The Mercy Seat (12 page)

He ignored the pain, kept pulling. Willed the iron pipe to come away from the wall. Rattled, tugged, groaned, screamed.

And eventually lay, anger spent and new pain piling on old, panting on the floor.

‘It’s no good … you’re better off conserving your strength …’

Gary opened his eyes. Colin sat at the opposite end of the radiator, slouched against the wall. John McCarthy to his Brian Keenan. Colin didn’t look well. Previously dapper, he seemed to have unravelled, given up. Dishevelled and
unkempt, his deterioration seemed to be part of a domino effect; once one piece had toppled, everything had gone.

Gary had almost forgotten Colin was there. When they exhausted themselves of each other’s forced intimacy, Gary would slip into a neo-fugue state, depart the real world; create an imaginary one in his head where he could go by himself or with his wife and children, get lost anywhere that helped him to cope with the captivity. He imagined that Colin, although he had never said, did something similar.

‘I know him,’ Colin continued, holding his arm awkwardly against his body, breathing carefully and with difficulty, ‘know what he wants. And we can’t give him it. So don’t fight it.’

Gary closed his eyes, not wanting to see the absence of hope in his companion’s eyes.

‘I knew he was ruthless,’ Colin said dreamily, almost to himself. ‘And manipulative. But this … this is the act of a madman. Psychotic …’

‘Well, when we get out, I’ll see to it that he’s punished. Not only that—’ Gary laughed against the pain. ‘—but we’ll write the book together. Big advance, serialization rights, chat-show circuit, the lot. We’ll be quids in.’

Colin gave a sad smile, the kind a terminally ill man gives when told that summer is only weeks away.

‘It’s a nice thought,’ he said.

Colin closed his eyes, laid his back against the wall, slid further down.

Gary did likewise.

He didn’t know how long he lay like that; minutes, hours, days, even. Time had become a fluid and elastic thing, an untrustworthy and mockingly constant companion.

He heard the first outside lock being turned, the bolt pushed back.

Quickly he grabbed for his hood, started to fumble it on with one hand. The pain from his wrist was sharp and intense. He thought it might be broken.

The door opened. Light flooded the floor, so strong and sudden it seemed almost biblical. Gary squinted. His hood was partway on to his head but not yet over his eyes.

Two figures entered, closed the door behind them. The outside world was abruptly cut off. Miniature starbursts hit Gary’s eyes, like he’d been staring into the sun and blinked.

‘Hoods won’t be necessary, gentlemen,’ said one of the captors. Gary didn’t know which one; his eyes were still dazzled.

‘You letting us go?’ asked Gary, hope rising within.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said the same man. ‘Decisions have been taken. Plans made.’

Gary let the words sink in, the figures come into focus. The one talking was well dressed, a dark overcoat covering his suit and tie. The other one he had seen before. Big, bald and bad. Leather jacket covering a lethally muscled body. Tattooed knuckles.

‘Just you.’ The well-dressed man pointed at Gary.

And Gary suddenly knew what he meant.

His stomach flipped, his breathing became laboured. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come out.

He sat up, tried to pull away. But it was no good.

The bald-headed figure strode purposefully towards him.

‘No … no …’

Heard a weak, whimpering voice, realized it was his own.

Felt a hand grab his shirt, haul him up.

Felt the pain in his wrist, ignored it.

Saw the skinhead’s other hand pull back, curl into a fist.

Thought of Amanda’s body next to him. Georgie, eight, and Rosie, five, jumping on the bed, laughing and hugging them both. The Saturday lie-ins he’d always treasured when he was home.

Home.

He saw the fist released, coming towards him. Saw the blur of a blue-jewelled shark smile. Saw the word flash quickly before his eyes:
LOVE
.

Felt pain; sudden, intense, red hot.

Then nothing.

Jamal checked his disc again: still there.

He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled on his trainers. Straightening up, he noticed how short he was of breath. How nervous he felt.

This was it. The first step to a new life. In a few hours he would be five grand richer and hassle free. As soon as that disc disappeared, everything else went with it. The threats on his life. Punters who wanted to touch him. Father Jack and his plans.

He had tried phoning Dean, just to see if he was OK, but kept getting just his voicemail. Probably let the battery run down, Jamal had thought, or off raving. Or lost it. Yeah, that’s it. Something like that.

Jamal stood up, pulled on his jacket. Patted the minidisc player in one pocket, mobile in the other. He had checked obsessively to see if there was any message from Donovan. Nothing. Good sign, meant the meet was still on. Nothing from Dean either. But Dean was OK. Yeah, he would be OK.

He gave one last tug at the front of his hair – getting nappy, needed a cut – checked his no-longer-box-white Nikes and made his way out. He was down the stairs with his hand on the door, when he heard his name being called. He turned. Si was standing in the frame of the living room door, smiling, 50 Cent shouting in the background about how drinking Bacardi made him a hard man.

Get Rich or Die Trying.

‘Off out?’

Jamal swallowed hard. ‘Yeah.’

‘Where to?’

‘Punter.’

Si’s grin got wider. ‘Same one?’

Jamal shrugged non-committally.

‘Must be fond of you. Want to adopt you, does he? Take you home?’

Jamal turned, made a grab for the front door.

Si got there first. Stuck out a swift arm, kept the door firmly shut.

‘Fuck you doin’, man?’ said Jamal, nerves manifesting themselves as anger. ‘Outta my way.’

‘Not yet,’ said Si. ‘Father Jack wants to see you.’

Jamal tried to deaden his eyes. Turn his features to stone.

He failed.

‘Get out of my way. I’m goin’ out.’

Si grabbed the front of Jamal’s jacket, pushed him back on to the stairs. Held him down. Faces began to appear from the front room. Si looked towards them.

‘Fuck off,’ he said, eyes lit by a harsh light. ‘Me an’ Jamal are talkin’. Private.’

The door was quickly closed, 50 Cent silenced.

‘That’s better,’ said Si. ‘Now, get upstairs. Father Jack’s waitin’ for you.’

Jamal got slowly to his feet, trudged reluctantly upstairs.

‘You don’t need to knock. He’s expectin’ you.’

Jamal went in. Father Jack was sitting on the bed, fully dressed in a Hawaiian shirt that looked big enough to cover Hawaii and pair of chinos that a group of boy scouts could have gone camping in for a week. Probably had.

But there was nothing remotely comical about his expression. He looked beyond predatory, beyond wicked. He looked expectant at the prospect of causing pain.

He swallowed hard, tried to will himself to stone.

Failed again.

Si closed the door behind them, stood with his back against it.

‘Off out again?’ said Father Jack.

Jamal said nothing.

‘Off to see this punter again? This boyfriend?’

Jamal gave a strained nod.

Father Jack stood up. The way he moved his bulk was menacing.

‘Pays well, I hear. Not the million you wanted, but good enough. For a boy like you.’

Jamal felt the air had been punched from his body. Felt his legs buckle and weaken.

‘Five grand, isn’t it? Generous, our Mr Donovan.’

Jamal’s breath came in laboured gasps. He couldn’t think fast enough. How had they found out? He had been so careful. He saw the mental image of five grand disappearing before him.

He made to turn, to run for it, but Si was there. Si grabbed him, twisted his arm up behind his back. Jamal gasped, winced in pain. Jack approached him. Got right in his face. Jamal smelled honey and mint, cologne and soap covering the stink of old sweat and corruption.

‘Don’t fuck me about now, boy. You do not want to fuck me about.’

Jamal stared; no answer would come.

‘Now,’ said Father Jack, ‘where’s this disc?’

Jamal opened his mouth slowly. ‘What disc?’ he said. His throat felt like sandpaper. ‘I don’t know nothin’ about no—’

Father Jack touched him. Poked his fingers hard into strategic places. Jamal felt pain shoot around the middle of his body, up his spine. His knees gave way; he started to fall. Si gripped his arm tighter, the only thing holding Jamal
upright. Counter-pain bled out from that. Jamal twisted and struggled, tried to move away from the pain, find respite, stand – and think – straight.

‘You’re fucking me about, boy,’ Father Jack shouted into his face. ‘I told you not to. Now, where’s the disc?’

Jamal opened his mouth to speak. No sound would emerge.

More fingers. More strategic poking. More pain.

Jamal felt like he was on the verge of passing out.

‘Let him go,’ said Father Jack.

Si loosened his grip, stepped back. Father Jack took his fingers away. Jamal collapsed on to the floor, panting hard. He didn’t know what to do first, faint or throw up.

He threw up.

‘Oh that’s disgusting,’ said Father Jack. ‘You’re cleaning that up.’

Jamal said nothing.

Father Jack fixed him with a dispassionate stare. ‘The disc. Where is it?’

Jamal slowly inched his hand round to the small of his back. ‘Jacket …’ he said, his voice tiny and fragile.

Si tore the jacket off him. He felt all round until his fingers alighted on the shape of the disc. He tore the lining in two, pulled it out.

‘Here it is,’ he said, triumph in his voice. He found a lump in the pocket, pulled out the minidisc player.

‘And look what we have here,’ he said.

Father Jack smiled. ‘Very nice.’ He kneeled before Jamal, waved a hand theatrically, made a face. ‘You stink. Now, what’s on this disc that’s so important?’

‘All sortsa shit,’ gasped Jamal. ‘This journalist is gonna pay me to get it back. Pay me big time …’

Father Jack stood up, took the disc and player from Si, inserted the disc, put the headphones on.

‘Get that mess cleaned up,’ he said to Jamal, who was beginning to, with difficulty, sit up.

‘And you,’ Father Jack pointed at Si. ‘When he’s done that, get him cleaned up.’

‘Why?’ said Si.

Father Jack didn’t like to be questioned. His expression said as much.

Si swallowed hard.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean anything. I just meant—’

‘Do as you’re told,’ said Father Jack, ending any argument. ‘I want him cleaned up and ready to meet this Donovan bloke.’

Si looked at him. ‘You mean he’s still gonna—’

‘Oh yes,’ said Father Jack, ‘he certainly is. Now, do as you’re told.’

Si did as he was told.

Father Jack sat back on the bed.

Pressed
PLAY
.

‘Hey look. Quick, look.’

Amar was standing by the window. Peta came up to join him.

‘The newbie’s off out. And he’s got that Si kid with him. The creepy one.’

Peta looked closely. ‘And I’d say newbie didn’t look too happy about it.’

‘What d’you reckon?’ said Amar. ‘Should one of us follow?’

Peta smiled sarcastically. ‘By one of us, I presume you mean me?’

‘Well, I …’

‘Got a hot date, I know. And you can’t keep him waiting.’

Amar gave a relieved smile. ‘You’re a darling,’ he said. ‘Be quick, though. This could be interesting.’

‘Thanks, mother,’ said Peta, loading a small digital camera and tape recorder into a pocket of her three-quarter-length leather jacket and making for the door. ‘Any other aspects of the business you’d like to enlighten me on?’

‘Yeah. Don’t talk to strange men.’

‘Says you.’

She closed the door, left.

Amar stood at the window watching her walk up the street.

‘Be careful,’ he said, but her image was already receding.

Donovan stood leaned on a railing at the quayside, listening to the Tyne slosh along. Killing time; letting it pass, watching it change.

All along the quay on both sides was transformation, gentrification. New flats, bars, restaurants, hotels; the old Tyne of dockers, mills and warehouses so last century. So pre-millennium.

The Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art had been a flour mill in a previous life. Now, queues regularly snaked round the newly built and christened Baltic Square and often over the newly built and christened Millennium Bridge to see cutting-edge modern art. He himself had joined the queue one day, from curiosity, to see an Antony Gormley exhibition. The inclusivity of the other queuers had surprised him: in front had been two bus drivers, necks heavily tattooed, telling each other how much they had been looking forward to this trip all throughout their shifts, behind were two Jesmond Guardianista mothers struggling to control their overenthusiastic Jocastas and Henriettas, behind them a retired couple eager for, as they said, something a bit different.

Donovan had left his cynicism at home that day. Enjoyed himself.

Next to the Baltic was the Sage Music Centre. A sparkling concert hall created from concentric silver bands, it looked like a huge metallic slug caught mid-undulation. Either that, or the mother ship had landed.

Transformation.

The city of Donovan’s childhood, of coal mines, heavy industry and manual labour, was long gone. In its place was a city of culture and tourism, of call centres and service industries. And the largest growth industry in the north-east: IT and software development. From ‘whey aye, man’ to ‘whey imac’.

He smiled, pleased with that one. Then looked around, sighed. Wished he had someone to share it with.

He had no close family living in the area any more, no reason to ever visit. He had left, never looking back.
College, work and life in London had taken him away from it. The city could have been anywhere.

In the cottage he would sometimes talk to David. Sit in David’s room, have a conversation. Sometimes David would answer. Or Donovan would imagine he would answer. But mostly David didn’t and Donovan became aware that he was just sitting on the floor talking to himself. Like throwing his voice out into the fog. That was when he knew it was time to get out of the house.