The Evil And The Pure (28 page)

But Monday came. Tuesday. Wednesday. Long hours at London Bridge, angry customers, uncaring staff, a job he hated.
The only way he could get through the drab days was by dreaming of Tulip. But the dreams not enough. She sensed the need growing in him. Tried to distract him. Asked him to take her out for meals. Talked incessantly about books she’d read and shows she’d seen. Said she was going to stay off the drugs, determined to get clean and match Kevin’s sacrifice if he was willing to go cold turkey. Kevin grunted, touched by the offer, knowing it would be even harder for her to get straight than it would be for him, since she had a real, physical addiction. He wanted to meet her halfway and lead them both out of the wretched wilderness of his making. But in his mind’s eye seeing her naked, writhing on a bed, growing hard on the image, needing more.

At work on Thursday his mobile rang
. Martin Laskey. “What do you want?” Kevin asked sharply. He’d told Laskey last time that they wouldn’t be doing any future business with him, Laskey too rough with Tulip.

“I wanted to know if you were free,” Laskey said smoothly.

“Not for you,” Kevin snapped.

“Hey,” La
skey laughed, “let’s be friends. I was a bit forward before, but we had fun in the end, didn’t we?”

“You hurt Tulip,” Kevin said.

“So I squeezed a bit harder than I should,” Laskey chuckled. “I paid a bonus, didn’t I? And I promised I wouldn’t hurt her again. Can you come tonight? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I’m not sure.” Nervous about going to Laskey’s alone. Thinking about Dave Bushinsky and his heavies, how he needed Clint to set up protection. About to turn Laskey down when he remembered he had a number
for the giant, Big Sandy. He’d given it to Kevin on their way home from Laskey’s. “Let me ring you back,” Kevin said, severing the connection, checking his watch, more than an hour till lunch. He wanted to slip away early but Dan Bowen had been on his back all week, riding Kevin hard. He’d have to wait.

The second the minute hand hit twelve, Kevin hurried home. Tulip called hello to him from the TV room when she heard him enter, but he only grunted and made
for his phone book, skimming the pages until he found Big Sandy’s number under M for Murphy. Tulip wandered out and watched him as he dialled, seeing the hunger in his eyes, sadness filling her soul.

The phone rang five times.
Six. Seven. Then a heavy voice, “Yeah?”

“Sandy Murphy?”

“Yeah?” Cautious.

“This is Kevin Tyne. I was wondering if you could escort us tonight?”

A pause. “Clint normally arranges that.”

Kevin started to tell him about h
is fall out with Clint. Stopped, not sure what codes these people operated by, figuring solidarity might be an issue with them, if you insult one you insult all. Safer not to mention his bust-up with Clint. “I tried calling him but I couldn’t get through.”

Another pause. Then,
“What time?”

“I’ll call you back and let you know.”

Hanging up, beaming, digging out Laskey’s number, thinking,
Fuck Clint Smith!
He caught Tulip’s eye and smiled at her. “Better make yourself beautiful. We have an appointment tonight.”

Tulip stared at her brother coldly, then turned her back on him and returned to the TV room, tears trickling down her cheeks
, heading for her stash. Kevin didn’t notice. He was entirely focused on the phone and making arrangements, promise to God forgotten, quiet contentment of the past week forgotten, thinking about the sex, trembling with the neediness of unnatural lust.

TWENTY-EIGHT

A week solid shadowing Clint Smith, staying off the drink except for a few pints on his way home at night, shaving daily, washing regularly, darkness behind him, a point to his life. Not sure what secrets were hidden behind the door of the garage – he’d been back a few times, no signs of life – but sensing promise, maybe a big score, maybe a steady earner. But definitely
something
.

Disappointed that Smith hadn’t returned to the garage, but certain that
in time he would. Smith looked like Gawl had felt a week ago, low, empty, suicidal. As Gawl knew from first-hand experience, you couldn’t live indefinitely in that bleak place. Whatever mysteries the garage held, they were more important to Smith than anything else in his life. He’d have to return to them, move on in search of new dreams, or kill himself. Gawl confident Smith wouldn’t move on or slit his throat — too weak a man. That left the garage, a humble return, tail between his legs.

Gawl not sure how he could get close to Smith, to find out who the black
guy was, where Smith stood in relation to the Tynes, or what the purpose of the garage was. But an opportunity would surely present itself. He just had to follow Clint long enough and doggedly enough, and eventually the chance to squeeze himself into the dejected dealer’s life would arise. When it did, he’d seize it, and he knew – deep down, on the level of animal instinct, he
knew
– life would never be the same for him again. Or for Clint Smith. Or for any of them.

TWENTY-NINE

Big Sandy sat in the TV room with Tulip watching soaps. Kevin had been kept late at work by his boss but hadn’t had time to alert Big Sandy. When he’d arrived at the flat, Tulip had told him he could go away and return in a couple of hours if he liked, but he said he’d wait for Kevin. Patience one of Big Sandy’s virtues.

He’d only been back in London since Monday
, but Margate already seemed like a faraway dream. He’d celebrated his return with a rare booze-up, followed by a trip to Sapphire’s. No weeping this time, no confessions, just a long night of love-making, laughing about how dull Margate was, catching up with Sapphire’s more recent news. Lying awake beside her after she’d fallen asleep, imagining a life with her. Unlike Megan, she could accept him for what he was. No surprises for Sapphire — she knew him at his worst and most vulnerable. It might be a good life. She didn’t trick much any more. He was sure it wouldn’t be a loss for her if she had to give it up. Make an honest woman of her. Grow old together. He’d finally drifted off, thinking of the pair of them sitting in some room or other in the future, peaceful, sharing a warm, knowing smile. But he said nothing of it when they got up in the morning. Seemed like a childish dream when he was sober. He left feeling sheepish.

In the soap, a teenage boy and girl were having an argument. That reminded Big Sandy of his daughter and the kid who
’d snapped her bra. He glanced at Tulip, chewed his lip a while, then said softly, “Can I ask you something?”

Tulip looked up, surprised. “Of course. What?”

“If a boy snaps a girl’s bra, and she hits him when he does it, but laughs at the same time… what does that mean?”

“Depends,” Tulip sniffed. “Maybe he has a crush on her and is trying to catch her attention. Or maybe she has a crush on him, and he knows, but isn’t interested,
and is teasing her. Or maybe they’re just friends and it doesn’t mean anything.”

Big Sandy thought that over. He appreciated the feedback and cast an eye over Tulip, paying closer attention to her than he had before. She
was nervous, worried about the night ahead, fingering her rosary beads while she watched TV. During a break, Big Sandy decided to ask her about that. “Are those fashion accessories?” Tulip stared at him uncertainly. “The beads. Are they only for show?”

“Oh no,” Tulip said quickly, clutching them to her chest.

“You’re religious?”

She nodded imperceptibly
and looked at him curiously. “And you?”

He smiled. “In my line of work it doesn’t pay to think of God too much.”

“I would have thought people in your line of work needed to think of God more than most,” Tulip said.

“How so?” Big Sandy frowned.

“You need him more.”

Big Sandy’s frown deepened.
He thought she was criticising him. “People in your line of work need him too,” he retorted.

“It’s not a line of work for me,” Tulip answered softly, “but yes, I
do
need him. That’s why I pray so much, begging for forgiveness and understanding.”

Big Sandy sat up, taking
even more of an interest. “If you feel that way about it, why…?” He left the indiscreet question hanging.

“We don’t all have the freedom of choice,” Tulip said. “Some of us do what we have to, what we must.”

“I don’t agree with that,” Big Sandy grunted. “We make our own choices. Some have easier choices to make than others, but nobody’s locked on a single course, not unless they choose to be.”

“You don’t believe in fate?”

“No.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” Tulip said, “but sometimes it seems that everything
is destined, that all our choices have been taken away, except for those which will damn us — and those are no real choices at all.”

Big Sandy
scratched the back of his left hand with his right, thinking about that. “So why do you do it?” he asked, genuinely interested this time.

“I have my reasons,” Tulip answered cryptically.

“Does your brother force you?”

“Not directly.”

Big Sandy’s face darkened. “Does he hurt you?”

“No.”

“But he’s the one who arranges these
events
? They’re his idea?”

Tulip didn’t answer. She switched channels, distracted
, rubbed an arm, needing a fix. Big Sandy studied her intently, the first time he’d taken real notice of her, having previously dismissed her as a young, conscienceless whore. Now seeing the lines around her eyes, the nervous tic at the edges of her lips, her fingers white on the rosary beads. Comparing her with Amelie, feeling sorry for her, imagining how much it would hurt if he found his daughter in this situation. Wanting to know more about her. Trying to think of a way to draw her back into conversation.

“What church do you go to?”

“The Church of Sacred Martyrs. It’s over in –”

“
I know it,” Big Sandy interrupted. “I go there too.”

“You go to mass?” Tulip blinked, turning away from the TV, eyeing the giant dubiously.

“Not to mass.” Big Sandy grinned bleakly. “I’m no hypocrite. But I drop in to think sometimes, to look inside myself and wonder what God makes of me. I talk with the priest sometimes. He tries to –”

“You know Fr Sebastian?” Tulip
snapped, heart jumping, seeing a chance to find out if the priest was as respectful of his confessional vows as she believed.

“Yeah.
”

“He hears my confession.” Watching closely.

“You confess?” Big Sandy taken aback.

“I’m a sinner,” Tulip said. “Of course I confess.”

“But…” Big Sandy scratched an ear. “If you feel that way, why do you do this?”

“As I said,
we don’t all have the freedom of choice.”

Big Sandy leant forward curiously. “Do you think God forgives your sins?”

“Of course.”

“But if you’re not truly sorry…”

“I
am
sorry,” Tulip said stiffly.

“But you know you’ll do it again,” Big Sandy pressed.

“I pray to him that I won’t, that I’ll be delivered from…” Stopped short of incriminating Kevin outright.

“Prayers won’t get you anywhere,” Big Sandy snorted.

“Maybe not,” Tulip said. “But they’re all some of us have.”

Big Sandy laughed
out loud. Tulip looked hurt. She thought he was laughing at her. Big Sandy saw this and raised his hands apologetically. “No offence. I was just thinking that you’re a strange one.”

“How so?” Tulip asked coolly.

“Well, you talk like a nun but you…” He coughed, embarrassed.

“…
fuck like a slut?” Tulip finished bitterly, foul language her way of hurting Kevin when she wanted to, automatically using it on Big Sandy too.

“
That doesn’t suit you,” Big Sandy admonished her.

“Hookers are supposed to talk dirty,” Tulip pouted.

“Do you think of yourself as a prostitute?”

She looked away. Whispered,
“No.”

“Then don’t act like one. At least not when you don’t have to.”

Tulip squinted at the huge man in the chair, confused. “You talk funny too,” she said. “Not like I expect a gangster to talk.”

Big Sandy chuckled. “Is that what you think I am?”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Not really.” Big Sandy never thought of himself that way. Dave Bushinsky was a gangster. Big Sandy was just a hired hand.