Candleland (19 page)

He touched her again, felt numbers this time, dates. Her date of birth and her date of –

The pain hit him again, warping his reality, twisting his vision. When he opened his eyes it had all gone; the warmth, Sophie, everything. All that remained was the pain.

He was back in the cemetery, kneeling before a headstone, row after row behind him. Thousands of small, discreet headstones. Geometrically straight row after geometrically straight row, a coffined caravan site. Surrounded by decomposing flowers, rotting remembrance. Brief lives, small reminders.

He looked at the stone in front of him:

SOPHIE ALICE HETHERINGTON-LARKIN

Her dates, and then:

BELOVED DAUGHTER OF ANNE AND CHRISTOPHER HUSBAND OF STEPHEN

And below was the really painful piece:

JOE LARKIN

And his dates of three years, then:

“UNTIMELY RIPP'D FROM THE BOSOM OF HIS MOTHER”

Larkin stared at the stone, at the words, at the earth in front of it; felt the rain on his face, the encroaching dusk. He had been fooling himself, willing Sophie to be there. His desperate mind had known that all along.

But he wouldn't let go: he now tried to see beyond the grass, beneath it. He tried to see into the stone, willing the gold letters to cease being words, to move back through time, reform themselves as flesh and blood, bone and tissue; living, thinking, feeling humans.

Nothing happened. Nothing changed.

He tried again, closing his eyes. When he opened them, they were wet with more than rain. His chest was heaving and he was down on his knees, the cold, grey stone hugged to his chest.

His body convulsed and shook, his hands gripped harder as tears of grief, rage, guilt, everything intermixed and rolled down his face in streams that threatened to become rivers.

“I'm sorry … I'm … sorry …” he sobbed.

There was no reply.

“I'm sorry …”

I know
. She was back.

Larkin kept his eyes closed this time. He didn't want to open them, didn't want to break the spell. He cried harder.

“I let you down … I let you both down …”

There's nothing you can do about it now
.

“I know! I know! But I want to! I wuh-want to!”

Yes
.

“I need to!”

It's too late for that now
.

“I keep seeing you … both of you … even now I talk to you …”

Don't delude yourself
.

“And I see you both … when it happened … I can still see it …”

But you weren't there, Stephen
.

“I know I wasn't!”

You were with some tart. What was her name again?

The sobbing almost tore Larkin's body apart. “I can't remember! I never even knew … I'm sorry …”

It's too late
.

“Please, forgive me … you have to forgive me …”

You have to forgive yourself first
.

Larkin tried to speak, but the words were rendered inarticulate by sobbing.

After regaining his composure he spoke again.

“S – Sophie?”

Nothing. Just the rain, the wind in the trees, the distant rattle of a commuter train, the darkening sky above.

“Sophie …”

His body could no longer hold him up and he slid to the ground, hands losing their grip on the gravestone, bottle crooked in one arm.

“Sophie,” he said again, and passed out.

The room was warm, the duvet pulled up to his chin. For a few blissful seconds he experienced a dislocating amnesia, then it all returned, memory hurtling back towards him like an out-of-control juggernaut. He braced himself for the impact but it still hit him with mind-scrambling force.

Sickert. Sophie. Joe. He leaned over the side of the bed and vomited. Thankfully someone had placed a plastic bowl there and he managed to hit it. He heaved six or seven times until there was nothing left to give, then flopped back on the bed sweating, spent.

His stomach felt like it had been used as a rugby ball, his head had Motorhead doing a soundcheck in there and his eyes had been replaced by a psychedelic oil projector lamp. Everything hurt so much, he couldn't tell if his original headache was still there. He blinked, searching for focus.

He was back in the attic room at Faye's house. He could wonder how he got there later, for he was too wiped out to concentrate. It was daylight but beyond that, he didn't know what time it was, what day it was.

All he could think of was Sickert. Even in the short time he'd been awake, Sickert was clinging on to Larkin like a baleful ghost from a nightmare, clinging on, dragged from sleep to daylight. Still with the power to haunt.

Larkin sighed heavily, fragments of memory dropping slowly into place. After the pub things became hazy. There was the cemetery, yes, and then Sophie. Had she been there or had it just been the fact that he wanted to believe powered by alcohol? It had felt so real, he could have touched her.

He remembered he had touched her. Her face, her stone-cold face … No, she was gone. With the cold, harsh light coming through the thin curtains, he knew she was gone.

There was a small creak of hinges and the door was slowly pushed open. A blonde, cropped head cautiously appeared.

“C'mon in, Andy,” croaked Larkin.

The door swung open fully. “Thought I heard movement. How you doin'?”

“Never better. You'll forgive me if I don't get up.”

Andy entered, sniffed the air. “Better out than in, ay? Fragrant. 'Ere. Drink this.”

Andy handed Larkin a pint of cloudy, slightly fizzing liquid.

“What is it?” asked Larkin, suspiciously. The last thing he wanted was another drink.

“'Angover cure. Water, vitamin C, vitamin B-complex, spirulina – don't ask me what that is – and the fizz is Alka Seltzer. One of Faye's recipes. Now, down in one.”

Larkin downed the glass, belched. Despite a cloud of swirls, it stayed down. “Better,” he said, “but I still feel rough.”

“So you fuckin' should. Found an empty whisky bottle beside you an' it looked like you'd had plenty before that. Probably lucky to be alive.”

“Yeah,” groaned Larkin. “Lucky. How did I get here?”

“They were closin' the cemetery at Manor Park, found you sprawled all over the place. They took you for a wino at first, then found your wallet with a card of yours in and this phone number on. Gave me a call, Bob's your uncle, 'ere you are.”

Larkin gave a weak nod. “Thanks, Andy. You're a mate.”

Andy gave a smile, more sad than happy. “No worries.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“We found you last night. It's three in the afternoon. You've slept through nearly twenty-four hours. Best thing, really.”

“Yeah.”

“An' you wanna have that head of yours seen to. Come up in a big old lump where 'e 'it you. Faye's 'ad a look at it, doesn't reckon it's cracked or anything, but you should still get it looked at.”

Larkin nodded. They then lapsed into contemplative silence.

“What a fuckin' state of affairs, eh?” said Andy, shaking his head.

Larkin said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“I've told Henry 'e can 'andle things from 'ere on in,” said Andy. “'Is show now. You've done your bit.”

Larkin nodded. “I want to stay as far away from Mickey Falco and his place as possible.”

“Don't blame you, mate,” replied Andy. “Oh, by the way, that Diana bird, fella, whatever, she's been phonin' you. Wouldn't leave a message, wouldn't talk to anyone else. Wants you round there ASAP.”

“She didn't say why?”

“Nope. Says she's got somethin she'll only share with you.” Andy smiled. “I'll fuckin' bet she 'as.”

“I think you're more her type than me. Why don't you go?”

Andy reddened. “I don't think so.” He shuddered.

Larkin smiled. “I didn't realise your sexuality was so fragile.”

Andy looked at him. “You gettin' up, or you gonna lie there all day?”

“I'll get up. Give me a minute.”

“Okey dokey, I'll see you downstairs.” Andy began to make his way out of the room.

“Oh Andy?” Andy stopped, turned.

“Yeah?”

“Faye and Henry. Where are they?”

“Out. Why?”

Larkin looked relieved. “I just … don't feel up to facing her … them, yet.”

Andy gave Larkin a look he couldn't read. “Don't worry, she's out. And Henry. I'll see you downstairs,” he said, and left the room.

Larkin was alone once more. He stretched out, put his head back. Did Andy know about his fling with Faye? Did it matter if he did? He put it to one side. He couldn't think about that now.

Sickert was alive and, until Larkin got his hands on him again, well. He didn't like it, but he had to accept it.

But he knew where he was, he could just go round one night, catch him unawares …

Leave it, Larkin thought to himself. Get on with it, go round it. Keep busy, keep him out of my mind, he thought. Diana. She wanted to see me.

He closed his eyes, sighed. Just five more minutes. His mind began to uncoil, settle – Sophie. Alive, happy. Joe.

Larkin's eyes jumped open. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to go back there, wherever it was. There was nowhere he could escape to, no hiding place. Not even in dreams. He couldn't run away, he had tried running away yesterday. There was no one to run to. He had to go on. Or go nowhere.

He threw back the duvet and got slowly, shakily, to his feet.

It was early evening by the time Larkin reached Diana's street. The sky more grey than white, the air turning from cold to chill. Just a run-of-the mill February day.

As a disgruntled Andy had reminded him before he left, the Saab had been parked outside Candleland since Larkin had walked off with the car keys in his pocket the previous day. So Larkin had travelled by tube. He stood on the pavement, staring up at Diana's window. No movements, no lights, nothing. Not promising.

He had showered, shaved, found a clean pair of faded Levis, thick lumberjack shirt and T-shirt, same leather jacket, same boots, but he still felt rough. The alcohol was sweating its way out of him. His hands were shaking, his head was throbbing. Not as bad, though; Motorhead had given way to mid-Nineties Aerosmith – no longer a deafening noise, just an irritating racket. He'd also had another couple of glasses of Faye's hangover cure, and this had left him if not feeling better, then certainly more functional.

He had showered, shaved, found a clean pair of faded Levis, thick lumberjack shirt and T-shirt, same leather jacket, same boots, but he still felt rough. The alcohol was sweating its way out of him. His hands were shaking, his head was throbbing. Not as bad, though; Motorhead had given way to mid-Nineties Aerosmith – no longer a deafening noise, just an irritating racket. He'd also had another couple of glasses of Faye's hangover cure, and this had left him if not feeling better, then certainly more functional.

Larkin pressed the bell. After a pause the door buzzed open. No voice on the intercom. Larkin again got a feeling of unease. Something didn't feel right. He stepped back from the door, looked up at the window. Again, no movement, nothing. He quickly scoped both sides of the street. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He pushed the door slowly open, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom of the hall. No one there. Warily he entered, closing the door behind him.

The door at the base of the stairs to Diana's flat was open. Larkin stepped inside and quietly mounted the stairs.

He was operating on radar, but it was damaged radar at best. His head was still throbbing and his heart pounding so hard, blood drumming in his ears, he doubted he would hear anything.

He reached the top of the stairs, turned right. Checked for anything out of the ordinary, saw nothing. All the doors were shut. That was strange enough. The alarm bells inside him began to ring louder.

It wasn't too late, he knew that. He could still turn around, leave now. He placed his hand on the doorknob of Diana's living room. I might be deluding myself, thought Larkin. There might be nothing wrong, no need to worry.

There was only one way to find out. He turned the doorknob and entered the room.

As he stepped inside he saw Diana lying still on the floor, debris around her and a huge man dressed as a biker standing over her. He turned and grinned at Larkin.

Larkin opened his mouth to speak, moving forward at the same time, when a sudden sharp movement from behind the door distracted him. Before he could react to this, a hand holding some kind of pad was clamped firmly over his nose and mouth.

His hands reached for the restraining arm but it was no good, the grip was too tight. Although Larkin knew it was the worst thing he could do, he gave an involuntary gasp, trying to draw air into his lungs. Instead he inhaled the chemical the pad was soaked in.

His mouth and nose were invaded by the smell, like clinical almonds, he thought, then his head began to spin as if he was on a fairground ride. The ride didn't slow down or stop, though, just kept getting faster until Larkin felt himself catapulted into freefall. He let his body relax, waiting for the inevitable impact, but it never arrived. Instead he just kept falling down, down, until the darkness enveloped him.

Larkin opened his eyes. His sight was blurred, light coming at first in frantic rave beats, slowing gradually to a rhythmic pounding. His vision became more distinct with each thump, as blood was sluggishly pumped round his body.

He began to focus: a ceiling, an electric light. He must have been out a long time, the curtain was drawn too. He let his head swing to the left. It hurt as much as his earlier hangover. He felt a numb pain in his arms as he tried to move them. He couldn't. His re-emergent consciousness told him they were pinned underneath his body, tied behind his back, numb from lack of circulation.