The Mercy Seat (2 page)

‘Very good. Next question. What did you tell him?’

‘Everything …’

‘Everything?’

‘Everything … I … knew …’

Tosher looked at Faustus. The blazered man was ashen-faced, shaking, near collapse. He couldn’t look at Tosher, turned away from him.

‘And how much do you know?’

Tosher told him.

‘And what is Joe Donovan going to do with this information you gave him?’

Tosher tried to laugh. It came out as a guttural, painful bark. ‘Use it against you …’

Mephisto smiled. ‘I doubt that.’ He motioned to Hammer, who stepped forward, replaced the mask on Tosher’s face. Tosher made no attempt to stop him.

‘Very good, Tosher,’ said Mephisto. ‘Very good. See, you can do it if you try. Now, that’s everything we wanted to know. We’re finished with you now. One last question – are you going to talk to this Joe Donovan? Or anyone else?’

Tosher shook his head, let out a groan that could have been a ‘no’.

Mephisto smiled. ‘Good man. I believe you. But you know what it’s like – a few months down the line you start feeling brave again, think, That wasn’t so bad; I’ll make them pay for that. We can’t have that, can we?’

Tosher let out a groan that could have been ‘I won’t’.

‘Risky, though. Not a chance I’m willing to take.’ He began pacing again, appearing to think about it. He stopped, turned. ‘I’m going to let you go. Show mercy. But I’m going to make sure you don’t talk to anyone.’

Something in his tone stopped Tosher from feeling relief.

Mephisto circled Tosher, his soles and heels like whipcracks on the cement floor.

‘Know much about history, do you, Tosher?’ asked Mephisto. ‘Military history, I mean? Recent stuff?’

Tosher said nothing. Heard only his desperate, broken breathing.

Mephisto sighed, shook his head. Kept walking.

‘Course not,’ he said. ‘Russia. Early 1990s. The old Soviet Union breaking up. The death of socialism, the triumph of capitalism. All the old Eastern Bloc countries breaking up, the comrades wanting McDonald’s and Levi’s. Boris the Bear having trouble holding on to the territories. So what did he do? In his vodka-soaked state? Sent the tanks in. Everywhere.’

He stopped pacing, faced Tosher.

‘And the most uppity of them all was Chechnya.’

Mephisto laughed, resumed his walk.

‘Don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Wasted on scum like you. Anyway, what the Red Army used to do—’ He turned to Tosher, looked him directly in the eye ‘—the Red Army, the most powerful fucking fighting force in the world, the army nobody fucked with—’ He resumed his walk. ‘—well, they got pissed off with these Chechen rebels. So they fought dirty. They would capture them, make them talk. Then make sure they could never talk again.’

He stopped. Bent down, face to face.

‘Know how they did that? Mustard gas. They would get a gas mask like the one you’re wearing, strap a can of mustard gas to it and invite their prisoner to breathe in. After that …’ He shrugged. ‘You don’t feel much like talking. Well, you can’t, really.’

Hammer moved forward on command, began attaching a canister to the front of Tosher’s mask.

Tosher began to cry.

Mephisto slapped him on the side of the head. ‘Be a man,’ he said. ‘This isn’t mustard gas. We couldn’t get any. So we’re using a compound supplied by Dr Faustus over there. It’ll do the job just as well.’

Hammer finished his work, opened the valve on the can, stepped back.

Tosher tried to stop sobbing, tried to hold his breath.

‘You’ve got to breathe sometime,’ said Mephisto. ‘Sooner you start, the sooner you’ll get it over with.’

The gas was clouding Tosher’s face; it felt like acid burning away at his skin, his eyes, peeling and bubbling.

‘You bastard …’ he sobbed, ‘you sick bastard …’

His last words. And Mephisto couldn’t hear them.

Tosher breathed.

Jamal ran. Round Argyle Square, along St Chad’s Street, down Belgrove Street. He stopped, shoulders hefting, body gasping for air, and looked quickly behind him. He made out people, crowds swirling and shifting in the cold, darkening late-autumn afternoon. Eyes darted over them, picked out, zoomed in like speed-binoculars, scanned, pinpointed; homeward-bound office workers, misplaced tourists, a smattering of students, foetally bagged beggars dotted in doorways, hustlers, pimps, dealers, whores. Just the usual. The ebb and flow around King’s Cross, the human flotsam and jetsam.

But not him. He didn’t see him.

Jamal stood, bent over, hands on thighs, grasping the respite. He breathed deep, chest burning from exertion, legs shaking from running. He checked the street again.

And there he was, barrelling around the corner, knocking pedestrians out of his path as if they were plywood and paper, pounding down the pavement, eyes burning with anger, face contorted by hatred.

Jamal turned and, still clutching his shining prize, ran.

Towards Euston Road. The 24/7 permanent building site. Construction dust competed with exhaust fumes, created a post-millennial London fog complete with post-industrial soundtrack. Traffic blared and raced, cars darting sleekly, lorries emitting crunching, heavy metal bounces over potholes, buses gliding like stately battleships, taxis creating new lanes, reimagining the Highway Code.

Jamal stared at the traffic, halted at the pavement’s edge. A
glance behind: the figure was still gaining. Jamal took one deep breath, two. Then ran into the road.

Horns honked, vehicles swerved. He slapped the bonnet of an Astra, salmon-jumping to avoid having his feet crushed, hurting his hand as he did so: he caused a bus to abruptly halt with an angry hiss of air brakes and a hail of abuse from the driver. But he wouldn’t let go of his silver treasure.

He jumped, dodged, ran. A computer game character come to life. He reached the other side sweating and coughing. His pursuer wouldn’t have followed him. Couldn’t have. No way. He was safe. He looked back at the opposite side of the road, ready to shout a triumphant insult and disappear.

The taunt died on his lips. His pursuer was striding through the traffic in an unwavering line, causing vehicles to brake and swerve, ignoring them like they weren’t there, like he was still on the pavement.

‘Oh fuck,’ said Jamal and ran.

He jostled and dodged, the pavement heavy with weary commuters pouring into King’s Cross, Euston and St Pancras, filling up underground and overground, waiting to be deposited back in suburbia. The citizen world was an alien one for Jamal, always had been. One he didn’t understand, couldn’t relate to. And now here he was, hoping to blend in among them. Wrap that world around him like a child in a blanket.

No chance. He knew his pursuer was as much a citizen as he was. Knew both of them would stand out in a crowd. The only way the crowd might save him, he thought, was if the man chasing him was too afraid of doing anything bad when there were people watching.

He took another look around. The man was barging through the throng of travellers as if they didn’t exist. Pile-driving his way towards his prey, zeroing in on Jamal like a heat-seeking missile.

Jamal sped, dodged, weaved. He feigned joining the crowds heading underground, peeled off left at the final minute. Ran towards the entrance of King’s Cross mainline station, through the doors. He sprinted across the concourse, bobbing and ducking around swift-moving commuters and slower-moving, bag-heavy, board-studying long-distance travellers, feet slapping and slipping on the polished floor. Up ahead, a long-distance train had pulled in to a platform, was disgorging its passengers. On the shared platform next to it, another mainline train was taking on passengers. Jamal ran at the crowd, hoping the hither-thither flux of bodies would conceal him.

He danced up the platform, hid behind pillars, crouched aside weary luggage-laden trolley pushers. He looked around for the station police, who, whenever he didn’t want them, were always there to move him on, threaten him with arrest or just verbally abuse him. He thought fast, prioritized, traded off lesser evils in his mind, half developed a desperate idea of turning himself in to them for protection, even causing a disturbance to get arrested, just to get away from his pursuer. He scanned and scoped: no uniforms to be seen. Typical. Mentally scratch that one.

Up the platform, bobbing and weaving, ducking and diving. A zigzagging, moving target. He didn’t dare look around.

He reached the engine of the train, ran out of crowd to hide in.

‘Shit,’ he said aloud, gasping for breath.

He looked down the platform. He could make out a disturbance by the barrier. He knew who that would be. Slight hope rose within him. He had the advantage. He looked around again, assessed his options. His heart pumped extra adrenalin around his system. He looked around again. And jumped from the platform.

Being careful not to step on the rails in case they were electrified – because a kid in his children’s home had died doing that on the underground – he moved gingerly but quickly, crunching on the soot-blackened stones, across to the train on the next platform. He gripped the concrete edge and pulled himself on to it.

He stood up, ignoring the dirt on his hands and clothes, and looked down the length of the train. Doors were closing, whistles preparing to be blown. Thinking fast, he ran to one of the open doors and jumped inside the train. There came a loud thump as the door was slammed shut behind him.

Jamal stood in the corridor, breathing heavily, body shaking, the sliding inner door opening and closing as he came within the ambit of its sensor. A voice over the speakers welcomed him aboard. Told him what time he was due to arrive at wherever he was going. Thanked him for travelling and advised anyone not wishing to travel to leave. Jamal didn’t listen. Heard only his own rasping breathing. Another whistle. The train began to move. Jamal moved over to the right, looked out of the window. On the next platform along he could see his pursuer standing there, looking around. Anger emanated from him, the waves penetrating the train’s hull, reaching Jamal. He pulled his face away in case he was spotted, then slowly inched round for another look. The man wasn’t looking in his direction.

The train pulled out of the station.

Jamal had done it. He had escaped.

He looked down the length of the train. Passengers were storing luggage, finding seats, excusing themselves to others. Jamal was going to join them. But first he had to go to the toilet.

He wanted to throw up.

* * *

Jamal sat in his seat and stared out of the window. Concrete and brick had given way to countryside, which gave way to darkness, which left Jamal staring at himself. He looked away. Opposite him was a suited businessman, hair disappearing in exchange for an expanding stomach. He busied himself with papers and reports, made ostentatious, self-aggrandizing calls on his mobile, sat with the air of a man who believed himself to be a hero. Occasionally he would cast glances at Jamal, glances that began slyly then became knowing, finally working their way towards anticipatory. Jamal understood what they signified. He made a living from interpreting such looks.

He decided to ignore the suit, cast his mind back instead over the last few hours.

Nothing had given him an indication of what was to come.

He had been working his usual corner, the top of Crestfield Street, and just gearing up for his busiest time, rush hour. He was feeling fine about himself: he’d scored a couple of rocks in Burger King an hour previously, heard of an upcoming rave later that night and had managed to keep his Nikes box white for another day longer.

He saw his first punter. Middleaged, well dressed and so flushed he seemed to be having a heart attack. He moved slowly, nervously edging forward. Building up courage with each furtive footstep. A new one, not one of the regulars. Jamal knew how to handle him: carefully, like a bird he wanted to catch then eat. Gain its trust then pounce.

Jamal smiled at the man, winked. The man sweated even more. Up close, his face was cratered and pockmarked, his skin unlovable and unkissable. Jamal switched his body language to open, relaxed. Encouraged the man to make the first move.

‘Are you …’ The soon-to-be-punter gagged, cleared his throat.

Jamal waited.

‘Are you working?’

Jamal was. He explained the rules – cash upfront and the punter pays for the room – and the price list. The red man nodded quickly, desperately, agreeing to anything.

Jamal walked to the Dolce Vita Hotel on Birkenhead Street, the man following eagerly behind. Once inside, he gave the nod to the fat old Greek sitting behind the glass mesh partition in what he claimed was the foyer but was in actuality a rattily carpeted, foul-smelling corridor decorated with brown patches on the walls and ceiling.

The red man paid for the room with trembling fingers, then followed Jamal up to the first floor. Once inside, Jamal asked for the money. The man handed it over. Jamal pocketed it, began unbuttoning his jeans and the punter asked the question Jamal had been waiting for:

‘Huh – how old are you?’

The first few times he had heard that he had answered with the truth. But it wasn’t what they had always wanted to hear. So he had started to ask them how old they thought he was. Now, he was so used to it he reckoned he could tell how old each punter wanted him to be.

‘Twelve,’ he said, losing two and a half years from his real age.

It seemed to be the right answer. The punter smiled, eyes glazed with a cloudy dreaminess, and began to hurriedly strip.

Later, business concluded, Jamal was washing himself off in the sink when he heard whispered footsteps behind him. He turned sharply. The red man, his contrasting fat, white little body now thankfully covered by clothes, was standing right behind him.

‘Jesus, you gave me a shock,’ said Jamal.

‘Sorry.’ The man kept his eyes fixed on Jamal’s chest and shoulders. ‘You’re beautiful …’

‘Yeah,’ said Jamal, turning away, ‘I am.’