The Evil And The Pure (16 page)

He broke into a c
old sweat. Forced a crooked smile. Asked if there was any proof that the rumours were true. The headmistress pursed her lips — no actual
proof
, but the rumours were widespread. Kevin said that he’d talk it over with Tulip and take it from there. The headmistress saw him out with a smile, telling him they could set this straight, to keep his chin up, it would all work out. Kevin smiling desperately, stomach sinking, sure that he had come to the abrupt end of his voyeuristic odyssey.

Tulip
was relieved when he told her. She thought the nightmare was over. Said it was for the best, they could start afresh, put the sickness behind them. Kevin not so willing to let go. Considering options — teenagers from different schools? No, teen circles too tight, word might trickle back. Move from London, enrol Tulip at another school? No, similar rumours would kick in after a while and her teachers might get in touch with the old school. Send Tulip out clubbing or to the pubs to pull? No, too young, people might notice and alert the police. Get her to pick up strangers in a park? Too dangerous, no telling what calibre of man she might bring back, and again, people might take note.

Slowly
ticking off the options, relinquishing the dream. Then — the obvious, the terrible, the logical. Prostitution. They could control their clients that way, visit them in hotels or their homes, build up a base of regular customers. Lots of research to find out how and where to advertise, how much to charge, how to avoid crossing the professionals. Eventually ready to chance it, Tulip hating him for what he wanted her to do, Kevin having to threaten suicide again until she gave in.

The first time Kevin hid in a wardrobe in a hotel room which they had set up. Tulip met the john in the lobby and brought him up. For Tulip —
horrible, bestial, humiliating. For Kevin — nirvana, the illicitness of the arrangement adding to the natural taboos. Tulip threatened suicide afterwards, trying Kevin at his own game. He wept and said he’d do nothing to stop her but would kill himself too. He made a suicide pact with her, calling her bluff. It worked. She abandoned hope, accepted her fate, surrendered any last vestiges of her innocence, kept human and alive only by her love for God and belief in redemption. Kevin lost himself more and more to the voyeurism, until it was no longer enough, until he had to take it further and play a more active role in the show, getting more of a high from being by her side when she was fucked than Tulip ever got chasing the dragon. When they performed together he felt complete. In a sick, blasphemous way he felt closer to God.

Tulip crossed herself one last time, rose, genuflected, returned to Ke
vin’s side. “I’m ready.” Kevin stood and smiled shamefully, wrapped an arm around her and squeezed encouragingly. Stepped out into the aisle and walked with her to the exit. Spotted Clint Smith near the back, on one of his Friday sessions. Kevin thought it was disgraceful but he kept his opinions to himself. He needed Smith, the customers and drugs which he provided, Dave Bushinsky and his thugs. He kept his head low, marched Tulip out of the church, pretended not to see the dealer.

Wan October daylight,
cleansing except for those who could no longer be cleansed. Facing home, strolling slowly, arm in arm, Tulip distracted, Kevin gloomy, a pair of lost, lonely, drifting souls.

TWELVE

Gawl ran his bloodied knuckles under cold water and grimaced, wounds washing clean, rust-coloured water trickling down the drain, examining the cuts, one over the middle knuckle especially deep. Couldn’t remember who the fight had been with or what it had been about
. Couldn’t even recall if he’d won or lost, or if it had just been one of those scraps where they knocked each other around then retired to the bar for a few more pints.

He d
ried his hands on a pair of Alex’s knickers.
Alex
, not Alice/Annie. Sneering as he ran the damp cotton over his knuckles. He’d beaten her and she’d taken it, whimpering and drunk, then returned for more. Visited him on and off for two weeks, letting him do what he wanted as long as he provided booze. Hadn’t seen her recently though. She must have found another mug, less violent than Gawl. Or else she was dead. He didn’t care either way, a bit of hole always welcome but he wouldn’t die without it.

Gawl tossed the knickers away and wandered through to his grotty living room, wincing, ribs aching, killing the pain with a glug of cider. Collapsing into a chair, he gazed moodily at the wall, then at the watch he’d
stolen from some goon he’d kicked the shite out of the week before. Three-seventeen. He’d have to get a move on soon, but not to the pub. Gawl was on a mission, better things to do with his evenings than waste his time getting drunk.

The
mission
had fallen into his life on Wednesday, Gawl waiting in the Church of Sacred Martyrs, there to collect money which Fr Sebastian owed him. Keeping a curious eye on the young dealer near the back, Clint Smith, Fr Sebastian’s go-to man. Gawl had thought about edging Smith out of the equation – supply the priest himself – but he worked for Dave Bushinsky and Gawl still clung to faint hopes of catching the Bush’s eye at some stage. Even if that dream came to nothing, it was bad news to fuck with a man of the Bush’s standing.

Idly watching Smith when Larry Drake walked in. Ga
wl recognised Drake, had seen him in newspapers and magazines, occasionally on TV in pubs. Came alert when Drake slid up to Smith. Saw Smith slip the actor a shit-load of gear, no money exchanging hands. When Drake left, Gawl followed, curiosity aroused. Gawl was sure Drake owned an expensive car or drove about in limos, but just as sure that the actor wasn’t dumb enough to pull up at a small church in a flash car. Drake made a bee-line for the Elephant & Castle, lapels up, head low, not wanting to be ID’d while carrying enough shit to get an elephant high.

Drake got
the Tube from the Elephant, changed at Embankment, District line to Fulham Broadway, short walk to his disappointingly ordinary apartment, Gawl hot on his heels, noting the address, retiring to a nearby café to order a coffee and mull this over. Figuring,
Must be thousands of junkie actors, nothing unusual in that, but how many walk into my life? Might be money here, an angle to be played
. He considered blackmail or burglary, but reckoned there was more to be made if he could strike a bargain with the actor. Gawl could act as a procurer – drugs, women, whatever – or protector, adept in both roles. The problem was how to get close to a man like Larry Drake. Gawl now knew where the actor lived, and that he liked to get high, but how to introduce himself and convince Drake to make use of him?

Thinking hard but getting nowhere, he f
inished his coffee and got ready to call it quits and go collect his cash from Fr Sebastian, when providence struck again. Larry Drake walked into the café, beaming at the waiter. “The usual, please.”

The w
aiter beamed back. “Coming right up, Mr Drake.”

Gawl hunched over his
empty mug as Drake sat just two tables away from him and produced a showbusiness magazine, ruffling the pages, sighing happily. When the waiter came with the drink, Gawl eavesdropped.

“Busy day, Mr Drake?”

“Not too bad. Got off early for good behaviour.” Dry laughter.

“Still shooting around Kennington?”
the waiter asked.

“Yeah. Bloody location shoots
are killers. Some bastard kept walking by today when we were trying to get a shot outside a restaurant, did it just to piss us off, laughing like an idiot.”

“Did you get
the shot in the end?”

“Nope. Try
ing again tomorrow. We’re there till the weekend and the light wasn’t right anyway.”

“Any exciting plans for tonight?”

“You know me.” Laughing knowingly. “Quiet night in.”

Gawl ordered another coffee, sat sipping it slowly, trying
not to stare at the actor, waiting for him to leave. When he did, Gawl rose and followed him back to his apartment, walking past as Drake entered. Stopped at the corner of the street, lingered a moment, decided he was too obvious here, crossed to a pub with a view of Drake’s place. Gawl found a seat near the front window, settled down, watched.

Shortly before eight a car pulled up outside. Moments later the actor appeared, dressed to impress. Sat into the back
and drove away into the night, Gawl watching silently, pondering. He went home early for once, sober, plotting.

Thur
sday morning, Gawl in fresh jeans, a jumper and overcoat, clean shaven, making a rare effort to look presentable. Brushed his hair into place as best he could, carefully combing ginger hairs over the grey. Paused in front of a mirror, studying his reflection and the jagged top of his stumpy left ear, the kind of mark people noticed and remembered. Gave up on his hair, ducked into the garish Elephant & Castle shopping centre – some genius had a brainwave years earlier and painted the fucking thing pink – and bought a loose wool cap which he could tug down over his ears, then strolled to Kennington in search of a TV crew.

He f
ound them setting up cameras and lights outside a restaurant, the actors standing around and talking quietly, technicians busy. A small crowd of interested onlookers stood gathered nearby. Gawl joined them, staying near the back. A tedious business, equipment had to be carted all over the place, actors told where to stand, what to say, the different shots they were planning, make-up artists fussing around the actors, crew clearing out of the way, public asked for quiet. Then the big moment — Larry Drake and three others walk into scene, pause outside the door of the restaurant, have a short conversation and enter.

“Cut.
”

A
pplause from the crew as the actors re-emerged. Then they swept forward to move the cameras and lights, preparing the next shot, a close-up, actors huddled together, drinking and smoking while they waited, looking bored.

Some of the onlookers drifted away
. Gawl drifted with them, took a left at the end of the street then leisurely circled back around, this time positioning himself clear of the crowd, alone, observing silently. Moved five more times over the course of the morning, not wanting to draw attention to himself by lingering in any spot too long.

Lunch break. Most of the crew filed into the restaurant. A couple of the actors joined them but Drake left with the director and a few others for a nearby pub. Gawl followed, keeping a safe distance, not entering until they were all seated and had ordered food and drinks, engaged in conversation, taking no notice of the
other customers. Then he walked in casually, ordered a pint and pie, sat as close to their table as he could, ears sharp.

Lots of dull shop talk, jokes, the actors name-dropping, Drake mostly si
lent. He wasn’t the star of the show, nobody here in awe of him, not giving it large like he did in public, saving his grand performances and stories for those who were easily impressed. Gawl tuned into a conversation between the director and one of his assistants. They were discussing the schedule for the rest of the week. They planned to wrap by three outside the restaurant, then transfer to Kennington Tube station to shoot a short scene. Friday they’d be filming around Waterloo all day, Saturday morning around Blackfriars, that afternoon at the Imperial War Museum. “Then back to the sanity of the studio,” the director sighed.

Gawl stayed seated when the TV people left. He still had no idea how to wring money out of Larry Drake, but he was pleased with the way the morning
had gone. He’d shadowed Drake professionally, aroused nobody’s suspicions, got close to the actor during his personal time. If he could keep this up, hovering at the edges of Drake’s world, fishing for titbits, something would surely present itself.

Gawl went for a walk after lunch. Returned to the restaurant as the crew was pa
cking up and relocating to the Tube station. He cut ahead of them. Passed a homeless guy selling copies of the Big Issue. Flash of inspiration — he stopped, checked his wallet, bought nine copies and told Mr Big Issue to piss off. “It’s not legal, re-selling them,” the homeless guy protested. Gawl growled threateningly in response and Mr Big Issue quit while he was ahead.

Gawl found a spot near the station, started
crying, “ISH-ooo! Get yer Big ISH-ooo!” Quietened down when the TV crew began to set up, careful not to annoy them. Silent while they were filming. Watched Drake do his stuff – he had to run out of the station, trip over a box, get up and run again – and bid goodbye to everyone when he was done, heading away before most of the others. One of the actors called out, asked what his plans were for the night. “Theatre,” Drake shouted, sliding into a cab.

Gawl wondered whether or not to follow the actor. Decided he’d done enough for one day
, struck for home, then the King’s Head, his local on the Walworth Road, to get pleasantly drunk, feeling he’d earned it.

Fri
day brought more of the same. Even easier to spy on Drake and the film crew in the crush around Waterloo, invisible in the crowd. Missed him at lunch – he took a car up the West End – but picked him up again in the afternoon. Hit paydirt near the end of the day, as Drake was preparing to leave. One of the technicians asked if he wanted to come to a party tomorrow. “Can’t,” Drake said. “Hot date in the Groucho, then she wants to check out some dive called the Starsky & Hutch, a seventies disco I think.”