The earth beneath their feet is stiff and unyielding.
The night closes like a fist around them.
PART FOUR
The Three Amigos Ride Again
“It’s not what I expected.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SIMON AND BRENDAN stood outside the low-rise apartment complex in Gateshead, in view of the Baltic Flour Mill and not too far from the banks of the River Tyne. They could hear traffic in the distance, and somewhere nearby loud music was playing — in a public park or a local beer garden — and it drifted on the still air, bringing with it a sense of subdued frivolity.
“Jesus,” said Simon. “It hasn’t half changed round here.”
Brendan nodded, but he did not speak. He looked exhausted. Simon reached out and touched his arm, rubbing the sleeve of his jacket like a concerned mother. “We don’t have to do this now, mate. You can go home, be with your family.”
Brendan turned to face him. “No,” he said, smiling lightly. “It’s fine. Let’s do this. There’s nothing to be gained from my going back. I told you, the kids are fine. Harry’s home and Jane’s coping. I’d only make things more stressful if I was hanging around at the house.”
Simon squeezed Brendan’s arm. His friend had been through a lot the previous night — Harry throwing up, and what could only have been a small bird erupting from his throat. Then the boy going into some kind of convulsive fit. The ambulance. The hospital. That was a lot to deal with, for anyone… especially a neurotic night owl with serious attachment issues.
Simon’s new mobile phone was yet to turn up from the distributor, although his new credit and debit cards had arrived by courier that morning, at the break of dawn. So when he’d got out of bed Simon had called the Coles from the payphone on the corner (which was miraculously still working) to find out how the kid was doing, and Jane had told him that Harry had finally been sent home to rest about an hour ago, feeling restless but more or less comfortable. They’d taken samples of his blood, done some tests, and little Harry had sat up in the hospital bed smiling and chatting and asking for food. He didn’t seem to realise what was going on, and had no memory of what had happened back at home the night before.
The doctors had taken plenty of time to convince themselves that Harry was in good health, apart from a sore throat and a minor headache, and then told the family that he could be taken home. He was prescribed infant aspirin for his aches and pains, a week off school to recuperate, and plenty of pampering from his parents.
“Come on, then,” he said, turning to face the apartment block. “Let’s get up there and see if he’s at home.”
The two men walked along the path at the side of the residents’ car park, looking at the expensive vehicles lined up in their private spaces: Jeeps and Land Rovers, sports models and coupés. There was a lot of money in those white-painted parking spaces.
“Looks like Marty’s landed on his feet.” Brendan seemed calmer now, more focused, if exhausted. “I always knew he would, eventually.”
“He’s only flat-sitting. It isn’t his. None of this belongs to him.” Simon felt a pang of envy, or perhaps it was more like bitterness, swelling in his stomach. He didn’t want anybody thinking that one of his old gang members had been more successful than him. He’d spent a long time, and given up a lot of personal involvement, to get where he was today, and he needed everyone to know that he’d earned it and that he was the top man. He didn’t like feeling this way, but he did feel it. Simon guarded his success closely, like a private stash of wealth; he hated feeling inferior to anyone, especially the people he’d left behind.
They approached the main entrance and Simon examined the neatly hand-written name cards above the buzzers. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this, because he already knew that Marty was staying in flat seven, the penthouse. But he was nosey; he liked to know things, even if they weren’t important. Just the knowing itself represented some kind of control, and it made him feel good to gather details towards himself like a child collecting shells on a lonely beach. It was not so much that knowledge was power, but that it gave him an edge over other people when it came time to push.
He glanced at Brendan, who was looking around furtively, like a criminal keeping an eye out for trouble. He smiled. Then, turning away, he pressed the buzzer for flat number seven.
There was no audible sound from where they were standing when he buzzed, so the two men just stood on the step for a while, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, Simon reached out and pressed the small metal button again, and then leant forward and peered through the thickened glass panel, trying to make out any kind of movement in the entryway. He saw closed doors on the ground floor level, and a concrete staircase leading up to the floors above. There was nobody there; the place seemed deserted. Potted plants stood at intervals around the ground floor, like sentinels guarding the doors of each flat. He guessed that everyone who lived there was probably out at work — all the office workers, the bankers and solicitors, who could afford these high-spec dwellings no doubt put in long hours to meet the mortgage payments. There was no evidence of any children — no bikes or buggies or mislaid toys. These places were designed for young, upwardly-mobile people: professional couples and post-graduate flat-sharers. They were empty, even when everyone was at home. He could see how easily Marty Rivers might fit in with a set-up like this, making no mark, casting no shadow; moving through the rooms and corridors like a ghost.
“Nobody home,” he said, redundantly.
“Well, that’s a bit fucking anticlimactic.” Brendan sounded angry. He turned around and walked a few steps away from the entrance, kicking at the concrete flagstones. “I left my sick child at home for this?”
“Hey, it’s fine. It’ll be okay. Let’s go for a drink somewhere and come back later. In fact, I’ll tell you what… let’s leave a note.” He took out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and started to look for a pen.
“Here,” said Brendan, handing him a blue biro with a chewed end and no lid.
Simon flattened the paper against the glass of the door and scribbled out a quick note: We came to see you. We’ll be back. Then he folded the paper in half and in half again, before writing Marty’s name on the sheet and sliding the note under the door.
“Think it’ll do any good?” Brendan’s eyes were wide. He looked afraid. He must be more tired than Simon could even imagine.
Simon shrugged. “Fuck knows, but we have to try. What else can we do?”
They turned back to the apartment complex and stared up at the top floor. The windows were tinted; no interior light could be seen behind the dark glass. The sun, high above them, was more a promise of warmth that failed to deliver. Simon wondered if they were being watched. It certainly felt that way; as if Marty were up there, hiding, and examining their every move. Without even thinking about what he was doing, Simon raised his right hand, turned it so that the palm was directed towards the window, and opened the fingers. He made a slow fist, one finger at a time: the secret salute of the Three Amigos.
Come and see, he mouthed silently, his lips forming words that he held deep inside. Come and help us.
MARTY WATCHED THEM leave from the living room, standing before the large window in his old jeans and a torn T-shirt. He had not bathed this morning, and his mouth tasted stale. He idly rubbed the side of his stomach with the palm of his hand, feeling the lump there. It was like a growth, a tumour, and occasionally it moved — a slight twitching motion, like a dog makes while it is sleeping.