She smiled again.
And started to squeeze.
Trevor began to thrash and struggle, but Mae was stronger. She kneeled on his chest, holding him down, her thumbs digging into his windpipe. Her old friends, rage and hate, dancing within her.
She gripped harder, breathed faster.
Trevor’s face began to turn blue.
‘I’m gonna murder you,’ she gasped through gritted teeth, flecks of spittle landing on the boy’s face. ‘Murder … kill youse … all …’
Trevor thrashed and struggled, made gurgling noises in his throat.
And then Trevor’s face disappeared.
Replaced by her mother’s face. Wig rat-tailed and askew, eyes burning with anger, mouth spewing gin-fuelled obscenities. Mae squeezed harder. Tried to make it go away.
It did. And her granddad’s face appeared in its place. His eyes glittering sharply, his smile widening as her pain would increase. Mae squeezed harder. Squeezed his face away.
Then came a variety of faces: the men who had come to her mother’s house to use her body. To make her hurt and cry. They came to her in shards of memories: she remembered one’s eyes, another’s smile, another’s breath. Ears. Nose. Broken skin. Something of all of them coalesced, blurred and shifted into one identikit of hate.
Mae squeezed. Then they were gone. Replaced by Bert. Her failed protector. Who had wanted nothing more to do with her.
Then he was gone and her teachers were there. Sneering, snarling. Belittling. She squeezed harder.
Then it was Eileen, smiling uncomprehending. Mae wanted to squeeze the smile from her face.
‘I hate you …’
Mae grinding her teeth together, gasping the words through them.
‘I hate you all …’
Their faces disappeared, leaving only one: her mother.
‘I hate you … hate you …’
Then darkness.
Mae opened her eyes, looked around. She must have blacked out. She was kneeling on top of Trevor’s chest, hands still locked around his throat. She slowly unclenched her fingers, removed them. They were sore, stiff with muscle rigidity.
She looked at Trevor. His face was blue, his lips purple. Spittle and froth trickled down his cheeks and chin. His eyes, showing white, had rolled back into his head. Hand-shaped bruising was already starting to form around his throat from where she had grabbed him.
She sat back, her spirit spent, her body exhausted.
‘Get up,’ she said to him.
Trevor didn’t move.
She looked at him, understanding for the first time that he was dead.
She laughed.
‘Get up!’ she shouted, kicking him. ‘Get up!’
Trevor didn’t move.
She kicked him again, in frustration. And again.
‘Get up!’ Another kick.
She began to dance around his body, singing ‘Get up’ in a singsong, nursery-rhyme way. Stopping to punctuate the end of a line with a kick.
She stopped dancing, looked at the body. He was still there. He hadn’t moved. She put her hands in her pockets.
The scissors were there.
Quickly she drew them out, brandished them at him.
‘Get up, or I’ll …’
He didn’t move.
The power she had felt earlier was gone. She could make him lie still but not rise up again. But she still had power over his corpse. Her eyes roved his body, hate-filled, rage-fuelled, looking for somewhere to inflict damage.
She found it.
She pulled down his short trousers, his underpants, took in his small, immature genitals. And started to slash.
And slash.
And slash.
‘Get up … I hate you … get up … I hate you …’
Over and over, like a nursery rhyme again.
And slash.
She finished and sat back panting, regarding what she had done to the little boy’s body. And felt nothing. No feelings, no emotions. Like an empty cardboard box with the present removed.
She heard a noise behind her.
She turned. Eileen was standing at the top of the stairs. Looking at Mae, frowning. Mae dropped the scissors, stood up. Eileen looked at Mae, expecting an answer.
‘Trevor’s dead,’ she said. ‘He won’t get up.’
Eileen frowned. ‘Will he be coming back to play?’
‘No.’
Mae crossed to the stairs.
‘Let’s go.’
Eileen followed her. Before she descended, Mae stopped, turned, looked at her.
‘Say nothin’, right?’
Eileen nodded.
‘Good.’
Mae went downstairs and outside, followed by Eileen. Back to play with the other children.
Jack opened his eyes. Slowly. His head still hurt. He looked around.
He was still in Johnny’s flat, lying along the sofa. He tried to sit up, felt nauseous from the sudden movement. A shape he didn’t recognize hove into view. Jack flinched, expecting a blow.
‘He’s back,’ said a rough London accent.
‘Good,’ said a voice Jack recognized. Ben Marshall.
Jack looked at the owner of the first voice. A big man, muscled, not fat, wearing a three-button suit, white shirt and dark tie and a history of violence on his face. Broken nose. Scars. Misshapen ears. Jack saw a bulge beneath the left side of his jacket. Gun. Jack didn’t move.
Ben Marshall entered the room, usual supercilious smile in place.
‘Hello, Jack,’ he said. ‘Bit sneaky, coming here early.’ He held Jack’s gun up. ‘Anyone would think you had bad intentions in mind. Good job Dougie was on hand to meet you.’
‘I had to,’ said Jack, rubbing his sore head. ‘I thought you might try something like this.’
Ben Marshall sat down on a dining chair.
‘So what did you want, Jack?’ He pointed the Enfield at Jack. ‘To kill me? Is that it?’
‘That’s for protection,’ said Jack. ‘I just wanted to talk to you.’
‘So why not make an appointment at my office? Why all this cloak-and-dagger shit?’
‘Because I thought you’d try something when you heard what I had to say.’
Ben Marshall sat back, an amused look on his face.
‘And what was that, Jack? What did you want to say?’
Jack swallowed hard. ‘I know who you are.’
Ben just looked at him, smiled. ‘Course you do.’
‘I mean who you were.’
Ben remained smiling, but his eyes hardened, darkened.
‘Did you work that out for yourself?’ he said, ‘or did that whore tell you?’
‘The … she told me. I wasn’t convinced. But you’ve just convinced me.’
Ben nodded.
‘So, let’s see … You thought you’d come in here, hold a gun on me, get a confession from me … then what? Take me to the police? Kill me? Out of a sense of revenge for Ralph Bell? Am I right?’
Jack kept staring at Ben. He sighed, put his head down.
‘Something like that,’ said Jack.
Ben Marshall laughed. ‘That’s better. Confession’s good for the soul. Now if it’s the former you’ve come for, I doubt you’d find a policeman who’d believe you. Especially with the evidence I’ve got on you. Were you willing to risk that?’
Jack said nothing.
‘Thought not,’ said Ben. ‘So it’s the latter. Well, just remember what the Irish poet once said: you come looking for revenge, you better dig two graves.’
Jack stared at Ben, said nothing.
‘And where does Johnny fit into all this?’
‘I just wanted to let him know who he was dealing with. Who you really are. See what he does then.’
Ben threw back his head, gave a sharp, barking laugh.
‘You think he doesn’t know? Look around you. Look at this place. You think he cares?’ Ben shook his head. ‘Ah, Johnny,’ he said fondly. ‘It’s a shame. All good things
, and that.’
There came the sound of a key in the lock. The front door opened.
‘Speak of the devil,’ said Ben.
Johnny entered the room, stood there. He looked around. He didn’t look happy.
‘Come on in, Johnny,’ said Ben. ‘Join the party.’
‘I don’t like people in my flat,’ said Johnny, his usual dead monotone barbed with anger. ‘People I haven’t invited.’
‘Don’t worry, Johnny,’ said Ben. ‘We won’t be staying long. Why not have a seat next to Jack?’
Johnny remained standing, staring at Ben. Ben swung around, pointing the Enfield at Johnny’s belly. Surprise flickered on Johnny’s face.
‘Now please,’ said Ben, his voice dropping ominously. ‘Don’t think I won’t use this.’
Johnny reluctantly sat next to Jack. He kept his hate-narrowed eyes on Ben.
‘Well,’ said Ben, ‘I’m glad it’s worked out like this. Got a nice symmetry to it. Saved a lot of bother.’
Ben looked at Dougie, gave him a nod. Dougie got up, lumbered out of the room. Ben turned back to Jack and Johnny.
‘Well, Jack, I thought I could trust you to leave me alone.
I really did. I’d have left you alone, you know. If you hadn’t come here. Really. You were nothing to me.’
Jack put his head down, let Ben’s words sink in.
Ben sighed. ‘But since you’re here, it obviously means I’ve got to deal with you.’
‘If anything happens to me,’ said Jack, ‘I’ve written down everything I’ve got on you. People will start to investigate.’
Ben laughed. ‘Really? What d’you think this is? Z Cars? Course you haven’t. And if you have, I’ll find a way around it. I always do. No, Jack, it seems I’ve got to do something about you.’
‘Leave Joanne and Isaac out of this,’ said Jack, a look of desperate pleading on his face as he began to realize just how desperate his situation was. ‘They don’t know I’m here. They don’t know anything about this. Please.’
Ben scrutinized him, gauging the measure of truth in his eyes.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I believe you.’
Jack breathed a sigh of relief.
‘But you, Johnny …’ Ben shook his head. ‘Well, I’m sorry. You’ve worked very well for me, but … it’s time to put things on a more professional footing. Time I took things more seriously.’
Ben stood up, his eyes, the gun never leaving the two seated men.
‘The time of the talented amateur has passed,’ said Ben. ‘And that’s all you are, Johnny. A first-class psychopath, admittedly, but just a talented amateur. And you know too much too. And you, Jack, are an idealist. You believe in perfection. There’s no place for either of you in the future I’m building.’
‘And what kind of future might that be?’ said Jack. ‘A future for sociopaths?’
Ben smiled. ‘Sociopath? Not me. I’m a realist, Jack, not a dreamer. I don’t believe in dreams; I believe in goals. I’m a businessman. The future belongs to me. And those like me.’
Dougie entered the room carrying two large metal cans. He opened the cap of the first one, began to slosh the contained liquid liberally about the flat. Jack could smell what it was.
Petrol.
‘Not as much finesse as one of your jobs, Johnny, but then it doesn’t need it. Dougie here is my new right-hand man. That’s Mr Shaw to you. He’s from London. I called in some favours, arranged some deals, and now Dougie works for me. He’s on the payroll, he doesn’t ask questions, he just gets on with his job. Businesslike. It’s the way forward.’
Dougie emptied the last drops of the first petrol can on to the carpet. He opened the second, gave the flat another dosing.
‘Any last words?’ said Ben.
Johnny jumped up from the sofa and lunged towards Ben. He didn’t reach him. Ben pulled the trigger. Twice. Johnny fell to the floor, hands clutching his stomach, blood spilling between them.
Ben smiled.
‘That was a stroke of luck,’ he said, looking at Jack. ‘Any questions, they’ll think you shot him.’
‘That noise is going to get people running,’ said Jack. ‘They’ll want to know what’s going on.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Ben. ‘They’ll probably think it’s a car backfiring. They’re not big on community around here. Despite your best efforts.’
‘You bastard,’ said Jack. ‘Why d’you want to do this?’
‘Because I’m a winner,’ said Ben, as if stating the obvious. ‘And winners win.’
Dougie took out a set of handcuffs and advanced on Jack. He pulled him off the sofa by his left wrist, cuffed it, marched him to the balcony, put the other half of the cuff around the handrail. Locked it. Then walked towards the front door, stood waiting.
Ben crossed to him, stood over him.
‘Goodbye, Jack,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave your son and girlfriend alone. And I love waking up to your wife. I love seeing that sense of realization on her face every day of how she’s fucked her life up. But don’t worry; I’ll look after her. For as long as she amuses me, anyway.’
Jack pulled at the chain, tried to go for Ben. Ben smiled and moved out of reach. He followed Dougie to the door. Dougie struck a match, began to light a cigarette. Ben threw Jack’s gun on to the carpet, then opened the front door and left. Dougie got his cigarette lit, turned to go, threw his match on the floor. He closed the front door behind him.
‘Get the car. I want to wait here a minute. Want to watch.’
Dougie nodded and headed towards the car park. Ben, standing in the deserted, walled-in children’s playground at the foot of the tower block, looked up. He picked out Johnny’s window from all the other identical windows, watched. There would be smoke soon. Smoke and flames. By then it would be too late.
He smiled, sighed contentedly. He wasn’t worried about being seen, about being connected to the fire. He was often seen walking among new buildings. Especially ones his company, or adopted company, had built. He liked the feeling of power the buildings gave him, the sense of concrete achievement he felt looking around. Knowing it was he who was responsible. He who was building the new city.
He could feel the power coursing through him. He was unstoppable, untouchable. He thought of Jack and Johnny. Smiled again. It was a long time since he had disposed of his enemies so directly. It felt good to be back in the saddle again. Perhaps it was something he should do more often.
He looked at the window. Wisps of smoke were beginning to trail out. Like ghosts exiting the concrete machine of the block. He listened hard. Could he hear cries for help? Or was it the wind whipping around the buildings? It didn’t matter either way. It was too late for both of them.
He turned, began to make his way towards the car, which he knew would be waiting for him on the main road. And saw out of the corner of his eye a blur of movement. The sound of a rushing body.
He turned. Too late. Something connected with his head, hard and heavy. Volcanoes erupted behind his eyes, engulfing him in white-hot lava. He fell, succumbing to the pain.
Ben looked up. Saw a figure standing over him holding what looked like a cricket bat. A figure he didn’t recognize. The figure was speaking to him.
‘Ignored my letters, eh? Think you’re too good for me now, eh?’
Ben instinctively raised his hands, tried to prop himself up, fight this attacker off.
Another whack to his head with the cricket bat. Ben fell back, hitting the tarmac with a crack. He both felt and heard his skull cave in from the blow, splinters of bone embedded themselves in the soft, blood-soaked tissue of his brain. His vision began to darken. He blinked his eyes.
‘Eh? No time for your old mates now. Not now that you’re Ben Marshall.’
Another blow, a kick this time. Just above his ear. Ben felt the back of his head and neck becoming increasingly wetter.
Ben’s focus was slipping. The man’s voice winding in and out, losing transmission like a loose radio dial. Ben cl
osed his eyes. Felt the pain ebb away. The man kept talking.
‘Don’t you die, you bastard. I’m not done with you yet.’
Another kick. Then another.
‘Don’t die. Not yet … not until I’m finished with you …’
He looked down at the prone body. Ben was still breathing.
‘Don’t you recognize your old mate, eh? Your old mate Brimson? The one you let carry the can when you ran off? The one you let go to prison for you? Eh?’
Another kick, this time to the body. Ben groaned, didn’t open his eyes.
‘You’ve done all right for yourself, haven’t you? Think you’re too fancy to share it with your old mates, though.’
He kneeled down, supported himself on the cricket bat. He leaned in close to Ben’s body.
‘Can you hear us? I hope so.’
Brimson stared hard at Ben, his chest burning with rage and exhaustion. He was overweight, sweating hard, his face knotted by anger and heart pains. Years of prison, of drunken, bare-knuckle fighting, of the boxing booth had taken their toll on his body.
‘Came back in to town with the hoppings, saw your photo in the paper. Not so tough now, are you? Bastard.’
‘Mr Marshall?’
Brimson looked up. Ben Marshall’s driver calling for him. Time to go. He stood up, looked down at the body. Ben Marshall was still breathing. Brimson thought of all the wasted years he had had, all the times he had blamed Brian Mooney for what had happened in his life. And now this. Back with a new identity. A rich identity. And not sharing any of it with his old mates. Not paying his debts.
He spat. It landed right in Ben’s face.
Brimson turned and left the playground.
Flames engulfed the flat almost instantly. Scuttling up walls like fiery spiders, curling Johnny’s pictures black, burning them to grey ash. The carpets and furniture were quick to combust, the sofa catching immediately, belching black, acrid smoke.
Out on the balcony, Jack could feel the heat on his body, the smoke entering his lungs. He tried to turn his body, to see into other flats.
‘Help!’ he shouted, twisting his body towards next-door’s balcony. ‘Fire! Help!’
No response.
The flames increased in intensity, hungrily licking, tasting and eating anything and everything in their way. Jack saw Johnny lying on the floor, flames beginning to bite at his clothes where the petrol from the carpet had seeped into the fabric. He was still moving.
The White Room Page 31
