The Mercy Seat (3 page)

The punter was still there. ‘Look, can I … can I see you again?’

Jamal smiled. Either one extreme or the other. ‘Sure,’ he said, back still turned. ‘I’m here every day. Same spot. Same time.’

‘No,’ stammered the punter, ‘I meant … can I … see you …’

He reached out a hand to touch Jamal’s cheek. Jamal saw it in the mirror, swatted it away, unable to hide the look of distaste on his face.

‘Don’t touch me, man,’ he said.

The punter recoiled as if he had been slapped.

Jamal hated it when they did that. When they tried to be close. He accepted the fact that they had to touch him when he was working, but even then he kept it down to a minimum. He hated to be touched by anyone. Especially them. He wished he had so much money he never had to be touched by one of them again.

‘Keep it business,’ said Jamal, hiding what he really wanted to say. ‘Now go, before they charge you another hour for the room.’

The punter hurriedly left.

Jamal looked in the mirror, checked that his hair looked good. It did.

He had been making a living from the street for over a year. He had grown up in a succession of care homes and foster homes ever since his mother had walked with him into Social Services in Tottenham one day when he was six and walked out without him.

He had never known his father but knew he was responsible for the black mix in his skin. He imagined his father an African chieftain, passing his noble warrior blood down along with his skin colour. He had told this to his mother,
and she had never contradicted him on it. His mother had never mentioned his father to him at all.

One more pat of his hair, one more admiring glance at his Avirex leather, one last check to see there were no remnants of that tearful, snot-nosed scared little six-year-old looking back at him and he was ready to go.

He pulled the door closed behind him and began to move down the hall towards the stairs. As he went he tried the door handles of the other rooms. He always did. Occasionally he had been lucky; found a wallet stuffed with cash and cards or a watch and some jewellery left on a chest of drawers within easy reach and the owner too busy to notice. If anyone saw him or called him on it, he would front it, tell them he had booked the room and could they get a move on?

Usually it yielded nothing and had just become a habit.

But not today.

Pushing down on the handle of room seven, he found it open.

Jamal stopped walking, looked around. No one in the hall. He listened. No noise coming from the room. Cocky teenage adrenalin surged through his body. He smiled to himself, slowly pushed open the door.

And there, within easy reach on the chest of drawers, was a minidisc plus headphones.

Solid gold, thought Jamal.

He reached for it, rapidly calculating how many hits and highs he could get from it once he had fenced it on, when the door swung open further. And Jamal stopped, his arm extended in midair.

It must have been only a few seconds that he stood there for, but it felt like hours. Eventually he recovered from the shock, turned and, minidisc in hand, left the room.

And ran.

* * *

‘Tickets, please.’

Jamal looked up, startled out of his reverie. A uniformed inspector entered the carriage carrying a ticket machine over his shoulder.

‘Anyone not bearing a valid ticket will be asked to pay a full-price standard single.’

He spoke the words like a weary mantra.

Jamal looked up. Other travellers were delving into their pockets, their luggage, bringing out various-sized tickets, holding them aloft. He was angry with himself for not considering this eventuality. Usually he would hide or run or be ready to mouth off. But this time his mind was elsewhere.

He thrust his hand into his jeans pocket, brought out a mess of crumpled bills. He plundered his other pockets, began stacking a rough mountain of notes and coins on the table before him. His day’s earnings, minus the burger, coke and rocks he’d bought in Burger King.

The inspector approached him. An apparition in purple and blue nylon. He looked down at Jamal, held out an expectant, yet not too optimistic, hand.

‘Ticketplease.’ Said as all one word.

‘Where’s this train goin’?’

‘Newcastle.’

Meant nothing to Jamal. Was that in Scotland? Scotland was good. Miles from London. Safe. Jamal nodded.

‘Yeah, yeah. There.’

The ticket inspector, whose gold plastic badge proclaimed his name as Garry and his job title as Customer Service Manager, sighed.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m goin’ to have to charge you full fare, sir.’

Jamal shrugged.

Garry didn’t look sorry. He began to punch buttons on his machine.

‘Eighty-eight pounds, please.’

‘Child,’ said Jamal.

Garry gave a patronizing smile. Course you are. ‘Eighty-eight pounds.’

‘Stitchin’ me up? Yeah? Well, I—’

‘Look, sir,’ said Garry, cutting him off and straining civility through his teeth, ‘take it up with customer—’

‘Perhaps I could take care of the young man’s ticket?’

They both stopped arguing, looked for the source of the voice. The businessman sitting opposite Jamal was smiling, opening his wallet.

‘I don’t think—’

‘No problem.’ Another suited smile.

Garry sighed. He knew what was going on, decided not to get involved. ‘How far’s he going?’

The suit looked at Jamal, smiled. ‘All the way.’

Garry tiredly punched numbers, swiped the suit’s card. Presented the ticket. Business transacted, he walked on.

‘Ticketsplease …’

Jamal looked at the businessman, at the ticket lying on the table between them. He couldn’t bring himself to thank him so he nodded. He began counting out notes, ready to hand them over.

‘That’s all right,’ said the suit. He leaned forward and gave a lascivious, dominant smile. ‘We’ll come to some arrangement.’

Jamal emptied his eyes, his face, of emotion. Stared across the table.

‘Oh come on,’ said the suit. ‘I got your number as soon as you sat next to me. I should know that look by now.’ His voice dropped. ‘I’m in Newcastle on business for a few days. Got a hotel room. Want to share it with me?’

Jamal stared.

‘Hit a couple of clubs, maybe a restaurant …’ He
shrugged. Then snaked a hand across the table, picked up Jamal’s ticket.

‘Mine, I think,’ he said.

Jamal stared. He weighed his options. Eventually he sighed.

‘OK.’

The man smiled. ‘That’s better. Now, shall I go to the buffet car? Get something to eat and drink? It looks like a long time since you’ve had something hot in your mouth.’

The man began to giggle, high pitched and obnoxious.

Christ, thought Jamal; one of them days.

Left alone while Bruce, which the suit had claimed as his name, ventured to the buffet car, Jamal glanced around, satisfied himself no one was watching him, took out the minidisc and looked at it.

He shuddered. Just looking at it brought back that hotel room. He ran a finger along the edge. It was chipped, worn, battered and scratched. Well-used looking. Less cash fenced. Shit.

He unwrapped the coiled wires, inserted the earpieces. And switched it on.

It wasn’t what he had been expecting.

Bruce came back from the buffet car, apologizing about the delay, blaming the queue, showing Jamal what he had for him. But by then Jamal didn’t hear him. Jamal didn’t move.

Just sat there. Listening.

Jamal couldn’t sleep.

Bruce’s farting and snoring didn’t help, nor did the sterile, unfamiliar hotel room with its blond-wood furniture, pristine white
en suite
and hard, unyielding bed. The drugs didn’t help either. But it was more than that.

The minidisc.

Bruce had been as good as his word but extracted his money’s worth; Jamal usually charged a lot more for a stay over but there had been some compensations. The restaurant, the drinks, the club. Not his music and too many gays, but he’d managed to score some decent coke and a couple of Es. Best of all, the shower and the fluffy, towelling robes. Jamal felt cleaner than he had in a long time, despite Bruce’s best efforts to the contrary. Jamal had even given himself up willingly in return. But his mind hadn’t been there. Even further away than usual.

The minidisc. It was still playing in his head.

Boring at first. No good tunes. No tunes at all, in fact. So boring he was ready to turn it off, stuff it back into his jacket. But something about it kept him listening. And listening. He struggled to keep up, rewinding and replaying sections until he was sure he understood them, but was eventually rewarded.

Bruce had thought he was just listening to music. Jamal encouraged him to think that.

By the end of the disc, Jamal had a strong suspicion that he knew why someone had tried to kill him. He was beginning to realize just how important the disc was. He remembered a thought he had had earlier that afternoon, another lifetime away:

He wished he had so much money he never had to be touched by one of them again.

This could be it. He just had to think what to do with it. How to make it work for him.

Jamal couldn’t sleep.

By morning he had a plan.

‘And this is Stephanie. She’s six. And Jack, four.’ Bruce smiled. ‘Right little tearaway.’

Jamal hated it when they did that. Showed him pictures
of their kids. What was he supposed to say? They’re nice, d’you fuck them too?

‘And that’s Susan.’

Then the wife picture. Looking a beat too long, the name always said with such conflicting emotions. Jamal sometimes counted, tried to separate them. Guilt was there, obviously. Rage, hatred, loathing, the last two usually prefixed by ‘self’, veneration, adoration. Betrayal. Take your pick.

Jamal would just look at them, nod, pass them back without really seeing them. Watch the punter stare at them for longer than he needed to then stuff them viciously back into his pocket, drop his eyes from Jamal. That always left Jamal with a sour feeling of retribution.

Jamal had wanted breakfast, but Bruce had told him he couldn’t, they couldn’t risk being seen together, what if a colleague from Bruce’s company should be there?

‘But I’ll see you later, won’t I?’ Bruce had smiled. ‘You won’t be able to get back to London without me.’

Jamal had emptily promised to meet Bruce later, arranged a time and place, left the hotel and walked.

Newcastle was cold. Like edge-of-the-Arctic cold. And really unfamiliar. It had the same shop names, but everything else was different. And they talked funny. Not like English. He didn’t know where to go. He pulled his Avirex round him, wished for something warmer. He smiled to himself. When his plan paid off, he would be in luxury for the rest of his life.

He found a phone box, called a 118 number, punched the given number into his mobile’s memory. Then a decision to make. Payphone or mobile. Mobile, he decided. Harder to trace than a landline, he thought.

He ducked into a doorway, made his call. It was answered by a female voice.

‘I want to speak to Joe Donovan,’ he said to the voice.
‘An’ don’t give me none a that “he ain’t here” shit, right, ’cos this is a matter of life an’ death am’ talkin’ about, y’get me?’

It took a while, but they got him.

Joe Donovan picked up the revolver from the table, felt the heft of it in his left hand, weighed his options. His chest rose and fell, his breath shallow and sharp. He slid a bullet into one of the six chambers. Clicked the barrel shut, spun it, replaced it on the table. He stared at it, his world reduced to that one piece of lethal metal. He breathed heavily – once, twice – then swallowed hard and, eyes screwed tight shut, picked the gun up, pointed it at his temple, pulled the trigger.

‘Should be just over this ridge.’

‘Well, let’s hope so. That’s what you said about the last two.’

Francis Sharkey swallowed his reply, looked again at the map in his lap. The bumps and swerves were giving him motion sickness. He looked up again, breathed deep.

‘All these blasted B-roads look alike,’ he said. ‘Why couldn’t he live somewhere nearer? Somewhere he could easily be found?’

Maria Bennett took her eyes off the road, glanced at him.

‘I think you’ve just answered your own question.’

Sharkey tutted, gave up looking at his map. ‘So what’s this place we’re looking for?’

‘Ross Bank Sands. Very popular with naturists, apparently.’

Sharkey looked at the scenery. Rain was hitting the car so hard it felt like they were in the middle of a meteorite
shower. The windscreen and windows seemed to have been turned into liquid, melting things. The Northumberland countryside rendered monochromatically drab, distant and barren.

‘Too bloody cold for that. For God’s sake,’ Sharkey mumbled, sighing. ‘This place is about as desolate as Norway in winter.’

‘I don’t think they come here in winter,’ replied Maria Bennett. ‘And we’re not seeing it at its best. Apparently it’s beautiful in the summer. A real unspoiled paradise. The Secret Kingdom, the tourist board calls it.’

Sharkey stared out of the window, tried to imagine.

‘Secret? Only secret here is that they all sleep with their cousins,’ he said miserably. ‘Or is that Wales? Probably both.’

Maria Bennett concentrated on the road ahead.

They had travelled up from London the previous night, stopping in a hotel in Newcastle before picking up their hire car and heading into Northumberland.

‘So what was he like, then,’ Francis Sharkey had said at King’s Cross, settling back into his first-class seat, with a gin and tonic and complimentary
Daily Telegraph
before him, ‘this Joe Donovan?’

Maria Bennett sat opposite him, duplicate gin and tonic on the way to her lips.

‘Best of the best,’ she said, taking a mouthful and replacing her glass. ‘Cliché, I know, but he was.’

She named a prominent Conservative politician who had been jailed on perjury and corruption charges.

‘Remember him? Joe was on that team. His first assignment.’

Sharkey, despite himself, looked impressed.