Different Class (50 page)

‘I’m pretty sure they were meeting here. That’s why Charlie kept coming round. But recently, he’s been trying to change, and I think that’s when things got nasty.’

In a few words I painted the scene. It actually all made sense. And finally, when Goldie looked over the side of the Pit Shaft and saw who Charlie’s abuser was – a boy from the estates, no less, a dirty Sunnybanker—

Ratboy had managed to haul himself almost out of the water by then. But the clay bank of the pit was steep, and he was too heavy with water to climb. The sticking-out tree root had broken off, and now he was trying to use his hands to dig himself a place to stand. You had to hand it to Ratboy. He was pretty tough all right.

Goldie and I looked down at him – covered in mud from head to foot, only his eyes looking out at us from behind a mask of yellow clay. If he’d said a word – just
one
– I don’t think we would have done it. But behind that mask of clay he didn’t even look human, and the sounds that were coming from his mouth – wheezing, chattering, choking sounds – didn’t sound human, either.

Goldie was watching him, mesmerized. I think he was playing it in his head, counting the possibilities. There were only two. One: we let Ratboy go, or—

‘We can’t let him go. He’s seen us,’ I said.

For a while, Goldie didn’t say anything. He was thinking hard, I could tell. But this wasn’t a piece of algebra or a Latin translation. He was out of his depth, and besides, I think he was scared of me.

I looked at the shopping trolley again. Then I looked back at Goldie.

He shook his head. ‘We can’t,’ he said.

Below us, Ratboy was climbing the pit; digging, first a hand, then a foot, into the hard and greasy clay walls. His breath came out in jagged plumes. His fingers were crabby and blue with cold.

‘We could just leave him,’ Goldie said.

‘What, after this? Don’t be a dope.’ I took his hand and placed it on one side of the trolley. The thing was heavy; heavy enough to solve all of our problems. ‘No one will ever know,’ I said. ‘Charlie thinks he did it himself. Besides, what’s one pervert more or less?’

I let that sink in for a moment. Slowly, Goldie looked at me. And then, Mousey, we counted to three, and sent the trolley down the bank, and Ratboy’s eyes went wide, just once, before he hit the water—

We waited for him to resurface. But this time, he stayed under.

After that, I just went home. Watched TV, did my homework; wrote in my St Oswald’s diary. But Mousey, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t feeling as good as I thought. It was stupid. I know it was. But unlike the rabbits, with Ratboy it didn’t feel as if my fear had found another home. Instead it had found another
voice
. Not a very loud one, but with that twang my parents hate. And that new voice stayed with me for seven whole years, Mousey, never saying very much, except the occasional
All right?
and sniffing cold air through its nose like a little animal.

But it was always in my thoughts, counting down the seconds. Like the still, small voice of God – if God was a Sunnybanker.

10

November 3rd, 2005

I’ll have to kill your brother now. I hope you don’t hold that against me. But I’m afraid he’s dangerous. He has the torn-out pages. We must get
those
back, Mousey. We don’t want anyone reading them. But it may be a good thing after all. I’ve been thinking of ending it, and this may give me the chance I need. Goldie’s no use to me any more. Look how he was over Poodle. Look how loyal he was to me. He’s always been weak. And now look – the first hint of trouble, and here he is, giving in to blackmail. And from whom? A cleaner, no less. A dirty Sunnybanker.

It doesn’t take much to kill a man. A quick push over a bridge. A blow to the back of the head. You’d think it would be like riding a bike; something you can never unlearn. And yet, getting rid of your brother is proving harder than I thought. Who could have imagined that he would be so difficult? That boy I once called Piggy, who used to cry when we drowned the rats? Of course, he isn’t fat any more. And he was never stupid. Careful, but not stupid, which is why he’s still alive.

I paid the ten thousand pounds, of course. Goldie did, too, which rankled, given how reluctantly he always pays
my
salary. As if it were some kind of charity, instead of what he owes me. But I got my pages back, and burnt them in the fireplace, which means my mind
should
be at rest – except for your brother, Mousey, who knows what happened to Ratboy, and, remembering the clay pits and the games you and I used to play there, must have a pretty good inkling of what happened to Poodle.

A month has passed since he sought me out. Since then, I’ve been making enquiries. I’ve found out quite a lot, actually. His name is B. B. Winter. I’ve seen him in the Village. He lives in White City – I know the address – with his elderly mother. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t seem to have any friends. A loner. He should have been easy. But, after our first meeting, he never met me alone again. He arranged to receive the cash in the coffee shop at our local supermarket, inside a bag of groceries. Ten thousand pounds doesn’t take too much space. And inside a jumbo carrier bag, under a loaf of bread, some eggs and a carton of milk, it all looked perfectly innocent. I ordered a pot of tea and some toast, and he handed me the pages from my diary inside what looked like a birthday card. No one would have guessed the truth, not even if they’d been sitting right next to us.

After that, there was no need for me to see him ever again. And yet – Mousey, I kept on seeing him. One day it was in the park, walking back from St Oswald’s. Another time it was in the Pink Zebra, the organic café at the edge of White City. Another time, he was driving his car, that little blue Peugeot of his, and I was on foot, and he
waved
to me. What was he
waiting
for, Mousey? Why hadn’t he left town, like he’d said?

At first, I thought of arson. But Mousey, that was too risky. Your brother keeps antisocial hours, and I couldn’t be sure he’d be asleep. Then I thought of lying in wait as he walked back through the park after work, but with Bonfire Night approaching, the park was always full of kids, and you could never be sure who would be there, or who would remember seeing you. Besides, your brother was careful. He didn’t go out after dark. He never went to the pub at weekends. If only he’d been like Poodle, I could have caught him unawares. As he went home drunk and alone, late on a Saturday night, I could have followed him to a quiet spot and dealt with him at leisure. But he was never drunk and alone, and he avoided those places. He was like one of those rats that, if you catch them and let them go, will never let you catch them again—

And then, last night, he phoned me. Just when I thought I’d never get a chance to see him alone, he called. I almost didn’t answer the phone. No one calls me late at night, except for nuisance callers. But some instinct warned me that this might just be my lucky night.

‘Hello, David. It’s me,’ he said.

I recognized his voice at once. Quiet, not too accented, with a little occasional slur suggesting he may once have stammered. I tried to sound abrupt, annoyed. But inside, I was smiling.

‘What do you want? I thought you said I’d never hear from you again.’

‘Things have changed.’

‘Oh, really?’

I heard the smile in his voice. He said: ‘You’re wondering what more I could have, now that those diary pages are gone. You know you didn’t write it down; at least, not in your diary. But you’re not new to blackmail. In fact, you’ve lived well on the proceeds.’

‘If you mean Survivors—’ I said.

‘No, not Survivors,’ said your brother.

I thought for a moment. ‘You’re bluffing,’ I said. He couldn’t know that. He
couldn’t
. I’d never told anyone about that. Not even you, Mousey.

Your brother said, ‘I’ve been watching you. More importantly, I’ve been watching your bank records. It isn’t all that difficult. All you need are a few facts, some time and some inspiration. And what I found out is that over the past fifteen years or so, you’ve been receiving regular payments from an individual living in the Village. Someone we both know, in fact. Someone who kept correspondence, some dating back a very long time.’

He might still be bluffing, I thought. My paper trail is minimal. Just one letter, written when Harry Clarke was arrested.
Could
he have kept it? And if he did, how could your brother have known what I wrote in a letter seventeen years ago?

‘My mother was a cleaner,’ he said. ‘She used to clean people’s houses. She had a dozen regulars, but she also worked at St Oswald’s. When she retired, I did the same.’ He paused, and I could hear his smile. ‘It’s funny, what old people choose to keep. Notebooks, diaries, bus tickets, letters, photographs. Things you can’t bear to throw away, but which pile up over the years, waiting for the inevitable. Most people never think about what’s going to happen when they die. Who’s going to read those letters of theirs, those notebooks, those diaries. Most people never think to destroy the things that might incriminate them. The dead are beyond embarrassment. But sometimes, something gets left behind that can affect the living.’

I tried to keep my voice level, but all the same, it wavered. I said: ‘What have you got?’

‘A letter,’ he said. ‘A letter written by you, Dave.’

I bit my lip. That letter. I think I’d always somehow known it would come back to haunt me, Mousey.

‘What do you want?’ I said at last.

Briefly, he outlined his plan. A final one-off payment, he said. Then, he’d be out of my life for good. I’d never hear from him again.

‘You must think I’m stupid,’ I said. ‘This could go on forever.’

‘No, it won’t,’ said your brother. ‘You think I want to stay here? I’ve wanted to leave this armpit of a town ever since I learnt to walk. But I need more money for that. I don’t want to have to come crawling back. Not here. Not ever.’

I thought about that for a moment. A part of me was angry and scared, but another part was grinning. Hadn’t I wanted this, after all? A chance to meet your brother alone?

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Where shall we meet?’

‘Meet me by the canal bridge, tomorrow night at nine o’clock. I’ll be driving. I’ll park on the road. You’ll be waiting on the bridge. I’ll give you the package. You’ll give me the cash. Then you wave bye-bye, and leave.’

I’d expected him to suggest a place like the café; somewhere safe. But he was getting arrogant. That was a mistake, I thought. Now he’d played into my hands. And the thought of meeting him on the bridge, in the place where Poodle had died, was too much for me to resist. At that time, there would be little risk of anyone disturbing us. He’d be alone, and vulnerable. I could take him easily. I knew from our games by the clay pits how sensitive he was to pain – or any form of violence.
Pathologically
sensitive, to the point of freezing up, of actually being unable to breathe at the sight of the mouse traps.

It was like a gift from the gods. Everything coming together at once. Unfinished business; loose ends; all the mess of the past seventeen years nicely, neatly swept away. Now I could see it, Mousey. A way of ridding myself, not of one, but two of my enemies. And all I had to do now was persuade Johnny to come and back me up, then to stand on the bridge at nine, waiting for my trap to close.

11

November 4th, 2005

I hadn’t been to Eric’s house for years: not since my mother died. And when his own mother started to show signs of encroaching dementia, I began keeping my distance, sensing that Eric wanted it so. He’d always been close to Margery; always the devoted son, and for over a decade, he’d managed to live in denial of her condition.

It had begun with the hoarding; a harmless habit at first, but which slowly became an obsession. Margery kept everything – correspondence, baby clothes, empty cigarette packs – packing them neatly into boxes, labelled in her old lady’s hand and stored, first in the cellar, then under the roof, and then in every single room in the house, stacking them against the walls. Eric had tried to clear them out, but his mother’s distress at his first attempt had ensured that there would be no second.