East of Innocence

by David Thorne

  ‘Hello, Debs,’ I say. ‘It’s been a while. Surprised you remember me.’

  ‘You ain’t changed so much,’ she says. She has the uninterested vacuous eyes of somebody who is not only ignorant but who believes that having a vanishingly small frame of reference is in itself a strength, something to be proud of. ‘Besides, I used to fancy you, didn’t I.’

  I do not know what to say in response. I smile down at her; despite her being near enough my age to make a relationship unremarkable, I cannot help but treat her in an avuncular fashion. She is still just a girl.

  ‘You’re like a lawyer now, intcha?’

  ‘Yes.’ Again I am stuck for anything more. Everything she says is a statement, a brash declaration that smothers any answer. Debbie is looking back at her phone. I am about to say goodbye when she looks up again.

  ‘Ask you a question?’

  ‘’Course.’

  ‘How comes they let that boyfriend out when he must’ve killed that girl?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rosie O’Shaughnessy. They nicked her boyfriend but now they’ve let him go. Says here.’ She holds up her phone, which is connected to a news site. ‘On bail.’

  ‘They can only keep him so long without charging him. They can’t have enough evidence. They still haven’t found a body, have they? No evidence of any crime.’ Like Halliday, I cannot help thinking. Connor and O’Dwyer; no bodies, no case.

  She looks at me blankly for a second, two, three. ‘She weren’t that much younger than me, you know.’ I nod, do not reply. She was about a decade younger than Debbie but it would be unkind to point this out. I notice her eyes focus on something behind my shoulder, something she’s not entirely happy to see. I hear an abrupt voice. ‘Know you, son?’

  I turn to see Vincent Halliday, a man with a face over which the skin is stretched tight, his bone structure underneath creating ugly lumps around his cheekbones and eye sockets, his jawbone easily visible. His skin is shiny and smooth and seems thin, his hair is cut close to his scalp. He is shorter than me and stands back on his heels, his chin thrust forward. His eyes dart about, from Debbie to me and back again.

  ‘Vince, this is Danny. Frankie’s boy.’

  Halliday doesn’t react, keeps looking at the two of us, waiting for more. He reminds me of a snake; he could strike at any time.

  ‘Yeah, Frankie Connell. You know. This is Daniel, his son. The lawyer.’ Debbie looks at me. ‘I think he’s going senile.’

  Halliday turns to her, doesn’t say anything but the sparkle dies in her eyes like she’s received bad news. He turns back to me.

  ‘Yeah, I know Frank. Bit of a mug but no harm to him. You his boy, are you?’ He speaks quickly, as if he can’t wait to get to the end of his sentence, move on. Tension runs through him like a pulse. He looks at me, challenging me to be quick with my answer. I take my time to respond. I am no admirer of my father but I can no more let this calculated insult go unanswered than I can close my eyes and vanish.

  ‘I think your daughter’s ready to go home,’ I say. I regret saying the words even as I speak them and experience a dizzy feeling as if I’m taking a leap off a cliff into a deep black gaping unknown. Halliday’s jaw tightens and his eyes flick all over my face, as if looking for some physical clue as to why I’ve just said something so utterly suicidal. I think he is going to go for me, his body tensed for attack; then he masters himself and the moment passes. He smiles distractedly, turns, chins two men towards him.

  ‘This man’s just leaving,’ he says to them. He looks at me. ‘Go on, piss off. We’ll meet again.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I say. ‘I want to talk to you about Billy Morrison.’

  ‘Who?’ he says.

  ‘You know who he is,’ I say. ‘Otherwise, why would you want to have him killed?’

  10

  I AM AT home and drinking a beer in my living room, trying not to think about what I have just done, what I have just said. The news on the television is talking about the missing girl and I try to gain perspective on my situation by imagining the pain and fear her parents must be experiencing right now, but I cannot shake the sense of menace that seems to lurk all around me.

  My telephone rings and I do not wish to pick it up, do not want to invite further problems into my life right now; but it does not stop ringing and eventually I cross to the counter and answer it.

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘Gabe.’

  ‘Yeah, Danny, spot of bother. Wondered if you could bail me out. Sorry to have to ask.’

  His voice is imprecise, a little too loud, not the disciplined delivery he learned in the Army where not a word was wasted. He has been drinking.

  ‘As in, the legal sense of provide money to secure your release?’

  ‘That sense, yeah.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Station on Main Road.’

  I know it; I have spent more time there, waiting for clients and, on occasion, my father, than I care to remember. ‘Be there in ten. You kill anyone?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Nearly, but not quite.’

  At the custody desk, I speak with a young woman behind glass who would be pretty if not for the expression of weary suspicion she wears like it’s part of the uniform. I explain who I am, that I am representing my client, a Mr Gabriel McBride. She taps some keys on her computer, tells me to take a seat, she’ll try to find the officer in charge. I sit down on a moulded plastic chair and read the notices on the wall opposite, posters advising on how to deal with domestic abuse, what to do if you witness suspicious behaviour that could be linked, in some tenuous fashion, to terrorism, the number to call.

  An old couple are across from me, sitting slumped in an attitude of defeat. The man’s phone rings, he answers, tells whoever is on the other end that Dean’s been picked up again, that they’ve been waiting for hours to see him. The man on the other end, who I guess is Dean’s father, swears fluently and audibly down the phone; the gist of his tirade is that his son, Dean, is a cunt and if he thinks he’s coming down to get him out he can fucking well think again. The old man catches me watching and tells Dean’s father to hold on, he’ll go outside, calm down, son, don’t get excited. But, watching the collapse of the old woman’s shoulders, I suspect that this is a road they’ve been down many times before and that Dean’s story will have, ultimately, an unhappy ending. Some people are not destined to be saved.

  Clearly, my status as lawyer wields more clout than that of two pensioners with a troubled grandson; the woman at the desk calls my name, shows me to a door behind which is waiting a uniformed sergeant, a good-humoured man in his late-forties, perhaps early-fifties, short hair and a trim moustache and broken veins on his cheeks. The woman buzzes me through.

  ‘Mr Connell?’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Sergeant Hicklin. Follow me please.’

  Sergeant Hicklin has an amused glint in his eye, which immediately tells me that, whatever it is Gabe has done, it is not too serious. ‘Know your client well?’ he asks over his shoulder as I follow him down a neon-lit corridor.

  ‘Well enough.’

  He opens a blue door, a card on it reading Interview Room 4. He holds it open, waits for me to pass, follows me in.

  ‘Sit down. Young Mr McBride is on his way.’

  I sit down at a wooden table, tape player on one side. The walls of the room are some kind of textured concrete, pale mottled green. Hicklin passes me, sits opposite, facing the door.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  Sergeant Hicklin examines my face, looking for I don’t know what. ‘Where’d he learn to fight?’

  ‘Iraq, Afghanistan, Aldershot, take your pick.’

  Hicklin nods. ‘Know him well, right? Friend of yours.’

  ‘Let’s keep this on a professional footing.’ This man is nobody’s fool; he has already guessed that our relationship goes deeper than simply lawyer–client.

  ‘As you like.’ Hicklin leans back in his chair, looks me over
. ‘Well, professionally speaking, your client, Mr Gabriel Bruce-bloody-Lee McBride has, tonight, started a small war of his own, outside Liquid nightclub.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like him.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘He’s a soldier, not a hooligan.’

  ‘Ex-soldier. Yes, well. At the moment I’ve got two confirmed hospital cases, and numerous cuts and bruises. A lot of pissed-off people. Two or three fairly impressed bouncers.’

  ‘I’ll give you ten to one he didn’t start it.’

  Hicklin picks up a pen, holds it between two hands, nods. ‘And I wouldn’t take those odds. Because I’d agree. Got a witness, see. Tells me a group of lads found it amusing he was missing a leg. They’d been drinking, thought they’d have some fun with him. You can probably guess the rest.’

  The Gabe I know, trained though he is in numerous, creative methods of disabling opponents, would have let any insult ride. Things would not have escalated into a brawl; he would have walked away. But, not for the first time this week, I have to question just how well I know Gabe nowadays.

  ‘I’ll be honest, I’d hate to see what he’s capable of on two legs. I watched the CCTV.’ Hicklin chuckles. ‘The whole nick watched it. Could have sold tickets. Man’s an overnight celebrity.’

  There’s a twinkle in Hicklin’s eye and I instinctively know he is on Gabe’s side; that here is a policeman who goes by his experience and gut rather than the book. I relax.

  ‘So he banged a few heads together,’ I say. ‘Got that established. You going to charge him?’

  Hicklin nods, gets down to business. ‘We’ve got the witness. We’ve had a look at your friend’s war record. We’ve got no axe to grind. My youngest is in the Paratroopers.’

  ‘Which leaves us where?’

  ‘We’ll bind him over, if you’ll agree to keep an eye on him. Keep him out of trouble.’

  There’s a knock on the door.

  ‘Ah, that must be Rambo now,’ says Sergeant Hicklin.

  Apart from a minute sway, Gabe looks as fresh and sober as if he’s appearing for a job interview. He grins at me, nods to Sergeant Hicklin. Behind him is a young constable with the come-on swagger of the young and power happy. Gabe pauses in the doorway and the constable shoves him from behind. I get up from my chair.

  ‘Tell your constable he touches my client once more and I’ll be filing a complaint before his shift is finished.’

  Hicklin sighs. ‘Sit down, sit down. Constable Dawson here’s got a lot to learn. Hormones, the latter stages of puberty. I apologise on his behalf. Happy?’

  I sit down, push out a chair for Gabe.

  ‘I’ll stand,’ he says.

  ‘At ease,’ says Hicklin, first signs of irritation. ‘Christ’s sake. We’re not nicking you. Got those papers, Dawson?’

  Dawson hands him a stack of sheets, kicks my chair leg as he passes. I frown at Hicklin, who shakes his head, looks to the ceiling: God help me. He flicks through pages, then shoves two sheets across the table to me.

  ‘Sign these, get your friend’s signature, then do me a favour. Foxtrot Oscar, as they say in the Army.’

  Gabe doesn’t talk much on the way home, and I cannot tell whether it is because he is still too drunk to talk or simply too ashamed. We drive through the dark streets, empty apart from one or two swaying shirtsleeved men unwilling to admit that the night is over and that tomorrow is already upon them. Yellow streetlights paint Gabe’s face as we drive.

  ‘Couldn’t have just walked away?’

  ‘He says. When’s the last time you turned the other cheek?’

  He’s got a point.

  ‘You need to talk to somebody.’

  ‘We’re talking.’

  ‘You know what I mean. This isn’t you.’

  Gabe rouses himself, reaches forward and turns on the radio, finds a station, scans for another one. I do not know how to speak to him, how to reach him. In our history, there has never been awkwardness, no subject has been taboo. How can he have become so distant?

  ‘It’s about the leg, isn’t it?’ I say. But even as I say the words I sense how hollow, how amateurish and clumsy they are. Gabe is one of the most complex and intelligent men I have ever met. I have no idea what he is going through; I have no idea where to begin. Gabe looks across at me and I cannot meet his eye.

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Let’s not.’

  We spend the rest of the journey in silence, like a couple who’ve been out to a restaurant and left in a hurry after a spiteful argument. I pull up outside his house and get out of the car with him, follow him to his front door, walk in after him without waiting for an invitation. Gabe doesn’t seem to care, disappears upstairs. I wait for him in his kitchen, put the kettle on, do the things we’re taught to do in circumstances such as these. The kettle has boiled and tea is made and I am beginning to think that he has gone to bed, passed out, when I hear his uneven steps on the stairs. I am still rehearsing what to say to him when he appears in the doorway holding something in his hand.

  ‘Remember this?’ he says.

  I look at it. It is our trophy, our defining moment, Essex Junior County doubles champions. Of course I remember it. Just looking at its silver form of two boys, one serving one crouching, brings back the memories of that time, perhaps the finest of my life; a time when Gabe and I believed ourselves indestructible, blowing opponents off the court with an ease that, at times, felt pre-ordained, as if we had been divinely chosen. Sixteen years old and favoured by the gods. I remember the smell of barbecues, endless conversations about women, late nights and too much beer, the delicious challenge of girls’ bras, parties in strangers’ houses held while their parents were away. Endless blue skies and limitless possibilities. And Gabe, always Gabe, my constant partner.

  ‘I remember. ’Course I do.’

  ‘I want you to have it.’

  ‘Why?’

  He looks at me and I notice how unsteady he still is on his feet, how he is wavering subtly, constantly regaining his balance. He is still far from sobering up; or perhaps he has just been tapping some secret stash upstairs. But Gabe is no ordinary person and, drunk or not, he is still capable of unmanning me with his gaze; I struggle to keep eye contact. But for once he breaks off first, sighs, puts the trophy on the kitchen counter. He walks away, back upstairs, and I wonder, while simultaneously hating the cliché, whether he is likely to do anything stupid.

  At the stairs he turns back to me, one hand on the banister. ‘Because, Danny, I can’t bear to look at the fucking thing any more.’

  11

  I DO NOT sleep well and wake up early, listening to the sound of birds outside my window and wishing that I did not have to open the curtains, let the real world intrude into the sanctity of my home. As I eat breakfast, trying to keep my mind off the events of the night before, I hear the news over the radio of the discovery of Rosie O’Shaughnessy’s body in the dense woodland of Epping Forest. A broken neck, no evidence of sexual assault. I have a mental image from my childhood, of a blackbird that flew into the French windows of our living room; it lay, dead, on the patio, its head bent away from its body at an acute angle, its yellow eye gazing sightlessly up into the sky. Rosie must have lain there for days. She was not even twenty years old; she never had the opportunity to at least make her own life-changing mistakes.

  I look about my kitchen. I live in an airy Victorian four-bed, constructed over a century ago when houses were built to a quality rather than a cost; it has high ceilings, period features, and is as close to luxury as I will ever need. But this morning listening to the news of Rosie’s death, for the first time I see it in a different light, my own comfort in such sharp contrast to the squalid end of her life. The white walls bathed in early-morning sunlight seem a splendour I do not deserve, in fact feel guilty for enjoying. When did my life become so safe, so comfortable? This thought naturally leads me to my next, which hits me with such sudden force that I lay my spoon down on th
e table and stare blankly out of the window, unable to move until I have processed the implications. What the hell was I thinking challenging, no, worse, insulting a known gangster and murderer in his own bar?

  I do not have long to worry; Halliday is clearly not a man to allow an insult to go unanswered for long. Later that morning, I am at my office and considering a long-running case, an elderly couple who had the chimney and part of the roof of their six-hundred-year-old converted coach house demolished by a wrecking ball supposed to be razing their neighbour’s garage. The neighbour is a footballer and apparently needed somewhere bigger to park his Hummer; he is South American from an impoverished background and is finding it hard to accept the cost and bureaucracy involved in the repair of a Grade I-listed building, despite his astronomical weekly wage. But dispute resolution is my area of expertise and I believe I am making progress towards a satisfactory outcome, his histrionic Latin outrage an act I am becoming familiar with and beginning to enjoy.

  I am disturbed from this modern and tabloid-friendly tale by my bell ringing. I put my papers together, place them to one side and walk into the lobby. Standing outside my door is Vincent Halliday in a grey suit with two of his men, both bigger than he is and dead-eyeing me through the glass from behind him with the nonchalant air of those practised in brutality. I pause, steady myself, realise that I have little choice. I open the door and nod them in. I dealt this hand; now I must see how it plays out.

  If anything, Halliday’s reaction to my place of work is even less impressed than Baldwin’s. I momentarily question whether a colour scheme of white, black and chrome would convey a more professional ambience or would come across as too masculine; I have heard that condemned men are plagued with inane thoughts on the walk to the execution chamber. Halliday takes in my meagre office in several agitated and disgusted glances and I wonder about his blood pressure. He is wound up as tightly as anybody I have ever met. His men take their places at the door to the lobby, one either side, and I realise with a sick suddenness that this is a scene that the three of them have played out, with variations, many times in the past.