Bone Machine (24 page)

The phone rang, startling Jamal’s eyes open, his body out of sleep. He listened, waited for Amar to come and pick it up, expecting
to hear his voice any second. No response. The phone kept ringing.

Jamal threw back the duvet and got out of bed. He padded down the hall of the flat to the front room, opened the door and
stopped dead.

Amar was lying, half-on, half-off the sofa, the remains of some takeaway food and a fifth of vodka spilled around him.

The phone shrilled insistently.

Jamal sighed angrily, crossed to the table by the window, picked it up.

‘Yeah?’

There was a pause. ‘Jamal? That you?’

Joe. ‘Yeah, man, it’s me.’

‘Good. Look, is Amar there?’

Jamal looked down at him. His clothes were dishevelled, dirty and partially open. Dark flecks of vomit splattered his trousers,
like blood spray from an automatic weapon wound. Hair on end, nose crusted with dried blood. He stank of so many things it
was impossible to single one out.

‘He’s, er, he’s still asleep.’

‘OK. Well, listen. The Albion offices have been broken into.’

Jamal was stunned. ‘Wha’?’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Donovan, his voice grave. ‘The place is a state.’

Jamal began to stammer out questions. Donovan cut him off. ‘I don’t know anything yet. What they were looking for, whether
they got it, or if it was just kids.’ He sighed. ‘I’m here with Peta right now. The police are on their way, but I doubt there’s
much they can do. I just need Amar there.’

‘What for?’

‘Because he installed all that high-tech hidden CCTV stuff. And no one else can operate it.’

‘I can.’

Donovan’s voice stopped, surprised. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. I helped him install it. He showed me.’

‘Good.’ Jamal could tell Donovan was smiling. That pleased him. ‘Well, you come down with him. Case he needs his apprentice.
But I need you both down here right now.’

‘Yeah, yeah, man. I hear you.’

They said their goodbyes. Jamal replaced the handset.

He looked down again at Amar, who hadn’t stirred throughout the call. Jamal loved the man, his surrogate uncle as he thought
of him, but right now he was so angry with him he wanted to hit him.

He stood there in his shorts and T-shirt, thinking what to do next. He would have to clean him up, get him focused, make him
presentable. He had done it before. He remembered his mother before her breakdowns, before she sent him to the children’s
home. Soaring through the stratosphere on one of her binges, screaming and singing and laughing like the world held no fears
or pain or problems for her. She would pick any passing male as a dancing partner to share her euphoria. It could go on all
night. Days and nights. But the comedowns, when she would hit the deck harder than Frank Bruno under Mike Tyson’s fists, would
always be endured alone but for Jamal. He would clean her up, get her fed. Put her clothes in to wash. Tell her things were
going to be OK. Like resetting a scrambled jigsaw. Like re-mending a
broken heart. Looking after her as best as a six-year-old could.

After he had done all that out of love she had left him, splitting his family up. Worse than a scrambled jigsaw. Worse than
a broken heart. And he wasn’t about to let it happen again.

He kicked Amar’s foot, got no response. He kicked harder, careful not to let too much anger go into it. Amar groaned, threw
his arms uselessly about.

‘Time …’ Jamal cleared his throat. ‘Time to get up, man.’

Amar groaned again. Jamal kicked again. Amar opened his eyes, closed them immediately. Gave another groan.

‘Come on, man, don’t do this …’ Jamal’s kicking was getting angrier. ‘Come on.’

Amar made a noise that could have been a question.

‘You got to get up, man. We got work to do.’

Amar found his voice, in part. ‘Not … today. No … work … day.’ He turned over, sighing, on to his side.

Jamal knelt down, pulled Amar up by the front of his shirt.

‘Look, man, don’ fuck about. You’re wasted an’ we need you. Don’ do this to me, yeah?’ His voice was angry and desperate in
equal measure.

Amar’s eyes opened. He frowned. ‘Jamal?’ He looked around, clearly unsure of where he was. ‘How’d I get back here?’

Jamal had no time for this. ‘I dunno, man, maybe you flew. Maybe that shit you stuck up your nose gave you superpowers, yeah?
Come on, man.’

‘Whassa problem?’ His breath stank. Jamal recoiled from it.

‘Joe wants us.’ He told him about the office being broken into, the need to check the CCTV.

Amar groaned. ‘Not today.’ He slumped to the floor, turned over again.

Jamal saw the red mist descend. It was no longer Amar on
the floor but his mother. He picked him up again. ‘Look at you, man! Look at you! You a state, man! Where’s your fuckin’ self-respect,
eh? How you meant to look after people like that? Eh?’

Amar’s eyes opened. He frowned.

‘This how you show you’re meant to care? Yeah? Is it?’ Jamal’s face was up close, spitting in Amar’s eyes.

‘Jamal?’ He spoke slowly, quizzically.

Jamal blinked, looked at Amar strangely, as if unsure who was lying before him. He let Amar drop, stood up, turned away from
him. Amar struggled up into a sitting position, put his head up.

‘Shit … I’m spinning …’

Amar looked around, seeming to see more than just what was in front of him, take in more than just his surroundings. ‘What
a wreck …’

‘Yeah, man,’ said Jamal. ‘You said it.’

‘Shit,’ Amar groaned. ‘Oh, shit …’

Jamal turned around, faced Amar again. ‘Yeah, shit is right. Look at you, man. What’s wrong wit’ you, you got to get fucked
in the head like this? What’s so fuckin’ bad wit’ what you got?’

Amar just stared at him. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s just going out, having fun.’

‘Havin’ fun?’ Jamal gave an involuntary suck of his teeth, kept going.

‘Man, we like family here, yeah? You an’ me an’ Peta an’ Joe. Family. An’ families, right, they look after their own, right?
Well, you, man, you’re wrong. Well wrong. Look at you, man. The state of you. Check yourself.’

Amar opened his mouth to argue, stopped himself. Saw tears forming in the corners of Jamal’s eyes. Jamal, aware of what he
was doing and not wanting anyone else to witness it, turned away.

Amar sighed. ‘What’s so bad, Jamal? You used to get like this. You told me. Told me how much you used to enjoy getting high,
having fun. When you were …’ Amar stopped, aware of what he had been about to say.

Jamal could barely speak, he was so angry at Amar’s words. ‘You need me to tell you?’ he managed to say. ‘You really need
me to spell it out for you?’

‘No.’ Amar’s voice was almost whispered.

‘When I was on the street? When I … I sold myself? I got high when I did that? You wonder why, man? You wonder?’

Jamal turned away again, shoulders hunched, shaking.

‘Sorry,’ said Amar quietly.

‘Yeah,’ said Jamal. ‘Fuckin’ sorry. That’ll cover it.’ He sighed angrily. ‘Was it worth it?’

Amar knew the answer but couldn’t say it out loud. He couldn’t admit it, not even to himself.

The silence between them stretched further than the space of the room.

Eventually Amar prised himself off the floor, stood unsteadily on his feet.

‘I’ll go and get a shower. Get ready.’

Jamal, without looking at him, nodded.

Amar padded out of the living room. Jamal heard him entering the bathroom, taking off his clothes. Then the unmistakable sound
of someone being violently sick.

‘Good, man,’ said Jamal under his breath. ‘Hope it hurts.’

He swiped angrily at the tears that were starting to tumble out of his eyes.

Later, they sat side by side in Amar’s battered old Volvo estate, no radio, no CDs playing. Just one long, uncomfortable silence.
Amar pulled up at the car park on the corner of Blandford Street. He took his shaking hands off
the wheel, turned off the motor, but made no attempt to leave the car.

Jamal waited.

‘Sorry,’ said Amar.

Jamal said nothing.

‘You were right, OK? Right.’ He took a deep breath, held it for a thoughtful length of time, then, mind made up, let it out
as a long sigh. ‘It’s … I’ve got a problem. A problem. I know I have. And I’ve … been lying to myself. For a long time. It’s
… I’m going to get some help. It’s not fair on you or the others. Some professional help. It’s what I need.’

Jamal nodded. ‘OK.’

‘I will.’

‘I said, OK.’

‘Good.’

Another silence stretched between them.

‘We’d better go,’ said Amar eventually. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

Jamal nodded, got out of the car.

They walked up Westgate Road together, not speaking. Jamal felt that the pavement was made of eggshells. One wrong step and
he would disappear, the world collapsing around him.

Joe Donovan was standing against the wall watching the police SOCO team go about their work: moving studiously around, coming
in and out, carrying plastic-bagged objects, placing them in the back of a police van. Watching his new business venture,
the thing into which he had invested time, effort and above all money, the thing which he was most proud of in his life, be
broken down and dismantled. Sharkey stood next to him, puffing on a cigarette.

‘Lot of fuss for a break-in, isn’t it?’ Donovan kept his
eyes on the scene, his arms rigid at his sides. ‘Usually just send one guy out.’

Sharkey pulled on his cigarette, moved it away from his face. ‘At least they haven’t got their paper suits on.’ He extravagantly
released the smoke. It plumed up and away. ‘Look like we’d been the victims of a chemical attack if they’d done that.’

‘If we’d been Joe and Vera Public and our DVD player had been nicked they wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.’

Sharkey curled another plume of smoke. ‘But we’re not and it hasn’t been.’

‘Meaning?’

Sharkey shrugged

Donovan turned, looked at him. ‘What have you told them?’

Sharkey’s eyes were on the disappearing smoke, smile curling on the corners of his lips. ‘In and of itself, nothing.’

Donovan stared at him.

Sharkey cleared his throat. ‘But I may have, however, mentioned a couple of names. Janine Stewart. Michael Nell. Does help
to speed things along, don’t you find? One tends to get taken more seriously that way.’

Donovan felt his hands begin to shake, his breathing become heavier. ‘Taking referrals from you is one thing, Sharkey. Employing
you is one thing. But this is my business. And don’t you fucking dare presume to take it over.’

Sharkey tried not to flinch. Donovan didn’t trust himself to stand with the lawyer any longer. He detached himself from the
wall, let his anger carry him over the road.

‘Just stay out of the way until we’ve finished, sir.’

Donovan ignored the woolly suit, walked straight in. ‘How much longer you going to be? I’ve got work to do.’

The SOCO team were going about their tasks: dusting, shining what looked like ultra-violet lights on surfaces,
photographing. They barely gave him a glance. He suddenly felt foolish at his outburst. It was misplaced anger that should
have been directed at Sharkey. A uniform came over to talk to him. But he had already turned and gone back out through the
broken front door.

He stared at Sharkey who couldn’t hold his gaze. Felt the wave of anger rise and subside. He looked back at the useless front
door, saw the trail of damage, the empty places where the computers had been, the files strewn all over the floor. Knew it
wasn’t Sharkey he was angry with.

He walked up the street.

‘Gonna get a coffee,’ he mumbled, not knowing whether Sharkey heard him but sensing he understood.

Later, Donovan was allowed back inside. The police had cleared up their mess as much as possible, leaving only the aftermath
of the break-in itself to deal with. He stood in the office looking around, trying to find the positives in the situation.
Well, he thought, it could have been much worse. They had taken things, they had wrecked things, they had disrupted things.
But they hadn’t torched the place. They hadn’t defecated anywhere.

A locksmith had been called to deal with the door, along with the insurance company to assess the damage and value of missing
items.

Amar and Jamal had turned up, Jamal seemingly tightly wound and either angry or scared about something, Amar looking fragile
and wasted. Donovan didn’t have time to deal with either of their problems there and then; sorting out the future of Albion
had to take priority. On their arrival Sharkey had disappeared, citing a prior business appointment. Peta had then joined
them, appalled at what she saw. She looked straight at Donovan to see how it had affected him. He couldn’t return her look
of concern.

‘Did they find the CCTV?’ asked Amar.

‘No,’ said Donovan. ‘You did a good job there.’

Amar gave a tentative smile. ‘Undetectable and therefore undetected. I’m very good, aren’t I?’

They decided to relay the footage in the upstairs room. It was only the ground floor, the office, that had been disturbed.
Their planning room had been left untouched. Amar set his laptop up on the desk. They clustered around to watch it. He punched
in commands, hit keys.

‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘Last night. Think we need only concern ourselves with these cameras.’ The screen split into four:
the outside door, the hallway, the meeting room, the office. All in sharp colour.

‘Good picture,’ said Donovan. ‘Usually this stuff has the same quality as 1970s home video porn movies.’

‘Of which you are a serious collector,’ said Peta.

Donovan said nothing but knew he was blushing.

‘The CCTV’s on an HD Wi-Fi system. Top of the range. Called in a lot of favours to get this.’

‘Ooh, get you,’ said Peta.

Amar smiled. ‘You don’t have to be straight to be a techno gadget fanboy.’

‘No,’ said Donovan, ‘just sad.’

They kept their eyes on the screen, collectively pleased that their wisecracks were helping them cope with the situation.