‘Yeah, why not?’ Armstrong shovelled chips out and into a styrofoam container. ‘Be a year soon enough anyway, since Lee was killed. So yeah, we might get together.’
‘Lee’s brother might be out by then,’ Holland said. ‘I imagine he’ll be pretty pleased to hear about Amin, too. Don’t you reckon?’ It was clear enough from Armstrong’s expression that not only was the answer blindingly obvious, but that he did not understand why he was being asked the question. Holland glanced at Kitson and saw that she’d seen it too. However many insinuations they made or however hard they tried to dig for something, the kid was every bit as surprised as Slater’s father had been to hear about Amin Akhtar’s death.
Armstrong dug out a second portion of chips. ‘You want salt and vinegar?’
Kitson leaned across and helped herself, then pushed the containers back for Armstrong to wrap. ‘He killed himself, just so you know. So you know exactly what you’ll be drinking to. After he was attacked and put in hospital. After he was raped.’
‘Yeah, well, he’d have enjoyed that,’ Armstrong muttered.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing, just? ’ Armstrong reddened and quickly wrapped another sheet of paper around the takeaway cartons. He shoved them into a plastic bag and looked at Kitson. ‘Look, he deserved it, all right? Not dying I mean, I didn’t even… know about that. Getting banged up, though, that was fair enough.’
‘You reckon?’
‘For what he done to Lee.’
‘What, after you and your mates attacked him, you mean?’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
Armstrong tried to protest but Holland cut him off. ‘I know, just a harmless bit of snowballing, right?’
‘He stabbed Lee.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Kitson said. ‘That’s what happens when you take a knife to a snowball fight.’
‘Hey, when can I open my bloody shop?’
They all turned to see that the owner had reappeared in the doorway.
‘That’s three pounds for the chips,’ Armstrong said. He took the note and put it into the till, laid two pound coins down on the counter.
Holland pushed Kitson’s change towards her and snatched the bag. He nodded across at the conical slab of grey meat turning slowly on a spit in the corner. ‘You’re as full of shit as that is, Danny,’ he said.
*
Helen had drifted away. Her eyes closed and her head back against the cool metal of the radiator.
Alfie was laughing and Paul was there and he was laughing too. The way she had almost forgotten, because she was unable to call his face quickly and clearly to mind. The features blurring, until she was left with nothing but the shape of him. A muddy image of his mouth half open while he slept, or that thunderous scowl when he was pissed off. Each expression growing fuzzier with every week that passed, while she searched desperately for the ghosts of them in her son’s face.
It was clear enough now though.
A daydream that she wished more than anything was a memory, or better yet a vision of the future.
Jammy little bugger’s got my looks.
You reckon?
Come on, he’s bloody gorgeous!
He’s a damn sight less moody than you, that’s for sure.
‘I need a drink.’
Helen opened her eyes, astonished to hear Mitchell finally talking. She turned to look at him and saw him nodding towards Akhtar who was sitting at the desk and staring at the wall above their heads.
‘I need a drink,’ Mitchell said again. ‘Can I please have something to drink?’
Akhtar nodded and stood up. ‘Coke or something?’
‘That’s fine, thank you.’
The newsagent walked out into the shop and as soon as he was gone Mitchell leaned across to Helen. ‘We have to do something now,’ he said.
‘ What? ’
‘I can’t do this, I told you.’
‘Just calm down, Stephen, all right?’
‘I can’t.’ He shook his head. ‘Who knows how long we could be stuck here and he might just kill us anyway.’
‘He won’t kill us if we do as he says.’
‘Come on, you’re a copper. You should be working out a way to get us out of this.’
‘Trust me, I am.’
‘We can’t just sit here.’
‘Yes we can,’ Helen said. ‘We don’t have to do anything.’
‘We could try and get the gun.’
‘Please, just-’
‘I’ve thought about it.’
‘ No… ’
She leaned quickly away from him as Akhtar came back in. She hoped he would not notice that she was suddenly breathing heavily. With the gun in his right hand, Akhtar leaned down and handed Mitchell the can with his left.
‘Thanks,’ Mitchell said. He opened the can and took a drink. ‘It’s just so hot, that’s all.’ He smiled, too wide and wavering a little at the corners of his mouth. ‘We’re never happy about the weather in this country, are we?’
Akhtar went back to the desk and sat down.
Helen listened to Mitchell gulping down the drink. She could not look at him. She kept her eyes on the gun that Akhtar had once again laid down on the desk, praying that Mitchell had listened to her. That he would not do anything stupid.
‘Sorry,’ Mitchell said. ‘Now I need the toilet.’
Helen turned and looked hard at him, but Mitchell would not meet her eye. She said his name quietly, but he ignored her.
Akhtar thought about Mitchell’s request for a few seconds, then nodded. He stood up slowly and reached for the gun. Then he picked up the key to the handcuffs.
‘Thanks,’ Mitchell said. ‘Bursting… ’
Akhtar tossed the key across to Helen, then pointed the revolver at her. ‘Please do it slowly,’ he said.
She picked up the key, inched over to her right and gradually leaned across Mitchell’s lap. She could smell the sweat as she pressed against him. He kept his eyes on Akhtar, refusing to engage with her though their faces were only inches apart.
Her hand shook as she struggled to fit the tiny key into the lock.
‘OK, now stand up slowly, please.’
Mitchell climbed to his feet, rolling his wrist around and groaning as he stretched his legs. He let out a long breath and pointed towards the toilet door. ‘OK?’
Akhtar nodded. The hand that was holding the gun shifted to track Mitchell’s movements as he took the few steps across and opened the toilet door. Helen caught a glimpse of the grubby-looking bowl and black plastic seat just before Mitchell turned to pull the door closed behind him. He finally looked at her, only for a second or two, but she could not read the expression.
Blank or focused, it was hard to tell, but the eyes were empty.
Helen and Akhtar looked at one another as fifteen seconds passed without any noise from inside the toilet. Helen listened for the sound of Mitchell pissing, but heard nothing until, a minute or more after he had gone inside, he began to sob.
They both turned and stared at the scarred wooden door. The noise from behind it was deep and regular. It could almost have been a laugh were it not for the high catch in the throat as Mitchell struggled to find the breath between each tattoo of sobs.
It subsided after a minute or so. There were sniffs then and a bout of coughing, until the toilet flushed and the door finally opened.
‘OK, Stephen?’ Helen asked.
Mitchell did not respond, standing perfectly still just outside the toilet door and making no attempt to conceal what had been happening inside. He stared, unblinking, at Akhtar, until the newsagent raised the gun and told him to sit down.
Mitchell did not move. Akhtar took a small step in his direction and told him again.
‘Better out than in, eh?’ Helen said, trying to laugh. ‘Stephen?’
Mitchell turned to look at her as if he had only just noticed she was there. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again and began walking slowly back towards the radiator.
‘Nice and easy,’ Helen said.
Akhtar glanced at her. ‘Yes… please.’
Helen held her breath – keeping her eyes fixed on Mitchell’s, searching for the desire, the intent to make any sudden move – and did not release it until her weight was once again across him and she was leaning over to fasten the handcuff back around his wrist.