‘So what’s Creepy Si got to do with this? Is he selling out the fat man? What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know. I had a drink with them—’
‘Non-alcoholic, I hope.’
Peta sighed. ‘Yes, mum. Anyway, I tried to get them to talk, but they wouldn’t.’
Amar shook his head. ‘This is either very good or very bad news.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’ Peta took a sip of coffee, frowned. ‘If someone else is interested in Father Jack’s little enterprise and they get there before us, then everything we’ve done will be for nothing.’
‘And bye-bye Knight Security and Investigations.’
Peta sighed. ‘Exactly.’
They watched the rain through the glass. Behind them, love was declared in Spanish over a snake-hipped beat. The baristas discussed their Friday-night exploits in discreet/loud voices.
‘On the other hand,’ said Peta, turning to face Amar, ‘this could work to our advantage.’
Amar waited.
‘Think about it,’ she said. ‘They may be interested in the story but they don’t have any evidence. We do.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘We keep an eye on Mr Donovan. We make sure that if and when he makes his move he does it with us.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
Peta’s gaze hardened. ‘I’ve come too far with this. I’m not having someone else just appear and beat us to it.’ She was breathing heavily.
Amar dug into his pocket, pulled out a roll of notes.
‘Speaking of which,’ he said, not keeping eye contact. He handed them to her. ‘Next month’s rent. For the office and the surveillance flat. I got paid last night.’
She looked at it like it would soil her hands to touch it.
‘Go on, take it.’
Reluctantly, she took it, pocketing it quickly with another sigh. ‘I just wish …’
‘I know. It won’t be for much longer.’
‘I’m not going to kiss goodbye to my business now, not after all the work we’ve done. Herald journalist or not.’
Amar nodded, tried not to yawn. He could feel his body beginning to grind to a halt. ‘Let’s have another coffee,’ he said.
Peta, eventually, nodded.
Amar went to the counter. Peta stared out of the window.
The rain continued to fall.
Jamal lay on the bed, listening to the rain on the window. Thinking.
He stared at the ceiling, at the brown, bowed, damp patch directly above his bed, imagining it a real place, a desert island. Imagining he was on a plane now, descending towards it. To peace. To safety.
Elsewhere in the house, life, with its madness and masks, went on.
Jamal looked at the windows, the rain bleaching accumulated dirt from them. The bars beyond the glass twisted, scrolled and rusted. But still bars. They extended within him: caging his heart, locking down his emotions.
The sickness built within, washed and crashed over him like a toxic wave on a poisoned beach.
The sickness.
His name for it. For the times when the reality of his life invaded his secret place, buckled and broke through the bars that caged his heart. Made him see things in stark white clarity.
He was a rent boy. A hustler. Making money from letting perverts use his body. But not gay. Not a batty boy. He did it only for money. Money. His other friends in the house in London did it, too. Friends.
The first time in the children’s home had hurt. An older boy, Johnson, had forced him to do things. At night. In the dark. When all the other boys had been sleeping. Or pretending to sleep. Afterwards, Jamal had rushed to the bathroom to be sick. Looked in the mirror and saw the scared, snivelling six-year-old again. Then cried until it felt like his heart had burst. A few nights later Johnson was there again. Forcing him to do things he didn’t want to do. Again Jamal was sick. Again he looked in the mirror. Again he cried his heart out.
Jamal had no one to turn to, no one to tell. Johnson had said if he did, he would kill him. Jamal believed him.
He hated his life, the children’s home. Saw Johnson everywhere, had to give in to his demands all the time. Eventually he scored some tablets, took them. Staff found him, rushed him to hospital, pumped his stomach.
Saved him.
Questioned him. Analysed him.
He wouldn’t talk. Couldn’t. Not to them. Not to anyone.
And still Johnson came. Forcing him to do things.
Jamal would imagine a dungeon in a huge, dark castle. Somewhere he could lock away his true self, hide until the danger was past and he could come out.
But it never worked, he couldn’t. He had to stay with it, feel everything.
Johnson kept going. Brought his friends round. Passed Jamal to the other boys.
He felt like a malfunctioning machine, a sci-fi robot with his insides a jumble and tangle of twisted wiring. Head like a radio; tuning randomly round the dial, trying to lock on to a signal, a station, and stay there, but mostly just picking up white noise. Not living life, just grazing; zapping and surfing.
Jamal ran away, stayed out all night, scared to return. Got into trouble. They always found him, brought him back. The social workers wanting to help, but only if Jamal would open up, let them in. Jamal tuned out, heard only white noise again.
Then on one of his escapes he met Les. Les the charmer. Les the one who told Jamal his life was worth something, that he was special. Les would buy him meals, give him blow, take him places. Les wanted Jamal to leave the home, come to live in a house he owned. Les promised him a new life. A happy, rich life. With money for clothes. Sounds. Drugs. Anything he wanted. Jamal liked Les. Made him feel proud, happy.
Jamal went to live at Les’s house. Met Dean. Felt immediately the almost electric charge of a kindred soul. Began to feel like he belonged somewhere.
Then Les stopped being the charmer. Became Les the hard man. Les the bully. Les the pimp. Told him the price to pay for saving his life. Put Jamal to work.
Dean helped him through. Showed him the ropes, the practicalities, how to find a safe place to go inside himself when they started touching you. Jamal was nervous at first, sensed some of the punters getting off on that. Then he began to learn how to handle them. Gain control. Let them not harm him, not hurt him. Not reach him.
In the safe place Dean had shown him.
And he managed. Because he had Dean.
But the sickness would build within him, would take over him, whisper truths in his ear. Control was just a lie. Life was no better here, Dean or no Dean. He had to take measures. Block the voices out.
He did. Drugs. Booze. Raving and speeding. Find a girl and fuck her for hours, just to prove that he could. Whatever it took to make the sickness subside.
And it would. For a while.
And now it was back again. Reminding him of what he did, what he truly was.
Father Jack. Joe Donovan. Si. All crowding in, wresting control away from him, ruining his life, ordering him what to do. And no Dean.
He wanted some rocks and a pipe. Some skunk. To fuck the girl downstairs whose name he couldn’t remember. He wanted Father Jack dead. He wanted Donovan’s money.
He wanted to escape. To that brown water-stain island.
To anywhere.
He had dreaded returning to Father Jack. Telling him what had happened with Donovan. Si had pushed him into Jack’s bedroom. Jack had looked at them, lip curling.
‘You’re dripping on my fucking carpet.’
They had both apologized.
‘This had better be worth it.’
Jamal had started to tremble.
‘Well?’
He opened his mouth. Father Jack leaned suddenly and sharply forward. Jamal yelped.
‘He’s … the man on the disc … he’s … the one talking, he’s … dead …’
Jamal flinched, expecting the worst from Father Jack, but to his surprise Jack did nothing. Except look curiously at
him.
‘Dead?’ Jack asked. ‘How?’
Jamal repeated what he had heard Maria say. Father Jack nodded, mulled it over.
‘What about the other one? Is he dead?’
Jamal shook his head vigorously. ‘Nuh – no. Well, she never said.’
‘Do they know what’s on the disc? Do they know about the other man?’
Jamal’s head was shaking so fast he was in danger of dislocating it. His eyes were wide, almost wholly circular. ‘Not from me, Jack, honest. Not from me.’
‘But do they know?’ His voice was still, calm, like a humid swamp with an alligator waiting beneath.
‘Nuh – no. They don’t know.’
Father Jack sat back. That seemed to be the answer he wanted. Jamal relaxed very slightly. Father Jack thought hard. Then spoke.
‘We don’t want the police here, do we?’
Jamal said nothing.
‘Do we?’
Jamal had thought the question rhetorical, didn’t realize he was being pressed for an answer. He shook his head again.
‘No,’ Father Jack continued. ‘But they don’t know what’s on the disc. Or who’s involved …’
He folded his arms, brought his head back, eyes on the ceiling, sighed.
Jamal said nothing. Just dripped on the carpet.
Jack brought his head back down, swivelled it round. His eyes bored into Jamal, made him feel like he was an assassin’s target.
Then Father Jack smiled.
‘What would you do?’
Jamal just stared at him. He wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.
‘Wuh – what?’
Father Jack smiled again. Spoke patiently and slowly. ‘What would you do?’
Jamal looked at him, warily. A trick.
Father Jack sighed. ‘It’s a simple question, Jamal. You’re one of my boys now, one of the family.’ His voice sounded like honey poured over harsh metallic gears. ‘I value my family’s input. Like a good father should. So please. What would you do?’
‘I’d … give Donovan another go. Let him make an offer. An’ see.’
Father Jack nodded, still smiling. ‘D’you know what, Jamal? I think you’re right. We’ll give Mr Donovan one more chance. See what he’s willing to pay in light of recent developments. If not, well …’ He shrugged. ‘Easy come, easy go.’
A sense of relief flooded through Jamal. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.
‘Good boy,’ said Father Jack. ‘Well done. You can go now.’
Jamal, surprised and wary, backed quickly out of the room. Closed the door behind him.
Knew that wouldn’t be an end to it. Knew Jack would be watching him.
Jamal lay on the bed, rode the tide of sickness.
Trapped.
He knew Father Jack had played him. Manipulated him with talk of loyalty. Inclusive talk. At the time, though, he had been convinced. But not when he thought about it afterwards. Just another way of tightening the locks on the cage.
He stared at the bars on the window. He had to find a way to escape. To lose Si. To make a deal with Donovan.
To disappear.
Had to.
He sighed. Stared at the bars, rode the sickness.
There had to be a way of escape.
A real one, not just water-stained imaginary islands.
A real one. Had to.
11
The bar was dark and pleasantly warm, muted, coloured lighting over bare-brick walls and arches giving it a laid-back ambience. Joe Donovan sat on a long, chocolate-leather sofa, took a mouthful of beer from the bottleneck, tried to go with it, relax. Next to him, Maria perched on the edge of the sofa sipping a gin and tonic. She was wearing a black sleeveless dress, front-buttoning, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage accentuated by jewellery, with heeled, knee-high boots. Her suede jacket draped over the arm of the sofa. Her dark hair clean and shining. Donovan had taken off his brown-leather jacket to reveal a vintage CBGBs T-shirt, blue Levi’s and boots. He had done what he could with his hair. Coldplay were playing on the bar’s sound system, Chris Martin singing about taking things back to the start.
Gershwins bar and restaurant was at the top of Dean Street in what had once been the city’s financial district, buffering the Georgian splendour of old Graingertown and the film noirish sweep of Dean Street down to the Tyne. Old Victorian and Edwardian temples of commerce were now massively imposing bars and restaurants. Gershwins was underground, the vaulted-brick ceiling and walls betraying its earlier incarnation. The walls were a warm red colour, the curved ceilings netted with thousands of fairy lights against a black background; an artificial, starlit night, untouched by the city’s light pollution. The main room was long and quite narrow, with a small stage at the far end. Where money and bullion was once stored now sat diners and drinkers. To the right, a set of steps led down to a small bar, all diffused lighting and chunky leather sofas, where Donovan and Maria now sat.
They smiled quick smiles at each other, sipped their drinks.
‘So,’ Maria said, setting down her drink, ‘shoptalk now or later?’
‘Nothing to talk about,’ said Donovan, ‘remember?’
It had been Maria’s idea. A Saturday night out. There would be no news on Gary Myers’ post-mortem until Monday at the earliest. The next move regarding the disc was in Jamal’s hands. There was nothing they could proactively do to move things forward. So why not relax, reintroduce themselves to each other and recharge, all on the Herald’s expense account?
Maria nodded, burying whatever she had been about to say, nervous that they had nothing but work between them.
‘True,’ she said.
After Donovan had agreed to Maria’s proposal, he had taken a walk round the city centre. A strange experience; it left him feeling almost engaged with life again. Still, a cursory glance in store windows showed he was well out of touch with what was going on. He toyed with the idea of having his hair cut, perhaps buying a suit, fitting in, but decided against it. He wasn’t ready for that yet. He had gone back to the hotel, showered, dug something clean from his bag, changed. Surprised himself by checking the mirror, by wanting to look his best. He smiled; like a semi-retired rock star on a comeback tour, the rhythm rusty but the songs still inside him.
The gun was still in his bag. Not near the top, but not buried either.
‘Relax, recharge, all that,’ he said, draining his bottle, aware that neither of them seemed particularly relaxed. ‘Let’s have another drink.’
The waitress chose that moment to inform them that their table was ready. They moved up the small staircase, took their seats beneath the artificial night sky. The music changed; something sax-heavy and bebop – Miles Davis, Donovan reckoned. Whatever, it fitted, began working on him like an aural massage, helped, along with the alcohol, to loosen him up.
They ordered. Stilton dumplings followed by lamb for Donovan, seafood thermidor and pigeon breast for Maria. Another gin and tonic, another beer and a Merlot between them. New World.
The drinks arrived. Donovan held up his glass, looked at Maria.
‘Here’s to?’
‘The future,’ she said without hesitation.
‘Because it can’t be any worse than the past,’ Donovan said.
‘And second chances,’ she said, eyes anywhere but on his.
Glasses chinked. Stars twinkled. They caught each other’s gaze now, smiled.
‘You look good tonight,’ said Donovan.
Maria set her glass down, eyes on the table as she did so. Picked up her gin and tonic. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled, then sighed.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘Oh … I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘This could just be paranoia, but … I think I’m being set up.’
‘What?’
‘I think there’s a fall coming and I’m the one expected to take it.’
Donovan took a mouthful of beer, set down his bottle. ‘Explain.’
‘Well …
I feel I’ve been manipulated into coming up here. By Sharkey. He played on the fact that John Greene wanted to be in charge of the paper again and that the dep. wants my job and got them to send me up here. Out of the loop.’ She sighed again. ‘Oh I don’t know. I’m the editor, for God’s sake. I’m in charge. I shouldn’t be this paranoid.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Donovan, looking for words of comfort that also contained truth, ‘Sharkey, much as I can’t stand the man, and John Greene think this is an important enough story for you to be here. They can hold the fort. Let you do what you’re best at.’
Maria took a long time to reply.
‘I wanted to come up here,’ she said. ‘They just agreed a little too quickly, that’s all.’
‘That’s hardly the basis for a conspiracy theory, is it?’
‘No, but …’ She took another mouthful of gin and tonic, realized her glass was empty, started on the wine. ‘It’s hard to explain. Journalism’s changing. It’s not the boys’ club it used to be, but there’s still some way to go. It may sound like a cliché, but it is so much harder for a woman to take a top job in this business. And keep it.’
Before Donovan could reply, she began telling him, her voice breathless and rushed, about other female editors who had tried to take the men on at their own game and ended up either defeated by the system or more testosterone-fuelled than their male counterparts. He let her talk until her paranoid fantasies and war stories crossbred, multiplied and eventually ran out. She took another mouthful of wine.
‘Sorry,’ she said. She looked hot, flustered. She shook her head. ‘Don’t usually talk that way. Must be the booze, gone straight to my head.’
Donovan smiled. ‘Best place for it.’
She sighed again. Donovan had been nervous about this night out. Wondering what to say, how to behave. It was a difficult situation for him. He had never thought Maria might be feeling the same way.
She sat, eyes downcast. Something in her stirred something deep within him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. Almost without thinking, he reached across the table, placed his hand on top of hers.
She looked up, eyes wide, as if she had just received an electric shock.
They caught each other’s eyes, locked, held on. And in that moment Donovan knew, and suspected Maria knew also, that a line, no matter how small, had been crossed.
The Mercy Seat Page 12
