Little Triggers (4 page)

He had hated writing the article; hated putting his name to something he patently didn’t agree with. He had consoled himself by running over the events of the previous evening as the article took shape. The more he thought about it, the more justified he felt his actions had been. At least it was a way to make a difference, he thought, as he wrote. And he clung to that fact like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.

And started to think about Jane Howell.

He had met her over six months ago, just after his return to Newcastle. It had been a boring party; she’d livened it up for him just by talking. Unmarried, living in a tower block in Scotswood with her young daughter, she ran a daycare centre for inner-city children and was trying to get a credit union going. She had established herself as a community activist despite disadvantages which would have turned most people into victims. They had gone out together a few times – drinking, the cinema, the odd meal – but it hadn’t really taken off. Larkin was still shell-shocked after Charlotte’s death and Jane was naturally wary of men in general. They had remained friends, however; Larkin was using her for one of his colour supplement features.

She knew he would be visiting her that afternoon. So why would she call?

Two and a half rings. Then the phone was picked up with such speed it left the bell echoing.

“Hello?” a voice said, too quickly.

“Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“Stephen. Larkin.”

“Oh!” Relief, followed by silence. Larkin waited for her to speak. “You still comin’ over today?”

“You know I am. What’s up?”

“Nothing.” There was a pause; Larkin could feel her tension. “Look – can you come a little bit earlier?”

“Why?”

“Can you?”

He told her he had some work to do but could make it by three.

“Come to the centre. That’s where I’ll be.”

“OK.”

“Right — ” It was as if she wanted to say something, something important, but couldn’t find the words.

“Are you all right, Jane?”

There was another pause. “Yeah. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later, right?”

She put the phone down. And a puzzled Larkin held a dead receiver.

Larkin felt unseen eyes on him as he drove. He knew he was being watched; his car marked him out as not living in the area. They probably thought he was a DSS snoop. He remembered the torch he kept in the glove compartment: an American police model that could double as a truncheon, it was as effective as a baseball bat and twice as legal. Although he hadn’t had to use it yet, he was definitely prepared to.

He pulled up beside another car: an anonymous, hermetically-sealed Nineties blob. Parking behind it, he noted it was a virtually brand-new Fiesta with a protective camouflage of inner-city dirt. He killed the Gold’s engine, got out and locked it. Though if someone wanted to break in, all they had to do was slit the roof.

The daycare centre was a primary-coloured, single-storey, concrete-clad edifice. It had been enthusiastically, if not professionally, painted with a mural featuring huge daisies and smiling children. There was a cheerful optimism about the place that Larkin admired, as if it were refusing to be choked by the surrounding oppressiveness. He went in through the bright red double doors which opened onto a large room where children’s paintings covered the walls. Care-used toys and games littered the floor, and a couple of shelves bearing well-worn storybooks and some over-loved stuffed toy animals completed the look of cheerful chaos.

He was expecting noise and he got it. Lots of small children were running around, shrieking with delight. They were supposed to be painting but from the looks of it the only thing they were painting was each other.

Suddenly, one of the children let out a shriek that wasn’t due to pleasure. Larkin moved to where the noise was coming from, found a tiny boy with a clump of another boy’s hair in his hand. The other boy was on the floor, his face red and wet from crying. The first child looked at the clump of hair in his hand almost in disbelief; then he started kicking the prone boy, rage in his eyes.

Larkin was wondering whether to intervene when a man who Larkin hadn’t noticed before pulled them apart.

“Daniel! Stop that!”

The boy looked up at him and dropped the clump of hair, fear creeping into his eyes. The man pointed a finger at him sternly and the boy fell silent.

“Good,” the man said. “Now apologise.”

Hate and fear fought it out on the boy’s face. The end result had an equal slice of both in it, as he muttered a sulky “Sorry.”

The man nodded at him, and then turned his attention to the boy on the floor.

He examined the boy’s head. It was bleeding. He picked him up, holding him close; he made comforting noises and the boy’s crying gradually subsided. He was about to carry him out of the main room when he looked round and saw Larkin.

“Can I help you?” A clipped Scottish accent. His voice made the cradled boy flinch almost imperceptibly.

Larkin looked the man over. Under six foot, early thirties. Washed-out, dirty, thinning blond hair, glasses, shapeless jumper and trousers. Nondescript. Safe.

“I’m looking for Jane Howell. Is she here?”

“She is, yes. And who might you be?”

“It’s all right, James. I’m here.”

Both men turned to see Jane standing in the doorway. Blue jeans, boots, black T-shirt. Her dark hair in a long bob. She was attractive in an honest, intelligent way; though she carried the burden of a tough life, her big brown eyes lent her a fetching vulnerability. Today, though, they showed nothing but badly-concealed anxiety and trouble.

She saw the child in the man’s arms and came dashing over. “What happened?”

“Daniel got a bit boisterous. Don’t worry – it’s all over. I’m just taking little Harry into the kitchen for a look at his head.”

“I’ll do that,” she snapped, making both men start. Noticing their reaction, she forced a smile. “Go on then – you do it. Where’s Carol?”

“In the loo.”

At that moment another woman appeared and crossed over to them.

“Sort Daniel out, Carol. I’ll be out in a while.”

With that she crossed over to another red door and entered. Larkin looked round, smiled weakly at the woman called Carol, and followed.

When Larkin reached Jane’s office he found her sitting behind an old paper-covered desk, delving into her bag for a Silk Cut and a lighter. She lit her cigarette and pulled a deep drag, her chest expanding. Larkin tried not to look at her breasts. After holding on for a few seconds she let go. Her tension ebbed along with the smoke.

“Fuck, I needed that.”

Larkin walked round to her side of the desk. “Come on, then,” he said, as reassuringly as he could manage. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

“Bollocks. Tell me.”

She took another deep drag and followed it up with a huge sigh.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that… Everything was going so well, you know? This place was a success, the credit union was gettin’
taken seriously. I don’t know. It just all seems to be turnin’ to shit.”

“In what way?”

“Well, for a start, the grant’s up for renewal. If you’d have asked me a couple of weeks ago I’d have said sure, fine, we’ll walk it – you know?”

“Why won’t you now? What’s gone wrong?”

“Oh … nothin’. It’s just … I don’t know.” Another drag. “You don’t want to listen to all this.”

“Too late for that now. You called, I answered. So here I am.”

She gave him a weak little smile. “Well … it’s probably nothin’, but I’m not so sure. Did you see what happened just now?”

“One kid fighting with another one. Nothing unusual in that.”

“No, but … that boy, Daniel. He used to be such a good kid, but just recently he’s started to behave … well, like you saw. Aggressive, arguin’. Startin’ to hurt the other kids.”

“What about his parents? Can’t they do anything?”

The deepest drag of all. Then: “It’s a classic abuse pattern he’s developin’.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean, his parents?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, they’re a rough lot, most people round here are, but they’re not… I know them. No.”

“What then?”

Her cigarette was down to a stub. She ground it out in an already overflowing ashtray, lit another one and settled herself, coming to decisions in her head. Larkin waited patiently for her to speak.

Finally: “No. It’s not at home.”

“Where, then?”

“Maybe … here.”

“At the centre?”

She nodded her head, downcast, as if she didn’t want to admit it even to herself.

“Who?”

She moved her face closer to his.

“You saw that guy when you came in here?” Her voice was low.

“The Scotsman with the charisma deficiency?”

She almost smiled. “Yeah.”

“Him?”

She stood up, paced the room. “This place is a success. We’ve
made it one. It’s been hard fuckin’ work, an uphill struggle, but we’ve done it. This place is open every weekday for kids under school age so their mothers can have a bit of time off. Try to get jobs, even.” Another drag. “It’s gone that well we’ve had to expand. We got a grant from the council and one of the other girls and me get paid to run the place. The rest work as volunteers.”

“But?”

“About four months ago, this guy came to us. Said his name was James Noble and did we need any help. Said he used to work in Social Services with kids in Scotland until he was made redundant. Well, naturally we were interested. I mean, he had brilliant references and he sounded too good to be true. You know?”

She stopped talking again, took another drag. Larkin remained silent, letting her story unfold the way she wanted it to.

“Well, it was great for a while. But then… Well, we started to have doubts about him.”

She stopped. Larkin sensed that she couldn’t quite believe the enormity of what she was saying. He prompted her.

“What kind of doubts?”

“After he arrived, some of the kids began to behave – differently. Like you saw. I mean, at first he was left alone with them, but now … well, I can’t be everywhere. When that happened just now I was on the phone, trying to get some sense out of the council about the grant.”

“Why don’t you just ask him to leave?”

“I’ve tried. He hasn’t actually said anythin’, but he’s sort of made little intimations that if he goes our grant goes an’ all.”

“How can he do that?” asked Larkin.

Jane hesitated before answering. “He said he had friends in high places.”

“Did he mention names?”

“No. And I don’t want to know them.”

“So what’s he been doing, exactly?”

“Somethin’ – physical. I think so, anyway. I haven’t been able to examine any of the kids but…”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

She looked directly at him. “Stephen, I haven’t a clue…” Her voice trailed off.

“Couldn’t you get the wonderful Alan Swanson to help you?”

“What, our esteemed Minister for Youth? I wouldn’t piss down
his throat if his heart was on fire – pardon my French. We’ll get no help from that bastard.”

Larkin gave a grim smile. “Couldn’t agree more.”

“Kids are too young to vote. Why would a politician wanna help them?”

“Yeah,” said Larkin, “maybe he’s just—” He stopped suddenly, a terrible thought entering his head.

“What?”

“Paranoia city, this, but… What if Swanson is Noble’s influential friend?”

The colour drained from Jane’s face. “Then I’m fucked.” She put her hands to her face, rubbing the skin as if to erase her worries. “Aw, hell, I’ve never felt so helpless before.” She stared into her lap. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said all this.”

“Don’t be daft. That’s what friends are for.” His voice took on a soothing, placating tone. “We don’t know that it’s Swanson. In all probability it isn’t. So don’t worry. Now listen…”

She looked at him, expectant.

“I’ve got a friend on the force. I’ll ask him to check up on this Noble, see if anything turns up. I’ll get him to check the referees on his CV as well, if you like.”

“Oh, Stephen, I hate doin’ this! Creepin’ around. Checkin’ up.”

“Yeah, but what choice d’you have?”

She sighed. “I know. I’ve got to do it for the kids, haven’t I?”

“Least you’ll know one way or another. And no one’s going to blame you. Or the centre.”

“But what if I’m right? And it makes the papers?”

He smiled at her. “If it does, who d’you think’ll be writing it up?”

She returned his smile. Slowly the warmth was starting to seep back into her face; her soft, hurt, brown eyes were like pools of honesty and truth.

They talked for a while longer. Larkin got an address for Noble from Jane together with the names and addresses of his two referees. He got ready to go.

“You know,” Jane said, her eyes shyly downcast, “we should go out again some time, shouldn’t we?”

“Why not? Get a babysitter and I’ll take you to the pictures one night. Go for a meal afterwards.”

“I was hopin’ we might just go out and get pissed.”

They both laughed, then fell silent.

“Aren’t you seeing anyone, then?” Larkin tried to make the question sound casual.

“You’re kiddin’, aren’t you? As soon as men round here find out you run a children’s centre, a credit union, that you’re tryin’ to start a woman’s group and involved in politics, they take one look at you and think you’re some kind of maniac lesbian.”

“Mind you,” said Larkin, “looking at most of the blokes round here, you’re best off being a lesbian.” They laughed again.

There was another pause.

“How’s Alison, then?”

Jane smiled. “Ah, you want to see her, man! She’s growin’ up lovely. Really bright. And I’m goin’ to make damn sure she doesn’t make all the mistakes her mother did.”

Larkin smiled at her. If Alison turned out anything like her mother, she wouldn’t be doing so badly. Eventually he said: “Well, I’d best be off.”

“OK. And – thank you.”

“No problem. It’s going to be all right.”

“Yeah.” She sounded unsure.

He hugged her and felt a hug in return. It wasn’t a lover’s hug, just a friendly one, but all the same Larkin felt an urge to kiss her. He looked down at her; she had her face buried in his leather jacket so he settled for a paternal peck on her forehead. He felt himself starting to stiffen. He was rapidly getting an erection, and that was the last thing he wanted her to know. He pulled apart from her suddenly, making her jump.