Candleland Read online

  “Fuckin’ ’ell,” said Andy when he’d finished, “You ’ad a busy day.”

  “And it’s going to get busier tomorrow,” said Larkin, and told him how he was going to gain entry into the crack house and what Andy’s part was to be. Andy just listened quietly, his face turning paler and paler. Being brave with steroid-pumped cartoon characters was one thing, Larkin thought, real life was another.

  “You’re off your fuckin’ ’ead, you know that?”

  “You said you’d help, Andy.”

  Andy grumbled and complained. “Don’t know why I let you talk me into these things,” he said, giving reluctant agreement.

  “I just need you for backup,” said Larkin. “I’ll be taking the risks.”

  Andy mumbled something less than complimentary, then went back to Duke Nukem.

  Faye chose that moment to enter. She stopped short when she saw Larkin.

  “Oh. Hello, Stephen. I thought I heard voices. Is it raining out there?”

  Larkin said hello then added, rather needlessly, that it was. They stared at each other, generating a sudden, difficult electricity. If Andy hadn’t been so involved in his game he would have noticed.

  “The kettle’s just boiled … if you’d like a drink.” She moved hesitantly towards the kitchen. Larkin followed.

  Once there, she began making tea for them both, her back to him, eyes on the mugs. “Good day?” she asked.

  He repeated to her what he’d already said to Andy, playing down his attempted entry to the crack house. When he’d finished she said, “Well I hope you’ll be careful.”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  They both smiled.

  “How are you?” Larkin asked.

  She looked at him, eyes meeting at last. “Fine.” She handed him his mug and sat at the table, opposite him. “Look,” she said, after darting a quick glance at the door to make sure they were alone, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just left this morning. I should have said something.”

  “That’s OK,” Larkin replied quietly.

  She smiled weakly. “I don’t … make a habit of doing that,” she said to her mug, “but I’d been drinking and smoking … and thinking about … well, you know.”

  I know,” said Larkin. “We were both there when we needed someone. You don’t have to say any more.”

  She looked up and smiled. She opened her mouth as if to say something important, something deeper, but instead announced, “It’s pasta carbonara tonight. But don’t expect this every night. It’ll be someone else’s turn to cook tomorrow.” She stood up, began busying herself at the cooker.

  “Where’s Henry?”

  “In his room.”

  “I’ll go and see him.” Larkin stood and crossed the kitchen. He stood behind her, looked at the curve of her neck under her piled-up hair, smooth and white. His hands began to move towards her shoulders.

  Suddenly she turned, looked straight at him. Her eyes had none of the sexual directness of the previous night. Instead they held a kind of subdued claustrophobic fear. “Tell him his dinner’s ready, will you?” she said as brightly and evasively as possible.

  Larkin knew that look. Fear of confinement, fear of involvement. Damage did that to people. He nodded and left the room. Faye went back to what she was doing.

  He walked up the stairs all the way to the attic and knocked on the door of Moir’s room.

  “Yeah?” rumbled the familiar Scottish voice.

  “It’s Stephen.”

  There was a heavy-footed scramble of indecent haste across the floor and the door was sharply pulled open. Cosmetically, Moir looked better than he had the previous night. His hair was clean, his face was shaved, his clothes didn’t smell. But beyond that, he was just the same.

  “Well?” Moir’s eyes were half-crazed, half-imploring.

  “I’ll come in and tell you.”

  Moir retreated into the room, sat on the bed.

  Larkin entered and saw what Moir had in his hand. A revolver.

  “What the fuck’re you doing with that?” said Larkin.

  “Just cleaning it. Why, d’you think I’m goin’ tae top myself?” asked Moir with a sharp laugh.

  “Well …” Larkin shrugged.

  “Don’t worry. Used to be my dad’s. I brought it down in case there was goin’ tae be any rough stuff. I was just givin’ it a polish. You never know.”

  “Just put it away, please, Henry. It’s making me nervous.”

  Moir bundled it up and slid it under the bed. Larkin breathed a sigh of relief and looked round the room. The slanting roof and drawn curtain together with the sparse furniture gave the room a sombre, cold feel. Or perhaps that was just Moir’s mood permeating the atmosphere. On the side of the bed was a bottle of Bell’s, almost empty. One glass. Well, things can’t be that bad, thought Larkin. At least he’s not drinking straight from the bottle.

  “D’you wanna drink?” asked Moir.

  “There’s only one glass.”

  “For visitors.” He almost laughed. “I’m takin’ it straight from the bottle.”

  Oh fuck, thought Larkin, things are that bad. Let’s hope the gun’s not loaded.

  “So tell me.” Moir handed the glass to Larkin, who sat on the other end of the bed.

  Larkin handed Moir the report Jackie Fairley had given him. Moir rifled through it, staring at the pages as if the words themselves might yield up secrets, answers. While he looked, Larkin ran through the story again. After finishing the report, Moir sat impassively, eyes focused on something Larkin couldn’t see, something that wasn’t in the room but that Moir carried with him. Larkin was going to tell him to expect the worst, but one look at Moir showed he had gone over every calamitous outcome in his mind. When Larkin had finished, Moir took a large slug from the bottle and turned to him.

  “You’re a good friend,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. “Thanks.” It wasn’t the response Larkin had been expecting.

  He looked at Moir, waiting for something more, but nothing else was forthcoming. Moir just sat, looking like a man who’d reached the end of a long road, or was lost on one that he couldn’t see the end of.

  Larkin sipped his whisky and waited. Eventually, Moir spoke.

  “When I was a boy,” he began, talking slowly as if he’d been practising in his head, “I used to play a lot of chess.” He sighed. “It was so simple. One black side, one white. One won, one lost. I always wanted to be white. And to win. So I joined the force. And looked at things in the same way. Black and white. Good and evil. Right and wrong.” He snorted, took a swig. “Naive little bastard that I was. The job soon disabused me of that notion, because as we all know, there is no such thing as absolute right and wrong. And little by little my belief was traded off.” He flung his arms out, gesturing expansively. “You know what I mean. Turn a blind eye to a small misdemeanour in order to stop a larger one … convince yourself that a crime is not morally wrong if there’s a kickback in it for you … produce evidence to convict some unconvictable bastard that you know in your heart is guilty.” He sighed again, the sudden energy leaving him. “Black and white began to merge into one huge fuckin’ grey fog. Various shades, mind, but all grey. And I stopped bein’ able to tell the good guys from the villains, an’ workin’ out what was important an’ what wasn’t. An’ I lost it. Lost sight of the board, the squares, the gameplan … lost my wife, my family …” He lowered his head. “… my self-respect. All my fault.” He sighed again, heavier this time. “Lost the fuckin’ lot … An’ now whenever I see a chessboard, it reminds me what I lost, an’ makes me wanna puke …”

  They sat in silence. Larkin couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “Thanks for today,” said Moir eventually, his voice too small for his frame. “I appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” Larkin replied. He stood up. Placed his hand on Moir’s shoulder. “There’s some food downstairs for you if you want it.”

  “Aye, I’ll be down in a wee while.”

>   Larkin nodded and left the room.

  The dinner consisted of tasty, plentiful food and strained conviviality. Afterwards, while the men were complimenting Faye on her food, she picked up her glass of wine and announced, “Don’t expect me to cook, clean and look after you every day, you know. You’re big enough to fend for yourselves.” With that she walked into the front room and sat down. Andy threw a tea towel to Moir, who regarded it with the same familiarity he would a piece of Mayan sculpture. The two men set about clearing up the kitchen.

  Larkin, finding himself surplus to requirements, took his own glass of wine and joined Faye in the front room. He found her on the sofa and sat at the opposite end, leaving a large distance between them.

  “You OK?” Larkin asked.

  “I am. But I won’t be if you keep asking me that.”

  They both laughed, then fell silent.

  “How’s Henry been today?” asked Larkin.

  “Still the same, I think,” she replied without turning round. “He went for a walk earlier over the Common. I made him have a bath and put his clothes in the wash. You wouldn’t have believed the state they were in.”

  “I would.”

  She laughed. “Of course you would, you’re a man.” She took a drink. “Look, I’ve got the day off tomorrow. I’ll see if he wants to go out somewhere, do something. Might take his mind off things.”

  “Thanks. That would be good.”

  They both fell silent again, drinking their wine, trying to feel comfortable with the space between them. Eventually conversation started up, but nothing important. Microscopic rather than small talk, but any communication was better than none at all.

  The evening slipped slowly away. Moir and Andy came into the room and they all sat drinking, watching TV. A biting wind lashed the rain against the window, and the four of them sat, bruised, damaged, but still hanging in there. The house kept them sheltered and safe from the suicidal February outside, while they wished for a similar kind of thing within themselves.

  Over the Threshold

  The next morning found Larkin again in the cafe, coat collar up, tabloids spread in front of him, mug of coffee at his side. Upon entering he had been surprised to discover not Rayman behind the counter but a surly young black guy.

  “You waitin’ for Rayman?” the man asked.

  Larkin answered that he was.

  “Sit there.” The man gestured to a table. “He be here soon.”

  Larkin had done as he was told, and sat there, waiting. He had thought of sitting at another table other than the one the man had specified, just to annoy him, but didn’t think it was worth it. The man had just stared at him and stood in front of the doorway to the back of the kitchen, arms folded. He looked more like a sentry than a cafe worker, thought Larkin. His build showed he could handle himself, the faint scars on his face showed he had handled himself, and the bulge in his jacket pocket looked too heavy to be a mobile phone.

  Larkin swallowed hard. The coffee seemed to be going down in lumps. He didn’t quite know what he was getting into and he still had time to back out. He could just get up and walk away, and that would be that. Instead he stayed where he was and tried to read his paper. Waiting for Rayman to arrive.

  About fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Rayman entered.

  “Hey, my man Larkin! I knew you’d show.”

  Larkin turned. The man who had spoken bore only a passing resemblance to the cafe owner he’d met yesterday. This man looked like Rayman’s flashy twin brother. He was dressed in a long leather coat, buttoned up, with only the top of a roll-neck sweater showing. All in black. He exuded confidence and focus, with a dangerous kind of swagger. Larkin’s doubts had grown from chrysalis stage to full-blown butterflies.

  “Hello Rayman,” Larkin croaked.

  “You didn’t disappoint me. Good.” He walked towards the back of the cafe and said over his shoulder, “Come on, white boy, we got work to do.”

  Larkin dumbly followed, the young guy following him. That was it, he was in now.

  Once past the bead curtain, he found the back room had a kitchen area where food was prepared and stored, a table and chairs, and some weighing and measuring equipment shelved on one side. Larkin knew immediately what that was. He pointed towards it.

  “You still dealing, Rayman?”

  “Sure am, man. Can’t make a livin’ servin’ up slop round these parts.” His amiable Jamaican accent had been replaced by a much harder East London one. “You met Kwesi, my lieutenant?”

  The young guy gave an imperceptible nod.

  “We met,” said Larkin.

  Rayman smiled. “His mother named him Winston but he named himself Kwesi. Wanted something African, take him back to his roots even though he lived all his life round here. Isn’t that right, Tottenham boy?”

  Kwesi said nothing, just stood impassively. Rayman let out a harsh cackle.

  What the fuck have I got myself into? thought Larkin.

  “We not messin’ about, this is what we do,” said Rayman sitting at the table. Kwesi sat also. Larkin followed suit. “You go to the door of the crack house.” He pointed at Larkin. “An’ say Lonnie sent you. That’s important. Lonnie.”

  “Who’s Lonnie?” asked Larkin.

  Rayman smiled. “Some junkie. OD’d over there. They’ll know. Just sound like you’re a junkie, moan a bit. Tell them you’re desperate. Sound convincing, they let you in. When you’re in there, ask them about the Scottish girl you’re lookin’ for.” Rayman sat back looking pleased with himself.

  “That’s it?” said Larkin.

  “You think it won’t work?” asked Rayman with a twinkle in his eye. He sat back, turned to Kwesi. “White boy don’t trust Rayman! Don’t think he can cut it no more!” He leaned forward again. “Then you better take this.” He snapped his fingers. Kwesi produced an automatic from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table in front of Larkin. “Take this.” Rayman’s eyes were as cold as the gun. “They won’t argue with that.”

  Larkin sat back in disbelief. “Sorry guys,” he said, “I think you’re confusing me with Bruce Willis. I’m a journalist not a gunslinger.” He tried to laugh but the sound died in his throat.

  Rayman became deadly serious. “You want the girl? You do as I say.”

  Larkin looked from one to the other. Two stone faces stared back at him. It was too late to walk out now. He reached across and picked up the gun. It felt heavy in his hand, cold, powerful. He could see why some people thought it was an easy way to respect. He pocketed it. “Now what?”

  Rayman gave a chilling smile. In the kitchen’s half-light he looked like a devil who’d sweet-talked a soul into Hell.

  “Now we do it,” he said.

  Larkin walked from the cafe to the crack house, watching the street all the time. He could feel Rayman’s eyes on him without looking back. The weight of the gun was dragging at his side, and that’s where he wanted it to stay. When he reached the steel door he banged on it. No reply. He banged harder, hurting his knuckles in the process. A speaker phone by the side of the door spoke to him.

  “Yeah,” said a suspicious, monosyllabic voice.

  “Here we go,” Larkin thought. “Oh, man …” he drawled in his best East London druggie drawl, “I need some gear, man …”

  “Whosis,” said the voice, too flat to be considered a question.

  A bad Keith Richards impersonator, thought Larkin to himself. “It’s Stevie, man …”

  No reply.

  “Lonnie sent me …”

  “Lonnie,” said the voice, almost betraying curiosity.

  “Yeah, I think it was Lonnie … think that’s what he said … “Larkin let his voice deliberately trail off. The speaker phone fell silent. What else could he say to persuade them? “Come on, man, I got cash …”

  “Waitaminnit,” the door said, and lapsed into silence.

  Larkin stood there for what seemed like a small eternity until he eventually heard the sounds of bolts
being withdrawn and locks released, then the door opened a crack.

  “In,” said the voice. Larkin entered.

  The place was a tip. Old, ripped sofas on threadbare carpet, a scarred coffee table covered in junk food containers and gear. Coke can pipes, lighters, spoons. All illuminated by a bare, overhead bulb. The one incongruity was in the far corner, a brand new-top-of-the-range TV and video with an expensive-looking CD system beside it.

  The guy who’d let Larkin in was wearing oversized jeans, box white trainers and a T-shirt. He was white, or rather his race was Caucasian, since he looked and smelt like he was a stranger to soap and water. He was also, Larkin reckoned, not much older than eleven or twelve. The way he glanced suspiciously over Larkin’s shoulder told him there was no one else in. He began to eye Larkin suspiciously.

  “Who you?” he asked, slamming the door and nervously fingering the back of his jeans waistband.

  Gun, thought Larkin, better move quickly.

  “I want to talk to you about someone who used to live here,” he said in as calm a voice as possible.

  “You’re not after gear!” the kid shouted. His hand went for his belt but Larkin was on him. He grabbed the kid and shoved him against the wall, keeping his right arm firmly across the kid’s neck. With his left hand he grabbed the gun from the kid’s waistband and pointed it at his face. The kid, cockiness now gone, suddenly resembled the scared child he was.

  “Now look,” Larkin began in his most reasonable voice, “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not the law, I just want some answers to a few questions, then I’m gone, OK?”

  The kid nodded hurriedly.

  “Good,” said Larkin. “Now go and sit over there.” He gestured to the sofa. The kid, once released from Larkin’s grip, moved shakily towards it and sat down.

  The gun felt unpleasant and alien in Larkin’s left fist and he didn’t like having to do it, but he continued to point it because that was the way the kid had made the play. It may be the only way to make him understand, thought Larkin sadly. Using the gun confirmed his earlier thoughts about it. It did give him a thrill, but also a feeling of disgust. He wanted this over with as quickly as possible.