by Simon Booker
He’s seen it too.
‘Come inside,’ he says, gasping for breath. ‘I just want to talk.’
‘Like you “talked” to Kiki McNeil?’
His jaw tightens, a muscle twitches in his face.
‘Come in the fucking house!’
She squirms, but his grip is too tight.
‘Help! Help!’
Turning, she sees three figures emerging from the bungalow opposite her car. She recognises them immediately. The neighbourhood lads. The one with the gold earring quickens his pace, leaving the others to bring up the rear.
‘What the fuck, man?’ says Earring.
‘She stole my phone,’ says Jukes, still panting.
Earring looks from Morgan to Jukes, weighing up the situation. Folding his arms, he plants himself in front of the Mini, blocking the driver’s door.
‘You steal the man’s phone?’
‘No,’ says Morgan, raising her voice to make herself heard above the crying baby. ‘He’s a liar.’
‘She’s the lying bitch’ says Jukes. ‘Give it back.’
He grabs her wrist. She shakes him off. Turns to Earring.
‘See what I put up with? Lies. Bullying. Bullshit.’
‘I’m not the liar,’ says Jukes.
The baby’s cries grow louder, a stench emanating from his nappy.
‘Can’t you shut her up?’ says Gap-tooth.
‘She’s a he,’ says Morgan, her mind racing. ‘Maybe he wouldn’t be so upset if Trev didn’t hit me.’
‘What?’ says Jukes. ‘This is bollocks.’
‘I’ve had enough,’ says Morgan. She snatches her keys from the gutter. ‘I’m going to the police.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ says Earring.
Jukes smiles, tying the dressing-gown belt around his belly.
‘Took the words out of my mouth.’
‘Not her, bruv,’ says Earring. He turns to Jukes. ‘You.’
Jukes’s smile disappears.
‘I don’t even know the woman.’
‘So how come she knows your name?’ says Gap-tooth
‘Because she’s—’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
Earring takes a step forward. Jukes spreads his hands.
‘Guys, you’ve got this wrong.’
Earring ignores him. Turns to Morgan.
‘You OK?’
The baby is bawling at the top of his lungs. Morgan clasps him tightly.
‘I just need to get away from—’
‘This is bollocks—’ shouts Trev, but he breaks off as Gap-tooth’s fist makes contact with his jaw, rocking him on his feet. The third youth – Neck Tattoo – slips behind the man, holding him in an armlock.
‘Won’t tell you again,’ says Earring. He steps away from the car, tugs at the handle and opens the door. Morgan is already unclipping the harness, hoisting the baby into the rear seat.
‘This is bullshit!’ Jukes’s face is purple with rage. ‘She stole my fucking phone. And that’s not even her baby!’
Another blow from Gap-tooth, this time to the stomach. Morgan tries to ignore the scene unfolding behind her, focusing on strapping Charlie into the baby seat. Job done, she gets behind the wheel. Starts the engine. Earring reaches inside the car and stays her hand.
‘Got a kiss for me?’
Morgan meets his gaze. He grins. ‘Knight in shining armour, innit.’
She says nothing. He bends closer. Looks her in the eye.
‘Truth. He hit you?’
‘Yes.’
Earring shakes his head, then straightens up. Turns to Jukes.
‘What the fuck, man?’ He takes a step forward. Neck Tattoo and Gap-tooth follow suit, closing in on their prey.
Revving the engine, Morgan hears Jukes’s protests. She pulls the door closed, then puts her foot down. The Mini jerks forward. The baby is still crying. She steers the car along the street, heart pounding, eyes flickering to the rear-view mirror. A glimpse of raised fists as Earring and Gap-tooth lay into the man in the dressing gown. Knocking him to the ground. Kicking his legs and stomach.
Morgan averts her gaze and rounds the corner, the baby’s cries growing louder as she drives away into the night.
She can feel Jukes’s phone in her pocket, digging into her thigh.
His last call was from her quarry.
She’s sure of it.
What did Jukes say?
Call me back at one o’clock.
She checks her watch. Eleven on the dot.
She’s two hours from talking to Karl Savage.
Forty-One
KARL
Lying on his lumpy bed in The Shithole, he takes the tattered newspaper article from the pocket of his fleece and reads it, just as he has every birthday since making the mistake.
Tragic Mum Dies in Cellar Fall.
Cracked her skull on the concrete, or so the paper says. No mention of the poker. Why would there be? He’d hidden it, repositioned her body, then told everyone he’d seen her trip and tumble down the steps. An eye-witness account from a grief-stricken schoolboy mourning the loss of a second parent. A convincing performance
Especially with The Whistler backing his version of events.
Karl’s masterstroke had been to hide the poker, then remind the man that his fingerprints were on it too. In case he got ideas.
He’s never told The Whistler who the real target was, how lucky he is to be alive. What would be the point?
As for remorse, Karl doesn’t do guilt. She was a bitch. RIP. Rot in peace.
He knows where she’s buried. One day, he’ll piss on her grave. But for now he contents himself by rereading the article.
Pearl’s tragic son, Karl, was celebrating his eleventh birthday on the day the accident happened. Local Authority sources say he’s likely to be put in care.
‘Care’? More like ‘couldn’t care less’. ‘The Shithole’, that’s what the others call it. A cockroach-infested house in the worst part of town. But he’s fifteen now. This part of his life will soon be over.
And he’s put up with worse.
Much worse.
Just ask The Whistler.
When Karl becomes a dad he’ll give his kids the best start possible. Especially the boys. Boys like himself. And Guy. He thinks of the biscuit tin, still sealed with tape, still in its hidey-hole, along with the poker, waiting to be reclaimed once he gets a place of his own.
Folding the article, he slips it between the pages of his book and continues to read.
Pablo Escobar, the Robin Hood of Colombia. OK, the man created a massive narco-state. OK, he was ruthless. OK, he lived like a god and had mad stuff like a private zoo and planes and submarines and Christ know what else. But he used a lot of his money – billions – to help people. Ordinary people. That’s why thousands turned out for his funeral. That’s why they loved him. That’s why they still love him, even though he’s been dead for years. He made his mark.
Karl’s thinking of changing his name.
Pablo.
Sounds exotic. Girls would love it. Not that he needs much help in that direction.
A knock on the door. Karl ignores it. He knows who it is. The mousey girl who’s been coming to visit her brother for the last few weeks. She’s the same age as Karl – fifteen – and she’s ‘in care’ too, just not the same shithole. He’s seen the look in her eye. Knows what’s on her mind. Same as his slag of a mum used to have on hers.
They can’t do it here, of course, but there’s always somewhere. Down by the canal or behind the bins outside the café. Maybe they’ll get chips first, watch the fireworks, then wait for everyone to fuck off home.
Another knock. He calls out.
‘Wait a minute’.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the pack of condoms. Unpinning the safety pin from his fleece, he pricks three tiny holes in the plastic. It won’t bring Guy back, but it’s the next best thing, the best he can do for now.
Soon he’ll be mas
ter of his own destiny. Then he can show the world what he’s made of. Leave something to be remembered by. Something big. Something beautiful. Who cares if life turns out to be short, so long as it’s sweet?
Down in the office some middle-aged twat is listening to Radio 4. That stupid soap opera, The Archers. Same shit, same time every night.
Tum-de-dum-de-dum-de-dum, tum-de-dum-de-dah-dah . . .
Just the sound of the jaunty signature tune makes Karl feel nauseous.
It’s the tune The Whistler used to whistle. Walking around the house. Coming down to the cellar.
And after the ‘special game’.
Pearl never listened to Radio 4. The first time Karl heard the music on the radio was the day they took him into care. The tum-de-dum music made him sick. Physically sick. To this day, it makes him feel bad. Dirty. Filled with shame and rage. PTSD, or some bullshit like that. But he’s found a way to calm himself down. The trick is to think ahead. Look forward, not back. He takes the letter from his pocket. The one he rescued from her bin and taped back together. The one The Whistler wrote in red ink when he was drunk and full of self-pity.
Dear Pearl,
I didn’t mean to kill the baby. I kept telling him to shut up, but he wouldn’t. So it was his fault for crying all the fucking time. But I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Love you always.
Trevor xxx
Karl rereads the letter for the millionth time. It’s what they call a smoking gun. Something he can use in the future, to make Jukes do as he says. Not now. But one day.
A third knock.
He tucks the letter back in his pocket, next to the condoms, and gets to his feet. The jaunty music has stopped. Downstairs, the radio blares. As Karl opens the door, he returns the girl’s smile, but his thoughts are miles away.
With The Whistler.
Another of Daddy’s sayings plays inside his head.
Revenge is a dish best served cold.
Forty-Two
Entering her house, Morgan shivers. The place is cold and dank, the sitting-room window still boarded up. Turning on the lights, she fires up the heating, but it will be days before the place feels warm.
The kitchen clock shows 23.46. She’s hoping Karl won’t phone ahead of schedule. She has things to do. As for the risk of Jukes trying to contact Savage, to warn him about the stolen mobile, she’s counting on the fact that people no longer remember numbers or write them down. Lose your phone, lose your world.
Top priority is Charlie, awake but no longer crying. Morgan liberates him from the harness, then fetches the rug from the hall and places him in the middle of the kitchen floor. She keeps a watchful eye on the baby while preparing a bottle of formula and a sachet of puréed vegetables.
Fifteen fractious minutes later, Charlie is wrapped in the pink blanket, sound asleep. Morgan sets the kettle to boil, then rummages in the freezer, taking out a pack of cod fillets. She places the fish in a bowl of hot water.
Glancing out of the window, she sees a distant starburst of fireworks exploding against the night sky, followed by the sound of outraged seagulls as they take to the air, their cries echoing far and wide.
Morgan bides her time, waiting for the fish to defrost. She needs to entice the birds as close as possible.
The fish are bait.
The baby is bait.
She is bait.
She craves a cigarette but there is no time. Dialling Rook’s number, she paces the room while waiting for the call to connect.
‘Do you know what time it is?’
He sounds sleepy but sober. A TV murmurs in the background.
‘I’ve kidnapped a baby.’
‘What . . .?’
‘It’s Charlie. Kiki’s little boy.’
A pause. The TV is silenced.
‘Is this a joke?’
As if on cue, the baby wakes and starts to cry. Morgan holds the phone close to Charlie’s mouth.
‘No joke,’ she says. ‘Come and arrest me.’
The DI doesn’t sound sleepy any more.
‘Have you gone crazy?’
‘Two birds with one stone,’ says Morgan. ‘This is the only way I can get you to take me seriously and bring Karl out of hiding.’
‘How?’
‘He’s Karl’s son. Worth big money. I’m betting Karl will do anything to get him back.’
‘You’re betting?’
‘A calculated risk,’ says Morgan. ‘Get over here – but not mob-handed. Nothing to scare him off.’
‘Where are you?’
‘My place.’
‘Jesus . . . Does he know?’
‘He will. But if he thinks he’s being set up, he won’t come. Which is why I’m going to make him guess where I am. So he thinks he’s the smart one.’
She hears the jangle of Rook’s keys.
His front door opening and closing.
His footsteps on gravel.
He’s running, a breathless urgency in his voice.
‘Don’t do this, Morgan.’
She hears a fob being zapped. He’s getting into his car.
‘Morgan?’
‘Don’t tell me what to do. I’m doing it.’
She ends the call and pockets her phone. Then she walks into the kitchen, passing the now sleeping baby. She drains the water from the bowl and carries it outside. Making her way across the shingle, she heads for the old fishing boat beached two hundred yards from her door. Above her, the seagulls are circling, still unsettled by the fireworks.
Approaching the decrepit boat, she takes two fish fillets and hurls them high into the air. Then two more. They land on the beach, yards from where she’s standing. She watches the gulls swoop low over the boat. She throws the last two fish onto the shingle. Reaching for her phone, she selects the voice app and sets it to record the cacophony of shrieks as the birds land and peck at the fish. Within seconds, the size of the flock has doubled as word spreads of the unexpected feast. The tussle triggers another frenzy of ghastly shrieking. Holding her phone aloft, she watches the gulls do battle, one bird clamping a fish in its beak, digging its feet into the pebbles while resisting the tugging of another. Suddenly, the fight is over, the victor taking to the air with its prize, the loser cawing angrily as it follows into the night. Morgan heads back inside.
Charlie is still asleep.
The clock shows 00.23.
Less than an hour until he calls.
Fighting a surge of anxiety, Morgan takes Jukes’s phone from her pocket, checking the battery is charged. The status bar is half-full. Reassured, she places the phone on the table. Then she sets the kettle to boil and rummages under the sink, digging out a fleece-covered hot water bottle.
Jukes’s phone rings.
She jumps. Straightens up. Checks the screen.
Karl’s name appears.
He’s early.
Her heart is pounding, her palms clammy. She snatches the mobile from the table. Swipes a finger across the screen and holds the phone to her ear.
Karl’s voice.
‘Trev?’
She says nothing.
‘Trev?’
Her words come in a rush. She needs to make him understand before he can hang up.
‘It’s not Trev. It’s Morgan Vine. I’ve got your baby.’
A pause. His tone switches from wary to incredulous.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘I took Charlie from Stacey. I want to do a deal.’
A pause.
The phone cuts out.
‘Karl . . .?’
No response.
Shit!
She’s blown it. Scared him away. But at least the phone is unlocked. If she moves quickly, she can call him back, before the lock kicks in . . .
The phone rings again. His name flashes on screen. Maybe he hung up in a panic. Now he’s back. She answers, trying to sound calmer than she feels.
‘Talk to me, Karl.’
‘Fucking bitch.’
‘I
f you don’t want a conversation, I’m taking Charlie to the police.’
She holds her breath. Hears him lighting a cigarette.
Clink-rasp.
‘Where are you, Morgan?’
‘You expect me to answer that?’
He sucks the smoke into his lungs. She scrolls to the voice memo app on her own phone and presses play. The room fills with the sound of shrieking gulls.
‘What do you want?’ says Karl.
‘You first.’
She hears him exhale slowly.
‘A new start,’ he says. ‘To give my kids everything I never had. Isn’t that what dads do?’
‘Being a father is biology,’ says Morgan. ‘Being a dad is something else.’ The recording of the bickering gulls grows louder. She brings her mobile closer to Jukes’s phone. ‘How many children have you fathered?’
‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder.’
‘What about Jack and Karl Junior?’
A pause.
‘What about them?’
‘Did they show up for school today?’
He’s struggling to keep his tone light, but there’s no mistaking the menace in his voice.
‘Was that down to you? Are you fucking with me?’
She brings her lips closer to the phone.
‘You’re not in charge, Karl. Not any more.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To feel safe,’ says Morgan. ‘This war needs to end.’
‘War?’
‘That’s how it feels. Like you’re the enemy. Like you’re never going to surrender, never going to leave us alone. I can’t live like that. Promise you’ll leave us alone and I’ll tell you where Charlie is.’
A pause.
‘That’s what you want? A promise?’
‘That’s it.’
She can hear his mind whirring.
‘How do I know this isn’t a trap?’
‘You don’t. But if we do this right we can both have what we want.’ The recording of the gulls cuts out. ‘If you want Charlie, call me tomorrow. Deadline midday.’
She hangs up before he can answer. Her heart feels like it will burst from her chest. Did he register the sound of the gulls?
Will he take the bait?
Pulse quickening, she lifts the sleeping baby from the rug, picks up the hot water bottle, then steps out into the night.
