by Jay Stringer
She read my thoughts. “It’s been a crazy evening.”
“Yeah. I got burned, you know.”
“So we noticed. You would not believe the chaos you’ve caused.”
“Try me.”
“About half a dozen different race-hate groups have gathered at the flats. It’s like Mecca for them right now.” She smiled at her own joke. “And of course that means national press and cameras outside all the local police stations. Practically every person in uniform has been drafted in, including riot units in case the violence escalates. They’re taking no chances after the last time. Becker’s unit has been locked away for three hours, going over data, and the council is in an emergency meeting because this is on them.”
“National media, huh?”
“You’re a star again.”
“Human trafficking is hip, right?”
She nodded. “You have no idea. The press love the sexy side of it, the prostitutes, but now they’re having to talk about people who are brought in to undercut the minimum wage. You just forced their hand on that. There’s talk of a task force. Tony Turnbull, a couple of other senior guys. We’re going to have to run with this.”
There was tension in her voice, like this was her defensive position; she’d already had several arguments about it, I could tell.
“You’re not going to help her? Get them released?”
“How would I do that? This thing is above me now.”
“What’s the deal between you and Gaines?”
This was the first time we’d discussed it openly, without hiding behind niceties. She smiled and looked down at her feet for a second. “It’s complicated,” she said. “How about you?”
“Complicated.”
She led me to a private meeting room, one of those places where doctors break bad news to families; I’d only ever seen them on TV. It was a medium-sized room, with padded chairs arranged in a loose circle and a table in the center piled with old magazines. The walls were painted neutral beige and covered with posters advertising help lines and counseling services.
We sat next to each other in an awkward silence. I smiled at her a couple times, thinking of a time when it would have been natural to touch her knee or squeeze her hand. The truth was, that felt like another lifetime.
“It’s a shitstorm,” she said. “On just about every level. The immigrants. The arsonists. The good news is your guy broke about an hour ago. One of the girls came forward. She goes out with the rapist’s brother, from the looks of things.”
Rakeela. Good for her.
“How about Salma? Connolly?”
“Well, the old man’s not new to this. I’ve read his file. I’m sure he’ll survive just fine. Salma’s in the shit. She’s already lost her job, and she won’t get reputable media work again. Don’t know yet if she’ll face official charges. That all depends on how big this thing goes.”
“Has Noah dropped by?”
“I haven’t seen him. Why wasn’t he with you at the fire?”
I ignored her question. “I have something I need to talk to him about.” Then I added, “Are you okay?”
“Me?” She looked at me for a moment. “Oh, you mean my job? Yeah, chances are I’ll probably get another boost out of all this, to be honest. Just need to know how to play it. How about you?”
“I got burned, you know.”
She smiled and nudged me. “No, I mean, with the cops. You told them anything?” I shook my head, and she said, “You’ll be fine. They’re going to lean on you hard because you look like the weak link. Rosie’s too scary to them, with all her legal talk and media connections. Bull will take a long time to turn over. But you? Wounded, isolated? You sure you’ll be okay?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Just play innocent, and they’ll have to let you go.”
She touched my knee. She squeezed my hand.
FORTY
The police let Rosie out quickly, just as Laura had said they would. I didn’t get off so lucky. Not only did they see me as a dirty gyppo, they also saw me as a traitor because I’d once worn the uniform. To round out their opinion of me, they knew damn well that I worked for Gaines and that I’d lied to them about the stabbing five months before.
Most of the questions were coming from a fresh promotion, Detective Sergeant Murray. He looked young and hungry, and he was clearly trying to impress whoever was going to listen to the recording. Maybe he was playing for a position on the task force.
They had nothing to put on me, and they knew it. So, I’d been in the fire. So had the firemen, and they weren’t under arrest. I was released, finally, with lots of harsh words about watching my step.
Yeah, right.
I didn’t look for Rosie when I was released, though it wouldn’t have been hard to follow the media trail. And I didn’t check in on Mum. I headed home. I sat on my empty sofa in my empty flat and got reacquainted with my stash of pills. I had enough that I didn’t have to worry about getting more. Yet.
I didn’t dare look in a mirror.
I filled the room with sound by switching on the television. I scanned through until I found the BBC news channel. They talked about an earthquake in some place I’d never heard of, and an election in some place I probably should have recognized, and then the announcer starting talking about something familiar: a scandal about a group of illegal immigrants that involved arson and riots. The buzzwords were people trafficking and white slavery.
The news showed Rosie giving a speech to a crowd of journalists in front of the hospital. She was talking with a fire to her voice that I’d not heard before. Behind her, I could see some of her suited legal friends, and for me, it drained any meaning out of her words. It was show business. Saving the world in front of an audience.
The newsreader gave a tidy transition line and cut to a speech given by Rick Marshall at a PCP rally that had clearly been hastily convened. He talked about the fire and immigration. He claimed that his party would stamp out the businesses that helped smuggle illegals into the country, and that the crime organizations involved would be prosecuted. He also denounced the violence. He confirmed that he believed fringe elements of his party had been involved, and he stated that the Community would stop at nothing to bring these people to justice. He talked with his hands and with a firm voice. He looked every inch the vote-winning leader. He’d played me to perfection.
The news skipped on to the next story. Something to do with a celebrity getting drunk at a nightclub. No mention was made of a man being charged with serial sexual assault. I switched off the TV and threw the remote across the room. We’d been wrong. What was worse was that Mike had been right. Nobody cared. We’d done so much dancing around so that the victims wouldn’t have to face the press, but it wasn’t a news story.
I stood up and headed into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. On the countertop was an unopened bottle of Jim Beam with an envelope leaning against it. The envelope had Channy’s initials on it. Inside was the cheapest, blandest get-well card I had ever seen. Inside the card were two tickets to the Ned’s Atomic Dustbin gig I’d wanted to go to. I threw the card in the bin; I didn’t even want to look at his initials. I stared at the bottle for a long time, and I could feel the taste of it. But I didn’t crack it open.
I hid from the bottle by taking a shower. The last couple days dropped away as the hot water hit me, and I managed to forget about everything for just a moment. I was dragged back to reality by a violent coughing fit.
As I was getting dressed, the door buzzer rang. I pressed the intercom, and Gaines announced herself.
At least she wasn’t breaking in this time.
While I waited for her to get up the stairs I wrote a text message saying Gaines was at my flat, and I sent it just as she knocked on my door. She was wearing a tight T-shirt under a casual blazer and dark jeans. Even dressed down, she still looked better than me in a suit.
She smiled, and I felt something that I couldn’t place, and then I invited her in
.
On the way to the living room, I saw that she noticed the unopened whiskey bottle in the kitchen—she let it go without comment. I asked if she wanted a tea or coffee, and she asked for a glass of water.
After handing her the drink, I sat beside her. Up close I could see a little worry in her face, a few creases that I hadn’t noticed before. Come to think of it, most times I saw her were in the dimly lit club.
“Sorry to hear about Bull,” I said.
She nodded a little. Then she said, “And I’m sorry to hear about your mum. How is she doing?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“They’re coming for me.” She smiled at me, but it was a putting-on-a-brave-face kind of smile. “Bull knows too much. They’ll be coming for the club soon.”
“Legs? That’s off-limits. The cops like it too much.”
“It used to be, yes, but things are changing. The police are going to need results fast now, and they know the easiest way to round up illegals is to bust the club. Their stats will go through the roof.”
“Are you worried about Channy?”
She didn’t answer, but I saw something in her eyes, a flicker of something I’d not seen before. Vulnerability. “He’ll make a move,” she said. Then she blinked and it was gone. “But he’s tried before, too.”
“Is this where you tell me I fucked up?”
“No.”
“It’s not where you say that I should have let you deal with Mike? Or that a lot of people are being sacked or deported because I couldn’t deal with a guilty conscience?”
“No.”
I looked up at her, and she smiled. Her niceness was getting scary. “I’m just here to make the same offer as before. Come and work with me, properly. With Bull on the ropes, I need someone I can trust.”
Me?
“Oh, come on. You’ve got an army to call on. Just call up the next guy in line.”
“You know how to stay alive in this business? You find three, maybe four people you really trust, and then you stick with them. We go way back. You’re practically family.”
I flashed to images of that party when I was a child. The little girl who was sent to play with me and Noah. Little more than a toddler, constantly following us.
“Speaking of which.” She produced a folded sheet of paper from inside her jacket and placed it on the coffee table in front of us. “Noah. He came to me tonight, asking for help. He told me what he’d done, all of it.” I winced, and she caught it. “And he’s drinking. He’s in a bad way.”
“And you helped him?”
I broke into another coughing fit. My lungs burned and rattled, and I pulled out a handkerchief in time to catch the black stuff that came up. Gaines just waited for me to finish before she answered.
“I’m helping both of you. Like I said—family.” She nodded at the paper. “That’s where you can find him. Whether you want to or not is up to you.”
She stood up, and I followed after her, holding down a cough. At the door she touched my arm. “I mean it, Eoin. I need your help. Work for me, with me.”
I said I’d think about it, and she smiled again. A more open smile, like I was finally seeing Veronica Gaines without her guard up. My chest did something it hadn’t done in a long time, and this time I placed what I was feeling.
Oh shit.
I closed the door and leaned against it, feeling a crawling in my guts. I fought back a coughing fit. I heard the confrontation outside. Threats. Loud voices. I heard someone get hit, and Gaines called my name. Then I heard laughter and the squeal of tires as a car sped away.
I stood in the hallway, fighting to figure out what I felt. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I knew who it was, but I didn’t pick up, hoping reality would go away if I didn’t read the text. A few minutes later the phone buzzed with a reminder that I had an unread message, and I caved. It was from Channy, and it was two words.
“Got her.”
FORTY‐ONE
The evening air was crisp in the city. The fans were starting to make their way to the Ned’s gig from the local pubs and restaurants. Most were already under the influence of alcohol. A few were trying to recapture their youth under the influence of drugs. It was a crowd of middle-aged accountants and civil servants in combat boots and rock T-shirts, out to dance the night away, oblivious to whatever changes their lives had taken in the past twenty years. There’s nothing quite so dangerous as getting caught in the mosh pit with men who don’t realize that they weigh a lot more than they used to.
I was watching them walk past from a spot near the church, listening to the songs and the jokes. More than anything, I wanted to go with them. I wanted to feel at home in that crowd and let the evening take me away. I had the tickets in my pocket. I wanted them to weigh me down. I wanted them to burn a hole in my clothes, anything to show what cost they’d come at.
They just felt like tickets.
In my other pocket was the piece of paper Gaines had given me. I’d read it a couple of times, so I knew exactly where Noah was. But what good would it do? I took a few steps toward the venue and tried filling my head with the lyrics, recalling my favorite songs and the way they screeched from the band’s dual attack of bass guitars. Hearing this live music would make me a teenager again for a couple hours. I’d be able to forget all the mistakes and the lies, all the violence and stupidity.
I wanted to go to the gig.
I wanted to go to the gig.
I turned and walked in the other direction.
The city center is an island, cut off from the surrounding buildings and homes by the ring road; it’s three lanes of traffic in either direction, and they form a moat of concrete. Some nights that feels like enough to shut out the whole world.
I wished that was how it felt tonight. But it wasn’t. So I crossed back to the rest of the world, heading to the train station on the other side of the ring road, crossing away from the city center by a bridge. On the way, several groups of middle-aged men in baggy jeans and rock T-shirts walked past me in the opposite direction. Their footsteps sounded cruel, as if taunting me to turn around and go with them.
At the station, I checked the details Gaines had given me. Noah was going to be on the 8:00 p.m. train to Glasgow. I checked the departure board, and it told me the train was leaving from Platform 2. I walked through the lobby and out onto the first platform without a ticket check. The station had never been big on security. I stayed in the shadow cast by a pillar and looked across to Platform 2.
Noah was slumped in a seat. He was wearing new clothes and had a brand-new suitcase beside him. I thought back to what Gaines had said.
I’m helping both of you. Like I said—family.
Ouch.
He was drunk. Even from this distance, that was clear. He had the poise of someone trying very hard to look sober, someone trying to see the world around him through steady eyes. I turned toward the stairs that would take me over to his platform, but something held me back. Just as I couldn’t force myself to go to the gig, I couldn’t work up the desire to talk to my brother.
I leaned back against the pillar and thought through how our conversation would go. We’d both avoid the fact that he was off the wagon. We’d both probably avoid talking about Mum. It’s the way of things with us.
“How much did Kyng pay you?” I’d ask.
He might deny it. “What do you mean?” Or he might just shrug.
“Did he offer to wipe the debt? Is that it?”
Again a shrug. By this time, the booze would be annoying me. I might lose my temper.
“He offers to wipe the debt and you betray everything you believe in? Your family?”
He’d get angry in return. “When I saw you there, I ran away. I didn’t know you were going to be there. I swear, I didn’t know—”
“That you would be putting your mum in hospital again? She’s still there, you know. She hasn’t woken up.”
Maybe he’d cry. I didn’t think I could take that.
&n
bsp; “I didn’t know. It was just a threat, you know? Get people out of the building, move them along.”
“Just like what always happened to us?”
If I were lucky, he wouldn’t ask how often I’d visited my mother before he’d put her in hospital. I didn’t want to lose any of my moral high ground. Maybe he’d turn away from me. Maybe I’d say I never wanted to see him again. Or I’d threaten to turn him in.
The Noah in my head came back with one final jab, and it was a shot straight to my gut. “It’s what we do, though, isn’t it? We let people down.”
Ouch.
Connolly’s voice crept in, telling me to make peace with who I am. I felt a sense of calm at the thought. There it was. I’d caught a sense of purpose. I knew where I wanted to be. Where I needed to be.
As I turned to leave I saw the lights of a train approaching, and the loudspeaker announced the Glasgow train was now arriving at the platform. Noah stood up with his suitcase and wobbled toward the edge of the platform. I saw him looking down at the rails, and for a second, I thought he was going to fall forward. He looked up and locked eyes with me and stood straighter. We stared at each other until the train pulled in and blocked him from view.
When the train pulled away, he was gone.
Flames rise around the corners.
Dancing red and yellow. They roar like a lion. It hurts my ears.
I’m four years old. This is the first time I’ve seen my family burned out of our home.
I cling onto my mother’s arm with both hands. I’m scared, but I can’t take my eyes away from the flames.
From inside the caravan comes blackness. A living cloud that follows the flames out and chokes the air around it.
It spreads toward us. I bury my face in my mother’s side, but my father pulls me to stand with my brother. He points us toward the flames.
“Remember this,” he says. “Na bister.”
Other families gather round. Some of their homes are also burning. Those who haven’t been burned out are packing up. Getting ready to move on. Again.
My mother wraps me in a blanket and sings to me. The other women who travel with us sing traditional songs, songs of our people. My mother’s songs are different, and she saves them just for me. In a few years I’ll understand why her songs are different from the rest.
