Switching off the television, he picked up the other remote and pointed it at the CD player. The melancholy, swooping pedal steel guitar and tinkling piano, followed by gruff vocals, announced itself as “Sweet Dreams”, an old Patsy Cline song, covered by Elvis Costello and the Attractions. A soulful, lost start to the day. The song made him look at the empty Glenfiddich bottle sitting on his desk – and he remembered the night before.
Shaking down the politician hadn’t given him the righteous kick he thought it would. Coming home to an empty house, he had opened the bottle, flirted with it, kissed it, made love to it, cried into it and, eventually, killed it. His sleep had been deathly, dreamless. The whisky had kept his subconscious in check, stopped the ghosts from haunting him. The bottle was proving to be a good jailer, and lately he had been relying on it more and more.
He flung back the duvet and swung his feet to the floor where they landed with a slapping plonk, as if they didn’t belong to him. Standing up, he waited for the hangover to hit, but was pleasantly surprised to discover that it had decided not to put in an appearance this morning. Just the shakes, then. No problem. He padded around the attic, feeling the space. He hadn’t long possessed the room and it still felt alien to him.
The attic was in Charlotte’s house. After her death, it had been bequeathed to Larkin, but he couldn’t bear to live in it. He had tried renting it out, but there were no takers, so he moved back in to the converted loft and left the rest of the house untouched. As long as he didn’t spend too much time in the other rooms the place was fine, apart from the fact that his height prohibited him from deviating from the centre of the room.
Stretching, bleary-eyed, he headed off for a shower and some coffee.
He parked the car behind the Central Station, in front of a piece of Roman Wall tucked away between the Federation Brewery and a grim-looking pub, and just opposite a railway arch turned hot-dog-stand warehouse. After locking up, he walked the rest of the way, hoping that his soft-top VW Golf wouldn’t be too conspicuous. God
knows, he felt conspicuous enough driving it.
Rounding the corner he was confronted by Bolbec Hall, next to the library’s old Lit and Phil building. On the corner of Mosely Street, situated on the fringe of the city’s City district, it looked as though it had surrendered and was quietly dying in the middle of an uneasy truce between Victorian and Sixties architecture.
Larkin took the rickety iron lift up to the top floor, to where the sign on the door said THE NEWS AGENTS. He pushed the door open and entered. It was a newsroom in miniature, shortage of space determining depth of frenetic activity. The place consisted of three big rooms plus a kitchen-cum-toilet – or “restroom” as Bolland insisted on calling it – linked by a corridor. There was a rusted iron balcony on top of the fire escape, outside the main window, which the smokers had commandeered. If it wasn’t bad enough that they had to risk their health to smoke, they had to risk their lives on a daily basis to do it.
The two largest rooms had been knocked through and contained the workstations: terminals, desks, faxes and phones. The third room had become Bolland’s office. All the walls were painted a cool off-white grey, potted ferns were dotted strategically about the place. The decor tried hard to create the aura of an upmarket office space, but it still felt like a cheap lease in an old building.
“Mornin’, Steve.”
“Morning, Joyce,” said Larkin, as cheerfully as he could manage given the hour. “How you doing?”
“Not so bad,” Joyce replied. She was, possibly, in her mid-thirties; but ten years either side of that might have been equally accurate. Dark bottle-blonde hair, trim figure and a pretty face prematurely reddened by too many Happy Hours with the girls and not enough happy hours by herself. She hadn’t been in the agency long, but had quickly established a niche for herself as an indispensable and lovable piece of office furniture.
“Good night, was it?” asked Larkin with a small-talk smile.
“Ee, Steve, I’ll have to tell you all about it. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“You know, you shouldn’t drink that much during the week. It’s bad for you.”
“Why? Cos it gives you a stinkin’ hangover for work the next day?”
“No,” said Larkin still smiling, “because it spoils it for the weekend.”
“Ee, daft sod.” Joyce laughed; Larkin joined in. After all, it cost nothing. He took off his jacket, hung it on the communal stand and sat at his bare desk – the only one in the room unadorned by gonks, family photos and other useless objects.
He shook his head in wry disbelief. For one thing he couldn’t quite believe he had a regular job again; for another he couldn’t believe how hard he was working at it. He supposed he needed something to occupy his mind – some mindless routine – and at least he was good at it. It was therapy, and he was getting paid for it.
As he sat down, other members of the staff filed in. Frankie Baker, solid, middle-aged. An old pro, always getting a round in after work. Mick O’Brien, young, eager to succeed. The type to get up early and write novels, thought Larkin. Then there was Carrie Brewer. Young, dark and fiercely ambitious. The kind of reporter who gave chequebook journalism an even worse name. She wouldn’t sell her grandmother to get a good story, Larkin thought, because she’d done so already. A photo-journalist called Graham Rigby was hanging up his anorak as Dave Bolland made his entrance. Tall, splendidly coiffed and tailored, even with his jacket off and braces showing, Bolland both looked and acted as the ultimate Eighties revivalist. Larkin suspected that the much-vaunted image of Bolland masturbating at night over a picture of Michael Portillo might be a bit of a pisstake. He hoped so, anyway.
“OK, everyone, good morning,” enunciated Bolland. There was a general mumble in return. Bolland smiled. “Lovely! To business.” He swept his eyes round the room, headcounting. “Where’s Houchen?”
Another mumble, this time negative. Larkin kept silent.
“No one know? Oh well, let’s press on.” Bolland referred to his clipboard. “Right then – unless there’s something of staggering importance that you’re working on, here’s how I see today dividing up. Carrie, I take it there’s no news on Jason Winship?”
Carrie sat forward on the edge of her desk, looking pure business. “Nothing, I’m still following up me leads and pestering the police, but no. Nothing new as yet.”
“Well keep at it. Either the boy will turn up or his killer will. Either way it’s a result for us and I want it covered. Right – Graham. Cobbler in Gateshead, retiring, local interest, that kind of thing…”
Bolland’s voice droned on. Larkin looked at Carrie. She was lit from within by a fire that only showed in her eyes. With lizard’s
blood and an actress’s range, she was perfect for the job. Larkin wondered what it was that drove her.
“Stephen?”
“Yeah?”
“Graced us with your presence, for which we are eternally grateful. Now – Newton Aycliffe bypass, crusty protestors versus landowners. Head to head piece. How’s that coming?”
“Well, I’ve got some tameish landowners ready to comment and I’ve got some Newbury veterans eager to talk. Which d’you want?” said Larkin.
“Does it matter?”
“Depends who wants the story.”
“Well,” said Bolland, “we’ve had some interest from the quality tabloids.”
“Now there’s an oxymoron,” said Larkin, raising a half-hearted laugh. He checked Bolland’s face; he was annoyed, but wouldn’t admit it. He hated anyone else to be the centre of attention. Larkin ploughed on.
“OK, I’ll visit the landowners. The
Daily Mail
’ll lap it up.”
“If you’re that bothered about balance you could also visit your veteran protestors and get a
Guardian
story from them.”
More half-hearted laughter. Larkin, tactfully, joined in. Bolland, his authority restored, continued. “Take Houchen with you – when he eventually shows his face.”
Larkin nodded; Bolland continued. “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” said Larkin, “I’m still doing this local thing about people in the community. Bravery, not conforming to the accepted stereotype, that sort of thing.”
“Oh – that. Yes. Any interest?”
“Colour sups. You know.”
Larkin felt Carrie Brewer snigger behind him. He made a mental note to throw her down the lift shaft at the first possible opportunity.
Bolland appeared not to have noticed. But he allowed a sketch of a smile to appear on his lips. “Right. Onward and upward…”
Bolland rambled on, believing he was imbuing his troops with the power to accomplish superhuman feats. Finally he left the room. Larkin crossed to Rigby and pestered him into lending him a camera; Rigby, reluctantly, complied.
As Larkin was about to leave, Bolland unexpectedly beckoned him into his office. Sitting down behind his matt-black desk, he motioned Larkin to one of the pieces of black leather and twisted chrome trying to pass as a comfortable chair. Larkin managed to perch. Bolland leaned back and steepled his fingers, giving the impression of entrepreneurial pensiveness. After plenty of brow-furrowing, he spoke.
“How are you doing, Steve?”
“Fine, thanks.” Larkin felt he should say something in return. “And you?”
“Oh, wonderful. Wonderful. The point is, Steve, I did have some initial misgivings when I offered you this job. I know we used to be friends way, way back, and that’s why, as soon as I heard you were in Newcastle again, I rushed to see you.”
Larkin felt the scar tissue on his right hand itch. “Aye. You heard what had happened and wanted an exclusive.”
“Which you gave.”
“In return for a job.”
“And a handsome salary. Yes.” Bolland allowed himself a smile. “That’s why I want you to know that I’m very pleased with the progress you’re making with us. Very pleased.”
“Thank you. Sir.”
Bolland reddened slightly but persevered. “I know you – have a reputation for – having – unorthodox working methods—”
“You mean, I’m a pain in the arse to work with?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that…”
“Oh, that’s OK. I’ve heard it that many times it doesn’t bother me anymore.”
“Mm. Well, what I mean is, you have a reputation for allowing … a higher sense of morality to creep in and inform your work.”
Larkin attempted to stifle a smile as Bolland tried to dig himself out of his hole.
“Yes, well. What I’m trying to say is, I’m pleased you have adapted yourself to our work ethic so readily.”
Larkin shook his head. “Needs must.”
“I mean, if there are any prizewinners in this agency, you’re the one.”
“I think Ms Brewer would disagree with that.”
Bolland smiled. “She probably would. But I just wanted to let you know. That’s all.”
“Thank you.”
They both sat there for what seemed like a century. Eventually Larkin stood up.
“Well, I have to go now,
Dave.
I’ve got the prejudices of Middle England to confirm. Thanks for the chat.” Larkin turned to go.
“Great, great. We must grab a beer sometime.”
Grab a beer?
“Yeah,
Dave
, smashing. I’ll see if I’ve got a window. Sometime.”
“Steve.”
Larkin turned around.
“You are all right, aren’t you? I mean …
all right
?”
Larkin looked at Bolland. The smug-bastard mask had slipped away, leaving an expression of genuine concern.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Good. I know work can be a help, taking your mind off things and all that, but … well, if you’re not, well, you know, old friends and everything…” He seemed to be having difficulty in finding the right words. Larkin was almost touched.
“Thanks, Dave. You’re a good mate.”
And he left the office and went to work.
Larkin drove down to Scotswood. If the Golf looked conspicuous behind the Central Station, then here it stood out like a Sunderland fan at a Newcastle game.
The area consisted of one dilapadated concrete monolith after another, with a few rows of two-storey houses thrown in: a half-hearted stab at community. But most of them had boarded up windows and doors sporting huge padlocks. That, and the blackened fronts, marked them out as easy, but pointless, targets for roaming gangs.
Brightly-coloured boards announced the imminence of urban renewal and promised a safe new future funded by EC money. But the glib declarations had the hollow and hopeless ring of a politician at election time. The Rebirth Of The Region didn’t extend to here, noted Larkin.
Although the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue, announcing the last burst of a dying summer, it couldn’t make Scotswood look jovial. Larkin didn’t know how Jane could bear to live here. He didn’t know how anyone could. He rounded another corner, dodging the craters in the road, and thought back to his morning.
He’d just returned to the office from his conversation with the rabid landowning squire and found the message from Jane waiting. But before he could phone her, Bolland had asked him how the encounter had gone.
To describe the bloke as right-wing, Larkin had informed him, was to say that Hitler liked to start a bit of trouble. He had started off ranting about the bypass protesters; his diatribe had gone on to embrace the benefits of National Service, the wonders of capital
punishment, the laxity of the immigration laws and the evils of homosexuality. In no particular order.
“Wonderful,” Bolland had replied. “Extreme opinions, irrespective of the truth, make the best copy.” He habitually spoke in epigrams.
“Yeah,” said Larkin. “It was when he started on compulsory sterilisation for the poor and the unemployed that it got me.”
Bolland smiled. “Not as bizarre a suggestion as you would think, Steve. Even that well-known vegetarian and left-wing intellectual George Bernard Shaw once vigorously championed the idea.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve found that no one is ever fully good. And no one is ever fully bad. And nothing is black and white.” He turned to go. “Oh, and Steve?”
“Yes?”
“Make it angry. The
Mail
will pay more.”