Candleland (16 page)

“Well,” said Moir, standing up, “I'm going to bed.” He glanced at Faye. The look would have spoken volumes if Larkin had been able to translate it.

“OK,” said Faye, weighting her look with equal, yet different, meaning. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Moir didn't move. His eyes remained locked with Faye. Larkin thought he'd wandered into the final of the World Staring Championships.

Eventually their gazes unlocked and Moir made his way past Larkin to the door. “Thanks,” he said, turning as if in afterthought. “Thanks again. For today.”

“Don't mention it,” replied Larkin.

“Tomorrow …” Moir mumbled. He looked at the floor as if expecting to find the correct words there. “Tomorrow if you need … me … I'll be there.”

“We'll see,” said Larkin. “Good night, Henry.”

Moir left the room. Larkin resumed his seat on the sofa and refilled his wineglass.

“Is there some left in that bottle?” asked Faye. Larkin said there was.

Faye crossed over to re-fill her glass. A glass which, Larkin noticed, was already over half full. Instead of returning to her seat, she sat down next to him. Subtle, thought Larkin, I don't think.

“So,” said Larkin, because he felt he had to say something, “you had a good day, then?”

Faye nodded. “Yes. I know Henry's got his problems, but when you get to know him, he's good company.”

He's probably different with you than he is with me, thought Larkin. “I noticed he wasn't drinking tonight,” he said.

“No,” replied Faye. “I think that's one of his problems. He's trying to address it.”

“Good for him.”

They lapsed into silence, the only sounds their lips on their wineglasses.

Larkin knew he had to ask the next question. Even if he didn't want to hear the answer. “So,” he said, “what was all that about before?”

“Oh,” Faye replied, reddening. She lost eye contact with Larkin in making her reply. “I think you could say Henry and I were … defining the parameters of our relationship.”

“So you're having a relationship?” Larkin asked, too quickly to stop himself.

Faye looked at him, this time catching his eye.

“I'm sorry, it's none of my business,” he said, backpedalling.

“No,” said Faye, “I'll tell you. But it's not what you think. I like Henry. A lot. But he's not …'

“Damaged enough?” Larkin finished for her.

Faye reddened again. “I know how it must look,” she said, “and I can understand the way you're feeling. I was going to say, Henry's not my type. But at the moment he needs someone. I'm there for him.”

“He's very fond of you,” said Larkin.

“I know,” she replied. “But … I can't explain it to you. It's different.”

Larkin nodded. He said nothing.

“Anyway, Stephen, it's getting late.”

Larkin made to stand. Faye stopped him by placing her hand on his thigh.

“What I meant was …' She addressed her hand. “The other night. It doesn't have to be a one-off. Not if you don't want it to be.”

He felt his cock stiffen involuntarily. There was something about this woman, some chemical thing perhaps, that made him immediately horny. Yes, he wanted her. He wanted her badly, like a craving that couldn't be satisfied, and he wanted her now. He looked at her, her exquisite body, her beautiful face, and their eyes locked.

“What about Henry?” he asked.

He saw her eyes. And that's when he realised. His own lust had stopped him hearing it in her voice, but nothing could obscure it in her eyes. She looked like her arm was being twisted behind her back, as if someone or more to the point, some compulsion, was forcing her to ask him to bed. Her expression was divided between lust and a painful need. Larkin couldn't work out which percentage was which, but he could guess.

“Henry's in the future,” she whispered, eyes dropping. “You're here. You're now. I want you tonight.”

“Ah, that's it,” said Larkin. “Me for tonight. But it's something bigger with Henry, isn't it? Something you don't want to rush into and maybe spoil. But you've got needs and I'm here to take care of them. Is that it?” He kept his voice as steady as he could, gasped out between longings for Faye.

She said nothing, just kept her head down, moved her body closer, grabbed him harder.

“No Faye,” he said, in a voice that took every ounce of self-control. “No.” There was so much more he wanted to say, so much more he could have said, but it would have done no good.

Faye nodded and immediately withdrew her hands. She stood up, tipped her head back and drained her wineglass. Larkin was treated to a close-up of her body, curved, beautiful, bounteous. His erection was straining, his fingers were tingling at the thought of touching her. It would be so easy to give in, relent and grab her, devour her beautiful body, say fuck the consequences, fuck the morning-after mutual shame session … So easy … All he had to do was reach out his fingers …

She put down her glass and silently left the room without looking at him. He heard her mount the stairs, make her way to her room. Once he heard her door close he breathed a sigh – of relief or loss and despair, he didn't know – and sat back.

He picked up his glass and took a long, deep comforting mouthful of wine.

No, he thought, with a bitter tang of regret, no matter how comforting, how pleasant it is to stay here, this place will never be my home.

The playground was deserted, made bleaker by the cold grey February sky, the trailing fog that seemed in no hurry to disperse. The swings, slides, climbing frames and roundabouts looked thin, old and skeletal. It felt abandoned, a framework for a park that would never be finished, never be substantiated. Now decrepit, rusted with broken promises.

Larkin and Andy sat on an old brick wall scarred with graffiti, pulling their jackets around them to keep out the damp, chill air. The park they were in probably had a name in some file in some town planner's vault but, to them, it was just a barren piece of land, a compulsory purchase order in waiting. Still, it afforded a good view of the house opposite, and that was why they were there.

They had left the house in Clapham early, Andy protesting that he'd just got in, Larkin saying that was fine, whatever Andy had scored and taken would keep him buzzing for a few hours yet. Larkin had wanted to get an early start because he knew the traffic would be bad crossing London and, since they didn't actually know what went on in the house Diana had disappeared into, thought it best to get there as early as possible.

Moir had been in the kitchen when they'd left. Dressing-gowned, drinking coffee. Hair stuck up on end either from uncomfortable pillows or haunting, disquieting dreams. He half-heartedly invited himself along, making good on his promise of the previous night, but Larkin declined the offer.

“We don't know what that place is yet,” Larkin had said, “wait till we know more about it.”

Moir's reaction was either one of disappointment or relief, Larkin couldn't tell which. Probably both.

Larkin was also leaving to avoid a confrontation with Faye. Judging from the resolute silence coming from her room, she was doing the same thing. As he crossed the hall to leave, however, he glanced up at her room. The door which had been fractionally open was suddenly pulled shut. OK, he thought, if that's how it's going to be, that's how it's going to be.

They had arrived just before nine, stopping off for take-out coffees from a cafe they'd passed, the East London urban streets oozing with rat-running, car-driving commuters. The street the house was on was full of large Victorian houses, mostly flat conversions, across the way from a nondescript park.

The house they wanted was the one on the end. Large, redbrick, with a surprisingly well-maintained front garden.

Larkin had parked the car a couple of houses up. They watched. Nothing happened for about twenty minutes, then the front door opened and a figure emerged. Mid-twenties, medium height, slim, pretty and black. Wearing white jeans, boots, overcoat and scarf. A large bag hung from her shoulders.

“Know her?” asked Larkin as she walked past the car.

“No, but I wouldn't mind,” replied Andy.

Larkin smiled. “Didn't you score last night?”

Andy became sullen, reached for the styrofoam cup of coffee. He took a sip, replaced it on the dashboard. The movement covered his mumbled reply.

“Pardon?” asked Larkin in an amused tone.

“I said I didn't, right?”

“What, not even your old standbys?”

“There was none o' them there!” Andy said, his voice high-pitched with indignation. “The only one there was this old slapper who's had more rides than Lester Piggott.”

“And why did that stop you?”

Andy looked at Larkin in exasperation, as if he was trying to explain Darwin's theory of natural selection to a bunch of Southern redneck fundamentalist Christians. He shook his head, sipped his coffee.

They sat in silence for a while after that, watching, drinking coffee. Eventually Larkin spoke.

“Well,” he said, crunching up his cup, “nothing's happened and if that girl comes back and sees we're still here she might get suspicious. Fancy a walk in the park?”

Andy didn't, but went anyway.

Sitting on swings no child would touch, a plaintive, rusty squeak accompanying their idle movements, Larkin and Andy waited and watched.

They watched a man cycle past. For some reason the man looked familiar, but Larkin couldn't think why. He scrutinised the cyclist: middle-aged, wearing jogging bottoms, dun-coloured cardigan and generic trainers, trimmed but thinning grey hair, controlled paunch. Ordinary mountain bike. Larkin couldn't get a good look at his face and the fog didn't help. As they watched, the man pulled up to the house, dismounted, pushed the bike round the side. They waited. He didn't reemerge.

“Know 'im?” asked Andy.

“I don't know,” Larkin replied. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't work out what. The man made him feel slightly uneasy, but he didn't know why. If he were Spider Man, his spider sense would have been tingling.

“I don't know,” Larkin said again. “Maybe if I'd got a good square-on look …” He sighed. “Never mind,” he said, and filed the man away in the back of his mind, a niggling itch beneath the cap of his skull.

“I think we've learnt all we can from sitting here, don't you?” asked Larkin.

“Yup.”

“Shall we pay them a visit?”

Andy laughed, watching his breath turn to cloudy vapour. “I thought you'd never ask. I'm doin' meself permanent damage sittin' on 'ere in this weather.”

Larkin jumped down on to the balding grass. “Then let's go. You never know, they might have the kettle on for us.”

Larkin rang the bell. They waited but not for long: the door was opened by a young man, mid to late twenties, medium height, cropped hair and goatee, wearing a loose, well-pressed checked shirt falling over equally well-pressed stone cargoes. Boots.

“Yes, can I help you?” His voice wasn't unfriendly, just professionally curious. Wary.

“Yeah,” said Larkin. He was at a disadvantage here and he knew it. Going on first impressions, though – the house, the man in front of them – told him his best option was to play it straight. “I don't know that you can,” he said. “My name's Stephen Larkin, this is Andy Brennan.”

Larkin gestured to Andy, who nodded. The man's eyes lit up slightly on Andy's nod, but Larkin caught it. The man was gay.

“We're both journalists although we're not here in that capacity. We're doing a job for a guy called Henry Moir. We're trying to find his daughter.”

“Really.” The man's attitude hardened. “And who might that be?”

“Her name's Karen. We think she's either using her real name or her adoptive one. Shapp.”

Another change took place on the man's features; surprise, fear? Larkin couldn't read it.

“What makes you think she's here?”

“I don't know that she is. We've been looking for her. The trail led here.”

“How?”

“We followed this bird Diana here,” said Andy. “She a friend of yours, by any chance?”

The man looked from one to the other, sizing them up, coming to conclusions.

“Wait there,” he said, and slammed the door in their faces.

Larkin and Andy looked at each other.

“I think we struck a chord,” said Andy.

“Or hit a nerve,” replied Larkin. “Anyway, I think you're in there.”

“Do me a favour,” said Andy wearily.

Larkin smiled to himself. “Twice in two days. I think someone's trying to tell you something.”

Andy turned, face burning. “Now leave it! It's not fuckin' funny! Any more o' that, an' I'll 'ave you!”

Larkin laughed. “Careful what you say. That phrase has got a different meaning in Newcastle.”

Andy stepped forward, looking like he was about to do some damage, but at that moment the door was reopened by the same young man. He gave a small blink of surprise when he saw the two of them squaring up to each other.

“Come this way,” he said, stepping aside to admit them.

The hallway was a cross between homeliness and functionality: rugs and ornaments versus cork noticeboards and small filing cabinets.

Larkin looked down the hall, catching a glimpse of a kitchen. Again the pattern was the same; comforting chairs and tables with commercial-sized stainless steel cooking utensils. It was as if the place was trying to be a home but doing so on an institutional level.

He also caught a glimpse of the cyclist in the kitchen – a fleeting look at the back of the man's right shoulder. No help whatsoever, just that vague niggle. He filed it away and followed their crop-headed host.