The Lighthouse at the End of the World, page 5
Oyster’s confusion was interrupted by Deano’s low whistle.
“You took your time,” yelled Oyster, forgetting the man in his anger. “Where were you? I needed you to cool that mark down.”
“Easy now. No need to go blaming me, young blood. You messed this one up good and proper all by your jackie-jones.”
Oyster looked up at the sky and swallowed. He wanted to cry.
“This is a bad one, son. Bad. Sent Broadsides after your man, though. Let’s see if he pulls your arse out the fire.”
Oyster swallowed and wiped his eyes, trying to hide how upset he was. “Fucker picked right every time.”
Deano wobbled his head from side to side.
“Maybe you just been clipped by a ringer from the Ukrainians or a Roma.”
Oyster’s chest was tight and his eyes throbbed. The inside of his mouth was wet from the bite he’d taken out of it.
“Listen. I’ll try and straighten this out for you with Mickey. No need to pick it up with him. Whatever happens with Broadsides,” said Deano clapping Oyster on the shoulder. “The Big Man knows everyone catches it in the shitter from time to time. Either way, you’re on your own game from tomorrow.”
Deano pulled out his phone and turned away. It was an ancient plastic lozenge the size of a brick. Binable and untraceable. He dialled a number and put it to his ear. He turned again, surprised to see Oyster still standing there. He waved him off.
“Go home,” said Deano, “you’re done.”
PART TWO
LONDON UNSEEN
THE SERPENTINE
This is Houdini’s most deadly illusion, which I learned from him before his own mysterious death,” said the old woman on the banks of the Serpentine. The crowd that had gathered around her tightened in anticipation.
She wore a tatty purple robe trimmed with gold lamé and a pair of black flip-flops. She took a drag from a roll-up she had cupped between yellowed fingers and spat into the water. A hessian sack lay at her feet. Next to it was a dented top hat containing a few pound coins.
Oyster stood nearby, holding his plastic palette and cardboard box. He shook his head in disbelief. This was a big day for him. After his fuck-up on the bridge he needed things to go well on the first day of his own game.
It was typical of his luck that he’d turned up to find some old relic squatting on the exact spot Big Mickey had chosen for their scam. With a sigh, he pushed his way to the front of the crowd and cleared his throat.
“This is my pitch,” he shouted, rocking back on his feet as though the woman might take a chunk out of him.
She studiously ignored him.
He dropped the palette and box, kicking them both towards the top hat. He couldn’t have this old lady soaking the crowd for their cash before he could. His stomach lurched as he considered what Big Mickey would do if any of this got back to him.
“Observe,” she continued obliviously, leaning into her patter.
She picked up the chains coiled at her feet. Each was a yard long, ending in a manacle. The largest was attached to a padlock the size of Oyster’s head.
“These chains and this lock belonged to none other than the great man himself, and were blessed and passed on to me, Madame Kaminsky, by Houdini’s wife, Bess.”
She held the links over her head and turned herself from side to side.
Oyster’s phone throbbed in his tracky bottoms. The message was from Cécile, asking him to buy some milk. He needed to get this woman gone and fast.
“I said bounce,” yelled Oyster.
Madame Kaminsky didn’t bat an eyelid.
“Leave her alone,” came a voice from the crowd.
“You, noisy man-baby, perhaps you would like to inspect?” said Madame Kaminsky, finally taking notice of him. She flicked the chains so they snaked around Oyster’s feet.
“Leave it out!”
In a single motion Madame Kaminsky tossed away her roll-up and grabbed his chin in a spade-like hand.
“I will be gone soon enough and then you can get back to your grubby little con,” she hissed in heavily accented English. She pushed him back onto his heels and dropped the chains to the floor.
“Now, this young gentleman will examine the aforementioned.”
Kaminsky raised her hands theatrically and Oyster found himself picking up the chains and turning them over. Each link was the width of a finger and glistened coldly in the morning light.
“Yeah. These are on the up and up,” he said at last. The sky was the same gunmetal grey as the chains. Beyond the park he sensed the city ticking away, a transaction here, a dodgy deal there, doing its business like an unexploded bomb.
“Please stop mumbling,” said Madame Kaminsky, “people cannot hear you.”
Oyster glared at her, but raised a thumb to indicate to the crowd that the chains were kosher.
Madame Kaminsky snorted and shrugged. She dropped her purple robe to the floor. Beneath it she wore a black swimsuit of the type favoured by old-time bathing beauties. The neckline of the suit was decorated with cream bands that crossed just below Kaminsky’s throat. Its fabric legs reached to her knees, where they bloomed into similarly decorated puff balls.
Her arms were pale, but sturdy and stippled with cellulite. She was as thick as she was broad, and her belly hung proud and low. With her white arms and black hair coiled into a bun, she looked like a large penguin that had hopped out of the lake.
“So now, you restrain me with manacles, one here… and here… and here… here,” she said, proffering each hand and foot in turn.
Oyster stepped forward, locking the metal bands and fastening their bolts.
Kaminsky gave a stage wink.
“Not to be worried, eh? No kinky stuffs!”
The audience chuckled. Despite his annoyance, Oyster had to admit that from a professional perspective this old woman knew how to work a crowd.
Madame Kaminsky stooped over once more and picked up a large metal key. She held it over her head.
“Observe! Key to the lock!”
She tossed it to Oyster. The key was so heavy he struggled to catch it.
Under Madame Kaminsky’s direction he threaded the ends of each of the remaining three chains through the shackle of the padlock and clicked it shut. With all of them fastened, Kaminsky had to hunch over, bringing her head roughly level with Oyster’s own.
“I am now bound with chains, which are locked tight with padlock and to which this gentleman has only key.”
She looked Oyster in the eye.
“Do you wish to examine me to ensure I have no other key upon my person?”
“Not really,” answered Oyster.
“Then how do you know I do not have one and same upon me when I get into sack?”
Oyster sighed again. Madame Kaminsky raised her hands as far as she could and performed a rotating shuffle. Oyster made a show of peering at her from all angles. He hoped his outside man, Baby Ed, wasn’t standing in the crowd watching this panto.
To say he’d been upset when Oyster had been promoted into this game over his head was a supreme understatement. It was typical of Big Mickey that even though he knew they hated each other, he’d put them both on the same game anyway.
If Ed had seen any of this carry-on, then Oyster would catch a shit ton of heat. It was bad enough he’d lost his pitch, worse still now that he was shilling for this mad old goat.
“Yep. You’re alright there,” Oyster said, indicating to the crowd that Kaminsky had no key hidden anywhere.
“Speak up, please,” she said.
“I don’t see no keys, lady,” he shouted.
Madame Kaminsky nodded and stepped into the sack. With surprising agility, she crouched down, springing back up with the sack pulled to her chin. Oyster fished his phone out of his pocket and pinged Ed a message. With all this going off it couldn’t hurt to know where he was.
It was then that Oyster sensed a shift in the mood of the crowd. Panicking, he glanced around. He imagined it parting and Big Mickey emerging, eyes popping. He took a breath to steady his nerves. There was no way Mickey would be here. Then he caught a flash of blue uniform at the rear of the crowd. In an instant, he knew what was happening.
“Po-lice!” Oyster shouted and dashed away.
He pistoned his arms, fear in the pit of his belly as he sprinted, his phone jostling in his back pocket. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to make a quick exit.
The words of his dad, Lucas, ran through his head: Keep your head up and work out where they think you’re going. Get indoors as soon as you can. Somewhere with lots of people, lots of lifts and lots of exits. Shopping malls are perfect. Plus, remember that coppers always come in pairs.
Looking up, Oyster spotted a second officer, this one female, running around the far side of the Serpentine to cut off his escape. He doubled back, heading into the crowd.
Madame Kaminsky, meanwhile, had pulled the sack completely over her head and stood near the edge of the lake. As Oyster ran past her, she blindly hopped backwards, slamming straight into him. The impact knocked all the air out of Oyster’s lungs and cannoned both of them into the lake.
He was aware of three things as his nose and throat filled with water. The first was his relief that it had been the cops and not Big Mickey who had bust up the crazy lady’s escape act. The second was the sight of a crow wheeling overhead, cawing in a way that sounded like laughter. The third was that despite spending his youth dicking about on Wimbledon Park Lake, he had never actually learned to swim.
OLD WATER
Water burst up Oyster’s nose and bubbled into his ears. Long fingers of weed wrapped themselves around his feet and his midriff, pulling him downward. The sack containing Madame Kaminsky rolled away to his left, illuminated by eerie glints of green from the light above.
Cold liquid eddied into Oyster’s head, freezing his thoughts. The weight of the lake pressed on his chest and the fronds of weed tightened around his tattoo. He kicked his feet, but his waterlogged trainers felt full of concrete and pulled him down.
A strange impulse filled him. The urge to draw the green liquid into his lungs, to sink to the bottom and forget about everything, in this moment of in-between; in between the water and the land; in between the earth and the sky.
Emerald sunlight gleamed on the tombstone shapes of half-submerged breeze blocks and ancient shopping trolleys. Spectral plastic bags drifted in and out of undulating columns of weed. Bubbles of air trickled out of his ears and streamed upwards like stars. It would be so simple just to breathe in and leave this all behind.
He closed his eyes as his trainers were sucked into the mud at the bottom of the lake. The bubbling in his ears became silent. It was quiet and peaceful here in the dark. The ache in his lungs droned in every fibre of his body.
And that was when he knew that something was down here with him. In the black. In the dark. In the ice-ice-cold. The nape of his neck prickled and he sensed, rather than saw, that something was slithering towards him.
Panicking and suddenly desperate to breathe, he kicked his feet, but they were mired up to the ankles in the muck that sucked him down. He twisted and twisted, kicking and kicking, reaching down and pulling at his feet with numb fingers, all the while unable to escape the conviction that something silent and faceless was creeping towards him.
Oyster slipped one foot out of his unlaced shoes and then the other, and kicked his way up to the surface. His head filled with red flowers; his lungs ached. He broke the surface coughing, his arms flailing. Blinded and waterlogged, he doggy-paddled like a motherfucker, making for the lake’s concrete bank. He spluttered and heaved air into his lungs, working his arms and legs as hard as he could to reach the shallows.
After a minute, he was able to touch the bottom with his feet. He did his best not to think of the used condoms, dead things and shit sliding between his toes. He reached the jutting lip of the bank and grabbed it with both hands. Taking a final deep breath, he hauled himself out and lay on his back. He shivered and his breath came in shuddering gasps. Water bled out of him, dripping over the concrete path, returning to the lake and the thing that lurked within it.
Part of his thawing brain told him to get up and run away from the police, but his legs and arms ached, and his head was pounding. Before he could act, two uniformed figures loomed over him.
You gotta realise two things about the law, Deano had said to Oyster once. First up: the cops are all about property. You don’t touch nothing belonging to no one else and they leave you be. Second: the law are just the biggest, baddest gunned-up crew out there, that’s all.
“Take it easy, sir,” the officer said, “that was quite a dip you took, are you feeling okay?”
Oyster nodded and shivered at the same time. He clammed up instinctively, his body tightening to keep the cops at a distance. He knew of enough kickings in custody to discount their friendly public-facing demeanour.
“Did you bang your head at all when you fell in?” asked the female officer.
Oyster shook his head and with help he struggled to his feet. He staggered under the unfamiliar weight of his wet clothes. His lips wouldn’t move, and his teeth chattered as the wind cut through his soaked puffer vest. Pools of water formed at his feet.
“I’m Officer Peach,” said the policeman and pointed at his partner, “and this is Officer MacDonald. We’re with the Metropolitan Police. Can you tell us your name and address?”
“Ed,” said Oyster thinking of the pale-faced man’s T-shirt. “Ed Sheeran.”
“Mr Ed Sheeran?” repeated Officer MacDonald, sighing and pulling a pad from her jacket pocket to write the details down. “Is that with one ‘e’ or two?”
Oyster tried to remember more about what Deano and Big Mickey had told him about getting pinched and what might happen next. Being part of the Urbans meant that being nicked was always a possibility, but it had never happened to Oyster before. There was a lot of bravado talked in the gang about getting arrested. Some of it whirled around his head now, but if he was honest, he was numb. The whole situation was so surreal it made it hard for him to think straight. Best idea he had was to stay schtum.
He ran his hand under his nose and blew a jet of pond water out of his nostrils onto Officer Peach’s shiny boot cap. The copper arched an eyebrow and flicked the mixture of snot and green water from his shoe.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fifteen, last birthday,” Oyster said.
The officer gave an even heavier sigh.
“Really, sir, this will all go a lot easier if you are straight with us.”
“Oh yeah,” said Oyster through chattering teeth, “easier for who?”
“Are you or your partner licensed to gamble here, Mr Sheeran?” said Officer MacDonald, deciding to change tack.
“Partner?” said Oyster.
He looked at the dark surface of the Serpentine. An empty sack floated there, its open mouth gaping at him. He shivered and looked away.
“Where is she?” said Oyster, nodding in its direction.
“We were hoping you could tell us that, sir,” said MacDonald, her face officious and wan.
Oyster shook his head. Water still rumbled in his ears, imbuing everything with an air of unreality.
He looked down at the concrete and up at the sky. He shook his head and the water made a staccato stream of burps in his ear.
“Right,” said MacDonald, scribbling a note, “have you had any trouble with the police before?”
Oyster shook his head.
“Let’s drop the nonsense.” Peach’s demeanour hardened. “What crew are you with? Stick Ups, Westsides, Burger Bar Boys?”
“Dunno what you mean, officer.” Oyster affected an innocent air. “What’s this all about anyway?”
“Okay then, we’ll play it this way if you like,” said Peach. He stood a little taller, all pretence at friendliness gone. “Mr Sheeran, I am going to search you as I have reasonable suspicion to believe you may be carrying a weapon. Can I ask you to remove your jacket?”
The words were robotic, well-rehearsed. Steel toecap edged.
Oyster panicked for an instant, but then remembered he’d been in such a hurry to leave in the morning he’d forgotten his knife.
Peach made him lean against a nearby tree while he patted him down. Oyster reflected on Deano’s words. The feds really were a gang just like the Urbans, loyal mostly to themselves, but with more muscle and the ultimate sanction of banging you up if they felt like it.
Peach pulled out Oyster’s phone, which was sodden and dead. Meanwhile, MacDonald searched Oyster’s jacket, finding his playing cards and the sopping roll of banknotes that had been his float. The cops grinned at each other. They had him.
“I’m afraid we’ll need you to come with us to the station, then, Mr Sheeran,” said Peach in a sing-song tone. “We’ll need to ask you some questions about what you and your partner were up to today.”
“She’s not my partner,” said Oyster. “I’ve never met the crazy-arse bint before this morning.” He winced as he realised he’d been baited into giving Peach more information.
“You can tell us all about it at the station,” said MacDonald. “And while you’re about it, you can give us your real name as well, eh?”
Oyster rolled his eyes and shivered.
“I won’t be needing these will I, sir?” said the Peach, tapping the handcuffs on his belt. They looked small and shiny compared to the enormous padlocks Kaminsky had heaved in his direction earlier that day.
Oyster shook his head.
“Are you okay to walk? You seem to have lost your shoes,” said MacDonald.
It was only then that Oyster registered the loss of his trainers. He shuddered as he imagined whatever-it-was down there at the bottom of the water holding on to them.
A loose knot of bystanders had gathered around the police. At the edge of the crowd, Oyster caught sight of Baby Ed. The boy’s elfin face was pinched into a perfect combination of contempt and glee.
