The Mercy Seat (41 page)

‘You look familiar,’ he said, pointing a finger at Donovan.

Donovan’s heart skipped a beat.

He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think so.’

Keenyside was nodding. ‘We’ve met before.’

Donovan struggled to keep his face stone-blank. ‘No,’ he said, ‘we haven’t.’

‘Shit,’ Nattrass said.

She looked around the room as if expecting to find answers there. Then pounced on the desk set, switched channels.

‘Mephisto,’ she said, ‘get back in there, quick. You’ve tested the sample, it’s turned out good. Now go.’

CCTV picked up Sharkey hurriedly exiting the Gents.

‘But don’t look like you’re in a hurry,’ she told him.

He slowed down, walked normally.

Nattrass sighed. Kept watching.

Sharkey walked back into the café bar, sat down. As composed as he could manage. He looked at Donovan.

‘It’s good,’ he said.

Donovan nodded, turned to face Keenyside. ‘Looks like you’ve got a deal,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk money.’

Suspicion ebbed away from Keenyside’s features. He smiled. ‘Let’s,’ he said.

The room was completely dark. Deep black buried under tarmac dark.

Jamal stared. Fascinated.

He had left the administration floor along with Peta and Amar. The police movement ban, they had angrily decided, didn’t extend to them. The atmosphere between them was dense, tension manifesting itself in different ways. Peta, furious with Turnbull, Amar attempting to calm her by making bitchy comments about him. Jamal could stand it no longer.

‘Gonna have a look round, yeah? See what’s happenin’.’

‘Be careful,’ said Amar. ‘Stay out of the way.’

‘Be on the lookout,’ said Peta. ‘You might meet—’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Jamal. ‘Got my number, yeah? Call me.’

And off round the galleries. He thought it would be just paintings, sculpture and stuff, but it wasn’t. Things in boxes. Dream diaries. A huge room with speakers hanging from roofbeams like crucifixes, the voices of alien abductees coming from them. Things he didn’t understand, that didn’t connect, but gave him some kind of
frisson
nevertheless.

Weird shit, he thought. Some fucked-up people out there.

But this one connected deep.

A huge gallery. Completely blacked out. A four-screen projection, two in front, two behind. On the enormous screens a Punch and Judy show. But not in kiddie seaside brightness. In grainy snuff movie slo-mo. Punch smashing down on Judy’s head, eyes blurry blood-red smudges of papier-mâché hatred. His throaty laugh banged up to ear-bleed, distorted to primal scream level.

Smashing down. Down. Down.

Judy’s body lifeless. Like war-torn newscam footage.

Violence stripped of entertainment. More real than real life.

Jamal stared. Fascinated.

Disturbed.

Why would people watch this? he thought. What do they get out of it?

‘Kill the baby … kill the baby …’

This was even worse. Punch staving in the skull of a swaddled infant, accompanied by a bird-of-prey, wall-of-sound screech.

Smashing down. Down. Down.

Like a stone had been lodged in Jamal’s heart. He felt for the baby. He was the baby.

It saddened him. Depressed him.

Down. Down. Down.

But transfixed him.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Time had stopped, was racing, or had gone into reverse.

The film, the experience, on a continual loop. Over and over.

A hangman’s noose.

Justice for Punch.

A ghost to scare him. An executioner to kill him.

Jamal became physically uneasy.

There had been other people in the room while he had been watching. He was aware of them coming, staying, going when they had seen enough. But keeping to their own space.

Now Jamal felt someone behind him. Invading his space.

He turned slowly.

Punch being led to the gallows.

And fear shot through him.

A ghost to scare him. An executioner to kill him.

A smile. A blue, bejewelled tooth glinting in the darkness.

Jamal found his legs.

Jamal ran.

Donovan unsnapped his briefcase, took out his laptop. Put it on the table, powered it up. While he was waiting, he spoke to Keenyside.

‘Give me the location and the number of your offshore account,’ he said, voice as offhand and businesslike as he could make it, ‘and I’ll authorize the transfer of funds.’

Keenyside dug inside his pocket. ‘I’d still have preferred cash.’

‘Or a cheque, perhaps?’ said Donovan, aiming for a dismissive tone. ‘That’s not how we conduct our business.’

‘We don’t like to leave a trail,’ added Sharkey. Keenyside unfolded a slip of paper, handed it over. Donovan read it, keyed digits into the laptop. Pressed
RETURN
.

Sat back.

‘Now what?’ asked Keenyside, pulling his shirt collar away from his hot and sticky neck.

‘We wait,’ said Donovan. ‘For verification.’ Thinking: and I hope it comes fucking soon.

‘You got that, Rob?’ Nattrass said.

‘I’m on it.’ Rob, sitting on her right, wore a T-shirt with a picture of the Simpsons’ character Comic Book Guy and the words
I HAVE ISSUES
written above it. He stared intently at his laptop, the numbers on the screen reflecting on the front of his spectacles, fingers moving swiftly over the keys. Deep in concentration.

The screen flashed up an acknowledgement box.

He smiled in satisfaction. Nodded at Nattrass.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a look at that later. See where his drug money’s been hidden.’ Then into the headset: ‘Gone through.’

The acknowledgement box showed on Donovan’s laptop. He smiled, tried to keep his sense of relief hidden.

‘The funds have reached your account,’ he said and turned his laptop round to show Keenyside.

Keenyside stared, almost overcome by the number of noughts on the screen.

Sharkey, suppressing a whimper of pain, leaned over and picked up the aluminium case.

Nattrass looked around the room. Everyone was by the door, ready to go.

‘OK, everybody stand by. Wait for the signal …’

Donovan swivelled the laptop back round, snapped the lid shut.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, replacing the laptop in his briefcase, ‘that’s that. Our business seems to have been successfully concluded.’

He was preparing to stand up, mouth opening to give the signal.

Keenyside sat back, looked at him. ‘There’s just one last thing,’ he said.

Jamal ran. Avoiding the front entrance so as not to screw up the deal, looking for Peta and Amar, looking for another way out.

Not waiting for a lift or chancing dead-end runs, Jamal made for the stairs. Took them two at a time, heedless of the people he knocked out of the way, deaf to invocations and insults hurled in his wake.

He reached the next floor, looked around.

Nothing.

Up the stairs again, panting heavily, starting to slow down but refusing to: pushing himself further, making his legs pump harder.

The top of the stairs. Another look around.

The third-floor men’s toilets right in front of him.

He ran inside.

Scoped the grey and white interior, thought fast. No way out. A toilet flushing, a man exiting. An empty cubicle. He jumped inside, locked the door. Pulled himself up on to the seat.

Tried to slow his breathing down.

With trembling hands, he took out his mobile. Speed-dialled Amar.

It rang.

‘Come on …’

The main door to the toilets slammed against the wall.

Jamal heard shock and anger expressed by the ablutors.

‘Shit … come on …’

Heard a cubicle door being smashed back on its hinges, the lock broken off. A shocked, angry voice. ‘What the hell …’

‘Come on …’

It was answered. ‘Amar Miah.’

Another cubicle door being smashed open, another angry voice.

‘Listen, man, it’s Jamal.’

‘Jamal, where—’

‘Fuckin’ listen. It’s him. Hammer.’ Jamal’s voice was hushed, tamped-down hysteria. ‘He’s here.’

Another cubicle door. Jamal’s stall shook. The next one along.

‘He’s here, man!’ Jamal screamed. ‘Here! The toilets! Third floor! Help, fuckin’—’

Jamal’s cubicle door smashed open.

Hammer.

He smiled.

Mikey Blackmore stood outside the Baltic, looked up at it.

An art gallery. What could be more pleasant. Strolling round there on a Saturday afternoon, looking at the pictures, discussing what he saw with his companion. Using, but not showing off, his education. His understanding of art. His companion suitably impressed.

Then up to the rooftop restaurant for dinner. Fine wine. Maybe coffee and brandy to follow.

Then home. Together.

Mikey sighed. Stared through the window.

Saw people drinking coffee, wine. Bottled foreign beer. Eating sandwiches made with breads he couldn’t pronounce stuffed with fillings he couldn’t name.

Educated people. Prosperous people.

Secure people. Happy people.

Reading books he’d never heard of, papers too large to hold, gallery guides. Planning their evenings, their weekends.

Their lives.

And Mikey outside. A huge glass wall separating them from him. Cutting off what they had from him. Their lives sealed into the warmth.

Mikey outside in the cold.

He wanted so badly to be in there with them. Among them. One of them. Yearned for it.

But it would never happen. He knew that. Could never happen. Whatever thin thread of hope he had been clinging to was gone. For ever.

Pain tore at his heart.

Janine dead. Mikey no longer existing.

Pity and self-pity.

The glass wall would always be there.

Always.

Big, angry tears began to roll down his cheeks.

He had nothing left.

And the man responsible, Alan Keenyside, was sitting inside. Drinking coffee. Talking to his friends. Smiling.

Mikey felt his heart would break.

He drew the gun from his pocket.

Still crying.

Took aim.

‘I know who you are now,’ said Keenyside, sitting back, a look of cruel triumph on his face.

‘What are you talking about?’ Donovan hoped his voice sounded suitably dismissive.

‘Your name’s Joe Donovan. You’re a journalist.’

Donovan froze.

Nattrass slammed the table hard with the palm of her hand.

‘Shit! Fucking shit!’

She turned to Turnbull.

‘Why didn’t we know he knew him? Why didn’t we know this?’

Turnbull, stunned, shrugged. Nattrass looked back at the screen.

‘Shit …’

Donovan opened his mouth to speak. Keenyside stood up.

‘Let’s cut the bullshit. This is a setup, isn’t it? A fucking setup.’

Sharkey stood up also. ‘Of course it isn’t.’

Keenyside stared at him, eyes like flint.

‘Convince me.’

Sharkey glanced towards Donovan, moved towards Keenyside.

‘Well, Mr Keenyside,’ he said, ‘it’s been—’

The glass front of the café bar shattered.

No one moved, everyone calcified by shock and disbelief.

Then everyone moved.

Rapidly.

Screams and cries as people tried to hurl themselves beyond the range of spraying and raining glass.

Tables and chairs upended, thrown around. Food and drink flying.

In the chaos they learned things about themselves. Some ran for cover, dived out of the way; others pushed their
loved ones to the ground, shielded them with their own bodies. Some pushed their loved ones before them as shields.

Chaos and confusion. Events occurring simultaneously in slo-mo and hyper speed.

More splintering glass. More horror-movie screams.

And behind the large-scale noise, small pops.

Mikey, blinded by tears, firing indiscriminately.

Nattrass ripped off her headset, looked at the rapid-response team.

‘Go! Go! Get down there!’

They ran. She pulled out her radio, shouted her call sign. Requested backup. No need for secrecy any more. More police. Ambulances.

She turned to the two security guards, now standing dumbfounded and immobile. Told them to raise the alarm. Initiate evacuation procedures.

She put her head back, screamed to the heavens from the bottom of her lungs.

‘Fucking hell!’

Then ran out to join her team.

Sharkey spun round, fell.

Straight away Donovan knew he’d been hit. Even before the blood began to soak through his pinstripe. He kneeled down beside him, looked up at Keenyside.

‘Still think this is a setup?’ he shouted.

Keenyside stood there, staring at him in hatred. Oblivious to the bullets.

‘This is all your fault …’

‘Call an ambulance,’ shouted Donovan.

‘Cunt …’

‘Call an ambulance!’

Keenyside looked around, suddenly aware of what was happening. He kneeled down, prised the aluminium case from beneath Sharkey’s body, checked for a way out, ran.

Dodging behind a pillar, towards the main exit.

And away.

Jamal screamed. Hammer grabbed him. Pulled him off the seat of the cubicle. His mobile clattered to the floor.

Pulled him face to face.

‘We’ve got some unfinished business, little boy.’ Hammer gave a leering smile. His breath stank of death and decay.

Jamal had never been so frightened in his life.

He was aware of people in his peripheral vision, standing watching. Hypnotized by horror: this can’t be happening in front of me.

And the subtext: I’m glad that’s not me it’s happening to.

Jamal screamed.

‘Help! Get him off me! He’s goin’ to kill me! Help!’

The words just documentation of a situation. No one, he knew, would help him. They would rationalize their inaction: undercover cop arresting teenage thief. Walk away.

Hammer began dragging him out. Jamal screamed and kicked.

The alarm sounded. The call to evacuate the building by the nearest exit. To use the stairs, not the lifts. To not run but walk in a calm manner.

Their audience immediately, hurriedly, left. A couple casting backward glances, but no more. Hammer stopped moving.