Darkness Falls

by David Mark

  Tony spends a lot of time here. Enjoys many a quiet evening, when Gillian’s gone home and he’s got the place to himself: the chance to pan for gold in isolation. That’s how it had been that day. When he yanked the file from the wall. Early Eighties. H through M. Skimmed dreary stories and speed-read through slow news days. And then saw the headline. The eyes. And then the name.

  He wonders why it brings him such comfort. Wonders why he takes such pleasure in knowing what his friend had once been. What he’d done. What it had cost him.

  He reads the story again, although he could recite it from memory. Savours every adjective. Rolls every “horrific” and “bloodbath” around the mouth of his mind. Stares into the child’s eyes and feels the connection. The spark. Sees something on the dark pupils, some spark of flame, some flicker of colour, that he finds at once alluring and familiar.

  “That’s never…”

  Tony spins in his chair. Young Tom is standing behind him, brow furrowed, mouth slightly open, wet hair plastered to his pale face. “Is that…?”

  Tony’s arms embrace the cluster of documents and hold them to his chest. His heart is racing. How did the little fucker sneak up on him like that? How much did he see? What does he know? He’s my story. He’s mine.

  “Tone, you were miles away…”

  Tony tries to put a smile on his face, to pretend that he’s been startled. Tries to laugh it off. He fails. His face betrays him. There’s a fury in his eyes, something territorial and animal.

  “Why are you down here?” His voice is dry paper.

  “What? Oh, one of the subs reckoned he recognised a name from this kiddy-fiddler trial that starts tomorrow and the database was down so I popped in on the off-chance Gillian was still here. You were miles away. Anything good?”

  Again, the attempt at a smile. He wants to force his face into a knowing smirk, to tap his nose with his forefinger and imply he’s onto something big. But his hands are so tightly clenched around the folder, he can’t seem to let go.

  “I think she’s gone,” he croaks. “Must have forgotten to lock up.”

  “Yeah,” says Tom, distantly, his eyes on the folder clutched to his chest.

  “I’ve got what I came for anyway,” says Tony, standing awkwardly, still holding the papers.

  He knows, thinks Tony. Fuck, he saw.

  “After you,” says Tom, backing away.

  Tony’s knees are weak as he walks back between the filing cabinets, Tom a shadow at his shoulder.

  “You leaving that?” asks Tom, all innocence, nodding at the folder. “Sacking offence to take them out, remember.”

  Tony does manage a smile, now. “I think they’ll make allowances.”

  “Best not risk it.”

  For a moment, they stand there at the doorway, eyes locked, a battle of wills. Then Tom looks away. “Hear no evil, see no evil,” he says, brightly.

  “Good lad,” says Tony. “You’ll go far.”

  A pause.

  A whisper.

  One stinking foot on each path at the crossroads.

  A gulp, and a smile.

  And then, because somewhere inside him he knows that it will open a door that he would never have opened on his own, he reaches up and puts the folder on top of the nearest pile.

  He feels like he’s abandoning a child.

  Tony walks back into the corridor, pupils expanding in the blackness. He’s shaking. He listens for Tom’s feet behind him on the linoleum floor, but hears nothing save the sound of rustling paper.

  “You silly, silly bastard,” he says, under his breath.

  Turns the corridor and stops, leaning against the wall, eyes closed and chest heaving.

  A wrinkle of his nose.

  A Hamlet in his hand, placed to cold, wet lips.

  Eyes aflame as he sucks on the burning cigar.

  A shake of the head. Fears and doubts and second thoughts expelled in a plume of grey.

  Decision made.

  “Owen. You poor mad bastard.”

  36

  Later.

  Me.

  Steps from home.

  Scared and angry and desperate to do harm.

  Through the big front door that faces onto the park and the theatre. Wincing, as if in pain, as the memories hit me like sharp stones.

  I’m remembering. Jess and me looking out of our bedroom window at the crowds of theatre-goers on opera night; Jess looking at the pretty dresses and telling me which outfits didn’t work. Me, impressing her with stories about Puccini and Bizet. Telling her the plots of Carmen and Madame Butterfly. Quoting lines that had managed to take lodgings in the soup of my head. Telling her love is a gypsy child who knows no laws. Her eyes sparkling like frost, and my hands on the cold, fragile bones of her hips. Promising to take her some day. Promising myself I would work up the enthusiasm to do so. Knowing she would cry when I did. So many tears, in one girl. Sometimes I feared she was melting from the inside out. Happy or sad, but still the same tears.

  Nausea licking my throat.

  Down the corridor to my left, and through the door. Up the stairs. One at a time, and each step heavy.

  Remembering the day when we moved in. Trying to get a three-seater sofa up these fucking stairs. Dad and me, trying to pivot it around the curve. Unscrewing the feet to get it through the doors. Solving problems, together. We’d let him help because it made him feel good. It was a Dad thing. A father and son thing. Sweat and toil, and greasy muck on our forearms and back. Treated him to a sweet and sour chicken at the Chinese on Cottingham Road as a thank you. It was an escape for him. A night away from Mam. A night where he didn’t have to look at the creature in the striped pyjamas and dressing gown, evaporating before him. The lump beneath the bedclothes getting smaller, as the shark in her tit devoured her. Dark shadows beneath her eyes. Veins snaking over her skin like tree roots, pulling her under the earth. Eating tinned fruit from a plastic spoon and Dad’s hands. And Dad, giving it all so willingly, caring for her with such tenderness and fire. Strong. Still proud, despite the fall we’d all taken. Proud to still call her his wife, and me his son. Get her through it, then start on Kerry. Get round to me in the end. That was his plan. And now she’s dead. And Kerry’s dying in bite-size portions. And I’m a murderer. And Dad’s lonely and small in a flat in Scarborough. Tying flies for a fishing trip he’ll never take. Framing pictures, swapping frames, trying to find an outline that makes his family sparkle the way it used to. Before I did what I did.

  Watching my feet, counting my steps. There’s coffee stains on the blue-grey carpet. Adverts for yoga and Pilates on the noticeboard at the bend in the staircase. A sign from the caretaker, asking people not to smoke in the communal areas as there had been several holes burned in the carpet recently. Badly spelled, but heartfelt. Unlikely to mean much to the lawyers and teachers, the reporters and consultants, who believe, quite rightly, that £660 a month entitles you to shit in the fucking hallway should you feel the urge.

  Open the door to my floor with a kick, and stomp on.

  Everything slows. I can smell burning hair.

  Seven, six, five…

  My door opens inwards, and a figure steps out.

  And I find myself smiling. Trying to make friends.

  Tracksuit. Beard. Glasses. Scowl.

  Gun held in a hand that could crush a baby’s head.

  Doing as I’m told. Stepping into my flat. Stepping out of myself.

  Hearing the door close behind me with a click.

  37

  “Sir… sir, please, just a moment… look, have you seen this? The juvenile record? This is important, sir. Please, just listen, I’m not telling you how to do your job but this must be worth your time…”

  Doug Roper smiles at his eager sergeant, holding the manila file, eyes wide with excitement and clothes damp from his quick run through the rain.

  “I’m on it, sunbeam,” says Roper, softly. “You’d be surprised how long this department managed to cope before yo
u arrived. I thought I was pretty specific about what I wanted you to spend your time on…”

  McAvoy seems too worked up to stop himself. He blunders on, clutching the folder like a shield.

  “It was just a feeling, sir. I saw the report about the Vauxhall in the car park, and I know a mechanic from my rugby club, sir, and I gave him a bell and asked him who I would call to find out if anybody has ordered spare parts from this area for a Vauxhall in the past twelve months, and I worked the computer, and a name comes up that I recognise and I started digging sir, and well…”

  “Good work, sergeant. But we’re way ahead of you.”

  “We’ve got to have him in,” says McAvoy, standing there in his brown suit and white shirt and dull tie and ginger side-parting. Sensible shoes and a cheap watch.

  “I appreciate your enthusiasm, sergeant,” says Roper, leaning against the wall of the police interview room in the depths of the court building. He’s just about out of patience with the new lad. Just about ready to feed him to the wolves. “Enthusiasm is a real asset. So is knowing how to read the signs. Look into my eyes, you big daft bastard. Read the fucking signs.”

  McAvoy arrived moments ago, panting and out of breath, ready to shoot his load and asked for a moment of his time. Roper, a bit sick of Flora trying to film him without him being prepared for it, was happy to step out of the police quarters of the court building and into a discreet advocates’ interview room.

  McAvoy stops. Takes a breath. Up close, he really is a hell of a size, though Roper has no doubt that he could put him on his backside and keep him there. He’s taken down bigger.

  McAvoy holds his gaze. Narrows his eyes. “Did you know about this? About his past?” There might be something accusing in his voice. Doug doesn’t care either way.

  “I know everything, son. Now you just leave it to me.”

  “But people could be in danger! He drives an old Vauxhall. His sister was girlfriend to one of the victims! The murder weapon’s still missing. Have you seen the psychiatric report? Even the Butterworth case has some gaps he might be able to plug. We have to have him in!”

  “The Butterworth case is solved.”

  “With respect, sir, I’ve been worrying about some aspects of this for some time. I didn’t want to speak up until I was sure but there are so many grey areas…”

  “I spoke to Owen last night. It’s in hand.”

  “Sir, I have to formally protest…”

  “Protest away, son. But keep your fucking mouth shut.”

  He stands there for a minute, cheeks opening and closing like gills, torn between making a fuss and doing what he’s told.

  Then he turns away, dropping the file on the padded chair next to Roper. “Sorry sir,” he mumbles. “Just enthusiastic.”

  “You’ll go far,” says Roper, smiling.

  38

  Shove in the back, and into the living room. Ducking as I do so to avoid the gleaming Samurai sword that’s still embedded in the doorframe. I’m suddenly embarrassed about the state of the place.

  There’s a man in a suit on my sofa, drinking an orange and cranberry J2O. It’s a good, chocolate-brown suit, but I can’t tell if he wears it well, because he’s sitting down, with one leg on the floor, and one stretched out on the cushions. He’s wearing a shoulder holster, over a grey shirt. No tie. Delicate gold chain on his neck, with a medallion of some kind. He’s maybe forty. Large, wide face and a slightly flattened nose. Three days’ stubble. Scar in his eyebrow. Smiling.

  A silver gun on the cushion next to him. A copy of the Daily Express in his lap. Seems a bit right wing for the Eastern Bloc, but I don’t like to pre-judge.

  And there’s my sister. Kerry. Not moving; pancaked on the hardwood floor. Skinny legs poking out the end of my coat. One sleeve rolled up. Eyes half-closed, mouth wide open. Lying on her front, but twisted, so she’s looking at the door. Reminds me of a dead pigeon that’s been left by a cat as a treat for its owner.

  She’s breathing heavily. But breathing nonetheless.

  “You write this?” he asks, brandishing the paper. His accent is thick. Russian-sounding. He’s the man from the phone call.

  I’m looking at him, then back at Kerry, and hearing the big man from the hallway breathe behind me, and I’m feeling as if I’ve spent an hour in a dentist’s waiting room, grumbling about the delay, and then been told I’m definitely next, and suddenly don’t want to be.

  “What?”

  “You write this?” he asks, again, infinitely patient.

  I start to babble, my thoughts a swirl, my fingers shaking. “Oh, the Express? They carried it, have they? Haven’t seen it yet. Probably used some of my copy, yeah.”

  He nods. Looks again at the page 15 lead, illustrated with a picture of poor, smiling Ella. “Sounds a nasty bastard,” he says, with some authority. “Killing a young girl in her wedding dress. I have daughters. They mean everything to me. There should be no trial for this man. They should let the girl’s father in a room with him. Cut his head off one day at a time. See how long it takes. You have seen this man. This Cadbury? Does he seem like a murderer? Like a man capable of this?”

  I force myself to look at him. To get a hold of myself.

  “I see a lot of murderers,” I say, softly. “They all look capable of it, because when you look at them for the first time, you’ve already been told they’re a murder suspect. It changes your perception. It plants a seed in your head. That’s why pictures of paedophiles always look like pictures of paedophiles.”

  He nods. Pulls a face that suggests he’s interested. He puts the newspaper down, and then places his bottle on top of it, so as not to leave a ring on the floor. Then he stands up. He’s a little taller than me, but there’s a paunch, a faint middle-aged spread across the middle. He wears his belt tight to cover it, but I can tell the buckle will imprint on his flesh, and that he goes to sleep at night with Levi’s written backwards on his gut.

  He steps forward and extends his hand. The gun is still behind him, near the broken TV. The newspaper award, the giant Pegasus, has been pulled out of the wreckage and is sitting on the floor by the kitchen, next to my bedroom door.

  “My name is Petruso.”

  A thousand witty retorts line up in my mind, but I just say: “Owen”, and shake his hand.

  He nods. Sighs. Gives me a look that suggests this is all out of his control, and looks over my shoulder at the bearded bear behind me. He gives a nod.

  A fist slams into my right kidney.

  I’ve never felt pain like it. I cry out, and all the air leaves my body in a rush. I’m already falling to one knee as another blow connects with my left shoulder. There’s noise like somebody chopping through steak on a wooden block, and I’m done. Falling onto the floor. Wanting to roll into a ball, but I can’t seem to get my legs up. Everything is tingling. I’m numb, but it still hurts.

  The bear rolls me onto my back with his trainer. He’s got a face on him like he’s just been sick in his mouth.

  And it’s all about to come my way.

  He pushes the trainer up under my jaw and stands on my Adam’s apple. I’m gasping and gagging, struggling without strength; a puppy trying to swim up a waterfall. He’s putting on just enough pressure to make it hurt, to render me useless. He’s done it before.

  Suddenly I don’t care how I look. I don’t give a shit that I’m losing the fight, or looking a fucking mug, or failing to help my sister. I don’t remember the gun. Jess. The reasons why I am here.

  The pressure eases for a moment, and his colossal fist slams into my chest. I half expect it to go straight through, to skewer me to the floor. I imagine his frustration as he tries to stand up and finds his progress impeded by a dead reporter on his wrist.

  I’m clutching at my chest, coughing, snottering, as his hands go through my pockets. It only takes a moment, and I feel the gun being pulled firmly from my waistband.

  Through the haze and the tears, I see him throw the gun across the room and I t
urn my head to follow its path. Petruso catches it, and looks at the handle. He slides out the clip and counts the bullets. He looks down at me, flapping on the floor like a goldfish on dry land.

  The hands are on me again and I’m dragged into a sitting position, propped against the sofa. I feel the skin on my back shredding as I’m pulled over the broken glass and dented picture frames.

  I’ve got my eyes shut. Screwed up tight. Too witless to be scared. Too overwhelmed to get angry.

  Petruso is in front of me, crouching down. His face is inches from mine, and I can smell cigarettes and fruit juice, and see the specks of whatever he had for lunch between his bottom teeth. I can smell the damp on his jacket from the rainstorm outside. I can see the dark beneath his eyes, faint lines in his forehead that will become wrinkles when he speaks.

  He takes a handful of my hair and points my face at where Kerry lies.

  “This is your sister, yes?”

  I nod and let my head loll onto my chest. I leave it there.

  “That is a yes? Good, we have the right girl. It must pain you to see what she is. I think that perhaps she was a pretty girl, once. I think that perhaps, she was a clever, good girl. But the drugs, Mr Lee. They get inside you and they stay there, and they devour you, change you, rot you and make you ugly. I have seen it. I have seen strong, powerful men, transformed into frail old women by the shit they stick in their veins. It is a shame for many. But it is not a shame for me, or for the man who enables people like Kerry to take her daily rocket to outer space. It makes him rich. Makes me rich. I am not as rich as Mr Petrovsky, but I am still young.”

  Petruso stops himself after he says the name. I half expect him to genuflect. It’s as if he’s said the Lord’s Prayer backwards in church and doesn’t want to turn round in case God and the devil are about to hit him with a double clothesline.