The Mercy Seat (7 page)

Jamal shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

Si went to get the charger.

Later, Jamal stood shivering.

Grey’s Monument. Newcastle city centre. Somewhere anonymous where he could phone from.

He had charged the phone, looked at the messages. They were all from one person: Dean. His friend from road. His blood, his bredrin. They both lived in the same house in North London, sometimes serviced the same punters. Dean must be worried.

Jamal didn’t know whether to contact him or not. He weighed it in his mind, decided, yeah, he would call. If
Dean had taken the trouble to call him, then he should return that. Safe.

He dialled the number he knew by heart, waited. It was answered.

‘Hello, yellow.’

‘Dean, man? It’s me, Jamal.’

‘Jamal? Where the fuck you been, man? I been like worried about you. Thought you was dead or somethin’.’

‘Nah.’ Jamal laughed, touched that Dean was so concerned. It was good to hear his friend’s voice again. ‘I’m not dead, man. Just had to lie low for a bit, you get me?’

‘Safe, blood. Where are you, man?’

‘Newcastle. Fuckin’ miles away, man. Nearly Scotland.’

Jamal told him about Bruce, the stay at the hotel. Tried to make light of it, play it back as a holiday.

‘An’ listen,’ said Jamal, smiling as he said it, ‘I got me a big boy deal goin’ down.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. For real cash, man. With a guy called Joe Donovan.’

‘Yeah? Well, listen, blood.’ Dean’s voice dropped. ‘I dunno what you done, man, but it must be fuckin’ serious, innit.’

Jamal’s stomach turned over. ‘What d’you mean?’

Dean’s voice dropped even further. ‘This big scary fucker. Big bald guy. Muscles an’ tats an’ this fuckin’ weird blue tooth. Like a jewel. Came lookin’ for you.’

Jamal felt his legs begin to shake.

‘For real?’ he managed to say. ‘Oh shit.’

‘Yeah, man, oh shit is right. He said you took somethin’ of his from the hotel. Whaled on the old Greek who runs it till he gave up our address. Then came round here lookin’ for you. An’ scarin’ the shit outta peeps. This your deal?’

Jamal could feel the blood hammering in his chest; hear nothing but the pounding of it in his own ears.

‘Jamal? You there?’

‘Yeah, man, I’m here. Listen, man. I gotta go, yeah? If that fucker comes round again, you ain’t heard from me, right? You don’t know where I am, yeah?’

‘Yeah, sure man, safe.’

Jamal exhaled a large breath. He wasn’t aware he had been storing it.

‘Safe. Look, man, I gotta go. Take care, yeah?’

‘You too, man.’

Jamal broke the connection.

Shit, he thought. They were on to him. But Dean wouldn’t give him up, he knew that. Dean was safe.

But …

That was one scary motherfucker. He could fuckin’ make Dean give him up whether he wanted to or not …

Jamal felt pressure building inside him, pressed his hands to his temples.

‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

Passers-by stopped to stare. He didn’t care, was oblivious to them. He walked round aimlessly, trying to make a plan, find something to do. He had to phone the newspaper, get the deal going, get Donovan on the line now, get rid of that fucking disc. Be free.

That was it. He tried the number for the
Herald.
Explained who he was, who he wanted.

‘I’m afraid Maria Bennett is not here at the moment. Can I take a message?’

He hung up.

Fuck, fuck.

He walked round the city, expecting to see a bald head and a blue tooth chasing him at any second.

He saw another billboard:

Missing Scientist: Police Suspect Foul Play

He began to get cold, so he grabbed a kebab, made his way back to Byker and the house. Safest place, he thought reluctantly.

‘You were quick,’ said Si as he entered. The music was deafening: Kelis’ Milkshake, a boy and girl grinding to it on the front-room carpet. ‘Where’s the money?’

‘Got none. Didn’t show.’

Si shrugged. ‘Father Jack’s waitin’ for you upstairs. Got someone wants to meet you.’ Si smirking as he said it.

Jamal went upstairs, knocked on the bedroom door, waited to be invited in.

‘Ah,’ said Father Jack as he entered. ‘This is the boy I was telling you about. The new boy. Come in, don’t be shy. We’re not.’

Jamal closed the door behind him, checked the disc was still in place. Turned. Father Jack and another man were staring hungrily at him.

The last thing Jamal wanted.

‘Listen, man,’ he said. ‘You don’t want this.’

‘Don’t we?’ said Father Jack, a hint of anger behind his words.

‘Nah, man, you don’t.’ Jamal thought quickly. ‘Herpes, man. Bad, bad breakout. Believe me, you don’ want that.’

Father Jack looked at him, deciding whether he was telling the truth or not. He turned away from him, waved his arm dismissively.

‘Out,’ he said, clearly disappointed. ‘Next time.’ The words held more threat than promise.

Jamal closed the door behind him. Stood on the landing, breathed a hugh sigh of relief.

Next time.

He hoped to be long gone by then.

He had to be.

The department store is crammed with people, a bobbing, ebbing sea of humanity, all shapes and sizes, fabrics and fleshtones, levelled beneath dynabrite lighting. Joe Donovan squints, shields his eyes and smiles. Amid the crowd, warm waves of contentment begin in the pit of his stomach, radiate throughout his whole body. This contentment is what he has always wanted. He has never expected to find it, never believed he would enjoy it so much. He looks down at his son, smiles. David smiles back. Warm, warm waves of contentment.

This is how he remembers it. How he chooses to remember it.

His mouth moves, the same words every time:

‘Right. D’you know what you want, then?’

A simple question. Accorded almost unreal, legendary status by memory.

David’s smile: the same smile every time.

‘Ghost,’ he says. His voice rings and echoes away down a time tunnel.

The perfume department, a hall of chrome and mirrors, sales assistants painted to perfection. Professionally warm smiles greet them. Donovan matches them to his mood, responds. Six-year-old David looks around in awe, clutching his first wallet, lips moving, attempting to pronounce the words he sees. Givenchy. Issey Miyake. Versace. Donovan sees them both in a mirror, smiles.

He hears himself say those words again:

‘My son would like to buy some perfume for his mother. Her birthday.’

A simple statement. No foreshadowing of tragedy.

The sales assistant smiles, looks to the shelves behind her then back to the counter. And the response again:

‘Did you have in mind …?’

The question trailing off. Ordinary. So ordinary.

Donovan waits to hear the word. Ghost. It doesn’t come. He turns.

David is gone.

He starts to look for him. Angry at first that he has run away, preparing admonishments for his return, words to disguise his relief. He walks round pillars scowling, calling:

‘David?’

Nothing.

Panic swells. His body feels hot and cold, prickly and clammy.

‘David!’

Nothing. Just chrome and mirrors.

Back to the counter, hoping to find him there.

No sign.

Asking the assistant, his heart thudding, breath beginning to catch:

‘Have you seen him? Have you seen my son?’

The assistant frowning, shaking her head, cracking her perfect visage.

Then frantically looking around. First wading then diving into that ebbing sea of humanity, pushing out, swimming against the tide, ignoring the elbows, the shouts, his own voice fraying with worry, topping them.

‘David! David!’

Then standing still, looking.

Nothing.

His behaviour alerts the security guards. They rush over, two of them, pleased to have something to do. He speaks; they listen. His words are self-deprecating, self-deluding:

‘I’m sure he’s all right. He’ll have probably just wandered off. I shouldn’t waste your time …’

His tone betrays himself. The security men move off, looking.

He stands impotent, willing his son to appear. People stare. The bright lights expose too much, reveal not enough.

And then he sees it, on the floor.

David’s wallet, spilled open, coins scattered.

Ghost.

Emotion builds; a huge, wooden battering ram seeks release from his body. Tempest-tossed and marooned, trying to catch a glimpse of his son before he is borne away on the tide.

Then the figure of Donovan recedes. Becomes smaller and smaller as darkness encroaches, blocking out all sight, sound, activity.

Ghost.

Fading to black.

He opened his eyes, shivered.

Back in the cottage in Northumberland, weak light spilling into his bedroom, another harsh, chromatic sunrise, he presumed. He yawned, stretched, rubbed his eyes. The dream again. Always with him. He reached for the whisky, his habitual cure for night-time unrest. Located it, intending to neck straight from the bottle, then opened his eyes.

He was on the sofa. Laptop, mobile phone, disks, CDs and paper piled next to it. He looked around. Still light. And remembered. He must have dozed off while working.

‘I’ll need to see everything Gary Myers was working on,’ he had said on his ex-editor’s second visit, the day after the first, the day she had come alone.

‘Of course,’ she had said. ‘Come down to the office.’

Donovan paused before answering. ‘I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet.’

Maria reddened, averted her gaze. ‘Of course not. Sorry.’

The weather had changed, brightened slightly. Maria had left off her waterproof. In jeans, boots and a fleece top she looked casual, relaxed. A city girl having a weekend off in
the country. She looked good, too. Donovan couldn’t help but notice how well her jeans fitted her. How flatteringly they accentuated her.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Sorry?’

‘You were staring.’

It was Donovan’s turn to blush. ‘Sorry. I didn’t … I was, er, miles away.’

‘Right.’

Silence hung between them. Neither looked into the other’s eyes.

‘I could get it sent to you,’ Maria said eventually. ‘The contents of Gary Myers’ computer. I’ll get a couple of techies to strip it down, get the disks and print-outs sent to you.’

‘I don’t have a computer. Not any more.’

Maria sighed. ‘Then I’ll get one sent to you.’

Donovan smiled. ‘Ambassador, you are spoiling us.’

Maria laughed. ‘You have been out of circulation a long time.’

The silence returned. And with it the awkwardness. He noticed her looking around the room. Probably looking for the gun, he thought. She wouldn’t find it. He had hidden it away.

‘Have you … seen Annie recently?’ Maria asked eventually, her voice hushed and sombre, riding the awkwardness.

‘No. I … not for a while. I used to, but …’ He sighed. ‘Abigail. It was uncomfortable. Rowing, sulking, practising to be a teenager … In the end Annie told me to just stay away. Better for both of them.’

‘Until they’ve worked it out?’

Donovan shrugged. ‘Whatever. Whenever.’ He stood up, crossed the room, looked out of the window, his back to Maria. ‘Annie and me just couldn’t stay together after … afterwards. And Abigail, poor soul. It wasn’t her fault. I
mean, he was her brother …’

Donovan broke off, allowed his eyes to follow the seagulls. Swooping. Cawing. Scavenging for scraps. Not giving up hope of finding something.

Maria sat in silence.

‘I can’t blame her for what she thinks of me,’ said Donovan. ‘If I was in her position I’d be exactly the same. I still love her, though. I doubt she realizes it or believes me, but I do. She probably thinks I care more for him than I do for her, but I don’t. Course I don’t. And I suppose she thinks I should have stayed with them, looked after her, but …’ He sighed. ‘I can’t explain. It’s … you can’t let go. You can’t stay either. And the longer you stay away, the harder it is to go back.’

He turned to face her.

‘I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear this.’

‘No, no …’ Maria stood up, crossed to him.

‘It’s ages since I’ve … It’s not fair on you to …’

‘It’s all right.’ Maria stood right next to him.

‘Sorry.’

‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’ Maria looked at his face, into his eyes. The emotion there was naked and raw, vulnerable.

Donovan looked back at her.

Each could feel the other’s breath lightly stroke their cheeks. Naked. Raw. Vulnerable.

Donovan turned away.

‘Anyway,’ he said, voice too loud, ‘this isn’t getting Gary Myers found.’

‘No,’ said Maria, her voice tightly modulated. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

She had been as good as her word. One phone call to the
Herald’s
IT department had resulted in Gary Myers’ hard drive being stripped and the contents being sent to Donovan along with a laptop to play them on and anything they could
find on paper.

‘His diary would be handy, too,’ said Donovan.

‘On his laptop, I think,’ said Maria.

‘Which, of course, he had with him.’

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t hold out much hope. Reckon he probably had most of his stuff on his laptop.’ Donovan ran his hands through his hair. ‘When’s the kid phoning back?’

‘Tomorrow. We’ll get a mobile to you, give him that number so he can talk directly with you.’

‘How much am I authorized to go up to?’

‘Five grand. If he’s got what he says he has. But try not to. And, of course, there’s your payment. To come.’

‘Did Sharkey OK that?’

Maria shook her head. ‘John Greene.’

Donovan laughed. ‘John Greene? I thought he’d retired.’

‘Executive editor.’

‘Meaning?’