by Simon Mason
Zuzana was looking at him. “This is what I think. It was all about friendship. I know what sort of boy Pyotor was. He never had a friend before. No one his own age took him seriously. No one his own age would have played that game with him. But Sajid did. Sajid liked being with him.” Her eyes were locked on Garvie’s. “For Pyotor it was all new. Think of it, Garvie. His feelings for someone outside his family, someone like him. It was a big change. Very big. It was like”—and now her eyes flicked away from him, as if suddenly embarrassed—“it was like falling in love,” she said.
They looked at different parts of the park. Her phone went and she looked at it and sighed.
“Alex. Wants to know where I am. Says he’s about to meet someone.”
Garvie skipped backward away from her and glanced all around him.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Bit of cramp.” He scanned the field anxiously.
“Alex has been acting strange,” she said. “Jealous. He thinks I go off, meet boys.”
“Yeah, well,” he said. “That’s news to me, I didn’t know that, he’s never said anything about it. He wouldn’t, it’s got nothing to do with me. Anyway, good talking, but I’ve really got to get on, so catch you later.”
“What are you doing now?” she said. Garvie was behind the climbing frame, looking around in all directions.
“Not doing anything. Nothing at all. Don’t you have to be somewhere?”
She looked at him. “And you think Pyotor was weird,” she said. Turning briskly, she walked away across the grass to the gate on Old Ditch Road at the same time Alex came into the field through the gate on Somerfield and made his way rapidly toward Garvie.
Alex said, “Who was that with you just now?”
“With me? No one, man. Just some kid.”
“Some kid?”
“Some kid’s mother. Told me to get off the merry-go-round.” Garvie held his pose of absurd nonchalance next to the climbing frame, and Alex stared at him fiercely, but before he could speak, Garvie said, “You got a problem, man.”
“I know it.”
“Yeah. But it’s not what you think it is.”
Alex hesitated. “What?”
“You want to talk to me about trust?”
“That’s right, Garv.”
“Well, I want to talk to you about trust.”
“What?” Alex stood there, confused.
Garvie said, “You’ve not been straight with me, man. You told me you weren’t seeing Blinkie.”
Alex set his jaw. “I’m not seeing Blinkie.”
He stared at Garvie through narrowed eyes; breathed heavily through his nose; began to bite his lower lip.
Garvie sighed. “Alex, mate, don’t ever get into the habit of being interrogated.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got a tell like a burglar alarm. Whenever you lie you stare at me for exactly three seconds and start chewing on your bottom lip.”
“Bullshit!” Alex stared at Garvie; began to bite his lip; put his hand up to his mouth in confusion.
“You’ve been doing it since you were nine years old, man. You’re not going to stop now. I know you’re seeing Blinkie.”
Alex’s eyes popped. He shook his head wildly. “You don’t understand.”
“What I want to know is, are you dealing again?”
“I told you, I don’t deal no more. Blinkie doesn’t deal, either. For all I know.” This time he didn’t bite his lip.
“So why’s Blinkie coming round to see you?”
There was a long pause.
“He’s not,” Alex said. Again, no lip biting.
“What’s he doing, then?”
Alex heaved a tremendous sigh. “He’s coming round to see Zuza!”
Crushing his fists into his eyes, he paced up and down on the playground tarmac, and Garvie stared at him in amazement. He laughed out loud.
“Blinkie? Now I know you’re crazy. Blinkie fell out of the ugly tree, man. He looks like a goldfish, dude, you see those glasses? He’s a mouth breather. Blinkie! Come on, man, give her some credit.”
Alex just looked grim. “He’s been coming on to her. I know he likes her.”
“Who knows what he likes? He’s so high on all that coke, his brain’s all cranked out. The point is, Zuza can’t possibly like him.”
Alex said nothing. He couldn’t, his lips were too tightly shut. He gave a big bitter shrug.
“Alex! Think about it! Where’s the attraction? Some silly dealer in a nylon tracksuit going around with a big dog on a leash like some cartoon warlord, doing stupid shit like cocaine.”
“Ex-dealer,” Alex said.
“All right. Ex-dealer. In a nylon tracksuit, going around, et cetera, et cetera. Is it the car she likes?”
“It’s not about the car.”
“Man, he’s hopeless. You know all this. You know it better than me. Don’t do it, man. You’re cocking your leg on the wrong tree.”
Alex stared at him a long time.
“It was you, Garv,” he said quietly.
Garvie started. “Me? I didn’t do anything. I’ve hardly seen her,” he added.
“You started me thinking.”
“What, about trust? You’ve got the wrong end of the sandwich, man. I just meant—”
“You asked me how well I know her. Got me thinking. I know nothing about her. It’s like we’ve just met.”
“You have just met, you idiot. You’ll get to know her. Listen, I’ve got to be honest: You’re out of line. It was the same with Chloe. Yeah, yeah, I know you don’t want to hear that. But seriously, when it comes to commitment you’re like Mr. Hundred-and-Fifty-Percent. You feel too much. Take it down a notch, man. It’s sweet, isn’t it? You told me yourself. Don’t let jealousy wreck it.”
Alex turned away with a sigh. “I don’t know why I’m asking you, anyway, Garv. It’s not like you know anything about girls. It’s just … ” Groaning, he bowed his head and put his face in his hands.
Garvie put a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey. Listen to me, pal. You can trust her, I’m sure of it. Seriously. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Except your own sanity, of course.”
Alex scowled; nodded.
Garvie’s phone rang and he looked at it; winced; cut it. A second later a text came through from his mother. Been waiting 2 hours. Get here now.
“Listen. Got to amble. Been good talking. Sort of.”
He and Alex parted at the gate to Old Ditch Road. For a moment he watched his friend going off toward Bulwarks Lane and Zuza’s flat. He thought about Alex talking to Blinkie outside her door. He thought about Zuza too. Then, deliberately, he stopped thinking about her. He turned and went the other way, toward another tricky conversation.
Location: kitchen, Flat 12 Eastwick Gardens; airless; steamed-up, claustrophobic, conducive to guilt.
Interviewer: Garvie’s mother: solid, humorless, determined.
Interviewee: Garvie Smith: pale, evasive.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: She was here. Waiting for you nearly an hour. Now she’s gone.
GARVIE SMITH: Who?
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Miss Perkins.
GARVIE SMITH: She was here? What, in our flat?
GARVIE’S MOTHER: That a surprise to you?
GARVIE SMITH: It would be a surprise to anyone. The general assumption is she goes straight back to her coffin the moment school ends.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Don’t fool with me, Garvie. She told you to go and see her in her office after your exam was over. What happened?
GARVIE SMITH [striking forehead]: She meant after the exam this afternoon?
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Garvie, I don’t want to do things slowly. You understand? She left this.
GARVIE SMITH: What is it?
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Take a look.
GARVIE SMITH: Something to do with sixth form? Looks a bit technical. Probably best if I read it in detail later.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: I�
��ll summarize for you. You need to pass five exams to stay on at school.
GARVIE SMITH: Okay, I’ll bear it in mind.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Let me be clear. Since your chat with Uncle Len you told me you want to stay on. You don’t want to get a job. You don’t like the idea of going on the dole.
GARVIE SMITH: Yeah, that’s right. I’ll stick with that.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: You have eleven exams, right?
GARVIE SMITH: Well, I never actually counted them up, but—
GARVIE’S MOTHER: You missed the regular math because of all that trouble with Chloe Dow. Since then you’ve taken five. You were ten minutes late for written French and wanted to leave early. You were late for spoken French, late for history, and late for geography, and geography you just left when you felt like it. Biology today, it seems you arrived half an hour late and wanted to leave half an hour early. What have you got to say?
GARVIE SMITH: I think you’re being a bit unfair, to be honest.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Why?
GARVIE SMITH: I didn’t leave geography when I felt like it. I felt like leaving it a lot earlier, but I stayed on out of a sense of—
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Don’t play games with me, Garvie. I’m not going to argue with you. I’m telling you: You want to stay on, you have to pass five exams. You don’t pass them, you don’t get to stay on. Do you understand? You don’t stay on at school, it’s a whole different setup. You’re out looking for an apprenticeship. You’re paying rent to me.
GARVIE SMITH: I get it. You’re not listening to me.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: I’m not listening to you because I don’t trust what you tell me! All right, let me calm down. Now, give me something worth listening to. How many exams do you think you’ve passed so far?
GARVIE SMITH: Well. Not math, obviously. I mean, I missed that one. Written French I could have passed. Maybe. You know, if the examiner gets where I was coming from. Spoken French too. Not sure about history or geog, to be honest. Really not sure. Biology, I’ve got to say, I think it’s very unlikely.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Okay, then. Let’s be cheerful and say you’ve passed two so far. You’ve got another five and you’ve got to pass three of them. One of them is that Advanced Math. Three out of five. Sound easy to you?
GARVIE SMITH: I think so.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: That’s because you don’t know how to think. My advice to you? Do some studying.
GARVIE SMITH: All right, then.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: What’s your next exam?
GARVIE SMITH: Eng lit. I can definitely pass that.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Sounds to me exactly the sort of subject you’d struggle with. Have you read any of the books?
GARVIE SMITH: You can get a lot out of a title. You know what?
GARVIE’S MOTHER: What?
GARVIE SMITH: I really wish you trusted me, just a little, just now and then.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Trust, Garvie, is just a word to you, just something you say. What I hope is, one day you don’t get a big shock when someone you trust lets you down. Okay, tell me again, when’s Eng lit?
GARVIE SMITH: Wednesday.
GARVIE’S MOTHER: And you know where it is, and what it’s about, and what you need to take with you?
GARVIE SMITH: School hall. Eng lit, unit one. One thirty p.m. You will need no other materials. Time allowed one hour. Use black ink or—
GARVIE’S MOTHER: Enough. You remember all that, okay. But what you need to remember is, if you don’t turn up it’s just harder for you to do what you yourself want. Think of that, Garvie.
Wednesday lunchtime found Garvie in Cornwallis Way at the edge of the business district. Cornwallis Way was a short, wide, semi-developed road between the new tower blocks of insurance companies and banks on one side, and old brick factories and yards on the other. It began confidently enough with a shiny new building in glass and chrome on the corner, but quickly lost its mojo in a halfhearted row of midsize concrete offices, petered out pathetically into vacant lots of cracked asphalt and weeds, and ended abruptly, with a sort of middle-fingered defiance, in the graffiti-covered wall of a long-vanished brick warehouse. The last building on the left, number 30, was the least attractive in the street, a scaled-up piece of post-industrial packaging, in ribbed concrete a shade of Old Magnolia, squatting like a space invader on splayed rough-cast legs above an underground parking lot. A row of steel anti-terrorist posts separated it from the sidewalk, and all the windows were smoked glass. Above the entrance was a fluorescent blue sign: CITY SQUAD POLICE CENTER.
Garvie had ridden down with Abdul, who’d dropped him at the corner and taken off again in nervous haste. Abdul had a healthy fear of City Squad, known for their strictness in dealing with taxi drivers’ registration papers. Garvie went under the blue sign into the lobby and told the receptionist he had an appointment to see Detective Inspector Singh.
She told him to take a seat.
He sat in the far corner between a woman and a man with a tattoo of an eerily similar-looking woman on his forearm. At the other side of the room a dealer called Bennie was sitting holding a soiled paper towel to his face. Garvie avoided eye contact; Alex had told him once Bennie didn’t like being looked at. Positioning himself in his usual horizontal slouch, hands in pockets, Garvie concentrated on the ceiling and thought about Alex. He could understand him thinking Blinkie was coming on to Zuzana: The cartoon gangsta was dangerously unplugged from reality. But Alex couldn’t possibly think that Zuzana might go for Blinkie. Alex might be the most jealous human being alive, but he wasn’t stupid. On the other hand, Garvie didn’t credit him with the cunning to use the story as a cover. It was puzzling and that was odd in itself, because generally Alex was the least puzzling person he knew. On the whole, though, he was worried. He knew that if Alex got picked up dealing again the police wouldn’t cut him any slack.
Every few minutes a constable came in to collect someone, escorting them back through the security door into the police area. The door made a swishing sound as it opened and a heavy whumph as it closed behind them. A trick and a half to get through, according to Felix. Garvie put his hands in his pockets and felt for the card and sticky-tack he’d brought with him. Then he went up and spoke to the receptionist again.
“We’re just locating him now,” she said.
“Thought he had an office.”
“Inspector Singh’s based in our squad room. But he’s in a meeting. Won’t be long.”
Garvie didn’t have long. Eng lit was due to start in an hour, and it would take him half an hour to get back to school. Back in his seat, he thought about the conversation with his mother. She was right, not that he would have admitted it to her. Passing five exams was the smart thing to do. Making the effort to pass six was obviously a gross waste of time but only passing four would be a blunder. Besides—and this was an uncomfortable fact he didn’t often confront—he didn’t actually want to upset her. He didn’t like seeing her upset. It was irrational, a bit like his thing with dogs, but he couldn’t help himself.
Bennie was collected and escorted away. The woman and man next to Garvie had long since left. Hands in pockets, he walked up and down until he came to rest by the security door. There was only one other person left in the lobby, and after a while a constable came in and escorted him into the police area too—Garvie helpfully holding open the door for them—and then Garvie was alone. He moved away from the door and went back to the receptionist.
“Can you page him or something? It’s important. And I do have an appointment.”
“I’ll try again.”
“Tell him it’s about the violin.”
“Violin?”
“It’s a musical instrument.”
She stared at him.
“Goes under the chin. If you saw it you’d recognize it.”
She turned away with a sour expression and spoke on her headset, and when she looked around again the boy must have gone back to his seat in the corner because he wa
s nowhere to be seen.
In his office Detective Inspective Dowell stood in front of the operations board in an attitude of betrayed disbelief. He had been talking about the media. There had been a report in the press about the Polish march the previous night descending into violence, the result—it was claimed—of inadequate policing; also a report about the persistent failure of the police to bring timely charges against guilty criminals; also a general report about police inefficiency.
He held up a newspaper. “How about this? School blames police for disorder.” Marsh Academy had made complaints about the disruptive effects of the police presence—at the same time as parents were demanding greater security for their children.
“Open season on law enforcement,” he said. “And why not? What have we given them?”
Apart from his breathing there was silence in the office. Uneasily they began their review of the case. There was more work to be done in every area. At the storage facility, where the murder weapon still hadn’t been located. In the black market, where guns were traded. Among the Polish community, who insisted that Magee was an active racist responsible for previous hate crimes. Their first priority, however, was the work to be done at the school. It was the result of the investigation’s one positive development. They had belatedly discovered that there was no record of any school personnel giving Pyotor extra math tutoring on Tuesday afternoons.
Collier summarized. “We’ve double-checked. No teacher at Marsh knows anything about it. But a member of the cleaning staff saw Pyotor leaving school premises late one Tuesday. We’re going through the school CCTV now. So far no sign of him anywhere inside the buildings, but twice he shows up exiting through the bottom gate. He was at school at that time, and we don’t know why. What was he doing? Was he seeing someone? It’s totally out of character for him. This could lead somewhere.”
Dowell said, “Supplementary budget’s been approved by Higher. We’re getting new men from Central to cover off the extra tasks. It’s important we push this. I want good news fast. As of now, it’s our best lead.”
