East of Innocence (31 page)

It had been strange, listening to the vicar’s sermon, learning things about my mother that she had yet to tell me. How she had worked with street children, how she had given up every Christmas Day she had to be there for them. How she had been a decent water-colour painter and had even put on an exhibition with other local artists. How she had made people laugh, how she had had a gift for it. All things I should have known myself; how could I not resent a stranger telling me?

My mother died two nights after I left her side, although Mr Latimer has told me that she was happy at the end and that, just an hour before her organs failed her, she had been talking about me; she had called me her miracle. I had been due to visit her again the following day, and Mr Latimer had called me with the news while I was packing a small bag. His voice had broken as he told me that she was dead and I knew that he was crying; he made no attempt to hide it. I had been holding a polo shirt and after I put the phone down I did not know what to do with it. My bag was open on my bed and I stood with the dead phone and shirt in my hand for some minutes before I picked my bag up and threw it into the mirror in my room, cracking it.

Now, my mother’s coffin is lowered into the grave and earth thrown upon it. I wonder how I will be able to stop thinking about her; wonder how long before I can forget I ever met her.

*

Back at the Latimers’ house, the dining-room table is covered with snack food just out of its packaging and people are balancing plates and glasses in their hands and trying to stand as close to corners as they can. I attract glances and nervous smiles but nobody tries to speak to me, and I cannot blame them. One of my eyes is bloodshot and both are black and the bridge of my nose is split. My tongue hurts where Baldwin hacked at it, and my mutilated finger throbs. They can only begin to imagine how I would respond to a polite greeting.

I stand next to the table, unsure what to do, as uncomfortable as a single man at a nightclub. My hands feel big and clumsy and I don’t know where to put them, in my pockets or behind my back, and I pick up a glass of water to give them something to do. I wonder how soon I can get away. I only knew her for three days; we were barely acquaintances. Half an hour should do it.

Penelope is talking to a couple of old ladies, shaking their hands and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. In the church, she had really let go, huge racking sobs as the vicar gave us some schtick about the immortal soul. She will not look in my direction. Fuck this, I think, and turn to leave but Mr Latimer stops me in the hall.

‘Daniel.’

‘Harold.’ Our conversation is as stilted as that between a young man and the father of the girl whose knickers he’s trying to get into. We are still strangers. He is wearing a black suit and he looks feeble, diminished by the events; an old, old man.

‘You’re leaving?’

‘I don’t feel like I should be here.’

‘If not you, then who?’

I grudgingly thank him inwardly for this unaffected welcome, yet it changes nothing. ‘It’s difficult for me.’

‘For all of us,’ he says. ‘But before you go, we do need to talk. Follow me?’

He leads me down the hall to his office, a small room with a surprising amount of clutter. I would have imagined a room with polished fitted bookshelves and leather-bound books, leather-upholstered chairs, a desktop covered in leather. But Mr Latimer has an IKEA desk, books and papers everywhere, a tower computer with one side missing. I can see the fan working inside, circuit boards. I imagine he spends a lot of time here, has done for years.

‘Your mother left a will,’ he says. He opens a drawer of his desk and looks inside, takes out a plain white envelope. He hands it to me.

‘A will?’

‘Yes. Rather recently, as you can imagine.’

I do not understand. I look down at the envelope in my hand. It is made from thick paper. It looks expensive. ‘Well, open it,’ says Mr Latimer.

I lever it open with a finger and take out a piece of paper. On it is some writing, and there is a cheque attached. I look at Mr Latimer.

‘She saved everything she ever earned, or at least very nearly,’ he says. ‘Originally it was earmarked for her charity, but then…’ He sighs, a light, surprised sound. ‘Then you turned up.’

The sum is large. I wonder how my mother ever earned it. ‘You paid her?’

‘Of course I paid her,’ says Mr Latimer, slightly affronted. ‘You think I expect people to work for me for nothing?’

‘Then this is your money,’ I say.

‘No,’ Mr Latimer says slowly and I can see that he is genuinely upset now. ‘No, this is, was, Marcela’s money. She earned it and she was free to do with it as she wished. And now it is yours. Please do not insult me.’

I nod and tuck the letter and cheque back into the envelope, tuck the envelope into my inside jacket pocket. I cannot think of one thing to say to him.

‘And for God’s sake, don’t look so angry,’ Mr Latimer says sharply. ‘You think she’d have wanted that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The question was rhetorical. You know very well she would not.’

I do not answer. Anything I could say would only make things worse.

I leave immediately after, without saying goodbye. Why would I ever go back? Why would the Latimers want to see me again? On the way to my car, crunching over gravel, I check my phone and see that I have missed a call. It is Halliday; he has left me a message.

‘Connell, Halliday here. You, my son, are trying your luck. Trying my fucking patience an’ all. I’ll see you tomorrow at the property, ten o’clock. Be late and it’ll be your last mistake. Understand?’

I get into my car, adjust the rear-view mirror, look at
myself. I smile and the corners of my eyes crinkle but they hold nothing but malice. Fear is an emotion I can no longer imagine. I start the car and pull on to the road, back to Essex. This, all this, ends tomorrow.

32

ANGER IS OFTEN
described as a negative emotion; rage, merely destructive. But as I head into my meeting with Halliday I cannot imagine any emotion that will be more useful, considering what it is I am about to do. I am consumed with fury and part of me cannot wait for our encounter, even though I have no idea how it will pan out and even less whether I will survive it. The death of my mother, the injustice of losing her so soon after finding her, and Halliday’s culpability in it all; I would like to tear the skin off his bones. Halliday, untouchable, protected by layers of people and networks of influence and the constant and imminent threat of violence; it means nothing to me. Waiting for him to arrive, I do not feel apprehension, nerves, pre-fight jitters. Instead, I already feel the all-consuming anger that clouds my judgement and renders me impervious to pain; it is as if I am already in the fight, seeing red, charged on adrenalin. My fists are bunched and I cannot stop pacing. Bring it on.

I am standing in the ground floor of the building Halliday intended to buy. It is a large house of red brick just off the
centre of town, built at the turn of the century for a now defunct order of nuns. All of the windows are covered with weathered plywood, but inside it is in decent condition; I have been assured that it is a prime rental location and that it represents a potential financial goldmine, although just now, abandoned as it is, it seems merely sad, drab and hopeless, testament to our collective loss of faith in things spiritual. I am standing in the kitchen, which is huge and has three walls of dilapidated cupboards, a sink, a broken cooker. Dust coats everything.

I hear a sound behind me and there is Halliday, wearing only a shirt, although it is raining outside. Behind him Eddie is putting down an umbrella, which I assume he has been holding over Halliday’s head. My opinion of him, which was not high before, sinks even lower. Why abase yourself to a man like Halliday? Behind Eddie is another man and I do not recognise him, though I recognise his type. He is about my size with a shaved head and a neck wider than his jaws, perhaps forty; his face looks like it gave up smiling in his teens. He has hands as big as boxing gloves and looks as solid as a freezer. Hired muscle, which probably means two things. One, Eddie has warned Halliday that I am no pushover. And two, Halliday means me harm. But this does not bother me. At least we are both up for the fight.

Halliday walks up to me with his agitated, barely-in-control stride and stands too close, looking up at me with his chin thrust forward and his eyes bright and venomous. He is aggravated.

‘Fuck me, you came. Thought you’d dropped off the fucking planet.’

‘I’m here.’

‘Good fucking job too,’ says Halliday. ‘Or I’d have sent someone to find you.’

‘Saved you the trouble,’ I say.

Halliday’s eyes flick over my face and, just like in his bar, I have the impression of a snake coiled to strike. Time seems to slow as he weighs up his options, then he steps back, the moment over. He looks over to Eddie. ‘Right. What do we need to know?’

Eddie comes over, eye fucking me. Halliday laughs. ‘Not your best friend, is Eddie.’

‘What’s he want, a cuddle?’ I say.

‘What we want to know, wanker, is whether we’re ready to complete.’

‘Ah,’ I say.

‘Ah? The fuck does that mean?’ Eddie steps towards me but I stand my ground.

‘Interesting place, this,’ I say. ‘It was built for nuns, you know that?’

‘Who fucking cares?’ says Eddie. Evidently not a man of learning.

‘Then it fell empty, when the order disappeared. Left empty for years, before it was converted into a care home. You know that?’ Eddie shakes his head, more in bewilderment than in response to my question. I turn to Halliday. ‘You knew that, right?’

‘Just get to the point. When’s it mine?’

‘Well,’ I say, ‘the thing is, I’ve been away.’

‘So I noticed. Where the fuck were you, anyway?’

‘I went to find my mother,’ I say.

Halliday doesn’t react at first, just watches me, expressionless. I let the silence drag on. Halliday still doesn’t react, and Eddie and the muscle soon pick up on something unsaid, something in the air that they’re not part of. Things have taken a strange turn and they have been left behind; this is now between Halliday and me. But Halliday is a man to whom bravado is second nature and it does not take him long to regain his composure.

‘Yeah?’ he says indifferently. ‘You find her?’

‘I did,’ I say. ‘She said to say hi.’

‘Mr Halliday,’ says Eddie. ‘Everything all right?’

Halliday ignores him. ‘That’s got nothing to do with this.’

‘How much did you get for her?’ I ask.

‘Nothing to do with you.’

‘She’s my mother.’

‘You want to leave this.’

‘No I don’t. How much?’

‘Can’t remember. Can’t have been much.’ Halliday smiles. ‘She weren’t up to much, your mother. Useless bitch.’

I nod to myself. This is the moment. I walk over to the sink and take out a heavy wrench I have put there, cross quickly to Halliday’s hired muscle and hit him as hard as I can with it on the side of his shaved head. He tries to put up an arm but he doesn’t have time and the wrench makes a meaty sound as it connects and he goes down in a heap.

Eddie looks shocked and I can tell that he has no stomach for this fight, but he has no choice and he walks towards me cautiously and unwillingly like a child approaching a big dog he’s been dared to stroke. I step towards him and he
puts his hands up to ward off whatever’s coming and I throw the wrench at him and, as he ducks away, follow up with a punch in his throat that has him bent over, choking. I drive my knee up into his face and he falls down. I do not know if he is unconscious but if he isn’t he’s doing a good job of pretending. His face certainly hurt my knee.

Halliday has had enough of this; he is walking towards the door but I catch up and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Uh-uh,’ I say. ‘Not yet.’

Halliday turns and I don’t see any fear in his eyes, just a kind of awed disbelief. These things don’t happen to men like him. It doesn’t make sense.

‘You know you’re a fucking dead man,’ he says. ‘You know that?’

I hit him in the stomach and lower him to the floor where he sits, breathing as best he can. After some time, he takes a long shuddering breath and spits out dribble on to the ground next to him, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Better?’ I say, but Halliday just looks at me with hatred. ‘Good. Now then, about this property. A few things have come to light. One of them is that, underneath where we’re standing, are the bodies of Michael Connor and Gavin O’Dwyer. But you know that, don’t you? Because you put them there.’

Halliday still doesn’t answer, watches me warily.

‘Must have done it while it was being renovated. What, you knew someone who was pouring the concrete?’ I don’t wait for a response; Halliday has given up talking for the time being. ‘Which is why you wanted to buy this property.
Because if this place is ever demolished, and those bodies are found, you’re going down. See, I thought you wanted it to launder money, set up some fake tenants and pay yourself their rent. But you just need it to protect yourself. You’ve got through one trial. You won’t get through another.’