What I Tell You In the Dark (27 page)

When we get back to the front of the estate, I have a quick look for convenient rat runs into which we might safely disappear. A nearby stairwell suggests itself. Without me even telling him to, the boy enters the code to get us in. I tell him to be quick. We run up all the flights of stairs. The door to the roof is broken and therefore permanently ajar. Just another few steps take us to the very top of the building.

None of the lights work up here, which leaves us in a twilight of litter and broken glass. A few shouts and calls from the courtyard below suggest that the boy's absence has already been noticed. I hold a warning finger to my lips. I have a quick peek over the chest-high wall at the edge of the roof. I can't see where any of the noises are coming from, but then you never can – that's the point.

I tell him to empty his pockets on to an old mattress that has been shoved into the corner by the wall – I shudder to think why. He has a cheap, disposable mobile phone, which I discard, a pack of gum, which I let him keep, but no knife or other kind of weapon. Good to know. It would be so sad to get stabbed by a child.

I ask him his name. It's Joel.

‘Well, Joel,' I say thoughtfully, ‘you and I are going to have a little talk, and when we do, you are going to tell me what I want to know. If you hide anything from me, or try to lie to me, I will know. And I will not be happy.'

He nods quickly.

‘I need a gun,' I tell him, plain and simple. ‘And I know that at least one of that lot down there will have one stashed away somewhere. So you, Joel, are going to tell me where that somewhere is. And then you're going to take me there, via a route that won't get us seen, by anyone.' I leave a meaningful pause. ‘I don't want to hurt you, Joel.' Which, of course, is true, but I say it in a way that makes it sound like I definitely would if I had to.

It does the trick. He just comes straight out with it. ‘Devan got a strap, innit.'

‘Okay. So where do I find this Devan?'

‘He don't keep it on him,' he glances at the wall beside us, leaving me to assume that Devan is currently out and about, conducting his business. ‘One of the youngers holds it for him. In de yard we jus by.'

‘What number?'

‘I don't know no number, man. Jus know the one it is.'

I'm probably looking sceptical or homicidal or something because he quickly tells me everything else he knows in a bit of a rush. The boy's name is Blair. And Devan, apparently, is something of a ‘bad man'.

‘Sounds perfect,' I tell him.

He shakes his head.

‘Dis butters,' he mumbles. ‘Gonna get plain ugly.'

Suddenly, his mobile phone starts ringing. It sounds incredibly loud in this remote little corner, so I snatch it up as quickly as I can and shove it underneath the mattress. It continues for a few more muffled rings then stops.

Joel is shifting around from foot to foot. I've put him in a horrible situation, I can see that, but there's no other way to get this done. And anyway, I have an idea how I'm going to make things right for him. But first things first.

‘Don't worry,' I tell him with a steering hand in his back, getting us started towards the stairs, ‘you're doing really well.
You're just going to have to trust me. I know that's not easy but it's the only choice you have.'

We take a long way round. Whenever we get to a potentially tricky point in our journey Joel scouts ahead then motions me forward with militaristic hand gestures. All that sitting around playing
Call of Duty
is suddenly paying off for him.

Blair's flat is on an internal corridor, as opposed to one of the balcony ‘walks' as Joel calls them. The strip lights above us must have got wet or shaken loose a wire because they are guttering like candle stumps, plunging us in and out of darkness. Joel is not keen on the effect, it's playing on his nerves. By the time we arrive at our destination it's all he can do to stand there and stare at the door.

‘This it?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What's waiting for me in there, Joel?'

‘Jus Blair, innit. And his sister.'

‘And the parents? Where are they? It's the middle of the night.'

‘His mum's working.'

When I ask about the father, all he says is ‘in the pen', whatever that's supposed to mean. Prison, presumably.

‘Okay, go on then,' I wave him on, ‘ring the bell.'

It's a teenage girl who comes to the door. She's wearing a towelling dressing gown. Her hair is flattened and bunched up on one side. We've clearly woken her.

‘Sorry,' I tell her, ‘but we're coming in.'

I shove Joel in front of me and follow him inside, shutting the door quickly behind us. Understandably she kicks up a bit of a fuss. As she's demanding to know what the hell's going on, I'm readying myself for the sudden appearance of her brother, maybe even brandishing the gun in alarm. But no one comes.

‘Where's Blair?' I ask her.

She stops her protest immediately. The mere mention of his name is enough to explain why a stranger has come barging into her home at this hour.

‘He's not here.' She looks at me, or rather, she looks at my suit. ‘You police?'

I'm not sure what kind of policeman would be muscling into someone's house looking like I do but I don't deny it. There's a certain primness to her that tells me she's used to picking up the broken pieces her brother leaves behind him, and if I can keep her believing I have the law on my side, I might just be able to get what I need without having to resort to scaring or threatening her. To be perfectly frank, looking at her studious, careworn face, I sincerely doubt if I could so much as raise my voice at her. But like I say, hopefully I won't have to. Joel, on the other hand, I'm not so sure about. This is all making him a bit fidgety.

‘Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?'

She turns and leads us into the kitchen. The washing up is all done and her schoolbooks are neatly stacked on the table ready for the morning. She gestures for me to sit down and takes the seat opposite me. Joel remains standing. I can feel him studying my every move.

‘I need to speak to your brother … Sorry, what's your name?'

‘Alicia.'

‘Alicia, I need to speak with Blair as soon as possible. Tonight. Do you have any idea where he might be?'

She shoots a glance at Joel before deciding whether to answer. She seems to weigh it up for a second or two, then says, ‘He's at the farm.'

‘Fuck you say that for?' Joel snaps at her. ‘Gonna get us both shanked.'

He's scared. Some of the swagger that I noticed when I was first watching him cycling back and forth and dealing with the older guys in the courtyard had a moment ago been creeping
back into his movements, his confidence and bluster beginning to build again. But now he's gone straight back to looking small and upset. It's easy to forget he's just a child. I would like to find a way to make him relax and stop fronting, as he would call it, but sympathy never works in situations like this. What he needs is to be treated like a man, for me to level with him.

‘I'm not interested in the farm,' I tell him flatly. ‘If I was, that's where we would be now.' I'm assuming it's some kind of marijuana plantation squirrelled away in the bowels of this block. Another of Devan's enterprises, perhaps. Then, turning back to her, I add, ‘I'm here for the gun. The gun that Blair is hiding in one of these rooms.'

She is looking down at the pattern of the plastic table cover, as if its latticework of swirls and shades might contain an answer to why this is happening.

‘You ain't no fed.' Joel is no longer slouching against the kitchen counter. He has straightened himself up. His chest is pushed out in cubbish confrontation.

‘You're right,' I stand up, towering over him, ‘I'm not a policeman. But trust me, the less you know about my people, the better. So just try to relax and let me get on with what I need to do. Okay?'

He seems convinced.

Alicia hasn't moved, she's still staring down in front of her with that same look of wanting to wake up from all this. On the wall behind her some photographs are pinned to a cork notice-board.

‘That your mother?' I ask.

She follows the direction of my gaze and nods.

‘Where is she?'

‘At the hospital. She works nights.'

‘She's a nurse?'

Alicia shakes her head. ‘Cleaner.'

Keeping things clean, a thankless task. And now this problem with Blair, yet more untidiness to manage – a mess that Alicia has failed to contain. Her mother trusted her to keep things in order and now she will need to be told just how bad it really is. Alicia will have to give her the news when she gets home, bleary eyed, already run ragged from a long night of slops and spills.

‘I can see the position you're in,' is all I say.

It's enough to make her look at me.

‘This isn't your fault.' I lock on to her eyes, not allowing her to look away. ‘I know how things get – it's too much for you. A young man like that, without his father …'

It's true – men become unreachable too early. After a certain point there's no helping it. As if in deference to this truth, Joel begins to mutter to himself. He's on the brink of acting out again.

‘I can help you with this,' I tell her. ‘This doesn't have to end badly.'

Also on the wall is a cross. It's the kind I mind the least – not one of the ones with a little statue of me attached to it, bent-kneed, slump-shouldered, but a simple crux of wood. What I think of as a peasant's cross, although that's probably not something you can say these days. It has a naivety I find difficult to resent.

‘Did you make that?'

She smiles. ‘No, Blair did.' But saying that kills her smile. ‘In Sunday school,' she adds with even less hope.

There was a time, a very long time, when I used to look at settings like this and be able to think to myself,
You know what? Maybe it's not so bad after all. What harm can it really do?
I would see people living in this way, clinging to my cross and its promise of some sense to their suffering, and I would be okay with it. Not properly okay, not at heart, not persuaded, but making do with a bad lot. That kind of okay. It's intoxicating – no, actually it's anaesthetising – to find yourself the magnet for such intimacy.
Drop Thy still dews of quietness, till all our strivings
cease
– that whole side to it all. It's so tender, so tired in its invocations.
Just let me rest, Prince of Peace
–
take me home
. It's hard to say no to. But after a while – and, as I say, it was a long, long while – the anaesthetic wore off and I was forced to admit that actually it's not okay. Because it's not just about comfort – it doesn't end there. It's not just about my lighted lamp in the benighted slums and the darkest hours. It's about wars, too, and persecution, and manipulation, and greed, and power.

I rise up from my seat and I take the cross down from the wall. She watches me do this without moving. Her expression has changed. Joel isn't sure what to make of it either.

‘It's okay,' I tell her.

I hand it to her, the cross, to show her that nothing has changed. I just want her to look at it, to have it in her hands while I tell her something. I look at the boy too. He's pretending not to be watching.

I have had many conversations like this in the past, when I have tried to kindle hope in the hearts of those who need it most. And each time I resorted to pity, pity for that same helplessness that I see in her now. It moved me to conjure up a solution where none existed, and in the intervening centuries I have repented at my leisure, watching the slow metastasis of that mistake.

Not this time.

‘That object in your hands,' I tell her, ‘it reminds us that there are such things as courage and dignity.' Yet again I find myself having to push away the image of Abaddon, his eyes pressing into me. ‘But it cannot live your life for you,' I use the words to move us forwards, away from the past. ‘Only you can do that. Nor can it give you something more, some other chance to do it better. There is no more than this, so you need to make
this
count.'

I reach out to my side and I pull Joel towards me, so he's standing right next to the table. He squirms a little but I tighten my grip. Still she just watches me.

‘Get off me, man,' he says.

‘If you feel bad,' I tell her, ‘it is because you need to make changes. If you feel guilt, it is unrelated to God. Its cause is rooted here in this earth. It is because you know that you have allowed yourself to become helpless while your brother – another boy, like this one,' I shake Joel's arm, again he tells me to get off him, ‘loses his way.'

It is good that her eyes are brimming with tears. I am drawing the pain out of her, into this room, where I can chase it away.

‘It is not too late,' I have to raise my voice a little, to keep her with me. ‘Look at me. It is not too late. You can still change it. You just need courage. Take that courage not from what is in your hands, but from what is in your heart.'

We both look at the cross. She places it slowly on to the table.

‘And you,' I squeeze my hand, his little arm so fragile beneath the folds of his sweatshirt, ‘you have chosen the wrong family – those people down there care nothing for you – all they want is to …'

He wriggles away from me. ‘You're mental, man.'

He tries to make a break for the hallway but I catch hold of him again. The effort of it pulls me off my chair, though, and we both fall to the floor, me on top of him. Wasted as my body is, it is still heavy to a child and the impact knocks the wind right out of him. I kneel up beside him and give him a little room to recover. He's gulping like a fish.

‘Just tell me where it is,' I say to her. ‘Tell me where it is and I will remove this weight from your shoulders. Come on, Alicia, let me do this for you. Let me start a change.'