Candleland (32 page)
Authors: Martyn Waites
“You lookin' for fun, you come to the right place.” Call centre staff had greeted him with more enthusiasm than this girl and her broad Midlands accent.
“I'm looking for Tina,” Larkin began, hesitantly. “Is she here?”
The girl looked momentarily confused at this deviation from the script, but recovered quickly. “No she's not. But I can be Tina if you want me to.”
“Look, I'm not a punter,” sighed Larkin. “I'm here to see her. Is she in?”
The girl, smelling the booze on his breath, became scared then. This was a big excursion from the script. She couldn't cope with this.
“Look,” the girl said, fear in her voice, “you'd better go. I don't know where Tina is, I've never heard of her. Les'll kill me if she knows I've been talkin' to social workers.”
“I'm not a social worker,” slurred Larkin, “I'm not the police, I'm not a religious nut, I'm not anything. I just want to help her.”
“Well she ain't 'ere.”
The girl began to close the door. Larkin stopped her.
“Please,” he said, digging into his pocket and bringing out a card. “Take this. I brought it for Tina but you take it.”
The girl looked at the card. It had the word “Candleland” on it and the phone number of a minicab company who would provide transport free of charge.
“It's a safe house,” explained Larkin. “If it all gets too much, give them a ring. They can help.”
“Look, just piss off!” the girl shouted, and slammed the door.
Larkin stood there, staring at it. Well, he thought, I suppose I asked for that.
He turned and walked down the road, collar up, shoulders hunched against more than the cold.
He sighed. Faye's for dinner, he thought, then that's it. I'm off.
Larkin took another mouthful of wine and looked round the table. He had been so wrapped up in his memories that the conversation had started without him. Karen was telling the others of her new job.
“I start next Monday at Candleland, yes,” she said. “Regular money and a bit of stability. It'll help, you know, when I need it.”
She looked at Larkin and smiled. A lot of the earlier fear was absent from her eyes. But not all. She still looked haunted. She always would. Larkin nodded. He understood.
Henry then announced, to no one's surprise, that Faye had asked him to move in with her. The air filled with congratulations. Faye and Larkin caught each other's eyes, then quickly looked away. Andy, Larkin noticed, was staring at him with a very brittle smile on his face.
Mickey raised his glass. “To new beginnings and second chances,” he said.
They all drank.
After dinner, Larkin found himself alone in the kitchen with Faye. She busied herself with a cafetiere. She wouldn't make eye contact.
“Congratulations,” said Larkin.
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
“I mean it.”
She stopped what she was doing, looked at him. “Look Stephen, I know this is difficult for you.”
Larkin didn't argue.
“I'm sorry it didn't work out between us. Honestly. I just feel ⦠I've got a future with Henry. We need each other.”
“Don't I need you?”
She stared at him, examining him with a frankness he hadn't before seen in her eyes. “No,” she said, at great length. “No, I don't think you do. I think you looked at me and you saw comfort. But that's not what you need. You need purpose.”
Larkin couldn't reply. The words just dammed up in his throat.
“I'll go and see who wants coffee,” she said and walked past him.
He made no attempt to stop her.
Larkin stood alone in the kitchen for a few minutes, gathering his thoughts. Faye was right, he reluctantly admitted. He did need purpose. But he wouldn't find it in London.
He turned to go back to the dining room and saw Andy standing in the doorway.
“Fuck,” said Larkin, “you gave me a fright. What you standing there for?”
“I was lookin' for you.”
“What for?”
“Newcastle,” said Andy. “I'm not goin' back.”
“What, ever?”
“Not tomorrow. Not with you.”
Larkin crossed to him. “What's up, Andy? Is there something you want to tell me?”
Andy gave him a confrontational look. “Is there somethin' you want to tell me?”
Larkin looked him straight in the eye. “All right, then. Faye and I slept together, OK? Only once. I wanted more than that, she didn't. At least not with me. That what you wanted to know?”
Andy said nothing.
“Look, Andy,” said Larkin, “you said so yourself. Faye might have given birth to you but she's never been a mother to you. She's a woman who needs the same things as everyone else. And you have to live with that. Unfortunately, she doesn't want them from me. And I have to live with that.”
Andy stood silently for a few seconds then turned and walked to the door. “I'll be back up sometime,” he said. “After all, I've got friends up there, ain't I?”
He went back to the dining room.
Larkin waited a couple of minutes then followed him.
The next morning, Larkin was up well before everyone else. He crept quietly downstairs, bag in hand, trying to make his way to the car before anyone else appeared. The last thing he wanted was a protracted and difficult goodbye session.
He crossed the hall floor, placed his hand on the front door.
“Off already?” asked a voice from behind.
Larkin turned. There stood Mickey Falco, up and dressed. Mickey had stayed the night. He had taken Moir's old room, since Moir had slept with Faye.
“Yeah,” said Larkin. “Got a long drive, thought I'd make an early start.”
Mickey nodded, not in the slightest bit convinced. “I was wonderin',” he said. “D'you mind givin' me a lift back to Candleland? I know it's out of your way, but I'd like to have a chat.”
“You're not going to try and convert me, are you?”
Mickey laughed.
They got in the Saab and drove away. Larkin looked back once, hoping to see a twitch from the upstairs curtains, but there wasn't one.
“So it's back to the land of Newkie Brown for you, then?” asked Mickey.
“You know what?” said Larkin. “It's only Southerners that call it that. No one in Newcastle does. Well, only students.”
“So what should I call the stuff, then?”
“Its proper name,” said Larkin. “Dog.”
Mickey laughed and shook his head. “I'm not even gonna ask.” When the smile faded, his face settled along more serious lines. “D'you know why you're goin' back?”
Larkin thought. “Because I don't belong here? Because I've got a job up there?” He shrugged.
“When I checked you out, I read your stuff. I liked it, it's good. Powerful. Angry. Necessary. You're doin' a good job, Stephen. An' if you need remindin', just remember the Gospel of St Matthew, the Sermon on the Mount: Blessed are the truthtellers. And John 8: The truth shall set you free.”
“You making that up?”
Mickey smiled. “No. But it depends which translation you use.”
“So what did you want to see me about?”
“When we reach Candleland.”
They reached Candleland. It was still, the day had yet to get started.
“Down the end of the hall on the left,” said Mickey, standing outside the front door, “is a door. It'll be closed but not locked. Ralph's in that room. Ralph Sickert.”
“So?”
Mickey shrugged. “Thought it might be a good idea for you to talk to him. He's at peace with his past. He's found his redemption. Might help you to do the same.”
Before Larkin could answer, Mickey opened the front door, walked to his office and shut himself inside.
Larkin stepped over the threshold and stood in the hall. He saw the door at the end and walked towards it. He reached it, raised up his hand to knock, but something stopped him before fist touched wood.
What am I doing? he asked himself. The answer came: making peace with my past. Confronting the killer of my wife and child so I can put it behind me. Move my life on.
And will that change what happened? No. So he's found God, convinced himself he's over what he did. Thinks his sins have been redeemed. Well, good for him. I hope he sleeps well at night. But talking to him won't help. It won't change what he did to me.
No, Sickert is the past. My past is behind that door. I can open it and step inside or I can just acknowledge it's there, leave it and walk away.
I know where I have to go, what I have to do. It's what I was doing before I came to London. I was right, I was just scared to admit it.
It won't be easy, I know there are ghosts. But they've been with me a long time and I don't think they're ever going to leave. They've made their beds beside me. They're sleeping with me. So I've got to get used to them. Concentrate on the thumbs instead of the fingers.
Because it's better than the alternative. It's better than opening this door.
Larkin's hand dropped to his side. He turned and walked purposefully through the front door, closing it firmly behind him.
Outside in the street, the day was just starting. The air felt warmer, the sun brighter. Spring seemed to be on the way. Larkin took his fleece off and threw it on the passenger seat.
I hope I don't regret doing that, he thought, rubbing his arms. I've been fooled by a false spring before.
He climbed into the car and headed north.
Headed for home.
A lot of people helped, either wittingly or unwittingly, with this book and it's only fair they should get a mention. So, in no particular order, big thanks to: Graham Falco, Stephen Falco, Heather Grottick, Caroline Montgomery, David Shelley, Shend, Ray Trickett, Cathi Unsworth and Styal White. The mistakes are, needless to say, theirs, and the good bits are all mine.
Detective Inspector Christy Kennedy appears by arrangement with his creator, Paul Charles, and can be found in his own excellent series of novels which I thoroughly recommend.
If there is a pub called The Volunteer in Hackney then it isn't the one in this book. This one's only pretend.
Lastly, a really huge above-and-beyond-type thank you to my wife Linda.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2000 by Martyn Waites
cover design by Katherine Lynch
This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
EBOOKS BY MARTYN WAITES
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
