Candleland (3 page)

Larkin shook his head. “Not any more.”

Andy laughed. “You're lucky you've got me to look after you, you know that? You wouldn't last five fuckin' minutes on your own.” He put his mug on the floor. “I'm comin' with you.”

Larkin did a double take. “I don't think Moir –”

“I don't care.” Andy looked straight at Larkin. “You need someone who knows the ins an' outs,” he said, his south London accent thickening up. “Someone with a place to stay. An' one that you'll really love, I might add. In short, you need me.”

“Aren't you busy at the moment?”

“Nothing that can't wait. When're we goin?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Larkin smiled. “I'll talk to Moir first.”

“Good,” said Andy smiling, “but I'm comin'. We're a team, you an' me. They can't break up a winnin' act like us.”

“That's what they said about the Spice Girls.” Larkin looked at his mug. “Any chance of a refill? This is cold.”

“No chance.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's Sunday lunchtime, the hangover's gone and the pubs are open. An' whether you think you belong here or not, that's where we're goin'.”

They didn't get far from Andy's quayside flat, round the corner to the Crown Pasada. They had made their way through the anoraked hordes thronging the quayside, searching vainly through stalls chocca with cheap imports, looking for the Holy Grail of bargains, knowing it didn't exist, but enjoying the process because it filled in the day's hours.

The Crown was a poky little pub, unwilling and unlikely to attract the Sunday strollers. Dark wooden booths gave it the feel of a Catholic confessional. Tobacco-stained walls and a high ceiling lent it an almost grave formality.

“Well,” said Andy, as they installed themselves and their pints in a booth, “this is all a bit sudden, ain't it?”

Larkin nodded absently in reply.

Andy frowned. “So what made you drop everythin' and up sticks just 'cos Henry asked you to?”

“He's a mate,” Larkin replied quickly. “He needs help.”

“So you, who haven't lived in London for years, or spoken to anyone from there in years, go runnin'? Yeah right.” Andy leaned forward. “What's the real deal?”

Larkin started to speak, but hesitated. Andy's perception could still surprise him. He sighed. “I don't know, Andy. I've been having … doubts.”

Andy took a mouthful of beer and sat back, listening, settled in for a long haul. “Yeah?” he offered.

“Yeah,” said Larkin, a difficult look on his face. “Not the actual work itself, that's fine. No, just what comes with it.” He took a swig of beer. “I'm unhappy about that.”

Andy laughed. “What you on about? That's nothin' new, you're always fuckin' miserable. You can make Radiohead sound like Ken Dodd, you can mate.”

Larkin managed a smile. “Piss off, Andy.” His face became serious. “No, I think I know what it is. And I think maybe that's why I said yes to Moir so quickly.” He took another mouthful and said nothing.

Andy looked at him. “You gonna tell me then, or you gonna be a man of mystery still?”

Larkin smiled, slightly. “I'm scared, Andy. That's all it is. Scared of success.”

Andy sat back, nodded. He knew where this was leading.

“Last time my work made waves I lost Sophie and Joe. I'm just worried history will repeat itself.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” replied Andy, “but it's different this time. You're goin' in with your eyes open. Older an' wiser, mate.”

Larkin gave a weak smile. “I know, but once you start thinking these things, it's a bugger to stop.”

“So how d'you think goin' to London is gonna help?”

“I don't know, Andy. I mean, I want to help Moir, but I think I've still got some ghosts down there. Maybe I can finally lay them to rest and get on with things up here.” He straightened his back, looked around. “Anyway,” he said, aiming for levity, “It's nothing to worry about. Something for me to sort out myself. But not now.” He picked up his pint, drank deep. “Let's talk about something else. You've got better things to do than sit here all day listening to a miserable twat like me moaning on.”

“You're right,” said Andy. “I do.”

They both smiled, and started to talk: work, music, football, films – subjects that can seem inconsequential and superficial, but in reality are shared experiences, affirmations of connection. Larkin was glad of the conversation. Eventually, though, they then lapsed into silence, just drinking. Eventually Andy spoke.

“You reckon we'll find 'er?” he asked, his voice solemn.

“Truth?” Larkin replied. “I doubt it. Not in a city the size of London. Not if she doesn't want to be found. That's if she's still –” He didn't finish his sentence.

“Yeah,” said Andy sadly, mentally finishing it for him. “Poor Henry.”

“Aye,” said Larkin, “I can't see a happy ending to this one.”

Tying up and casting off. That's what the next two days had involved for Larkin. He informed Jo that he was going to London indefinitely. She took the news stoically. They'd met when she had taken Larkin home one night after he'd found himself on an accidental solo bender in the pub where she worked. It wasn't a deep relationship, and they both knew it never would be. It was based on mutual physical need. Sex and virtually nothing more. She was almost as emotionally scarred as he was and told him she didn't want commitment either. He had chosen to believe her.

Telling her had been easy. He imagined she'd heard similar before. She even offered him one last fuck – for friendship, for old times' sake. He refused. As he walked away he'd felt guilty at the way he'd just used her to fill the gaps in his life, but comforted himself with the thought that she said she'd been doing the same thing. But he also felt a twist of self-disgust, because he knew he'd really wanted to take her up on her offer.

After that it had been Bolland's turn for a visit. The boss of the news agency Larkin freelanced for sat impassively while Larkin explained where he and Andy were going. When he asked how long Larkin was planning on being away, the only answer he received was a shrug. Bolland got the picture. He told Larkin that if he didn't hurry back, there might not be a job for him at all. Larkin nodded and left.

He was ready to leave Newcastle.

Teardrops, the third track, was just coming to an end. Larkin shifted in his seat and looked out of the window. There was a power station somewhere at the bottom of Yorkshire, and since his first trip to London by road Larkin had regarded that as the border between North and South.

Its huge towers belched noxious smoke that enveloped you in a toxic cloud. He had taken that to be symbolic: the North gripping you in its clutches, throwing up a forcefield from which you had to break free if you wanted to progress with your journey.

Larkin had always thought that but now, as he stared out at bare fields, barren hedges and denuded trees, all rendered bleak by the unrelenting stranglehold of late winter, flowing past the car like some looped cinematic back projection, he realised he didn't know whether they'd passed it or not. He didn't know if he was North, South or wherever. He hadn't a clue where he was.

By the time they'd reached south London the city had hit Larkin with the force of a baseball bat. The years fell away quickly and he began to pick up the vibe of the place once again, his body tingling as he re-attuned himself to the sounds, the rhythms. Elegant, angular cadences; the gritty poetry of the streets. It was a city like no other and he had to admit he was, just at that moment, excited to be back.

He knew the euphoria would soon wear off, though, and he would begin to see the city as it really was. Just a huge, pounding heart. Neither good nor bad, just raw, alive, throbbing. Unfortunately its arteries were currently blocked. The roads were gridlocked – cars moving only occasionally and sluggishly like mud down a bankside in the rain. The pavements were equally gridlocked – pedestrians internalising their rage, struggling to hold on to their own space. Larkin remembered that people didn't walk in London, they engaged in a perambulatory turf war measured in millimetres. Newcastle, although a busy, bustling city in its own right, still had the feel of a market town compared to this. Welcome back, Larkin. Whatever you wanted to make of it.

Andy, who came down to London more regularly than Larkin, was unfazed by being back. He drove like a native son, throwing the car down sidestreets and rat-runs as if he was still intent on proving his local knowledge to the other two, showing off driving skills he seemed to have learned from Seventies cop shows. The perfect London driver.

“Careful,” said Larkin as Andy had just narrowly won a game of chicken with an oncoming Mondeo down a double-parked street in Kennington. “This is my new car, remember.”

“Don't worry mate,” said Andy, his road concentration up to video game standard, “all the time I've been driving in London I've never had an accident.”

“No,” replied Larkin, “but I bet you've seen plenty.”

Andy opened his mouth to give a retort, but the sudden appearance of a skateboarding teenager forced him into some fancy manoeuvring. The car's pitch and roll elicited a groan and a grumble from the back seat.

“Now look what you've done,” said Larkin. “The Kraken wakes.”

“Nearly there, mate,” Andy cabbied over his shoulder to the slowly rousing Moir. “No worries.”

The policeman ignored him and looked out the window only half awake, numbly taking in the sights as if he'd been drugged, kidnapped and woken up in a foreign continent.

Twenty minutes later the car was pulling up at its destination; one in a street of large houses. Victorian or Edwardian, blonde brick, three storeys high with original sash windows and stained, leaded door inserts. It was situated opposite a block of Sixties flats in what Larkin took to be quite an affluent area behind Clapham North tube station.

“Nice place,” said Larkin, meaning it.

“Thanks,” Andy replied, an air of pride in his voice.

Getting out of the car, Larkin was still slightly mystified. Andy hadn't told them who they'd be staying with or who owned the house. Larkin had asked him but he wouldn't give a straight answer. He tried again.

“You'll see,” was the only answer he received.

Moir came round enough to swing himself out of the car and make his way to the house while Larkin took the bags from the boot. Larkin saw the front door being opened by a female figure who hugged Andy and kissed him on the cheek, then beckoned the others in.

The woman, Larkin noticed as he got nearer, was in her mid to late forties, possibly, since the only indicator of age was the slight collection of lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her long, hennaed hair was pulled from her face, falling down her back. The velvet scoop-necked top and long, flowing batik skirt showed off her firm, full figure. She looked like the kind who had been pretty as a girl and had matured into a deeply attractive woman. Even Moir, who a moment ago had been comatose, was taking interest.

“Hi,” she smiled, extending her hand, “I'm Faye.”

“Stephen Larkin.”

“I thought so. I've heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” Larkin was taken aback. “Andy's never mentioned you before.”

Her smile became wry. “I doubt he would. Come in.”

Larkin entered. The hall was large and tall, with a wide staircase going up to the first floor. What appeared to be a study was on the right and old panelled doors led off to the main downstairs rooms on the left. Under the stairs was another door, presumably leading to the cellar, Larkin surmised, and beyond that, the kitchen. As far as Larkin could tell, the house had all its original features with anything additional in keeping. This hadn't been done in an obvious, heritage way, just a comfortable functional, homely way.

“Come through,” said Faye over her shoulder as she entered the kitchen. “Leave the bags, we'll sort them in a while.” Moir shut the front door and they all followed Faye.

The kitchen, with its centrally placed, old, scarred pine table, cooker and dressers, seemed, on first glance, the obvious heart of the house. On the stove were steaming pots.

“I thought you boys would be hungry after such a long trip. Sit yourselves down.”

“Thanks,” said Larkin. “You've gone to a lot of trouble.”

“No trouble,” replied Faye. She gave a quick, bright smile. Maybe too quick. “Nice to have people in the house. Someone to cook for. Sort that out, Andy.” She handed him a corkscrew and he trotted over to the wine rack, selected a couple of reds, found glasses, opened and poured.

“Cheers,” said Faye. Larkin and Moir mumbled in response, Andy replied loudly, “Cheers, yourself.”

“I hope you all find what you're looking for.” She drank, they followed.

Larkin and Moir sat down, Larkin looking at him. All the life seemed to have been drained from the man. Moir stared at the table, not so much avoiding eye contact as oblivious to it.

Poor bastard, thought Larkin. Now that you're here you don't know if you want answers or not. Or even if you'll find them. Then an unbidden thought came into Larkin's head: Neither do I. He took another slug of wine, shook his head. One thing at a time, he thought, one thing at a time.

Faye then went on to tell them to treat her house as their own, and that they were welcome to stay as long as they liked. “As long as it takes,” she said. “As I said, it's nice to have the company.” They thanked her, solemnly.

The meal was served – pasta, meatballs, salad – and they all ate and drank heartily, like hungry, condemned men. Conversation was light, superficial and strained, Moir casting a massive, inhibiting shadow.