Candleland (8 page)

They sat in silence. Larkin couldn't think of a single thing to say.

“Thanks for today,” said Moir eventually, his voice too small for his frame. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Larkin replied. He stood up. Placed his hand on Moir's shoulder. “There's some food downstairs for you if you want it.”

“Aye, I'll be down in a wee while.”

Larkin nodded and left the room.

The dinner consisted of tasty, plentiful food and strained conviviality. Afterwards, while the men were complimenting Faye on her food, she picked up her glass of wine and announced, “Don't expect me to cook, clean and look after you every day, you know. You're big enough to fend for yourselves.” With that she walked into the front room and sat down. Andy threw a tea towel to Moir, who regarded it with the same familiarity he would a piece of Mayan sculpture. The two men set about clearing up the kitchen.

Larkin, finding himself surplus to requirements, took his own glass of wine and joined Faye in the front room. He found her on the sofa and sat at the opposite end, leaving a large distance between them.

“You OK?” Larkin asked.

“I am. But I won't be if you keep asking me that.”

They both laughed, then fell silent.

“How's Henry been today?” asked Larkin.

“Still the same, I think,” she replied without turning round. “He went for a walk earlier over the Common. I made him have a bath and put his clothes in the wash. You wouldn't have believed the state they were in.”

“I would.”

She laughed. “Of course you would, you're a man.” She took a drink. “Look, I've got the day off tomorrow. I'll see if he wants to go out somewhere, do something. Might take his mind off things.”

“Thanks. That would be good.”

They both fell silent again, drinking their wine, trying to feel comfortable with the space between them. Eventually conversation started up, but nothing important. Microscopic rather than small talk, but any communication was better than none at all.

The evening slipped slowly away. Moir and Andy came into the room and they all sat drinking, watching TV. A biting wind lashed the rain against the window, and the four of them sat, bruised, damaged, but still hanging in there. The house kept them sheltered and safe from the suicidal February outside, while they wished for a similar kind of thing within themselves.

The next morning found Larkin again in the cafe, coat collar up, tabloids spread in front of him, mug of coffee at his side. Upon entering he had been surprised to discover not Rayman behind the counter but a surly young black guy.

“You waitin' for Rayman?” the man asked.

Larkin answered that he was.

“Sit there.” The man gestured to a table. “He be here soon.”

Larkin had done as he was told, and sat there, waiting. He had thought of sitting at another table other than the one the man had specified, just to annoy him, but didn't think it was worth it. The man had just stared at him and stood in front of the doorway to the back of the kitchen, arms folded. He looked more like a sentry than a cafe worker, thought Larkin. His build showed he could handle himself, the faint scars on his face showed he had handled himself, and the bulge in his jacket pocket looked too heavy to be a mobile phone.

Larkin swallowed hard. The coffee seemed to be going down in lumps. He didn't quite know what he was getting into and he still had time to back out. He could just get up and walk away, and that would be that. Instead he stayed where he was and tried to read his paper. Waiting for Rayman to arrive.

About fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Rayman entered.

“Hey, my man Larkin! I knew you'd show.”

Larkin turned. The man who had spoken bore only a passing resemblance to the cafe owner he'd met yesterday. This man looked like Rayman's flashy twin brother. He was dressed in a long leather coat, buttoned up, with only the top of a roll-neck sweater showing. All in black. He exuded confidence and focus, with a dangerous kind of swagger. Larkin's doubts had grown from chrysalis stage to full-blown butterflies.

“Hello Rayman,” Larkin croaked.

“You didn't disappoint me. Good.” He walked towards the back of the cafe and said over his shoulder, “Come on, white boy, we got work to do.”

Larkin dumbly followed, the young guy following him. That was it, he was in now.

Once past the bead curtain, he found the back room had a kitchen area where food was prepared and stored, a table and chairs, and some weighing and measuring equipment shelved on one side. Larkin knew immediately what that was. He pointed towards it.

“You still dealing, Rayman?”

“Sure am, man. Can't make a livin' servin' up slop round these parts.” His amiable Jamaican accent had been replaced by a much harder East London one. “You met Kwesi, my lieutenant?”

The young guy gave an imperceptible nod.

“We met,” said Larkin.

Rayman smiled. “His mother named him Winston but he named himself Kwesi. Wanted something African, take him back to his roots even though he lived all his life round here. Isn't that right, Tottenham boy?”

Kwesi said nothing, just stood impassively. Rayman let out a harsh cackle.

What the fuck have I got myself into? thought Larkin.

“We not messin' about, this is what we do,” said Rayman sitting at the table. Kwesi sat also. Larkin followed suit. “You go to the door of the crack house.” He pointed at Larkin. “An' say Lonnie sent you. That's important. Lonnie.”

“Who's Lonnie?” asked Larkin.

Rayman smiled. “Some junkie. OD'd over there. They'll know. Just sound like you're a junkie, moan a bit. Tell them you're desperate. Sound convincing, they let you in. When you're in there, ask them about the Scottish girl you're lookin' for.” Rayman sat back looking pleased with himself.

“That's it?” said Larkin.

“You think it won't work?” asked Rayman with a twinkle in his eye. He sat back, turned to Kwesi. “White boy don't trust Rayman! Don't think he can cut it no more!” He leaned forward again. “Then you better take this.” He snapped his fingers. Kwesi produced an automatic from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table in front of Larkin. “Take this.” Rayman's eyes were as cold as the gun. “They won't argue with that.”

Larkin sat back in disbelief. “Sorry guys,” he said, “I think you're confusing me with Bruce Willis. I'm a journalist not a gunslinger.” He tried to laugh but the sound died in his throat.

Rayman became deadly serious. “You want the girl? You do as I say.”

Larkin looked from one to the other. Two stone faces stared back at him. It was too late to walk out now. He reached across and picked up the gun. It felt heavy in his hand, cold, powerful. He could see why some people thought it was an easy way to respect. He pocketed it. “Now what?”

Rayman gave a chilling smile. In the kitchen's half-light he looked like a devil who'd sweet-talked a soul into Hell.

“Now we do it,” he said.

Larkin walked from the cafe to the crack house, watching the street all the time. He could feel Rayman's eyes on him without looking back. The weight of the gun was dragging at his side, and that's where he wanted it to stay. When he reached the steel door he banged on it. No reply. He banged harder, hurting his knuckles in the process. A speaker phone by the side of the door spoke to him.

“Yeah,” said a suspicious, monosyllabic voice.

“Here we go,” Larkin thought. “Oh, man …” he drawled in his best East London druggie drawl, “I need some gear, man …”

“Whosis,” said the voice, too flat to be considered a question.

A bad Keith Richards impersonator, thought Larkin to himself. “It's Stevie, man …”

No reply.

“Lonnie sent me …”

“Lonnie,” said the voice, almost betraying curiosity.

“Yeah, I think it was Lonnie … think that's what he said … “Larkin let his voice deliberately trail off. The speaker phone fell silent. What else could he say to persuade them? “Come on, man, I got cash …”

“Waitaminnit,” the door said, and lapsed into silence.

Larkin stood there for what seemed like a small eternity until he eventually heard the sounds of bolts being withdrawn and locks released, then the door opened a crack.

“In,” said the voice. Larkin entered.

The place was a tip. Old, ripped sofas on threadbare carpet, a scarred coffee table covered in junk food containers and gear. Coke can pipes, lighters, spoons. All illuminated by a bare, overhead bulb. The one incongruity was in the far corner, a brand new-top-of-the-range TV and video with an expensive-looking CD system beside it.

The guy who'd let Larkin in was wearing oversized jeans, box white trainers and a T-shirt. He was white, or rather his race was Caucasian, since he looked and smelt like he was a stranger to soap and water. He was also, Larkin reckoned, not much older than eleven or twelve. The way he glanced suspiciously over Larkin's shoulder told him there was no one else in. He began to eye Larkin suspiciously.

“Who you?” he asked, slamming the door and nervously fingering the back of his jeans waistband.

Gun, thought Larkin, better move quickly.

“I want to talk to you about someone who used to live here,” he said in as calm a voice as possible.

“You're not after gear!” the kid shouted. His hand went for his belt but Larkin was on him. He grabbed the kid and shoved him against the wall, keeping his right arm firmly across the kid's neck. With his left hand he grabbed the gun from the kid's waistband and pointed it at his face. The kid, cockiness now gone, suddenly resembled the scared child he was.

“Now look,” Larkin began in his most reasonable voice, “I don't want to hurt you. I'm not the law, I just want some answers to a few questions, then I'm gone, OK?”

The kid nodded hurriedly.

“Good,” said Larkin. “Now go and sit over there.” He gestured to the sofa. The kid, once released from Larkin's grip, moved shakily towards it and sat down.

The gun felt unpleasant and alien in Larkin's left fist and he didn't like having to do it, but he continued to point it because that was the way the kid had made the play. It may be the only way to make him understand, thought Larkin sadly. Using the gun confirmed his earlier thoughts about it. It did give him a thrill, but also a feeling of disgust. He wanted this over with as quickly as possible.

“There used to be a girl who lived here. Karen. Scottish accent. Remember?”

The kid shook his head.

“Thought not,” said Larkin. “You probably weren't born then. What's your name?”

“Karl.”

“OK Karl,” said Larkin. “Think harder. A girl called Karen. Scottish. Yes?”

“You'll have to ask Theo,” muttered Karl, his head aimed at the floor.

“And who's Theo?” asked Larkin.

Suddenly he heard the sound of a key in a lock and turned towards the front door. It opened and there stood the huge, mixed race-guy with the pit bull that Larkin had seen the day before. He was still dressed for a summer's day, still exposing skin. It was hard to tell who looked the fiercest.

“Theo!” shouted Karl, relief all over his face.

That answers one question, thought Larkin.

Theo ignored Karl and stared straight at Larkin. “You'd better have a good reason for bustin' into my house, you motherfucker, or you're dog-meat.”

Oh fuck, thought Larkin.

Larkin knew he had to think quickly and act even faster. Weighing up his options he swung the gun on to the dog.

“That bastard comes near me and
he's
dogmeat,” he snarled, with a toughness he didn't feel.

Theo and the pit bull stopped in their tracks.

“Sit over there.” Larkin gestured to where Karl was. Theo, eyes burning with anger and hatred, perched himself on the edge of the worn-out sofa, body erect, like a firework waiting to explode. The dog stood beside him, eyes never leaving Larkin.

“You're makin' a big mistake, man,” said Theo.

“We'll see,” Larkin replied. “Now that I've got your attention, though, I want to ask a couple of questions. Karl says you're the man with the answers, Theo.”

Theo stared at Karl, mentally snapping the boy's bones. Karl looked from one to the other, not knowing who to be the most scared of.

“I'm sorry, man,” Karl was almost in tears. “He said he was a friend of Lonnie's …”

Theo looked sharply at him, as if he'd been slapped. Then gradually, a look of slow understanding crept over his features. He sat back, relaxing slightly. A bitter smile curled the edges of his lips and he managed to dredge up a short phlegmy laugh.

“Fuckin' Rayman,” he said.

Larkin was taken aback. “What?”

“You're from him, ain'tcha? He put you up to this, fuckin' foolish old cunt.” Theo's confidence seemed to be rising with every word. He puffed his chest out, rippling his pecs in the process.

Larkin was thoroughly confused. This wasn't what he had expected. He tried not to let it show, though, since he was still the one with the gun, the one in control. But not for long if he didn't do something about it.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” spat Larkin.

“Yeah you do,” Theo replied. “Rayman. He's doin' it again. I bet he gave you some bullshit, got you riled up, stuck a shooter in your hand an' sent you here.” He sneered at Larkin. “What he do? Give you his poor old Jamaican shit? You been 'ad, man.”

Despite the gun, Larkin felt his grip on the situation slipping. He gave it one last go. “I don't give a fuck about that. Just tell me about the girl. She was Scottish. Name of Karen.”

“I din't have no Scotch girl. You got the wrong man.”

Theo sat, arms folded, thinking he was in charge now. Larkin decided something drastic was needed to refresh his memory. He pointed the gun at the floor between Theo's feet and fired.