Speak No Evil (2 page)

He allows her to smoke even though he doesn't do it himself Even though he doesn't like it or want her to. He allows her to smoke. And, he thinks, hopes he isn't being manipulated by her.

‘There's been worse things done to children by children since what I did. Much worse. And we never learn. We never make things better. Those two kids who killed that toddler, that …' And here she pauses, like she can't bring herself to say the name. Like it'll make it real, make her as bad as them. ‘You know. There was a big chance then to actually look at the causes of what made them do what they did. A real big chance. As a society. All of us. Look at families, what they do to kids. How people who are supposed to be looking after the children are really abusin' and hurtin' them. How we can be compassionate and all accept we've got a part to play.' She's starting to well up now, tears forming at the sides of her eyes. She tries to blink them away. They fall. ‘But we didn't. The Home Secretary and the media just blamed horror films. Ones the kids hadn't even seen. And then made the kids out to be monsters.'

He looks at her. Not for the first time has she surprised him with her eloquence and intelligence. He wonders whether her words are just to impress him or whether she really believes them.

She stubs her cigarette out. ‘We never leant,' she says. ‘Kids are still killin' kids. Kids are still dyin'.'

2

The white Fiesta roared round the corner, pulled a handbrake stop, spinning its rear end as it did so, making the figures standing in the near-deserted corner of the car park scatter as it came to a revving rest. Calvin Bell thought it was the coolest thing he had ever seen.

The scattered kids began to move back, shouting mock abuse at the driver, laughing, their momentary fear now dispersed. Calvin, on the fringes of the group, took this as his cue, joined them.

It was boy racers night out. A near-empty car park on a tattered and battered industrial/retail estate over on the east side of Newcastle. The cars all either small first-buys or twocced joyrides. Halfords-customized to compensate for their size with maximum noise and colour. The bigger kids driving, younger ones and girlfriends as passengers. The cars all parked up at the far end of the car park away from the streetlights, doors open and beams on, sound systems and engines competing for aural dominance. The kids chatting, sharing fags and spliffs, passing round fizzy soft drinks spiked with vodka, nuclear firestorm-bright alcopops, cider and lager. Laughing, joking.

Other kids moving amongst them, slapping stuff into palms in exchange for curled-up notes. The dealers. Keeping the night's highs going, fuelling the drivers.

Calvin so desperately wanted to be one of the gang. Get in one of the cars, drive round with the older kids. His mates Renny and Pez had already done it. They had told him afterwards, laughing and bragging, how great it was speeding round the streets, shouting, singing, draining bottles then flinging them out the window, hearing them smash on the pavements, against the sides of houses. They had made it sound so exciting that Calvin couldn't wait to try it.

He had begged them to bring him down, give him an introduction. They had given in, done so. And now here he was, past one in the morning, waiting. This, he thought with a fluttery pride, was what being grown up was all about.

And something else. The estate wasn't the best place to live. He knew that. Sometimes it felt like a battlefield. And sometimes it actually was. If he was seen with the older kids he might not get picked on so much. His bullies might think he was cool for a little 'un. Safe, even. He just hoped they wouldn't ask him to do something. Some scary initiation rite.

Calvin scanned, recognized some of the faces. He turned to Renny. ‘Which one did you go with? Which car?'

Renny didn't answer. He was looking at the Fiesta that had just pulled up.

Calvin kept on. ‘Was it that one?'

Renny didn't look at him. ‘Aye.'

Excitement rushed through Calvin. If Renny had been once, he could go again. And Calvin could go with him. ‘Go an' ask him, then. Ask him if we can all go.'

Renny just nodded. Didn't move. The kid got out of the car, pushed his baseball cap to the right angle, strolled over to the other older ones, walking like some gangsta rapper in a hip-hop video, took a pull on a spliff. Talked to his mates.

Behind him one of the dealers tried to move in. A mate of the driver's pushed him away. The dealer fell.

The drivers and hangers-on formed themselves into a sudden circle. There was no more laughing. Disrespect had been flung. It would have to be answered. Calvin, watching with the others, closed his eyes.

Not knives, he thought to himself, please, not knives …

He opened them again, slowly. The fight hadn't started. A peacemaker had intervened. The aggrieved parties were both backing down and saving face, both relieved, although not showing it, that it hadn't come to blades. The atmosphere, although not immediately dangerous, was still tense.

Calvin was getting impatient. He wanted his ride. Before anything nasty happened. He looked at Renny. ‘Gan on, then. Ask 'im.'

Renny had been transfixed by what had been happening. He seemed disappointed that there would be no fight. However, he was reluctant to move. ‘Doesn't work like that,' he said, not bringing his eyes around to face Calvin.

The would-be combatants were walking away from each other. Someone made a joke. It helped.

Calvin kept looking at his friend. ‘How does it work then?'

‘Tell him, Pez.'

Pez, smaller than the both of them, clearly a follower where the other two fancied themselves as leaders, looked up startled, as if he had just been roughly woken from a long, baffling dream. ‘Eh?'

Renny looked at Pez. Calvin missed the message that Renny tried to send with his eyes. ‘Calvin wants to go for a ride. I told him it doesn't work like that.'

‘Aw. Right.' Pez nodded. ‘Aye.'

Calvin looked between the two. And saw what was going on. ‘You haven't been, have you?'

No reply.

‘They didn't ask you, you were never in a car. Either of you. Were you?'

Pez looked at Renny. Renny shrugged. ‘We just … you know. We didn't wanna … look like shites. We thought …' Another shrug. ‘Y'know.'

Calvin looked at the other two, at the cars. He was so near to them. But he might as well have been miles away. In another country. He felt angry, betrayed. He had sneaked out of the house in the middle of the night, ran all the way down here to meet the other two, just on the promise of a ride. And he wouldn't get one. It was all right for the other two, their parents didn't care where they went to at night, Renny's especially. But Calvin's did. It had cost him a lot to come out. He felt stupid. And angry. He wanted to hit Renny but he knew his friend's temper would come straight out and he would end up worse off. He looked at the drivers, at the fear and aggression lurking just below the surface, waiting for another flashpoint to set it off. And suddenly felt scared. He had to go home.

‘Laters.' He turned round, started to walk away.

‘Where you goin'?' asked Pez, clearly confused.

Calvin shrugged. Tried not to make it into a big gesture. ‘Home. Not stayin' here with you two little-boy losers.'

He walked away. As he passed the massed ranks of racers, one of them detached himself from the bunch, walked over towards him. The same gangsta rapper rolling gait as all the others used, baseball cap on his head, hoodie on top of it.

Calvin stopped, looked up. The older kid's eyes were hidden. Calvin thought his luck was in, that he was going to be asked for a ride. The kid held out his hand, flashed something hidden in the palm.

‘Want some stuff? Some gear?'

Calvin's heart sank. He recognized the boy. It was the dealer who had been ready to fight. He still looked as if he was up for it, his anger curtailed but not satisfied. Calvin always avoided the dealers anyway. This one especially.

He shook his head, tried to walk round him. The dealer didn't move.

‘Some blow? E? Get you happy?' The dealer's voice didn't sound very happy.

‘No money,' said Calvin, trying again to go round him.

‘First taste is always free,' the dealer said, ‘an' if it's not your first taste I'll pretend it is. Can't say fairer than that, can I?' He sounded like a salesman in a kid's body.

Calvin shook his head, tried to move forward. The dealer still didn't budge.

‘You don't know what you're missin',' he said, trying to sound encouraging, unable to suppress his anger. ‘Go on, sort yourself out good.' It sounded like a command.

Calvin tried again. Couldn't get round. He knew the dealer would be armed, that there would be a blade somewhere on him. Calvin was starting to panic. If he kept saying no, the dealer might force him. Or worse—

‘Will you fuckin' shift, man!' Calvin hadn't expected the words to emerge so vehemently.

The racers glanced round. Saw what was happening. The dealer still didn't move. Calvin didn't want to stay there a moment longer. He kicked the dealer as hard as he could in the leg. The dealer, unprepared, crumpled to the side. Calvin ran.

There was stunned silence from the racers, then jeering laughter. Calvin didn't look back. Behind him an angry voice started shouting. The dealer. He was called something unpleasant, something that he would have been expected to square up to and fight to make the speaker take it back if it had happened at school or anywhere nearer home. But he didn't stop to challenge, to rise to it, he just kept running. A description was then spat out of what the dealer would do when he caught up to the little kid who had disrespected him in front of his mates. That made Calvin run all the harder.

He ran and ran, not looking back once. Just going forwards. Ignoring the aching in his chest, the pains in his legs and feet. Eventually he could run no more. He found a side street, ran round the corner and dropped to the ground.

On his back, gasping for air, thinking his lungs were too small to cope with the amount he needed to take in. Every breath hurt. But not as much as what the dealer would do to him if he caught up with him. He put his hands to his ribs, hugged himself. Looked around.

He had no idea where he was.

Panicking, he sat up. He didn't know if he had run further away from his home or nearer to it. The place was all rundown factories, old buildings, rubble and weeds. He stood up, trying to ignore the sudden light-headedness that affected him. Scoped. Factories, industrial units. Streetlights. Beyond them, trees. Beyond them an estate. Hope rose within him. Was that the Hancock Estate? If it was, all he had to do was walk through it then at the other side he knew the way home.

Behind him, he heard the roaring of engines. The racers were off.

‘Shit,' he said out loud, then chastised himself. He didn't want to be heard. They were looking for him. He knew they were. They had to be. He turned and, dragging his protesting little body, ran towards the trees, the estate.

Anne Marie Smeaton slept. Sprawled on the sofa, Scott Walker whispering to her in the background.

But her face betrayed her dreams. Her features were twisted, contorted, her breathing ragged and quick. She moved her head from side to side, flung her arms around. Her mouth made sounds. No words, just moans, sighs. She was trying to hold them back, but she seemed to be losing.

The bad spirits were breaking through.

*

Calvin was lost. The Hancock Estate was like a maze. He had thought he was on the right track, knew the way. But every time he moved forward in the direction he wanted, the street or walkway took an unexpected twist and left him somewhere else entirely. He had tried to keep track of the corners, keep a sense of direction in his head, but it was hopeless. Now, he didn't know whether he was going forwards or backwards. And the cars were still revving.

They were circling him, getting closer all the time. He was trapped and they were just playing with him, toying with the moment they finally pounced on him, tore him to shreds.

His back was against a wall. He tried to listen, get his bearings that way. The nightly beer screams and responding sirens, the human hyena howls of the estate that he grew up with. Nothing. All he could hear was the pounding of blood round his body, the ragged gasp of his breathing. And the cars.

He wanted to cry. Just sit in the street and cry. But he couldn't. Because Renny and Pez might be in the cars as well. And he didn't want them to see him like that. So he stood up, looked round. Saw a walkway he hadn't been down yet. Or didn't think he had been down. Walked towards it.

There was no light, only darkness and shadows. The streetlights were broken, his trainers crunched glass underfoot. The walls were graffiti-enriched concrete, it stank of bodily emissions. Calvin tried to hold his breath, hurry along. Perhaps this was it. The right way lay just ahead. The opening, lit by the weak orange glow of a streetlight, seemed a long way off. But he made his way towards it, moving as quickly as he could. The wind carried the sound of engines again. He moved quicker and, in his haste, tripped.

He put his hands out to break his fall, felt broken glass, sharp stone, pierce his palms. Felt his hands connect with other substances that he was glad he couldn't see. As he hit the broken concrete slabs, the air huffed out of his lungs. He pulled himself on to all fours, tried to force air back into his body. Supporting himself with the wall, he got slowly to his feet. Looked ahead. The light didn't seem so far off, now. In fact, he could make out houses beyond it, streets he recognized. He heard a drunken howl going up. His heart leapt. He knew where he was. He knew how to get home.

Reinvigorated, he made his way towards the light. And abruptly stopped.

He had been grabbed from behind, arms tight around his body, pinning him to his assailant, stopping him from moving. Calvin struggled, kicked. No good. Whoever it was had him held tight.