Raucous (24 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO

Ben had placed a ten-pence in the slot.  He scrolled through the list of games.  He recognized most from the screen shot provided by the control system.  He went through alphabetically, slowly, tapping the joystick down, giving time to the old whirring computer to change the graphics to match the highlighted name. 

Ben stood in his pajamas.  Mitch always wore them to bed.  Ben liked waking in them.  He had touched the arcade machine, almost caressed its shape.  The long deep curves of the sides, the glass covering the heavy CRT monitor.  Six buttons, all red, and the eight-way joystick.  The blinds were closed, but a little light from the early morning sun broke through clouds and through the edges of the window.  Ben read the names.  Some games he had heard of, mythical creations with a limited release only in Japan, but never played.  Others were classics, but most were games only those who had spent time in arcades could ever recognize.  Most, to collect as many coins from kids as possible, had a difficulty arc so steep they could only be defeated with extreme obsession.  Ben arrived at R-Type and pressed one-player.

The space ship appeared and zipped across the screen. Ben started to play.

A flash and he saw a boy and a ten pence piece, learning memorizing a pattern.  No skill, all memory and deciphering the code.  He saw another game, Punch Out.  An arcade hall.  He saw the plan, the Layout.  Gamblers in the middle, two pence a play. One pound fifty jackpot.  Beeps, noises, kids hanging out.  Some champions, some skint.  All lost and looking for thrills in animated adventures.  Ten pence after ten pence to smash buttons.  There were some girls but few of them played. 

Other thoughts came.  Ten cigarettes for less than a pound.  Blue boxes, white writing, lights.  An inhale.  Menthol cigarettes.  A scuffle, an argument.  Someone drunk, someone sick.  A speeded up slideshow of wasted weekends in a city with no green.

Kids playing at being their fathers.  The drinkers, the aggressors, the jokers, the sports.  Some having to find their own way because they were sons and daughters of lost causes, or physically too small or too fat to be accepted into the group they desired.  Some did funnies to avoid defeat, others doing insane to back people off.  Some dipped into an early weird madness.  And it was these that were dangerous as they gave no indication of what they could do. 

Music divided groups.  Long-haired metal heads in black skinny jeans, leather jackets and they stuck together.  Football boys, listening to the latest hits, cocky, loud, and sure in their group of banter and jokes.  The rugby crowd, a group that looked after any that joined, listening to whatever took their fancy, and then the criminals who looked to bully so they could feel superior.

“You still remember how to play that thing?” Rollin asked.

Ben had not seen nor heard him enter.  Ben looked at the screen, saw the end credits roll and Japanese names be congratulated on design and skill and the reflection of Rollin’s face over his left shoulder.

Ben stared at the words written in the basic blocks of 8-bit graphics.

“I watched you do that as a kid.  Pretty impressive back then.  More so now.”

“First time I’ve played it.”

Rollin placed his hand on Ben’s shoulder.  He squeezed.  “No it isn’t.  The memory is a strange thing.  There’s a lot in there you know.”

CHAPTER SIXTY THREE

Raucous hated that these men thought he was one of them.

Raucous dropped the boys at their residence. 

Two men, bearded and tall, in the low light of the street, waited for them. They could pass for twins.  The boys were on automatic pilot.  They stepped down from the transporter and walked toward the open door to the children’s home.  Raucous would not follow them in.  That was one promise he would not break today.

The two beards were smiling.  Raucous imagined they would love to rub their hands in glee. 

“You two, those boys are to be left alone.  I hear of anything, done to anyone here, and the next pick up I make will be you.  Am I clear on that?”

“You’re new,” the one on the left said.

“Yes, I am.  And with that comes new rules.  Are we clear?”

“That’s not how it works,” the other said.

Raucous stepped toward them.

“No, that is exactly how it works.”

The twins looked at each other.  The one on the left rolled his eyes.

“I don’t think your boss would agree,” he said.

Raucous stepped forward smiling. He was half-a-metre in front of them.  The beards showed no sign of fear.  They smiled too, arrogant, and untouchable.  The last of the boys entered the building.  Raucous rocked closer to the nearest beard.  He was the same height as Raucous, but his shoulders spread barely beyond his head.  Raucous slapped his right hand forward and grabbed the beard’s balls.  Raucous squeezed and the beard tried to double over. 

“The new boss is me.  You work for me.  I don’t like being smiled at, particularly by two pathetic men like you.  Now, I told you what is not going to happen to those boys.  They also are under my protection now.  Are we clear on that?”

The beard in pain, nodded.  Raucous let go and the beard sagged to his knees.  The second stopped smiling.  Raucous looked at him. 

“I need at least a nod,” Raucous said.

The second beard nodded.

“Then off you go.”

******************************************************************

Raucous stepped into the transporter once the two beards had gone inside. A delay to the simple detective work he had planned out.  He switched on the cabin light.  He picked up Jobs’ two cellular phones.  One business, one pleasure.  He chose the white one and placed the black back on the passenger seat.  He tilted the white cellular to the small cabin light and saw the small greasy prints of fingers corresponding to numbers that would appear on the screen.  He also saw the L smear on the left side of the screen.  Raucous pressed a button, the screen lit up, a swipe password necessary.  He swiped along the grease stain and the phone was open. 

Raucous checked the messages.  The white was the pleasure phone.  Stupid messages to three different women.  A few naked photographs exchanged.  Jobs was in no great shape, but then neither were his women.

Raucous picked up the black.  He checked for the swipe in the same way, although he knew the L would be the same.  It was.  Raucous opened the phone.

There were two contacts saved under the names A and B.  He read the messages.  It was a one-way conversation.  Jobs had updated A and B on average every thirteen minutes about movements and actions in the Villa.  Raucous was mentioned regularly.  He had not added conjuncture, only fact. 

Raucous saved the numbers to his own phone.  He saved them under the names to whom they belonged.

******************************************************************

Raucous thought as he drove, anger making his decisions wrong.

Raucous unlocked the back door to the Villa.  He looked along the corridor and saw Jobs sitting in the chair at the base of the stairs. 

“Where are my phones?”  Jobs asked.

“In the van.”

Raucous walked along the corridor looking around, trying to see or hear anything he could call unusual.  He glanced up at the bookshelf and saw that the books had been searched.  The top row were several centimetres further forward than when he had left.  Jobs knew.  He had seen the equipment. 

“Who are A and B?”  Raucous asked.

“None of your business.”

“Police?”

“Do I look like a snitch?”

“No, but you act like one.”

“So do you.”

Jobs stood and straightened his tie. 

“I’ll go get my phones and take the transport back to the depot.  See you next time, Raucous.”

“What is your name?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Well, I always like to keep a good record.”

“Call me whatever you like.”

Jobs took two steps toward the back door.

“
vous aimez la littérature française?”  Raucous asked.

“What?” Jobs said as he turned.

“Sorry, I figured you to be a Francophile, what with you having thumbed through those Proust books there,”

Jobs smiled.  “I was looking for something I might find interesting.”

“Doesn’t look like a bookcase that would welcome last year’s annual of the Beano.”

“I’m a dandy man.”

Raucous stepped forward and kicked the back of Jobs' right knee.  Jobs dropped down onto his side, and slid slightly on the polished wood floor.  He scrambled to get up but stopped when he saw the gun Raucous was pointing at his head.

“I don’t think so, do you?” Jobs said.

“I think so.”

Raucous pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR

“You never call them by name,” Charlotte said.

Charlotte and Roach were sitting around the desk in their office in the hospital.  Papers were strewn over the surface.  Legal documents, financial statements, records on Rollin going back over a decade.  Roach had called in a favour and the files the police were keeping on Rollin copied and handed over.  The documents were basic, legal troubles, financial accumulation, taxes paid and legal obligations met.

Rollin was clean.

They had slowed down, drunk coffee, tried to find inspiration and energy but failed.  They ordered pizza, they ate in silence hoping for fuel but gaining only tiredness.  Roach’s eyes were closing and his head falling forward.  He caught himself before he fell completely asleep.  Charlotte understood, she was dead of thought too.

“They don’t deserve it,” Roach replied.

Roach stretched and yawned, arched his back, pursed his lips and looked away. He looked at the tiled wall for a few seconds, rubbing the back of his head.  His hair was ruffled and unkempt.  He turned to Charlotte, she saw the rings under his eyes, the crumbs clinging to his stubble.  He looked older.

“You remember that fat politician?”  Roach asked.

“Don’t want to give him a name?”  Charlotte said.

“Doesn’t need to be said.  I had him.”

Charlotte smiled, Roach was becoming like an old grandfather telling the same story, the one that defined his life, to increasingly bored children.  Charlotte knew the story, Roach had told her in steps over the weeks.

“I know.”

Roach smiled, scrunching up his lips so he looked like a happy kiss.

“No, I really had him,” he said. “The operation had been going for a while.  Elm house, near Westminster.  Like student houses but for politicians.  Mistresses set up all over the place, politician next to politician and they didn’t know who was where or when.  A pretty private place.  But we knew about that fat bastard, he’s left a trail all over his constituency.  He was a weak link.  He’d been pulled in a few times for questioning and always walked away.  Every time he grew in confidence.  No one was going to touch him.”

“They got him, Roach.  They got him.”

Charlotte was tired.  She didn’t want to hear the story again.  She knew it was important to Roach, something that defined his life, so she told herself to be quiet and listen.

“They waited till he was dead.  They knighted the guy.  A Knight of the realm, services rendered to the nation.  A joke.”

Roach leaned forward and rubbed his face with both hands.  He slapped each cheek simultaneously but lightly.

“We set up surveillance," he said.  “We had three cameras operational in the apartment.  We filmed and saw everything.  I held the tapes.  I watched them.  I saw what his fat hulking naked frame was doing to bombed out pre-teen boys.  I watched it, and I had him.  And then the Official secrets act.  The top of the police force sending indicators down, telling us to give it up.”

“And you did,” Charlotte said.

She regretted her words as soon as she said them.  She was tired and she didn’t need to hear this again.  It got them nowhere.  It probably put them in reverse.  But she knew how it worked, it was not because Roach quit.

“Not at first,” Roach said, looking up, hurt at Charlotte’s words.

Charlotte wanted her anger to pass, but she couldn’t, she had bitten and she needed to speak, express her thoughts.

“They sent in a higher force,” she said. “The official secrets act.  You got raided, in your own station.  A flood of thirteen suits with guns.  They came in and took everything.  The tapes, the transcripts the recorded interviews.  Not your fault, Roach.  Let it go,”

“I don’t think I can,” Roach said.  “I need to get Sir Alex Chamberlain.”

“Alex was among them?”

“Never.  Not that way.  Belfour is almost certainly right.  He’s asexual, never heard of anything male or female with him.”

“So why go after him?”

Roach opened his eyes wide, a sadness showed and his mouth opened but relaxed.  A fan who had seen a player do the impossible, and knew he could never come close. He couldn’t understand how she could ask.

“He was the facilitator,” Roach said. “The organizer, using those parties to further his own path.  Facilitator, an organizer, a blackmailer too.  He has his own collection of evidence I am sure.  And he uses it.  He has Parker too.  A muscle man, a minder, whatever you want to call him.”

Charlotte sat up, Roach was tired, but he was speaking.  This was the first time Parker had been mentioned.  She wanted to know, but she didn’t want to push and have Roach shut down.

“You used to work with Parker, Was he always a . . . “

Charlotte had no word to describe the man.  She waved her right hand like the queen giving a greeting in high speed.

“A Mercenary?” Roach asked.  “As a man and as an officer he was old school.  He decided who was guilty and then went out to prove he was right by any means.  Luckily he was good.  Really good.  Intuitive.  He can read people.  One hell of a poker player.  He was right 98% of the time.  Sure, most crimes are pretty damn obvious to solve.  A young female murdered or disappeared?  Look to immediate family, first the father and then work your way out in waves.  People are obvious and they crack easily.  You have no idea how obvious guilty people are.”

Roach looked at the table, he saw a small bottle of beer he had finished with his pizza.  He picked it up, swirled it and held it to the light.  There were dregs so he put his lips to the glass and tipped the bottle up to vertical and drank a dribble of warm flat lager.  He placed the bottle down and stared at the red label.

“Only problem is,” Roach said.  "Sometimes people start to believe they are guilty, they show the same signs as someone who genuinely is, and they get hooked.  They give you all the right signs, you get convinced, and Parker pulled this once too many and used old-school physical tactics to get his required confession."

Roach drifted away for a second, remembering a scene, or trying to understand an action from a long time in the past.  He shook his head slightly as if he disagreed with his own conclusions.  He looked at Charlotte.

“Some people will always say, you can’t make someone confess to something they didn’t do,” he said.  "But you can.  It’s easy on the right type.  Threats, beatings, days without sleep, the mental exhaustion creeps up until they’ll say anything just for it to stop.  Parker could get anyone to confess, only he got a few innocents to do it, and he should have been punished, and he was, eventually, no hiding corruption forever, he was forced to resign.  And on the way down the steps at the station, without his badge, job and pension, Chamberlain employed him.  It made sense for both of them.  Parker had contacts, he had muscle, and he only cares about what he’s been told to do.  Give him an order and he’ll do anything he can to achieve it.  Need to find him guilty?  No problem.  He’ll find out.  Back in his day, if they put Parker on you, the organization you were with gave you up or killed you themselves.”

Charlotte listened, and she heard the conflict and jealousy.  Parker was a man who had got results, got money, and never lost.  Roach saw himself very differently.  A failure, a man who worked but achieved nothing of note because of others.

“He felt betrayed,” Roach said.  “He went with the money, went with the protection." 

Roach paused and shook his head again.

“No, that’s a guess,” he said.  “I don’t know.  But he’s been doing it long enough now to know that is what he wants.  He is a very dangerous man.”

“Was he crooked back then?” Charlotte asked.

“Every single one of us back then was to some degree.  Some just lazed around on overtime, doing nothing, taking the money, others took bribes, others just didn’t care and let dangerous men go on.  And if you weren’t, watching or hearing the evidence we compiled made you crack and transfer out or cloud up midnight thoughts in booze.  I quit getting drunk when I left the force.  Parker still needs his clouds, only he needs them all the way through the day.  Not just at the end of a difficult shift.  He had principles.  He did.  He drinks to forget.”

Charlotte was listening, Parker fascinated her.  She had no way in to the type of man he had been and was.  Roach looked to be waning in enthusiasm.

“Did you get on?” She asked.

Roach looked across the table straight into Charlotte’s eyes and raised an eyebrow.  He knew what she was doing.

“I hated working with him,” he said.  “He was ten years older but he never listened to me.  He jumped on everyone.  He was the perfect crime cop for the time because he was worse than most of the crooks.  A lot of heavy men back then, street fighters, utterly crazy violent men, and they all backed down from Parker.  The knife-man they called him.  I don’t know why.  Stories and myths, but some point to him carving up three men in turn, letting the worst of the bunch watch the first two and then dying in a worse way.  Silly story, but it tells you how much he was feared.”

“Men grow old, they change.”

“Yeah, now he’s old, slow and drunk.  But he’s smart and experienced.  I’m old slow and sober, and he’d take me apart quickly.”

“It sounds like you are scared of him.”

Roach didn’t answer; he shuffled in his chair and rested his head back.  He shut his eyes.

Charlotte leaned back too and looked at the fan that rotated during the summer months.  It sat there now, useless and gathering dust.  She stared for a long time, long enough for her to fall asleep.  She woke with a start, panicking at where she was.  She looked around the room and remembered.  She saw Roach in his chair; his head tilted back, mouth open and snoring softly.  She stood and picked up a blanket from a clean folded pile on a counter in the corner of the room.  She laid the blanket over Roach and watched his old face twitch.  Roach woke, but stayed half in the dream world.

“You should be scared of him,” he said.