Candleland (14 page)

“Tara did well to get paid from you. But she was a naughty girl to talk to you in the first place.” Les's expression changed. The stone anger was subsiding, being replaced by what seemed like a maternal look, but one that also included a kind of twisted arousal. “Now, I love all my girls,” Les continued, “I'm like a mother to them. Praise them when they've been good, punish them when they've been wrong.” She looked up from Tara, straight at Larkin. “Now get out.”

“One last time, Tara,” said Larkin, “Come with me. You'll be free from all this.”

Tara looked between the two of them, her face see-sawing with conflicting emotions. With a great sigh she let her head drop, condemned, accepting the inevitable. “I'm staying here. This is where I belong.”

Les stared at Larkin, triumph in her eyes. “Now get out. It's time for Tara to take her punishment. Shut the door after you.”

Larkin stared at Tara, imploringly.

“Just go,” she said. “Please.”

Larkin, having no choice, turned and left the room.

As he walked up the hall and through the front door into the street, he heard the first sound of flesh striking flesh. His hands shook, his stomach heaved in bitter, impotent rage. He stumbled out of the house, clashing the door behind him.

He made his way up the quiet street to meet with Andy. As he walked he looked at all the other houses. Prim for the most part, well-tended, lived in. Front doors firmly shut. He knew what inhuman, unjust acts were going on in one of them, and wondered how many other atrocities went on as an unreported way of life, shrouded by suburban banality, hidden behind the respectability of a closed front door.

Part Two

Time clicked on, slowly, inexorably. Hours, minutes, days, the same rhythm … There, then gone. There, then gone. There, then gone
.

She lay on the bed, eyes wide open. She knew she should be doing more than staring at the ceiling the four walls, numb with boredom. There were diversions, they'd given her things: a TV, a computer, books. But they'd also taken things away: sunlight, freedom, space
.

Time was ticking away, wasting away. She could feel it disappearing. Each beat of her heart was a second less of life. There, then gone. There, then gone. Since she had fewer seconds than most, less time shored up in her body, she felt she should be doing something more with what she had left. But as she looked round the room she knew her options were limited
.

She picked up the remote, pointed it at the TV. Afternoon drivel spewed out. She surfed: a faded actress hawking her memoirs on a chat show, a quiz show, an Australian soap, an ancient episode of
Ironside,
an advert for life insurance. She watched the last one. An ageing television presenter spoke to the camera, said in reassuring tones how anyone could apply without a medical. While he spoke, small graphics appeared underneath him: Insurance does not cover death by cancer or AIDS. She flicked the TV off, focused once again on the ceiling
.

She was allowed out, but only at certain times, for certain things. She understood that. The room wasn't exactly brimming with amenities. She sighed. There, then gone. There, then gone
.

A sudden panic began to rise in her throat, thumping her chest, heaving to be let out, escape. She wanted to scream. She held it in. She wanted to roll on the floor, throw herself off the walls, tear her hair out. She restrained herself. She wanted to smash up every piece of furniture in the sparsely furnished room. She didn't
.

Slowly, her breathing fell back to normal. The panic subsided, caged once more. There, then gone. She lay perfectly still until she was in complete control of herself again, sure of her movements, then stood up, crossed to the desk, and calmly started up the PC
.

She needed a reminder, she told herself
.

The machine warmed up. She logged on, inserted the CD-ROM into the hard drive, moved her fingers over the keys, clicked the mouse until an image began to appear on the screen
.

She watched
.

She thought she would be inured to it by now, hardened. But she wasn't. The images moved, the sound issued from the speakers and tears began to make slow, silent progress down her cheeks
.

Yes, she thought, this reminds me. What I'm doing, why I'm here. Reminds me of the pain, the uncertainty, the risks. This reminds me of how important it all is
.

She forced herself to watch, eyes wet, riveted to the horror before her
.

Time passed. She didn't notice
.

“What d'you reckon then?” sighed Andy, his voice bored and fidgety. “Shall I get a clipboard and we do a door-to-door?”

“And ask what?” replied Larkin, no less edgily. “We're looking for an Asian prostitute, can you help us?”

“Just a thought,” replied Andy grumpily.

Cleveland Avenue in Walthamstow told the by now familiar tale of London living. A street in what was once a satellite village, now subsumed into urban London. The city was like a vast, living organism, thought Larkin. Speading out, expanding its boundaries, colonising rather than destroying. Dragging its inhabitants along with it, taking in new ones all the time.

The houses were large, turn of the century, split into flats and bedsits; every last centimetre of space squeezed and wrung out to appease the voracious city's need to house its inhabitants. Occasionally a whole house would appear belonging solely to one, obviously monied, couple or family. It must be hard not to resent them, thought Larkin.

There were no trees in the street – not enough space – but the overgrown hedges compensated for this. Roads that were never designed for cars now had them planted in kerbside rows, leaving only a thin, one-way route in the centre. Larkin and Andy had managed to find a space in a permit-only zone and there they sat, one eye on the street, one on the lookout for wardens.

Andy sighed again. He looked at his watch. “It's two thirty. Maybe she's out at work.”

“Maybe she's in at work,” Larkin replied.

They both slumped back into silence.

Larkin's earlier anger had peaked, troughed, peaked again and now sat, like his physical injuries, emanating a low throb. On the back burner, waiting for something or someone to turn the heat up.

They had spotted several Asian women moving down the street, but none seemed like the one they were looking for. Most of them modestly, but colourfully, dressed in saris, had their friends and kids with them. If one of them was a teenage hooker she was heavily disguised.

“Clock that one,” said Andy suddenly.

Larkin looked where Andy indicated. Coming down the street was a girl, late teens, early twenties, wearing a short fur coat tailored at the waist, spray-on black leggings and spike heels. Her hair was long, straight, silky and black, in a style that looked both simple and expensive. Her skin was coffee-coloured and her lips crimson, deep and full. As she walked, she exuded sexual confidence, even to the point of over doing it: her exaggerated walk stopped just this side of Monroe-esque. But it did the trick, because men were looking at her, and not just Larkin and Andy. She was swinging a couple of expensive, designer-label carrier bags.

“Reckon that's her?” asked Andy.

“I'd be more surprised if it wasn't,” Larkin replied.

They gave her time to reach her door, then left the car and crossed the road.

The key had turned and she was about to cross the threshold as Larkin appeared behind her and spoke.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She turned. She wasn't Indian, Larkin thought, but she was definitely Asian. Strategic and, in places, heavy make-up had allowed her to make the best of what were, at close range, rather plain features. Her eyes darted between Larkin and Andy, sizing them up.

“Sorry love,” she said in heavily accented English, “I don't do threesomes.”

“We're not punters,” said Larkin quickly, although from the way Andy's eyes were touring her body he wasn't so sure. “We just want to ask you a few questions.”

Her face darkened. She noticed, as if for the first time, Larkin's facial injuries. “Are you cops? You don't look familiar.”

“We're not cops,” said Larkin. “We just want to talk to you. We're looking for someone and we think you can help. A girl called Karen. And her friend Hayley.”

At the mention of the names, the girl's eyes dilated with fear. She grabbed the front door, pushed, and attempted to hurl herself inside. Larkin quickly stuck his foot in the way to stop it closing, his arm wedged against the frame, forcing it back.

“Leave me alone!” the girl shouted. “Any nearer and I'll scream rape!”

“Please!” replied Larkin exasperatedly. “We just want to talk!”

“I mean it! I'll scream rape!” she shouted, struggling with the door that Larkin and Andy were forcing open.

Larkin managed to position half his body over the threshold. Suddenly he felt a sullen thumping through the thin wall at his back.

“Shut your fuckin' noise up out there!” the voice shouted.

“Piss off!” shouted the girl in return. “Mind your own fucking business!”

The next noise to come through the wall was the abrupt, shrieking wail of a baby.

“Now you've woken the baby, you bitch!” shouted the voice. “I'll have the council on to you, you whore!”

“Please can we come in and talk?” asked Larkin in as reasonable a voice as possible. “I promise we mean you no harm.”

The girl looked between the wall with the howling baby and the two of them. Reluctantly she loosened her grip on the door, allowing it to fall back to the wall.

Larkin and Andy exchanged glances, stepped in to what was a very dingy, dusty hall. At one side was an old pushchair, next to it a rusty bike. There were two doors: one that led to the ground-floor flat with the wailing baby, the other to the upstairs flat. The girl turned her key and the heavy wooden door opened. She made her way upstairs, Andy next, appreciatively following the swing of her backside, then Larkin. The door swung firmly shut behind them.

She led them up a bland stairway – oatmeal carpet, beige-coloured walls – and down a similarly decorated hallway. Dotted on the walls were occasional, oddly impersonal, prints and hangings. It gave the impression of complete neutrality, neither raising nor dashing expectations.

“That's my working room,” she said, pulling closed a door, but not before Larkin had glimpsed the decor. It was overly frilly, overly girly. Like her walk it was a caricature. “We won't be going in there,” she said.

She led them to the front room. This was different. It was large and tastefully furnished: stripped wooden floors, kelims, dhurries, ethnic and exotic hangings, ornaments and furniture, a huge comfortable-looking sofa with mismatching armchairs. A TV and sound system in one corner, muslin-draped bay windows overlooking the main street. Larkin knew he was going on only a preliminary impression, but the room seemed like a retreat, a deliberately designed relaxation zone. It was evident, even on first glance, that a lot of care and love had been invested in the room's creation.

“Sit down,” the girl said, still wary.

Larkin and Andy sat on the sofa. The girl popped her bags on a chair, discarded her fur to reveal a clinging silk blouse, buttoned low to give a generous glimpse of firm, pushed-up breasts. Larkin wasn't exactly immune to the effect she was creating but Andy, he noticed, was so engrossed, his eyes should have been on CGI sticks.

The girl removed a bottle of red wine and a single glass from a heavily carved wooden cabinet. She poured herself a drink without offering the other two any and placed herself in an armchair. In doing this, she seemed to relax, dropping the self-consciously feminine gestures. In fact she now seemed clumsy, almost neutered. She picked up the phone and balanced it on her lap.

“One wrong word, one thing I don't like and I'm making a call.” Her voice, although heavily accented, was direct enough to be perfectly understood.

“No problem,” said Larkin, as breezily as possible.

“Nice place you got here,” said Andy, pulling his eyes away from her breasts and looking around the room.

It was the right thing to say. Despite her fear, the girl was pleased. ‘Thank you,” she said, pride creeping into her voice, “I did it all myself, it is my own creation.” Then suddenly, her voice snapped back to its previous clipped, brusque tone. “So tell me what you want with me.”

“We're looking for a girl called Karen,” Larkin began, in what was becoming a very practised speech. He gave her a truncated version: the reason why, the scene with Rayman. He left out Jackie Fairley and ended with a selective account of his run-in with Les. Finished, he sat back, waiting for the girl to speak.

“So,” the girl said, swivelling her gaze to favour Andy. “Do you enjoy staring at my tits?”

Andy coughed, reddened. Larkin couldn't stop a smirk from creeping over his features.

“Good,” she said, taking a sip of wine, her feminine gestures restored. “That's what they are there for.” Then back to Larkin. “You had a fight with Les, yes? You try to take a girl for free?”

“I tried to stop a girl being beaten up,” Larkin said, his anger bubbling up again.

“Oh, hero man!” said the girl. “Which one?”

“Tara.”

The girl nodded. “She will not leave. She is too fond of the …” she made a smoking gesture with her fingers.

“Weed?” asked Andy.

“Crack,” the girl said, barking the word with sharp onomatopoeia. She took another sip.

“Do you have a name?” asked Larkin. “Something I can call you?”

She smiled. It wasn't particularly warm. “You can call me … Diana.”

“OK Diana,” Larkin began, “I've said we're not here to hurt you. All we want to know is where Karen and Hayley are. That's all. Tell us and we're gone.”