The Mercy Seat (19 page)

‘I heard.’

‘And you’re not bothered? This could be very serious.’

‘For you. Should have done it my way. Bury him. There are proper ways of doing things. I’m not an amateur.’ Emphasis on the I’m.

‘Hammer,’ said Keenyside eventually. Then stopped. ‘Can you turn that down a bit? Can’t hear myself think in here.’

Hammer ignored him. Keenyside, unnerved, continued. His tone more placatory. ‘Look, I’ve said this before. We need to think long term. His body shouldn’t have been found for months. Years. Should have decayed, made the death look accidental. You can’t do that if he’s been buried.’ A pause. ‘Now, what else you got?’

Hammer turned to him for the first time, told him. About Dean, headless and weighted at the bottom of the Regent’s Canal. About who Jamal had been trying to contact. The
Herald.
Joe Donovan.

Keenyside gave a small laugh. ‘Joe Donovan? There’s a blast from the past. Don’t think we need worry about him, though. Broken man. Still, I’ll keep an ear out. What about the boy? Still in Newcastle?’

Hammer nodded. ‘Far as we know.’

‘Good.’ Keenyside paused, thinking. ‘I’ll look out for the boy. Don’t worry, we’ll find him. Toerag like that can’t stay hidden for long.’

‘And in the meantime?’

‘Keep watching the flat.’ Hammer didn’t respond. ‘You’re doing a good job. The best.’

Hammer looked again at Keenyside. ‘I know.’

‘It’ll be worth it. It will.’

Hammer said nothing.

‘Right, well …’ Keenyside got out of the car. ‘The best,’ he said, closing the door, and was off.

Hammer watched him go. The policeman had seemed nervous, less sure of himself, more driven than usual. On the verge of desperate, even.

Hammer put Keenyside out of his mind. Listened to the music, watched the flat.

He hated stakeouts. Hated waiting.

He was grateful for what Keenyside had done for him, but even that had its limits.

Hammer had been a gangster’s enforcer. A gangster Keenyside had fitted up. He made a deal with Hammer: do me some favours and I’ll keep you out of prison. Hammer saw the sense in that. Now he paid him. Not the going rate, but he wasn’t in prison. And Hammer freelanced. Sometimes even for other coppers.

He rotated his neck, heard it click.

He hated stakeouts. Hated waiting.

He thought of the holdall on the back seat. What was inside it.

Felt better.

Felt pleasure spread within him, knew the thought of it would sustain him while he sat.

The minicab pulled up outside the house, the driver having followed Jamal’s idiosyncratic directions. Once paid, he sped off.

‘I thought I was going to wait in the car,’ said Jamal, fear in his voice.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Donovan. ‘You’re with me. Wait out here if you want to.’

Jamal said nothing, just trembled slightly, eyes saucerwide.

Donovan hadn’t spoken much on the journey, nurturing his anger, priming it for release on a deserving subject. Seeing the state of Jamal, he realized he had found one.

‘Why don’t you open the door,’ said Donovan, ‘then step back and let me in.’

Jamal nodded, looking down at the pavement. Played join the dots with blackened chewing gum and dogshit. He walked up the path like a condemned man, opened the door with his key.

Donovan stepped past him into the hall. It was unexceptional, banal. Dirty walls with peeling paper, unvacuumed carpet. The smell of fried food and overripe rubbish. There was a door off to his left. From behind it came the testosterone sounds of Hollywood mayhem. He cracked it open slightly, looked in. Three teenagers – two boys, one girl – pale and acned, sat on the sofa staring at the source of the noise. A half-eaten pizza and its box, Archers bottles and overflowing ashtrays littered the floor. One of the boys had his hand down the girl’s top, was idly playing with her nipple. Donovan saw their eyes and they chilled him. Completely passive, letting the violent images play on their eyeballs before washing over them.

Dismemberment followed by a leaden one-liner. The children smiled slightly, laughed; whether at the carnage or the joke, Donovan couldn’t tell. Their faces soon returned to their earlier passivity. Like automatons, waiting for activation. No spark of inner life.

Donovan thought of Jamal living here.

Of David.

He turned to Jamal. ‘Where is he?’

Jamal, shaking, replied, ‘I’ll find out.’

‘You don’t have to.’

Jamal shrugged, averted his eyes.

‘Go on then,’ said Donovan. ‘Tell him I’m here to deal. Then let me in and you get out quickly.’

Jamal nodded. He looked terrified. ‘You gonna hurt him?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Hope so. Wanna be there when it happens, you get me?’

Anger at what an adult could do to a child flowed through Donovan like ammonia in his veins. It had to come out. It would poison him otherwise. ‘I get you.’

Jamal opened the living room door, walked in. Donovan
flattened himself against the wall. He heard Jamal asking where Father Jack was, a couple of non-committal replies. Then a high voice, the one from the disc, called his name, told him to step into the kitchen.

Donovan waited. Wished he hadn’t let Jamal go in on his own. Listened.

An angry voice made itself heard above the noise of the film. Accompanied by the unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh. Again. And again.

Donovan ran through the living room, to the door at the far end. He tried to push it open. Something was blocking it. He heard sobbing, pushed harder. The door opened. Jamal had been blocking the door. He lay on the floor curled, trying not to cry. At the other side of the kitchen, half-completed sandwich before him, was one of the fattest men Donovan had ever seen. Donovan stopped dead. The fat man used Donovan’s inaction to take control of the situation.

‘Who the fuck are you and why are you assaulting me in my own kitchen?’

The man was angry rather than scared. A thread of danger ran through his voice that it would have been unwise to ignore. Donovan didn’t hear it. Could barely hear anything over the film in the next room, the pounding of blood in his head.

‘Who the fuck am I? Who the fuck am I? I’ll tell you. I’m Joe Donovan. And your child abusing days are over, you fat bastard.’

Father Jack spat out a laugh. ‘Don’t I have something you want?’

Donovan was breathing like a bull about to charge. ‘This is more important.’

‘Then I’d better phone the police.’

‘Go ahead. I’m sure they’d love to know what goes on here.’

‘This is a refuge for runaway children. They know that.’

‘Do they?’

‘Why?’ said Father Jack, stepping closer, his tone playful. ‘Have you heard otherwise?’

‘Don’t fuck with me.’

‘You think I sell them? That it?’ He gestured to Jamal. ‘Take that one lying over there. If you want him. And who wouldn’t? Firm little body. Not very tight, though. Well, he wouldn’t be, would he? All the cocks he’s had—’

Father Jack didn’t get to finish his sentence. Donovan swung his left fist straight into his face. He was rusty from lack of practice, and the blow sent shock waves up his arm, jarring his shoulder, but it felt good. Righteous.

Father Jack staggered back, fingers caging his face, blood seeping through.

‘Hurt, did it?’ said Donovan. ‘I fucking hope so.’

Donovan moved in for another shot, but Jack was expecting him. As Donovan raised his arm, Jack slipped his hand round Donovan’s back, leaving a greasy trail of blood along the leather, knotted his knuckles and dug them into the small of Donovan’s back.

‘Those are your kidneys,’ said Jack, blood spraying with his words. ‘Very tender.’

Jack ground in further. Donovan tried to pull away but Jack clamped his other arm round him, holding him in a ferocious bear hug. Donovan struggled, gasped in pain.

‘You’re going to do what to me, eh? What to me?’ Jack breathed in his ear as he ground in further. ‘Had enough yet, eh?’

Donovan felt like he wanted to throw up, black out. He feebly grasped at air with his right hand, the only part of him that could move, desperately trying to find something that would help him.

Nothing.

His arm hit the worktop, upsetting the sandwich Father Jack had been preparing. His hand hit somnething solid.

A kitchen knife. Small but sharp.

He scrambled for the handle, picked it up.

Black clouds gathered before his eyes. Jack clung on, dug in harder. He had only one chance before he blacked out completely. Breathing heavily, gathering together what last remaining strength he had, he stuck the knife into Jack’s groin.

The result was instantaneous. Jack stopped hurting Donovan and tried to pull away. But Donovan clung on hard, pushing the blade in as far as it would go.

Jack screamed. Blood seeped through Father Jack’s pale-coloured chinos. Donovan held on.

Jack kept screaming.

Eventually Donovan could hold on no longer and dropped to his knees, his grip loosening. Jack was too preoccupied to keep hurting him. Donovan reached for the sink, used it to pull himself slowly into a standing position. His head spun like an Alton Towers near-death ride.

Father Jack was on the floor, backed up against the cupboards. Wailing, hands hovering over the handle, undecided as to which was best: pull it out or leave it in.

‘That hurt?’ gasped Donovan, clinging to the sink. ‘Good. Now you and me—’

But Father Jack wasn’t listening. His eyes had drifted behind Donovan.

‘Si! Si!’ he shouted, his voice near-castrato.

Donovan turned. The youths he had seen in the front room were standing in the doorway. Along with a tall, blond haired boy who was undoubtedly their leader. He made a rallying gesture and they all rushed forward.

Donovan tried to pull himself to his feet but failed. He tried to hold his hands out, ward them off, but it was no good. They were on him.

Practising what they had learned from watching the film.

He kept thinking: They’re only children. I can’t hurt children.

But they had no childhood left in them. Only a gleeful, feral rage.

Fists rained down on him, kicks connected with him. The girl, no match for the others physically, scratched and gouged at his skin.

He curled his hands over his head, tried to roll away.

‘Get him … get him out of here …’

Father Jack’s command was obeyed. Donovan was dragged along the floor, legs making useless attempts to right themselves, through the front room. He caught Jamal’s eye; the boy, still prone on the floor, looked away.

Donovan was pulled, pushed and kicked into the hall. He had given up trying to fight back, just wanted the ordeal to end.

He was aware of the front door opening through the change in the air and was soon out on the street. He lay there, eyes closed, breathing deeply, anticipating the next blow.

It never came.

Donovan closed his eyes. Angry voices buzzed in his head. Then a gradual silence. Slowly, he opened his eyes, saw a face he didn’t recognize. Closed them again.

Felt nothing.

Donovan opened his eyes. Blinked, waited for blows. They didn’t come.

His eyes roved, tried to focus on his surroundings. He had no idea where he was. He was still on his back, on a camp-bed, but indoors; a bare bulb above him made him squint. He tried to move, get up. Ached down both sides. He flopped backwards, emitting a sound that was part groan, part sigh.

Saw movement from the corner of his eyes. Someone crossed towards him.

He tried to get up, get away. Felt the pain again. The figure spoke.

‘How you feeling?’

‘Hurt …’

The figure smiled. ‘Just lie there. You’ll be OK.’

He breathed deeply, did as he was told. The speaker was a young Asian man Donovan had never seen before. Hair neatly trimmed, black T-shirt discreetly bearing a designer label, immaculately faded and distressed jeans, box-white trainers. Well groomed, trailing an expensive yet subtle scent, his clothes proudly displaying a gym-worked physique. Donovan didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but first impressions made him assume the man was gay.

He looked around the room. The furnishings were rudimentary: a table, two chairs, bare walls. Cardboard coffee cups and old sandwich wrappers on the table. By the window, pointing outwards, were two tripods, one holding a top-of-the-range digital camcorder, the other a telephotoed Nikon.

A surveillance setup.

The Asian man looked down at Donovan. ‘Examined you as much as I could. They gave you a going-over, but I don’t think there’s any lasting damage. Nothing broken.’

‘Did I pass out?’

‘More like fell asleep. Thought it best not to wake you.’ His voice was flat and calm, like still lake water trailing undercurrents of Geordie dialect and cultural origin.

Donovan pulled himself on to his elbows. ‘How did I …?’

‘Get here?’ He told him. He had heard the commotion, ran to the street and stepped in. ‘Don’t think they fancied mixing it, so they went away. I’m Amar, by the way.’

‘Joe Donovan.’

Amar smiled. ‘I know.’

Donovan tried to stand up from the camp-bed. His head spun. ‘What?’

The door opened. He looked at the new entrant. A blonde woman. He knew her from somewhere …

‘How are you feeling, Mr Donovan?’

He continued to stare.

‘We met outside the hotel on Friday.’

‘Yeah …’ He climbed off the camp-bed, rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘But … What …’

‘I think we need to talk, don’t you?’

She talked. Donovan listened.

Amar handed round mugs of tea.

‘Peta Knight. Knight Security and Investigations.’

‘Please, no jokes about private dicks,’ said Amar in his campest voice. He sat on the camp-bed, Donovan and Peta on the chairs. Donovan didn’t feel as bad as he thought he would have done. He felt disorientated but nothing broken, just badly bruised, scratched. Like he’d been spinning in a
washing machine with a couple of pairs of paratroopers’ boots.

Peta ignored Amar, continued. ‘We’ve been watching Father Jack’s house for quite a while now. It’s supposed to be a safe house for teenage runaways.’ Bitterness entered her voice. ‘But, of course, we know better.’