Little Triggers (5 page)

“I’ve got to go.”

She seemed surprised at the speed with which he was making for the door.

“I’ll see you out.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Look, I’ll ring you. We’ll do the article later in the week, yeah?”

“Yeah, OK.”

And with that he left her standing alone in the room, looking bewildered and a little lost amongst office furniture that seemed deliberately oversized.

When he got outside he saw that providence had been kind and his car was still in one piece. He got behind the wheel and started the engine.

He got on well with Jane, he thought, as he turned the car round in a side street. There was definitely something there. He tried not to think too hard about the subject; he didn’t want to push it. He wanted to get it right this time.

He was ready to depart. And as he drew away, he saw Noble come out of the centre and get into the Fiesta. Knowing he hadn’t been seen gave Larkin an idea. He waited until Noble had started up and pulled away; then, as discreetly as he could manage, he followed him.

The arcade was cavernous and dark; lit only, it seemed, by the blinking sequences of lights emanating from the machines. A stern warning over the door barred the entrance of under-eighteens. Larkin looked at the clientele: either the notice was being ignored, or the fountain of youth had been discovered in Clayton Street.

Kids were everywhere, dotted down the aisles of video games, fruit machines, the occasional ancient one-armed bandit, and cockpits that looked like they could be used for training astronauts. At the back of the hall was a raised area which had been turned into a gaudily lit cafe with the word DINER etched above it in depressingly cheap neon. At the tables sat a smattering of people staring listlessly at Cokes and coffees; behind them, lying on a counter, was a selection of ‘food’ that could have been mistaken for one of Quatermass’s failed experiments.

Noble had parked his car and come straight into the arcade, Larkin following at a discreet distance. Larkin kept a linen jacket in the boot of the car in case he had to smarten himself up on an assignment; he’d swapped his leather for this, as a makeshift disguise, in case Noble should spot him. The gloom of the place was working in his favour. As his eyes adjusted, his ears were being battered by the machines’ random cacophony of beeps, squeals, snatches of irritating tunes, electronic pulses. Thirty years ago the
avant garde
would have paid good money to listen to this, thought Larkin, but now it was no more than a soundtrack to squalid lives.

Larkin could remember when he was a kid: playing the nick from school and coming to the arcade for an afternoon. Donkey Kong and Space Invaders hadn’t grabbed him the way it had some of his peer group and he’d eventually drifted off. The ones who stayed,
who couldn’t find anywhere else to go, soon developed an
idiot savant
mastery of the machines that they found they lacked in all other aspects of their lives. They began to live only to see their names on the screen in the Hall of Fame. This was the pinnacle of achievement, a standard by which all challengers would be judged; it made them heroes, the nearest thing to immortality they would ever grasp. It didn’t last long. Someone else came along who was quicker and younger, and there they were: energy dissipated, burnt out at seventeen.

Larkin scanned the aisles. The machines had changed but the principles remained the same. Amongst the rapt teenagers, however, was a smattering of old, empty-eyed women, staring fixedly ahead. They shuffled from bandit to bandit, mug-punting the last of their pensions in desperate belief. Larkin knew they would turn up, week after week, to make their devotional offerings to an ungrateful, selfish god, living in hope until death released them from their slavery.

Larkin quickly ducked behind a fruit machine as he caught sight of Noble, who was prowling the aisles, scrutinising everyone like a film director waiting to pick a star from a bunch of unknowns. Noble’s attention seemed to be drawn to a couple of teenagers who were becoming voluble over a video game; he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at them. His expression sent an involuntary shiver down Larkin’s spine.

Larkin moved closer and looked at the two boys, trying to discover what it was about them that so interested Noble. One of them seemed to be a bit older than the other and affected a streetwise manner beyond his years; how much of this was assumed, Larkin couldn’t tell. The other one was smaller, slighter, wearing glasses and a distracted air. They didn’t strike Larkin as being distinctive in any way. Suddenly the bespectacled one spoke.

“Howah, man – gis a go.”

“My turn. Fuck off,” the cool one replied and shrugged. This annoyed the gauche one even more, and his voice raised in pitch. When he spoke, his words were loud, somehow slurred, as if his jaw and brain were running at different speeds. “Is it fuck your turn, you lyin’ get! It was your turn last time, it’s my turn now.”

“Not finished.”

“Aw, haway, man, it’s my fuckin’ fifty pee! Giz it.”

And he grabbed hold of the other boy, momentarily distracting
him from the screen and allowing a ninja to jump out from behind a pile of cartons and ambush the heroically-proportioned Virtual Cop, kicking him to death with a series of synthetic grunts and sprays of cyber-blood. The two-dimensional dead body lay there covered in bright red globules as the machine played its obligatory, annoying signature tune and the screen flashed up: GAME OVER. The boy who had been playing turned and faced his distractor.

“Look what you done now! That’s our last bit o’ money.”

The bespectacled boy immediately became defensive. “Whey, you shouldn’t have taken over.” He added sulkily, “That was my turn an’ all, you knaw.”

The cool boy shrugged. “Aw, Raymond, man, grow up.”

Raymond flushed. “Don’t tell me to grow up. Piss off, y’ bastard.”

The other boy smirked. Raymond’s face turned redder.

“Go on, piss off, Kev!”

Heads turned sharply in their direction. Raymond turned beetroot and quickly looked at the floor; he hadn’t intended to be so conspicuous. Kev, covering his embarrassment, smirked again.

Raymond began to gently rock backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet.

“I’m off,” said Kev.

Raymond continued rocking and nodded, a big pout on his lips. He wouldn’t make eye contact.

“Yeah, right,” said Kev. “Later.” And off he swaggered to the door. He was too young to remember James Dean, but he had the coded teen rebel hipswing off to a T, thought Larkin.

Raymond rocked faster, his mouth mumbling words that only he could hear. Then he allowed his momentum to decrease until he was still. When he finally looked up, Larkin was sure there were tears in the boy’s eyes.

Raymond began to search his pockets frantically until he came up with more money. From the look on his face it wasn’t the amount he was hoping for. Nevertheless he fed the coins into the machine, they fell, and the Virtual Cop was resurrected, alive and shooting.

The sight of the muscular cop, invincible in shades and kevlar vest, armed with a huge gun, seemed to cheer Raymond. As he became involved in keeping his hero alive and increasing the body-count of adversaries, Raymond seemed to forget all about his row with Kev. He didn’t even notice when Noble arrived nonchalantly at the machine next to him.

One row back and out of Noble’s direct line of vision, Larkin too placed coins in the slot of a fruit machine. But unlike Raymond he didn’t notice how much he put in or what result he was getting; his attention was elsewhere.

For a time, the boy and the man played their respective games. Eventually Raymond’s money ran out. As the Virtual Cop died for the last time, the boy reluctantly straightened up from the machine and stood there, confused and alone. He looked round the arcade in disbelief, as if he were seeing it for the first time. Perhaps the game seemed more real than the arcade to him: he looked like he didn’t know how to cope with this alien environment. Vulnerable. For the first time, he saw Noble.

“Hello, Raymond. I thought that was you, there,” said Noble, beaming.

“Hello,” said Raymond, and smiled in return.

“Where’s your mate? He not with you?”

“Naw… he’s… er…”

“Never mind, eh?” Suddenly, Noble’s machine died. “Aw, shit! Look at that!” Noble flung his arms in the air, shook his head, tutted. A bit of an over-reaction, thought Larkin, but it made Raymond giggle. Noble then let out an elaborate sigh and slumped his arms to his side. “Oh, well, there you go. You looking for a partner?”

“Eh?”

“The game.”

“Aw. Naw, I’ve got no money left.”

Noble took out a couple of pound coins and grinned again. The predatory look of a few minutes ago was well and truly gone, replaced by kindness and philanthropy. Larkin leaned forward, his heart quickening.

Raymond smiled. They agreed who would be player one and two, Noble stuck his money in; and off they went. As they started to play, Noble made small talk. He asked how Raymond had been since he last saw him, he asked how Kev was. Raymond talked to him easily, as if he were a favourite elder brother. Noble seemed to be the safest, most serene person in the place. No threat to anyone.

As the game progressed the two players developed a camaraderie. They seemed enclosed in a bubble of friendly competitiveness; Raymond was clearly enjoying himself hugely, high on his success, exasperated whenever he lost a point or a life. Noble, for his part, was joining in enthusiastically; his glee at the game was almost childlike.

In fact, Noble was having so much fun that Larkin began to doubt Jane’s suspicions. Maybe she had it all wrong; maybe Noble was a genuine philanthropist with an unfortunate manner. Maybe. Larkin let the doubt linger at the back of his mind.

Eventually the game ended with Raymond the proud winner. Noble extended his hand in mock humility and deference; Raymond shook it, his face beaming. Noble shoved his hand in his pocket.

“Great! Another one?”

Raymond smiled, about to answer yes, when a memory rolled over his face and changed it, like a steamroller flattening a flowerbed.

“No, I’d…” Raymond nodded to the door and hesitated, unsure of his position. Noble jumped in.

“Not even one more game? It was good fun, wasn’t it? One more won’t matter much, will it?”

Conflicting emotions played over Raymond’s face; his thought process was transparent. Duty – or pleasure?

Watching him, Larkin was hit by the sudden realisation that the boy was retarded. If Noble knew that and was exploiting it, then that made him one sick fucker. As Larkin observed the little scene, Raymond’s face lit up in a big, trusting, happy smile.

“Go on then, eh?”

They both laughed and Noble started up the machine.

Larkin watched.
You bastard
, Noble, he thought –
you nearly had me fooled. You played that scene pitch-perfect
.

Noble and Raymond seemed at first to be having just as much fun as they had first time round; but on closer inspection, Larkin found that this wasn’t the case. Noble’s spontaneity had a forced quality to it, as if he were acting out the instructions from a manual on
How To Get On With Kids.
The movements and techniques that he had employed in the last game, once rumbled, didn’t stand up to close scrutiny. Raymond, on the other hand, lost in his own world, didn’t notice.

The game finished.

“Jeez, I’m knackered,” said Noble. “Fancy a Coke?”

Raymond had completely forgotten his earlier appointment. “Aye, great!”

Noble bought a Coke and a portion of something approaching chips for Raymond and a coffee for himself. The two of them moved to a table in the cafe area at the back of the arcade,
surrounded by the empty-eyed old women who had perfected the art of staring off into the middle distance while nursing the same cup of old tea for three hours. There they sat, Noble holding the coffee in front of him like a shield, Raymond dipping greasy strips of sickly yellow reconstituted potato into a pool of red sauce, swallowing them hungrily, then washing them down with large slurps of Coke. He seemed to be enjoying himself tremendously.

Larkin had positioned himself so he could hear as much as possible while remaining largely inconspicuous. In order to do this, he was standing with a pocketful of small change, pulling distractedly on an archaic bandit. So far he hadn’t won anything; he hadn’t heard much either, but short of donning an overall and wiping down the tables, he couldn’t think how to get closer without looking shifty.

He had heard Raymond talk of home, but not in a conventional, familial sense, more as an institutional kind of place.
The
Home. In care? Perhaps. If Noble was the person Larkin suspected, it would fit the profile perfectly.

He fed another coin into the slot, craning his neck to listen, as he pulled on the machine’s arm. Almost immediately the machine began to pump out coins with such force and clamour that he felt the avaricious eyes of all the old women being brought to bear on him. Even Noble glanced in his direction. Larkin quickly turned his back and dropped to his knees to avoid being seen while he collected his spewed jackpot from the floor.