The Mercy Seat

by Martyn Waites

  ‘You needed that.’

  He looked at her, sketched a brief, fragile smile.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I needed that.’

  The Broadway, an uneven, potholed strip of tarmac, was Jaywick’s main street. Peta drove, Donovan looked out of the window.

  Most buildings one storey, the odd one two. Nothing looked inviting or well-maintained. Jaywick had a poverty more than financial; it seeped into the architecture, lacked spirit and hope. A flat, front-boarded façade described itself as Wonderland: Slots of Fun. Next to it a bookie. A dowdy hair salon and a run-down Chinese takeaway. A Shop ’n’ Save. The pub: the Never Say Die.

  ‘Looks like last rites have been given,’ said Donovan.

  Past a boarded-up, weed-choked shell that had once proclaimed itself a casino. A social club that looked anything but social. A cut-price food shop discounting sell-by skirters and stale stuff. A derelict pub ringed by wire mesh and DANGER: KEEP OUT signs. A café with a warped frontage of paint-flaked wood and hanging baskets of dead flowers stood detached from the rest of the strip.

  ‘Hungry?’ asked Peta.

  ‘Not enough,’ replied Donovan.

  All round were expanses of weeds and rubble dotted with empty, derelict buildings. The dull sky clamped the Earth down, flattening it out, stretching it away for miles, keeping it depressed like a thick iron-grey blanket.

  ‘Where are we headed?’ Peta asked.

  ‘The Broadlands Estate,’ said Donovan. ‘Shouldn’t be far now.’

  They arrived.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Peta. ‘Munchkin town.’

  Originally single-storey summer-holiday chalets from over half a century ago, the houses were now virtually all permanently occupied. Cars dotted round. The further in they went, the less functional the cars became. Eventually they became rusting, burned out husks, scavenger-picked for anything of use, left to rot in the potholed, rubble and rubbish-strewn broken streets.

  The houses became less well maintained and ultimately derelict. In among these were barely habitable, but occupied, homes.

  Peta shook her head. ‘City of God,’ she said.

  ‘But without the sun,’ said Donovan.

  They drove, slowly for fear of damaging the car from a chunk of stone or an unseen hole, until they found the address they were looking for. Pulled up in front of it.

  It was pebbledash and chipped, its windows grimy, the net curtains filthy. Weeds choked it. The roof tiles were old and mossed. An abstract sculpture of rubbish and waste fronted the small wall. The door had once been green.

  ‘This the one?’ asked Peta, not bothering to hide her distaste.

  ‘This is the one.’

  Donovan took a deep breath, walked up the uneven path to the front door, knocked on it.

  And waited.

  A dog barked within. Donovan and Peta looked at each other.

  Eventually they heard the sound of someone moving laboriously towards the door. The noises stopped.

  ‘Who is it?’

  The voice was broken, rasping and ripping, like bleeding skin dragged over shattered, sharpened glass.

  Peta looked at Donovan, alarmed. He looked wary.

  ‘Tosher?’ said Donovan. ‘Don’t know if you can remember me. Joe Donovan. Used to be a reporter.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The word was dredged up from ruined lungs. Followed by a sound that may have been a laugh or a death rattle. ‘I remember yer. Now fuck off.’

  Donovan and Peta exchanged glances. The dog kept barking. Donovan tried again.

  ‘I appreciate that you might not want to talk to me, Tosher, but if I could just have five or ten minutes …’

  No reply. Just the barking dog.

  Donovan looked to Peta, shrugged. ‘I’ll pay you.’

  A pause, then: ‘How much?’

  ‘Five hundred pounds.’

  Another laugh/death rattle. ‘A thousand.’

  ‘Five hundred’s all I’ve got, Tosher. Take it or leave it.’

  Another ruined rumble, a door slamming. The dog’s barking became more distant, muffled. Then the sound of chains being removed, bolts being undone. The door opened.

  And there stood Tosher.

  Donovan tried not to let the shock appear on his face. The good-looking, dark-maned arrogant biker was gone. In his place stood the physical embodiment of the voice they had heard. His black hair was now predominantly grey, still long but sparse; pink scalp could be glimpsed through it. His face was lined, crinkled, like the life had been sucked out of it. His body too: cheap T-shirt and jeans hung off his emaciated frame. Although still the same height, he looked shorter, like his body had never uncurled from a blow it had received.

  But it was the eyes. They looked dead, closed down after witnessing, experiencing, too much.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tosher. He knew why Donovan was staring. ‘Two years is a long time.’

  Without another word, Tosher turned and walked back into the house, a painful, shuffling limp. Taking that as their cue, Donovan and Peta followed, closing the door behind them.

  Tosher led them into the living room, where he slowly lowered himself down into an old, worn velour armchair. Stained and threadbare, it was matched by the sofa Donovan and Peta sat themselves down on.

  Somewhere in the house the dog barked and scratched.

  The room was a tip. An old TV in one corner, standing on an upturned crate. Motorbike parts lying around. Old beer cans. An overflowing pub ashtray. Other assorted debris and detritus of a broken life.

  Donovan shuddered. With recognition.

  This would be the next step if he stayed on the road he was on.

  He thought of the previous night. Felt delayed nausea well within him. Ignored it.

  He had work to do.

  ‘Suddup, Zoltan,’ Tosher half growled, half shouted. Then was seized by a bout of racking coughs. The dog kept barking.

  Tosher pointed at Peta. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Peta Knight. A work colleague.’

  Tosher nodded at her, and Donovan saw in his eyes a glimpse of the man he used to be. Just briefly; it was soon obscured by a cloud of self-loathing.

  ‘You took your time,’ Tosher said.

  Donovan frowned.

  ‘I thought you’d come eventually,’ he rasped and gasped. ‘Or somebody like you … I saw the news. Huntley and his … daughter …’

  ‘What happened, Tosher? What d’you know?’

  Tosher almost smiled. ‘You got me money?’

  ‘In my pocket.’

  ‘Let’s see it.’

  Donovan took out his wallet, counted out ten fifties he had drawn on the Herald’s credit card. Tosher took them, counted them, pocketed them. Hunger in his eyes; need, not greed.

  ‘What happened, Tosher?’ asked Donovan. ‘Why did you think someone would come to see you? Why now?’

  ‘Because of this.’ Tosher stuck out his hands, palms upwards.

  They bent forward, looked.

  Even in the sick, dim light they could see the damage. The newer skin in the centre of each palm. The left one eaten away, deformed. Tosher lifted it up.

  ‘Got an infection in that one. Lucky they saved it in time. Lucky I didn’t have to get it amputated.’ He gave a harsh snort that may have been a laugh. ‘Lucky.’

  ‘You were tortured?’ asked Peta, appalled.

  Tosher’s laboured breathing sounded like air pumping from a sucking wound. His lip curled. ‘You think … I always sounded like this?’

  Donovan and Peta said nothing.

  ‘An’ they did a lot more, an’ all. Stuff you … can’t see.’ His eyes dropped to the floor. ‘Stuff I’m not goin’ to show you.’ He looked up. ‘I’m not goin’ to … tell you, though. Because then I’d relive it.’ He shuddered, eyes out of focus. ‘An’ I don’t … wanna go back there again. Just … take my word for it.’

  Donovan and Peta exchanged a look. Said nothing. Tosher looked between the two of them.

  ‘I told you,�
� he said, a twisted vindication in his eyes, ‘told you they … were plannin’ somethin’. But you never came back.’

  Donovan swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But I had … things to deal with.’

  ‘You lost your boy, didn’t you?’

  Donovan nodded, said nothing.

  ‘Bad, that,’ said Tosher. His eyes were lit by the conflicting lights of self-loathing and vindication. They combined to give his face a cruel, twisted expression. ‘But not as bad … as what happened to me.’

  Donovan opened his mouth to reply. Tosher stopped him.

  ‘Think about it, Joe Donovan, which of us … would you rather be?’

  Donovan said nothing. Allowed Tosher his tiny triumph.

  ‘Who did it, Tosher?’ asked Peta. ‘Who did this to you?’

  Tosher swivelled his gaze to her. He almost smiled.

  ‘Long time since I’ve had a woman … interested in what I said …’

  Peta said nothing, kept her eyes on him.

  Tosher frowned. ‘You a copper?’

  ‘Used to be,’ she said.

  Tosher nodded. ‘Used to be … It’s still in you … still on you … always will be.’ He looked at Donovan. ‘Ashamed at you, Joe, hangin’ round with the filth.’

  Donovan didn’t rise to his words, kept going. ‘Tosher,’ he said, ‘why did this happen?’

  Tosher gave a dismissive look at Peta, full attention to Donovan. ‘It was supposed to be a warnin’,’ he said slowly. ‘They wanted us … out. They told us what they’d do if we didn’t go … Burn us out …’

  ‘They can’t do that,’ said Donovan.

  ‘That’s what we thought. We had … the law on our side. An’ they knew that.’ He paused, gasped down air, continued. ‘So they took me. Made an … example, they said, of me. Did this. Said they’d do it to all of us if we didn’t shift.’

  ‘And you went?’

  ‘Fuckin’ right, we did. Straight off.’

  Peta leaned forward. ‘Why didn’t you go to the police about this?’

  Tosher’s throat gave out another harsh, guttural sound. ‘Who d’you think done this?’

  Peta and Donovan looked at each other. ‘The police?’ said Donovan.

  Tosher nodded. ‘Yeah … who’d you fuckin’ think? We got straight out. Packed up an’ … off.’ Another harsh approximation of a laugh. ‘An’ they all came out to cheer … all those bastards … supposed to be respectable, with their posh cars an’ their … posh houses … cheered … an’ shouted … an’ threw stuff … called us scum … bastards …’

  He stopped talking, gasping for breath again. Face flushed with anger.

  ‘But they were waitin’ for us … the filth … riot gear … forced us off the road, into a lay-by … got the sticks out …’

  ‘That’s illegal,’ said Peta, clearly shocked.

  Tosher just shook his head. ‘Where were you stationed at? Fuckin’ Toytown?’

  Peta reddened.

  ‘They were waitin’ … Bashed shit out of us … even the kids …’ Tosher’s eyes began to glisten with tears. ‘Round an’ round us like fuckin’ Red Indians circlin’ the wagons … then the petrol …’ He shook his head, wheezing. ‘The screamin’ … An’ they stood there, fuckin’ laughin’ …’

  No one spoke. No sound in the house but the slight scratching of the dog.

  ‘Came ’ere eventually.’ Tosher’s voice was small, as broken as he looked. ‘Cousin ’ad a place nearby. An’ ’ere I stayed. Fuckin’ sick money … Fuckin’ cripple …’ He stared at the floor, self-loathing building up again. ‘An’ ’ere I will stay …’

  ‘The police did this?’ said Donovan quietly.

  Tosher nodded. ‘Copper called Keenyside. He was behind it. Had this mad bastard who did the work … Hammer, they called ’im.’ Tosher shuddered. Fear flickered across his face. ‘You don’t wanna … meet ’im, I’m tellin’ you … Evil … real evil …’

  ‘Keenyside …’ repeated Donovan.

  ‘They had names … nicknames,’ Tosher said. ‘Faust an’ Mephisto. But I knew it was them …’

  ‘Mephisto was … Keenyside,’ said Donovan, ‘and Hammer was Faust?’

  Tosher smiled. A rumble began to build in his chest. ‘Hammer was Hammer,’ he said.

  ‘Then who was Faust?’ asked Peta.

  The rumbling sound grew, like an avalanche beginning to roll, leaving destruction in its wake. ‘Faust?’ he said. ‘That spineless little … shit … Colin Huntley. Him …’

  Donovan and Peta looked at each other, shocked.

  ‘Colin Huntley?’ asked Donovan. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was fuckin’ his daughter … He was behind the whole thing …’ A look of twisted triumph appeared in his eyes. ‘He just couldn’t stand the thought … of his precious daughter … fuckin’ me …’

  The laugh came free, the avalanche broke. It carried through Tosher’s body until he was beset by racking coughs. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  The dog resumed its barking, throwing itself at the locked door.

  Donovan stood up. Peta likewise.

  ‘Thanks, Tosher,’ he said. ‘I know that must have cost you.’

  Tosher sniffed, breathed in deep, wheezing gasps. ‘Cost you five hundred quid. Hope it was worth it …’

  Donovan and Peta left the house. From the street they heard the trapped dog still howling, still fighting inside.

  The iron-grey sky was depositing rusty drizzle on the blighted shantytown streets.

  Donovan had never been so grateful for fresh air in his life.

  27

  ‘I know what you’re up to.’

  Keenyside almost dropped his coffee. He chose that particular machine because it was the most inaccessible, underused one in the whole station. He should have been alone. He turned round. Janine was standing behind him. She looked different. She was smiling. He glanced around quickly: no one else about.

  ‘What d’you mean, you know what I’m up to?’

  ‘Just that,’ she said, the smile deepening.

  Another quick look round: no one about. He wanted to grab hold of her, throw her against the wall, slap her stupid, irritating mouth shut. Instead he tried his old charm. He put on a smile of his own.

  ‘So what am I up to, then?’

  ‘Drugs, for a start.’

  ‘Drugs? I don’t—’

  ‘I know how you rip off dealers. Do deals with suppliers. Blackmail your informants into sellin’ the stuff, beat them up …’ She shrugged. ‘Shall I keep goin’?’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Another smile. ‘That’d be tellin’.’

  Keenyside thought straight away of Huntley. The upcoming deal. Swallowed hard. He looked at Janine properly. There was a self-assurance about her that had previously been absent. It unnerved him.

  ‘What d’you want?’ His voice was small, dry.

  ‘Lots of things,’ she said. ‘My own back on you, mainly. But I’ll accept money. To keep me quiet.’

  His discomfort must have shown on his face. She laughed at him. He felt himself reddening, his hands beginning to shake. His self-control was slipping.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty thousand.’

  He sneered. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Fifty thousand,’ she repeated. She moved closer to him; her face took on a harder aspect. ‘You owe me a lot more than that.’

  Keenyside recoiled. Coffee spilled over the sides of the plastic cup he was holding. He had burned his fingers.

  ‘All right,’ he said, trying to breathe calmly. He needed time to think, time to plan. ‘Fifty thousand. How d’you—’

  ‘I’ll let you know where and when,’ she said. ‘But it’ll be soon.’

  He stared at her. She looked fitter and healthier than she had for a long time. The last traces of his influence were gone. She was beyond his control.

  He didn’t like that.

  He tried the charm again, reached out his hand to
her.

  ‘Look, Janine …’

  She stepped back.

  ‘No, Alan,’ she said, fire dancing in her eyes, ‘you never touch me again. Ever. Not even one finger.’ She sighed, smoothed down the front of her blouse. Smiled at him.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d better be gettin’ back. I’ll be in touch.’

  She turned, went through the doorway, back into the office and walked off. Keenyside watched the confident swing of her hips.

  Others did too.

  Keenyside felt rage build within him, impotent anger that events were slipping beyond his control.

  His hands were shaking. He clenched the plastic cup tight, the liquid vibrating.

  He threw the cup at the wall, watched the coffee explode in angry arcs, dribble away.

  He turned, stormed off.

  Trying to find a way to bring things back under his control.

  Jamal opened his eyes. And smiled.

  Another morning in that comfortable bed. Another night of the best sleep he had ever had.

  He threw back the covers, grabbed the towelling dressing gown off the end of the bed. It was too big but that was good; he wrapped himself up in it, felt luxuriously cocooned with the feel and smell of the freshly laundered fabric against his skin.

  Safe.

  He went into the bathroom, the trace of a smile still on his lips.

  At first he had been wary. Amar appearing the way he did, smashing the john’s face in and announcing Joe Donovan had sent him … it wasn’t what he was expecting.

  He told him so while they ate their kebab together. Amar had just laughed.

  Jamal looked serious. ‘You ain’t Five-0, are you?’

  Amar shook his head. ‘Do I look like it?’

  ‘Nah, man, but you ain’t takin’ me to them, are you?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  Jamal’s face darkened. ‘You know, man. ’Cause of that thing at Father Jack’s.’

  ‘All in the past,’ said Amar. ‘He’s in custody now. Going to be charged with lots of stuff. Even murder.’

  ‘Murder? Who’d he kill?’

  ‘His boy. Si.’

  Jamal’s face changed again. He nearly said something to Amar, something he may have regretted later.

  Jamal asked how Si had been killed. Amar told him he had been beaten to death with a metal bar. Jamal’s face became pale.