The Mercy Seat (31 page)

Annie nodded.

Donovan sighed. ‘Give my love to Abigail. I’m sorry I missed her.’

‘I don’t think I’ll tell her you’ve been here.’

She opened the door. What lay beyond it swiftly invaded. The cold night air began to bite immediately. Donovan stepped outside, turned back.

‘When this is all over,’ he said, ‘I’ll call you.’

Annie closed the door without replying. Donovan saw her bottom lip begin to tremble as she did so.

Donovan walked down the street back to the car.

He wanted to look back, see if Annie was watching him.

But didn’t dare.

He put the box and the laptop in the boot, got in the car.

‘How did it go?’ asked Peta.

Donovan rubbed his face, sighed. ‘I got what I went for.’

She nodded. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go to the hotel.’

Peta drove away.

Donovan looked out of the window.

A song off one of the CDs he had found and taken came into his head. The album had been one of his and Annie’s favourites when they had met. Shawn Colvin: ‘A Few Small Repairs’.

Colvin had sung about all the happy couples only renting time and space to fill up their dreams, and that dreams are all that would be left when they have gone.

The same lines, round and round in his head, like a continuous loop.

He stared out of the window. Said nothing.

Amar woke with blood on the pillow.

He sat up quickly, looked around. And wished he hadn’t: his head was pounding, swirling, his stomach tight and knotted like he had swallowed a tree trunk. Difficult to breathe.

He lay back. Felt his face. His left nostril caked and dried. Checked his fingers. Blood. He sighed.

It had been building for months but this was the worst yet. Highs getting shorter, comedowns longer and harder.

‘Hurricane Charlie has been and gone,’ he declaimed aloud, ‘leaving behind nothing but a trail of devastation …’

He threw back the duvet, rose cautiously to his feet. Made his way to the shower, fixed the water hot enough to cleanse and purify. Wash the toxins out. Finished, he towelled off, padded into the kitchen area, got a drink of water from the bottle in the fridge. Sipped it slowly, like liquid ice seeping into his body.

Some of the aches were beginning to clear, but his head, his heart, was heavy in a way the comedown couldn’t touch.

He had told his stories, banked his cheque and was fielding offers of work for Knight Security. A forty-eight-hour circumstantial changearound.

Father Jack. The disappeared children. Maria’s death.

There was an ongoing effort being made to find the children who had lived at Father Jack’s but so far no progress had been made. They had just vanished back into the shadows. Whatever sense of victory he had felt with the successful culmination of their work was heavily tempered by Maria’s
death. He knew the police were looking into it and Donovan and Peta were off doing something about it but it still hurt.

He had gone out the previous night to celebrate but it had turned into a sorrow-drowning exercise. At least he hadn’t picked anyone up, brought them back just to have a body to wake up to. A small mercy.

He dressed, tried to lift his spirits, concentrate on the job in hand.

Timecheck: eleven fifteen. Perfect. The people he needed to talk to would be just getting up.

He looked out of the window. The day looked cold and cloudy. Yesterday’s sun gone. He pulled on his black parka, cleared his mind for the final time and left the flat, focused on the task before him.

He had a missing rent boy to find.

Keenyside was being kept waiting. And he wasn’t happy about it.

Usual meeting place on the estate, usual time. No Mikey. As if things weren’t bad enough. At least Mikey would have an excuse. He would be too scared not to.

What with the anti-corruption squad rumours and murder of that journalist, it was all Keenyside could do not to lash out, take some drastic action. But he had held it together, kept his head. Focused on the goal. Once Huntley did his part, he would be walking down Easy Street and all this would be long behind him.

The things that kept him sane:

His packed emergency holdall. His new identity passport. His plane ticket.

One way.

His new life.

He would miss his wife and kids, but they could join him later. When he was settled.

Maybe.

But in the meantime he had to wait.

He checked his watch again, angry now. Looked up. Saw Mikey Blackmore sauntering down the walkway towards him, looking like he had all the time in the world.

Keenyside couldn’t believe it. Mikey in no hurry. His anger threatened to overspill. He wanted to rush over to Mikey, punch him, hurt him, rip his head from his shoulders …

But he didn’t. He tamped it down, kept his rage internalized. There should he need it.

Mikey reached him, stopped.

‘Where the fuck have you been? You’re late.’

Mikey flinched at the first words but held his ground. ‘Couldn’t get away from work.’ He shrugged. ‘Long way from here to Gateshead.’

Keenyside felt his face reddening. ‘Don’t you fucking answer me back. I tell you when to be here and you fucking well make sure you are here.’

Mikey said nothing.

‘Got that?’

Mikey smiled.

‘Something funny?’

‘No.’

Keenyside was breathing hard. Something wasn’t right. Then he realized.

Mikey Blackmore wasn’t afraid of him.

Keenyside grabbed him by the lapels of his overcoat, swung him round, pushed him hard against the brick wall.

‘You taking the piss out of me, eh? That it?’

Mikey shook his head. He was breathing hard, winded. ‘No …’

‘You sure?’ Keenyside pushed him against the wall, hard.

Mikey’s eyes flickered with fear.

‘That’s better …’

He punched him in the stomach. Mikey hit the ground, stayed down.

Keenyside looked at the prone figure, felt his earlier tamped-down rage begin to well, threaten to overspill. He kicked Mikey in the ribs.

‘You frightened of me now?’

Mikey groaned.

Another kick. ‘You respect me now?’

Another groan.

Another kick. ‘Eh? Can’t hear you …’

‘Yes …’ Mikey could barely choke the word out. ‘Yes …’

Keenyside stood, looked down at him. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the wall, fighting to regain his breath.

His control.

‘Good …’ he said. ‘Good. That’s better …’ The moment was passing, the adrenalin subsiding.

Mikey was attempting to sit up, clutching his ribs, face screwed up in pain.

‘So,’ said Keenyside, ‘what you got for me?’

Mikey, his hand shaking, reached slowly into his pocket, pulled out a creased brown envelope, passed it over. Keenyside opened it, counted the notes inside.

‘What’s this?’ he said, anger swelling within him once more. ‘There’s hardly anything here.’

Mikey said nothing, breathed heavily.

‘Where’s the rest?’

‘That’s it …’

Keenyside took a step back, tried to calm himself. He forced a harsh laugh through clenched teeth.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘that’s it. You’ve had your chance. I’m phoning your probation officer this afternoon.’

Mikey didn’t move. ‘Do it, then.’

Keenyside recoiled as if he had been punched. ‘What?’

‘Do it,’ he said again, through ragged breaths. ‘I don’t care any more. I’ll even tell him what you’re up to.’

Keenyside gave another laugh. ‘Yeah? He won’t believe you. They hear stories like that all the time.’

Mikey gripped the wall, slowly managed to pull himself to his feet. He gave Keenyside a look of pure hate.

‘Maybe they do,’ said Mikey, tears in his eyes, ‘but I don’t care. Do what you like.’

He turned, began moving painfully away. ‘I’ll tell ’im what you do … what else you’ve been up to …’

He walked off.

Keenyside stared after him, too stunned to move. What had he said? What else you’ve been up to? What did he mean? Huntley? The break-in? The death of the journalist?

He wanted to run after Mikey, smash his face on the concrete until there was nothing left of him.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to stick his fingers into his own flesh, pull away the skin, work his way down through to muscle and bone. Rip himself apart.

He tried to breathe deep. Calm down.

Don’t overreact. He was probably bluffing. He knew nothing.

He couldn’t.

Keenyside concentrated on his packed emergency holdall. His new identity passport. His plane ticket.

Held on to that thought as a drowning man to a life belt, held on to it all the way back to his office.

There was, thought Amar, nothing less glamorous than a nightclub in the harsh light of day.

Even one that described itself as a bar until dark.

Daylight showed up torn furniture, worn, stained carpet, tatty, trashy décor. Every imperfection that darkness and
gaudy lighting concealed was exposed. Chairs and tables were dotted about. A raised stage and runway was crammed in at the far end. Unlit and unoccupied, it looked depressing; more a place of execution than a site of entertainment. It smelled, too: stale alcohol, stale smoke, stale sweat and stale hope and desperation.

The bar seemed hungover. It matched Amar’s mood perfectly.

The Hole in the Wall was one of a number of gay bars and clubs in the area between Westgate Road and Railway Street. The pink triangle, as it was commonly called.

Amar stood at the bar. Looked around. There were several besuited punters sipping halves and eating sandwiches, hoping for a quick, surreptitious lunchtime fumble before they planted their bodies back at the office and one or both feet back in the closet. Amar himself had been given the eye several times. He had ignored it. He was working.

The barman eventually sauntered over to serve him. Graham was an ex-actor who had started working there between jobs. He had been working there for as long as Amar had been drinking there. He was an old queen, but not too bitter with it. Paunchy and cardiganed; like the bar, he looked better in the night-time.

And he knew the scene better than anyone else.

He smiled as he approached. ‘Hello, film star. Bit early for you, isn’t it?’

‘Damn right,’ said Amar, stifling a yawn.

Graham put his hands on the counter. ‘Saw you in the papers. And on the news. Regular James Bond.’

Amar blushed. ‘Thank you.’

‘Or rather Jane Bond. More coverage than I ever got. What can I get you?’

‘A sparkling mineral water,’ he said, ‘and a bit of help.’

Graham put his hand theatrically to his chest, turned his
eyes heavenwards. ‘He wants me at last. After all these years …’

Amar smiled. ‘Just get me my drink.’

He did so, returned to the bar. ‘What kind of help?’

Amar looked around, made sure no one was listening. ‘I’m looking for a rent boy.’

A smile widened on Graham’s features. ‘Didn’t know you liked them young.’

‘Not like that,’ said Amar. ‘I’m working. Missing persons thing.’

Graham said nothing. Just stared.

Amar sighed, dug into his pocket. Glad he’d stopped off at the cashpoint on the way. Folded a tenner, passed it across. It disappeared.

‘Not really my thing. Prefer men to boys. Don’t have a lot of time for the chickenhawks. Gives us poofs a bad name.’ Graham nodded, making sure he had been understood. ‘And I won’t have any truck with that kind of thing in this bar. Nothing underage.’

‘I know that.’

‘Not worth the hassle.’

‘I know you won’t know personally, but I’m sure you know a man who does.’

Graham looked around, checked for eavesdroppers. None.

‘What’s the one you’re after look like?’

Amar told him. Graham nodded. Thought a moment.

‘All right,’ he said, voice dropping. ‘You’re in luck. There was a guy in last night. Name’s Ralphie. Bit of a semi-reg. Overheard him boasting to one of the other regs about this little black kid he’d had. Only reason I remembered was because he’s black. And we don’t get many of them round here.’ A theatrical sigh. ‘More’s the pity. Anyway, he said how he’d enjoyed it so much he was going back for some more.’

‘Did he say where?’

Graham shook his head.

‘Will he be in here tonight?’

Graham shrugged. ‘Might be. If not here, somewhere else along the strip. We are but a small community.’

‘How would I recognize him?’

Graham frowned. ‘Big guy. Fat but muscly, y’know? Always wears check shirts and jeans. Like a trucker. Hair cut short. Oh, and a silver earring. Cannabis leaf.’

Amar smiled. Slipped him another tenner. ‘Thanks, Graham.’

The note disappeared, the smile was returned. ‘Any time. And I mean anytime.’

Amar turned to go.

‘Oh by the way,’ said Graham. ‘You still in the movie business? Got a bit more work I can put your way.’

Amar thought. ‘Not at the moment,’ he said. ‘But thanks anyway.’

He left the bar.

Amar looked at his watch. Eight thirty p.m.

He had bar and café hopped all afternoon. He had met people he knew, chatted, drunk soft drinks and coffee. Looked for someone answering the description of Ralphie. Looked for Jamal.

Nothing.

He had been offered meals out, dates, sex, camera work. Offered drugs and booze.

He had turned them all down. He was working.

Amar stood in the Courtyard, nursing a bottle of J2O. In the playground watching the best game in town. And he couldn’t join in.

‘Stop looking so miserable, man,’ said the barman. ‘I bet I could cheer you up.’

Amar told him he couldn’t. Not at the moment.

His mobile rang. He couldn’t answer it quick enough. Graham.

‘Hi, gorgeous. Guess who just walked in?’

‘I’m on my way.’

Graham chuckled. ‘You’ve got some big IOUs to make good on.’

Amar finished the call, winked at the barman, left the bar.

Better than he had felt all day.

As soon as Mikey saw the look on Janine’s face, he knew he had her.

‘What happened?’

He was sitting in the Prince of Wales, waiting for her. He had tried to hide the damage Keenyside had inflicted on him, but the bruises were starting to flower.