In the Dark Page 4

  He’d met Javine at one of the big arcades. She and a mate had started giggling when he’d bent over a pool table. Later on they’d shared a joint or two outside and talked until chucking-out time.

  Then, the previous summer, when Javine was three months pregnant, they’d had to make the journey back the other way. Theo’s grandmother on his father’s side had refused to move with the rest of the family, and when the stubborn old mare suffered a stroke, there was nobody else around to look after her. One day the air had tasted of salt; the next they were all back in the same shitty low-rise they’d been living in four years earlier.

  Stupidest thing of all, the old woman was as fit as a fiddle now, had started to perk up as soon as she had her family around her again. It was Theo’s old man who had got sick. Coughing up blood in their front room, and dying one afternoon in front of the horse racing, while Lewisham Hospital tried to find him a bed.

  ‘Theo?’ Javine was shouting now, from the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah, tea sounds good,’ Theo said.

  Javine wasn’t the only one who’d left friends behind when they’d come to south London. Theo still thought about Ransford and Kenny a lot, and Craig and Waheed from football. They’d stayed in touch for a while after he’d moved back, but things had just seemed to drift after the baby. Since he’d caught up with Easy and the others again.

  Not that he’d caught up in every sense.

  It was because he’d gone away; that’s what Easy told him. That’s why he’d lost his place; why Easy had a better slot with the crew even though Theo was older. Just bad luck, bad timing, whatever.

  Theo’s mobile chirped on the table.

  Javine shouted through from the kitchen: ‘That’ll be Easy or your mum.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Theo hadn’t seen Easy for a week or so; not since their afternoon at the pitch and putt. Not properly at any rate. He’d seen him go past a couple of times in that sick Audi A3 he’d taken to driving around. He’d had it for a year, sitting in a lock-up. Polished the fucker every week, changed the Magic Tree air freshener, all that. But he’d done the decent thing and waited until he was only one year below the legal driving age before actually getting behind the wheel.

  Theo had his dad’s old Mazda, but the piece of shit had been falling apart for years and there didn’t seem much point in getting it fixed. The buses were pretty good as it was, and all the shops were within spitting distance.

  Didn’t really need a car anyway, not how things were going.

  That Audi was one sweet whip, though.

  Javine stuck her head round the kitchen door and blew a kiss. ‘A pound says it’s your boyfriend.’

  Theo threw his empty beer can at her as he moved to pick up his phone. He looked at the screen. ‘You can owe it me.’

  When he’d finished talking to his mother, he grabbed his jacket and told Javine he wouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. He told her to wait up and squeezed her backside as he kissed her goodbye.

  ‘This is getting ridiculous,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t hurt her feelings, man.’

  ‘You should think about starting. You’re getting a belly on you.’

  Theo turned side on, looked at himself in the mirror by the front door. ‘That’s all muscle,’ he said, rubbing it. ‘And dick, obviously, all wrapped around.’

  Javine grinned and said she’d do her best to stay awake, but that she was feeling wiped out. Theo watched her walk into the bedroom, heard her murmur something to the baby just before he closed the front door behind him. Then he walked down two flights of stairs to the first floor, and three doors along to his mother’s flat, to eat his second dinner of the evening.

  They sat in a small, crowded pub behind the Oval cricket ground. The conversation competed with quiz and fruit machines, a jukebox that specialised in eighties stadium rock, and a braying bunch of city types on the adjacent table.

  ‘There’s a decent Indian round the corner,’ Paul said.

  ‘As long as I can have a korma or something.’ Helen grinned at the short, blonde woman opposite her. ‘Anything too spicy, this baby could come a few weeks early.’

  Her friend laughed. ‘You know, if your waters break in Marks & Spencers, they give you a hamper.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ Paul said.

  ‘If they break in a curry house, maybe you get a year’s supply of poppadoms, or whatever.’

  The man next to her grimaced. ‘Not too keen on Indian.’

  ‘I’m not fussed,’ Helen said.

  ‘Somebody else decide,’ Paul said. ‘I’ll get some more drinks in.’ It was only supposed to have been a quick one before they ate dinner, but Paul had already put away three pints in twenty minutes. His voice was louder than it needed to be.

  ‘If we don’t go now, we might not get a table,’ Helen said.

  Paul ignored her and downed what was left of his pint.

  Helen looked across at her friend, who shrugged back at her. Helen and Katie had been at school together, and the four of them - Helen, Paul, Katie and her boyfriend Graham - usually got together for a meal out every few months. Paul liked Katie well enough, or said he did, but the boyfriend usually ended up irritating all three of them.

  ‘Says in the paper they might have a serial killer up in Glasgow,’ Graham said.

  Paul groaned into his glass.

  ‘Oh, don’t start,’ Katie said.

  Helen sniggered, reached for her glass of water. This was usually how it kicked off.

  ‘Nasty one, by all accounts.’

  ‘Aren’t too many nice ones,’ Paul said.

  Graham shuffled forward on his chair, leaned in close to Paul. ‘I know you’ve never had, you know, dealings with one, but you’ve met ordinary killers, right? What about that one last week in Essex, got off his tits and cut up his mother? Did you have anything to do with that one?’ He waited. ‘You must have heard something, surely. Seen the reports or whatever.’

  Paul stared at him for a few seconds. ‘Why do you get off on this stuff?’

  ‘I don’t . . .’

  ‘Have you got a hard-on under the table?’

  Graham swallowed. It looked for a second or two as if the evening was about to end prematurely, but then Katie piped up: ‘Well, if he has, for God’s sake give him a few more juicy details, will you? We need all the help we can get and it’s a damned sight cheaper than Viagra.’

  Graham leaned into her, reddening. ‘It’s interesting, that’s all.’

  Paul got up, grabbed his own empty glass and Katie’s, waited for Graham to oblige. ‘Same again, is it?’

  Nobody argued, and as Paul inched out from behind the table, Helen gave him a look that said ‘go easy’.

  Got back a big, fat ‘fuck off ’ smile.

  Paul placed his order at the bar, then slid into the gents’. There was a man at the urinals and Paul loitered by the sink until he had left. Then he took out his phone and punched in a number; pressed the handset between his shoulder and his ear and moved across to piss.

  The man answered the phone with a grunt, as though he’d been woken up.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘What do you want, Paul?’

  ‘Can I come and see you tomorrow?’

  A pause. The distant clatter of machinery.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Two-ish OK?’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of restoration work on at the minute. You got a pen?’

  ‘I’ll remember it,’ Paul said.

  ‘Where are you? Sounds like you’re in a bloody toilet.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  Paul listened to the address. ‘You thought about what I said?’

  ‘I’ve thought about it, yeah.’

  ‘I need this.’

  ‘Tomorrow . . .’

  Paul sighed. Zipped himself up.

  ‘Bring us a bit of lunch, will you? Something nice.’

  Paul turned just as the do
or opened and Graham walked in. Paul saw him clock the phone and held it up before he put it back in his pocket. ‘Checking out local restaurants on the WAP,’ he said.

  Graham just nodded and walked quickly into a cubicle.

  Paul stared at himself in the mirror as he smacked the soap dispenser and moved his hands under the tap. He splashed cold water on his face before he walked back out into the pub.

  Theo could manage only half a portion of spicy shepherd’s pie made with sweet potatoes and a mouthful or two of green beans.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ his mother asked.

  ‘It’s fine. I’m just not very hungry.’

  Hannah Shirley moved around the table, collecting her own empty plate, and her daughter’s. ‘I’ll leave yours there,’ she said. ‘You might fancy a little more in a minute.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ Theo winked at his sister. ‘It’s really nice.’

  ‘So, how’s my gorgeous boy?’

  ‘I’m pretty good.’

  His mother shook her head and tutted. It was the same game they always played. ‘You’re far too big and ugly. I’m talking about my grandson.’

  Theo sucked his teeth, shook his head like he was upset. ‘Yeah, he’s doing OK, too.’

  ‘Just OK?’

  ‘He’s doing great.’

  ‘Angela drew something for him at school today. Go and get what you drew.’

  Theo’s sister raised her eyebrows, didn’t move until she was told a second time, then hauled herself into the bedroom.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ Theo asked.

  His mother sat down on the edge of an armchair, began to clean her glasses on her sleeve. ‘Pretty good,’ she said. ‘Better, anyhow.’

  Angela wasn’t coping as well academically as she had been at the school in Kent; was maybe a year or two behind where she should have been as a ten-year-old. They were thankful that at least her asthma was no worse.

  ‘She’s got a real talent for art,’ Theo’s mum said.

  On cue, Angela came back in and pushed a drawing across the table to Theo. A blue sky, a fish-filled sea, and a baby being thrown into the air.

  ‘That me and Javine?’ Theo asked.

  ‘You can hang it over his cot,’ Angela said.

  Their mother put on her glasses and came over to look at the picture again. ‘A real talent,’ she said.

  Theo’s phone rang and he got to it a second before his sister.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You need to keep tomorrow night free,’ Easy said.

  ‘Might be tricky, man. I got Halle Berry coming round.’ Angela pulled a face and Theo grinned. ‘She’s been begging me for weeks, you know?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up about nine, yeah?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You can drive if you want. I know you been looking at my whip, man.’

  ‘What’s up? Where we driving?’

  ‘Just a favour.’

  Angela was still staring at Theo. ‘Let me think, all right. Call you later.’

  ‘I’m the one doing you the favour, T, you get me? It’s a nice bit of business. Just a couple of hours.’

  Theo stood up and moved to the far side of the room; lowered his voice a little. ‘What business? How comes you always pull this mystery shit, man?’ He glanced back to see his mother turning away, stepping into the kitchen, and he knew that it wasn’t about respecting his privacy. She didn’t want to know was all; never wanted to know.

  ‘About nine,’ Easy said.

  ‘What a twat,’ Paul said. He threw his jacket at the back of a kitchen chair and missed; opened the door to the fridge and stood staring into it, like he was unsure what he was looking at. ‘Major, major . . . twat.’

  Helen rushed straight through to the toilet, bursting, and talked through the open door as she relieved herself.

  ‘You made me laugh tonight, Hopwood,’ she said.

  Paul closed the fridge and walked out of the kitchen. Looked, grinning, along the corridor at Helen on the toilet. ‘What?’

  ‘Taking the piss out of Graham.’

  ‘Wasn’t difficult.’

  She stood up, wiped and flushed. ‘When you said that talking to him was probably the closest you were ever going to get to a serial killer, and Katie laughed, I really thought I was going to wet myself.’

  They’d settled on an Italian around the corner from the pub, and despite the awkwardness earlier on, the evening had gone pretty well. Helen had enjoyed herself as much as she had in a long while and she thought that Paul had as well. He was certainly drunk, but she thought it was a good sign. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d let his hair down. He’d been singing in the car as she’d driven them back.

  He leaned against the wall and started to giggle; said ‘twat’ again, which set Helen off.

  She led him back to the fridge and poured out two large glasses of water. As she was screwing the top back on the bottle, she felt his arms move around her waist; his cock pressing into the back of her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. She could feel him humming against her neck.

  In bed, they tried to find a position that worked, but she was too heavy and he was too drunk and rough. He started to swear and slap his hand against the mattress.

  She reached for him and told him to shush. ‘Let me,’ she said, stroking him harder as the moan rose up in his throat; faster, until he pushed her hand away suddenly and rushed, heaving, for the toilet.

  Helen stumbled after him, wrapping a dressing gown around herself. She stood in the corridor and watched him on the toilet floor, knowing that he wouldn’t want her too close. When he’d finally finished throwing up he looked round at her. He pulled his knees up to his chest and cupped a hand around his genitals. Stayed looking at her as he leaned over the bowl again, spitting and spitting.

  FIVE

  ‘Your destination is just ahead on the left-hand side.’

  Paul pulled over behind a skip. Took the sat-nav from the windscreen and pushed it into the glove compartment. ‘Snotty bitch.’

  The pub was set back from a road that ran between Charlton Park and Woolwich Dockyard, in deepest, drabbest south-east London. The river bowed a few minutes to the north. You could probably see the Thames Barrier from the roof; and the Millennium Dome, like a wok with legs, a mile or two beyond. There was scaffolding along one side of the building. The windows had been whited out from the inside with opaque swirls, and there was a sign on the door that said, ‘CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT’.

  Paul tapped on the frosted glass with his car key. There was a school at the end of the street and he could hear the noise from the playground; the kids like squawking gulls.

  ‘Can’t you read?’

  Paul pressed his face close to the glass. ‘I’ve got an appointment.’

  It was getting warmer. He took off his leather jacket and tossed it across his arm as the bolts were slid back.

  Inside, there was dust in the air, dancing around the electrical cable dangling from the crossbeams. Paul could feel it on the backs of his hands, taste it when he spoke. ‘How’s it going, Clive?’

  The huge black man who had opened the door nodded as he lifted the trap at the end of the bar. He could barely squeeze through the gap; had to turn and shuffle in sideways. ‘Get you something, Mr Hopwood?’

  ‘You got the pumps hooked up already?’

  Clive laughed and shook his head. ‘We’ve got a few cans under here. Soft drinks and all that for the workmen.’

  Paul showed him the plastic bag. ‘I’ve brought stuff.’ He walked over to the bar and lifted the protective sheeting. It looked highly polished, but the wood wasn’t solid. Half a dozen old-style radiators were stacked in line, waiting to be installed. MDF had been laid down, ready for a new floor, and several boxes of tiles were piled up against a wall alongside sacks of plaster and ceiling roses. ‘I know he’s had you doing all sorts over the years, Clive, but now he’s got you lined up as bar staff, has he?’

  ‘Ju
st keeping an eye out,’ Clive said. ‘Same as always.’

  A man walked in through an open doorway at the far end of the room, drying his hands with a ball of toilet paper. He was a little shorter than average, with dark eyes and darker hair that was thinning on top but still long and curly at the back. The face was fifty-something, but the clothes told a different story: a powder-blue V-neck over a patterned shirt, designer jeans and training shoes.

  ‘What are we eating then, Paul?’

  Paul hoisted up the bag. ‘I stopped off at that fishmonger’s you like in Greenwich.’

  The man nodded, pleased, and asked Clive to toss a rag across. A couple of grubby-looking stools had been placed next to a trestle table covered in a thin sheet of polythene, and he used the rag to wipe the dust from it before he settled down. He watched as Paul produced a French loaf, fresh prawns wrapped in newspaper, large tubs of whelks and cockles. He sent Clive across the road to fetch pepper, vinegar and the rest of it, then laughed when he caught sight of the smoothies Paul had produced from the bag: ‘“Innocent”? You taking the piss?’

  They ate with their fingers, flicking shells onto the plastic-covered tabletop and dipping prawns into a catering-sized jar of mayonnaise. Paul listened while his host brought him up to date.

  ‘It’s all about bringing boozers like this back to the way they were. Near as you can get, anyway. Brass rail along that bar, Victorian-style lights, all that. Nice Italian-type beer garden out the back.’

  ‘An old-fashioned pub with an Italian garden?’

  The man ignored him. ‘These places had the guts ripped out of them years ago, got bought up by chains. You ask me, people are sick to death of all the noise and the awful food and everything being the same. Wankers’ bars with Belgian beer and Paddy MacFuckerty’s theme pubs, all that.’ He licked the ends of his fingers, spread out his arms. ‘This is going to be as close as you can get to a proper old pub. A local. I told you on the phone it’s a restoration job, didn’t I? But it’s not just about restoring the features and what have you. It’s about an abiding faith in something. About restoring a bit of . . . what d’you call it . . .?’