The Mercy Seat (43 page)

‘Joe Donovan,’ he said. ‘Small world.’

‘But I wouldn’t want to shag it …’ Donovan’s voice, cracked and rough.

‘Do what you like,’ said Keenyside, straightening his jacket. ‘I’ve got my money.’

‘No, you haven’t,’ said Donovan, licking his dry lips. ‘There was no money. You were right. It was a setup.’

‘What d’you mean?’ said Keenyside dismissively. ‘I know you tried to entrap me. But the money was real. I saw it enter my account.’

‘Smoke and mirrors, Alan. Smoke and mirrors.’

Keenyside became red in the face. ‘You’re lying.’

Donovan did his best to give a nonchalant shrug. Keenyside seemed to struggle not to hit him. Instead he smiled.

‘Be that as it may,’ he said. ‘I’ve still got this little beauty. And how much is this worth on the open market?’

He brought up the aluminium case, gave it a pat.

Donovan could have laughed if the situation wasn’t so desperate. ‘Oh Alan, Alan,’ he said, ‘you’re a study in self-delusion.’

Keenyside’s face creased into an ugly frown. ‘What d’you mean?’

Donovan turned his head to the side. Slowly. ‘Tell him, Colin.’

Colin Huntley wanted to speak but was unsure whether to or not.

‘It’s all right, Colin,’ said Donovan. ‘I know what’s been going on.’

‘There is no compound, Alan.’ Colin couldn’t keep the sense of triumph from his voice.

‘What?’

‘There never was.’ His eyes shone with vindication.

Keenyside swung his gaze between the two of them. He looked like a trapped animal searching for an escape route.

Donovan pushed the point home. ‘The whole thing was a setup. Right from the start. Just to entrap you.’ Then he added in his best John Lydon: ‘Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?’

Keenyside was speechless.

‘Was it worth it?’ shouted Donovan. ‘Everything you’ve done, every life you’ve ruined, every person you’ve killed. Eh? Was it? For nothing?’

Keenyside spun round. He wanted to lash out, strike at something, vent his anger.

‘It’s over, Alan,’ said Colin Huntley. ‘One way or another, it’s the end.’

Keenyside’s eyes were wide, staring. He was witnessing his whole world collapse around him. Close to breaking point, thought Donovan. Either that, or past it.

With a cry of near primal-rage, Keenyside hit the floor, went rummaging through his holdall, pulled out a gun.

‘Over, is it?’ His voice was shrill, hysterical. ‘Finished? Well, if that’s the case, you’ll all be coming with me.’ He swung the gun round. It pointed at Donovan. ‘Starting with you.’

Donovan looked at Keenyside, about to come out with
another fearless quip to annoy him even further. But stopped.

There was the gun. Pointing towards him. About to kill him.

Donovan was scared.

Keenyside noticed. Laughed. ‘Not so brave now, are you, Mr Clever Fucking Journalist. D’you believe in God? No? Yes? Think there’s an afterlife?’ He tightened his grip on the trigger. ‘Well, you’re in the mercy seat. You’re about to find out. For yourself. Very soon.’

The Mercy Seat.
The song back in his head, the hotel room flashing before him.

Donovan blinked it away, stared at the gun. Transfixed by the end of the barrel. Any second now, metal would be hurled from there towards him at a speed he couldn’t measure. And it would be the last thing he would ever see.

This wasn’t Russian roulette. That had only ever been a game of chance to take the pain away. This was different. Someone else was in control. Deciding whether he lived or died.

Donovan was powerless.

Faces, voices swam before him:

Tosher.
Think about it, Joe Donovan. Which of us would you rather be?

Maria. Was this what it felt like for her? The disbelief? The useless struggle to not let go? The anger and injustice of having something taken from you when you’ve still got so much more to give?’

Johnny Cash kept singing in his head.
The Mercy Seat.
The condemned man only showing fear when confronting death. Finding truth for the first time in that same moment.

And David. Dying not knowing what had happened to his son.

Dying without finding him.

He didn’t want to die.

That was the truth.

He didn’t want to die.

Donovan stared at the gun. His world reduced to that one piece of lethal metal.

Saw Keenyside smiling, squeezing the trigger.

He closed his eyes.

‘I want to live …’

The choice no longer his.

He waited, eyes screwed tight shut, for the shots. He heard them.

One. Two. Three.

He jumped. Gasped. They didn’t hurt as much as he thought they would.

He remained still. He was breathing.

He opened his eyes.

Keenyside lay on the floor before him. Blood geysering from his spasming body.

He died. Donovan watched.

Then looked up. In the doorway stood a man he had never seen before. Dressed like a trainee tramp in overcoat, old jumper and trousers and filthy trainers. Youngish, but prematurely aged. He looked lost, homeless. He had a gun in his hand.

The man waited until the last flicker of life had left Keenyside then let out an enormous sigh.

As Donovan, Colin and Caroline watched, he began to cry.

The effort seemed to sap all the life from him. He rested his back against the wall, slid down it. Curled up foetally on the floor. His sobs threatening to engulf him.

He placed the barrel of the gun, still hot, into his mouth. Slowly, tenderly, like kissing a considerate lover. He winced from the heat.

‘No,’ shouted Donovan, ‘Don’t …’

The man either didn’t hear or ignored him. He said something that Donovan didn’t hear properly. Something about blue skies and green fields. Something about love.

‘Don’t!’

He pulled the trigger.

And Mikey Blackmore was dead.

Outside, distant but getting nearer, was the sound of sirens.

Donovan put down his paintbrush. He stepped back, admired his handiwork.

Where once the wall had been rough, flaking plaster, it was now smooth, taking its first coat of paint. It was already an improvement. Brightening the room, giving hope to what would follow.

Outside, the rain was holding off. Inside, the house was warm, oil-fired central heating having been recently installed.

Changes. For the better.

He looked around. Jamal, in an old T-shirt of Donovan’s that hung ludicrously down to his knees and an old pair of tracksuit bottoms, was applying paint to the skirting board in the far corner. He was working intently, tongue lodged in the corner of his mouth in concentration, eyes narrowed, making sure his paint distribution was even, that he stayed in the lines. Determined to do a good job.

Four weeks. Since that night at the Baltic.

Donovan had been led over the bridge back to Millennium Square, outside the Baltic. Ambulances, paramedics and police all milling about. The area had been cordoned off; Friday-night rubberneckers out in force, thrilled that this had brightened up their evening, TV crews arriving, making suppositions into camera.

In the middle of all this, Donovan had spotted Jamal. Peta and Amar had been taken off to hospital along with the other wounded. Donovan would see them later. As soon as he could. But there was Jamal, on his own. Sitting on the
back steps of an ambulance, huddled beneath a blanket that made him seem even smaller, staring at everything going on round him as if he was in a dream. He seemed alone.

More than that, lost.

He walked up to him, sat next to him.

Jamal slowly started to tell him what had happened. Donovan had been told already but listened. Jamal needed to talk. He reached the end of his story, tears in his eyes.

Donovan sighed. ‘Where you going now?’ Donovan asked. ‘What you going to do?’

Jamal shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ Kept his eyes averted from Donovan.

Donovan looked at him. Jamal had nothing to go back to, no home, just a drift back on to the street. More drugs and unsafe sex and an early, probably violent death. Donovan’s heart went out to him.

Donovan looked around, checked that no one was in earshot. ‘Let’s get out of here. If the police want to talk to us, they can find us later.’

Jamal nodded.

They walked back to Donovan’s hotel. ‘Where you off to now?’

Jamal shrugged.

‘I’ll get you a room.’

Jamal’s face brightened. ‘Yeah?’ He smiled. ‘Thanks, man.’

Donovan booked Jamal into the hotel.

‘You want something to eat in the restaurant? Or room service if you want to be on your own?’

‘I don’t wanna be on my own.’ Jamal not able to look at him while he spoke the words.

‘OK, then.’ Donovan bought him dinner.

While they were eating, he looked at the boy sitting opposite him. Just an ordinary teenager. Or should be. He made his mind up, came to a decision.

‘Listen,’ Donovan said. ‘If you’ve got nowhere to stay I’ve got a spare room.’ He told him where.

‘A cottage?’ Jamal had said. ‘In Northumberland? Is that in Scotland?’

‘No, it’s just up the road. Anyway, it’s up to you. You can make the room your own but you’ll have to help. The place needs doing up, making habitable.’

Jamal had frowned. ‘Dunno how to do that, man,’ he said earnestly.

Donovan smiled. ‘Don’t worry, neither do I. Be a laugh, eh?’

Jamal had tried to hide his pleasure at the offer, knowing it would be uncool to be too excited. But he gave a smile that almost threatened to split his face.

‘Yeah, man,’ he said, ‘that be cool.’

Four weeks.

Donovan still had nightmares. Still saw ghosts.

More to add to the collection.

The deaths, the maimings. The funeral season, as Donovan thought of it.

Four weeks. Time for the dust to settle. Not enough time for wounds to heal.

Two people killed, six injured in the attack on the Riverside Café Bar. Not counting Hammer, Peta and Amar. Not mentioning Alan Keenyside and Mikey Blackmore.

Colin and Caroline Huntley had been rushed straight to hospital. They were recovering. ‘Stable’ was the catch-all phrase the hospital spokesperson at the infirmary used. There had been no decision made on what proceedings, if any, would be taken against Colin Huntley for his actions against the travellers and his other collusions with Keenyside. Whatever happened, Donovan doubted either of them would be fully whole again.

Peta and Amar were on the mend. They had been allowed out the next day, were recuperating back home. Donovan had been to see them and realized, while talking to them, that a bond had been established. Even in such a short space of time. They would keep in touch. Perhaps work together again. He really believed that.

However, their business, with no one to tend to it, was back in trouble. Despite their recent successes, Knight Security and Investigations was back to square one.

The
Herald
and the Northumbria police were at each other’s throats. Each blaming the other for the débâcle. Neither backing down. Donovan knew it was just for show, a shouting match to indicate to the public how seriously they took these matters. More heat than light. He also knew, from experience, that once the public got sick of hearing about it and another story came along to take its place, that would be that. And matters of outrage, responsibility and blame would be quietly laid to rest.

Sharkey had been the
Herald’s
scapegoat. Sacked straight away, sacrificed to satisfy a supposedly outraged public. Donovan took a vindictive pleasure in hearing the news.

He also expected Nattrass to be demoted as a sign of public appeasement from the other side. But it hadn’t happened.

‘I’ve been carpeted,’ she told him over a coffee at Intermezzo, a place she was developing a taste for, ‘but mainly as a matter of course. No one blamed me. I mean,’ she said, making an expansive gesture that masked a great degree of relief, ‘the fact that a rogue element chose that night to target the café Bar wasn’t my fault, was it?’

No action had been taken against her or her team. It had even been intimated that had the loss of life not been so great, a commendation might have been in order.

Keenyside’s bagman and second-in-command had rolled
over. They knew about his network of dealers. Keenyside’s empire was over.

Lip service was paid in the papers and on TV about a blow being struck in the war against drugs, but no one believed it would change anything. Not really.

Justice, in its skewed, sad way, had been seen to be done.

The first funeral was Mikey Blackmore’s, the Social Fund covering the expenses.

The church in Scotswood, pollution-darkened almost to black. The vicar young, watch-glancing, speeding through as a matter of duty.

Donovan thought he would be the only mourner. But there were three college student types standing at the back.

Their presence puzzled him and they left looking disappointed. Donovan heard the words ‘big-time gangster funeral’ followed by a collective shake of their heads. The vicar looked at him almost in embarrassment.

‘Friend, relative?’

‘Neither,’ said Donovan. ‘He saved my life. I just wanted to thank him.’

Maria’s funeral came a week after the night at the Baltic.

Donovan was still torn up inside. But he felt he had to go.

Amar, Peta and Jamal also wanted to go. Pay their respects. Amar and Peta on crutches, Jamal very uneasy. The service took place in Didsbury outside Manchester, where her parents had moved to. The trees were almost denuded, the last few curled and crinkled brown leaves blowing about as the mourners made their way into the churchyard. The church was old, picturesque. The surrounding streets pleasant 1930s semis. Almost impossible to believe, thought Donovan, that violent death could touch lives in an area that seemed as self-protected as this.

But it had. Lives could be broken anywhere. There was no protection. Donovan knew that.

The four of them stood at the back, listened to the service. Donovan became quietly enraged. All her work colleagues were there, or at least the ones who had bothered to make the trip up from London, but none of them seemed to be touched by her death to any great depth. There was a sense of sadness, but also of duty. Death meant promotion. And they all wanted to be next.