Little Triggers (28 page)

Larkin sat near the back, Andy next to him. Then Bolland. Joyce was pouring forth her funeral tears; the others wore suitably sombre expressions. At the opposite end sat Carrie Brewer. Larkin noticed that she and Andy said as little to each other as possible. They had no reason to; the need that had driven them together – lust, loneliness, anger – had been satisfied. Larkin thought that in many ways this was an enviable approach to relationships.

The taped organ music faded out, taking with it any further contemplation. A robed vicar that none of them – especially Houchen – had ever seen before walked to the front and the service began.

They stood up, sang a hymn, knelt (or at least sat forward with hunched shoulders and bowed heads), prayed, sat. The vicar began to talk with assumed sorrow about Houchen: an anonymous eulogy for a man he would never know. Larkin looked across at Bolland;
the man was itching to jump into the breach, show them how it should be done. At least the vicar’s address would be shorter, Larkin thought.

Not that he was really listening. As the vicar droned on he tuned out, mulled over the many and varied events of the last week.

The dreams had started again. And this time, no amount of whisky could fight them off. Swanson’s death, Raymond and Kev in the cellar, the recorded death of Jason Winship: the images jumbled and juxtaposed in Larkin’s sleeping head; forming themselves with implacable dream logic into twisted wraiths, haunting his waking time. He knew the images were lodged in his consciousness forever. More ghosts.

He’d been hauled in by the police: he’d expected that, so he’d had time to work out a convincing story and stick to it. After the discovery of Swanson’s body two detectives had sweated him in an interview room, firing question after question at him for hours: Swanson’s bodyguards had recognised him from Milburn’s. Where had he gone with Swanson? Nowhere. They’d talked, he’d gone home. What had the meeting been about? He’d met Swanson the night before, asked for an interview. What did they talk about? Nothing much. Who were the two men who turned up? Umpleby and Grice – two coppers. What did they want? You’d have to ask them. Larkin had left Milburn’s before he could find out, leaving the three men alone. And so on.

He told them a story that was half-truth, half-invention; the truths gave the lies a veracity that made it impossible for the police to work out which was which. As long as he stuck to his version of the events, there was no one to contradict him. He had, apparently, done nothing wrong, so there was nothing they could charge him with. After Larkin had successfully led them up several blind alleys, the police reluctantly let him go.

Going back to the house had been painful too. The first couple of nights he’d left everything as it was, straightening only his bed and trying to blot his surroundings out with alcohol before lapsing into oblivion. But he couldn’t go on forever like that.

He hired a skip, gathered up all the debris and dumped it. As he sifted through the wreckage he found that some things had survived the attack in better condition than he’d first thought. Once the
mouldering food had been cleared away, the kitchen was virtually good as new. The sofa and chairs in the front room were, with some minor patch-up work, still pretty serviceable. On the whole it was the smaller things, the personal things – the more important things – that had been lost.

The books. The CDs. The memories. Gone. And Charlotte’s old room had been gutted. When Larkin had finished his painful clearing, all trace of her had vanished. Umpleby and Grice’s actions had at least been a purgative: the house was now a blank slate, a chance to start again. Small comfort, but perhaps something to be grateful for.

Larkin had met Moir for a drink. The big man seemed to be unravelling before his eyes. They had met at the Waterfront on the quayside, sitting at an outside table. The sun was high, the day was hot and the sky was blue, but all they could see was the grey, scummy river flowing endlessly through the city and out to the sea.

“It’s fucked, isn’t it?” Moir had said eventually.

Larkin nodded.

“You cut off the limbs,” Moir said, the words twisting with bitterness and rage in his mouth, “but you can never stab the fuckin’ heart.”

They both knew what he was talking about.

Moir was off again. “He played me like a fuckin’ guitar. Told me he put me in charge of the case because of my unique talents. Some talents. He knew my weaknesses. Thought I’d let my own feelin’s get in the way of the job. Make me weak. Make me controllable. And he was fuckin’ right.” Moir took a large mouthful of beer. “But he didn’t think I’d find out about him.” He gave a bitter laugh. “For all the good it can do me. The words of a few men. No evidence. Fuck …”

They relapsed into silence.

“I’ve made my decision.” Moir stared at the water.

“Yeah?”

“I’m takin’ some time off. I’ve got it owin’ and I’ve got things to do.” Moir took a deep breath. “My daughter …”

“I know.”

Moir looked away, but Larkin caught a brief flash of tears in his eyes. “It’s time to talk,” he said, painfully. “I’ve lost my faith in justice. Let’s just hope I haven’t lost it in everything else.”

Larkin looked at his friend. Despite Larkin’s companionship, he
was very much alone. Moir carried an aura that said he would be alone whoever he was with, wherever he went. Larkin drained his glass, stood up, placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder in an empty gesture of comfort, and left him there.

A few metres along, Larkin turned back; Moir still sat, unmoving. Staring into his glass as if the answers he wanted were in the beer as the poisoned river slurped past.

He’d also paid a visit to his tame transvestite-loving councillor. The man had just emerged from a meeting at the Civic Centre when Larkin accosted him in the car park. He quickly dismissed his assistant, his face draining of colour at Larkin’s approach.

“I want a word with you,” Larkin said without any preamble.

They sat in the politician’s car; Larkin outlined his demands. The man listened in silence. When Larkin had finished, the man spoke.

“And if I do that?”

“You’ll never hear from me again. That’s a promise.”

“And the photographs?”

“I’ll destroy them.”

The man looked wary, wanting to believe him, not daring to. “How do I know you’re not lying? You could — ”

Larkin was losing patience. “Look, I don’t give a fuck about those photos. I don’t give a fuck about your precious career. I just want you to do the job you were elected to do. It’s what you get paid for. Do what I tell you – the photos get destroyed. Simple as that.”

The man swallowed hard. “What you’re asking – it’s not up to me.”

“Then make sure you lick the right arses.”

“Well, I’ll see — ”

‘No. You won’t see. You’ll fuckin’
do
it.” Larkin pushed open the car door and stepped out, slamming it behind him. As he walked away he knew: the man would do what he wanted. He had no other option.

The next appointment he’d had had been the most difficult. Jane. He had tried calling her at work a couple of times but found himself holding a dead phone each time he’d tried. Clearly, the only way to reach her was to turn up in person.

He found himself opening the doors to the centre exactly a week to the day after he’d last seen her. He was lucky; she was walking past as he entered.

“Jane.”

She stopped, turned at his voice. When she saw him her features immediately hardened; when she spoke, her voice did likewise. “What.” Uninflected, flat. Not wanting to make a connection.

“I need to talk to you.” Larkin’s heart was pounding.

“So talk.”

“Can we go somewhere else?”

“No.” She didn’t move, didn’t take her eyes off him. She seemed to have turned into stone.

Larkin moved towards her, his voice lowered. “I’ve got something to tell you. Your grant for this place – it’s been renewed. In fact, it’s been increased.”

“I know. They phoned.”

“Not only that,” he continued, “but that other place you wanted to start up – that refuge for kids? They’re giving that the go-ahead too.”

“They said. Did you do that?”

Larkin nodded.

“You didn’t have to. We’d have managed. But thanks. I hope you did it for the right reasons.”

“I did.”

“And not just to get back in with me.”

Larkin’s face fell.

“Thought so.” Jane turned to go.

“Wait,” said Larkin. She stopped. “Listen, I …” He couldn’t find the words.

“Stephen,” Jane said, taking a step in his direction, “it’s over. I’ve got to protect me family. I thought you were someone you’re not. I like you. But I don’t think I could ever trust you again.”

And she walked away. Larkin couldn’t be sure, but before she went, he sensed that the stone was beginning to crumble.

Larkin had attended another funeral that week: Swanson’s. It hadn’t produced as big an outpouring of public grief as Princess Di’s – or even Jackie Milburn’s for that matter – but for an MP it was big enough. There was a public memorial service in the cathedral,
screens outside. All manner of locally and nationally prominent people were there, with Tony Blair wringing his hands, talking of the loss “not only of a visionary, but a personal friend”.

Larkin had stood at the back of the congregation, surveying the mourners with cynicism. Swanson’s death had generated reams of paper, hours of TV footage, all focusing on the “towering achievements” that he had brought about, talking inevitably about the manner of his death. All the theories were speculative; none were near the truth. Larkin’s contribution to the attendant media circus had been conspicuous by its absence.

As Larkin looked round the crowded cathedral, his eyes alighted on McMahon. He was wearing full dress uniform: erect posture, face firmly set. He caught Larkin’s glare, flung it contemptuously back at him. The look managed to convey more to Larkin than words could.
I’m bulletproof
, the eyes said.
And you’re only alive because you’re powerless to do anything against me.

And Ezz? Larkin had tried to contact him, but there was no sign of him. It was as if he had never existed.

The service commemorating Houchen’s life ended and the mourners made their way outside, congregating in front of the sparse funeral flowers. Larkin wasn’t in the mood for the usual small talk. He stuck close to Andy.

“So, you staying around this time? In Newcastle?”

“Might as well. Seem to be drawn inexorably to the place.”

Larkin nodded.

“There’s a bit of a do on back at the ex’s place. You goin’?” asked Andy.

“No,” he said slowly, “I think I’ll be off.”

Andy shrugged. “Suit yourself. See you around, then.”

Larkin managed to walk down the path and through the crematorium gates without saying goodbye.

Larkin sat in the Nine Pins, the nearest pub to Saltwell Crematorium, nursing his pint and watching a middle-aged man with a beer-gut that seemed to have a life of its own feed coin after coin into a fruit machine. Every time the man stretched his arm out, his
stomach fluttered and rippled: it looked like the only exercise he ever got.

Larkin hadn’t been able to face the funeral reception. Brittle-crusted sandwiches and even more brittle conversation. And with the knowledge he had about the circumstances of Houchen’s death, the trite platitudes expected of him would freeze in his mouth.

He took a large gulp of beer, his mind trying to make sense of recent events. He had tried to do something good, but had ended up being used by a man whose motives remained unclear. Had Swanson been genuine? Did he have principles? Did he want to expose his brother because he hated what McMahon had become, or because he thought it would make him look good in the eyes of the voters? These were hypothetical questions now. Larkin thought of the people who had lined the route of Swanson’s funeral procession with grief-stricken faces: they had believed in Swanson. Or had wanted to. But deep down, Larkin didn’t buy it, any of it. Larkin had seen a quotation once, he couldn’t remember who had said it, but it went: “I have seen the enemy and he is ours.” Someone else had changed it to: “I have seen the enemy and he is us.” As long as the Establishment stayed the same, thought Larkin, the monsters would always be with us. For every Swanson, there was a McMahon. And there was no way of changing that.

The overweight gambler sat down to drink his beer. He had lost all his money; the machine wasn’t going to pay out. His life wasn’t about to be transformed by a lucky win, but he seemed to have accepted that his existence was something he had no control over. It was something to be endured, accepted. Perhaps it was time Larkin did the same thing. But even as he allowed the thought to form, he knew it would never happen. He knew he was destined to spend his life, as another writer had put it, raging into the dying of the light.

If he didn’t ask so many questions – if he learned to differentiate between the things he could and couldn’t change – he might have a happier life. Jane had offered him a glimpse of that life, and he had, half-reluctantly, refused. Instead of comfort he had chosen rage and truth. Now he had to trust the faith he’d placed in those two things would be enough to keep him warm.

He drained his glass and ordered a refill, hoping the alcohol would satisfy more than his physical thirst. He raised the pint to his lips. “Cheers,” he mumbled.