`Actually, Arnold,' Flight slid along the bench until his thigh, was almost touching that of the other man. Arnold angled his own legs away from the policeman, his eyes intent on Flight's proximity to him. `Speaking of memory, maybe you can help me.' Maybe you can help Inspector Rebus, too.'
`Y-e-e-s?' The word was stretched almost to breaking point.
`We were just wondering,' said Flight, `whether you've seen Kenny lately. Only he doesn't seem to have been around much, does he? I wondered whether he'd maybe gone on holiday?'
Arnold gazed up with milky, childlike eyes. `Kenny who?'
Flight laughed. `Kenny Watkiss, Arnold. Your mate Kenny.'
For a moment, Rebus held his breath. What if it was another Arnold? What if Sammy had got the name wrong? Then' Arnold nodded slowly.
`Oh, that Kenny. He's not really a mate, Mr Flight. I mean, I see him now and again.' Arnold stopped, but Flight was nodding, saying nothing, expecting more. `We have a drink together sometimes.'
`What do you talk about?'
The question was unexpected.’
‘What do you mean?
`It's a simple enough question,' said Flight with a smile. `What do you talk about? I wouldn't have thought the two of you would have much in common.'
`We just, we talk. I don't know.'
`Yes, but what do you talk about? Football?'
`Sometimes, yes.'
`What team does he support?'
`I don't know, Mr Flight.?
'You talk about football with him—and yet you don't know what team he supports?'
`Maybe he told me and I forgot!
Flight looked dubious. `Maybe,' he agreed. Rebus knew his part in the drama now. Let Flight do the talking. Just keep quiet but look ominous, standing over Arnold like a thundercloud, staring down like an avenger onto that gleaming bald dome of a head. Flight knew exactly what he was doing. Arnold was growing nervous, his body jerking, unable to keep his head still, his right knee bobbing up and down.
`So what else do you talk about? He likes motorbikes, doesn't he?'
`Yes,' Arnold answered, guardedly now, for he knew what was happening to him.
`So do you talk about bikes?'
`I don't like bikes. Too noisy.'
`Too noisy? Yes, you've got a, point there.' Flight nodded towards the play area. `But this place is noisy, too, Arnold, isn't it? Yet you don't seem to mind the noise here. Why's that?'
Arnold turned on him, eyes burning. But Flight was ready with a smile, a smile more serious than any grimace.
`What I mean is,' he went on, 'you like some noises but not others. That's fair, isn't it? But you don't like motorbikes. So what else do you talk about with Kenny?'
`We just talk,' said Arnold, his face creased with anguish. `Gossip, how the city's changing, the East End. This used to be all rows of cottages. There was a field and allotments. The families all used to have picnics on the field. They'd bring tomatoes or potatoes or a cabbage to your mum, saying they grew too much, and the kids would all play in the street. There weren't any Bangladeshis or what have you. Just proper East Enders. Kenny's mum and dad didn't live far from here. Two streets away from where I lived. Course, I was older than him. We never played together or anything.'
`And where did Uncle Tommy live?'
`He was over that way.' Arnold pointed with a finger. He had grown a little more confident now. Reminiscences couldn't do any harm, could they? And to talk freely came as such, a relief after, the careful duel he'd just gone through. So he opened up` to them. The good old days. But between his words, Rebus could, see a truer picture, a picture of how the other kids used to beat. him up, play tricks on him, of how his father used to lock him in his room, starve him. The family breaking apart. Drifting into petty crime. Painfully shy, unable to form relationships.
`Do you ever see Tommy around?' Flight asked sud?denly.
`Tommy Watkiss? Yes, I see him.' Arnold was, still basking in the past.
`Does Kenny see him?'
`Of course he does. He works for him sometimes.'
`What? Deliveries, that sort of thing?'
`Deliveries, pick-ups—' Arnold halted, aware of what he was saying. This wasn't the past they were talking about any longer. This wasn't safe.
Flight leaned across so that his nose was almost touchin Arnold's. All Arnold could do was lean back against th bench, its hard spars stopping him from escaping.
`Where is he, Arnold?'
`Who? Tommy?'
`You know bloody well who I mean! Kenny! Tell me where he is!'
Rebus half-turned, to see that the children had stopped playing and were watching this grown-up game.
`You going to fight, mister?' one of them called. Rebus shook his head and called back, 'Just pretending.'
Flight still had Arnold pinned to the bench. 'Arnold,' he hissed, 'you know me. I've always played, fair by you.'
`I know that, Mr Flight.'
`But I'm not pretending. What I'm doing is losing my rag. Everything's going to hell in this city, Arnold, and I'm inclined to just shrug my shoulders and join in. Understand me? Why should I play fair when nobody else does, eh? So I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Arnold. I'm going to have to pull you in.'
`What for?' Arnold was terrified now. He didn't think Flight was playing a game. Rebus had the same feeling either that or Flight was in line for an Oscar.
Tor indecent exposure. You were going to expose, yourself to those kids. I saw you getting ready. I saw your dick hanging out of your fly.'
`No, no.' Arnold was shaking his head. 'That's a lie.'
`Previous convictions don't lie, Arnold. Inspector Rebus saw you, too. He saw your prick waving in the air like a cocktail sausage. We both saw you, and that's what we'll tell the judge. Now who's he going to believe, eh? Think about that for a moment. Think about solitary. They'll have to hold you in solitary so the other prisoners don't kick the shit out of you. But that won't stop them pissing in your tea and gobbing in your food. You know the score, Arnold. You've been there. And then one night, you'll hear your door being unlocked, and in they'll come. Maybe the screws, maybe the prisoners. They'll come in and they'll hold you down. One of them'll have a brush-handle, and one'll have a rusty old razor blade, won't they, Arnold? Won't they Arnold?'
But Arnold was trembling too violently to speak, trembling and babbling, bubbles of saliva bursting at either side of his mouth. Flight slid back along the bench away from him, then looked up at Rebus with sad eyes. Rebus nodded solemnly. This wasn't a nice business that they were in, not nice at all. Flight lit a cigarette. Rebus refused one. Two words were bouncing around the inside of John Rebus's skull.
Needs must.
And then Arnold started to talk. And when he had finished, Flight dug into a trouser pocket and drew out a pound coin, which he slapped down on the bench beside his shattered victim.
`There you go, Arnold. Get yourself a cup of tea or something. And stay away from playgrounds, all right?' Flight picked up his carrier-bags, picked out an apple from one, and tossed it into Arnold's lap, causing the man to flinch. Then he picked out another one and began to crunch on it, starting off back towards the market.
Needs must.
Back at HQ Rebus thought about Lisa. He felt the need for some human contact, for something clean and warm and separate from this other world he chose to inhabit, something to wash out his badly soiled mind.
Flight had warned him on the way back—'no messing about this time, John. Leave it to us. You've got to stay out of it. It would look bad in court, copper with a grudge, that sort of line.'
`But,' Rebus had replied, `I do have a grudge, George. This guy Kenny might have been shagging my daughter!'
Flight had glanced from the windscreen into Rebus's face, then had looked away.
`I said leave it to us, John. If you can't play it that way, I'll personally see that you go bouncing back down the ranks like a ball down a fucking stairwell. Got that?'