Candleland (2 page)

“It's a big place –”

“I know it's a fuckin' big place, you patronisin' bastard, I've been there before!”

“I know you've been there before. But you can't look for her on your own, you won't know where to look. You need someone who knows the area.”

“I'm not a fuckin' tourist!”

“I didn't say you were!” Larkin just looked at him in exasperation.

Moir caught his eye, dropped his head again and sighed. “Sorry.” He drank from his cup, hands still shaking. Larkin nodded absently.

Moir looked at him again. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot – like miniature scarlet galaxies exploding. At their corners were the beginnings of long-dammed tears. The man was unravelling before Larkin.

“That's why you wanted to meet me,” Larkin stated flatly. “You want me to come with you, show you round, right?”

Moir said nothing. He just chewed his bottom lip and slowly nodded. “Aye, but it's all right. Stupid idea. It might take days, weeks, I don't know. You've got your own life here. You can't just walk away from that.”

Larkin didn't reply.

“Anyway,” said Moir, his voice lightening falsely, “I hear you've got a new woman, that right?”

“Yeah.”

“What's her name?”

Larkin knew Moir was trying to make him feel as if he could cope on his own, erecting barriers, too proud to ask outright for help. Larkin played along. “Jo. She works at The Bridge.”

“Barmaid, eh? Free drinks. You don't want tae give that up, eh?” Moir gave a small, unconvincing laugh. “You've got your job, too. Still with Bolland?”

“For the time being.”

Moir took another swig. “Aye. Stupid idea, see. You've got your own life. Shouldn't have asked you to meet me. You don't need to get involved in my problems.” He looked into his polystyrene cup, trying to convince himself.

“I haven't lived there for a long time, Henry. London. The lay of the land's probably changed.”

“There you are, see?” said Moir with desperate joviality. “You won't know your way around either.”

“I didn't say that, Henry. I said my knowledge might be a bit rusty. You'll have to be prepared for that.”

“What d'you mean?”

“I'm coming with you.”

The first sign of hope appeared across Moir's features. “But –”

“No arguments. Count me in. Just let me sort some things out and I'll be with you.” He stood up to go, looking at the lightening sky. “Going to be cloudy today.”

Moir gave a snort. “It's cloudy every fuckin' day. You've got to make the most of the sunny spells because you know they won't last.”

Larkin began to move away. He didn't want to hear Moir's gratitude. It was difficult enough for the big man to ask.

“Listen, er …”

Larkin turned. Too late. Moir was standing now, his eyes imploring, his mouth twitching inarticulately. “Yeah?”

Moir seemed on the verge of saying something important, but he couldn't quite take those last few steps. Instead he sat back down on the bench. “I'll see you later,” he mumbled.

Larkin nodded and began to walk. Reaching the road he paused and looked back. Moir was still in the same position on the bench, drinking. But now he'd dispensed with the cup and the tea and was drinking straight from the bottle.

He should wait until the Cathedral opens, thought Larkin. Then he could go inside and say a prayer to St Jude. An obscure but relevant saint. The patron saint of hopeless causes.

Three days after Larkin's early morning meeting with Moir, he found himself in the passenger seat of his Saab 900 with the policeman at full stretch on the back seat and Andy Brennan in the driving seat, travelling down the Al. The Saab was new – or new to Larkin at any rate – an early Nineties black soft-top in the classic Saab shape: a Giger-designed bathtub. Larkin loved the car and had happily traded in his Golf for it.

The three men had started the journey with only the most cursory of small talk – Moir making it quite clear that Andy was there only on the greatest of sufferance, because he had promised them wonderful accommodation at a house he knew in Clapham – and had soon lapsed into silence. None of them was looking forward to the trip.

Larkin glanced over his shoulder. Moir was asleep, his mouth wide open.

“He gone?” asked Andy.

“Spark out,” Larkin replied.

“Not surprised, poor bastard,” said Andy. He rummaged about in the glove box, his eyes darting between that and the road, until he found a tape he could listen to.

“Stick it on but don't wake him,” said Larkin.

“More than my life's worth to get on the wrong side of him, innit? The way he thinks of me,” Andy replied with a smile. He looked through the tapes he found, tossing one after another back into the glove box. “All this shit you listen to, it's a struggle to find anythin' decent. Look at this,” he said rummaging, “The Smiths … The Pixies … Husker Du – Husker Du? Who the fuck were they?”

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 then 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?”