The Sinner

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Then do it.’

  Sheridan stared at him.

  ‘Do it,’ said Tom. ‘Stand up, walk to the office, flash your badge, tell them who you are, who I am and that this operation’s been compromised. There’ll be a bit of complaining on their part but they’ll let us go. They have to.’ Tom stared at him, unblinking.

  Sheridan tried to return the stare. Couldn’t. He sighed. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why not. I’d be disobeying orders. I’d—’

  ‘We’ve gone way beyond that.’

  ‘I can’t do it.’ Sheridan’s voice began to creep up in volume and shrillness. ‘I’m sorry. I want to. If it was up to me I would. But I can’t. You know the way these things work.’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘So you’ll know that I can’t just stop it now. I don’t have the authority.’

  Tom stared. Deciding what to say next. Sheridan said nothing. Had nothing more to say.

  ‘You know why I was so good?’ Tom said at length. Sheridan didn’t reply. ‘At what I did. Working undercover. You know why? Because I knew when to dig in. And I knew when to get out. And my handlers respected that. They let me run things my way. Trusted me.’ Tom leaned forwards. ‘Trust. That’s the main thing. That’s why I was successful. Because I had trust from my handlers. They knew I was the one on the ground, risking my life. They knew I would do the best damn job I could. Get results. And they trusted me to do it. But they also trusted me when I said I had to be pulled out. If I said a job was going wrong and to get me out, I was out within hours. And that’s the difference here. Trust. That’s what these kinds of operations are fuelled on. And I’m getting fuck all of that from you.’

  The words hung in the air. Time dragged, prison slow. Eventually Sheridan spoke.

  ‘Like I said, I want you out of here. Right now. But I’ve been overruled. And there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’

  ‘I know. And I wish I could do something more.’

  ‘Then do something more.’

  ‘I can’t just walk out of here with you. You know that.’

  ‘Then go and talk to your superiors. Tell them I need to get out. Not that it would be a good idea, not perhaps, tell them I need to get out. Or I will be killed. Tell them that. Then get me out of here. Straight away. Do it now.’

  ‘I will. I promise. But . . .’

  ‘No buts. Get me out of here. I’ll try and look after myself until that can happen. But make it quick.’

  ‘What are you going to do? How will you protect yourself?’

  Tom thought of Darren. Of the scarred man who had stared at him. At the danger he was now in. An idea entered his mind. A stupid, desperate idea that might not even work. But he had nothing better. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘Just go to your boss and get me out.’

  Sheridan nodded, then stopped. Like something had just occurred to him. Something unpleasant.

  ‘What?’ said Tom, picking up on it. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No, I . . .’

  ‘What? Something’s going on. You’ve just thought of something.’

  ‘No . . . leave that to me. I have just thought of something. Let me sort it.’

  Tom stared at him once again. Trying to appraise Sheridan, work him out. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Sheridan?’

  ‘Like what?’ Sheridan seemed suddenly shifty.

  Tom wasn’t going to trust his answers. ‘I don’t know. But something’s just occurred to you. And you’re not going to tell me.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Even if you think it’s nothing, tell me.’

  ‘If you can get a confession out of Cunningham that would be great. Your ticket out of here straight away.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s not going to happen overnight. Just get me out.’

  ‘I will,’ said Sheridan, resolve in his voice.

  Sheridan stood up. ‘I have to go. Please trust me. I’m working to get you out of here. In the meantime, do what you have to do to survive.’

  ‘I always do.’

  *

  The officer escorted Sheridan out, another took Tom back to his wing.

  No one tried to stop him, assault him, impede him on the journey.

  Back on the wing he checked his watch. Dinner in a couple of hours.

  Then he could put his plan into action.

  23

  Tom spent the rest of the afternoon banged up by choice. He had long missed lunch by the time his meeting with Sheridan had ended so he was given a cold coagulated mess on a tray to eat. It remained uneaten. He no longer had an appetite. Cunningham was off the wing, so he remained in his cell alone.

  He couldn’t read, saw only words dancing on the page, couldn’t watch TV, saw only mouths moving but nonsense coming out. Couldn’t do anything. Except go over the conversation he had just had with Sheridan, then think about what he was planning to do.

  It was a ridiculous, stupid plan. And worst of all, it might not even save him. But it was that or nothing. And nothing would definitely get him killed. Whereas this could buy him a little time. Then it was down to Sheridan.

  He was starting to warm towards the detective. He didn’t think that would have been possible after their first meeting. Sheridan had been cold, arrogant. But that mask had slipped to reveal a conscientious copper trying to do his job as best he could.

  Further thoughts were cut short by the sound of the key in the lock. The door opened.

  ‘Dinnertime,’ said an officer, walking away before the word was out of his mouth.

  Tom stood up. Took a deep breath, exhaled. Another. Exhaled. Ready.

  He stepped outside. The walkway of his upstairs cell was narrow, the metal steps downstairs to the food queue clanging and clattering with the footsteps of inmates all moving at once. He looked around, tried to catch sight of the person he wanted. Couldn’t see him.

  ‘Hello.’ Suddenly Cunningham was by his side. Smiling.

  ‘Hey,’ said Tom, continuing to scan the wing.

  Cunningham smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking about things.’

  Tom didn’t reply.

  ‘I’ve been to see the psychologist this afternoon.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Distracted, eyes on the crowd.

  ‘And she says I should open up more. I told her about the night terrors, like you said I should.’

  Had he? He couldn’t remember.

  ‘And she said I should talk to you about them. Especially if you’re there to share them. I told her you’d been a friend.’

  The word still jarred, even though Tom had used it first. ‘Right.’

  ‘Yes.’ Cunningham was nodding earnestly, the smile still on his face. ‘A friend. My friend. Because you stopped me getting hurt. And you helped me during the night. And we talked. Remember?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So she said—’

  Tom was aware of a movement on the walkway above him. He looked up. There was the scarred man once more. Smiling the way he had that morning. But now he was joined by someone else.

  Dean Foley.

  As Tom stared, Foley cocked his finger and thumb, made a gun. Fired. Laughed.

  Tom looked round, mind moving quickly. Message received and understood. He was in danger. Immediate danger. He needed to do something about it if he wanted to stay alive.

  He looked again at Cunningham. The man had been about to say something. Might it be about the bodies? Could Tom risk it? And what would he do if it was? How would he get the information to Sheridan then?

  Then he saw his target. Looked between the two men below, the two above, making his mind up on the spot. ‘Just a minute,’ he said and walked off.

  Clive was lining up along with the rest of the men returning from the carpentry workshop. Tom pushed in alongside him.

  ‘Oi,’ came a voice from behind, a huge threat implied for such a small word.

  To
m turned. ‘Won’t be a minute. Just want a word with my mate here.’

  Clive’s eyes darted round the room like a swallow trapped in a barn.

  ‘Don’t I, Clive?’

  ‘We got nothing more to say.’

  ‘We were in the middle of a conversation, weren’t we? When I was dragged away. Now what were we talking about?’ Tom pretended to think. ‘Oh yes. You were telling me I didn’t have a clue what was going on. Isn’t that right, Clive? Yeah?’

  Clive looked round once more. If he expected someone to come to his aid he was going to be disappointed. Others were curious about what was happening, but not enough to intervene.

  ‘So tell me, then,’ continued Tom. ‘Tell me what I don’t understand.’

  ‘There’s nothing.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Clive. Don’t be like that. You’ve gone all shy. Come on. Tell me.’ Tom put his arm round Clive’s shoulders, began to squeeze.

  ‘Get off me. I’ll call one of the screws over. I will.’

  ‘Do it,’ said Tom. ‘Because I really don’t care anymore. I’ve had enough of this place, of your shit. You think you’re protected? We’ll see.’

  Clive turned to him, tried to squirm out of his grip. ‘I am protected. But you’re not.’ That sick little smile again. ‘Your days are numbered, mate. Numbered.’

  ‘I know that. And I’ve got nothing to lose. Nothing at all. So if I’m going down, you’re coming with me, Clive. Now tell me. What’s going on in here? And why are you involved?’

  ‘Oh, that’s the thing that really annoys you, isn’t it? You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m doing here. You’re so used to having everything your own way, having every angle thought out that you can’t take it when that doesn’t happen, when someone pulls one over on you. You hate it, don’t you?’

  Tom was really beginning to get angry now. He no longer bothered to hide it. ‘Then tell me. Enlighten me.’

  ‘Enlighten you? Oh, la di fuckin’ dah. Enlighten you.’ Clive laughed. Heads began to turn.

  Tom felt his face redden with anger. He knew how this conversation was going to end but at least he could try to get something from it. He made one last attempt. ‘Just tell me, Clive. What’s going on. You’ve got nothing to lose. Just tell me.’ Hoping that his raised voice was one of anger not begging.

  Clive just giggled. Then, with a quick lick of lips, he stopped. Thought. And spoke. ‘How’s your niece, Mick? How’s Hayley doing?’

  Clive stood back, pleased with his retort. Even more pleased with Tom’s reaction.

  Tom staggered back as though he had been punched in the heart. Staring all the while at Clive who kept giggling, a small, frightened man enjoying his moment.

  He cocked his fingers into a gun, pointed. ‘Hayley,’ he mouthed.

  And Tom lost it.

  Part Two

  ISOLATED

  Manchester, 2014

  Later that same evening, long into the night

  Foley was finally alone.

  The holding cell in the police station looked and felt exactly the same as it had when the teenage Dean Foley had been repeatedly banged up for finishing too many conversations with his fists. And for starting them that way too. He thought he had come too far to be back but clearly that wasn’t the case. And he would have at least the rest of the night to decide how he felt about that.

  His high-priced brief had been and gone. Arriving with his usual anger and arrogance, throwing profanities and threats around the interview room like grenades, telling the detectives they would just get up and walk out, that they had nothing. His usual tactics, but this time they didn’t work. They just stared at him, watched the show. This noted, he shifted his approach. Argued his case, Clarence Darrowed himself through every loophole. Like the well-paid legal whore he was, thought Foley, he tangoed nimbly round every tenuous legal definition, contorted himself into every possible position to dazzle them. Nothing. He didn’t scare them anymore. They had Foley bang to rights. His brief was a sideshow distraction. He could huff and puff as much as he liked, no way was he blowing their house down. Once he realised that he checked Foley was being looked after to the letter of the law and left.

  No joy catching the eyes of his payroll boys and girls either. They wouldn’t look at him, speak to him, from which he drew two conclusions. Firstly, they didn’t want to give themselves away, secondly and most importantly, he was fucked and they weren’t going down with him.

  So, back in the cell, belt, shoes, watch, money, everything gone. Stripped of his assets. No special privileges. Alone. With only his thoughts for company.

  Get used to the solitude, Mick had said through the flap in the door as he’d passed by earlier, you’re going to have plenty of it.

  He had shouted in return, given a full rundown on what he would do to him once he got out of here – and he would be getting out of here – then what he would do to his family and . . . But Mick was long gone by then. So Foley, spent and exhausted, slumped back down on the bench.

  Now he had time to think. Plenty of time to think.

  Mick Eccleston. Betrayed by Mick Fucking Eccleston. Betrayed.

  ‘Betrayed . . .’

  The word sounded overly dramatic spoken aloud. Like Shakespeare or Game of Thrones or EastEnders or something. But it was the right one. The only one. Betrayal. And by someone he trusted. No, not someone – the person he trusted more than anyone else. The one person he believed would never betray him. It was unreal. Like his life had skipped the rails and he was in some upside-down dream world. He wanted to wake up, for everything to go back to normal again. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Betrayed by a man he had come to regard as a brother. Again, that sounded dramatic but it was true. His own brother – his real one – was long since gone. Spirited away into foster homes and adoption, where their father couldn’t get at him anymore.

  Dean had gone into foster care too, separated from his brother, because it hadn’t been determined whether he had helped his father with the abuse or been trying to prevent it. But Dean didn’t want to live in foster homes. Or with his father. So he set out on his own.

  His mother had left when he was little. Well, not left, because he could never remember her being there much. Just kind of drifted away. He could remember her smell: dead flower perfume and economy gin. Her taste, when she pushed her face up against his and gave him a great slobbery kiss: sweat, hardened powder and thick cheap lipstick. He would always rub it away when she had gone. Remove any mark of her, open the door of any room she had been in to get rid of the fumes. She was always going out, always looking for something his father could never provide, she said. One night she went out and didn’t come back. Nine-year-old Dean felt plenty of conflicting things about his mother. When she disappeared he just felt relieved, but mostly because his dad had told him that’s what he should feel.

  ‘Gone off with a fancy man,’ said his dad at first. That changed over the years to, ‘Gone to live in Spain’, ‘Went to see her sister and never came back’, ‘Just didn’t want to know us no more’. It wasn’t until years later that Foley realised his father had been interviewed repeatedly by the police about his mother’s disappearance. Sweated for as long as they could legally hold him. Assaulted with telephone directories and rubber pipe in places that hurt but didn’t scar. Then let go, only to be brought in again and again, whenever they thought they could turn the screws on him. She never turned up. Dead or alive. Being able to prove nothing, they eventually, reluctantly, left his father alone to get on with his life.

  ‘Never trust the police, son,’ his bitter father’s bitter mantra. ‘They’re a bunch of cunts.’

  Young Dean took those words to heart.

  His father had plenty of other words for Dean too.

  ‘You’re fucking nothing. You’ll always be fucking nothing.’

  ‘Best part of you dribbled down your mother’s leg.’

  ‘Should have drowned you at birth.’

/>   Years later, Dean had driven his Bentley to his father’s house to show him what he had made of himself. His father wouldn’t let him in. ‘You’re still a fucking nobody. Always will be.’ Slammed the door on him.

  He was the only man Foley couldn’t hurt. So he hurt everyone else instead.

  Dean Foley was an angry kid. He made that work for him. Eventually he learned how to channel it and became an effective, angry man.

  His empire was quickly built. And he needed a right-hand man.

  Enter Mick Eccleston.

  Mick was perfect. Hard when he had to be, clever when he had to be. Deaf, blind and dumb when he had to be. He became the brother Dean had lost.

  They did everything together. Everything. And now this. That’s why it hurt so much. More than he could show. He had never had a meaningful relationship with a woman. Sometimes he saw one who made him feel things he couldn’t articulate, connected on some lizard level. Put images in his mind of what he wanted to do to her body. So he would. And sometimes pay her afterwards. But nothing more than that. Nothing that would get in the way of his work. Or his relationship with Mick.

  He thought of what he had said earlier. About shooting someone in a Deansgate bar and getting away with it. About digging more than one grave for revenge. About what Mick had done to him. About what he would do to him as a result of that.

  And he thought.

  And he thought.

  And he thought.

  And when the morning arrived and the officer opened the door for his hearing and looked at him, both of them pretended not to notice the tears.

  24

  Lila stirred her coffee, stared ahead at nothing. Morning in the refectory-cum-coffee shop on Truro College campus and she was taking a break from her classes. Alone. As usual.

  She crumbled her double chocolate muffin into pieces, popped one in her mouth. The campus was still busy this close to Christmas, local day students on pre-degree courses, just like she was doing, reluctant to say goodbye to their friends and go home. Degree students still doing the rounds of Christmas parties before they disappeared. Lila was apart from all that.