The Evil And The Pure, page 12
The pot became a regular part of their evenings together, Kevin buying it now, feeding it to Tulip, laughing away her concerns when she worried about becoming addicted. Eventually he brought back some coke, giggled when she was shocked, told her not to be a square, made a joke of it. Careful not to use much himself, pretending to snort, pressing most of it on her.
A prolonged, determined campaign to addict her, making light of Tulip’s fears when she voiced them, treating her like a grown-up, saying this brought them closer together, writing sicknotes for her when she was too stoned to go to school, leaving her alone in the flat with grass and coke.
One night, when she was properly hooked and flying high, he told her that he’d caught her making love. She laughed and called him a voyeur. He smiled and asked her to tell him about her sexual history. There wasn’t much to tell. She’d only had sex with one boy, four times. She regretted giving up her virginity, but it was too late to go back. She’d confessed the sin in church and had agreed with Fr Andrew that she wouldn’t have sex again until she was married.
Over the next week Kevin raised the issue frequently when she was high and he was pretending to be, saying it was good to experiment, she should feel free to try it again. Tulip said she didn’t want to. Kevin said she was letting her beliefs blind her to her true desires, that she secretly wished to have sex again, and should — it was wrong to suppress one’s natural urges. One night, when her head was spinning and he was going on at her about doing what she pleased, Tulip laughed and said it was as if he actively wanted her to have sex. Kevin stared at her solemnly, heart thumping, then took the gamble and told her softly that he did, and more than that, he wanted to watch. “That night when you called me a voyeur — you were right.”
Tulip incredulous. She thought he was joking, a sick joke, not funny, even when she was high. Distraught and disgusted when she realised he was earnest. Tears, screams, locking her door, wanting to leave, thinking he meant to rape her. Kevin was calm, soft, kept on talking, finding words instinctively, discovering eloquence in his unnatural lust. He convinced her that he would never touch her, he had no desire to have sex with her, she should pack her bags and leave if she ever thought that he did. Made her feel safe, talked most of her fears away, got her to open he door and sit down with him and discuss it rationally.
Tulip tried to reject the drugs the next night and the night after. She wanted to clear her head, think about the situation clearly. But she had the hunger now. She needed her fix. Kevin played on that. Came back from work with heroin, said that was all he’d been able to score. A lie – he’d had the heroin for weeks, had got his dealer to teach him how to use it – but Tulip believed him. Not knowing any better, she gave it a try, figuring it was OK to try anything once. Thought it was odd the next night when Kevin returned with the same story and more heroin. Stopped thinking after that. Hooked on a whole new world, carefully led into it by her artful, deceptive brother.
Once he had her trapped, Kevin admitted to fantasizing about her all the time. He faked tears, said he was vile, threatened to kill himself. Tulip was aghast — he mustn’t think such things, suicide the greatest sin. But he was weak, he moaned, a fragile man, prey to the sickness. He’d go mad if they continued as they were, unable to stop dreaming about her. But if she had sex again – not with him! never with him! – but with her boyfriend, the same as before, and let Kevin watch… maybe that would cure him.
Tulip begged Kevin to seek help, God’s or a counsellor’s, but he wouldn’t, he swore that he couldn’t. Tulip was too young, too naïve and too high to see him for the liar that he was. When he grabbed a knife and cut into a wrist (not deeply, making it look worse than it was), her heart went out to him and she agreed to give him what he wanted, hoping and praying that it would satisfy him.
He made Tulip ring the boy that night, while she was stoned, and invite him over, knowing he had to strike while she was open to the idea. The boy came running, as any horny teenage boy would. Kevin hid, waited for them to start fucking, snuck back to the open bedroom door, watched as he had before, even better than the first time, his heart pounding, his cock hard, but not masturbating, saving that pleasure for the future.
Tulip had woken disgusted, ashamed, sobbing. He’d taken the day off work, wept with her, thanked her for saving him, fed her heroin and coke, convinced her to invite the boy back again that night.
A few days later the boy wasn’t enough. He needed new flesh, a fresh thrill. He asked her to seduce one of her other friends. Tulip broke down, refused the drugs, told him this couldn’t continue, it was immoral and ungodly. He’d expected this. Sat her down, brewed tea, wiped her tears away, kissed her demurely. When she recovered he produced a folder packed with documents, bank accounts, legal details. “Everything you’ll need is here,” he said evenly. “The lawyers will sort it out for you. There should be enough to live on for a long time. You’ll have to go into care for a while, but –”
“What do you mean?” Tulip gasped. “What are you going to do?”
Kevin smiled softly. “I’m going to cure myself the only way I know how. You won’t have to worry about me any more. I’m setting you free.”
“No!” She believed he truly meant to kill himself. Offered to bring a boy back like he wanted, but he shook his head, said it was wrong of him to have asked, easier to let go, for her to get on with life, not to worry about him any longer. Tulip got hysterical, clung to him, begged him to let her try. In the end Kevin relented reluctantly. Tulip went on the addle-headed prowl once he’d doped her up, found a boy from school, brought him home and let him fuck her while Kevin watched and masturbated. The seediness of it, the fact that this wasn’t her boyfriend, that she was offering herself to someone she had no real attraction to, purely to sate her brother’s inhuman appetites…
That excited him. Even before he came – harder than ever, so hard that he had to jam a hand into his mouth to stifle his gasps – he began to wonder what it would be like if he told her to bring back a stranger, some random guy from the street.
Tulip stepped out of the confessional, walked to a pew near the front of the church, genuflected, knelt, said her prayers. Fr Andrew used to make her say dozens of them – she’d be praying for hours after each confession – but Fr Sebastian limited Tulip’s penance to a few Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s. The priest often pleaded with her to tell the police or social workers about her brother’s abuse, or to come to him outside of the confessional, so that he could act on what she said. He was a broken, pitiful, weak man in most ways, but he had yet to break the sacred seal of the confessional and hoped that he never would — it was the last good thing in his life that he had to be proud of.
But Tulip refused to rat on her brother. To a large extent it was fear for his life — she knew he was an addict (if he hadn’t been in the beginning, he certainly was now) and was sure he’d kill himself rather than be parted from her. Regardless of what he’d done to her, he was her brother and she wanted him to live. But shame was also a factor. Though she didn’t mind admitting every act of indecency to Fr Sebastian and God – who forgave all sins – she cringed at the thought of confessing to anyone else.
Kevin studied Tulip as she prayed. He felt wretched, but passion was never far from the surface. Recalling the early months when watching had been enough, Tulip bringing home boys from school, having sex with them, quick and cold, Kevin getting off on the scene. He still fantasized about her bringing back a stranger but was worried that he couldn’t control the situation. If a teenager caught him outside the room, trousers around his ankles, Kevin could threaten the boy — you were doing wrong too. An adult couldn’t be so easily manipulated. A man could hurt or expose them. Kevin might never have moved up from friends of Tulip’s if he hadn’t been called in by her headmistress one day for a heart-to-heart.
The headmistress was concerned — vicious rumours were sweeping the school that Tulip was having intimate relations with a variety of boys. Not unheard of – girls sometimes went wild when puberty hit – but disturbing in Tulip, in all other respects a model student, a lovely girl, very quiet. Could this be a delayed reaction to her father’s death and did Kevin want to avail of a psychiatrist who had assisted other pupils with similar problems?
He broke into a cold 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 Kevin’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 dried 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. Gawl 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 finished 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 waiter 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. Trying 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.
Thursday 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 found 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.”
Applause 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.
