Candleland (24 page)

Larkin said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

Eventually, Mickey looked up, in control again. Just. “What a life. What a life she had …”

Larkin again said nothing. Mickey took that as a signal to continue.

“She started off as a boy, but you knew that. A very pretty boy, apparently. Her family sold her to a brothel when she was about nine or ten. She was vague on the date, said she couldn't remember.” He smiled sadly. “I keep calling her she. Can't think of her any other way.” He sighed. “From some village at the arse end of Thailand to a Bangkok brothel. Poor little soul.” He shook his head, shuddered as if the memory were his, then continued. “Eventually she got too old. The brothel owner sold her to another brothel, this time in Germany. Then on to Amsterdam. By this time she'd had enough. They'd confiscated her passport so she couldn't leave, but she managed to persuade this punter, some Englishman who was there for the weekend, to stow her away in the boot of his car on the ferry. That's how she came to England.”

“How did you get to meet her?” asked Larkin, genuinely interested.

“This guy treated her like a slave, made her life hell. She managed to run away, found her way to us.”

Mickey Falco took another drink, found he had drained his glass, topped it up from the bottle. “She was in a real state. A transvestite by this time, mutilating herself. We referred her to a psychologist, sorted her with somewhere to live, got her started.” He shook his head.

“That's the part that gets me, the bit I can't grasp,” he said. “She had such a will to live, to succeed. She remade herself. Even changed her gender. Remarkable.”

Larkin thought of her room the first time he'd seen it. He nodded.

“She was one of Candleland's biggest success stories, I thought. She kept in touch, helped others find their way here …” Mickey shook his head again. “I know she could be difficult, stroppy even, but that was just a front. A defence mechanism.” He sighed, close to losing control again. “I just can't believe she's gone …”

Larkin nodded and sipped his drink. Hearing about Diana had certainly put his thoughts about Ringo into perspective.

“Anyway,” said Mickey, “I didn't mean to burden you. I just thought you might want to know.”

“Thank you,” said Larkin. “I appreciate it.”

The two men sat, casting large shadows around the small room, slowly sipping. Eventually Mickey nodded to himself, control re-established. “So,” he said, “how you feeling?”

Larkin gave a faint smile. “Oh, you know, I've got my magazines, my booze, who could ask for anything more?”

“Yeah, I know it's boring,” said Mickey, “but it's for the best. I hear the whole thing, the car crash, has been passed off as an accident. Careless driving, traces of cocaine in the car and the body, an' all that. But I've also heard that Charlie Rook's asked some of his tame coppers to look into it.”

“You've heard?” asked Larkin. “How have you heard?”

“Tame coppers of my own,” said Mickey Falco with a small degree of pride. “Anyway, in practical terms, it means stay here as long as you like. They'll be looking for you everywhere else.”

Larkin nodded. “Look, Mickey. We have to talk. About Charlie Rook –”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. And we will.” He sighed. “We'll have that talk soon. But not tonight, eh?” His face looked pained.

“OK.” Larkin nodded.

Mickey sighed, took a swing. “So,” he said, “you healin' alright, then?”

“Yeah,” replied Larkin. “I can move my arm, put my weight on my foot for long periods and my ribs only ache when I laugh. Lucky I don't laugh much.”

Mickey gave a faint smile. He went on to talk about organising Diana's funeral. It sounded like something he'd had plenty of practice at. Larkin mentioned this.

“Yeah,” replied Mickey, his gravelly bass voice rumbling over the word like an articulated lorry. “More than I care to remember, unfortunately. Occupational hazard.”

Larkin nodded. “So,” he said, “since we seem to be in the mood for talking, how did you get this job?”

Mickey laughed. “You mean I don't seem like the obvious choice to run a place like this?”

“Something like that.”

“Well I'm not. And since we've got nothing else to do and the bottle's still half full, I'll tell you. But I'm warnin' you, it's a long one.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” said Larkin.

So the two men sat huddled in the dark room, warmed and lighted only by the bedside light and the whisky bottle, talking away the night. Mickey told Larkin the story of how he came to be at Candleland, which was also the story of his life.

Mickey explained that he had been born into a family of second-generation Italian immigrants in Dalston, East London. A family used to living on the wrong side of the law.

Mickey smiled. “I was trouble, I was a tearaway, restless. Couldn't keep still.” He had found his options limited by his background and environment, so he drifted into a life of crime.

“You've got to remember, though,” he said, pointing with his whisky glass, “this was the time of the Krays, the Richard-sons. It was glamorous to be a gangster. It was also a damn sight more lucrative than anythin' else you were offered.”

“You mean the hours were good, the suits were sharp, that it?” asked Larkin.

Mickey smiled. “Somethin' like that. Anyway, I soon found out that glamour an' reality have little in common. I went to work for this London family – I won't say which one – an' it was a real eye-opener, I can tell you. They were into anythin' an' everythin' they could make money out of.” He leaned forward to emphasise the word. “Anythin'. Girls, drugs, porn, protection, you name it, they did it. An' they didn't care how they did it. An' I did it with them.” He gave a bitter laugh. “All that about bein' gentlemen? Only fightin' their own kind? Bollocks.”

Larkin nodded. As Mickey's memory travelled back, so did his accent. Any refinement was stripped away, his tongue became native.

Mickey continued. He told Larkin how he became good at what he did and how successful he was at it, moving quickly up the ranks until he was running a few things.

“But was I 'appy? No. It was violent, sordid, an' depressin'. Not glamorous. Glamour belonged in fuckin' 'ollywood. An' then everythin' changed.” He stopped talking.

“How?” asked Larkin, coaxing him along.

Mickey paused, searching for the correct tone. He found it and continued. “I won't go into the details,” he said, with no malice in his voice, “but I was set up, stung.”

The police carted him away, stuck him in a cell and went to work on him. He said nothing, gave up no one.

“When they saw that wasn't workin' they offered me all sorts of deals, immunity if I grassed up me mates, new identities, the lot.” He stopped again, lost in remembrance.

“And did you take them up on their offer?”

“Only the new identity. I said I wanted to be Sean Connery.” He laughed at the bravado of it, but his eyes betrayed a different, darker memory.

“Anyway, when those bastards got the message that I wasn't talking they charged me. Brought me to court, found me guilty, gave me six years.” He sniffed, took a swallow of whisky. “Could have been worse.

“But prison, that changed everythin' for me. You see, I'd always been bright, always loved readin'. Not somethin' I wanted to let on to my old associates about, but now that I was banged up for twenty-three out of twenty-four hours of the day, it was somethin' I had the time for. Even did a degree. Sociology. An' you know what? I bloody loved it. It made me see everythin', what I'd done, where I came from, the lot, in a whole new light. It confirmed all the things I'd thought and felt, but just buried. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was in the right.

“Now, somethin' else happened to me in prison. Just as profound. I became a Christian.” Seeing the look on Larkin's face, Mickey smiled. “That's a turn-up for the books, innit?”

“I'd be lying if I said it wasn't.”

“Well maybe not one the Church of England would recognise, but Christian all the same.”

“I've heard a lot about prisoners being born again,” said Larkin. “And if you'll excuse my cynicism, I've never been convinced.”

Mickey Falco smiled. “Neither was I till it happened to me. I used to be sceptical. I used to think it was your ‘Get Out Of Jail Free' card. You know, get God, smile at the parole board, keep your nose clean, an' off you went. But since it happened to me, well …” He smiled. “Let's just say I'm more of a believer now.”

Mickey declined to go into details of his conversion, because he said it would make him sound preachy. Larkin was grateful for that.

“An' I hate bein' preachy.” Mickey leaned forward, well into his story now. “Now I know it's not for everyone, but the way I look at it, I needed a new code to live by, an' I found them at the right time. I've stuck by those rules, an' they've been good to me. That's all I have to say about it.”

“I've got to admit,” said Larkin, “you don't strike me as a typical Christian. You swear, you drink …”

Mickey smiled, gave a look heavenwards. “The big fella doesn't mind. He knows I'm under a bit of stress.”

Mickey had then become friendly with some Christian volunteer visitors who ran various projects in socially deprived areas. Since his parole was coming up and he was a model prisoner by this time, he was allowed out on day-release.

“Like Ralph Sickert,” said Larkin, edgily.

Mickey looked at him, eye to eye. “Yes. Like Ralph Sickert.” He didn't bite, just got on with his story. “Anyway, I worked somewhere not unlike this place and when I was released and came back to London, I started work here, Candleland.”

“So what made you go in for this line of work?”

“Payback,” said Mickey. “Pure an' simple. I used to be a bastard, I hated what was done to me an' what I did to others. This was a chance to start again. Do somethin' useful. That's why I'm 'ere.”

He stopped talking, poured himself another drink. “But that's not the end. Because my old associates found out I was back and paid me a visit. They knew I hadn't talked so that was a big plus in my favour, but then I had to convince them I wasn't a threat to their operations, that I had retired and started a new career.”

Mickey's accent, Larkin noticed, had come up to date along with the story.

“They told me no one retires unless it's in a box, but since I'd kept my mouth shut, not turned Queen's evidence, they'd make an exception in my case. But still they had to leave me with something. A warning not to cross them in the future.”

“And what was that?” asked Larkin.

Mickey tapped his right leg with the cane. “This. Shattered. It healed eventually, but the best I can hope for is to always walk with a stick.”

“And the worst?” asked Larkin.

Mickey's face was blank. “I don't want to think about that.” He took another swig. “So anyway, I never saw them again. Most of them, anyway. I'm still in touch with a few. Not above usin' them for a bit of strongarm when the need arises.”

“When does the need arise?” asked Larkin.

“Oh, you know,” said Mickey lightly. “If there's a problem with a pimp or an abusive parent. If someone needs sortin'.”

“Doesn't that conflict with your Christian principles?” asked Larkin with a sly smile.

Mickey smiled back. “No. You see, it's all a question of what you believe to be the greater moral good.”

“Dodgy argument,” said Larkin. “Didn't Stalin say something similar?”

“That's not what I meant an' you know it,” said Mickey. “It's an everyday problem we all have to cope with. Not just Christians. Not just me. Everyone. Even you.”

Larkin nodded, put in his place. “And then you were put in charge of Candleland,” he said.

“And here I am now,” said Mickey. “Loud and proud.” He sat back and drained the last of his whisky.

His accent and intonation, Larkin noticed, was now a mixture of rough and smooth, his two worlds sitting comfortably together, able to straddle both with ease.

“That's quite a story,” Larkin said.

“Yeah.” Mickey rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched. “I'm out of it.” He stood up. “Sorry to have gone on so much. But thanks for listening. I wasn't in the mood for going home.”

“I don't blame you. Anyway, it's been good to have someone to talk to.”

“I'll come back tomorrow night,” said Mickey. “You can bore me then.”

Larkin smiled. “Right,” he said. Then his face clouded, became serious. “Look, about Diana. If there's anything I can do, arrangements, money, whatever.”

“Thanks,” said Mickey. “But you already did what you could to help her. She wouldn't have made it this far if you hadn't been there to help.”

“If I hadn't been there in the first place she might have been alive now.”

“Don't blame yourself,” said Mickey. “You can play that game of ‘What If right back to the womb. It won't get you anywhere. We're all responsible for our actions. And you tried to help. Thank you.”

Mickey stuck out his hand. Larkin shook.

“I'll try and creep out softly so I don't wake any of our guests downstairs,” Mickey said. “But I'll see you tomorrow. An' this time I'll supply the whisky.”

They said their goodnights and Mickey left, looking lighter but still burdened, closing the door in what was, for such a rough-hewn man, a surprisingly gentle way.

Mickey was as good as his word. The next night he was there, bottle in hand. He sat down, twisted the cap, found two glasses and started pouring.

“Make yourself at home, Mickey,” Larkin said needlessly.