by David Thorne
‘How’s CJ doing?’
I took Kane’s mobile. He will know that it was me who did it. He knows that CJ was staying with me, with us. I took something of his, he takes something of mine. I think of CJ, small and petite, walking busily down a street, arms wrapped around herself as if protecting what pride she still holds. Think of Kane’s hand on her shoulder, her turning. His stupid smile, the idiocy he shows the world to hide the cold and deliberate cruelty just beneath the surface. CJ’s uncertainty: ‘What do you want?’
And I was not there for her. More, it was my actions that put her in the line of fire, made her a target. I pick up the photo of her mother, look down at it. Make her a silent promise that I will get her daughter back.
35
I HAVE ARRANGED to meet Halliday at the mechanic’s where he tried to shatter my hand. There is not a cloud in the sky and it is warm. I stand on the sharp stones that the owner has levelled on the ground around his outbuildings, feel them push against my soles. Like last time I was here there is no sound. High above I can see an aeroplane trailing white contrails but it is so high that I cannot hear it. As ever, before a confrontation that may prove physical, I am wound up tight and the silence that surrounds me allows me to hear the blood in my ears. I feel a buzz through my body and I acknowledge the pleasure that I am experiencing, the warm anticipation. There is a part of me which lives for violence, which misses it as a junkie does the needle. I roll my shoulders, open and clench my fingers. I can still feel the pain in the knuckle which Halliday broke. He brought this, all this, on himself.
As I expected Halliday is early, but I have been here an hour already. He will not catch me off guard. He has no idea what he is walking into. I listen to the sound of the car’s engine approaching from behind the line of sheds which house the mechanic’s business. I gave him twenty quid and told him to piss off, not to come back until it was dark. He seemed only too pleased to leave.
The engine cuts out, car doors open, close, one, two. The sound of feet, crunch of stones. I hold my breath. Feel my shoulders lift and tense. Around the corner comes Halliday. He is walking agitatedly as he always does, as if on the attack. Behind him is Kane. For the first time since I have met him he is not smiling, has parked his idiot act. Things are getting serious.
‘How fucking long,’ says Halliday, ‘does it fucking take?’ There is no dancing around with Halliday; he gets right into it, does not wait for the bell.
‘Nice to see you too,’ I say.
‘Want to be funny I’ll end you right now,’ he says. ‘You got the deeds?’
I hold up a finger: wait. ‘Kane. How’s the mouth?’
Kane does not answer, does not smile. He comes to a stop behind Halliday, watches me as you would a bull in a field you need to get across.
‘Rafiq Jahani’s dead,’ I say. ‘How’re you going to get Gabe off the hook for it?’
‘You don’t worry about that,’ says Halliday. ‘Doolan, he’ll sort it.’
‘How?’
‘How?’ Halliday nods rapidly at the ground, then looks at me. ‘Never you fucking mind how. Jesus, what have you been eating, boy?’
But I will not be hurried by this man. He may not know it, but I am in control of this exchange. I smile, frown. ‘What I don’t understand,’ I say, ‘is why you keep Kane with you. After he killed Rafiq. Why not cut him loose? He’s out of control.’
‘Fuck you,’ says Kane.
‘Out of control can come in handy,’ says Halliday. ‘When there’s people to scare the shit out of.’
‘Never thought you’d come to regret it?’
But Halliday is not a patient man and he came here for one thing only. ‘How about you stop talking and give me what I want?’
I take Kane’s phone from my pocket and show it to him. ‘Recognise this?’
Kane does; his face shows it, something fading in his eyes, a drop in his shoulders. I watch him. Realise: Halliday does not know.
‘Fuck’s that?’ says Halliday.
‘This? This is Kane’s phone. And on it, film of him stabbing Rafiq Jahani to death.’
Halliday is silent after I have told him this; I can almost feel him going through the computations and implications of it all. His eyes flick from side to side, never still. He licks his lips, clears his throat. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘See, I don’t need you to get Gabe off the hook. He’s off it already. I copied the film, left it here and there. With people.’
‘People.’
‘You should have got rid of Kane long ago. People like that, what they carry around in their heads…’ I shrug. ‘It’s going to come out.’
Halliday nods at the ground again. Kane watches me with hatred. In his gaze is more malice than I have seen any person show before. If I am honest, I find it unnerving. It does not promise violence. It promises something far, far worse, a thing on the edge of my understanding and imagination.
‘So what are we doing here?’ Halliday says.
‘I want to know what you’ve done with CJ,’ I say.
‘Who?’ says Halliday, but I am looking at Kane.
‘Where is she?’ I say.
‘No clue what you’re talking about,’ he says.
‘Yes you do,’ I say. ‘And you need to tell me. Believe me, you don’t want the alternative.’
At this, Kane does smile. He still considers me a weak man, a man of the law and civilised society. Oh, Kane.
‘Where is she?’
Kane shakes his head, throws his hands palm up. ‘The fuck are you on, man?’
‘I’ll ask one more time. You need to believe me, Kane. This isn’t going to end well for you.’
‘Have you been taking fucking drugs?’ Halliday asks me.
I put my right hand in the air. ‘Seems you won’t be told,’ I tell Kane.
I have warned Rafiq Jahani’s father that Kane is a dangerous man, told him that it will take more than one, two or even three men to put him down. They walk out of a shed to my right where they have been waiting, watching. Rafiq Jahani’s father emerges first, followed by men, four, five, six. Three stand on each side of him. To get away, back to their car, Halliday and Kane will have to go through them. That is never going to happen.
‘Who’s this?’ said Halliday, his voice rising in indignation, giving his uncertainty away.
‘Kane?’ I say. ‘Where’s CJ?’
‘I don’t fucking know, man.’ He frowns at me, does not understand why I will not get it. ‘I. Don’t. Know.’
I turn to Rafiq Jahani’s father and his men, shrug, nothing more I can do. Rafiq’s father looks as kind and gentle as the first time I met him at his car wash. But right now, I would not be in Kane and Halliday’s place. Would not want to be at his mercy. He nods to his men. They are carrying weapons; I see an axe handle, a baseball bat, blunt instruments. Three of them walk towards Kane, three of them stay back. Kane retreats a couple of paces, gets his feet right, his right foot forward, back foot planted. He watches them approach. Flexes with his knees. Gets up on his toes. Ready to go.
‘Oh son,’ says Halliday. ‘Oh dear.’ I do not know who he is addressing, me or Rafiq’s father. I do not greatly care.
Rafiq’s father’s men spread out, one facing Kane, one each side. They are all still for some moments, Kane waiting with a lazy smile on his face, back in his element.
‘Fucking waiting for?’ he says.
The three men rush him at once but Kane does not wait for them, goes for the man directly in front of him, closes the gap. The man is not expecting this and does not have time to swing his weapon, goes down under a left-right combination and Kane steps past him, turns. His speed is fantastic; my brain processes what he has done after it has happened, has to reconstruct the sequence to make sense of it.
Kane whoops, shakes his shoulders loose. Again he waits and already the two remaining men are uncertain, their confidence shaken. This was supposed to be easy. Now the odds have changed, don’t look so good.
&nb
sp; The two men close up and advance on Kane together. The smart move. Kane waits. They approach slowly then run at him, weapons already raised. Kane ducks under one, brings his head up into the man’s chin, lifts him off the ground. He is ready for the second man as he straightens but is a fraction too late. The man is already swinging and catches Kane on the temple with his baseball bat, the sound of impact clear and resonant. Kane does not go down, staggers sideways. The man takes another swing, connects with Kane’s elbow which immediately snaps, his forearm hanging uselessly. Still he does not go down. The pain must be appalling but he regroups, one hand dangling, the other up and bunched, protecting his face. He sways, waits for the man to come on. The man swings for his head and Kane leans back from the waist, slips it easily. He steps forward and with his good arm connects with a jab to the man’s temple. How is he still fighting? But it is not a clean shot and the man bends, swings once more, goes for Kane’s knee. Kane collapses on to the stones. He is conscious but he does not scream. The man hits him, twice, in the kidneys, vicious shots. He stands, looks down at Kane. We can all hear Kane’s breath, singing and whistling in his throat. He writhes like an animal killed yet still capable of spasmodic movement. It is a difficult thing to watch.
I take a step forward. ‘Kane? Listen. You need to tell me. You need to tell me where CJ is. Do you understand?’
Kane’s cheek is against the ground and he twists his neck with difficulty, looks up at me as if broken-necked. He shakes his head slowly. ‘Don’t know.’
I look down at him. It is difficult not to believe him. But at the same time, who knows what goes on in the mind of a man like Kane. I shake my head, walk away from him, past Halliday who is standing still as though, if he does not move, we may collectively forget that he is there. The three men next to Rafiq Jahani’s father join the man who brought down Kane. They surround him, each man holding a weapon, just waiting for the word. This I do not need to see.
But they do not have time to start swinging before we hear the sound of a police siren, a powerful engine, rubber tearing and spitting at the stone surface of the mechanic’s land behind the line of sheds. As I turn I see Halliday’s face, a twitch of his lips, a straightening of his back. Every man holds still. As before when Halliday and Kane arrived, I hear doors open and close, one, two. Wait for them to round the outbuildings. Seven tooled-up Kurds, one known criminal, one dubious lawyer and a bleeding man with a broken arm. A tough one to explain away.
Doolan appears first, sunglasses in place. Behind him Akram trails like a smiling, obsequious assistant, full of secrets and sleepy malevolence. Halliday snorts, shakes his head in amusement.
‘You see, son. You fucking see?’
Doolan stops at the edge of the buildings, takes in the scene. His expression does not change and behind his Ray-Bans it is impossible to tell what he is thinking. He walks towards us slowly.
‘Well,’ he says, does not say anything more. The men surrounding the fallen body of Kane all take a step back. They do not let go of their weapons. I hear Akram tut-tutting under his breath, the amused admonishment of a mother to a wayward infant. Neither of them seems disturbed by what is in front of their eyes.
‘Mr Jahani,’ says Doolan. ‘Haven’t we been in enough trouble recently?’ Without waiting for a response, he turns to me. ‘Care to explain?’
This I had not expected, and this I do not need. Two cops who Halliday has in his pocket. When I was so close.
‘About time,’ says Halliday, but I do not allow him to say anything more.
‘That man you see on the floor over there?’ I say. ‘He killed Rafiq Jahani.’
‘That right?’ says Doolan.
‘You know it is,’ I say.
Akram laughs softly. Doolan takes off his sunglasses, raises his eyebrows. ‘Not what Rafiq said. Is it?’
I take out Kane’s phone for a second time. ‘Got it on film.’
Doolan’s eyes close fractionally, a frown dimpling his meaty forehead. ‘Do what?’
‘This is Kane’s phone. He recorded it all.’
He cocks his head to one side. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. On his own phone. Got his voice. Everything.’
‘Give me that,’ Doolan says. Akram has ghosted up next to me. I turn and he is inches away.
‘Won’t help,’ I say. ‘I’ve given it to the press.’
‘Doolan,’ says Halliday, but Doolan puts up a hand.
‘Hold it.’ He looks at me. ‘Everything?’
‘Rafiq Jahani standing. Beaten to the ground. Kane tells him he’s got to stab him, tells him Halliday ordered it. Rafiq spits at him, Kane loses it. It’s all there.’
Doolan nods, looks away, pinches the bridge of his nose. I watch him. Sweat trickles down his cheek, past his ear. His short fair hair is wet with it. I can smell him, rancid and corrupt, burgers, coffee and booze, see where the sweat sticks his shirt to the flesh of his back. He nods to himself, turns back.
‘Doolan,’ Halliday says again, an edge to his voice, a master who will brook no further delay.
‘Shut up,’ says Doolan easily. ‘Don’t say another fucking word. Akram?’ He jerks his head backwards, the direction they came. Akram lifts his eyebrows in mock shock.
‘Doolan,’ Halliday says again. Desperation now.
‘We were never here,’ Doolan says to me. ‘Right?’
I nod. ‘So long as Gabe’s off the hook.’
Doolan laughs. ‘Fucking broke out of custody.’
‘We good?’
Doolan sighs, rubs a hand through his hair. It comes away wet. ‘We’re good.’
‘You fucking need me,’ says Halliday. He walks over to Doolan; Akram steps forward, puts a hand on Halliday’s chest. Halliday is breathing fast, a pulse beating in his temple, the veins in his neck raised. Akram shakes his head, chuckles.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Doolan. ‘I what?’
‘You fucking need me,’ Halliday says. ‘What’ll you do without me?’
‘Oh,’ says Doolan and rubs the top of his head again, looks away into the distance, considering. He looks back at Halliday. ‘There’ll be someone else. There always is.’
He turns and walks away. Akram takes his hand from Halliday’s chest and winks at him, smiles at me. I wonder about him, wonder what it would take to break his quiet, amused calm.
Halliday watches them round the outbuildings and we listen to the sound of the car starting up, driving away. The engine noise fades, leaving just us, and it is as if Doolan and Akram were never here.
‘All right,’ says Halliday eventually. ‘All fucking right. What do you want?’
‘Me?’ I say. ‘Nothing. This man, though,’ I nod to Rafiq Jahani’s father, ‘he wants his son back. Got any ideas?’
I do not wait for an answer. In truth I am sickened by what is unravelling, by what will inevitably play out in this place, under the high and indifferent sun. I nod to Rafiq Jahani’s father and he nods back. Halliday realises what is happening and at the same time realises that there is nothing he can do, that it is too late, far too late. He picked on the wrong man’s son. It is that simple. I walk away and even before I get to the edge of the outbuildings I wonder how long this scene will live with me, how many nights I will spend awake and wondering exactly what horrors occur next, after I am gone.
36
I DO NOT believe that Kane knew anything about CJ’s whereabouts, or what had happened to her. Regardless of the snakes in his head and the venom in his veins, there was something about the disgusted vehemence of his denial which convinced. He did not know. He did not understand my question. He was not involved. But then, where is she?
I spend the rest of the day calling hospitals, asking groups of teenagers if they know of somebody called CJ Millar, know where she might be. They look at me with suspicion, a generation of young people brought up to question an adult’s motives, to treat them with distrust. Going by the actions of many adults towards children, I cannot blame them.
<
br /> As I search for CJ other questions, unrelated, spark and die in my mind like memories of fireworks. I wonder about the Bulgarian woman I had in my car the day before, about what she told me about the blood tests for workers on the Gove estate. This thought leads me to Saskia Gove and my feelings about her. It is as if, with distance, I can think clearly about her, see her for what she is, an unpredictable and deceitful woman whose primary concern is herself. But put me beside her and I can no longer be so dispassionate; I think of the sirens of legend, of how, as soon as sailors came within earshot of their voices, they lost all sense and willpower, fell under their spell. All the more reason, I tell myself, to stay away from her.
My search brings me at last to the part of town where the Goves’ church, Our Lady Immaculate, stands. I remember Father Donald, what he told me about William Gove, how he believed that towards the end of Gove’s life, after the death of his wife, evil took hold of him. There is nobody working in the graveyard today and the graves look lonely and uncared for. I walk up the dark path between the yew trees, push the studded church door. It is open and I walk in. Inside it is the perpetual dusk of all churches, as if they only exist for that time of day when the sun sets and fears of the unknown steal in and need assuaging. The church is empty, or at least it seems to be. I turn around and look through the heavy curtains at the back where Father Donald keeps his office. It, too, is empty, but when I turn back into the church, Father Donald is walking up the centre aisle between the pews. He stops when he sees me, considers for a second or two, tries to place me.
‘Mr Connell.’
‘That’s right.’
‘How are you?’
I am not a man given to that modern phenomenon people describe as ‘sharing’. But perhaps it is the confessional nature of the church atmosphere, or perhaps it is because I believe Father Donald to be a good man. Rather than turn and leave, I say, ‘Not so good.’
