The Mercy Seat (17 page)

The other man teed up, swung. Not as good a shot as Palmer’s. No one dared mention the fact.

Keenyside teed up. The other two, not impatiently, waited for him to strike the ball. He did. They began to walk.

‘Business good?’ asked Palmer.

Keenyside didn’t know how to answer. If he said yes his contributions would be increased. If he said no he would be made to work harder. ‘Not bad,’ he said.

‘Good,’ Palmer said, eyes ahead. ‘Got anything for me, then?’

Without stopping and barely slowing, Keenyside lifted a plastic-wrapped bundle from the top of his bag and placed it in Palmer’s. He did the same with the other man.

‘Anything else?’ asked the other man, voice rough and rasping, like an industrial file on a stubborn lump of hardwood.

‘Yeah,’ said Keenyside. He passed on the information Mikey Blackmore, and his other informers, had told him. The big man listened impassively, nodded.

‘Good. Good work.’

The other two gave their attention back to the game in hand, ignoring Keenyside once more. They waited, again not impatiently, while he took his shot, then set off again, not waiting for him to catch them up.

He hated this. Hated it all the more because he knew Palmer did it deliberately. Invited him along, took his money, his information; tolerating but patronizing him. Reminding him of his place.

So far, no further.

He looked around. Palmer and his companion had moved on without waiting for him.

Not even bothering to remove a club from his bag and take his shot, he trudged after them.

Keenyside drove home, up into Northumberland.

He rotated the CDs in the player, found an album he wasn’t familiar with, something his wife must have left there.

Elton John. The song: ‘Border Lines’.

He sighed.

Borders. Lines. The story of his life. Lines to cross, borders to obstruct him.

Palmer taking every opportunity to remind him that he wasn’t one of them and never would be.

He had grown up in the West End of Newcastle. And hated it. He remembered as a child being desperate for escape. The only options open to him were the police or the army. He didn’t like the idea of the army, so he settled for the police. And worked hard to get in. Crossed several lines to become a policeman.

Once on the force, he worked even harder. Proving himself. Made detective inspector in record time. Then: transferred to the West End of Newcastle. His patch, it was argued, his old home area. One of their own; they would respect and respond to that.

Work was work: he did it. But wanted nothing to do with them, felt nothing but revulsion for his former neighbours. They represented a barrier he had broken free from. He wouldn’t be going back. He married. A woman the opposite to the ones on the estate and in his family. Suzanne was socially ambitious. Almost sociopathically so. She complemented him well. They were on the way.

Then Suzanne fell pregnant. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t wanted. But as a Catholic, Suzanne couldn’t bring herself to terminate the pregnancy, no matter how much she wanted to. She went full term. Gave birth to twins.

Now the lifestyle the Keenysides aspired to was unattainable on his salary, even with overtime. Something had to change. Suzanne couldn’t work because of the children. Keenyside thought of night school; get a qualification, advance his career to maybe a solicitor or something. But that took so long. Instead, he hit on a better idea.

It meant another line to cross. It meant he would have to become something other than that which he had prided
himself in. But he had to do it. The twins were approaching school age. He didn’t want them to go to school in the West End. Mix with the offspring of the children he’d had to mix with, the scum he dealt with every day. And Suzanne was demanding certain things for their lives. He didn’t begrudge her them; he wanted them, too.

He would catch dealers on the estate and give them a choice. Surrender their supply and dealing network to him, or face arrest. They always chose the former.

The idea was a success. So much so that he needed help. Well-chosen colleagues were approached. Sympathetic allies found within his team. Soon, they were all at it. And it was very lucrative. He had no compunction about exploiting his old neighbours, friends and family, even, on the estates he had left behind. Those that were stupid or thick enough to stay, he reasoned, deserved all they got.

Another line had to be crossed. On the strength of his sideline, Keenyside had soon moved his family out of the West End of Newcastle, to a place more commensurate with his increasing earnings. A private community of new executive dwellings (he loved that word) in Wansbeck Moor, Northumberland. The car, the private schooling, had followed. He was stretched to the limit, but he knew the money would continue to come in, the lifestyle to improve.

And then Palmer found out about his scheme. Keenyside was terrified that his empire would come crashing down. But instead of turning him in, he surprised Keenyside by demanding a cut in exchange for silence. A big cut.

Keenyside had no choice but to, reluctantly, comply.

That would have been bearable had not other players then become involved. Local gang lords demanding tributes in exchange for allowing him to operate. Demanding information on their rivals. Suddenly everyone wanted a cut. And Keenyside had to do it.

And he was stretched again. Desperately stretched. But determined not to give in. Despite the pressures.

He found ways of relieving those pressures. Other lines to cross.

His release: forcing transgression. Indulging the urge to subjugate.

A pleasurable diversion, but nothing that would allow his focus to diminish, his goal to be compromised.

He thought of his old housing estate. There was no way he was going back to something like that. No way. He would do whatever it took to keep moving forward.

Whatever it took.

Rain started to fall. Hard. He turned on the wipers, pushed the volume on the CD higher to drown out the sound. Shuffled the discs.

Van Morrison:
Greatest Hits.
‘Bright Side of the Road’.

Turned it off. Last thing he wanted to hear.

Thought about his scheme. His big money scheme. Soon he would have more money than Palmer and his friend put together.

It had involved crossing several more lines. But he had done it. And would cross more, if needs be. The end result justified it.

Justified anything.

He banished Palmer to the back of his mind, focused on the task in hand.

Turned the CD back on.

The music didn’t seem so incongruous, after all.

Monday morning. Caroline woke.

Eyes wide, startled by the radio. Chris Moyles spilling out fat bile, begging through the ether for complicity in his self-loathing. With travel updates and news. The jarring noise emptied Caroline’s mind, gave her a blank, morning slate.
But only for a second or two, until the rest of her consciousness caught up with her.

Then she remembered.

And closed her eyes, tried to will it all away. Will everything back to how it used to be.

But it didn’t happen.

She opened her eyes again. The room – everything – was as it had been the previous night. Sunday had been the hardest day to make it through. A dead day, made worse through the lack of news, of developments.

She lay still, contemplated staying in bed all day. Pulling the duvet up, pushing the world out. But she knew she wouldn’t. Because that would be giving in. And she had already told herself she wouldn’t give in.

She threw the duvet back, swung her legs to the floor, stood up, walked to the bathroom.

Everything was lead.

She heard the newspaper fall through the letterbox. She left the bathroom, grabbed it quickly, opened it on the dining table. Scrutinized it, page by page.

Nothing.

She knew there wouldn’t have been. Knew the police had said they would keep her informed, tell her first. She checked the phones. Landline: dial tone. Mobile: fully charged, ready to receive.

It had become her new routine, a thing born of quiet desperation, a way to keep order, to keep the screams internal.

The TV was next; waiting until suited inanities had stopped babbling, linked up to local news. Sometimes the TV got there first, turned events into stories before the police had a chance to inform the family. She had read that somewhere, heard stories.

But not this time. Not today.

She turned the TV off, knew the next half-hourly broadcast would be word for word.

She sighed, looked out of the window.

The car was absent.

It had been parked there, on and off, since her father disappeared. At first she had been worried, thinking she was being watched by some unmoving figure behind the wheel, but had mentally slapped herself around for being paranoid. It was probably a policeman watching the flat in case her father returned. Or a journalist wanting to be first on the scene. Or someone entirely unconnected with her. Anyway, it wasn’t there this morning.

She turned away from the window, looked around the flat. She loved this flat. Not only was it the only bit of the planet she could call her own, but it reminded Caroline of her father. He had helped her with the money, the removals, the decorating. But not in an overbearing way; he had known when to stand back, let her fly on her own.

Had. Past tense.

She shook her head. Wouldn’t allow herself to think that way.

She saw the photo by the TV. Mum. Dad. Her. Happier times. Seemed like another lifetime.

She sighed again, picked up the phone. Dialled a number she knew off by heart. A number she had used a lot lately.

She wouldn’t be in. No, no news. Yes, yes, it was. Then thanks. Replaced the receiver.

She sat on the sofa, looked at her watch, waiting for the next news bulletin. She felt her hair. Long and greasy. Uncared for. Her teeth needed brushing, too. And she should eat something. She didn’t feel like doing anything about anything.

Caroline looked at the phone again. Maybe she should call the police. See if they had heard anything. But they had told her they would contact her if they had. She didn’t want
to be a nuisance, one of those comical members of the public she had seen in cop shows, always pestering the detectives, getting them angry, causing them to make up private jokes about her.

She would have to wait.

Wait.

She sighed again, flicked on the TV. Flicked it off again.

She stood up. She had to do something. Anything. Try to take her mind off it.

She would go for a run. Down the dene, over the moor, maybe. Just do something. Take her mind off things.

Then come back, have a shower. Eat.

See if there was any news.

She went back to the bedroom to change. Find her running shoes. Change her routine; make this day different from the last few. Make this the day things happened on.

The day things changed for her.

Grey’s Monument, Newcastle city centre. The old Georgian heart of Graingertown. Donovan sat on the stone perimeter of the statue, waited.

Tried to make sense of the last few days.

Their Saturday-night kissing had intensified to the point where they had to race back to the hotel. In Donovan’s room they hurriedly undressed, fell on each other with real hunger. Their lovemaking was passionate, furious, yet also anonymous; barely making eye contact. When their eyes did accidentally glance off each other’s they quickly focused their gaze somewhere else.

Afterwards they lay side by side, spent. Not touching. Eventually Maria rolled over to Donovan, faced him. Smiled. ‘OK?’ she said, sensing he wasn’t.

Donovan sighed, eyes fluttering over hers, managed a smile. ‘Yeah.’

She stroked his chest. ‘Sure?’

Donovan sighed again, placed his hand over hers. ‘It’s … I don’t know. Took me by surprise. All those years … Wasn’t ready, I suppose.’

‘Are we ever?’

Donovan couldn’t explain. It wasn’t so much the memory of his estranged wife. He felt like his son had been watching him, judging his actions. He had tried to shake it off, give in to an animalistic lust, but now, post-coitally, it had returned. He felt like he had failed David in some way.

She looked at him, waiting for, but not demanding, answers. Donovan couldn’t meet her eyes.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, removing her hand, ‘we don’t have to do it again. We’ll pretend it never happened.’

She began to get out of the bed.

‘Don’t go.’

She stopped. Turned at Donovan’s voice.

‘Don’t go.’

She sat down on the bed, looked at him.

He tried to return her gaze. ‘I have had sex since I split with Annie.’

‘You mentioned it earlier.’

‘But that was just release. I don’t … It’s …’ He sighed, looked away. ‘It’s hard to talk about this.’

Maria lay down next to him again. ‘Then don’t.’

He looked at Maria, at her naked body, as if seeing her properly for the first time since they had entered the room. In that moment he felt something more than lust. Something that would diminish the guilt.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, looking at her face.

She smiled, stroked his cheek. ‘So are you.’

Their eyes met. Locked this time.

They kissed again. Entwined. Hesitant at first, building up slowly, tenderly.

Communicating: looks and smiles. No words.

Their nakedness became deeper than flesh. Donovan felt his guilt diminishing, being replaced by an intimacy at once beautiful and terrible.

His son’s eyes no longer on him.

He looked down, saw Maria; eyes closed, head back, small sighs of inexpressible joy escaping from her lips. Her eyes opened caught his. She smiled, whispered.

‘You’re crying.’

Donovan returned the smile, buried his face in her neck and hair.

And in that moment no longer felt alone. A warmth, both erotically and intimately charged, built within him. He sighed. Came.

Later they lay, bodies loosely entwined, fingers idly stroking each other, massaging still-tingling, post-coital skin.

In the dark, faces, bodies, indiscernible shades of grey. Talked nightspeak. Lovers’ talk.