The Mercy Seat Page 2

  Horns honked, vehicles swerved. He slapped the bonnet of an Astra, salmon-jumping to avoid having his feet crushed, hurting his hand as he did so: he caused a bus to abruptly halt with an angry hiss of air brakes and a hail of abuse from the driver. But he wouldn’t let go of his silver treasure.

  He jumped, dodged, ran. A computer game character come to life. He reached the other side sweating and coughing. His pursuer wouldn’t have followed him. Couldn’t have. No way. He was safe. He looked back at the opposite side of the road, ready to shout a triumphant insult and disappear.

  The taunt died on his lips. His pursuer was striding through the traffic in an unwavering line, causing vehicles to brake and swerve, ignoring them like they weren’t there, like he was still on the pavement.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ said Jamal and ran.

  He jostled and dodged, the pavement heavy with weary commuters pouring into King’s Cross, Euston and St Pancras, filling up underground and overground, waiting to be deposited back in suburbia. The citizen world was an alien one for Jamal, always had been. One he didn’t understand, couldn’t relate to. And now here he was, hoping to blend in among them. Wrap that world around him like a child in a blanket.

  No chance. He knew his pursuer was as much a citizen as he was. Knew both of them would stand out in a crowd. The only way the crowd might save him, he thought, was if the man chasing him was too afraid of doing anything bad when there were people watching.

  He took another look around. The man was barging through the throng of travellers as if they didn’t exist. Pile-driving his way towards his prey, zeroing in on Jamal like a heat-seeking missile.

  Jamal sped, dodged, weaved. He feigned joining the crowds heading underground, peeled off left at the final minute. Ran towards the entrance of King’s Cross mainline station, through the doors. He sprinted across the concourse, bobbing and ducking around swift-moving commuters and slower-moving, bag-heavy, board-studying long-distance travellers, feet slapping and slipping on the polished floor. Up ahead, a long-distance train had pulled in to a platform, was disgorging its passengers. On the shared platform next to it, another mainline train was taking on passengers. Jamal ran at the crowd, hoping the hither-thither flux of bodies would conceal him.

  He danced up the platform, hid behind pillars, crouched aside weary luggage-laden trolley pushers. He looked around for the station police, who, whenever he didn’t want them, were always there to move him on, threaten him with arrest or just verbally abuse him. He thought fast, prioritized, traded off lesser evils in his mind, half developed a desperate idea of turning himself in to them for protection, even causing a disturbance to get arrested, just to get away from his pursuer. He scanned and scoped: no uniforms to be seen. Typical. Mentally scratch that one.

  Up the platform, bobbing and weaving, ducking and diving. A zigzagging, moving target. He didn’t dare look around.

  He reached the engine of the train, ran out of crowd to hide in.

  ‘Shit,’ he said aloud, gasping for breath.

  He looked down the platform. He could make out a disturbance by the barrier. He knew who that would be. Slight hope rose within him. He had the advantage. He looked around again, assessed his options. His heart pumped extra adrenalin around his system. He looked around again. And jumped from the platform.

  Being careful not to step on the rails in case they were electrified – because a kid in his children’s home had died doing that on the underground – he moved gingerly but quickly, crunching on the soot-blackened stones, across to the train on the next platform. He gripped the concrete edge and pulled himself on to it.

  He stood up, ignoring the dirt on his hands and clothes, and looked down the length of the train. Doors were closing, whistles preparing to be blown. Thinking fast, he ran to one of the open doors and jumped inside the train. There came a loud thump as the door was slammed shut behind him.

  Jamal stood in the corridor, breathing heavily, body shaking, the sliding inner door opening and closing as he came within the ambit of its sensor. A voice over the speakers welcomed him aboard. Told him what time he was due to arrive at wherever he was going. Thanked him for travelling and advised anyone not wishing to travel to leave. Jamal didn’t listen. Heard only his own rasping breathing. Another whistle. The train began to move. Jamal moved over to the right, looked out of the window. On the next platform along he could see his pursuer standing there, looking around. Anger emanated from him, the waves penetrating the train’s hull, reaching Jamal. He pulled his face away in case he was spotted, then slowly inched round for another look. The man wasn’t looking in his direction.

  The train pulled out of the station.

  Jamal had done it. He had escaped.

  He looked down the length of the train. Passengers were storing luggage, finding seats, excusing themselves to others. Jamal was going to join them. But first he had to go to the toilet.

  He wanted to throw up.

  * * *

  Jamal sat in his seat and stared out of the window. Concrete and brick had given way to countryside, which gave way to darkness, which left Jamal staring at himself. He looked away. Opposite him was a suited businessman, hair disappearing in exchange for an expanding stomach. He busied himself with papers and reports, made ostentatious, self-aggrandizing calls on his mobile, sat with the air of a man who believed himself to be a hero. Occasionally he would cast glances at Jamal, glances that began slyly then became knowing, finally working their way towards anticipatory. Jamal understood what they signified. He made a living from interpreting such looks.

  He decided to ignore the suit, cast his mind back instead over the last few hours.

  Nothing had given him an indication of what was to come.

  He had been working his usual corner, the top of Crestfield Street, and just gearing up for his busiest time, rush hour. He was feeling fine about himself: he’d scored a couple of rocks in Burger King an hour previously, heard of an upcoming rave later that night and had managed to keep his Nikes box white for another day longer.

  He saw his first punter. Middleaged, well dressed and so flushed he seemed to be having a heart attack. He moved slowly, nervously edging forward. Building up courage with each furtive footstep. A new one, not one of the regulars. Jamal knew how to handle him: carefully, like a bird he wanted to catch then eat. Gain its trust then pounce.

  Jamal smiled at the man, winked. The man sweated even more. Up close, his face was cratered and pockmarked, his skin unlovable and unkissable. Jamal switched his body language to open, relaxed. Encouraged the man to make the first move.

  ‘Are you …’ The soon-to-be-punter gagged, cleared his throat.

  Jamal waited.

  ‘Are you working?’

  Jamal was. He explained the rules – cash upfront and the punter pays for the room – and the price list. The red man nodded quickly, desperately, agreeing to anything.

  Jamal walked to the Dolce Vita Hotel on Birkenhead Street, the man following eagerly behind. Once inside, he gave the nod to the fat old Greek sitting behind the glass mesh partition in what he claimed was the foyer but was in actuality a rattily carpeted, foul-smelling corridor decorated with brown patches on the walls and ceiling.

  The red man paid for the room with trembling fingers, then followed Jamal up to the first floor. Once inside, Jamal asked for the money. The man handed it over. Jamal pocketed it, began unbuttoning his jeans and the punter asked the question Jamal had been waiting for:

  ‘Huh – how old are you?’

  The first few times he had heard that he had answered with the truth. But it wasn’t what they had always wanted to hear. So he had started to ask them how old they thought he was. Now, he was so used to it he reckoned he could tell how old each punter wanted him to be.

  ‘Twelve,’ he said, losing two and a half years from his real age.

  It seemed to be the right answer. The punter smiled, eyes glazed with a cloudy dreaminess, and began to hurriedly strip.

  Later, b
usiness concluded, Jamal was washing himself off in the sink when he heard whispered footsteps behind him. He turned sharply. The red man, his contrasting fat, white little body now thankfully covered by clothes, was standing right behind him.

  ‘Jesus, you gave me a shock,’ said Jamal.

  ‘Sorry.’ The man kept his eyes fixed on Jamal’s chest and shoulders. ‘You’re beautiful …’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jamal, turning away, ‘I am.’

  The punter was still there. ‘Look, can I … can I see you again?’

  Jamal smiled. Either one extreme or the other. ‘Sure,’ he said, back still turned. ‘I’m here every day. Same spot. Same time.’

  ‘No,’ stammered the punter, ‘I meant … can I … see you …’

  He reached out a hand to touch Jamal’s cheek. Jamal saw it in the mirror, swatted it away, unable to hide the look of distaste on his face.

  ‘Don’t touch me, man,’ he said.

  The punter recoiled as if he had been slapped.

  Jamal hated it when they did that. When they tried to be close. He accepted the fact that they had to touch him when he was working, but even then he kept it down to a minimum. He hated to be touched by anyone. Especially them. He wished he had so much money he never had to be touched by one of them again.

  ‘Keep it business,’ said Jamal, hiding what he really wanted to say. ‘Now go, before they charge you another hour for the room.’

  The punter hurriedly left.

  Jamal looked in the mirror, checked that his hair looked good. It did.

  He had been making a living from the street for over a year. He had grown up in a succession of care homes and foster homes ever since his mother had walked with him into Social Services in Tottenham one day when he was six and walked out without him.

  He had never known his father but knew he was responsible for the black mix in his skin. He imagined his father an African chieftain, passing his noble warrior blood down along with his skin colour. He had told this to his mother, and she had never contradicted him on it. His mother had never mentioned his father to him at all.

  One more pat of his hair, one more admiring glance at his Avirex leather, one last check to see there were no remnants of that tearful, snot-nosed scared little six-year-old looking back at him and he was ready to go.

  He pulled the door closed behind him and began to move down the hall towards the stairs. As he went he tried the door handles of the other rooms. He always did. Occasionally he had been lucky; found a wallet stuffed with cash and cards or a watch and some jewellery left on a chest of drawers within easy reach and the owner too busy to notice. If anyone saw him or called him on it, he would front it, tell them he had booked the room and could they get a move on?

  Usually it yielded nothing and had just become a habit.

  But not today.

  Pushing down on the handle of room seven, he found it open.

  Jamal stopped walking, looked around. No one in the hall. He listened. No noise coming from the room. Cocky teenage adrenalin surged through his body. He smiled to himself, slowly pushed open the door.

  And there, within easy reach on the chest of drawers, was a minidisc plus headphones.

  Solid gold, thought Jamal.

  He reached for it, rapidly calculating how many hits and highs he could get from it once he had fenced it on, when the door swung open further. And Jamal stopped, his arm extended in midair.

  It must have been only a few seconds that he stood there for, but it felt like hours. Eventually he recovered from the shock, turned and, minidisc in hand, left the room.

  And ran.

  * * *

  ‘Tickets, please.’

  Jamal looked up, startled out of his reverie. A uniformed inspector entered the carriage carrying a ticket machine over his shoulder.

  ‘Anyone not bearing a valid ticket will be asked to pay a full-price standard single.’

  He spoke the words like a weary mantra.

  Jamal looked up. Other travellers were delving into their pockets, their luggage, bringing out various-sized tickets, holding them aloft. He was angry with himself for not considering this eventuality. Usually he would hide or run or be ready to mouth off. But this time his mind was elsewhere.

  He thrust his hand into his jeans pocket, brought out a mess of crumpled bills. He plundered his other pockets, began stacking a rough mountain of notes and coins on the table before him. His day’s earnings, minus the burger, coke and rocks he’d bought in Burger King.

  The inspector approached him. An apparition in purple and blue nylon. He looked down at Jamal, held out an expectant, yet not too optimistic, hand.

  ‘Ticketplease.’ Said as all one word.

  ‘Where’s this train goin’?’

  ‘Newcastle.’

  Meant nothing to Jamal. Was that in Scotland? Scotland was good. Miles from London. Safe. Jamal nodded.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. There.’

  The ticket inspector, whose gold plastic badge proclaimed his name as Garry and his job title as Customer Service Manager, sighed.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m goin’ to have to charge you full fare, sir.’

  Jamal shrugged.

  Garry didn’t look sorry. He began to punch buttons on his machine.

  ‘Eighty-eight pounds, please.’

  ‘Child,’ said Jamal.

  Garry gave a patronizing smile. Course you are. ‘Eighty-eight pounds.’

  ‘Stitchin’ me up? Yeah? Well, I—’

  ‘Look, sir,’ said Garry, cutting him off and straining civility through his teeth, ‘take it up with customer—’

  ‘Perhaps I could take care of the young man’s ticket?’

  They both stopped arguing, looked for the source of the voice. The businessman sitting opposite Jamal was smiling, opening his wallet.

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘No problem.’ Another suited smile.

  Garry sighed. He knew what was going on, decided not to get involved. ‘How far’s he going?’

  The suit looked at Jamal, smiled. ‘All the way.’

  Garry tiredly punched numbers, swiped the suit’s card. Presented the ticket. Business transacted, he walked on.

  ‘Ticketsplease …’

  Jamal looked at the businessman, at the ticket lying on the table between them. He couldn’t bring himself to thank him so he nodded. He began counting out notes, ready to hand them over.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said the suit. He leaned forward and gave a lascivious, dominant smile. ‘We’ll come to some arrangement.’

  Jamal emptied his eyes, his face, of emotion. Stared across the table.

  ‘Oh come on,’ said the suit. ‘I got your number as soon as you sat next to me. I should know that look by now.’ His voice dropped. ‘I’m in Newcastle on business for a few days. Got a hotel room. Want to share it with me?’

  Jamal stared.

  ‘Hit a couple of clubs, maybe a restaurant …’ He shrugged. Then snaked a hand across the table, picked up Jamal’s ticket.

  ‘Mine, I think,’ he said.

  Jamal stared. He weighed his options. Eventually he sighed.

  ‘OK.’

  The man smiled. ‘That’s better. Now, shall I go to the buffet car? Get something to eat and drink? It looks like a long time since you’ve had something hot in your mouth.’

  The man began to giggle, high pitched and obnoxious.

  Christ, thought Jamal; one of them days.

  Left alone while Bruce, which the suit had claimed as his name, ventured to the buffet car, Jamal glanced around, satisfied himself no one was watching him, took out the minidisc and looked at it.

  He shuddered. Just looking at it brought back that hotel room. He ran a finger along the edge. It was chipped, worn, battered and scratched. Well-used looking. Less cash fenced. Shit.

  He unwrapped the coiled wires, inserted the earpieces. And switched it on.

  It wasn’t what he had been expecting.

  Bruce came back
from the buffet car, apologizing about the delay, blaming the queue, showing Jamal what he had for him. But by then Jamal didn’t hear him. Jamal didn’t move.

  Just sat there. Listening.

  Jamal couldn’t sleep.

  Bruce’s farting and snoring didn’t help, nor did the sterile, unfamiliar hotel room with its blond-wood furniture, pristine white en suite and hard, unyielding bed. The drugs didn’t help either. But it was more than that.

  The minidisc.

  Bruce had been as good as his word but extracted his money’s worth; Jamal usually charged a lot more for a stay over but there had been some compensations. The restaurant, the drinks, the club. Not his music and too many gays, but he’d managed to score some decent coke and a couple of Es. Best of all, the shower and the fluffy, towelling robes. Jamal felt cleaner than he had in a long time, despite Bruce’s best efforts to the contrary. Jamal had even given himself up willingly in return. But his mind hadn’t been there. Even further away than usual.

  The minidisc. It was still playing in his head.

  Boring at first. No good tunes. No tunes at all, in fact. So boring he was ready to turn it off, stuff it back into his jacket. But something about it kept him listening. And listening. He struggled to keep up, rewinding and replaying sections until he was sure he understood them, but was eventually rewarded.

  Bruce had thought he was just listening to music. Jamal encouraged him to think that.

  By the end of the disc, Jamal had a strong suspicion that he knew why someone had tried to kill him. He was beginning to realize just how important the disc was. He remembered a thought he had had earlier that afternoon, another lifetime away:

  He wished he had so much money he never had to be touched by one of them again.

  This could be it. He just had to think what to do with it. How to make it work for him.

  Jamal couldn’t sleep.

  By morning he had a plan.

  ‘And this is Stephanie. She’s six. And Jack, four.’ Bruce smiled. ‘Right little tearaway.’

  Jamal hated it when they did that. Showed him pictures of their kids. What was he supposed to say? They’re nice, d’you fuck them too?