Little Triggers (16 page)

“Hello,” he said. “Is your name Alison?”

The little girl gave a quick nod then ran back to where her mother sat in one of the armchairs. Larkin stretched, yawned.

“Must have nodded off.”

“You did. Your coffee’s stone cold.”

Larkin looked at the little girl. She was about three, with mousy bobbed hair and a pretty, intelligent face. She wasn’t a deadringer for her mother but they shared some similar qualities. She was treating him with a healthy degree of suspicion which he found reassuring from her point of view and slightly saddening from his own.

Jane pointed to his mug. “Want me to heat this up?”

“No, I’m fine.”

She laughed. “You look terrible.”

“Had a busy night.”

“Wanna tell us about it?”

Larkin glanced at Alison. “I don’t think — ”

“No problem,” said Jane. She crossed to the TV and inserted a Disney tape in the VCR. Alison’s face lit up as she saw Winnie the Pooh’s features fill the screen, and she happily deposited herself in front of it.

“Come on into the kitchen,” Jane said to Larkin. “You’ve got twenty minutes to tell me everything.”

Fifteen minutes and one cup of coffee each later, Larkin stopped talking. He had told Jane virtually everything – the arcade, Andy’s task, the break-in, the ransacking of his house – the only part he edited out was his drinking session with Moir. When he’d finished, he leaned back against the workbench and waited for Jane to speak.

“Shit,” was her first comment.

“I agree,” said Larkin. “The thing is, what do we do next?”

Jane sighed. “I’ll have to talk to Lorraine and Trevor Carr – about Daniel.”

“Have they got no inkling of what’s been going on?”

“It was Lorraine who brought Daniel’s behaviour to my attention. She knew something was wrong – she just didn’t know what.”

“What about her husband?”

Jane gave half a smile. “He’ll probably try to snap the bastard in two. And I can’t say that I blame him.”

“Me neither. Want me to come with you?”

Jane gave him a wry grin. “You’ll have to. Just in case Trevor wants to take it out on the messenger…”

Alison was left in the care of the neighbour who’d taken her to the park the day before. The neighbour’s boyfriend loaned Larkin a T-shirt and jeans to replace his own filthy, bloodstained clothes that Jane had put in the wash. Although Larkin was grateful, it was with some reluctance he put them on, as the logo on the T-shirt turned him into a walking advert for Jimmy Nail’s latest album.

Larkin and Jane then made their way over to the Carrs’ house in a modern, redbrick council estate, built as an architectural apology for the earlier towerblocks.

Lorraine Carr was sitting on the sofa, coffee in one hand, fag in the other, reading the
News of the World.
Blonde, in her mid-twenties, her former attractiveness ground down to plainness, just as real life had ground down her dreams. She welcomed Jane with slight hesitation, gave a diffident nod to Larkin. They both refused her offer of coffee and sat beside her.

The room was cheaply but tastefully furnished and immaculately kept. Somehow, their desperate respectability made the situation worse. Jane was the first to speak.

“You know why I’m here?”

Lorraine nodded, resigned.

“It’s what we were talkin’ about. With Daniel. D’you want Trevor to hear this as well?”

“I reckon ’e’d better,” said Lorraine, and went off to find him.

Left alone, Larkin and Jane exchanged anxious glances. The worst was still to come. “Trevor was made redundant from Siemens not so long ago,” she told him. “He took it hard. Lorraine works part time at Kwik Save. They’re good people.” She shook her head.

“Where’s Daniel?” asked Larkin.

“Out playing, I expect. Just as well.”

Trevor Carr chose that moment to appear, his wife following at a discreet distance. He was in his late twenties, wearing the male uniform of T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms; he had the beginnings of a beer gut, and Larkin recognised from personal experience the look of a man fighting a losing battle with a hangover. He carried a barely concealed air of suspicion with the threat of violence not far behind it. It wasn’t anything personal, Larkin knew: it was simply the natural defensiveness of a man attempting to halt the erosion of his pride and self-respect. He gave a barely perceptible nod and sat down on an armchair, Lorraine perched uncomfortably on the arm next to him. Despite the heat outside, the room had suddenly become frosty.

Trevor and Lorraine had obviously discussed their son’s behaviour, but Larkin doubted they – particularly Trevor – had had any idea as to the extremity of the situation. The dawning horror in Trevor’s face told him that. Jane discussed her suspicions and Larkin’s involvement. She told them what Larkin had discovered – omitting any mention of his unorthodox methods. In short, she confirmed their worst fears.

Larkin sat silent throughout, occasionally nodding to corroborate Jane’s words. He kept his eye on Trevor; the man’s rage was visibly growing with every sentence he heard.

“So what we’ll do now,” Jane was drawing to a conclusion, “is call in Social Services. And the police.”

“I don’t want either o’ them round here,” said Trevor menacingly.

“They’ll have to come,” said Jane; her conviction and firmness quelled him. “Daniel will have to be given a full medical examination – and some counselling. So will you. Social Services will then place him on the ‘At Risk’ register — ”

“
At risk
– from who? It’s not us that’s been doin’ this!” Trevor exploded, jumping to his feet.

“They know that,” Larkin’s voice was reassuring, measured. “They’ll have enough to put Noble away, don’t worry.”

Trevor began to pace the room, a feral animal trapped in its cage. “Bastard! Fuckin’ bastard!” He moved towards Larkin. “They’d better have enough on ’im, otherwise I’ll take the cunt out mesel’!”

An oppressive, heart-thudding silence fell on the room as the
implications of what was being said sunk in. Trevor’s anger had reached a momentary pitch; he sat back in his chair, shaking, fumbled a Silk Cut from the packet, fired it up, drew the smoke down deep. It seemed to calm him.

“But,” began Lorraine, tremulously, scared of re-igniting the rage, “isn’t it difficult to prosecute cases like this?”

“Sometimes,” said Larkin. “Depends how co-operative the offenders are.”
And how good a lawyer they’ve got
, he thought. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble over this.” He prayed that was true.

Another heavy slab of silence descended.

“So what happens when he’s on this register thing?” asked Lorraine.

“His behaviour’ll be monitored for three months,” Jane answered. “After that they’ll have another conference. Don’t worry – Noble’ll be well out of the way by then. Everything’ll be fine.”

Lorraine started to nod, slowly at first, then building up a steady rhythm, her head rocking backwards and forwards, her features starting to redden and scrunch up. Then the tears began: ragged sobs of pure grief.

Trevor gently placed a consoling arm around her; the gesture seemed so alien to him that it looked like he was in danger of crushing her to death. He stared defiantly at Larkin and Jane; his hostility told them, in no uncertain terms, that they had no business intruding at such a moment.

Larkin and Jane took the hint.

“I hated having to do that,” Jane said, dragging on a supportive Silk Cut as they walked back to her place.

“I’d have been surprised if you didn’t.”

“I mean – they’ve tried so hard to make a good life for Daniel. And it hasn’t worked out. Since Trevor lost his job ’e’s been at a loose end, poor sod.” She sighed. “Must really fuck you up, that. Redundant at twenty-six. Just – being defined by that word …”

Larkin nodded sympathetically.

“It must be enough of a struggle for them without this happenin’.”

The sun, high now, glinted off nearby windows and buildings,
giving the streets a harsh, unrelenting sheen. To their right a children’s playground was surrounded by a chainlink fence, the swings, slides, roundabouts and climbing frames rusting and flaking on the concrete, like skeletal remains of long-extinct beasts. It seemed an appropriate metaphor for Daniel’s damaged childhood.

“I mean, look at that place,” said Jane, pointing angrily to something that resembled a grounded, low-budget spaceship. “Shopping centre. They redesigned it – but forgot to put any fuckin’ shops there. Now pensioners have to get on a bus to cash their pensions and go to Kwik Save. Rebirth Of The Region? A fuckin’ joke!”

She stomped ahead, indignant. Then she turned back to him.

“I mean — ”

He cut her off. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I agree. It’s a shithole – so let’s not stay here.”

She looked at him, questioning.

“Yeah,” he said, “it’s a sunny day, I’ve got money in my pocket – let’s have a day out.”

“OK,” Jane said, slightly taken aback. “What d’you have in mind?”

“How d’you fancy Sunday at the seaside?”

In
—

Curl
—

Hold it
…

Out
—

Down.

And again.

In
—

Curl
—

Hold it
…

Out
—

Down.

The rhythm of the weights consumed Ezz’s conscious mind. His hand, white-knuckled, gripped the barbell. Up to his shoulder – flex – down again. Face red, neck muscles taut, he changed hands and started the sequence with the other arm.

It was the reappearance of the face that had driven him to the gym. He’d returned to his flat from his night’s work with Larkin and felt … strange. Somehow changed. His hands had started shaking and, with a shudder of realisation, he had known what that meant: he was going to lose control. The pressure and anxiety had begun to build up inside him, and he had only one chance of containing it. So he had pulled on his running shorts and gone.

Over the town moor he went, breath tearing at his chest, legs close to buckling, feeling like half his bodyweight was melting away as sweat. He kept driving on. His lungs begged him to stop; pain shot up his arms, increasing their weight and uselessness. The midnight darkness of the town moor was blotted out by the negative-image
sunbursts exploding behind his retinas. He ran faster.

But he knew it was no use. The problem was in his mind, not his body. He would outrun the face, lose it for minutes at a time while the mechanics of breathing occupied his body. But whenever he regained control of his physical equilibrium the face would reappear, reminding him that respite was only temporary. He kept on running.

Eventually his legs fell away beneath him; with sight gone and lungs burnt out, he collapsed, panting in a heap, pooled in his own sweat, his mind slipping in and out of oblivion. He couldn’t see the face. He couldn’t see anything.

After lying on the moor for what could have been hours, he slowly pulled himself to his feet and began to make his painful way back towards town. To his immense relief, the face hadn’t reappeared. Yet. But Ezz knew there was plenty of time.

Not wanting to return home, in case the face haunted his dreams as it had in the past, he walked round aimlessly. The next time he looked up he realised he had arrived at Larkin’s house. He didn’t question what had drawn him there; he accepted that some inner voice, working on a subconscious level too deep and serious to be ignored, was working inside him, directing his actions.

He turned up at the house just as a car was drawing away. Whoever was inside it – two men, it appeared – were in a hurry to leave. Ezz didn’t want an unnecessary confrontation, not the way he was feeling, so he concealed himself in the shadowy doorway of an off-licence opposite as the car sped by. Once it had gone he crossed the street and looked into the house through the hall window.

The first thing he saw through the gloom was the devastation. As his eyes adjusted, however, he could just make out a night-shrouded figure stumbling towards the back of the house. Larkin. As Ezz listened, he heard a door slam shut, heard the sound of a man hauling himself painfully over the garden fence. He decided to follow.

Years of clandestine surveillance had given Ezz an instinct for predicting human flight behaviour. He anticipated Larkin’s route down the Metro line, correctly estimating the probable site of his reappearance further down, by the church at Jesmond. Ezz shadowed him all the way to his car. Once he saw Larkin was safely settled in for the night, he returned home.

But he couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to sleep. The face was drifting at the corners of his mind. He dressed, took a couple of capsules
that he kept for such occasions as these, and went to see Larkin.

After that he found his hands were beginning to shake again; more worrying, his breathing showed signs of convulsing into the spasms of a panic attack. Fearful of what might be about to happen, he headed for the gym, and the possibility of escape.

The gym he frequented was on the first floor of an old warehouse, opposite a strip joint off Westgate Road. It was a place where career hard men went to become even harder. A place where Ezz wasn’t just known – he was respected. And it was there that he had worked his muscles until his limbs had turned to granite.

He put the free weights down and stood stock still, trying to quieten his body. He knew, objectively, that it was no accident the face had reappeared after working over Noble’s flat. He knew what he had found there was directly to blame. He also knew that Larkin was, in some way, on his side. Perhaps the only way to get some peace would be to stick to Larkin, follow this thing through with him. Shadow him. He closed his eyes, breathing shallow, and —

It was coming back. Shaking – panic – it had started all over again. He knew then that he would never be free of it; no matter how far he went, what he did, the face, and the terrible memories it summoned, would always be with him. No matter how hard he tried, he could never kill it. If he hadn’t gone beyond such things, he would have cried.