Si got there first. Stuck out a swift arm, kept the door firmly shut.
‘Fuck you doin’, man?’ said Jamal, nerves manifesting themselves as anger. ‘Outta my way.’
‘Not yet,’ said Si. ‘Father Jack wants to see you.’
Jamal tried to deaden his eyes. Turn his features to stone.
He failed.
‘Get out of my way. I’m goin’ out.’
Si grabbed the front of Jamal’s jacket, pushed him back on to the stairs. Held him down. Faces began to appear from the front room. Si looked towards them.
‘Fuck off,’ he said, eyes lit by a harsh light. ‘Me an’ Jamal are talkin’. Private.’
The door was quickly closed, 50 Cent silenced.
‘That’s better,’ said Si. ‘Now, get upstairs. Father Jack’s waitin’ for you.’
Jamal got slowly to his feet, trudged reluctantly upstairs.
‘You don’t need to knock. He’s expectin’ you.’
Jamal went in. Father Jack was sitting on the bed, fully dressed in a Hawaiian shirt that looked big enough to cover Hawaii and pair of chinos that a group of boy scouts could have gone camping in for a week. Probably had.
But there was nothing remotely comical about his expression. He looked beyond predatory, beyond wicked. He looked expectant at the prospect of causing pain.
He swallowed hard, tried to will himself to stone.
Failed again.
Si closed the door behind them, stood with his back against it.
‘Off out again?’ said Father Jack.
Jamal said nothing.
‘Off to see this punter again? This boyfriend?’
Jamal gave a strained nod.
Father Jack stood up. The way he moved his bulk was menacing.
‘Pays well, I hear. Not the million you wanted, but good enough. For a boy like you.’
Jamal felt the air had been punched from his body. Felt his legs buckle and weaken.
‘Five grand, isn’t it? Generous, our Mr Donovan.’
Jamal’s breath came in laboured gasps. He couldn’t think fast enough. How had they found out? He had been so careful. He saw the mental image of five grand disappearing before him.
He made to turn, to run for it, but Si was there. Si grabbed him, twisted his arm up behind his back. Jamal gasped, winced in pain. Jack approached him. Got right in his face. Jamal smelled honey and mint, cologne and soap covering the stink of old sweat and corruption.
‘Don’t fuck me about now, boy. You do not want to fuck me about.’
Jamal stared; no answer would come.
‘Now,’ said Father Jack, ‘where’s this disc?’
Jamal opened his mouth slowly. ‘What disc?’ he said. His throat felt like sandpaper. ‘I don’t know nothin’ about no—’
Father Jack touched him. Poked his fingers hard into strategic places. Jamal felt pain shoot around the middle of his body, up his spine. His knees gave way; he started to fall. Si gripped his arm tighter, the only thing holding Jamal upright. Counter-pain bled out from that. Jamal twisted and struggled, tried to move away from the pain, find respite, stand – and think – straight.
‘You’re fucking me about, boy,’ Father Jack shouted into his face. ‘I told you not to. Now, where’s the disc?’
Jamal opened his mouth to speak. No sound would emerge.
More fingers. More strategic poking. More pain.
Jamal felt like he was on the verge of passing out.
‘Let him go,’ said Father Jack.
Si loosened his grip, stepped back. Father Jack took his fingers away. Jamal collapsed on to the floor, panting hard. He didn’t know what to do first, faint or throw up.
He threw up.
‘Oh that’s disgusting,’ said Father Jack. ‘You’re cleaning that up.’
Jamal said nothing.
Father Jack fixed him with a dispassionate stare. ‘The disc. Where is it?’
Jamal slowly inched his hand round to the small of his back. ‘Jacket …’ he said, his voice tiny and fragile.
Si tore the jacket off him. He felt all round until his fingers alighted on the shape of the disc. He tore the lining in two, pulled it out.
‘Here it is,’ he said, triumph in his voice. He found a lump in the pocket, pulled out the minidisc player.
‘And look what we have here,’ he said.
Father Jack smiled. ‘Very nice.’ He kneeled before Jamal, waved a hand theatrically, made a face. ‘You stink. Now, what’s on this disc that’s so important?’
‘All sortsa shit,’ gasped Jamal. ‘This journalist is gonna pay me to get it back. Pay me big time …’
Father Jack stood up, took the disc and player from Si, inserted the disc, put the headphones on.
‘Get that mess cleaned up,’ he said to Jamal, who was beginning to, with difficulty, sit up.
‘And you,’ Father Jack pointed at Si. ‘When he’s done that, get him cleaned up.’
‘Why?’ said Si.
Father Jack didn’t like to be questioned. His expression said as much.
Si swallowed hard.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean anything. I just meant—’
‘Do as you’re told,’ said Father Jack, ending any argument. ‘I want him cleaned up and ready to meet this Donovan bloke.’
Si looked at him. ‘You mean he’s still gonna—’
‘Oh yes,’ said Father Jack, ‘he certainly is. Now, do as you’re told.’
Si did as he was told.
Father Jack sat back on the bed.
Pressed PLAY.
8
‘Hey look. Quick, look.’
Amar was standing by the window. Peta came up to join him.
‘The newbie’s off out. And he’s got that Si kid with him. The creepy one.’
Peta looked closely. ‘And I’d say newbie didn’t look too happy about it.’
‘What d’you reckon?’ said Amar. ‘Should one of us follow?’
Peta smiled sarcastically. ‘By one of us, I presume you mean me?’
‘Well, I …’
‘Got a hot date, I know. And you can’t keep him waiting.’
Amar gave a relieved smile. ‘You’re a darling,’ he said. ‘Be quick, though. This could be interesting.’
‘Thanks, mother,’ said Peta, loading a small digital camera and tape recorder into a pocket of her three-quarter-length leather jacket and making for the door. ‘Any other aspects of the business you’d like to enlighten me on?’
‘Yeah. Don’t talk to strange men.’
‘Says you.’
She closed the door, left.
Amar stood at the window watching her walk up the street.
‘Be careful,’ he said, but her image was already receding.
Donovan stood leaned on a railing at the quayside, listening to the Tyne slosh along. Killing time; letting it pass, watching it change.
All along the quay on both sides was transformation, gentrification. New flats, bars, restaurants, hotels; the old Tyne of dockers, mills and warehouses so last century. So pre-millennium.
The Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art had been a flour mill in a previous life. Now, queues regularly snaked round the newly built and christened Baltic Square and often over the newly built and christened Millennium Bridge to see cutting-edge modern art. He himself had joined the queue one day, from curiosity, to see an Antony Gormley exhibition. The inclusivity of the other queuers had surprised him: in front had been two bus drivers, necks heavily tattooed, telling each other how much they had been looking forward to this trip all throughout their shifts, behind were two Jesmond Guardianista mothers struggling to control their overenthusiastic Jocastas and Henriettas, behind them a retired couple eager for, as they said, something a bit different.
Donovan had left his cynicism at home that day. Enjoyed himself.
Next to the Baltic was the Sage Music Centre. A sparkling concert hall created from concentric silver bands, it looked like a huge metallic slu
g caught mid-undulation. Either that, or the mother ship had landed.
Transformation.
The city of Donovan’s childhood, of coal mines, heavy industry and manual labour, was long gone. In its place was a city of culture and tourism, of call centres and service industries. And the largest growth industry in the north-east: IT and software development. From ‘whey aye, man’ to ‘whey imac’.
He smiled, pleased with that one. Then looked around, sighed. Wished he had someone to share it with.
He had no close family living in the area any more, no reason to ever visit. He had left, never looking back. College, work and life in London had taken him away from it. The city could have been anywhere.
In the cottage he would sometimes talk to David. Sit in David’s room, have a conversation. Sometimes David would answer. Or Donovan would imagine he would answer. But mostly David didn’t and Donovan became aware that he was just sitting on the floor talking to himself. Like throwing his voice out into the fog. That was when he knew it was time to get out of the house.
And go to Newcastle. Book into a hotel, go drinking, eat out. See life, but not touch it.
All the time he was in the city he was never of it. The people in this city seemed so sure of themselves; indestructible as they planned their jobs, lives, futures. Dreams. Secure in the knowledge they would live them out. He had been like that once. Now, he felt like a citizen of a parallel, invisible city, one with no such self-delusional surety, where there was no point making plans for the future because a roll of some capricious god’s dice would upset them, where inhabitants knew that hope and despair were the same thing.
Before he had left he had said goodbye to David. Stood in the centre of the room and whispered:
‘I’m going away for a little bit, but I’ll be back soon. I’m doing this for you.’
He smiled at the images of his son, tried to quell the rising excitement at being involved with something again, tried to ignore the guilt that excitement provoked.
Donovan turned his back on the railing, looked at the street. The Crown Court building stood before him, bars and restaurants dotted around and filling up. He checked his watch: eight p.m. The boy should be here any time.
Donovan was dressed as he had described himself over the phone: three-quarter-length brown-leather jacket, old Levi’s, Timberlands. Hair long, greying. The boy had not offered a description of himself, but he had formed a mental image of what he would look like. He doubted he would be disappointed.
Another check of the watch: nearly five past eight. He put his hands in his pockets, tapped his feet. Despite everything, he wanted to smile. The thrill of being involved again was getting to him.
And then he saw the boy. Or who he assumed was the boy. A teenager, small-looking, wearing baggy jeans, trainers and an Avirex leather jacket embossed with brands and adverts like a Formula One driver. Light-skinned black boy, he stood out against the crowd. Most of the people around him were relaxed, out for a good time. The boy looked like he was calculating the odds, on the make.
In the city but not of it. Another inhabitant from that parallel, invisible city.
He clocked Donovan, who nodded. The boy approached.
Getting close, Donovan looked into the boy’s eyes. They were wary and, although the arrogant swagger attempted disguise, scared.
Donovan smiled. ‘We meet at last.’
The boy nodded.
‘Got the disc?’
The boy’s eyes darted quickly around, like swallows trapped in a barn. Scoping the area for backup to rain down on him, Donovan thought.
‘Not here, man.’
‘What?’
‘Not here, man. Back at the hotel.’
Donovan was impressed. He was managing to speak without moving his lips. If there were anyone watching, they wouldn’t be able to lip-read.
‘The hotel.’
‘Yeah, man, like we agreed. Anybody watchin’ thinks you just picked me up. You a john.’
‘A what?’
‘A punter, man. You know.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Donovan. ‘Do I look like the kind of person who picks up boys, then?’
‘Don’t matter what you look like, man. S’what you want. Now, your hotel, yeah?’
The boy shot another glance around. Perhaps it’s him being watched, thought Donovan. Not me.
‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘My hotel.’
Donovan’s hotel fronted the river along the Close at the base of the hill up to Forth Street. Along the hill was a series of old stairways leading away from the Tyne and up to the city itself. Some were self-explanatory – Castle Stairs, Tuthill Stairs, Long Stairs – one invited explanation – Dog Leap Stairs – and one was obvious and cautionary – Breakneck Stairs.
Donovan’s hotel was directly opposite Breakneck Stairs.
Neither had spoken on the walk back.
The night had moved in, obscuring the moon with heavy clouds. A storm was coming.
‘Close the curtains, man.’
Donovan closed the curtains and stepped away from the window. He turned to face the boy, who was standing at the other side of the double bed staring at him, unmoving.
‘So,’ said Donovan, opening the minibar and uncapping a bottle of chilled beer, ‘you got a name?’
‘Tony Montana,’ said Jamal, lip curling in arrogance.
Donovan smiled. He admired front in people with whom he was dealing. Gave him something to work with.
‘How original,’ he said. ‘If you’re going to lie, at least pick a better film.’
Donovan smiled. Jamal almost did, stopped himself.
Donovan took a mouthful of beer, nodded towards the minibar.
‘Want anything?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ said Jamal, and gestured towards Donovan’s beer.
Donovan took out another, uncapped it, passed it across.
‘Say hello to your leetle friend,’ he said as he did so.
Jamal gave a small but genuine smile, which soon disappeared.
It’s a start, thought Donovan, progress. Something to help open negotiations. He sat down on the bed. Jamal remained standing.
‘So what’s your real name, then?’
Jamal thought for a moment, then, decision made, said: ‘Jamal.’
‘Jamal,’ repeated Donovan, ‘You Muslim?’
Jamal looked confused. ‘Why?’
‘It’s a Muslim name,’ he said. ‘Thought you must be Muslim.’
‘Nah, man, it’s from my dad. He was some African warrior.’
Donovan sat forward, interested. ‘Really? Is he back in Africa now?’
Jamal shrugged. ‘Dunno. ’Swhat my mum tole me when I was little.’
Donovan nodded. He was starting to put together a picture of the boy. His mix of street hardness and naivety. A lost boy.
He thought of his own lost boy.
‘What you starin’ at me like that for, man?’ Jamal seemed angry and uncomfortable.
Donovan thought for a moment. ‘You’re just different from how I imagined you’d look from your voice on the phone.’
‘Yeah? Well, so are you, man. I wasn’t expectin’ no scruffy hippie.’
Donovan caught a look at himself in the mirror. He smiled.
‘Yeah, Jamal,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a point.’
The two of them regarded each other, drank their beer. Jamal leaned against the side cupboard, tense, ready to dart for the door at any moment.
Donovan knew he should press on, get the disc into his possession, but Jamal intrigued him. He wanted to find out more about him.
‘So, Jamal,’ he said, ‘you’re a hustler, that right?’
Jamal shrugged. ‘Yeah. S’pose so.’
‘How d’you get into that?’
Jamal’s mood changed. He began to pace the room, agitatedly.
‘What you wanna know for? You some fuckin’ social worker?’
‘No, I’m not a social worker—’
‘Then you get off on it? You a pervert or somethin’?’
‘Neither, Jamal. I’m just interested.’ Donovan sighed, looked at the angry boy with the scared, hurt eyes. Made a decision he couldn’t explain to himself.
‘I had a son,’ he said, ‘and he disappeared. He’d be eight now. And I looked, but I never found him.’
‘An’ you think I seen him?’ Jamal stopped pacing. His voice had a superficial dismissiveness and arrogance, but it was the eyes again. They gave him away. Donovan’s admission had affected him. He just didn’t know how to react to it.
‘No,’ said Donovan calmly and quietly. ‘I just wondered what it involved. How you survived. How you coped. You know, just in case …’ He shrugged.
Jamal looked around at the door. Uncomfortable.
‘Look, man, let’s do the fuckin’ business, yeah?’ He was waving his beer bottle around, gesturing with it. ‘I’m sorry about your son an’ that, but let’s do the business. Ain’t got all night.’
Donovan drained his bottle, stood up. He crossed to the sideboard, powered up his laptop.
‘You got the disc?’
‘You got the money?’
‘That drawer there,’ said Donovan pointing.
‘Lemme see.’
Donovan opened the drawer. Jamal crossed the room, looked in. Saw bundles of notes, neatly laid out in two piles. He extended his hand. Donovan slammed the drawer shut.
‘Disc first,’ he said.
‘Didn’t look that much,’ said Jamal. ‘That all of it?’
‘That’s all of it.’ He held out his hand. ‘Please.’
Jamal took the minidisc from his pocket, handed it over. Donovan placed it on the CD tray, watched it slide back in.
‘So how did you come by this?’ he asked.
‘Found it.’ Jamal shrugged. His body shivered.
Donovan looked at him closely. ‘Where?’
‘London.’
He had further questions to ask, but his media player was asking him to press PLAY. He did so.
‘Hope this is worth waiting for,’ he said.
A voice came out of the speakers. High-pitched, camp even, but with an ugly, hard edge to it. A voice Donovan had never heard before.
‘I doubt this was what you were expecting, was it?’ the voice said. ‘It’s Mr Donovan, isn’t it? Well, if you’re listening to this it means that Jamal has been a good boy and done as he was told.’
The Mercy Seat Page 10
