The Tale of the Wolf (The Kenino Wolf Series) (21 page)

Saturday 10:30 am

Placing them in my pocket I headed down to the cemetery. I’d told Tabatha I’d meet her there. She didn’t care where I was going. Like I said, we weren’t talking, which is how I knew I had to do something. I bought a large bunch of flowers and a small zip-up bag. I removed the stones from the woolly hat and shoved them in the bag. Then I put the bag inside the bunch of flowers, making sure to properly cover it with the pretty flora.

I was one of the last to arrive. Tabatha and everyone had already reached the cemetery in Nunhead. I walked slowly across, I hadn’t really felt anything that morning, the madness had been distracting me, but now I was there; there to bury Longy. A wave of misery washed over me. Longy was gone, really gone.

I could see Boom-Boom and Marisol up front. Tears streamed down her face and all over Boom-Boom’s Jacket. He held her tightly, his large arms enveloping her.

Leon was walking across with Kelly and little Jacob clutched in her hands. Longy’s funeral had weakened Tabatha’s ire.

‘
Sorry.’

‘
What for?’ I said pretending not to know.

‘
For being a bit of a bitch.’

‘
Only a bit.’

‘
Don’t push it.’ She put her arm through mine and we walked in together.

‘
You seen Michael?’

‘
Nah. I take it we’re going looking for him.’

‘
It would appear so,’ I replied with dread. Michael’s world was not exactly a place you ventured into lightly. It was one of the reasons I hadn’t started looking already; that and the madness that I’d been living in. I was still hoping he was going to appear.

‘
The flowers are nice. I should’ve got some.’ Tabatha said seeing the bunch in my hand.

‘
Least I could do.’ I was concentrating on not holding them too tight, not making it look dodgy.

We sat down together in the pews near the back. Tabatha was already crying. I held her close, wrapped my arm around her and drifted away into memories. Marisol had chosen the music. Tabatha held my hand and I gripped her back. I could see Geronimo further ahead. He was as broken we were. I gave him a little wink; the three of us lost in memories.

The service lasted over an hour and was truly beautiful; a worthy send-off full of tears and friendship, fond memories and dignified words. I spent most of the time just drifting down Memory Lane, holding Tabatha, clinging to her as though she was the only thing in the world that was stopping me from falling.

I could see Longy’s folks sitting near Marisol and Boom-Boom. I’m a man that knew everybody, but friends? I don’t have many friends. ‘Friend’ is not an easy word for me. It’s not a word I use lightly. If I call someone ‘friend’ that’s a special statement, a meaningful statement. And one of the few people I’d said it to, was gone … gone forever.

I rose up with Tabatha and walked to the front. I was one of the pall bearers along with Geronimo, Tabatha and Marisol. It was our duty, our honour to carry Longy to his final resting place.

We walked out of the chapel, his shared weight spread amongst those who loved him. We trudged to the spot in the grounds, a pretty spot by the trees, and lowered his coffin in to the ground.

The priest said some words but they flew around me unheard, like birds singing on the wind, a sound without a discernable form, just noise. Marisol threw the first clump of dirt down on top, then Longy’s folks. Then we all took our turn, throwing the dry dusty earth. Once his coffin was covered with earth, I threw in the flowers; the diamond-stuffed flowers. I threw them into my friend’s grave. I put them somewhere safe.

I picked up the shovel and, with Geronimo, started to heave the dirt into his grave. Pour down the earth to cover our lost friend. So many people picked up the shovel that day, taking it in turns to heave the mud into the dark hole in which he lay. So much love and misery there, for all the world to see. Longy was truly loved by all who came, and no matter how much we heaved we could never fill the hole that his loss had created.

It was a miserable task, made even more miserable by the fact that I knew I had to dig this ground again, to get the stones out.

I’d put the rocks with the only person I’d truly trusted when he was alive; the only person who would have never betrayed me. I knew then and there I was going to find out what happened. Had to, had to make him rest easy. I couldn’t disturb his grave without first giving him justice.

It wasn’t Tabatha and Curtis that worried me with the diamonds, it was me; my greed being easily as insatiable as theirs. My desire to eradicate my own poverty was an all-consuming obsession. Sticking the diamonds with Longy was like a steel restraint around my avarice. I couldn’t dig that earth without Longy first getting justice, being able to rest easy. I just knew I couldn’t do it.

We finished covering him up and turned away. I held Tabatha tightly and she drove us back in silence to Muzzi’s for the wake. Once I’d offered my condolences once more to Longy’s folks and Marisol, I disappeared into a bottle of Southern Comfort with Tabatha and Geronimo; the three that once were four.

Sunday 11:00 p.m.

Michael was a dealer: drugs, sex, anything and everything, steroids, dodgy Es, elephant tranqs … no conscious player was Michael. While my universe was grey Michael’s was remorselessly black. He was on the dark side. He didn’t care who he dealt with or what he dealt. To him it was all just money, and that’s all that mattered.

Born and bred and nurtured by the cruel city, for him all that mattered was the cash, and he knew how to get it out of London, knew how to tap her, pull the money he needed to feed his desires from her steely grasp.

For Michael it was all about the underground, the seedy sexual underworld that London so carefully concealed. He was an S&M freak, roaming the S&M world selling his wares and living their lives. He was part of that crowd and if anybody knew where he was they would be the people.

It wasn’t exactly a world I wanted to think about, let alone enter, which is why I kept hoping Michael was going to appear; first at the wedding and then at the funeral. But he hadn’t, so my choices had run out. I had to go there, enter his world. By putting the stones with Longy, I had forced myself to enter this world, this London underbelly, this subculture of my accursed mistress.

I had a few choices, a couple of ways to play it, in the sexual underworld of London. I could go as a man or as a woman. I was seriously considering venturing for a woman, mainly because in the TV clubs that I first intended to visit, men dressed as men touting for blow jobs; not really something I wanted to be regarded as. The second reason was that people generally felt more comfortable talking to a woman. But after a little chat to Tabatha, who thought it all sounded like a right laugh, I ended up going in a gimp suit. Well, we were going to quite a few S&M places. Full black rubber body suit with a zip over my mouth, and a chain round my neck, which Tabatha greatly enjoyed yanking. She had donned the de rigeur PVC catsuit and had a small riding crop.

To venture where we were venturing we needed to be convincing; a true S&M couple. I was definitely on the slave half of the story. The only benefit to the gimp suit was that nobody could see my face.

We strolled out into the darkness. Well, Tabatha strolled, I was yanked. She was enjoying this little adventure far more than I was comfortable with, but any complaints from me were met with a yank on the chain a smack with the whip and a ‘Shut up, slave! Speak only when I command.’ I was definitely throwing this bloody gear out when the night was finished. Well my half … Tabatha looked hot.

There are numerous stereotypes associated with London’s sexual underworld, the main ones being that it’s mainly the stomping ground for professionals: doctors, solicitors, barrister’s, a fair few police commissioners and, of course, a good many High Court judges … which is generally true; they do seem to dominate this world.

In fairness, like everything in life, it’s far more complex than it would at first appear. It’s not just professionals out for a spanking, but an entire culture with groups and categories: the sexual explorers, people searching for the height of their pleasure threshold; the adventurers, people who revel in the illicit seediness of it all, a naughty secret alter ego that they never show; the life-stylers, people searching for something, for where they belong.

To them it’s not something illicit, this is average; this is who they are, what they are. It’s the abandonment of the fictional person that we all present, the person we project, the mask we hide behind; the one that goes to work and jumps on the Tube. For life-stylers it’s the abandonment of that fable, this is them, this who they are, this is how they become alive. This is their real life instead of the half-life that they usually live.

Michael moved between all of these groups, which meant there was a rather broad search spectrum to cover.

There were certain clubs that I wanted to get out of the way early for reasons mainly due to necessity; the places that as soon as it hit midnight would lock the doors, throw the keys in the centre, and everyone would basically bang each other’s brains out until breakfast time. So I definitely wanted those out of the way as getting stuck in there would seriously hamper my investigation.

I knew Michael well enough to know the kinds of places he frequented. Michael’s a seedy egotist, and revelled in being the centre of attention. Acting the high roller was one of the few things Michael and Longy had in common, although Michael really was one. Michael was into the party end of the sexual underground. To him this was fun. The other side — the group meetings the clubs that were basically community centres for the sexually similar — were definitely not his scene.

We hit the clubs; the seediest first. Michael wasn’t there. It would’ve been a lucky break if he was. It was still rather early and I just wanted to get them out of the way, leave my mobile number with the bartender and tell them to call me if he arrived. Tabatha was doing the talking, as she wouldn’t give me the key to unzip the lock on my mouth. I told you she was enjoying it too much.

Michael was a dealer so nobody saw anything odd in people asking for him. They probably just thought we were trying to get hold of some Charlie. They’d call us if he came in; not from any good conscience but out of fear.

Michael was greedy, real greedy. He’d fly into a rage if he missed any opportunity to make money, and anyone who knew him did not want to be on the wrong side of him if they could help it. Where Longy was gentle, Michael was deadly.

We scouted some more clubs: Tower Hill, a couple in Kensington, one in Camden, a few others in North London, and four in the South, during all of which Tabatha smacked me with the whip. I was bruised and beaten around London. We’d found nothing. No one had seen Michael in ages.

Sunday 2:30 a.m.

I had only one more option. One that I’d prayed I could avoid. Clarence. Clarence and Michael were as thick as thieves; literally. Where I could barely cope with Michael, Clarence turned my stomach. He made me sick just to look at him. But if I was ever going to find Michael, Clarence was my best chance.

I couldn’t stand what he did. Clarence was a pimp, not just girls but rent boys as well. The police had tried to grab him on numerous occasions but he’d always slipped through the net. A girl who’d once worked for him had tried to give evidence against him, and ended up dead. She’d been mutilated and tortured. Everyone knew it was Clarence, but no one could prove it. The rest of his employees were too scared to do anything, so they just stayed trapped; suffering under the yoke of that odious creature.

He took pleasure in pain, mainly in the inflicting of it. You could always tell who worked for Clarence; they had cigarette burns on their forearms, shaped into a diamond

Clarence had been brewing for a reckoning with somebody for years. But no one would touch him. He was guarded night and day by two sadistic thugs named Pit and Bull. Their single brain cell had conceived the name to be intimidating. He was also well-connected, knew the right kind of people to keep him out of reach of the constabulary. Plus, Clarence would move his base of operations every few weeks; make sure no one knew where he was … although I did. When you play in the dirt you get dirty.