Candleland (7 page)

Larkin smiled. Why does everyone I meet want me to write their life story today? he thought. “I'm not working at the moment. I'm just doing a favour for a friend. Find his daughter for him.”

“An' take her home?”

Larkin nodded. “Hopefully.”

The man's face became serious, as if he was considering something, weighing up a painful decision. Suddenly, decision apparently reached, he broke into a wide grin. His hand dropped from whatever it was behind the counter. “Let me tell you my story. And who knows? If you listen good, and pay attention to an old man, and I take a liking to you, white boy, I might just be able to get you in there.” He gestured towards the crack house.

“Really?” Larkin couldn't hide his surprise.

“Really.” He looked round the cafe. “Now, my customers seem to have deserted me today, so what say I shut up early and find us something a bit stronger than coffee to drink. That sound good to you?”

Larkin smiled. It certainly did.

The man, whose name was Raymond, “but everyone be call me Rayman”, closed the cafe, took off his apron, poured two huge shots of Jamaican rum and began to talk. The shadowy figures still moved about in the kitchen, but since they posed no immediate threat, Larkin tried to ignore them and listen to the story.

Rayman came to Britain from the Caribbean in the Fifties. “I was nine years old. Windrush. My parents thought there more jobs here, the land of opportunity.” He sighed. “Ha. My father was trainin' to be a doctor. You not writin' this down?”

“I'm listening,” Larkin replied.

The answer seemed good enough. Rayman continued. “Anyway, only work he could get here was shovlin' coal.” He laughed bitterly. “Told him make no difference he wouldn't get dirty. His skin already too black. This wasn't the country we were promised, with fine buildings an' good manners an' all that. We were called wogs an' told to get back to the jungle. I saw all this, saw my parents stick in there, saw their dreams just disappear. I wouldn't go the same way. I's goin' make somethin' of my life.”

He told Larkin of his drift into petty crime, “the only openin' for a black man in those days”. Stealing, shoplifting to start with, then it escalated. “I was earnin' me good money, dressin' well, had fine-lookin' ladies on my arm. Good times. Then someone said he like to sleep with one of my ladies and pay well for it. So I got me a string of them, hired them out.” He paused to take a mouthful of rum. “But it was all fun, you know? Nothin' heavy, you know what I'm sayin'? We all got somethin' out of it. I wasn't hurtin' no one, the ladies got fine clothes, money in their pocket, I din't beat them up or nothin' …” His eyes misted over as he travelled back over the years. “Yeah, we all enjoyed it.” Larkin doubted that, but didn't interrupt his cosy criminal history.

Rayman had started to deal cannabis, “just weed, nothin' stronger,” and run a shebeen. “Man, that was a success. High times for all. The black man loves to gamble, loves to drink, loves his women. An' I supplied all three. But then the big boys, the gangsters wanted to take over an' I knew it was time to get out.”

“So what did you do?”

“Bought this place an' a couple others round here. Good times a-comin' Maggie said. So I listened. Became a businessman. Started some Caribbean restaurants, owned some property round here.” He looked around. “All I got left now is this.” He gestured towards the shadowy kitchen. “An' my weed dealin'.” He shook his head. “Should have known better'n trust that white bitch.”

Larkin agreed, and the conversation, fuelled by the rum, began to meander. Three glasses later, they had managed to sort out the majority of Britain's problems, and had an enjoyable time of it, but Larkin was still no further forward to gaining access to the crack house.

Rayman sat back, drained the last of his rum. “So, you like my story?”

“Yeah,” said Larkin.

“But you're not goin' to write about me?”

“Not just yet.”

Rayman laughed. “But you listened, an' we talked an' had us a fine time, an' that's good enough.” He leaned forward, suddenly conspiratorial. “An' now you wanna know how to get in that crack house across the street?”

Larkin leaned in too. Partners in crime. “Yeah.”

“Lemme think about it,” Rayman said, sitting back. “Come here tomorrow for your breakfast an' we talk again.”

“You've got a great way of getting repeat business,” said Larkin.

Rayman laughed again, pointed. “You're not bad for a white man.” He stood up. “You better leave now.” He nodded towards the shadowy kitchen, his face suddenly serious. “I got me some business to attend to.”

Larkin left, promising to return and made his way back through the estate. The darkness was full on now, and he attempted to stick to well-lighted areas, which wasn't easy. The further he got from the centre of the estate, the more relaxed he began to feel. He was even relieved to see the trendsetters of Hoxtonia sitting in their bars, oblivious to what lay around the corner. He wished he could have joined them.

He thought of Rayman and his promise. Could he trust him? Probably not. Should he be contemplating the course of action he was about to take? Probably not. Did he have a choice if he wanted to find Karen? Probably not.

With a sigh of relief at making his way out of the estate in one piece but for little else, he made his way back to Clapham.

By the time Larkin had reached Clapham, the skies had opened, letting squally rain join the cold and wind, perfect fag end of winter weather. Larkin wasn't soaked by the time he reached Faye's but he was certainly unpleasantly wet. That, along with being chilled and windswept, told him once again why most British suicides happen in February. Nothing to do with certain unfortunate people realising they couldn't keep their New Year's resolutions and they were condemned to live as failures, Larkin's surly thoughts went, just the weather.

Opening the front door, the first thing that struck him was the smell. Wonderful cooking aromas coming from the kitchen. It made the house feel warm, lived in, welcoming. He could get used to this, he thought. He squelched into the front room. Andy lay stretched out on the floor, hooked up to the TV in a tangle of wires and plastic, fighting Duke Nukem on his Playstation. Larkin smiled.

“Turned into an adolescent again now that you're back at your mam's?” he asked.

Andy stood up, inadvertently allowing himself to die onscreen. He looked sheepish. “'Allo, Stevie, mate. Look, about last night …”

Larkin began to walk away. “You don't have to explain.”

“No,” said Andy, “it's not what you think.” He paused and thought. “Actually yeah, it is what you think, but there was a reason for that.”

“I'm sure.”

“I mean, what could I do? She's an old mate. And she's a bit of a dealer. Whenever I see her we get together, it's a done thing. I give her a bit of the old pork sword action and she gives me a discount on some blow and speed.”

Larkin smiled, milking his mock-superiority for all it was worth. “Charming arrangement. I hope you took precautions.”

Andy looked morally offended. “Course I did. What d'you take me for? Nice girl an' that, but she's been round the track more times than the greyhounds at Walthamstow, know what I mean?”

Larkin shook his head. He was in no position to judge. Not after what he'd done last night.

“I'll make it up to you, anyway,” said Andy. “Whatever you want tomorrow, I'll do it.”

“Good,” said Larkin.

“How d'you get on, anyway?” Andy asked.

They sat down and Larkin told him.

“Fuckin' 'ell,” said Andy when he'd finished, “You 'ad a busy day.”

“And it's going to get busier tomorrow,” said Larkin, and told him how he was going to gain entry into the crack house and what Andy's part was to be. Andy just listened quietly, his face turning paler and paler. Being brave with steroid-pumped cartoon characters was one thing, Larkin thought, real life was another.

“You're off your fuckin' 'ead, you know that?”

“You said you'd help, Andy.”

Andy grumbled and complained. “Don't know why I let you talk me into these things,” he said, giving reluctant agreement.

“I just need you for backup,” said Larkin. “I'll be taking the risks.”

Andy mumbled something less than complimentary, then went back to Duke Nukem.

Faye chose that moment to enter. She stopped short when she saw Larkin.

“Oh. Hello, Stephen. I thought I heard voices. Is it raining out there?”

Larkin said hello then added, rather needlessly, that it was. They stared at each other, generating a sudden, difficult electricity. If Andy hadn't been so involved in his game he would have noticed.

“The kettle's just boiled … if you'd like a drink.” She moved hesitantly towards the kitchen. Larkin followed.

Once there, she began making tea for them both, her back to him, eyes on the mugs. “Good day?” she asked.

He repeated to her what he'd already said to Andy, playing down his attempted entry to the crack house. When he'd finished she said, “Well I hope you'll be careful.”

“Yes, Mum.”

They both smiled.

“How are you?” Larkin asked.

She looked at him, eyes meeting at last. “Fine.” She handed him his mug and sat at the table, opposite him. “Look,” she said, after darting a quick glance at the door to make sure they were alone, “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just left this morning. I should have said something.”

“That's OK,” Larkin replied quietly.

She smiled weakly. “I don't … make a habit of doing that,” she said to her mug, “but I'd been drinking and smoking … and thinking about … well, you know.”

I know,” said Larkin. “We were both there when we needed someone. You don't have to say any more.”

She looked up and smiled. She opened her mouth as if to say something important, something deeper, but instead announced, “It's pasta carbonara tonight. But don't expect this every night. It'll be someone else's turn to cook tomorrow.” She stood up, began busying herself at the cooker.

“Where's Henry?”

“In his room.”

“I'll go and see him.” Larkin stood and crossed the kitchen. He stood behind her, looked at the curve of her neck under her piled-up hair, smooth and white. His hands began to move towards her shoulders.

Suddenly she turned, looked straight at him. Her eyes had none of the sexual directness of the previous night. Instead they held a kind of subdued claustrophobic fear. “Tell him his dinner's ready, will you?” she said as brightly and evasively as possible.

Larkin knew that look. Fear of confinement, fear of involvement. Damage did that to people. He nodded and left the room. Faye went back to what she was doing.

He walked up the stairs all the way to the attic and knocked on the door of Moir's room.

“Yeah?” rumbled the familiar Scottish voice.

“It's Stephen.”

There was a heavy-footed scramble of indecent haste across the floor and the door was sharply pulled open. Cosmetically, Moir looked better than he had the previous night. His hair was clean, his face was shaved, his clothes didn't smell. But beyond that, he was just the same.

“Well?” Moir's eyes were half-crazed, half-imploring.

“I'll come in and tell you.”

Moir retreated into the room, sat on the bed.

Larkin entered and saw what Moir had in his hand. A revolver.

“What the fuck're you doing with that?” said Larkin.

“Just cleaning it. Why, d'you think I'm goin' tae top myself?” asked Moir with a sharp laugh.

“Well …” Larkin shrugged.

“Don't worry. Used to be my dad's. I brought it down in case there was goin' tae be any rough stuff. I was just givin' it a polish. You never know.”

“Just put it away, please, Henry. It's making me nervous.”

Moir bundled it up and slid it under the bed. Larkin breathed a sigh of relief and looked round the room. The slanting roof and drawn curtain together with the sparse furniture gave the room a sombre, cold feel. Or perhaps that was just Moir's mood permeating the atmosphere. On the side of the bed was a bottle of Bell's, almost empty. One glass. Well, things can't be that bad, thought Larkin. At least he's not drinking straight from the bottle.

“D'you wanna drink?” asked Moir.

“There's only one glass.”

“For visitors.” He almost laughed. “I'm takin' it straight from the bottle.”

Oh fuck, thought Larkin, things are that bad. Let's hope the gun's not loaded.

“So tell me.” Moir handed the glass to Larkin, who sat on the other end of the bed.

Larkin handed Moir the report Jackie Fairley had given him. Moir rifled through it, staring at the pages as if the words themselves might yield up secrets, answers. While he looked, Larkin ran through the story again. After finishing the report, Moir sat impassively, eyes focused on something Larkin couldn't see, something that wasn't in the room but that Moir carried with him. Larkin was going to tell him to expect the worst, but one look at Moir showed he had gone over every calamitous outcome in his mind. When Larkin had finished, Moir took a large slug from the bottle and turned to him.

“You're a good friend,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. “Thanks.” It wasn't the response Larkin had been expecting.

He looked at Moir, waiting for something more, but nothing else was forthcoming. Moir just sat, looking like a man who'd reached the end of a long road, or was lost on one that he couldn't see the end of.

Larkin sipped his whisky and waited. Eventually, Moir spoke.

“When I was a boy,” he began, talking slowly as if he'd been practising in his head, “I used to play a lot of chess.” He sighed. “It was so simple. One black side, one white. One won, one lost. I always wanted to be white. And to win. So I joined the force. And looked at things in the same way. Black and white. Good and evil. Right and wrong.” He snorted, took a swig. “Naive little bastard that I was. The job soon disabused me of that notion, because as we all know, there is no such thing as absolute right and wrong. And little by little my belief was traded off.” He flung his arms out, gesturing expansively. “You know what I mean. Turn a blind eye to a small misdemeanour in order to stop a larger one … convince yourself that a crime is not morally wrong if there's a kickback in it for you … produce evidence to convict some unconvictable bastard that you know in your heart is guilty.” He sighed again, the sudden energy leaving him. “Black and white began to merge into one huge fuckin' grey fog. Various shades, mind, but all grey. And I stopped bein' able to tell the good guys from the villains, an' workin' out what was important an' what wasn't. An' I lost it. Lost sight of the board, the squares, the gameplan … lost my wife, my family …” He lowered his head. “… my self-respect. All my fault.” He sighed again, heavier this time. “Lost the fuckin' lot … An' now whenever I see a chessboard, it reminds me what I lost, an' makes me wanna puke …”