Someone To Save you (23 page)

‘What?’

‘You’ve got to go,’ he insisted. ‘Please, just go.’

‘I’ve got nowhere to go to,’ she replied. ‘Please, let me in, just for a couple of nights, and I’ll find someone else.’

Locky shook his head.

‘Look,’ Jody continued, ‘I know I shouldn’t be asking you to do this again, after what happened, but I’m desperate. I’m really sorry about what they did to you. I’m so sorry.’

‘They know you come here,’ he stated. ‘And they’ll be back. You wouldn’t be safe.’

‘I’ll take the chance.’

‘But what about me?’ he said, raising his voice uncharacteristically. ‘What about when they come around here the next time and finish what they started?’

‘I am really sorry for what they did to you,’ she repeated, realising that the argument was being lost. She’d never seen Locky so determined, or for that matter, so scared.

‘I don’t give a flying fuck about what they do to me. But I’ve got to think about Cheryl. They said they’d give her a home-made abortion. And I believe them, Jody, you know what they’re capable of. You know what he’s capable of.’

‘They wouldn’t do that.’

Locky shook his head, exasperated. ‘Fuck, Jody, they would do that, and you know it. Please, just go will you, just go. Go to Mel.’

He went to shut the door.

Jody reached out a hand to block it, her fingers narrowly escaping being trapped in the gap between door and frame. ‘She’s dead.’

He opened the door again, his face twisted in disbelief. ‘What?’

‘Mel’s dead.’

He rocked back on his heels. Locky had known Mel for as long as he’d known Jody – four years. They’d met at the homeless hostel in King’s Cross, all three of them newly on the street, scared, lonely and confused. When the bad people came, drawing them into their world of violence and vice, they gained strength from one another, ensured each other’s survival, offering friendship. Locky referred to Mel and Jody as his little sisters, and she truly regretted breaking the news to him like this. It broke her heart, but she was desperate.

‘How? When?’

‘The night I came to yours. I don’t know how, she was in the river. I think he killed her, Locky.’

His face twisted with disgust. ‘But why? Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Shit,’ Locky said. ‘Jody, you’ve got to get away from here, away from London if you can. Get yourself into a hostel in another city, Leeds, Manchester, Bristol, anywhere.’ He delved into his jeans pocket and stuffed some crumpled notes into her palm. ‘Save yourself from that sick, evil bastard.’

‘But I need to find out what happened to Mel,’ she said. ‘I need your help.’

‘Don’t Jody. Just leave it.’

‘So you won’t help?’

‘I am helping,’ he replied. ‘For the first time in my miserable fucked up life, I’m giving some bloody good advice. Now take it.’

Jody watched helplessly as Locky closed the door in her face.

She knew then exactly why she had come back here, risking both her life and his. Now Mel was gone, Locky was the only person she had, the only person who could make her feel safe. Without him, all that was left was the fear.

Sam held his breath, trying desperately to break free from the hold. The water was fighting to enter his mouth, pushing against his lips like a river threatening to burst its banks. He reached up over his head with his right hand, trying to grab at his assailant. But they were out of reach. Sam was pushed harder and deeper, and that’s when his lips surrendered against the onslaught, sending cold water gushing down his throat and up his nose. Struggling even harder, he remembered a technique Doug had taught him; that sometimes it is more effective to use the opponent’s strength than to fight against it.

Instead of fighting to raise himself up, Sam relaxed and plunged deeper into the water, at the same time twisting his back and throwing the attacker off balance. He then threw out a speculative backward kick, hitting them full on in the abdomen. Now free, he burst out from the surface, staggering back against the wall, gasping for breath. He looked across the room to see his attacker lying on the floor, dazed.

It was Marcus.

Marcus Johnson - older, yet instantly recognisable as the person who he had shared so many childhood experiences. Instinctively, Sam moved to his aid. Old habits die hard, and anyway, he seemed no threat now as he lay motionless against the base of the sink. He crouched down and checked his pulse. Marcus opened his eyes, his face creasing in confusion.

‘Sam?’

Sam watched him warily as he came to. ‘Are you okay?’

Marcus nodded, trying to suppress a grimace of pain. ‘Nice kick. Can you help me up?’

Sam grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. Marcus stretched his stomach, then reached out and handed Sam a towel from the rail. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.’

‘Who did you think it was?’ Sam said, trying to catch his breath, holding the towel. In truth, he didn’t want to take his attention away from Marcus, in case he launched another attack.

‘The same bastards who just shot out my window,’ he replied. ‘You heard the gunshot?’

Sam nodded.

Marcus grimaced again. ‘I thought they’d come back to check out their damage.’

Sam looked down at his clothes. His shirt was drenched and drips from his saturated hair fell onto the bathroom floor. ‘You know who these people are?’

‘Local youths,’ he said.

Sam was amazed by Marcus’s apparent nonchalance. ‘And have they done this sort of thing before?’

Marcus nodded, again feeling his stomach. ‘Mostly low level harassment – school ground stuff mainly – name calling, throwing a couple of stones - they’re only about fifteen or sixteen.’

‘But why?’

‘Somehow they found out that I’d been in prison, and why. And as a convicted rapist and murderer, I’m a legitimate target.’

Sam tried to distance himself from that reality. ‘Have you told the police?’

Marcus snorted. ‘They gave them a warning, but as you can see, it hasn’t exactly put them off.’

‘But they tried to shoot you.’

‘It was a ball bearing gun,’ Marcus said. ‘They were aiming for the window, not me.’

‘But still, you could have been hurt.’

Marcus shrugged off the suggestion. ‘Better dry that hair, otherwise you’ll catch your death of cold. Isn’t that what your mum used to say?’

Sam nodded, managing a thin smile. ‘She still does.’ The two looked at each other, and the smiles vanished, both knowing what this was all about. The nervous banter was over. ‘The police, have they been to see you?’

Marcus nodded. ‘They told me about the guy who killed himself, Richard Friedman.’

‘So you’ll know why I’m here.’

‘You want to decide for yourself whether I killed Cathy. You want to look me in the eye and ask me the question. Well, go on, ask me.’

Sam swallowed hard, not expecting to have to deal with this so soon.

‘Go on, ask me,’ he pressed.

‘Did you kill her?’

Marcus met his stare and stepped a pace closer. Sam realised now how much bigger Marcus was than he used to be. He was not only physically larger, but taller; now a good quarter of a foot above Sam. And his face, once quite thin and angular, had filled out. You could see the muscles in his cheeks as he bristled with emotion. ‘What do you think, Sam, do you think I killed her?’

‘Don’t play games, Marcus.’

‘I’m not,’ he replied. ‘Look at me, he said, gesturing to his eyes. ‘Do you think I killed Cathy? Do you think I went out that night on the beach, raped her and then left her for dead?’

Sam clenched his teeth, feeling his fists tighten by his side.

‘Do you?’ Marcus pressed.

‘No,’ Sam said, surprising himself with the strength of his conviction. ‘I don’t think you did it.’

If Marcus felt any satisfaction, he didn’t show it. ‘That’s good, Sam. Because I’ve learnt over these years that it doesn’t matter a shit what I say, or what I think. It’s all about what other people believe.’

26

Sam watched from the sofa as Marcus inspected the window. The ball bearing had shattered the lower pane, leaving jagged shards of glass over the carpet and jutting out from the wooden frame, but fortunately it had missed the main part of the window.

‘Will you tell the police?’ Sam asked.

Marcus nodded, picking up a particularly nasty looking shard of glass with the tips of his fingers and depositing it in a black bin bag. ‘I’ll give them a call.’

As Marcus continued the clear-up, Sam took the opportunity to survey the flat. It was a small, dingy space, with one room being the lounge, kitchen and bedroom. The putrid orange carpet was threadbare, the brown wallpaper was 1970s kitsch and there were sure signs of damp in all four corners. So this was life after prison. It all felt thoroughly depressing.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Marcus said, catching Sam looking. ‘It’s a dump.’

‘It’s okay,’ Sam lied.

‘The best I could afford.’ Marcus put down the bag and grabbed a coat. ‘C’mon, I can’t be bothered with this now, let’s get out of here.’

‘What about the police? You’re not going to call them first?’

‘It can wait,’ he said. ‘Believe me; they won’t be in a rush to get here anyway.’

Sam followed Marcus out of the flat and down the stairwell, emerging into the courtyard at the base of the tower block. He didn’t ask where they were heading, instead just staying at Marcus’s shoulder, not speaking. Walking side by side with the one-time friend who he had not seen for fifteen years, Sam reflected on the strangeness of the situation. He couldn’t quite believe he was here, now, back with Marcus. It felt unreal and uncomfortable.

‘You still play snooker?’

Sam shook his head. ‘Not since we used to play together.’

‘I know a place,’ Marcus explained. ‘Time you started again.’

They approached a row of shops. A group of teenagers huddled around a bench outside an off-license, chatting and laughing. Sam ignored the stare from one of the male youths as they passed. Marcus made for an unmarked red door on the far left hand side of the block, and Sam followed him inside and up the flight of bare wooden stairs that led up directly from the door. They turned right at the top, into a large open-plan room that must have spanned the entire upper level of the block. The room was full of snooker tables, half of which were occupied with players of varying ages, all male. There was a bar on the far side, and a small reception desk directly to their left.

The whole area was awash with tobacco smoke, as if to emphasise its separation from normal society. This obviously wasn’t a place where the authorities came.

Marcus spoke with the man at reception, handing him cash, and then beckoned Sam to follow him to one of the free tables. Setting up the table, and handing Sam a cue, Marcus broke off. For a couple of games the only words exchanged between the two were compliments about one another’s game play. Although rusty, by the middle of game three Sam was back into the swing, leaving the score at two to one in Marcus’s favour with an impressive shot across the length of the table.

It was during the fourth game, an hour in, that the conversation began.

‘It means a lot to me that you’re here, Sam,’ Marcus said, as he lined up a shot. He slotted the blue ball deep into the middle pocket, and then turned to face Sam. ‘I’ve waited a long time to hear you say that you believe me.’

Sam didn’t really know what to say.

‘Did you get my last letter?’ Marcus asked, turning back to the table, to make another shot.

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t mean the one I sent the other day. I mean the one from prison, three years ago.’

Marcus took another shot – this time narrowly missing the pocket.

‘I got it,’ Sam said.

Marcus straightened up and nodded. ‘I guess deep down I knew you wouldn’t reply, but part of me hoped you would. Part of me thought that you’d believe me.’

‘I didn’t know what to believe,’ Sam stated. ‘You said you couldn’t remember what happened. Don’t you think that I wanted to believe that you hadn’t done it?’

‘I believe you wanted someone to blame,’ Marcus replied. ‘You wanted someone to be punished for what happened to Cathy. And I don’t blame you. I feel just the same.’

Sam looked away. ‘The evidence was there. And the jury found you guilty, not me, or Louisa, or anyone else.’

‘You’re right, Sam. But they didn’t know me like you do.’

They finished the fourth game in near-silence, letting the comments from their exchange mature, before migrating over to the bar and moving to a table with their beers.

‘I was going to visit you,’ Sam revealed, taking a sip from his pint, ‘but at the last minute I changed my mind.’

Marcus looked confused. ‘Why?’