Crusher (8 page)

I was looking for McGovern, that’s what I was doing. Why not just ask him to his face if he knew about my dad and the script he’d been writing? Even if he didn’t answer the question, I thought I’d be able to tell something from his reaction. Maybe he’d get some of his heavies to work me over for trespassing, but what the hell, I’d been smacked around before. When I realized I could take on anyone in the boxing club and win, I’d started boasting about it, and Delroy had arranged for a special visit from an ageing clapped-out middleweight.
He hadn’t even had my reach, but he still knocked seven shades of shit out of me. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, my dad had said, getting out a bag of frozen peas for my jaw. I thought that was bollocks at the time, and I still did. It was quite possible McGovern would just kill me, and if he only half killed me it wouldn’t make me stronger.

Presuming McGovern was there. He might not be. The man had properties all over Europe, supposedly, and an island in the Caribbean. Who’d want to be in North London in April when they could be on a beach in Jamaica? Maybe this whole journey had been a waste of time. But to hell with it, I was here now, and I couldn’t squat in the bushes till it got dark. I might as well look around.

Pretending to be with the gardening team had got me this far, and it might buy me some time if things went pear-shaped. I pulled a few stems off the rose bush behind me and got a few bloody scratches from my trouble. Clutching them in my hand, I walked on round the house, feeling like some village idiot carrying a bouquet of twigs and thorns for his favourite goat. The house seemed to go on for ever; I guessed it had started off with four walls and a roof, then been extended sideways and to the rear, and those extensions had sprouted more extensions, and extra floors, and carports. Between
the outbuildings and extensions little sun terraces and patios and barbecue areas were dotted around, some looking vaguely Spanish, others all black and white and minimalist, as if whoever designed them couldn’t make up their mind what they liked.

I heard voices; a child screaming. The screams had a ringing echo like you’d hear at a swimming pool. About ten metres away was a long, low outbuilding with a slanting glass roof. The screeching was coming from there. That’s where everyone was, I thought, hanging out at the indoor pool. Mind you, what’s the point of having your own pool if you can’t keep screaming kids out of it? The screeching went on and on—a little girl, by the sound of it. She would pause for breath, then start again, and nobody was scolding her or trying to get her to shut up, from what I could tell.

By now I was at the corner of the pool building. The brat’s echoing shrieks were so brain-piercing I had momentarily forgotten to check for CCTV. I peeked round the corner, to find that the end wall was made up of glass panels that folded back so that the pool opened straight onto a sun terrace. The middle door-panel was open, and through the plate glass I could see a girl of about five in a frilly pink swimsuit, crouching slightly, hugging herself, and screaming at the top of her voice. She was looking at the pool, where the water was
splashing and slopping, stirred up by a boy of maybe six as he threshed about just below the surface. He was drowning in the deep end.

I threw the daft handful of rose stems aside and ran to the door, pulling off my hoodie, then started to undo my belt. The kid’s struggles were getting weaker—how long had he been in there? I hurled myself in, jeans, trainers and all. My denim jeans immediately become waterlogged, and felt a hundred times heavier. My trainers seemed to be streamlining my feet, so no matter how hard I kicked with my legs I still sank. I wished I’d stopped to take a breath before I jumped, but it was too late now. I gave up trying to surface, straightened out and swam underwater straight for the kid, who was now slowly descending, mouthing like a fish, his blond hair hanging round his pale, scared face like a halo. I struggled towards him, felt his arm brush mine, clutched it and dragged him towards me. His body was limp, more dead weight. Not dead, not dead, I thought, please not dead. Hugging him to my chest, I aimed for the surface, kicked and kicked. My head burst clear, and I gulped down air. The kid was limp and heavy in my right arm, and my left arm swung out behind my head, trying feebly to swim half a backstroke and simultaneously feel for the end of the pool. My lungs were burning and my stroke growing weaker when my fingers brushed
the end wall. I scrabbled for a handhold, scratching uselessly against the smooth, warm tiles, and I almost dislocated my arm stretching out and backwards before I grasped the hard rim of the tiles at the pool’s lip. With the last of my strength I folded my body towards it, my right arm still hugging the kid. The girl had stopped screaming—now she just sobbed and gasped.

“It’s OK—it’s OK!” I panted. “He’ll be all right. Go get help.” She stared at me, and swallowed. “Go get
help
!” I barked. She turned and ran off, her little feet slapping the wet tiles. I looked around, and realized I was only three metres from a ladder. Kicking my leaden legs and hopping one hand along the edge, I managed to drag the two of us towards it. It was easy to throw the kid over my shoulder; he was as floppy and as light as a wet tea towel. I climbed up the ladder and as soon as his feet were clear of the rungs I lowered him onto the tiles, then scrambled up after him, my jeans flabbily hugging my legs.

He’d been threshing about a minute ago—with any luck I’d still have time. As I leaned over him I tried to remember everything,
anything
Delroy had taught us about first aid, and I cursed myself and the other kids in the gym for how we’d messed about, pretending to grope the practice dummy and not really listening. A few things came back to me—head back, check the airway is
clear, for a child cover both the mouth and nose. I tasted a hint of snot as I put my open mouth over the lower half of his face, but to hell with hygiene, I thought, and blew, and paused, and blew. Heart massage—what was it? One hand for a kid, fifteen pushes to the sternum—

Now I could hear shouts and shrieks and arguing and blame approaching from the other side of the glass doors, but kept going. Three breaths to the mouth and nose, heel of the hand to the sternum—one, two—

The kid coughed, winced, rolled onto his left side and puked. And coughed some more, great racking wheezes, hacking water out of his lungs. I fell back, my legs folded beneath me, utterly exhausted, and realized I had an audience. The little girl, clutching the hand of a blonde in her late twenties with tumbling hair, an amazing figure and too much make-up; a younger, pinch-faced girl of about twenty with black hair scraped back in a ponytail, looking terrified, shocked and clueless; behind the two of them, a scarred gorilla in a suit, impassive and silent. And walking round to stand in front of all of them a slim, fit, tanned bloke with silver hair and blue-grey eyes.

I’d seen photos of him on the steps of a courthouse. Then the collar of his overcoat had been turned up, his flat cap pulled down, and he’d been wearing shades, but it was the same bloke. McGovern stooped down by the
little boy, who was still coughing and retching, and laid a hand on the kid’s head. “You’re all right, Kell. You’ll be all right.”

The Guvnor turned his pale grey eyes to me.

“Thanks,” he said. “Now who the fuck are you?”

“Kell, you go over there and shake that man’s hand.”

The little boy, in a thick towelling robe slightly too big for him, walked over to face me, held out his hand and piped up, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” I said. “Next time make sure there’s a grown-up around before you go swimming, OK?”

“OK.” He grinned at me as if he hadn’t been dead a few minutes earlier.

We were all standing in the living room, or rather one of the living rooms, in the main house. On my way in I had glimpsed a warren of similar lounges leading off the hall. In this one three big sofas in white leather had been laid out in a C-shape around a glass and chrome coffee table piled with glossy style magazines. Above a vast black marble fireplace, its iron fire basket full of dusty unburnt logs, a huge flat-screen TV hung in a
custom-built alcove. The wallpaper was pale gold and textured like woven silk. There were gilt and dark wood side tables scattered around the place, bearing heavy cream side-lamps with gilt trim, and yet more glossy magazines. It was all a bit fussy, more expensive than stylish, from what I knew about style … which admittedly was bugger all. I felt self-conscious, standing barefoot on the soft white wall-to-wall shag pile carpet, water still trickling down my legs despite the heavy towelling robe I’d been given over at the pool house.

McGovern hadn’t got much further than asking who I was when the women had started fussing over the boy and arguing about taking him to hospital. It seemed the kid was McGovern’s son, and the blonde with the eye-popping curves his second wife, Cherry. Kirstie—the teenage girl with the Essex facelift—was the nanny. McGovern sent me to get out of my wet clothes, and while I’d unpeeled my soaking jeans in a little changing room to the side I’d heard the voices of the two women, shrill with shock and fear, defensive and tearful, answering the questions McGovern was asking in a calm, low, steady voice. From what I could make out, through the overlapping apologies and lamentations and excuses, each woman had thought the other was keeping an eye on the kids. Cherry had been shopping online, while Kirstie had been on the phone to her boyfriend.

By the time I came out, holding my wet clothes at arm’s length, Kirstie had disappeared. Presumably she’d caught the rap for what happened, though from the look on McGovern’s face there was still plenty of blame to go round.

“Come in the house,” he said to me, then turned and led the way. His wife followed, carrying the little boy, now recovered, in her arms while the little girl trotted after her. McGovern’s minder—the gorilla with the scarred face—waited impassively for me to follow them, his hands politely folded in front of him. He shadowed me over to the house to an open French window and waited as I dropped my sodden clothes on the tiled patio before entering.

“Right,” McGovern was saying to his wife, “Kelly’s calmed down now. Take him back and put him straight in that pool.”

“Joe …” she protested, but not with a lot of conviction.

“He’s had a fright. Best thing is get him back on his horse. And this time you go in with him, all right?” He chucked the boy’s chin. “Mum’s going to give you a swimming lesson. This time, mind you stick to the shallow end.”

The kid nodded. “Yes, Dad,” he squeaked.

His mother glanced in my direction. For a moment I sensed she wanted to come over and hug me, but if she did she thought better of it. She probably avoided cuddling other men in front of her husband, especially total strangers who had walked in off the street, even if they had saved her son’s life. She threw me a tight, timid smile instead, dazzling enough to leave me gaping like a goldfish.

“Thanks again,” she said. Taking her little boy’s hand she led him back out the way we had entered. The kid just had time to wave and flash me a grin before he vanished. The little girl had been sent upstairs earlier to change out of her swimsuit, so now it was just me and McGovern in the room. And his minder, of course, who stood to one side, so huge and motionless he might as well have been a wardrobe.

“I didn’t catch your name earlier,” said McGovern.

“Finn Maguire,” I said, watching his face carefully. No reaction that I could see—the name meant nothing to him. Or it did, but he was too shrewd and self-controlled to let his true emotions show on his face.

“A Paddy, like me, yeah?” He smiled.

“A Londoner,” I said. “My stepfather was Irish. I took his name.”

McGovern held out his hand. I took it. It was firm and
cool and muscular, and I could feel his measuring mine the same way.

“Thanks, Finn. You saved my kid’s life.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. McGovern,” I said.

Another man entered the room, moving silently. Thirty-something, slim and lithe, the way he moved suggested he was either a fighter or a dancer, and dancer seemed unlikely. Dressed smart-casual in spotless clothes with discreet designer labels, his face was sharp, narrow and angular, with high cheekbones and a thin nose. A grin seemed to flicker constantly across his bony face like he was thinking of a really funny joke he wasn’t going to tell you. Right now he carried a plastic carrier bag with the label of a South Ken fashion store. Its rustling was the only thing that betrayed his presence, but McGovern knew who he was without looking round.

“James, this here’s Finn Maguire.”

“I heard. The hero of the hour.” His voice was soft, his tone sardonic. He offered the bag to McGovern, who opened it, took out some clothes and handed them over to me.

“Tracksuit. One of mine, you look about my size. Put it on.”

“Thanks,” I said. I tossed the jacket onto a sofa, shook
out the pants and pulled them up under my robe, trying not to worry about McGovern or his minder or James catching a glimpse of my knob. I shrugged off the robe, laid it over the sofa and pulled the jacket on, while McGovern took a seat on the sofa opposite, and James sat back on the one between us, relaxed and curious. There was a pair of brand-new trainers at the bottom of the bag too. I took them out and slipped them on quickly. They were a size too big, but I wasn’t about to complain.

“Get you something to drink, Finn?” said McGovern. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlinked, his pale grey eyes fixed on me. He didn’t blink much, I noticed. I knew that trick as well. I could go a long time without blinking, and knew how it could rattle someone looking at you without them even being sure why. There was something down the back of my trousers, I realized, cutting into my bare arse. I pulled out the label I’d been sitting on. The tracksuit was brand-new, and the price on the tag was astronomical. I tugged it off, crumpled it up and stuffed it into my pocket, not wanting to litter the spotless chi-chi decor.

“I’m good, thanks,” I replied. The small talk would end soon, I knew; I felt the same cold clarity that used to fill my head when I ducked through the ropes into the ring, the adrenaline surge that made my calf muscles twitch.