Candleland (25 page)

Mickey passed him a glass. “Your turn tonight,” he said.

“Thought I might get out of that,” said Larkin.

“There's this bookshop in Paris,” said Mickey, “that lets you stay there if you're travelling an' you're skint. All the owner asks is that you tell him your life story. We're like that here.”

“Well,” said Larkin, taking a large gulp of whisky, “I suppose you could say things are either pre or post your mate downstairs.”

“You mean Ralph?”

“Right.” Larkin started from the begining. His working-class upbringing in the North East, his politicisation by his left-wing father. His brief stay at college, his early writing career, taking fuel and inspiration from the punk movement. “I tried the approach they had to music with investigative journalism. You know: destroy, destabilise, bring down the government. That sort of thing. Or at least make people think.” He laughed regretfully. “It didn't work, of course, but I attracted the attention of people in London with a large chequebook, and off I went.”

“Were you sellin' out?” asked Mickey. “Is that how it felt?”

“Not immediately. This was the Eighties, Thatcher and all that. I couldn't wait to have a go at her on as broad a canvas as I'd been given. Not that it mattered in the long run.”

“And then you did your piece on Ralph?”

Larkin thought for a moment, deciding how much to reveal. Mickey had been straight with him, he would do the same in return. So he took a gulp of whisky and explained how he became a victim of his own success, the kind of person he was supposed to hate. Shallow, vain, obsessed by money. Coked out of his brains most of the time, more concerned with being seen at the right parties than writing. He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I was a monster. I was the enemy.”

He stopped talking, lost in the past. Mickey said nothing, just sat in silent encouragement.

“But,” said Larkin, continuing, “I still kept writing. If not biting the hand that fed me, then taking little nips at it.”

“And you were married by this time, yeah?”

“Yeah. Sophie was a model. She was so beautiful I couldn't believe she was interested in some working-class kid like me. So I married her. Course, everyone said she only ever wanted me for my money, but I didn't believe them.” He sighed. “Now we'll never know.”

He knocked back the whisky, poured another one.

“And then there was little Joe. My son. And I thought I was having it all. Wife, kid, hugely successful career, as much booze and drugs as I wanted, women lining up to shag me. Ah yes, the world and its legs were open to me and I just dived right in.”

Larkin stopped for another drink. His hands were trembling. He felt his words were leaving him naked, exposed. He could stop, of course, but he didn't want to. He had to tell all the story, exorcise the ghosts.

“And then there was Sickert,” he said.

Mickey nodded. He knew that part. “And afterwards?”

“Afterwards?” Larkin gave a small, joyless, snort. “I fell apart. Completely. Guilt moved in and never moved out. I saw things as they really had been. I'd been a bad husband to Sophie and she was well pissed off with my behaviour by this time. I'd been a crap father to Joe, hardly ever saw him, just stuck him with whichever nanny was working for us that week. And I'd been bad to myself. The booze was taking a toll, the coke was a serious problem. And I'd betrayed my work. My vision.”

“So what did you do?”

“Nothing,” spat Larkin. “I just let the guilt do its thing. I thought of all the things I'd done wrong, the betrayals I'd made and where they'd got me. Then the guilt turned to self-pity, the self-pity to self-hatred. I hated myself. And I deserved to hate myself.” He paused and thought. “And Sickert. I fucking hated him.”

Larkin drained his glass. Still, his hands trembled. “I was like that for years. I dropped out of sight. I lost everything. And I never forgave.”

“Never forgave who?”

“Who d'you fuckin' think? Me,” said Larkin, breath juddering with emotion. “Me.”

“Is that still the same now, then?” asked Mickey in a quiet voice.

“Course not,” Larkin retorted quickly. “I'm writing again, aren't I?” he said, trying to build up confidence in his voice. He was shaking. “It's sharper, more focused than it has been for years. I'm getting a buzz from it and it's picking up attention, getting an audience. Up in Newcastle.”

“So why are you down here, then?”

“You know why,” snapped Larkin defensively. “I'm looking for Karen. I'm helping a friend.”

Mickey nodded slowly. “And what else are you looking for?”

Larkin's head shot up, eyes wet and red-rimmed. “Nothing! I'm not looking for fucking anything! What you on about?”

“Is there something you're trying to get away from, then?” asked Mickey quietly.

Larkin put his head down again, sat hunched in silence. Eventually his shoulders and chest began to heave spasmodically. He was crying.

Mickey Falco made no attempt to interfere. He just sat watching, empathising. Silent.

“Oh God,” said Larkin eventually, his voice hushed and choked, “I'm really scared …” He was acknowledging something for the first time.

Mickey said nothing.

“It could all turn to shit again …” said Larkin. “Look what happened last time …”

“You're afraid of the future, of committing yourself to anything,” said Mickey eventually, his voice full of quiet authority. “Because you won't let go of the past, yeah?”

“Don't,” said Larkin, quietly.

“You can't stop blaming yourself for what happened to Sophie and Joe? And if you do, try and move on, you'll feel like you're dishonouring their memory, is that it?”

“Leave it,” Larkin said, head still down, voice getting louder.

“We can all change,” said Mickey softly, “we can all let go. Reinvent ourselves. But it takes guts to do that. You have to want to do it. And you wouldn't be dishonouring their memory. You'd just be breaking free –”

“Well that sounds fucking lovely, Mickey,” snarled Larkin, voice trembling. “But that's easy for you to say.”

“Yeah,” said Mickey, his voice sharpening, “it is easy to say. But it's bloody difficult to do. I know, I've done it. I've changed my whole life.”

“Good for you.”

“Yeah, good for me.” Mickey sat forward. “And there were people in my past, victims of my former life, that I've wronged. But I've just got to forgive and move on. It's not easy. But it can be done.”

Larkin sat in silence, head bowed.

Mickey opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then decided to continue. “Look at Ralph.”

Larkin's head shot up, eyes burning.

Mickey continued. “He knows what he did was wrong. He's accepted that. But he's trying to change.”

“So he says,” spat Larkin.

“And we have to believe it,” replied Mickey softly. “Take the other night. He saved your life.”

Larkin stood up. “So what? So fucking what? He saved mine, took two away from me. Does that make us even?”

“He could have left you where you were,” continued Mickey, quietly. “He had every right to, considering what you did to him the other day. How you messed up his face. But he chose to help you.”

Larkin paced round the room. It was small, he soon realised he had nowhere to go. “Big fucking deal. You want me to stop feeling the way I do just cause of that?”

No,” said Mickey. “I just want to show you that people can change. Ralph says he's found faith, that he's making a new start. We have to take him at his word, give him a chance. Like someone did with me.”

Larkin sat down. “Like you think I can do with myself, is that what you mean?”

“Yeah.”

Larkin bowed his head, not wanting to make eye contact with Mickey. “It's time you went, Mickey. I don't want to talk any more.”

Mickey stood up, slowly made his way to the door, and left.

Larkin sat on the bed, poured himself another whisky. His hands were still trembling. He took a big mouthful, swallowed and felt the liquid burn.

Mickey's words had left him feeling angry and confused. He clasped and unclasped his still-shaking fists. He took another mouthful and sighed. It was late, but he didn't feel like going to sleep.

Then he noticed something. He wasn't crying anymore.

Larkin didn't see Mickey Falco the next day. He stayed in his room not speaking, not reading. Just thinking.

The day after that there was a knock at the door. Mickey Falco.

“How you doin'?” he asked, limping into the room.

“Fine,” replied Larkin.

“Body healin' all right?”

“Yeah,” said Larkin.

Mickey nodded, pointed to his head. “What about up here?”

“We'll see.”

Mickey gave a small smile. “Good. Well, in that case” he said, looking round the room, “I think you're well enough now.”

Larkin looked at him. “For what?”

“Some answers,” said Mickey.

Larkin sat there expectantly.

“Well don't just sit there,” said Mickey. “Get your coat on.”

“Where we going?” asked Larkin.

“To see Karen,” stated Mickey simply. “She's waiting to meet you.”

Larkin was speechless.

Mickey smiled. “Come on,” he said. “Let's not keep the lady waiting.”

Larkin, dressed in his new olive-green cargo pants, black box-cut sweatshirt, boots and fleece, walked down the stairs of Candleland, out into the street, and was escorted by Mickey Falco into the back of a waiting Transit, where another piece of apparel was added to his body.

“Sorry about this,” the man said, tying a blindfold round Larkin's eyes and slipping an old sack over his head. “It's not that we don't trust you, we just wouldn't want you having knowledge someone else could get at.”

Larkin shook his head and said nothing. The bag smelt strongly of old root vegetables, mildew and dirt.

“Off you go then, mate,” said Mickey.

Larkin heard him leave the van, close the door, bang the side. The van sped off.

For the first couple of street turnings, Larkin tried to use his limited knowledge of Hackney to keep track of his route, but it was no use. The van was turning, left, then right, then left, going flat out on some stretches, crawling on others. Street sounds filtered in, music from hip hop to indie, cars revving, tooting, screeching, voices raised in anger and laughter. He had no idea where he was, no clue to his direction. He was a passenger in every sense.

Suddenly, the van came to a halt. Larkin had no idea where he was or how long he had sat there. The door was opened and he was pulled out. The hands were neither rough nor gentle, just proficient. He was walked through a door and down a flight of steps, directed to a chair and forced to sit. He heard the sound of footsteps retreating up stairs then a door slam shut. Then nothing. He sat in silence as well as darkness.

“You can take that bag off your head now,” a female voice said eventually.

Larkin did so, slipping the blindfold off also. Light, artificial and bright, flooded his eyes. He snapped them shut again. Slowly, he opened them, allowing himself to become acclimatised gradually.

He was in a windowless basement room, painted completely white. Walls, ceiling and floor. On the floor were patterned Indian rugs. There was a bed, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a desk, all in blonde wood, all looking new. The bed had a patterned duvet cover and scatter cushions on it, on the desk there was a PC, hard drive and printer. A small table with a TV and video sat at the end of the bed. On the bed sat Karen Moir.

Larkin looked at her. Small and slim, her posture was erect, contained. Her hair was short, brown and slightly spiked, her clothes a white linen shirt and faded blue jeans. She sat as if deliberately posed, aiming for neutrality, but her eyes gave her away. They were large, round and haunted.

Those eyes locked on to his and didn't waver. They held more than they could express.

“Hello, Karen,” began Larkin awkwardly.

She held her stare.

“I'm Stephen Larkin.”

“I know who you are.” Her voice, Edinburgh-lilted, had a shake to it. “And I know why you're here.”

Larkin slowly nodded his head. “Good. So you know what I'm going to say to you next?”

Something flared across her haunted eyes. “Yeah. You're going to tell me how sorry my dad is, how he wants to put the past behind him. How he wants to see me.” The shiver in her voice increased. “Before it's too late.”

Larkin didn't reply. Karen sounded like she had rehearsed this moment for quite some time. He would let her have her say.

“You can tell him from me,” she said, using anger to channel and control her voice, “that I don't want to see him. I don't need his sympathy. Tell him to piss off back to Newcastle. Tell him he's too late.” Her voice faltered and cracked.

Larkin again said nothing, just reached into his pocket and brought out a card. He handed it to her.

“What's this?” she asked, taking it.

“That's in case you want to tell him yourself. It's where he's staying. And the phone number.”

She tore it in two, flinging the pieces on the bed. “You've had a wasted trip.”

Larkin sighed, leaned forward in his chair. He knew this was going to be difficult. There were questions he needed answering, things only Karen could tell him, but this was his main reason for looking for her. The rest would have to wait.

“Listen,” he said, “I don't think you'd have gone to all this trouble, all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, just to tell me to piss off.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yeah,” said Larkin. “That's a fact. And I'll tell you something else.” He was starting to get annoyed now. “I haven't come all this way, through a whole load of shit, nearly been killed, just for you to do that. Your dad sent me. I'm here now. And we're going to talk about that.”