The Lighthouse at the End of the World, page 12
Oyster’s eyes kept getting drawn back to it, its black so dense that it really might be a hole in the metal siding – one leading who knew where? The figure reminded him of the horned creature from his weird-arse dream.
There was a growl and a low-slung sports car slinked around the tarmacked lip of the business park, its headlights dipped in the dying afternoon light. Oyster recognised it immediately as Deano’s. It pulled up at the container stack’s rear and its engine died. Oyster wasn’t sure what to do. Should he approach Deano first? Throw himself on his mercy and then get him to talk to Mickey? He froze, unsure of his play. The door opened and Deano squeezed himself out the car. Fuck it, I should just stand up here, make myself known. Man up. Whatever that meant.
But some instinct stopped him. There was something sus about Deano’s manner. Usually, he was a man who was hard to miss. He carried himself in a way that invited your inspection, that radiated about a gazillion megawatts of I don’t give a fuck what you think of me.
But now he looked diminished, like he didn’t want to be seen. A grey beanie was low over his brow, and he nestled his chin on his chest. He shifted his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet. Whatever he was up to, he was trying to keep it on the down low.
Something shifted at the rear of the Clip, and Oyster couldn’t quite believe what he saw. Standing crooked like a sketch of a shadow in the rapidly gaining evening was Mr Primrose. Deano nodded and the man approached him. What the actual fuck were these two doing together?
Oyster felt very cold. There was some seriously bad-vibe shit going down in front of his eyes. The two men casually chatted to each other. He couldn’t hear anything, but this clearly wasn’t the first time they’d met. They were tight. His overwhelming urge was to creep back further under the cover of the foliage, but he didn’t want to risk moving. If he was spotted it would be the end of him. He held his breath. After a lung-bursting age, the two of them finished their meeting and Deano took off. Primrose was nowhere to be seen.
Oyster’s legs had gone to sleep and his stomach gurgled. He felt sick. He went over the scene he’d witnessed again and again, trapped in a loop of disbelief, unable to quite believe what he’d seen. After a long time, he stood and rubbed his numb legs until he could feel them.
His mind was locked up with a sort of sickly vertigo. When he’d been a kid, he’d gone on a school trip to St Paul’s Cathedral and had become paralysed climbing one of the trellis stairwells inside it, unable to take his eyes away from the drop visible between his feet and unable to move a step further up or down.
It was exactly that sort of feeling that had him now. Everything he’d thought about the gang was wrong. He stumbled into the road and shuffled his way into the main road on legs like stilts. In a trance, he made for home, unable to think straight or process what his next move should be. He stumbled on, the trails of the car lights like lazy ghosts flashing past him. It was a risk, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. He knew that he might get turned over by another crew, or (worse) picked up by his own. But that didn’t seem to matter anymore either.
At the back of his head, he knew he needed to let Cécile know he was alright. That was the only thing that was important. And so, he staggered on through the night, walking across the south of the city towards the stacked lights of his block, cold beneath a colder moon.
“YOU DON’T DO THINGS
BY HALVES, DO YOU?”
Oyster was still a shambling wreck when he reached Deeside. The tower block had been erected in the seventies, then been refurbed at some point in the eighties, which explained the prevalence of plastic red-and-blue fittings.
From outside, the building looked like someone had taken a cruise liner and driven it into the ground prow first. While he knew the place was a dump, the sight of it warmed him somewhere inside, beneath the accumulated crud of adulthood. He loved it; it was the only home he had ever known.
Nearing the building, his street-smarts came back online. It was fair to assume the rest of the Urbans were on the lookout for him now. For all they knew, he’d done a runner with a sack of Mickey’s cash. And although Oyster fully intended to front up to his boss about what had happened, the only chance of being able to walk away from that conversation would be if it happened on his own terms. It was vital he wasn’t brought in, and it was very possible that his block was being watched.
He took a route around to the south side of the building, one that led him to the unlit entrance of its parking underworld. Again, he crouched out of sight and waited, his breath turning to vapour trails. For the first time in a long while he was itching for a ciggie, just to give his frozen fingers something to do.
The building had been conceived as twin stacks of flats, known as East Tower and West Tower, that backed onto each other. Each half of the building had its own main entrance, lifts and stairs, but no communicating connections apart from a shared rooftop. Inevitably, this separation had led to endless confrontations with the kids from his tower’s doppelgänger.
For the most part they had been relatively good natured, consisting mostly of chucking talc-filled condoms and water-bombs at each other. Conflicts that would always be forgotten when the Deesiders combined forces to get into it with the head-bangers from the Coulston Estate on the south side of Streatham.
Truth was, Oyster had always been fascinated by his building’s unknowable twin. Enthralled by the idea of the parallel lives unfolding a few centimetres from his own.
From where he was sat, he could observe both the East and West Tower entrances. Sickly yellow light spilled through the wired glass of their doorways, illuminating what looked to be the typical platoon of kids goofing off and tooting on some marijuana vape. He could smell its florid perfume from his hiding place.
At the edge of this knot of petty troublemakers stood taller figures, not really taking part. It was too far away to see for certain, but he had the feeling they might be Urbans, keeping an eye out for him.
“Ahoy, fuckwit.”
Oyster spun around, heart drumming. There was Broadsides. Banged up as hell but larger than life and twice Oyster’s size.
“Fuck!”
“I thought maybe…” said Broadsides.
Oyster shook his head.
“How is it someone as big as you is able to sneak up on me like that?”
Broadsides grinned and tapped Oyster’s forehead. “Perhaps you just don’t pay enough attention to your surroundings, padawan.” His grin subsided. “Where did you get to, you munton? You closed on those women with the cheese, right? Everyone’s on our backs. We’ve gotta get it back to the Big Man.”
Oyster nodded.
“You’re never gonna believe what’s been happening to me.”
Broadsides’ expression darkened.
“It’s nothing compared to what’s gonna happen if you don’t got that cash.”
“Look, I’m really sorry, but they got away from me, right. You saw what they were like? All that Jackie Chan shit they were busting. They fucked me over, dosed me up and dropped me somewhere in Kent. Ghosted me, totals.”
Broadsides shrank. He chewed the inside of his mouth.
“And that’s not all.”
Oyster flashed back to Primrose and Deano. It weighed like a stone in his belly. He needed to vent what he’d seen; to get all the toxic shit out of him. He described the clandestine meeting he’d witnessed. Broadsides turned pale.
“Fucking hell. Fucking hell! This is some seriously bad shit, disciple.”
“I know, right?”
“What’s the next move?”
Broadsides chewed at his thumb. It was obvious from his expression that he had an inkling as to what it was, he just didn’t want to say.
“Mickey, innit,” said Oyster. “But before that, I want to let Cécile know I’m alright and where my main stash is.”
Broadsides cracked his knuckles and broke into a gallows-humour chuckle that sounded like water gurgling down a drain.
“Right. Well, if we’re gonna go out, let’s do it brutalist.”
Oyster smiled. It was the first time he’d relaxed even a little bit in days.
He pointed to the East Tower entrance.
“See them?”
Broadsides peered into the distance.
“Yeah, couple of young guns are keeping the eye out for you, I figure.”
Oyster nodded.
“They’re probably looking out for you too, B.”
“So, you want me to get their attention?” he replied.
“Exact.”
Before the word was even out of his mouth, Broadsides was up, galloping across the rippled tarmac of the car park.
“If you need to get a message to me, go via my Aunt Ida at the Balham Sally Army shop,” he yelled over his shoulder.
Oyster wanted to call him back, to tell him the rest of his plan, but Broadsides had already covered half the distance to the entrance. He had to hand it to his friend, he was brave. Hopefully it wouldn’t cost him.
Broadsides got within twenty yards of the suspected Urbans, jumped up and down and waved his hands at the three kids standing by the door.
“Stick Ups rule, you fucking wastemen!”
The sentries wasted no time at all in chasing after Broadsides. Deano would have been proud of their wish to represent, but the ease with which they were lured away illustrated what many OGs complained of: that new recruits were as excitable as they were thick.
Once he was sure they were all gone, it was Oyster’s turn. Trying to look unhurried, he waltzed up to the main entrance. He was nervous, but slipping inside, he was immediately at home. He figured there still might be other Urbans stationed in the building, so he avoided the mostly unreliable lifts and picked his way up the stairs instead. He needn’t have worried; the stairwell was empty of everything other than a couple of friendly tweens, puffing on cigarettes and flicking through a stack of old comics.
He halted at the entrance to his floor, peeking through the whistling gap in the glass and wire-mesh fire doors. No one. He was home free. Getting out of Deeside might present another challenge, but he had a plan for that, too.
Unlocking the door, he slipped into the darkened flat and pressed his back against the wood once it was closed. He shut his eyes and drew in a deep breath: the sickly-sweet smell of weed, the fruity bass notes of a curry. Cécile must have sprung for a takeaway. For a second, the troubles of the last couple of days fell away.
Taking another breath, he slipped past his sister’s bedroom door. The ghost light from within told him Cécile was up, but it was later than he’d realised. Better to get a night’s sleep and then talk things through with her tomorrow, he figured.
He undressed and fell into his bed. The last couple of days had been too much. First the cops. Then the Kaminsky woman. And what had Deano been up to with that Primrose dude? The unease at the pit of his stomach quickened. If Primrose and Deano were working together, then were the Mannish Boys working for them? Did that mean he could no longer trust Deano? It seemed like his whole life had been upended.
He listened to the soothing noise of the traffic below. As a kid these sounds had always helped him get to sleep. Instead, he found himself wondering about Greater London and the woman he’d imagined there. Nonesuch, was it? The weirdness of the whole episode fizzed electrically at the edge of his mind. The twin aches of his armpit and his tattoo fenced him in. He needed to get them both checked out. He could already hear Cess’s rebuke: You were lucky you didn’t get bummed in a skip, duff. And then he was asleep.
* * *
Cécile was screaming. He leapt up and burst out of his room. For an instant he was blinded by harsh electric light. Cécile was standing by the front door in her pyjamas. Paris was nowhere to be seen, no doubt anaesthetised by the massive amount of dope she’d smoked.
Cécile’s hands were at her mouth, transfixed by a twitching smear on the door mat. Oyster grabbed her from behind and pulled her away from the door. She kicked and struggled.
“It’s me,” he whispered. “It’s me. It’s okay.”
Cécile elbowed him in the stomach and they both collapsed onto the floor.
“Let me go,” she yelled.
Oyster released her and got to his feet. Cécile remained where she was, dissolving into heaving sobs.
He approached the thing on the door mat and looked down. Whatever it was that had been posted through the letterbox, it had been alive once. Only the stumps of wings gave a clue as to what it might have been. The bird’s eyes had been gouged out and its beak torn off. Whoever had done this had taken great pleasure in it. As Oyster leaned over it, the bloody mess twitched. He yelped and jumped backwards.
“Go to your room,” he said to Cécile.
“No way,” she shuddered.
“Seriously.”
“And where the hell have you been anyway? I’ve been worried sick,” she replied.
“Long story. Go on.”
Cécile glared at him but complied, slamming the door behind her.
This was clearly a message from the Urbans. But a stunt designed specifically to shit his family up. Make them come clean on his whereabouts, rather than something to smoke him out of a hiding place. Chances were, then, that they still didn’t know he was home.
Oyster went to his room and pulled on some jeans, a black hoodie and a dark metallic puffer, surprised by how calm he felt. He found his second-best Air Max at the back of his cupboard and slipped them on. Prising up the carpet behind the door, he grabbed his knife and stowed it in his jeans’ pocket.
He crossed to the kitchen and grabbed a bin bag from under the sink and some kitchen roll. Picking up the twitching bird-thing, he smothered it in paper and dropped it into the bin bag, trying not to flinch when it squirmed under his hands.
He dropped to his knees, scrabbled around in the darkness of the cupboard under the sink, finally locating what he wanted: a heavy vinyl bag that had belonged to Lucas, which he swung over his shoulder before standing.
He opened the cutlery drawer and selected a short steak knife, then yanked the drawer below off its runners and out of the cabinet completely. He tipped the collection of tea-towels it had contained into a pile on the floor and flipped the drawer over to reveal a blue polythene sandwich bag taped to its underside. Using the steak knife, he cut the bag free. He opened the packet and drew out a folded manila envelope, and reaching into it he withdrew a thick wad of twenty-pound notes secured with a rubber band.
He put the money to his nose and sniffed. The smell of used notes always reminded him of the city: a rich, earthy smell of brick dust and something slightly shitty. He wondered if he was smelling the cocaine which, rumour had it, coated every twenty in circulation.
He unfolded a dozen notes and slipped them into his tatty blue vinyl wallet, returning the remainder to the envelope. Replacing the knife and the tea-towels, he wobbled the drawer until it hopped back onto its runners. Then he addressed the envelope to Cécile and propped it up against her door. She would be up way before Paris in the morning, so there would be little chance of their mother finding the money first.
Oyster picked up the bin bag and gingerly released the latch on the front door so that it made as little sound as possible. He didn’t think anyone would be outside waiting but it didn’t make sense to take risks. He peered out. As far as he could tell, the corridor was deserted.
Behind him, light flooded into the hallway. Cécile stood at her door, holding the envelope in one hand.
“So, you were just going to run out on us then?” she said.
“It’s complicated,” he said.
Cécile looked at him in a way that opened up an abyss inside him.
“Is it something to do with Dad?” she whispered.
“Nah,” said Oyster, bristling at hearing that name on her lips. “I’m in trouble.”
“Who with?” she replied.
“Five-O. Mickey. Others,” he said.
Cécile shook her head.
“You don’t do things by halves, do you?”
Oyster shrugged.
“And how does any of this become simpler if you do a runner?”
She edged around him, putting her body between Oyster and the door.
He thought for a second.
“Come with me,” he said.
Cécile rolled her eyes and tapped the side of his head.
“Is this thing even on? How would that work?”
“I dunno—”
“Exactly,” said Cécile. “I’ve got school and stuff. Someone in this family should end up with a GCSE in something other than woodwork.”
Oyster shook his head.
“I gotta go straighten this out”.
“Stay,” she said, “fix it here, with us.”
He shook the bin bag.
“How do I fix this here? You’ll be safer this way.”
He ran his tongue around his lips, then he released the door lock and placed his own hand around Cécile’s. The envelope she held in it trembled.
“This and the benefit should keep you ticking over till I’m back.”
“And when will that be?” she replied.
“I dunno right now. I’ll call you.”
She didn’t respond, but pushed him away with her other hand.
Oyster reached over her, pulling the door forward. It nudged Cécile’s slight frame aside.
The thing in the bin bag twitched.
“I’m gonna find him… Lucas,” Oyster said, nudging past her and out of the door. He wasn’t entirely sure why he said it. Lucas was the last thing on his mind right now. “Lock this behind me.”
After the door closed, he leaned on it in the dark corridor. Was this how Lucas had felt when he’d left? I’m just another one of them, he thought. Another man who’s walked out of this door never to return.
