Candleland Page 2

  Larkin began to answer.

  “Never mind, I don’t wanna know. An’ I certainly don’t wanna hear them. Look at this lot. It’s all either Eighties indie shite, country and western, or professional miserable bastards! Mind you, that’s all the same thing really.”

  “From someone whose idea of music revolves around overweight black men boasting about their genitalia, I’ll take that as a compliment.” Larkin hated to have his musical taste called into question. “If you don’t like it, there’s the door.”

  “Touchy. Oh …” Andy smiled in surprise and took out a tape. “Don’t know how this one crept in but we’d better make the most of it.” He slipped it in the player.

  The tape led in and Angel by Massive Attack started up. Andy tapped the steering wheel in time to the repetitive bass riff. The drums thumped in, then the rest. Dark, foreboding, hypnotic. Larkin checked on Moir. He stirred slightly but kept on sleeping. Larkin doubted he’d wake up before they arrived if he’d consumed as much alcohol as the smell coming off him seemed to suggest.

  Larkin settled back, the music casting its spell on him. He checked out, mentally replaying the last few days …

  “Look at the state of that. Fucking disgrace …”

  The Baltic Flour Mills stood on the south bank of the Tyne, Gateshead side. To Larkin, it was one of the last remaining symbols of Newcastle as a bustling port, of locally built ships on the Tyne, of work and industry, of pride and optimism in the region. That era was gone, disappeared, a fading, eroding memory. The building was being converted into an arts and leisure centre to house orchestras, art galleries, the lot. Larkin had argued, strongly and loudly, that since the North East was now officially the poorest area in England, and the only growth industry was call centres, the local council should be doing something more than this gesture, which he took to be a symbolically cynical one.

  “Elitist shite,” said Larkin.

  “Yeah,” said Andy from the sofa, “I think I read something about that. Now, who was it …?” He pretended to think. “Very well argued. Very angry. Had the City Council quaking in their boots. And good lord!” Andy suddenly mock exclaimed. “If that isn’t the very author in my front room!” His voice dropped. “And if he doesn’t change his fuckin’ tune he’ll be out that window.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Larkin, turning his back on the view. He’d given up expecting reasoned debate from Andy.

  “An’ don’t go givin’ me that ‘We used to build ships, now we answer the phone’ bollocks. That dignity of labour crap. Save it for your readers.” Andy sat down. “Anyway, think about it. What would you rather do? Risk your life weldin’ steel plate thirty feet up or sit in a comfy chair and yak on all day?”

  Larkin didn’t reply. “That’s better, Sunday’s a day of rest, remember? You can take time off from the fight,” Andy said through a mouthful of toast. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Larkin had called in to see Andy a couple of hours after leaving Moir sitting on his bench, drinking himself into amnesia. In the meantime he had been walking, trying to straighten the thoughts in his head. He had guessed the reason for Moir’s summons, or at least narrowed it down to a set of possibilities on the same theme. As soon as Moir had broached the subject, Larkin knew what his answer was going to be. Moir was a friend and Larkin couldn’t let him down. But the speed with which Larkin had agreed had both surprised and confused himself.

  Andy’s flat was in an old warehouse that had been gentrified into expensive living accommodation. An open-plan space with bare brick walls and modernist furniture, his camera equipment and a huge TV and video set up dominated one corner while a minimalist CD system backed by stacked and indexed discs sat in the opposite corner next to a state-of-the-art PC setup. Walls were adorned by occasional framed photographs – all Andy’s own work. Good quality rugs were strategically placed on the polished wood floors and a select library of art and photography books were shelved to one side of the window. It wasn’t to Larkin’s taste but, he had to admit, it had more style than he would have given Andy credit for. Larkin had expected Andy’s taste to run more towards purple shagpile, waterbeds and Barry White, but he’d yet to see inside the bedroom. Maybe he should reserve final judgement until he’d seen the inner sanctum.

  Andy Brennan was Larkin’s partner, a South London gobshite and top photographer who snapped the pictures to Larkin’s words. A textbook case of opposites attracting, their personal friction sparked a great working relationship. They also had a friendship that had been tested to the full and still held strong.

  “Came round for a couple of things,” Larkin started. He stared at his coffee cup. “First, I won’t be looking at that,” he jerked his thumb towards the window, “for a while.”

  “What?” asked Andy incredulously. “You goin’ on ’oliday, then?”

  Larkin gave a grim laugh. “Not exactly. But I’ll be out of Newcastle.”

  “How long for?”

  Larkin swirled the remains of the coffee round his mug, watched the patterns. “Don’t know. Depends. Could be indefinitely.”

  “Indefinitely? Fuckin’ ’ell!” Andy shouted. “I’ve only just bought this place! I’m only ’ere ’cos you did a number on me about this town. Now you wanna piss off an’ leave me?”

  “Just listen a minute –” Larkin began.

  “What about that new bird of yours?” Andy was in full flow now. “What’s her name? Jo? She’s gonna be well over the moon. You told ’er yet?”

  “Not yet, but –”

  “For fuck’s sake, what d’you wanna jack it in now for? Look at the work you’re doin’. Look at the money you’re makin’ from it. What’s the matter with you?”

  It was true. Larkin was doing well. It had happened quite suddenly, taking him by surprise. He was writing the pieces he wanted to write – political exposés, name-and-shame stories, damning indictments of social issues – stuff that had led him to be described by one bitter rival as “the journalistic Jiminy Cricket of the North East”. He didn’t care, though, he took it as a compliment. There was a growing audience for his writing, and, amazingly, he was making good money from it.

  The business with Swanson had had a profound effect on him. There was no way it could have been otherwise. He had seen stuff – fucking awful stuff – that made him want to tell people the truth – to rage about it – and transfer that anger to others. He’d wilfully yanked his old investigative instinct out of hibernation, where he was startled to discover that it was still functioning with razor-sharp capability. That, together with his guiding lights and guardian angels of rage and truth, was the engine that drove him. He concentrated only on the things he wanted to write about – injustice, inequality, giving voice to the voiceless – but in a way that avoided the usual patronising preachiness and worthiness that went with such stories. The resultant pieces sounded like they were written by an outsider kicking in the doors of power, a One Of Us. People started to take notice.

  There was, of course, a “but” to all this, because things weren’t that simple with Larkin. Although his work was taking off, giving him a sense of handsomely rewarded vindication, there was something else inside him, gnawing away. Fear.

  “Just listen a minute, will you?” Larkin was getting agitated. This wasn’t turning out the way he’d planned it in his head. “Listen. I’m going down to London. That’s what I came to tell you. But not to live. I don’t think. I’ve been given a job to do down there and I don’t know how long it’ll take.”

  “A job? Bolland never said anythin’ to me about a job.”

  “It’s not from Bolland.”

  Andy began to quieten down. This was starting to sound interesting. “Who, then?”

  “Moir.”

  “Eh?” Andy resumed his seat.

  Larkin explained about the meeting. Andy listened in silence.

  “So,” said Andy eventually. “You’re gonna go to London with Henry, find his daughter – or try at least – and t
hen what?”

  Larkin thought of his writing. His work. And the doubts. “I don’t know, Andy. I honestly don’t know.”

  The two lapsed into silence, the coffee growing colder between them.

  “How is ’e?” Andy asked eventually.

  “Henry? Awful.” Larkin swirled the murky liquid in his mug. “Looked like he’d been up for the last week trying to get in the Guinness Book of Records for single-handedly keeping the Scottish whisky industry going.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, it’s really got to him. I’ve seen this building up for a while. He’s been carrying it around inside for too long. It’s tearing him apart.”

  Andy slowly shook his head, sighed. “You got anywhere to stay?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Any contacts down there?”

  Larkin shook his head. “Not any more.”

  Andy laughed. “You’re lucky you’ve got me to look after you, you know that? You wouldn’t last five fuckin’ minutes on your own.” He put his mug on the floor. “I’m comin’ with you.”

  Larkin did a double take. “I don’t think Moir –”

  “I don’t care.” Andy looked straight at Larkin. “You need someone who knows the ins an’ outs,” he said, his south London accent thickening up. “Someone with a place to stay. An’ one that you’ll really love, I might add. In short, you need me.”

  “Aren’t you busy at the moment?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait. When’re we goin?”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Larkin smiled. “I’ll talk to Moir first.”

  “Good,” said Andy smiling, “but I’m comin’. We’re a team, you an’ me. They can’t break up a winnin’ act like us.”

  “That’s what they said about the Spice Girls.” Larkin looked at his mug. “Any chance of a refill? This is cold.”

  “No chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s Sunday lunchtime, the hangover’s gone and the pubs are open. An’ whether you think you belong here or not, that’s where we’re goin’.”

  They didn’t get far from Andy’s quayside flat, round the corner to the Crown Pasada. They had made their way through the anoraked hordes thronging the quayside, searching vainly through stalls chocca with cheap imports, looking for the Holy Grail of bargains, knowing it didn’t exist, but enjoying the process because it filled in the day’s hours.

  The Crown was a poky little pub, unwilling and unlikely to attract the Sunday strollers. Dark wooden booths gave it the feel of a Catholic confessional. Tobacco-stained walls and a high ceiling lent it an almost grave formality.

  “Well,” said Andy, as they installed themselves and their pints in a booth, “this is all a bit sudden, ain’t it?”

  Larkin nodded absently in reply.

  Andy frowned. “So what made you drop everythin’ and up sticks just ’cos Henry asked you to?”

  “He’s a mate,” Larkin replied quickly. “He needs help.”

  “So you, who haven’t lived in London for years, or spoken to anyone from there in years, go runnin’? Yeah right.” Andy leaned forward. “What’s the real deal?”

  Larkin started to speak, but hesitated. Andy’s perception could still surprise him. He sighed. “I don’t know, Andy. I’ve been having … doubts.”

  Andy took a mouthful of beer and sat back, listening, settled in for a long haul. “Yeah?” he offered.

  “Yeah,” said Larkin, a difficult look on his face. “Not the actual work itself, that’s fine. No, just what comes with it.” He took a swig of beer. “I’m unhappy about that.”

  Andy laughed. “What you on about? That’s nothin’ new, you’re always fuckin’ miserable. You can make Radiohead sound like Ken Dodd, you can mate.”

  Larkin managed a smile. “Piss off, Andy.” His face became serious. “No, I think I know what it is. And I think maybe that’s why I said yes to Moir so quickly.” He took another mouthful and said nothing.

  Andy looked at him. “You gonna tell me then, or you gonna be a man of mystery still?”

  Larkin smiled, slightly. “I’m scared, Andy. That’s all it is. Scared of success.”

  Andy sat back, nodded. He knew where this was leading.

  “Last time my work made waves I lost Sophie and Joe. I’m just worried history will repeat itself.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” replied Andy, “but it’s different this time. You’re goin’ in with your eyes open. Older an’ wiser, mate.”

  Larkin gave a weak smile. “I know, but once you start thinking these things, it’s a bugger to stop.”

  “So how d’you think goin’ to London is gonna help?”

  “I don’t know, Andy. I mean, I want to help Moir, but I think I’ve still got some ghosts down there. Maybe I can finally lay them to rest and get on with things up here.” He straightened his back, looked around. “Anyway,” he said, aiming for levity, “It’s nothing to worry about. Something for me to sort out myself. But not now.” He picked up his pint, drank deep. “Let’s talk about something else. You’ve got better things to do than sit here all day listening to a miserable twat like me moaning on.”

  “You’re right,” said Andy. “I do.”

  They both smiled, and started to talk: work, music, football, films – subjects that can seem inconsequential and superficial, but in reality are shared experiences, affirmations of connection. Larkin was glad of the conversation. Eventually, though, they then lapsed into silence, just drinking. Eventually Andy spoke.

  “You reckon we’ll find ’er?” he asked, his voice solemn.

  “Truth?” Larkin replied. “I doubt it. Not in a city the size of London. Not if she doesn’t want to be found. That’s if she’s still –” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  “Yeah,” said Andy sadly, mentally finishing it for him. “Poor Henry.”

  “Aye,” said Larkin, “I can’t see a happy ending to this one.”

  Tying up and casting off. That’s what the next two days had involved for Larkin. He informed Jo that he was going to London indefinitely. She took the news stoically. They’d met when she had taken Larkin home one night after he’d found himself on an accidental solo bender in the pub where she worked. It wasn’t a deep relationship, and they both knew it never would be. It was based on mutual physical need. Sex and virtually nothing more. She was almost as emotionally scarred as he was and told him she didn’t want commitment either. He had chosen to believe her.

  Telling her had been easy. He imagined she’d heard similar before. She even offered him one last fuck – for friendship, for old times’ sake. He refused. As he walked away he’d felt guilty at the way he’d just used her to fill the gaps in his life, but comforted himself with the thought that she said she’d been doing the same thing. But he also felt a twist of self-disgust, because he knew he’d really wanted to take her up on her offer.

  After that it had been Bolland’s turn for a visit. The boss of the news agency Larkin freelanced for sat impassively while Larkin explained where he and Andy were going. When he asked how long Larkin was planning on being away, the only answer he received was a shrug. Bolland got the picture. He told Larkin that if he didn’t hurry back, there might not be a job for him at all. Larkin nodded and left.

  He was ready to leave Newcastle.

  Teardrops, the third track, was just coming to an end. Larkin shifted in his seat and looked out of the window. There was a power station somewhere at the bottom of Yorkshire, and since his first trip to London by road Larkin had regarded that as the border between North and South.

  Its huge towers belched noxious smoke that enveloped you in a toxic cloud. He had taken that to be symbolic: the North gripping you in its clutches, throwing up a forcefield from which you had to break free if you wanted to progress with your journey.

  Larkin had always thought that but now, as he stared out at bare fields, barren hedges and denuded trees, all rendered bleak by the unrelenting stranglehold of late winter, f
lowing past the car like some looped cinematic back projection, he realised he didn’t know whether they’d passed it or not. He didn’t know if he was North, South or wherever. He hadn’t a clue where he was.

  Arrival

  By the time they’d reached south London the city had hit Larkin with the force of a baseball bat. The years fell away quickly and he began to pick up the vibe of the place once again, his body tingling as he re-attuned himself to the sounds, the rhythms. Elegant, angular cadences; the gritty poetry of the streets. It was a city like no other and he had to admit he was, just at that moment, excited to be back.

  He knew the euphoria would soon wear off, though, and he would begin to see the city as it really was. Just a huge, pounding heart. Neither good nor bad, just raw, alive, throbbing. Unfortunately its arteries were currently blocked. The roads were gridlocked – cars moving only occasionally and sluggishly like mud down a bankside in the rain. The pavements were equally gridlocked – pedestrians internalising their rage, struggling to hold on to their own space. Larkin remembered that people didn’t walk in London, they engaged in a perambulatory turf war measured in millimetres. Newcastle, although a busy, bustling city in its own right, still had the feel of a market town compared to this. Welcome back, Larkin. Whatever you wanted to make of it.

  Andy, who came down to London more regularly than Larkin, was unfazed by being back. He drove like a native son, throwing the car down sidestreets and rat-runs as if he was still intent on proving his local knowledge to the other two, showing off driving skills he seemed to have learned from Seventies cop shows. The perfect London driver.

  “Careful,” said Larkin as Andy had just narrowly won a game of chicken with an oncoming Mondeo down a double-parked street in Kennington. “This is my new car, remember.”

  “Don’t worry mate,” said Andy, his road concentration up to video game standard, “all the time I’ve been driving in London I’ve never had an accident.”

  “No,” replied Larkin, “but I bet you’ve seen plenty.”