Little Triggers (2 page)

“Get my good side, boys,” she said in a husky voice and put on a teasing little pout.

Eventually, after a long struggle, the man found his voice: not his carefully modulated TV voice, the treacly one that he poured over all the ills of society, but an angry, aggressive whine that Larkin suspected was a truer reflection of his character.

“Who are you and what the fuck do you want?”

Houchen looked at Larkin. “There you go – fiver to me. The cliché king. Not very original, is he?”

“They never are,” said Larkin.

The councillor seemed to be recovering a little of his professional demeanour. “Get out of here at once! Pauline, who are these people? Get my bloody hands loose, damn you!”

“Oh, Ian’s just come to do my modelling portfolio – haven’t you darling? D’you want me to strip off for you?” And so saying, she quickly whipped off her panties to show a perfectly formed set of male genitals. Pauline straddled the politician again. “Come on – get a good close up,” she said, smiling seductively.

“Canny set of tackle you’ve got there, pet,” Houchen said as his flashbulb popped yet again.

“Well,” said Larkin, “this won’t do much good for your reputation as family man and man of the people, will it?”

The councillor’s face flushed so red, Larkin thought that steam was about to explode from his ears. He fully expected him to let off a high-pitched whistle.

“Get me untied
now
! You’ll regret this!”

His tirade of clichés looked as if it might continue indefinitely.

“This is entrapment!”

“You wish.”

“Why I—”

Larkin silenced him. “Shut up.”

The councillor’s mouth audibly snapped shut.

“Undo him, Pauline.”

Pauline worked her way round the bed, starting with his feet,
untying one scarf after another, with Houchen snapping away, catching every moment. As soon as she had finished the politician sat bolt upright, pulled the scarves from his neck and from his now totally shrivelled penis, and stumbled to his feet to start hunting for his clothes.

Pauline crossed to Larkin. “Am I done for the night, lover?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Pauline.”

“Pleasure, love,” the transvestite said, pulling her underwear back on and picking up her skimpy red dress from the floor. As she stepped into it Larkin spoke.

“Here,” he said and handed her some bills. “Hundred.”

“Smashing. One step closer to Denmark,” she said, and turned around. “Could you do me up at the back? There’s a darl.”

Larkin zipped Pauline up. She stashed the money in her handbag and retrieved a fake leopardskin coat from where it was draped over an armchair. Larkin thought she couldn’t have been less subtle about her status if she’d walked round with a neon sign over her head.

“Well, I’ll be off then.”

“Er … just a minute.” It was Houchen.

Pauline sighed, rolled her eyes heavenward and delved into her bag, bringing out a pen and a scrap of paper.

“What’ll I make it out for? Services rendered?”

“Anythin’ you like. A receipt’s a receipt.”

She handed him the paper. “That all right for you?”

He looked at it, grunted, and put it in his pocket. “Cheers, Pauline.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetie.” She turned to the politician. “I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure. But I’d be a lyin’ old cow. Ta ta. Bye, Stephen – Ian. Give me a ring if you need me.”

They said goodbye and she swept out.

The councillor had managed to pull on his trousers; his shirt had defeated him. He sat hunched on the side of the bed, a sad sack of humanity.

Larkin moved to the armchair and sat down. “Well,” he said, “party’s died a death, hasn’t it?”

“Just say what you have to say and then let me leave.”

The man’s self-pity was as strong as his sweat; Larkin caught a whiff and almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Tell me what you want.”

Larkin sighed. “That’s the trouble with you people. Money,
money, money.” He leaned forward. “There are more important things, wouldn’t you say?”

“Such as?”

Larkin reached into his leather jacket, drew out some folded pieces of paper and handed them to the politician.

“Look.”

The councillor unfolded them and looked.

“Familiar?”

“Well, yes, but … I don’t see how—”

“Then let me tell you. What you’ve got in your hot little hand is a list of all the companies that you and your cronies have some kind of stake in.”

“That’s a matter of public record. You can’t—”

“Let me finish.” Houchen handed him another sheaf of papers. The politician leafed through them, turning so pale it was as if the blood had been drained from his body.

“You led us a merry old paperchase. But we tracked you down. We got there in the end. The Rebirth of the Region, you lot call it. Your so-called grand scheme to rejuvenate the North East with lots of lovely lottery money. Don’t get me wrong – it’s a great idea.” Larkin leaned into the councillor’s face. “But let’s look closer. It’s all the schemes, all the urban renewal projects, that you’re supposed to have been in charge of. And guess what. It’s all your companies that have got the contracts. Look even closer and you can see where you’ve paid yourself consultancy fees to do the job the taxpayer already pays you to do.”

The politician opened his mouth to speak, but Larkin was fully into his stride.

“Don’t give me that competitive tendering crap. Don’t tell me that you’re just protecting the interests of your white-collar constituents. You can always find some bullshit to justify lining your own pockets. Didn’t Nolan and Scott get through to you? Or was that just something to throw to the press on a slow news day?”

The politician remained silent. Larkin stood up and began pacing. “Now, I’m not naive. I know how you lot work.” He moved closer to the bed, dwarfing the shrunken, defeated bundle where it sat. “All I’m saying is, if the people who elected you knew how much contempt you hold them in they’d tear you limb from limb.”

Larkin stood still in contemplation. “I’ve got your whole future in my hands. Maybe I should treat you like you treat the voters –
just do what suits me and not give a fuck.”

The politician lifted his head. “So what do you propose to do?”

“That’s entirely up to you. I’m giving you a choice. Mend your ways, do your job properly and these photos won’t find their way onto people’s breakfast tables when they throw open their morning papers.”

“Marmalade droppers, I think they call them,” chimed in Houchen.

“Thank you, Ian,” said Larkin.

The councillor was stunned. “What? But how can I …”

“Oh, I’m sure you can find a way. These photos could end your career, after all. I’m sure you could get yourself a nice comfy little directorship somewhere else – I know you’ve got friends in high places – but what about your wife? How will she cope when she’s walking round Sainsbury’s with people laughing and staring? What about your daughters? How would they manage at school? Children can be wicked, you know.”

“But what can I do? I don’t understand why you’re picking on me.” He sounded like a kid himself.

“Think about it. Surprise yourself. And what makes you think you’re the only one we’ve done this to?”

The politician was astonished. “How many others?”

Larkin smiled. “That would be telling.”

“So what’s to stop me from finding out who the others are and making a stand against you?”

“Nothing at all. But d’you really see yourself going up to your esteemed colleagues and saying, ‘Excuse me, but these two chaps burst into a hotel room that I was in last night and found me tied to the bed with a transvestite about to stick his knob into my mouth. Anything similar happen to you?’ ” Larkin crouched down, eyeball to eyeball with the man. “There’s an old Chinese proverb: Steal your neighbour’s wife. If you think you’re strong enough.”

Their eyes were locked, a battle of wills. The politician flinched away first; he couldn’t match Larkin’s unblinking stare. He sat in silence for a while. Then he said, “This is blackmail.”

Larkin almost laughted aloud; the clichés just kept on coming. Without his scriptwriter the man was nothing.

“Call it what you like. If it
is
blackmail, it’s politically correct blackmail. It’s a moral balancing of the books, if you like.”

“What if I go to the police?”

“They’ll have a bloody good laugh. And we’ll publish anyway.” He turned to face him. “And be damned.”

“Christ, you’re a shit.”

“Ah,” said Larkin lightly, “my secret is out.”

The councillor sighed heavily. “So what do you want me to do?”

“What I’ve told you. Start working for the people who got you elected.”

“And then?”

“The photos will be destroyed.”

“And if I don’t do what you say?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that question with an answer.”

Larkin stood up and turned to go. Houchen did likewise. As they reached the door, Larkin turned.

“Oh, by the way,” he said chattily, “I know you’ve got people, fixers and that, kept on your payroll for such an eventuality as this, but believe me, we’ve got this little operation sewn up tighter than a gnat’s chuff. If anything happens to us, the photos get published. You won’t be getting your hands on those negatives. If you think that’s a bluff, go ahead and call it.”

The politician had no strength left to fight. All the layers of security and power had been stripped away until his true self had been exposed: a fat, sad, middle-aged lech sitting half dressed on a semen-stained bed in a shabby hotel. A hollow white chocolate Buddha with no wisdom. Larkin gave it to him straight.

“You got where you are today by treating people as if they’re stupid. Don’t make that mistake with us.”

Aware that that was a suitably dramatic exit line, Larkin swept out.

“See you then,” said Houchen and lumbered after him.

Outside on the pavement, Larkin stood propping up Houchen’s rusty Volvo, shaking a little as the tension ebbed away. Houchen came to join him. Taking a packet of Silk Cut from his jacket pocket he offered one to Larkin.

“Celebration fag?”

“I don’t smoke, and you know it.”

“Yeah.” Houchen took one for himself, lit it, breathed it down to the pit of his lungs and exhaled slowly. “Well, that was an easy night’s work.”

“Yeah.”

“Liked the bit about askin’ his mates if they’d met us. Good one that.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s up?”

Larkin sighed. “Oh … I don’t know. I thought I’d get a real kick out of it. You know, justice being done, seeing that bastard put in his place.” He looked up at the room; the light was still on. Larkin imagined the politician would still be sitting in the same spot, huddled and abject. “I just feel … sordid. Pathetic, really.”

“Aye well,” said Houchen, untouched, “it gets better as it goes on.”

“Hope so.”

“Aye.” Houchen opened the car door and climbed in. “Wanna lift?”

“No thanks. I feel like a walk.”

“Suit yourself.” Houchen leaned out of the car window. “Oh, and I think I’m on to somethin’ else. You’ll like this one – it’s a good ’un. Big an’ all. I’ll let you know when I know for definite, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Take care.”

“Aye.” Houchen laughed. “See you at work tomorrow.”

And with that he sped off noisily, the car belching toxic fumes from its ruptured exhaust.

Larkin walked to the house, his feet becoming heavier the nearer he got. He stopped in front of it, searching his pockets for a key. The house loomed huge and dark against the clear night sky. Desolate.

An estate agent’s board in the overgrown front garden had FOR SALE slapped across it in big red letters. No takers so far, though. No one to pour life into it; make it a home as Larkin never could.

He scanned the front of the house, his gaze focusing on what used to be her bedroom window. He scrutinised it, vainly looking for signs of life. But the void stared back, a dark, empty socket in a dead red brick skull.

“I’m doing what I can,” he said. “I’m doing what I can.”

He walked up the path, key in hand, feeling as hollow as the house. He opened the front door and entered. A light bulb flared briefly from deep inside the house, then all was darkness again.

It was the incessant bleeping of Larkin’s travel alarm that woke him. He opened his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths and sat up, mentally taking stock.

He was in bed, and his sleep had been undisturbed. Judging from his position he had hardly moved. And there had been no dreams. The ghosts had left him alone for another night.

While turning the alarm off, he noticed that his hand had a touch of the shakes: nothing new there. He flopped back on the bed, thirsty, his mouth dry. He should buy a teasmade, he thought, and smiled to himself, knowing full well that, like wife-swapping, such suburban banalities would never form part of his life.

He knew he would go back to sleep if he lay in bed much longer, so with a supreme effort of will, he groped for the remote on the bedside table and pointed it at the TV. The BBC breakfast programme came on. Larkin watched sober-suited men with sober expressions relating sober news. Politicians delivered pithy sound-bites over the nation’s muesli. A familiar face appeared; Blake Carrington’s younger, more handsome brother, possessing teeth so white they must have been boiled. It was Alan Swanson, a charismatic local chancer who was now making waves nationally. Earnestly pontificating about something or other he looked, to Larkin, about as trustworthy as a basking shark. This man and his cheekbones were the driving force behind the “Rebirth of the Region” scheme – not to mention electing himself unofficial Minister of Youth – and it had won him more than votes.

“ ‘And what smooth beast, his hour come round at last, goes slouching towards Westminster …’ ” murmured Larkin, pleased that he could misquote poetry this early in the morning. He cocked
his thumb and forefinger at the screen and fired his imaginary handgun until Swanson’s image disappeared.
You’re next
, thought Larkin, and yawned.