Ritual

'But I can't have your people down here, can't do that. My clients'll never trust me again.'

'It's your decision. It's only you who can decide to do the right thing.'

There was another pause. 'Tell you what,' Tig said at last. 'If you leave the photo I'll let the guys see it. Maybe something'll come out of it like that.'

'Can I rely on you for that?' Caffery wanted to play the game out a little further. 'The future victims… can they rely on you?'

'Mate, listen now. I'm giving you a promise. OK? I make you a promise. You take it or you leave it.'

Caffery slid Mossy's photo back out of his folder and passed it over. Tig picked it up, his face tight, contained. He put it on the photocopier and ran off copies, standing with his back to Caffery, who sat for a while, not speaking, wondering if there was something else he should be asking. On the floor near the photocopier was a bag he hadn't noticed before, a holdall with a fleece draped over it. He vaguely registered something familiar about its logo. It was making him drift a bit when Tig said, 'Do you know about me?'

'What?'

'You didn't look at my record before you come here?'

'What would I've found if I had?'

Tig handed him the photo and sat down. He rubbed his hand across his shaved scalp. 'What you said earlier — don't I ever get tired of it. Do you know how come I don't?'

'No.' Caffery looked down at the bag again, then back at Tig. 'No, I don't.'

'Because it's me. I'm one of them. Or I was. That's why I never get tired of them or of the shit they're going through — the self-hatred, the misery, the awful fucking hole you fall into when you're an addict. I know what it's like to break a car window for a ten-pence piece on the dashboard, to rob my mum's pension, to pick someone else's stash out of a pool of their puke. I know what it's like to be down there.'

'Why're you telling me this?'

'Because I nearly killed someone.' He paused to let that sink in. 'I've done my time, but I can see you finding out about that and coming back, getting a bit tasty with me, maybe pointing fingers. Better tell you now so it's no surprise.'

Caffery sat back in his chair. For a while the only noise was the photocopier whirring and flashing, sending the smell of copying ink into the air. Then he said, 'Well? What happened?'

'An old lady. I was high. Went into her house to rob her and ended up half killing her — tied her up with the bedside-lamp cord and smashed both legs with an iron.'

Caffery smiled slowly. Something cold was creeping into his skull. 'And you're telling me you regret it? That you're straight, learned your lesson? That you're a productive member of society? That we should be having a soft little session about rehabilitation?'

Tig smiled back nastily. 'Ah, yes. I should have known. I should have seen in your eyes. You don't believe people can change. Forgiveness isn't a word you use in a hurry.'

Caffery tried to imagine what it'd be like to wrap electric cord round an old lady, then hit her so hard with an iron that the bones in her legs shattered. He tried to imagine what Penderecki had done to Ewan. What it would be like to rape a nine-year-old boy. How loud would someone have to scream to make you stop? Penderecki had had his shot at redemption — he never did time for Ewan, and he could have made anything he wanted out of his life. But he had died, alone and penniless with no family or friends, just a pile of children's underwear catalogues in his council house. And even that was about a million times better than he deserved.

Tig stood up and took the huge bunch of keys from the desk. He went to the door, and turned. 'Is that it, then?'

Caffery got to his feet, snapped closed the leather folder and went to the door. He stopped next to Tig and looked into his eyes. 'Just one thing,' he said softly. 'If you took my legs away from me do you know what I'd want?'

'No. What would you want?'

'I'd want to pay you back.' He smiled, feeling as if there was blood on his teeth. 'I'd want to take your legs in return.'

20

Tig wasn't in the mood to talk about what he'd said. I'm not gay. When he came to find Flea, sitting quietly in the unlit kitchen downstairs, waiting for Caffery to go, his face was red and patchy, his eyes were hard. She asked him what was the matter, what had been said, but he shook his head and was silent as they drove to the restaurant owner's house. It was only when they were standing on the doorstep, waiting for the door to be answered, that he spoke.

'They don't make them any different from the way they made them fifteen years ago. Something out of The Sweeney, that one.'

Flea didn't answer. She was staring at the little window in the restaurant owner's front door. Several times on the way over here she'd almost said to Tig, 'Look, let's forget it. Let's just turn round and pretend I never said anything.' She knew she was getting in too deep and now she was light-headed, as if an elastic band had been wrapped round her skull and was being tightened. If she was right, this innocuous-seeming house could hold the key to how Mallows got his hands cut off.

'Hey, you with us?' Tig said.

She blinked. 'What?'

'I just said — that cop. Jack Caffery. Gave me a little Fascist-police-state spiel. Aggressive. Only word for it.'

'He's not that bad.'

Tig looked her up and down in a way that made her uncomfortable. Then he gave her a tight grin. 'See? You gave the game away. You fancy him.'

She was about to answer when the sound of locks being opened from inside stopped her. She straightened her shoulders and ran her hands self-consciously down her jeans to iron out the creases. She wished she could see herself in a mirror — she knew she'd be pale in the face.

The man who opened the door had a faintly anxious, scholarly look about him. He was thin with close-cropped greying hair and skin so dark it seemed almost to have an ashy dust over it. He was dressed unassumingly in lightweight belted trousers and his pale green checked shirt had its sleeves rolled up. She noticed that the skin on his forearms was shiny — as if it had been greased.

'Mr Mabuza.' Tig extended his hand. 'Good of you to see me. Short notice, I know.'

Mabuza forced a smile. 'Don't worry, my old friend.' He took the hand carefully, almost delicately, and shook it. Then he inclined his head to Flea. 'Gift Mabuza. And you are?'

'This is Flea, my — my girlfriend. Hope you don't mind.'

Girlfriend? When the hell was that okayed? she thought, but Mabuza was looking at her so she removed her sunglasses and held out her hand. There was a slight beat — just a split second when she thought something crossed his face — then he took it and shook it lightly. When he let go she could feel a thin residue left on her hand — something faintly pungent, faintly unpleasant.

'Come in,' he said. He spoke in a stiff, clipped way — only a trace of an accent, a bit like Kaiser spoke sometimes. Sort of Eliza Doolittle-ish — a bit too English to be real. 'Come in, come in.'

She stepped inside and instantly felt a drag on her — as if the gloom was pulling energy from her. There was a smell in here, of meals cooked many months ago, of sadness. When Mabuza took them in and left them in the living room while he went to get coffee, it was a few moments before her eyes got used to the light, but when she did she saw the interior was decorated like an English guesthouse: horse brasses on the walls, purple carpets on the floor, overstuffed floral sofas with arm protectors, embroidered cushions plumped up and propped in a row. There were trimmed lampshades, a cheap carriage clock on the television, twin china spaniels on either side of the mantelpiece with a wooden crucifix on a small base between them. Without waiting to be asked she went to the mantelpiece and studied the cross, thinking there was something strange about it, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.