Lockdown

Chapter Four

Pinkie often dreamt of his mother. He knew she was his mother, because in his dreams that’s what he called her. But she didn’t really look anything like the woman he remembered from his childhood. Which was always disappointing when he woke up. Pinkie usually found reality disappointing. He liked to think that his waking hours were really dreams, and that his dreams were real. That way he could do anything he liked, and when he fell asleep, well, none of it had happened. It was a neat way of dealing with the strange things that pleased him. Things that others might not understand.

Right now he was back in his grandparents’ house. This was real. He remembered it so clearly. All those nights spent sleeping on the sofa in the front room. Icy cold in the winter. Hot and stuffy in the summer. And the bookcase that stood against the far wall, at the end of the sofa where his pillow went. He had lost count of the mornings he had woken before anyone else, and lain looking at those books lined up along the shelf at his eye level. Books with weird and wonderful titles — Eyeless in Gaza, Cloud Howe, For Whom the Bell Tolls. Written by people with the oddest names — Aldous Huxley, Lewis Grassic Gibbon, Ernest Hemingway. Who in God’s name was called Aldous?

It had taken him a long time, two years maybe, before he had ventured to slide one of the books from the shelf and gingerly open its yellowed pages. His grandfather had taught English at the local grammar school, and so there were all kinds of books on that shelf. This one was called Brighton Rock by someone called Graham Greene. He had only meant to read the first sentence. Which stretched to a paragraph, and then a page. And then another. In a year, he had read every book on the shelf. But that first one had always stayed with him. A strange darkness about it, set in an era before his time, beyond his ken. And a hero, or rather, anti-hero, with whom he had found instant empathy. The teenage gangster, Pinkie. Ruthless, heartless, manipulative. Quite compelling. Flawed, of course, but then weren’t we all?

He immediately adopted the nickname for himself. Pinkie. And insisted that’s what the other kids at school call him. It never struck him how risible it might seem to them, or how ridiculous it sounded. Because for him the name was synonymous with the character. And that’s who he wanted to be. It caused a great deal of hilarity at first, but that soon stopped. No one laughed at Pinkie a second time.

Now his mother was stooping over his bed. He could smell her perfume, feel the warmth of her cheek next to his. Then the softness of her lips and her sweet breath whispering goodnight, little man, sleep tight, little man. And then the phone rang, and to his annoyance she said, I’ll have to get that, and she was gone. Who the hell was phoning at this hour anyway? Why couldn’t she just let it ring? And yet, it did. On and on, until with a whispered curse under his breath, Pinkie rolled over and snatched the phone from the bedside table. The dream was gone. He was back in the waking world.

‘What the fuck do you want?’

‘Good morning, Pinkie. I hope I didn’t wake you.’

Pinkie took a deep breath to calm himself. This was business. He recognised the voice immediately. The smooth, strangely monotonous tones of Mr Smith. He had thought they were all done. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I was busy with something.’

‘Pinkie, I have a problem.’

Pinkie could not imagine what possible problem there could be. ‘What problem?’

‘That young man you found for me... he didn’t follow through.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean he didn’t dispose of the bones. He dumped them on a building site. And now the police have them.’

‘Shit!’ Pinkie felt anger tighten the muscles of his neck and shoulders. That little bastard! ‘You want me to off him?’

‘I want you to keep a watching brief, Pinkie. Make sure the bones don’t lead them anywhere. You know what I mean? Take whatever action you need to tidy things up.’ Mr Smith sounded very calm, but Pinkie knew that he wasn’t. He’d witnessed his temper, knew he was capable of things Pinkie could never have contemplated. In truth, Pinkie was a little scared of Mr Smith.

‘How am I going to get around?’

‘You can take my car. It has clearance to go just about anywhere.’ There was a pause at the end of the line. ‘I think I have found a way to monitor whatever progress the police might be making. That way we’ll know exactly what it is you might have to do.’

‘Why don’t we just take out the cops?’

‘No, no,’ Mr Smith said quickly. ‘If anything were to happen to the investigating officer that would only draw attention. And that’s the last thing we want.’