Speak No Evil Page 6

  Jack was disappointed. A journalist was one of the things he quite fancied being when he left school. He liked the idea of standing at the sidelines, reporting on what was happening. Knowing what was going on, but not getting directly involved. Trouble was, every journalist he met put him off the idea. They all seemed to be like the one at the school gates. Male or female. They saw people just as excuses for stories, not real living, breathing people, just things to use up and drop once the stories were wrung out of them. And he didn’t want to be like that. No way.

  As he rounded the corner at the far end of the school fence, he looked back again. The two boys who had spoken to him earlier were coming up to the journalist. The smaller one, Pez, seemed happy to talk, nodding and gesturing.

  Jack walked away, left them to it.

  Wondered, with fear and trepidation, what home would be like when he got in.

  ‘Hey, kid, what’s your name?’

  ‘Pez.’

  ‘That your real name?’

  The kid shrugged. ‘S’what everyone calls us, like.’

  Jesus, she thought, they were thick up here. She kept smiling at him. ‘Right, Pez. How’d you like to make a bit of money?’

  The boy’s eyes lit up. ‘Aye. Great.’

  ‘Good man. The kid who died, Calvin. Was he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Aye, ’e was. Me best mate, like.’

  ‘Your best mate.’ Where had she heard that one before?

  ‘Aye. He was. An’ I was with ‘im the night ’e died.’

  Bullseye. Tess Preston was still in her twenties, probably still had a lot to learn, and the best way to do that, she always said, was on the job. And that was what she lived, ate and breathed. The job.

  Theresa Preston-Hatt was her full name. She was the youngest of two daughters – her father, a colonel in the army, wanted sons. He never came to terms with the fact that he had ended up with two girls instead. Her sister was a qualified doctor and, to please her father, Tess enrolled at Sandhurst to train as an officer. Unfortunately she left during the first month. Her father never forgave her. Especially after she became a journalist. So she dropped the parts of her name she didn’t need any more, except when she ran out money or needed bailing out of something unpleasant, and became Tess Preston, ace reporter for the People’s Paper, the Daily Globe.

  She was fiercely ambitious. For the job itself, she told herself, the rewards. Not to show her father, her family how good she could be at something. That wasn’t the reason at all. No way. She was on the way up. Tess Preston was going all the way to the top.

  That’s what Calvin Bell represented to her. The next rung on the ladder. The only thing she knew about the victim was that he had been stabbed and the only thing she knew about the area was that Cheryl from Girls Aloud came from somewhere near. Looking round she could well believe it.

  But all she was interested in was her work. A big exposé of the crime-riddled inner cities and what it was doing to the kids. Correction: our kids. Because she had the readers at heart. And, if she was telling the truth, this mouth-breathing midget in front of her could be her way in to the story.

  ‘You were there? Great. So, Pez …’ Tess Preston allowed herself a smile. She never forgot a name. Prided herself on the fact. And she knew how dazzling that smile could be to the opposite sex. Even kids, she didn’t care. She practised it in front of the mirror. Shame to waste it. ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it?’

  Pez frowned. ‘What about the money?’

  Sharper than he looked, thought Tess. But then he’d have to be. He couldn’t look any less sharp. ‘We’ll get that sorted, don’t you worry.’ She slipped her hand into her jacket pocket, thumbed her recorder on to record. She noticed Pez’s eyes being drawn to her chest. She stuck her breasts out a bit more to keep him beside her. ‘Just tell me what happened that night.’

  Pez, transfixed by her breasts, opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Tess turned round. There was another boy standing next to Pez. Slightly taller, harder-looking. Pug-faced with cropped hair and a dirty, torn school uniform. Angry.

  Time for a charm offensive, thought Tess. Keep the natives onside. ‘Hiya. My name’s Tess. Just chatting to your friend Pez here.’

  ‘Haway, Pez, man, divvent talk to her. She’s a fuckin’ journalist, man. Haway.’

  ‘Aw, but she’s nice …’

  The new boy started to walk away, tried to drag Pez with him. Pez looked conflicted but also looked used to doing what this other boy said. He turned to go.

  ‘See ya.’

  Tess didn’t want to leave it there. She couldn’t, not when she’d just had a way in. And if Pez wasn’t talking …

  ‘Hey,’ she called to the other boy. ‘What’s your name?’

  The boy turned. ‘Renny.’ Spoken like it was an act of defiance.

  ‘Well Renny, how’d you like to make some money?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  That wasn’t the answer Tess had been expecting. She would have to try harder. Turn on that old Tess charm. Would work even on him.

  ‘No need for that, Renny. Pez was just telling me how great a mate Calvin was. And I bet he was a mate of yours too.’

  ‘So?’

  Jesus. Arguing with a schoolkid. ‘Well, his two best mates? Telling the story of what happened to their poor friend that night? Together? There’ll be a lot of money in it for you. A lot.’

  Renny frowned. Tess had him, she knew. ‘How much?’

  ‘Well, that depends on what you have to tell me. Pez said he was there last night when Calvin died. If that’s the case, and you were there as well, then we’re talking thousands. Thousands.’

  Some of the anger fell away from Renny’s face. But wariness remained. ‘What do we have to do for this?’

  ‘You tell me. Take me to where you all were. Show me round. The spots you hang out, the place where he died. All that.’

  ‘When?’

  Tess shrugged, smiled. ‘No time like the present.’

  Renny said nothing, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he spoke a smile played on the corners of his mouth. ‘Later.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now’s no good. It’ll have to be later. When it’s dark, like.’

  ‘Fine. You’re the boss. Whatever you say. When and where?’

  Renny looked around, considering it. ‘Here. Nine o’clock.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ Tess could already see the headlines and, more importantly, the byline.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How much you payin’ us?’

  She thought of a figure she could get away with. ‘A grand.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Each.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Tess tried not to let her exasperation show. These people were the first to complain about chequebook journalism and trading on misery to sell papers, but they complained all the harder if they didn’t think you’d paid them enough.

  ‘Two grand, then.’

  ‘Each.’

  ‘All right, two grand each.’ Her editor would be well fucked off. ‘But it better be worth it.’

  Renny grinned. It wasn’t entirely pleasant. ‘It will be. And bring the money with you. Cash. If you don’t you can fuck off. An’ we’re takin’ you nowhere.’

  ‘OK. What if I bring half the money and when you’ve given me the guided tour and I’ve interviewed you both you get the other half?’

  Renny furrowed his brow again. Nodded. ‘All right.’

  ‘Deal.’

  Tess extended her hand. Thought that would be the kind of thing the locals would like. Renny shook it.

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ she said and the two boys walked away.

  Tess watched them go, smiling to herself. Not bad, she thought. Not a bad bit of business if they came up with the goods.

  Then another thought struck her. Shit. She would actually have to pay this time.
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  Or at least, pay half.

  Jack Smeaton turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door as slowly as possible, his hand away from the edge as if expecting it to slam shut and take his fingers off. It swung open. He looked down the hallway. No sound. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.

  He had been expecting another row. Rob shouting at his mother. Drunk and angry. Or Anne Marie tearfully screaming that he didn’t understand her. The usual thing. Then things being thrown around. Then silence. Then, eventually, laughter as they come down, cuddle up with each other. Her telling him she was lucky to have him, he was the only one who understood her and had stood by her. He telling her how much he loved her and how they would get through this. What a great family they made. What a lovely lad Jack was. By which time Jack was usually in his room, headphones clamped to his ears, trying to block it all out.

  He knows Rob loves his mother. And he’s grateful to him for taking some of the pressure of looking after her off his young shoulders. And he’s good to Jack too, in his own way. But he gets depressed and when Rob gets depressed he drinks. And that’s when his problems start.

  He put his school bag down, walked towards the living room. Pushed open the door. His mother, Anne Marie, was sitting on the sofa. Hands bandaged, head back, eyes closed. Mug of tea beside her, cigarette burning in the ashtray. Scott Walker singing softly from the corner of the room. The one about angels again. The Spirit House had been moved too. Brought further into the room.

  Jack breathed out, relieved. She was back to normal. Calm. For now. He felt a stab of guilt at his earlier actions, at his anger over her situation. She was his mother. And he loved her. He just wanted to feel happy and safe. Knew that she did too.

  She heard him approach, opened her eyes. Smiled.

  ‘Hello, love,’

  He said hello in return.

  She kept looking at him, long enough for Jack to start feeling uncomfortable. She did this often. It was usually the prelude to something. But it was never predictable, never the same thing twice. She patted the seat next to him.

  ‘Come and sit here, son. Sit with your old mother.’

  Reluctantly he went over and sat next to her on the sofa, perching on the edge, not committing himself to full relaxation.

  Your old mother. She was just coming up for fifty. Not that she ever mentioned it, but he knew her age. Had seen her date of birth on an official form and he never forgot things like that. But she looked older. As if she had experienced more of life, the wrong sort of life, than should have been allowed in her years.

  She looked at him, smiled. Draped her arm around him, the bandaged hand flopping down over his shoulder.

  ‘Good day at school, son?’

  He grunted, unsure of what to say. She got like this all the time. Soppy-happy. Usually after a crying or screaming fit. Her way of saying sorry, he supposed.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Good.’ She took another deep draw of her cigarette, let it go. Watching the smoke dissipate, smiling like she had just released white doves into a clear blue sky. She looked at the ashtray. Sighed. ‘I’m feelin’ better now. Your old mother’s feelin’ better now.’

  Jack said nothing.

  ‘I’ve cleaned up the broken glass in the kitchen. The pane fell out. That’s how I got these.’ She raised up her bandaged hands. ‘How I got these …’ She trailed off again. ‘I’ve put some cardboard in …’

  Jack nodded, listened to the music, that strange mix of beauty and strangeness she found so compelling. He knew she wouldn’t have done a good job, knew he would have to replace the cardboard.

  ‘Yes, I’m feelin’ better now.’

  He felt her hand on his shoulder shake. Knew the sign: she was building up to another crying fit. He had to do something, head it off.

  ‘The police Were at school today,’ he said.

  Her hand stiffened. ‘What did they want?’ Her voice hard, anxious.

  Jack continued. No going back now. ‘Some kid got knifed last night. On the estate.’

  She took her arm away. ‘What happened?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Dunno. Just got knifed.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘We got our lessons cancelled. They brought counsellors in. Police are all over the place. Journalists an’ all.’

  Her hand was fully withdrawn. She put both of them in her lap. Her breathing quickened. ‘They didn’t talk to you, did they?’

  ‘Who? The counsellors?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘the journalists.’

  ‘There was this woman standing at the school gates, tryin’ to get kids to—’

  She turned to him, grabbed his shoulders. Her hands must hurt, he thought. She must be ignoring the pain. ‘What did she say? What did she say?’

  Her fingers dug into him. ‘Nothin’ …’

  The fingers dug harder. ‘What …’

  ‘Nothin’! There was a few of them. They wanted to know about the kid who died. Offered money, an’ that.’

  ‘Did you take it?’

  ‘No …’

  She looked at him, her eyes wide and wild, pleading with him. Desperate for him to be telling the truth. Deciding he was, she relaxed her grip. ‘Good. Never talk to them. They’re scum. All of them. Have nothin’ to do with them. Ever. You got that?’

  He had that. It wasn’t the first time she had said that to him. He nodded. She took her hands away, sat back.

  ‘Good.’ He watched her face contort as she struggled to find a smile. ‘Right. Well. I’d better start thinking about the tea, hadn’t I?’

  Jack gave a small sigh of relief.

  ‘What shall we have, eh? I haven’t been able to cook, I’ve been out all day.’

  A cloud passed over her face. Some troubling memory, Jack thought. Her brow furrowed, her lip trembled. Oh no, he thought. Here it comes. She looked at Jack. Dredged up a smile.

  ‘You don’t want that,’ she said, looking at him but seemingly speaking to herself. ‘I don’t want that for you. Not you.’

  Jack said nothing.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, struggling for brightness, ‘what shall we have? Fish and chips? Pizza? Kebab? Your choice.’ She reached for her purse.

  ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Whatever you like.’

  Anne Marie nodded, handed him a note. At that moment, the front door opened. It was a lot noisier than Jack’s entrance, smacking loudly off the hall wall. A stumble, followed by an angry, guttural noise. Anne Marie and Jack stood up quickly, exchanged a glance. Scott Walker was singing about the old man being back again.

  Rob entered. ‘Who the fuck left that bag in the hall? Almost broke me fuckin’ neck.’

  He had been good-looking once but a life lived on the bottom had worn those looks away. Now he had a beer gut, a ponytail to compensate for what was thinning on top and was red-faced and angry at anything. Mainly himself. Black leather bike jacket, jeans, T-shirt and boots. He looked like an ageing, pensioned-off roadie who after years travelling wondered why he was stuck in one place. He looked like exactly what he was.

  ‘S – sorry,’ said Jack.

  Rob looked at him, as if about to get angry, but the fight went out of him. Suddenly tired, he slumped down on the sofa. ‘Where’s me dinner?’

  ‘Jack was just goin’ down to the chippie, weren’t you, son?’ A desperate edge was back in Anne Marie’s voice.

  Rob grunted. Whether from satisfaction or displeasure, it was hard to tell.

  Anne Marie sat down next to him. ‘What have you been doin’ today, then, love?’ Jack noticed she used the same kind of bright, false voice she used with him.

  ‘Down the bookies. The pub.’ He shrugged. ‘You know.’

  ‘Did you win anythin’?’

  Another grunt. ‘Nearly.’ He appeared thoughtful for a few seconds. ‘We’ve got money, though. While you’re bringin’ that in we don’t need worry.’

  Anne Marie said nothing. Rob looked at her.
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br />   ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t say anythin’.’

  ‘Nah, but you were thinkin’ it. What?’

  ‘Well, this money won’t last forever. I just think—’

  ‘Then you’ll get some more, won’t you?’ His voice was building up to anger. Jack wanted to be out of the house. ‘You should. They owe you. Fuckin’ owe you, man. Don’t they?’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, Rob.’

  ‘Well then. You’ll get some more. Won’t you?’

  Anne Marie said nothing.

  Rob gestured towards Jack. ‘And you shouldn’t go spendin’ it on fuckin’ trainers for him.’

  Anne Marie and Jack exchanged a glance. Anne Marie gave a silent shake of the head. Jack said nothing.

  Rob sat back, argument apparently won.

  ‘Now. Where’s me tea?’

  Jack took that as his cue to leave the flat. As he did so he stuck his headphones deep into his ears, turned the sound up. Blocking out everything around him, even stopping his thoughts.

  My Chemical Romance: ‘The Sharpest Lives’ from The Black Parade album. The voice in his ear told how the sharpest lives were the deadliest to lead and how he wanted a shot to take all the pain away.

  He walked to the takeaway. Hoped there would be a queue.

  ‘So how did it feel to be branded a psychopathic personality?’

  ‘How d’you think it felt? Like Christmas had come early?’ She stubs the cigarette out as hard as she can. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t called for.’ She smiles nervously. ‘Must be my psychopathic personality.’

  ‘Did the court describe you as that?’

  She nods. ‘Best thing they could have done, in a way,’ she says after thinking hard for a while. ‘Sort of’

  ‘Why?’

  She puts her head back, searching for words. ‘It was … I’m tryin’ to remember the fill phrase. A psychopathic personality disorder that impaired my mental responsibility. And they said it was treatable.

  ‘Basically they said I was the way I was and I’d done the things I’d done because of no fault of my own. And so if I had treatment rather than punishment, I’d get better.’

  ‘Right.’ He nods.

  ‘But they didn’t know where to send me. There wasn’t a secure hospital or treatment centre that knew what to do with me. Not at my age. Not with what I’d done.’