The Mercy Seat (6 page)

The boy laughed. ‘Plays for Newcastle. You look just like him. Could be his brother.’

Jamal nodded. The anger subsided.

Silence.

‘So,’ Si said, ‘what you doin’ here again?’

Jamal remembered the cards in his pocket.

‘Sellin’,’ he said.

‘Sellin’ what?’

‘Cards. Credit. Debit.’ Jamal shrugged like it was no big deal. ‘You know.’

‘Let’s see.’

Jamal looked around. ‘Not here, man,’ he said. ‘Why? You interested?’

‘Not me,’ said Si, ‘but I know someone.’

Si began to walk to the exit. ‘You comin’?’

Jamal shrugged. ‘Yeah,’ he said as casually as possible and followed the blond boy out.

Behind him the abandoned machine flashed, offered him another life.

‘So where did you say you got these?’

Jamal looked at the speaker. His first reaction on seeing him: fuck me, you’re a fat cunt. Any more an’ you be wearin’ a dress. But he had kept that to himself. Because of the eyes. They didn’t go with the body. They belonged to someone whom you knew not to fuck with.

Si had told Jamal as much on the way there, over a Big Mac at McDonald’s.

‘You’re from London, aren’t you? So what you doin’ up here?’

Jamal slurped up his cola, felt a pinprick of pain between his eyes from the cold.

‘Needed a change,’ he said.

‘You runnin’?’

Jamal looked dead-eyed, shrugged.

‘You need somewhere to stay?’

The same question as the day before. He thought of the BMW. Just for one night. Then it’s five star all the way.

‘Yeah.’

‘The bloke we’re goin’ to see,’ said Si between mouthfuls, ‘Father Jack. I’ll put in a word for you, yeah?’

Jamal shrugged again, nodded.

‘Howay, then.’

Jamal followed Si to the Metro station. They emerged from the tunnel, went over a concrete bridge high above a dwindling, weed- and garbage-decorated river, a strange, curving block of flats to the right of them, like a huge, multi-coloured wall with windows.

‘Where’s this, then?’

‘Byker,’ said Si.

They got off the train, left the station. The area looked derelict, boarded-up shops, rubble-strewn emptiness. Scary pubs and barricaded pawnshops the only things thriving. People moved around, went about their lives oblivious. Air close, sky dark, a weight pressing down. The kind of place
Jamal had seen on the news, a reporter standing in front of saying, ‘And life gets back to normal after the shelling.’ When he thought about it, the kind of place he lived in in London.

‘Come on,’ said Si.

He led them to a house in an old terrace which on closer inspection seemed to be two houses knocked through. Or three. The pebbledash and whitewashed façade now blackened and greying with dirt and moss, the ornamental grille work over the windows colonized by rust, like lime eating into bone. The houses on either side were boarded up. Weeds flourished in the meagre front gardens. The street was truncated, book-ended by low-lying thirty-odd-year-old housing estates, opposite some 1980s-built orange-red flats, designed with the same amount of flair and imagination as a modern prison.

Si pushed open a rusting front gate and walked up the short path.

‘This is it. Now, remember.’ Si looked suddenly serious, as if part of the grey cloud hanging over Byker had detached itself and was now haunting him. ‘You might think he’s funny lookin’ an’ that, but don’t laugh at him. He’ll make you sorry if you do.’

Jamal frowned. ‘OK …’

They entered.

It looked like the
Big Brother
house for under-eighteens. Brightly lit, adequately furnished, a real mess. A flat-screen TV took up one corner of the front room, wires haemorrhaging from it; Play Station and two operating consoles sat in front. Video cassettes and DVDs lay on the floor and other surfaces, well used, not well treated. Jamal clocked the titles: the
Matrix
series,
Dog Soldiers, Jeepers Creepers I and II, Ghost Ship, The Lord of the Rings
trilogy. Class, he thought. Takeaway pizza cartons, empty soft drink cans left
lying around, seemingly invisible. From somewhere else in the house, some rapper was challenging another one to see who was the hardest.

Jamal nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Nice. Like my yard back home.’

Another boy slumped on the sofa, pizza crumbs down the front of his T-shirt. Thin and pale with prominent, yellowing teeth. A horror film played on the screen before him, a nubile young woman being screamingly sliced up, but his sleep-lidded eyes let the images just slide over him. Si pointed at him.

‘This is Andy.’

Jamal nodded; the boy barely registered him.

‘You get owt for us, then?’ the boy asked Si, his voice a listless drawl.

‘Later,’ Si said.

‘Fuckin’ better ’ave an’ all, you tosser.’ There wasn’t enough energy behind the words to turn them into a threat.

Si’s response was cut off by a booming voice from upstairs.

‘Is that Si I hear down there?’

‘Yeah,’ Si replied, ‘and I’ve got something for you.’

‘Then come on up.’

Si smiled broadly, but the affected bonhomie didn’t reach his eyes. Fear lingered there.

‘That means you too,’ said Si. ‘Let’s not keep him waiting.’

‘Look, our boy’s back.’

Click. Click.

The camera was as near to the window as possible without being seen. A young Asian man, good looking, in designer jeans and a tight-fitting black T-shirt, trained his telephoto on the terrace opposite. On two houses knocked through. Or three.

‘And he’s got someone with him.’

A woman, young, with long blonde hair tied back, joined him at the window. They watched.

‘Been recruiting again,’ she said. ‘Any idea who, Amar?’

Amar, the Asian man, didn’t take his eye from the lens. ‘New playmate, from the looks of it. Black lad.’

Click. Click.

He smiled. ‘Quite cute, if you like that kind of thing.’

The woman gave him a stern, unsmiling look.

Amar felt it more than saw it, turned to her. ‘Which I don’t. Oh come on, Peta, it was just a joke, for God’s sake.’

Peta’s expression didn’t change. ‘Just shut up and keep watching. And be thankful I don’t shove this camera up your arse.’

Amar smiled. ‘Promises, promises.’

She sighed, shook her head. Allowed herself a small smile. ‘Just keep watching. We’ll get a break soon.’

‘I know, but in the meantime …’

The smile disappeared. ‘We keep watching.’

Click. Click.

Jamal followed Si up the stairs and into the master bedroom. All white, it was dominated by a huge bed. At its foot a wall-mounted plasma TV, beneath it a DVD and VCR. On the screen the writhing, sighing and grunting of a porn film. And on the bed one of the biggest, fattest men Jamal had ever seen.

Wearing a black-silk dressing gown that looked big enough to parachute with, the man sprawled across the bed, taking up so much space that another person would have been prohibited from joining him. He had faint, wispy, blond hair and dark, sunken eyes, like pebbles at the bottom of an algae-infested, stagnant rockpool. They lit up with a murky, green glow when they alighted on Jamal. Somehow,
Jamal thought, the man would find room on the bed for another.

‘And who have we here?’

The screen was paused. A pained expression, gender indiscriminate, filled it.

‘Jamal.’

‘Jamal …’ He almost purred the name. ‘Lovely. Very … exotic. Come closer.’

Jamal approached the bed. The fat man smiled. Like a clam opening its jaws, waiting to catch an unwary fish. ‘Mmm. A little coffee boy. Tell me, little coffee boy, do you ever take cream?’

The fat man laughed, high and effeminate.

Creep, thought Jamal.

‘Has Si told you who I am?’

‘Father Jack?’

‘Well done. Very bright, little coffee boy. Father Jack. Not an ecumenical appellation, purely an honorary one. I’m father to all the children here. I look after them, nurture them … even love them. Don’t I, Si?’

‘Yes, Father Jack,’ said Si too quickly.

‘Si tells me you’ve got something for me.’

Jamal handed over the cards. Father Jack looked at them.

‘And can they be traced?’

Jamal shook his head. Told him he had robbed someone. Didn’t mention the hotel room. Or the rest of the money. Father Jack smiled.

‘Good work. I could pay you and let you go on your way, or …’

‘I told Father Jack you needed somewhere to stay,’ said Si.

‘Good boy. Yes, Jamal, I take all the waifs and strays, the runaways, and I give them a loving home. Do you want a loving home, Jamal?’

Jamal shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

Father Jack leaned forward. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

Father Jack smiled. ‘Good. Then you’re welcome to stay.’ He looked at the cards. ‘I won’t charge you. For now.’ The cards were put into a pocket in the dressing gown.

‘Got everythin’,’ said Si. ‘PS2, Sky, everythin’.’

Jamal nodded, face blank, eyes stone.

Father Jack was smiling at him again. ‘You been sleeping rough? You need a shower?’

Jamal shrugged.

‘Si …’

Si showed him where the shower was, gave him a towel. Jamal stripped, Si watching him all the time. Jamal ignored him, kept his jacket in view throughout the shower, made sure the bulge was still there.

He barely felt the water on his skin. He barely felt anything.

He could guess what the setup was. He knew there would be a reckoning, a payment.

He hoped to be gone before that.

He focused on the jacket, the bulge in the pocket. Kept everything else under lockdown. He X-rayed through: saw the disc, concentrated hard until it turned into money, turned into a one-way ticket.

An escape to where they could never touch him again.

‘Fat boy’s moving,’ said Peta. Her turn at the window.

Click. Click.

‘In a wheelbarrow?’ Amar looked up from the book he was reading.

‘Moving slowly, admittedly.’ She checked her watch. ‘Nearly five thirty. Off to meet one of his clients.’

Amar stopped reading, looked up. ‘Bring them back to the house?’

‘Must be. He hasn’t got one of the kids with him.’

‘Let’s hope we have more luck with a positive I.D. for this one.’

Click. Click.

Peta sighed. Frustration starting to show. ‘We need a break. We need some leverage.’

‘I know. Don’t worry, we’ll get it.’

‘He’s in the car now.’

Click. Click.

Peta pulled a face. ‘Jesus, look at the state of that. He’s sweating already. Looks like a melting lard sculpture. Think he’s diabetic?’

‘What, you going to run over there, hide his insulin? I can think of better ways to get to him than that.’

‘Arms can barely reach the wheel. He’d be better off in an open cart pulled by a horse.’

‘A fucking big horse. Fucking Indian elephant couldn’t manage that. Speaking of which …’ Another look at the watch.

She sighed again. ‘Off you go, then. At least it’s bringing in some money.’

Amar smiled. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll think of you.’

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘You’d better fucking not.’

‘Take care. You’ll be all right, yeah?’

‘Go on. I’ll see you later.’

The door closed quietly.

Click. Click.

‘You comin’ down, man? Elise’s got bare draw.’

Andy, the slack-jawed boy. Jamal’s room-mate.

‘Nah, man, I’m cool. Be down in a bit.’

‘Safe, man. Whatever.’

Andy left the room, ambled downstairs. Jamal waited
until there was no noise from the top floor, crossed the room on tiptoe, closed the door. He silently removed his mobile from his jacket pocket.

The rooms were quite small, two beds each. There were six in all living there, including him. Four boys, two girls. And Father Jack. Jack didn’t live there all the time, Si had explained, but he liked to know what was going on. His room was often in use most of the day or night. Jack brought round clients. Special clients with special needs.

Jamal looked at his mobile. He had switched it off, conserving power. His charger was in London and he needed another. He had thought of stealing one, but he couldn’t be sure he would get the right one. And when he put his clothes back on, he found that Si had taken his money. Jamal had confronted him, demanded it back. Si had given him fifty pounds.

‘House rules,’ he said.

‘That’s my fuckin’ money, man.’

‘Not any more, it ain’t. House money. You want more, you earn it.’

Jamal had stared at him.

‘An’ that’s a nice minidisc player, man.’ Si smiling. Knowing he was the favourite, knowing there was nothing Jamal could do about it.

Jamal began to shake with rage.

‘Touch that an’ you’re fuckin’ dead. I swear it, man, I will fuckin’ kill you.’

Si, rattled by Jamal’s sudden ferocity, left him to it. Jamal checked the disc. Still there. Air left his body in a big sigh of relief.

He had to do something, put it somewhere safe.

He took off his leather jacket, turned it inside out. Then pulled at the stitching underneath the collar until he had worried a small hole in it. He took the disc from the player,
dropped it through the hole, dropped it down the lining to the bottom, then slowly worked it until it sat directly in the middle, resting at the base of his spine as he wore it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he could do.

He looked at the mobile. Two days wasn’t up. He knew that. But he didn’t want to stay in Father Jack’s house a minute longer than he had to.

He pressed the button, powered it up. Waited. Shit. Only one bar left. A new charger. He needed a new charger.

On the screen: unheard messages, unread texts.

The door opened. Si stood there.

‘You comin’ down? Meet the rest.’

‘Yeah. In a minute.’

He clocked the phone. ‘Who you phonin’?’

‘Guy I met on the train,’ said Jamal quickly. ‘One at the hotel. But I’m down in charge. You got a charger?’

Si looked at the phone. ‘Nokia, yeah? No problem.’

Jamal grunted his thanks. ‘Might have to go out for a while.’

‘No problem. But Jack’ll want his cut. Don’t hold out on him.’