to end the nightmare.
The face had disappeared. Only temporarily – Ezz knew that from bitter experience – but the frenzied workout had bought him time. He knew he could postpone the face’s reappearance for longer still, even forever, but to do that he needed some sacrificial appeasement. Some action.
Ezz walked with no direction; legs propelling him, in-built radar guiding him as he moved unknowing through city streets populated by handfuls of strollers, the summer sun beating down on him. He was looking for something only he would recognise when he found it.
Gradually the shining city streets gave way to poorer residential ones. Shabby houses, rusting cars. Hot, dusty air choked with the smells of fried cooking and cheap lives. At the end of one such street Ezz saw a patch of green. He headed towards it. A vague tingling began to churn in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps this was it – his catharsis. His final reckoning.
The area was badly tended: overgrown grass burst through cracked paving stones, wrought iron benches and railings were eroded down to abstract, oxidised sculptures, sabotaged streetlights turned wildwood pathways into rapists’ pleasure gardens. Dot-to-dot dogshit on the grass. An inner city park. Museum-grade perfect.
To the left was a fenced-off area: a children’s playground. Constructed of old tyres, wooden trunks, chains and bolts, the slides, swings and climbing-frames sat stunted and dark, bedded down in wood shavings. Kids with cropped heads and baggy jeans were punishing the equipment; venting pent-up emotions on a strictly urban assault course. Boys and girls: genders matched in aggression.
A frisson ran through Ezz. There wa
s a reason he’d turned up here. He knew it. Eyes coming back into focus, he walked towards the children, searching.
Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed movement. With an abrupt halt he turned to where his attention had been grabbed. Hidden by a thick, gnarled tree-trunk and an unkempt mane of hedge was a figure. A man, furtively watching the kids play, pulling back into the shadows whenever one of them chanced to look his way.
This was it, Ezz knew, the chance to cleanse himself, to seek release from his suffering. With a single-minded sense of purpose, he strode over the grass to where the man was hiding.
He was so engrossed in watching the children he didn’t notice Ezz until the skinhead was upon him. Ezz’s right arm shot out, pinning his target to the tree by his throat. His eyes bulged with surprise and fear as Ezz looked him over. Cheap denim jacket and jeans, old trainers, T-shirt barely containing an expanding beer gut. Thinning blond hair, badly cut. An ageing Friday-night pub fighter: no contest. Ezz wouldn’t even break sweat.
“You have a good look first, get yourself turned on, is that it?” snarled Ezz, his emotionless voice, for once, curling at the edges. The man didn’t see the swift left fist that connected hard with his stomach, but he certainly felt it. Ezz let him go, watching him slump to his knees and vomit over his stonewashed thighs. A quick kick to the side of the jaw knocked the man over on his side.
“You won’t be doin’ anythin’ now. Not ever again.” Ezz landed the man a kick in the balls that curled him into an agonised foetal position.
“Wait,” the man groaned, “I’m not — ”
“You never are,” said Ezz calmly, pulling back his leg to take another swing.
“Don’t, please don’t …” The man began to claw frantically at Ezz’s foot; Ezz relaxed his leg and dropped down next to him.
Little Triggers Page 13
