Dead Bad Things (29 page)

  Trevor approached the door. Light spilled down from a room above the shop, but the lower floor was in darkness. He reached out and pressed the buzzer, not allowing himself time to think, to back out and run. He needed what was being sold here; he needed it like never before. He hoped that one of them might look just a little bit like his brother, like Michael. That would make all the risk worthwhile.

  The intercom buzzed with static, and then a voice cut through the storm: "Aye."

  Trevor leaned in close, suddenly bashful. "Hummingbird," he said, slowly, enunciating each syllable so that he would not have to say it again.

  A buzzer droned and then there was a loud clicking noise. "Pull on the gate." Then the intercom went dead.

  Trevor reached out and gripped the metal uprights of the security gate. He pulled lightly, then harder when there was no initial response to his pressure. The gate snickered open. He pulled it further and stepped onto the lower of two concrete steps that led up to the front door. The buzzer intonated a second time and the main door popped open. Trevor, glancing over one shoulder, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. He pulled the gate shut behind him, and once he had moved into the dark hall beyond the entrance, he did the same with the front door.

  Ahead of him was a set of stairs. Along the short hallway was a doorway, which he presumed led to the shop. He was unsure of what he should do, where to go, so he just stood there for a moment, caught between two worlds and feeling slightly absurd about his predicament.

  Light bled down the stairwell as a door on the upper storey was opened. "Up here." It was the same voice from the phone and the intercom: it even seemed to contain the same static hiss. But that was silly. Trevor knew that his mind was playing tricks and if he wasn't careful he would come close to a state of panic.

  He started to climb the stairs, heading towards the open door. Yellow light spilled onto the worn carpet and down the steep staircase, lighting his way. It was like following a trail of dull fire, or a pathway formed by embers. Again, Trevor tried to clear his head of these silly thoughts. He was romanticising the situation, and if he continued to do so he would ruin it. Part of the fun, after all, was the seediness of the encounter. He was self-aware enough to know that, and honest enough to admit to his weakness.

  His fear evaporating and his confidence growing, blooming like a flower in his chest, Trevor stepped onto the landing and walked through the open door.

  "Hi there." A large man sitting on an old Raleigh Chopper bicycle smiled at him. He was smoking a joint. A thick cloud of smoke hung in the air; evidence that the roll-up was not his first of the evening. "Nice jacket. You must be Trevor. I'm Sammy."

  "Hello, Sammy. Yes, that's right. I'm Trevor. Thanks for seeing me at such short notice."

  The man grinned around his spliff. "Oh, that's OK. Isn't it, Don?" He turned his head and looked at a battered leather sofa that was pushed up against the wall near the wide entrance to a small kitchenette, his greasy ponytail swinging like a fat rat's tail.

  "Aye," said the tallish, well-built man on the sofa. He was holding a beer can and blinking as if he'd only just woken up. "No bother. No bother at all."

  "Thanks," Trevor said again, set off kilter by the men's lazy attitude. From the telephone conversation he'd had he expected them to be more defensive, perhaps even to put on a clichéd hard man act. But they were just a couple of dopers, getting high on their own gear.

  "So," Sammy held his joint between his fingers. He stared at Trevor. "What do you need this evening? What can we get you to dampen your fire?"

  The man on the sofa – Don, was it? – giggled softly.

  "I was told… Derek told me that… well, that you could supply something to suit my needs." His lips were moving but they felt awkward, like rubber: two water-filled condoms glued to his jaw.

  "No, no, no," said Sammy. "I need you to be more
specific
. You have to tell me what you want, mate. That's how it works, you see. I don't know you, even though our mutual
fiend,
" – he laughed here, proud of his little quip – "Derek has introduced you. That's why you have to tell me up front what you want. Let's just say I'm paranoid." He smiled. His teeth were yellow, the gums receding. His cheeks were bruised with broken capillaries. "I'm sure you understand."

  They were a suspicious lot, these people. But Trevor could understand their reticence; perhaps if he'd been more circumspect himself, he might not have been exposed as a fraud and a childmolester by that bastard Usher.

  "Well?" Sammy wheeled the Chopper backwards and forwards across a small area of floor. He pretended to rev the handlebars, like a small child playing motorbikes.

  "I'd like some chicken. Some young chicken. I want to have a little boy." He licked his lips. "Is that honest enough for you? Do I pass the fucking test, friend?" Anger surged through him for an instant, but then faded. He was too horny to maintain his rage.

  "That's
lovely
," said Sammy, revving his bike handles. "That's just too fucking perfect." He grinned, flashing his dirty teeth.

  Don, over on the sofa, began to laugh. It was a soft sound, almost like weeping. Trevor glanced over just to check, and saw the man's face shining beneath the cheap lighting in the cramped room. He winked at Trevor, shaping the fingers of his right hand to resemble a gun and cocking the trigger of his thumb.

  Trevor looked away, feeling like he needed a shower. The sense of collusion between himself and these men was making him feel sick.

  "This way," said Sammy, hauling his bulk off the bike frame. "Downstairs. We keep them in a nice basement room, where they can be all safe and sound. They're my chickens, and I like to call it the Roost." He waddled towards the small kitchen area, where there was another door Trevor had failed to see until now.

  Trevor followed. He glanced again at Don, but the man had slumped over onto his side to sprawl on the cushions, stoned.

  "Just through here and down the other stairs," said Sammy. His huge backside was barely contained by his torn, faded jeans: an acre of buttock cleavage hung out above the beltline.

  Trevor was led through the door and down a flight of wooden stairs, these ones seemingly constructed by some cowboy builder who had no clue regarding the nature of structural stability. Trevor clung to the banister as they descended, and as Sammy's bulk caused the whole staircase to twist and shudder, he prayed that he would make it to the basement level in one piece.

  At the bottom of the stairs was a large open space with a concrete floor and soundproofed walls. Along a narrow corridor Trevor could just about make out the edge of what looked like a steel cage. He could hear quiet weeping. Somebody was singing – it was a traditional nursery rhyme:
Three Blind Mice.
The effect created by the combination of crying and the highpitched singsong voice was eerie, as if Trevor had stepped into an obscure antechamber of hell. He fought a brief but intense battle between fear and desire.

  Desire won. It always did.

  "It's along this way, Trevor." Sammy waddled towards the corridor. At first it looked like he would be too big to make it but to Trevor's surprise he managed to fit through the gap. "Keep coming."

  Trevor walked across the concrete floor. His hands were flexing, making fists. His mouth was bone dry. He followed the big man along the short corridor, glancing to the side and into an unoccupied cell. There was a single bed shoved against the wall, and a coil of rope on the floor.

  The singing stopped abruptly.

  At the other end of the corridor the room opened out. There was a huge plasma television screen with an inbuilt DVD player mounted on the main wall.
Spongebob Squarepants
was running with the sound turned off. A low table beneath the huge screen held an array of video equipment: several monitors, a computer keyboard, some kind of control box. Trevor glimpsed the inmates of the cells in fuzzy monochrome before he saw them in the flesh, but as he properly entered the large room he turned and stared at them through the bars.

  As far as cells went, these ones at least gave a nod in the direction of comfort. Each one contained a double bed with silk sheets, a table and a chair, a recliner, a wash basin and toilet, and a double wardrobe. There were framed paintings of nudes hanging on the concrete walls and the steel bars were draped with what looked like Christmas streamers. There were six barred cells built against the wall, with a boy in each. The boys were relaxing. Some of them were watching the television, staring blankly at Spongebob's undersea antics, and others were lying on their beds looking up at the ceiling. One of them was reading a book – Trevor stared at the cover and saw that it was a Roald Dahl novel.

  "Welcome to the Roost," said Sammy, spreading his arms wide and smiling at the boys.

  None of the boys smiled back. They ignored the two men in their midst, allowing the moment to wash over them. They were used to this, these boys, these chickens; it was just another day in the terrible prison cell of their life.

  "Take your pick. It's quite a varied collection; the united colours of Benetton. I pride myself on diversity." Sammy, smiling, stepped to the side and approached the bank of monitors. He pressed a button on the control panel and the upstairs room, with his friend, Don asleep on the sofa, appeared briefly on one of the small screens.

  The boys were beautiful. They were immaculately clean and dressed in expensive clothes. No two of them looked the same. There was a blonde one, a dark one, a vaguely oriental one, a black one, an Asian one and a strange pale one who just stood in the corner staring out through the bars.

  This last one unnerved Trevor. The boy stepped forward as he watched, moving close to the bars. His small hands came up and gripped one of the bars, the thin white fingers snaking around it. His hair was mousey brown, his eyes were bland, and he was very thin. He looked blank, a clean slate, as if nothing in the world had touched him. There was nothing behind his eyes, just a vast indifference, and Trevor found himself backing away from his infinite gaze.

  "Our newest acquisition," said Sammy. "You don't like him? He doesn't say much, I'll give you that. But he's pretty."

  Trevor shook his head. "I like that one," he said, pointing to the slight blonde boy in the end cell. The one who – if Trevor squinted and looked at just the right angle – looked a little like his dead brother. "Yes, that one will do me just fine, friend."

  The boy smiled like he was obviously taught to. His slack lips curled up to reveal white teeth, a small, moist pink mouth. But his eyes… his eyes were terrified.

  "You have an hour," said Sammy. He walked to the cell door and opened it. The boy stepped back, not quite cowering but clearly wanting to curl up into a ball on the floor. "He's good, this one." Sammy's bulk blocked the entrance to the cell. "He's one of our most popular chickens. He cries at the right times and he likes to call you Daddy."

  "I don't want that," said Trevor, moving across the room. He was aware of the pale, silent boy watching him. Those dead eyes were upon him, creating a cold spot at the small of his back. "But I would like to call
him
Michael."

  Sammy stepped to the side and Trevor walked into the cell. The door clicked shut behind him and Sammy turned the key before pocketing it.

  "Hello, Michael," said Trevor, almost in tears. "It's been a long time, brother. A very long time."

  "Back in an hour," said Sammy, heading for the stairs. But Trevor didn't even hear him.

 

 

 

 

 
 
 

Sarah was sitting motionless in the dark, trying to make sense of things, when she heard someone ringing the door bell. She knew who it was; it could only be Benson. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece but it had stopped hours ago. The hands were frozen at 9pm. What the hell is it with these fucking clocks, she thought. If I'm not hearing phantom ticking then they're stopping on me, halting time.

  She stood and crossed the room. Behind her, the clock started ticking again. When she glanced back at the clock's face the hands were poised at 11.15.

  Even time was turning against her, trying to spook her.

  She walked to the front door and opened it. Benson was standing on the steps with his head bowed. The air was heavy with the threat of rain. It was cold. Benson looked up, unsmiling. He looked tired.

  "Hi," she said, stepping back, into the hallway.

  "Hi, yourself," he said, following her inside.

  "How was your day with the murder squad?" Try as she might, Sarah could not keep the mocking tone from her voice. She wanted Benson to know that she felt cheated, deserted. That she should have been included in the investigation.

  "Yeah, sorry about that," he said as they walked along the hall and went into the living room. "I tried to convince Reynolds to bring you onboard but for some reason he wasn't having any of it."

  "I don't think he likes me," said Sarah, lowering herself onto the sofa. She flexed her bare feet on the carpet and then swung her legs up and slid them beneath her bottom.

  "I think you might be right." Benson sat next to her. His hand moved reflexively to rest upon her leg. "Sorry."

  "It's not your fault. Because of my – because of Emerson – I seem to have a lot of baggage with certain people on the force. Most of it I don't even understand." She placed her hand over his, a subtle show of solidarity. The problem was she didn't think that it was a genuine gesture. She felt apart from Benson in a way that she never had before in their short relationship. He'd been different from usual at the crime scene in Roundhay Park that morning, and she'd been given a glimpse of a side of him that she didn't like. It made her wonder how much more of himself he was keeping hidden from her, and if those other parts of his personality were just as unpleasant.