The Echo (17 page)

Terry grinned suddenly and raised his head. "Thanks, Dad. You've done good. How about we make it an Indian takeaway?''

There was a gleam of triumph in the lad's pale eyes which came and went too swiftly for Deacon to notice. But Lawrence saw it. Being older and wiser, he had been looking for it.

Lawrence refused Deacon's offer of a lift home but took down the Islington address in case he was contacted by the police. He advised Terry to use his few days' grace to consider whether a return to the warehouse was in his best interests, warned him that his true age and identity would undoubtedly be discovered if and when he was required to give evidence against Denning in court, and suggested he think about regularizing his position voluntarily before he was forced into it. He then asked Terry to call him a taxi from the phone at the bar and, while the boy was out of earshot, he cautioned Deacon against naivety. "Retain a healthy skepticism, Michael. Remember the kind of life Terry's been leading and how little you actually know about him."

Deacon smiled slightly. "I was afraid you were going to tell me to embrace him to my heart with expressions of love. Healthy skepticism I can cope with. It's what I know best."

"Oh, I don't think you're quite so hardened as you think you are, my dear fellow. You've accepted everything he's told you without blinking an eyelash."

"You think he's lying?"

Lawrence shrugged. "We've had a conversation filled with references to homosexuality, and that troubles me. You'll be very vulnerable to a charge of attempted rape if you take him back to your flat. And that will leave you no option but to pay whatever he demands from you."

Deacon frowned. "Come on, Lawrence, he's completely paranoid on the whole subject. He'd never let me near enough to touch him so how could he accuse me of rape?''

"
Attempted
rape, dear chap, and do please recognize how effective his paranoia is. He's lulled you into thinking it's safe to take him home, which I'm bound to say is not something I would feel confident doing."

"Then why were you pushing me into it?"

Lawrence sighed. "I wasn't, Michael. I was hoping to persuade you both that Terry should be returned to care." He was watching the boy as he spoke. The barman was trying to give him a telephone directory which he seemed reluctant to take. "Tell me, what will your reaction be when he screams and tears his clothes, and threatens to run to one of your neighbors with stories of imprisonment and sexual assault?''

"Why would he want to do that?"

"I would imagine because he's done it before and knows it works. You really mustn't go into this with your eyes closed, my dear chap."

"Great," said Deacon, lowering his head wearily into his hands. "So what the hell am I supposed to do now? Tell the little bastard to get stuffed?"

Lawrence chuckled. "Dear, dear, dear! What a fellow you are for losing heart. The least generous but probably most sensible course would be to hand him back to the police and let the social workers deal with him, but that would be very unkind when you've just offered him Christmas in your flat. Forewarned
is
after all forearmed. I think you must honor your invitation to the poor lad but keep one step ahead of him all the time."

"I wish you'd make up your mind," growled Deacon. "Half a minute ago the
poor
lad was planning to con me out of thousands."

"Why should the two be mutually exclusive? He's an unloved, ill-educated, half-formed adolescent who, through living rough, will have learned some sophisticated tricks to keep himself in clothes, food, drink, and drugs. The truth may be that you're exactly the person he needs to bring him back into the fold."

"He'll run rings around me," said Deacon gloomily.

"Surely not," murmured Lawrence, looking towards the bar, where Terry had finally asked the barman to locate a minicab firm for him in the directory. "At least you have the advantage of literacy."
 

Barry experienced only humiliation at the hands of Fatima, who spoke very poor English. The light in her bed-sitting room was dim, and he looked in fastidious alarm at the tumbled bed which still seemed to bear the imprint of a previous client. There was a strong Turkish atmosphere in the frowsty room which owed more to Fatima herself than to the array of joss sticks burning on a dressing table.

She was a well-covered woman, somewhere in her middle years, with a routine that was well-established and made no allowance for time-wasting. She recognized rapidly that she was dealing with a virgin and looked repeatedly at her clock, while Barry stumbled through an inarticulate introduction of himself as he tried to work out how to extricate himself from this dreadful situation without offending her.

"One hunra," she broke in impatiently, stroking her palm. "And take zee trowse off. Who care you call Barree?
I
call you sweeties. What you like? Doggy-doggy? Oil?" She pursed her full lips into a ripe rosebud. "You nice clean boy. For a hunra and fifty Fatima do sucky-sucky. You like sucky-sucky? Sounds good, eh, sweeties?"

Terrified that she wouldn't let him go without some sort of payment, Barry fumbled his wallet out of his coat pocket and allowed her to remove five twenties. It was a mistake. Once the money had changed hands, and when Barry didn't immediately start shedding his clothes, she set about doing it for him. She was a strong woman and clearly expected to fulfill her side of the contract.

"Come on, sweeties. No need to be shy. Fatima she know all the tricks. There, you see, no problem. You beeg boy." With deft hands she plucked a condom from a nearby drawer, applied it with consummate artistry, and proceeded to practice her Turkish delights at speed. Barry was no match for her skill, and matters reached a conclusion in seconds. "There you are, sweeties," she said, "all done, all enjoyed. You really
beeg
boy. You come back any time as long as you have a hunra. Fatima always willing. Next time, less talk more fun, okay? You pay for good sex, and Fatima give good sex. Maybe you like doggy-doggy and fondle Fatima's nice round arse. Now put zee trowse back on and say bye-bye." She had the door open before he was properly dressed and, because he didn't know what else to do with it, he put the condom in his pocket. She called after him as he walked away: "You come back soon, Barree," and his heart swelled with loathing for her and all her sex.
 

"What was the old guy saying to you while I was on the phone?" demanded Terry suspiciously as he and Deacon made their way back to the car.

"Nothing much. He's concerned about your future and how best to handle it."

"Yeah, well, if he does the dirty on me and goes to the police, he'd better watch his back."

"He gave you his word he wouldn't. Don't you believe him?"

Terry kicked at the curb. "I guess so. But he's a bit fucking heavy on the hand-patting and calling everyone dear. D'you reckon he's bent?"

"No. Would it make a difference if he were?''

"Bloody right it would. I don't hold with poofs."

Deacon inserted his key in the car door, but paused before turning it to look across the roof at his would-be passenger. "Then why do you keep talking about them?" he asked. "You're like an alcoholic who can't keep off the subject of booze because he's dying for his next drink."

"I'm not a bloody poof," said Terry indignantly.

"Then prove it by keeping off the subject."

"Okay. Can we stop at the warehouse?"

Deacon eyed him thoughtfully. "Why?''

"There's things I need. Extra clothes and such."

"Why can't you come as you are?"

"Because I'm not a fucking tramp."

After ten minutes of drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and with no sign of Terry's reemergence from the dark building, Deacon wondered if he should go after him. He could hear Lawrence's voice in his ear:
"You think this is good parenting, Michael? You let a fourteen-year-old boy go into a den of thieves, and you call that
responsible
?"

He postponed one difficult decision by making another. He picked up his mobile telephone and dialed his sister's number. "Emma?" he said when a woman's voice answered at the other end.

"No, it's Antonia."

"You sound like your mother."

"Who is this, please?"

"Your uncle Michael."

"God!" said the voice at the other end in some awe. "Listen, hang on, okay? I'll get Mum." The phone clattered onto a tabletop at the other end and he heard her shouting for her mother. "Quick, quick! It's Michael."

His sister's breathless voice came down the line. "Hello, hello! Michael?"

"Calm down and get your breath back," he said in some amusement. "I'm still here."

"I ran. Where are you?"

"In a car outside a warehouse in the East End."

"What are you doing there?"

"Nothing of any interest." He could see the conversation being hijacked by irrelevancies for, like him, Emma was adept at postponing anything difficult. "Look, I got your card. I also got one from Julia. I gather Ma's not well."

There was a short silence. "Julia shouldn't have told you," she said rather bitterly. "I hoped you'd rung because you wanted to end this silly feud, not because you feel guilty about Ma."

"I don't feel guilty."

"Out of pity, then."

Did he feel pity, either? His strongest emotion was still anger.
"Do not bring that whore into my house,'' his mother had said when he told her he'd married Clara. "How dare you sully your father's name by giving it to a cheap tart? Was killing him not enough for you, Michael?"
That had been five years ago, and he hadn't spoken to her since. "I'm still angry, Emma, so maybe I'm phoning out of filial duty. I'm not going to apologize to her-or you for that matter-but I
am
sorry she's ill. What do you want me to do about it? I'm quite happy to see her as long as she's prepared to keep a rein on her tongue, but I'll walk out the minute she starts having a go. That's the only deal you or she will get, so do I come or not?"

"You haven't changed one little bit, have you?" Her voice was angry. "Your mother's virtually blind and may have to have her leg amputated as a result of diabetes, and you talk about deals. Some filial duty, Michael. She was in hospital for most of September, and now Hugh and I are paying through the nose for private-nursing care at the farm because she won't come and live with us.
That's
filial duty, making sure your mother's being looked after properly even if it means hardships for yourself."

Deacon looked towards the warehouse with a frown in his dark eyes. "What happened to her investments? She had a perfectly good income five years ago, so why isn't she paying for the nursing care herself?''

Emma didn't answer.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Why isn't she paying herself?"

"She offered to put the girls through school and used her capital to buy their fees in advance," said Emma reluctantly. "She left herself enough to live on but not enough to pay for extras. We didn't
ask
," she went on defensively. "It was her idea, but none of us knew she was going to be struck down like this. And it's not as if there was any point keeping anything for you. As far as the rest of us were aware, you were never going to speak to us again."

"That's right," he agreed coolly. "I'm only speaking to you now because Julia was so damn sure I wouldn't."

Emma sighed. "Is that the only reason you phoned?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you. Why can't you just say sorry and let bygones be bygones?''

"Because I've nothing to be sorry for. It's not my fault Dad died, whatever you and Ma like to think."

"That's not what she was angry about. She was angry about the way you treated Julia."

"It was none of her business."

"Julia was her daughter-in-law. She was very fond of her. So was I."

"You weren't married to her."

"That's cheap, Michael."

"Yes, well, I can't accuse you of that, can I? Not when you and Hugh have scooped the pot," said Deacon sarcastically. "I've never taken a cent from Ma and don't intend to start now, so if she wants to see me, it'll have to be on my terms because I don't owe her a damn thing, never mind how many bloody legs she's about to lose."

"I can't believe you said that," snapped his sister. "Aren't you at all upset that she's ill?"

If he was, he wasn't going to admit it. "My terms, Emma, or not at all. Have you a pen? This is my telephone number at home." He gave it to her. "I presume you'll be at the farm for Christmas, so I suggest you talk this over with Ma and ring me with your verdict. And don't forget I promised to deck Hugh the next time I saw him, so take that into account before you reach a decision."

"You can't hit Hugh," she said indignantly. "He's fifty-three."

Deacon bared his teeth at the receiver. "Good, then one punch should do it easily."

There was another silence. "Actually, he's been wanting to apologize for ages," she said weakly. "He didn't really mean what he said. It just sort of came out in the heat of the moment. He regretted it afterwards."

"Poor old Hugh. It's going to be doubly painful then when I break his nose."

Terry appeared from the warehouse with two filthy suitcases, which he parked on the backseat. He offered the explanation that, as the warehouse was full of fucking thieves, he was safeguarding his possessions by bringing them with him. Deacon thought it looked more like wholesale removal to what promised to be luxury living.

"Doesn't the endless 'fucking' get a little boring after a while?'' he murmured as he drew away from the curb.

They ate their takeaway, perched on the hood of Deacon's car. They were in danger of freezing to death in the night air, but he preferred that to having his upholstery splattered with red tandoori chicken dye. Terry wanted to know why they hadn't eaten in the restaurant.

"I didn't think we'd ever get served," said Deacon rather grimly, "not after you called them wogs."

Terry grinned. "What d'you call them, then?"

"People."

They sat in silence for a while, gazing down the street ahead of them. Fortunately it was well nigh deserted, so they attracted little curiosity. Deacon wondered who would have been the more embarrassed, himself or Terry, had some acquaintance passed by and seen them.