The Evil And The Pure (5 page)

Clint flicked on his TV and
surfed the channels, but paid little attention to the shows, thinking about Shula. He replayed their conversation, reading more into her responses, playing out scenarios where she didn’t ask about Larry Drake, where they kept on talking, where the interest she’d shown in him deepened, where he told her of his dreams. Some of the scenes ended with her coming back here and getting down and dirty with him, but in most they innocently strolled the streets together, hands linked, just talking.

Clint was a lonely young man. He was making a good living as many judged such things, but he had nobody to share his success with, nobody to impress with his plans for the future. If he had someone like Shula to come home to, maybe he’d work harder, not just settle for easy scores, set out to truly impress
cousin Dave.

By the time Clint turned off the TV he had developed a serious crush on Shula Schimmel.
It had been a long time since anyone (with the exception of his clients) had spared him a gentle word or graced him with a few minutes of their time. Shula’s small gesture of friendship had touched him. Always quick to latch on to a vague dream, he began to see her as the answer to his prayers. With her by his side he could rule the world. She would give his life meaning, encourage him when he flagged, adore him when he did well. He could do anything with a woman like her. For a woman like her.

Dreaming idly
and wildly, he changed into casual clothes, pulled on a pair of trainers and let himself out. He could have got the Tube to the Elephant & Castle again but it wasn’t a long walk and he had time to kill. It was a dry September night, just right for walking, and he could fantasize about Shula en route.

Clint made good time to the Elephant, strolled up Walworth Road, passed the Heygate Estate, kept walking, eventually took a left on
to a side-street, then another left to the lab, putting thoughts of Shula aside as he drew near.

The lab covered almost one w
hole side of a cul-de-sac. The houses on the opposite side were owned by Dave Bushinsky, deserted or occupied by approved tenants. The lab buildings were once a garage, a warehouse and four two-storey houses. From the outside they still had this appearance, six separate structures, the garage and warehouse long shut for business, windows boarded over with planks and aluminium sheets, ghost houses, ground floor windows boarded over, the glass in the upper windows shattered. What the public didn’t see — all six buildings were linked on the inside, garage and warehouse converted into a state-of-the-art laboratory, the houses home to those who lived and worked in the complex. There was a computer room (no internet access), a gym, sauna, games room with pool tables and table tennis, underground basements for the Bush’s beloved hounds.

Clint paused at the sliding garage door, spun the tumbler
s of a rusty old combination lock, freed the chain, slid the door open, stepped inside and pulled the door shut. A second door nestled within, a couple of metres further on from the outer door. No handle on this side, just a button in the wall. Clint pressed the button and stepped back, whistling jaggedly, always nervous when he came here, thinking of the creatures beneath, imagining them on the loose, having devoured Phials, Fast Eddie and the others, waiting for fresh flesh — for Clint.

A series of heavy clicks, then the door slid
open. Fast Eddie Price emerged, a large man, almost as tall as Big Sandy but not as broad. Fading grey hair, crooked nose, a squint in his left eye from an old boxing injury, missing several teeth. Wearing a purple tracksuit, sleeves rolled up, a fluffy headband, but looking dangerous regardless. “Dave told me you were coming.” Strong Irish accent, even though he’d moved to London more than twenty-five years ago.

“Kevin and Tulip aren’t here yet?” Clint asked.

“No. You know the procedure.”

Clint spread his arms and legs, subject
ing himself to a fast but thorough body search. Rules of the lab — everyone was searched, no exceptions.

Fast Eddie finished checking him, motioned Clint through and closed the inner door.

“Why aren’t you at the party?” Clint asked as they set off through the outer corridors of the lab, skirting the sealed rooms where Tony Phials and his assistants weaved their narcotical charms.

“Someone’s got to babysit the professor,” Fast Eddie grinned, his gap-toothed grimace a ghastly facsimile of a normal smile.

“Is he still working?”

“Nah. He’s in
his bedroom. You brought the hash?”

“I never leave home without it.”
It was crazy, bringing a baggie to a lab where they could manufacture any kind of chemical intoxicant. But the products they cooked up here were for export only. Ultra strict on that point. Phials was their resident genius, the source of Dave Bushinsky’s recent dramatic rise, the Bush gone from a middleweight to heavyweight in the space of four short years. But he was also a junkie, a man who couldn’t be trusted, who had to be kept under lock and key, plied with marijuana when the shakes hit bad, otherwise kept clean.

Past the concealed doors to the basement
, home of the Bush’s monstrous pets. Clint shivered, imagining their howls. He hated any dog that was bigger and more aggressive than a poodle. The hounds were his perfect nightmare come to fanged life.

Up the stairs. Guards on the door outside Phials’ bedroom. Armed. Alert.
They parted for Fast Eddie and he knocked hard with his knuckles. A high-pitched cry from within. “Enter!”

“I’ll bring
up the Tynes when they come,” Fast Eddie said, opening the door, gesturing Clint into a dimly lit room.

“Thanks,
” Clint said as the door closed.

Dr Tony
Phials was sitting on the end of his bed, black skin almost invisible in the gloom, fuzzy dark hair sticking out in uneven clots, thin slivers of eye white shining in the dull light of the cloth-covered bedside lamp.

“That you, doc?” Clint asked, half-afraid.

“Sure as shit hope so,” Phials replied, his accent unmistakable, New York, the Bronx, Scorsese, DeNiro. It always gave Clint a thrill. Phials whipped the cloth away from the light and stood. He was wearing a satin dressing gown, hanging open. Naked beneath. Penis long, black, erect, curving to the left. “Resting my eyes,” Phials said, striding forward to shake Clint’s hand. Clint tried not to stare at Phials’ exposed cock but the doc caught him glancing and grinned. “Viagra. Couldn’t wait. Needed a hard-on. I can cover up if it bothers you.”

Clint laughed edgily. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.
” Phials was often naked or half-dressed when Clint visited. It always unnerved him.

Phials led Clint to the bed,
bade him sit and asked what he wanted to drink. Phials had a fully stocked bar in the bedroom. He could be trusted with alcohol — he had a weak stomach, couldn’t drink much. Clint said a beer would be fine. Phials fetched a glass and poured, the perfect (half-naked) host.

“You know I despise bluntness,” Phials said, passing Clint his drink, “but I’m
feeling utterly wretched tonight, so I’ll cut straight to the chase. Have you brought something to make me happy?”

Clint produced his baggie
and shook it.

Phials nodded approvingly. “High quality, I trust?”

“Only the best for you, prof.”

“Could you do the honours? My hands are trembling
.”

While Clint rolled a joint, Phials asked half-heartedly if Clint had anything else on him. “Afraid not,” Clint smiled. “You know the rules.”

“Who’d know?” Phials grumbled. “A few E’s to give me an extra bit of a buzz.”

“I’d do it if I could,” Clint apologised, “but I’m searched every time I enter.”

“You could sneak a few pills past Fast Eddie and his crew,” Phials insisted slyly. “You’re smarter than them. I bet you could slip a hog past that lot if you set your mind to it.”

“Maybe,” Clint chuckled, “but
if they found out I’d crossed them, it would be bad news for both of us.”

Clint finished rolling the joint, lit it, handed it over. Phials took it reverently, eyes narrowing, the tip of his penis seeming to rise towards the spliff like a divining rod. Settling it gently between his lips, he inhaled softly, breathed out, then took a deep drag, toes curling inwards, his whole body focused on the joint, greedily devouring the smoke, holding it
in as long as he could. When he finally let it out and coughed, he was smiling sagely, at one with the world and the prison of the lab. “Good shit,” he said, paying the traditional homage.

Clint wat
ched Phials smoke. As the chemist reduced the joint to ash, his left hand crept to his penis and lightly stroked it, drawing his fingers back over the tip in time with each inhalation, reversing course as he let the smoke escape. Clint looked away, red-faced.

Phials
’ eyes went vacant when he was done and for a couple of minutes he said nothing. Clint sat in silence, waiting for the doc to speak. Finally Phials gazed at his young dealer and smiled lazily. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not my normal verbal self. It’s been a long day. A long week. The pressure I’m under, Clint, the strain… You don’t know what it’s like.”

“You have it hard,” Clint said automat
ically, fake sympathy, secretly thinking,
I’d love a place like this, servants bringing me women, drugs, whatever I wanted. The bastard doesn’t know when he’s well off.

Phials appeared to read Clint’s thoughts. “You envy me,”
he said. “You think I have it sweet. Lots of money, people to kiss my ass, power.” He leant forward and reached out to grip Clint’s knee but stopped short. “A prison’s a prison, Clint. No matter if the bars are made of solid gold, they’re still bars.”

“You could leave,” Clint said uncertainly, not sure if Phials could, not knowing what sort of a bind Dave Bushinsky had over the American.

Phials blinked dumbly. “And go where? Who’d take me? Who’d protect me from my enemies or from myself?”

Clint didn’t answer. Couldn’t. As he sat uncomfortably, trying to think of a reply, there was a knock at the door. Phials almost exploded with excitement.
“Tulip! Is it Tulip? It must be. Let her in, Clint, let her in.”

Clint went to open the door. Phials covered his erection, drawing his dressing gown tight around his waist, plucking at his uneven hair like a nervous schoo
lboy. Clint eased the door open. Kevin and Tulip Tyne were outside, Kevin an inch or so less than Clint’s five-eleven, gaunt, stiff dark hair cut short, dressed in dull black trousers and a shirt, looking like a man at a wake. Tulip was five foot nothing, plump, curly auburn hair, smiling sadly, clutching an expensive leather handbag (a gift from the doc), wearing the green school uniform which Phials favoured (the real deal, Tulip having only recently left school), complete with scruffy plimsolls.

“Kevin, Tulip,” Clint greeted them, stepping aside, waving them forward.

“An angel,” Phials gasped, striding from the bed, meeting Tulip halfway there, taking her hands and kissing her cheeks. “Kevin, you’ve brought me an angel. She looks more beautiful each time I see her.”

“I’m a growing girl,” Tulip said softly, no cynicism in her tone, even though she had reason to be cynical. Clint had never seen her bitter.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Clint called to Phials. “I’ll roll a couple more joints on my way, leave them with Fast Eddie, you can –”

“Stay,” Phials interrupted, circling Tulip, studying her intently, besotted. “We always have room for one more, don’t we,
my angel?”

Tulip didn’t answer
but looked uncertainly at her brother. Kevin Tyne coughed into a fist. “That’s not part of our deal.”

“So we
’ll strike a new deal,” Phials smiled. “The more the merrier. Money’s not an issue. I’ve named my vice — name your price.”

“I don’t –” Kevin began.

Clint cut in quickly, heatedly. “I don’t want to stay. Not my scene.” Sweating at the thought of unrobing in front of Phials and Kevin Tyne, not much sexual experience, not wanting to be exposed as a relative innocent.

“If you’re sure…” Phials mumbled, right hand
settling on Tulip’s left breast, squeezing it through the fabric of her jumper and its school crest. Clint turned gratefully for the door. Phials called to him, “Drop by sometime, Clint. Don’t be a stranger. You don’t have to wait for my summons.”

“I’ll do that, doc,” Clint said.

“I mean it,” Phials insisted. He glanced up briefly. “I consider you a friend. Call whenever you wish.”

“I will,” Clint said, honestly this time,
tickled by the offer. Phials nodded, then fixed completely on Tulip Tyne, forgetting Clint, the lab, Fast Eddie, everything. Clint paused just long enough to catch Phials kissing Tulip, his thick lips covering her small pale mouth completely, then he spun, exited, closed the door.

Fast Eddie was waiting for him. “You should have stayed.”

“I don’t pay for my women,” Clint said gruffly.

“What women?” Fast Eddie chuckled.

Clint didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he sat in one of the spare chairs to the left of the door, a few metres from the guards with the rifles, and rolled twin joints, concentrating on his fingers, willing them not to shake. He laid the joints on the chair when finished, pocketed the almost empty baggie, walked back through the complex accompanied by Fast Eddie. He paused at the exit. “The doc said I could come vist if I wanted. That on the level?”