Little Triggers (15 page)

“Come here, you fucker!” screamed Larkin, and swung his club again.

The intruder side-stepped in time to miss the blow, but lost his footing at the top of the stairs. All it took was a judiciously placed kick under the ribs – with which Larkin obliged – and the man went tumbling, coming to rest in a broken heap on the curve of the stairs.

“You want some more? Eh?” shouted Larkin, rage and adrenalin winning out over terror.

He took one step down the stairs towards the prone body. Then he felt a sudden sharp weight in his back that threw him off-balance and propelled him down towards the intruder.

As he landed on top of the man, chair-leg flying from his hands, Larkin turned to see a similarly black-garbed figure start quickly down the stairs towards him. He just had time to stick out his right hand in an effort to block the kick that the second man aimed at his head. It connected: the pain, like an electric shock, coursed through the tender skin of his palm, bringing with it an unpleasant reminder of an old injury. Larkin immediately retracted his hand.

The second intruder aimed another kick; Larkin was expecting it this time. He made a grab for the kicker’s leg – using both hands – and didn’t let go.

The man tried to shake him off, but Larkin held on, grabbing his shin in one hand and booted foot in the other. The man reached down, first to remove Larkin’s hands then, when he found they wouldn’t budge, gripping Larkin round the throat and squeezing as hard as possible. Larkin felt his windpipe contract as air abruptly ceased to enter his body. He knew his brain was losing oxygen; he started to blink. It was no good; he couldn’t blink away the gathering patches of darkness that clouded his vision, like black ink dropped on his eyes in thickening quantities. There was only one thing he could do. He gathered all his remaining strength, forced it into his hands, and gave the lower half of his strangler’s leg a vicious, prolonged twist.

Suddenly, Larkin felt the grip round his throat begin to slacken. He heard a sound like a ratchet being tightened and knew that he had done some damage to the man’s knee; the scream confirmed it. Larkin gave an almighty heave, and the man lost his balance and toppled down the stairs next to him.

The three of them lay, slumped, out of breath. Larkin massaged his neck, willing the circulation to return. He had to get up, fast. If either of them came back for more, Larkin, in his weakened state, would be dead meat. He felt movement on the stairs beside him; the first intruder was beginning to come round. Larkin looked round. The other intruder had crawled back to the foot of the stairs and was hunting for a weapon.

With an almighty effort, Larkin tried to get to his feet and go after him, but as he did so he felt a sudden sharp punch to the back of his left knee. As his leg gave way, a punch to his left kidney
and the sharp pain that accompanied it made him lose his balance completely. A swift kick in the back and he felt his body pitching forward, arms bouncing off the rail, legs thudding against the wall as he tumbled to a halt on the polished boards of the hallway. His head struck the floor with such force that he blacked out for a few seconds.

Larkin struggled to keep his grip on consciousness. To survive. Through blurred double vision, he saw the first intruder stumble towards him, disorientated but still dangerous. As he passed Larkin, he flung a kick into his ribs that sent pain spasming round his body.

“Leave it,” the second intruder gasped painfully. “I got what we came for.”

The first intruder bent down and stuck his masked face close to Larkin. “You wanna think yourself lucky. We’ll make this a warnin’. Leave well alone, you cunt. You got that?” He stood up, nursing his injured shoulder, and Larkin felt another stab of pain in his ribs.

“Come on,” the second intruder said, and made for the door.

“Stay where you are,” the first intruder sneered to Larkin. “We’ll be back.”

After a few minutes Larkin hauled himself painfully to his feet. He gave himself a mental inventory: nothing life-threateningly serious, just battered to hell. He tried a few steps: nothing broken. At least he could walk.

What had they said? They’d be back? Did that threat have a specific timescale attached to it, or was it simply a cliché? He decided not to hang around and find out.

He quickly made his way to the attic; more than anything he wanted to find out what it was they had been after. He didn’t own much, but what he had was in that room. And this was where the attack had been most fierce. Virtually nothing had survived intact. Bed, books, CDs, clothes, TV, VCR, stereo, laptop – all trashed. He sat down on what remained of the bed and surveyed the devastation, trying to find something still in one piece. There was nothing. It had been a methodical destruction.

He got down on his hands and knees and began to sift through the debris of his life, now littering the floor. He didn’t even have time to mourn the passing of his painstakingly-collected Elvis
Costello and Tom Waits CD collections. He was looking for something. And he hadn’t found it.

His computer disks.

He sat down again. At the moment he wasn’t sufficiently
compos mentis
to work out why anyone would go to all this trouble for his disks. All they contained was stuff he’d written for the Agency. He didn’t know what to do next. Call the police? That would be the logical option, if only from the insurance point of view. But that was for later. Right now, he had to get out.

On his way down the stairs he wondered: where he could go this time of night? Even Ruby’s would be closed by now. As he reached the front door he stopped. What if they were sitting outside? Waiting for him? But he couldn’t stay here – he’d be a sitting duck. The back way seemed safest.

He flicked the hall light off, plunging the ground floor into darkness. Once his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom he made his way to the rear of the house, found the key to the patio door in his pocket and slowly eased himself into the back garden.

The house backed on to another one and was bordered on all sides by sizeable gardens. He checked for the sturdiest fencing and, finding it on the right, climbed up and over, dropping like a stone into his next door neighbour’s flowerbed. He looked around. All the houses were in darkness; the warm night had a tranquil calmness about it. In different circumstances this leafy suburb would be a pleasant place to be at this time of night. But not now.

He made his way over the next garden fence, then the three after that, almost dropping with exhaustion as he scaled the last one. The fence ended in a steep sloping embankment that led down to the Metro line. Larkin scrambled down on to the track. He knew he didn’t have to worry too much about trains – it was too late, or too early for them to be running, unless they were doing some emergency track work – but all the same he hurried.

He ran all the way down the line until the tracks entered a tunnel, heading for the underground part of the line in the city centre. There Larkin climbed up the side of the cutting, pulling himself up by clumps of grass and tree roots until he reached the top. Checking for people and cars, he hauled himself over the mesh barrier and on to the pavement.

He stood light-headed, completely alone, the spire of Jesmond church, off to his right, darkly etched against the now lightening
sky. He looked at his watch: nearly five. The one thing to be thankful for was having had too much to drink at Ruby’s; he’d left the Golf near the drinking club at the back of Gallowgate bus station. Assuming the car hadn’t been done over too, he would at least have somewhere to sleep for the rest of the night. And perhaps the alcohol had helped to dull the pain he knew he’d soon feel. He let out a huge sigh – of weariness or relief, he didn’t know – and headed for the city centre.

The day hit Larkin hard. The long-postponed hangover, the lack of sleep, the injuries, the fear – woke him up aching and empty. The early-morning sun had created a greenhouse effect in the cramped Golf, ensuring that the sleep Larkin had managed to get had been as disturbed as possible.

He opened the door and swung his body out slowly, allowing the blood to feed his crumpled muscles. He checked the time: seven forty-five. As far as he could see, there was not a soul around in this backstreet off Gallowgate. Good: at least he hadn’t been followed.

Larkin bent down to climb back into the car – and suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder.

He froze. He turned, slowly, his hands balling automatically into fists. When he saw who it was he breathed out, let his hands drop. Ezz.

“What the fuck are you doing, creeping up on people? You could have given me a fuckin’ heart attack!”

Ezz shrugged nonchalantly.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“You’re not that hard to find. If you know where to look,” Ezz replied in his expressionless monotone.

Larkin leaned against the car, suddenly too tired to stand upright. “You been following me?”

Ezz shrugged again.

“You just happaned to be passing, is that it?” said Larkin. “I could have done with you last night. Where were you then?” He told Ezz what had happened.

“Amateurs,” Ezz said after a long pause.

“I don’t think so,” said Larkin. “I think they wanted to do as
much damage as possible so I’d assume it was just kids. They seemed pretty well-organised when I caught them at it. Any idea who they might be?”

Ezz shook his head. “But you must be treadin’ on someone’s toes.”

“That’s what I reckoned.”

“This bloke from last night,” Ezz asked, abruptly changing the subject, “what you doin’ about him?”

“I’ve already reported him to this copper I know. He won’t get away.”

“Kiddie rapers usually do.” The words were chilling, matter-of-fact. “We’ll have to make sure he doesn’t.”

“He won’t. And anyway,” said Larkin, “you’re taking a lot of interest in this. Not like you. I thought you liked to stay detached.”

Ezz stared at him for a long, menacing second. “I’ll be in touch.” And he turned and walked towards the city centre, not once looking back.

Larkin shook his head. “Weird fucker,” he said under his breath – when he knew Ezz was safely out of earshot.

Nearly fifty minutes later the emptiness in Larkin’s body had been filled by an enormous breakfast at a run-down twenty-four-hour cafe near Marlborough Crescent Bus Station. It had been fried in enough oil to lubricate a fleet of articulated lorries, but it was just what he’d needed: a patch-up job to keep him going. He’d also had time to sort out his thoughts. With return to his house an impossibility, he had worked through his options until he hit on what to do next. And he’d made his selection. Go to Scotswood.

“Hello, Mrs Howells – is your Jane coming out to play?”

Larkin had decided not to call ahead to warn of his arrival; the surprised look on Jane’s face had been worth it. He had driven straight down to Scotswood, parked and walked round the estate until he found her flat. She was now standing in front of him in a terrycloth dressing-gown and slippers, and if she had been up and about her sleep-filled eyes told him it hadn’t been for long.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“I look that bad, do I?” asked Larkin, attempting as heartwarming a smile as he could manage at that moment. “It’s a long story
but I won’t tell you it out here. Can I come in?”

“Yeah …” Jane stepped back, allowed Larkin to enter. “What time is it?” she asked blearily.

“Nineish,” said Larkin, moving into the flat.

He was impressed. The grey concrete and crumbling brickwork outside gave no indication of the interior. The hall led to a panelled pine door opening into the living room, where a hard-wearing, neutral-coloured carpet was covered by a large Oriental rug. Against one wall ran some pine bookshelves filled with classics – mostly by women, he noted – manuals on childcare, political history and videos, predominantly Disney. Alison’s taste, he hoped. A stack of CDs and tapes was piled at one end beside an old but serviceable midi system; a TV and VCR sat next to it. A shabby but comfortable-looking blood-red leather Chesterfield had an Indian throw over it; a couple of mismatching but inviting armchairs occupied the corners. A huge, dark antique mirror hung on the opposite wall to the bookshelves, along with a couple of Modigliani prints. Dried grasses were stuck in a couple of vases and on all available shelves and spaces were interesting little objects, items collected and loved over the years, together with pictures of Jane and her daughter. The young girl had made her presence felt; dotted around the room, poking out from behind chairs, were numerous toys. It was a room crammed with life, with hope for the future.

“What a great place,” said Larkin, admiration in his voice.

“You think because I live in a towerblock it has to be a dump?”

“No … I — ”

Jane smiled. “Wait till you see this.” She flung open the curtains; Larkin saw immediately that the view was stunning. The Tyne curved all the way down, past the bridges and on to Tynemouth; he could see both banks, pick out all the familiar buildings. She clearly sensed what he was thinking. She moved up behind him and said: “When I first moved in here I used to do nothin’ but complain about how miserable the area was. Then a friend of mine said, ‘Aye, it might be shite down there – but what a view!’ Tea or coffee?”

Larkin asked for coffee.

“What about breakfast?” she shouted from the kitchen.

“I’ve eaten, thanks,” Larkin replied, trying not to remember the grease. He sat on the sofa, gratefully.

“Coffee’s on its way. Then I want to know how you ended up in this state.”

“Yeah …” He found the room’s lived-in feel engulfing him and he started to relax. Distantly, he heard Jane’s voice asking a question, but found he didn’t have the strength to answer.

The next thing he knew, a small pair of hands was gently shaking his shoulders. He gave a start. Immediately he wished he hadn’t; his sudden movement caused the little girl in front of him to jump back, alarmed. It took a moment to orientate himself and realise where he was.