The White Room (39 page)

He had phoned Ben Marshall the previous day, spent a long weekend building himself up to it. Practising what he would say, riffing on every permutation of conversation in his head. He had imagined every possible outcome, too, believing that if he imagined something bad, worked through it in his mind, planned it out, it couldn't come true.

Whatever he could imagine wouldn't happen.

It became his mantra.

He had got through to Ben Marshall eventually, endured his false, bonhomie-riddled tones as he told him he wanted to see him. Had some things to discuss.

Jack made the date and the time. Johnny's flat. Six p.m. Ben agreed. Jack put the phone down, sweating. He hadn't expected it to go so smoothly.

Then he had to prepare. Think himself back into being a soldier again. He worked out. Shocked at how much his muscles had atrophied with disuse. He needed some back-up. Insurance.

He had an old army acquaintance who ran a gun club in Darras Hall. Jack paid him a visit, enrolled for membership. This acquaintance also bought and sold handguns. Jack knew what he wanted, zeroed in on a Second World War Enfield. Hadn't seen one since 1945.

Since Belsen.

Paperwork and licence were rushed through for old times' sake. Jack bought rounds, practised on the range. It all came back to him. Like riding a bike.

Imagined Ben Marshall in his sights. Johnny Bell.

Felt like a soldier again.

He slipped the Enfield from the back of the waistband of his black jeans, cocked it, entered the flat feeling a dull throb in his head. He had got there early, knowing Johnny would still be at work. He planned to wait.

To be ready.

He closed the door behind him, noting it was reinforced steel. A paranoid's front door.

The smell hit him first. Not just stale air and sweat, but also rancid meat. He looked into the kitchen. It was a mess. In among the wilful clutter was a half-carcass of some unidentified animal, being feasted on by flies and maggots.

Jack almost retched but swallowed it down. He walked into the living room. And stopped dead.

Joanne had told him Johnny had a Nazi fixation, had decorated his flat with Nazi regalia. But this was like the Fourth Reich.

The Nazi stuff was there: a huge swastika flag dominated one wall. Before it, a table turned shrine by Nazi objects: a gold swastika lectern, on it a gold-leaf copy of
Mein Kampf,
beside it a huge photo of Hitler saluting. And other stuff, all marked by eagles and swastikas. On the other walls around the room: photos, magazine clippings, newspaper articles of Nazi-related activities, some yellowing, some more recent. The Searchlight trial. Attacks on Jewish homes and cemeteries. National Front mobilization.

And, if that wasn't enough, other images, mostly in black, white and smudgy grey, showed gay S & M porn, men hurting each other, taking sexual pleasure from agony. The pictures became more extreme: dismemberment, disease-ridden bodies, violent death, torture, autopsy.

The Fourth Reich. Built on sex and death.

Jack felt physically sick. Almost like he was back in Belsen again.

This was the past that had to be destroyed. To build the future. This was the past he thought had been destroyed.

He heard a noise, turned. Saw a blur before him.

He raised his gun.

Too late.

A pain in his head. A firework explosion behind his eyes.

And then darkness.

Mae was bored. She was always bored these days. But this was more than boredom. There was something behind it, building, pushing, threatening to break through. She and Eileen were taking another day off school. Watching the little kids play. Mae put her hand in her coat pocket, felt the scissors. Ran her finger carefully along the blade. Drew comfort from it.

The little kids were running around in the rubble of a half-demolished street. Playing chasy while the workmen destroyed the past, built the future.

They had called repeatedly for the two girls to come and join them. Eileen had wanted to, but Mae had refused. Eileen had mutely consented to Mae's wishes.

The kids called again to the girls.

Mae was going to say something, shout out what they could do with their play offer, but …

Something building, pushing, threatening to break through.

She ran her fingers along the edge of the scissors blade. Drew comfort from it.

One of the boys called again.

‘Howay, youse two. Come an' play wi' wuh.'

Mae stood up. ‘All right, then.'

She crossed the road, Eileen following excitedly. She stood among the small children in the rubble.

Mae Blacklock, Queen of the Outcasts.

‘What we gonna play?' the same boy, Trevor, asked.

He had curly brown hair and a ready smile. He was four at the most, Mae thought, and popular with both children and adults. Sparky personality, infectious good humour. Mae looked at him, felt something curdle in her stomach, felt that pressure again.

‘We'll play …' said Mae, looking among the kids, ‘hide and seek. We'll count, you hide.'

The three children immediately ran away. Mae covered her eyes, watched from between her fingers.

‘One … two … three … four …'

The children ran and hid. From behind her fingers, Mae tracked Trevor's progress. He ran to a half-wrecked house, went inside it.

‘… ninety eight … ninety nine … a hundred. Comin', ready or not!'

She set off over the rubble, making for the house with Trevor in it.

Something threatening to break through.

She entered the house, started to creep around. She heard a movement from upstairs; a creaking floorboard, a little boy's giggle.

Felt her two old friends in her heart.

She made her way slowly up the half-destroyed staircase, tried room after doorless room. She found him. He opened his mouth to speak, but she put her finger to her lips.

‘Ssh,' she said.

Trevor closed his mouth. Mae continued to walk slowly towards him. He stood still.

‘This is still part of the game,' she said. ‘We're still playing.'

He looked at her, frowning in puzzlement.

‘Lie down,' she said, ‘on the floor.'

His face still showing puzzlement, the little boy did as bid.

‘Now,' said Mae, ‘you have to lie as still as possible, right?'

The little boy nodded.

‘Like you're a statue. Or you're dead.'

Trevor lay still, wanting to please the older girl.

Mae looked at him, directly into his eyes. Her stomach writhed and coiled like snakes in a snake pit. Little stars appeared before her eyes. She tried to blink them away. She felt light-headed, giddy, shaking with power. She had never felt so strong before. She smiled. She loved it.

And slid her hands around his throat.

Trevor looked surprised, put his own hands over Mae's, made to pull them off.

‘Ssh,' she said. ‘Just lie still. Don't move. This is a game. This is all a game.'

Mae kept staring at him, looking deep into his eyes. Trying to see something in them, beyond them.

‘You're scarin' me, Mae. Stop lookin' at us like that.'

Mae smiled at him. Blinked back the stars from her eyes. He slackened his grip, replaced his arms at his sides.

Mae felt her breath coming in fast gasps. She was shaking, quivering. A dark joyousness spread within her, like black ink injected into muscle.

She smiled again.

And started to squeeze.

Trevor began to thrash and struggle, but Mae was stronger. She kneeled on his chest, holding him down, her thumbs digging into his windpipe. Her old friends, rage and hate, dancing within her.

She gripped harder, breathed faster.

Trevor's face began to turn blue.

‘I'm gonna murder you,' she gasped through gritted teeth, flecks of spittle landing on the boy's face. ‘Murder … kill youse … all …'

Trevor thrashed and struggled, made gurgling noises in his throat.

And then Trevor's face disappeared.

Replaced by her mother's face. Wig rat-tailed and askew, eyes burning with anger, mouth spewing gin-fuelled obscenities. Mae squeezed harder. Tried to make it go away.

It did. And her granddad's face appeared in its place. His eyes glittering sharply, his smile widening as her pain would increase. Mae squeezed harder. Squeezed his face away.

Then came a variety of faces: the men who had come to her mother's house to use her body. To make her hurt and cry. They came to her in shards of memories: she remembered one's eyes, another's smile, another's breath. Ears. Nose. Broken skin. Something of all of them coalesced, blurred and shifted into one identikit of hate.

Mae squeezed. Then they were gone. Replaced by Bert. Her failed protector. Who had wanted nothing more to do with her.

Then he was gone and her teachers were there. Sneering, snarling. Belittling. She squeezed harder.

Then it was Eileen, smiling uncomprehending. Mae wanted to squeeze the smile from her face.

‘I hate you …'

Mae grinding her teeth together, gasping the words through them.

‘I hate you all …'

Their faces disappeared, leaving only one: her mother.

‘I hate you … hate you …'

Then darkness.

Mae opened her eyes, looked around. She must have blacked out. She was kneeling on top of Trevor's chest, hands still locked around his throat. She slowly unclenched her fingers, removed them. They were sore, stiff with muscle rigidity.

She looked at Trevor. His face was blue, his lips purple. Spittle and froth trickled down his cheeks and chin. His eyes, showing white, had rolled back into his head. Hand-shaped bruising was already starting to form around his throat from where she had grabbed him.

She sat back, her spirit spent, her body exhausted.

‘Get up,' she said to him.

Trevor didn't move.

She looked at him, understanding for the first time that he was dead.

She laughed.

‘Get up!' she shouted, kicking him. ‘Get up!'

Trevor didn't move.

She kicked him again, in frustration. And again.

‘Get up!' Another kick.

She began to dance around his body, singing ‘Get up' in a singsong, nursery-rhyme way. Stopping to punctuate the end of a line with a kick.

She stopped dancing, looked at the body. He was still there. He hadn't moved. She put her hands in her pockets.

The scissors were there.

Quickly she drew them out, brandished them at him.

‘Get up, or I'll …'

He didn't move.

The power she had felt earlier was gone. She could make him lie still but not rise up again. But she still had power over his corpse. Her eyes roved his body, hate-filled, rage-fuelled, looking for somewhere to inflict damage.

She found it.

She pulled down his short trousers, his underpants, took in his small, immature genitals. And started to slash.

And slash.

And slash.

‘Get up … I hate you … get up … I hate you …'

Over and over, like a nursery rhyme again.

And slash.

She finished and sat back panting, regarding what she had done to the little boy's body. And felt nothing. No feelings, no emotions. Like an empty cardboard box with the present removed.

She heard a noise behind her.

She turned. Eileen was standing at the top of the stairs. Looking at Mae, frowning. Mae dropped the scissors, stood up. Eileen looked at Mae, expecting an answer.

‘Trevor's dead,' she said. ‘He won't get up.'

Eileen frowned. ‘Will he be coming back to play?'

‘No.'

Mae crossed to the stairs.

‘Let's go.'

Eileen followed her. Before she descended, Mae stopped, turned, looked at her.

‘Say nothin', right?'

Eileen nodded.

‘Good.'

Mae went downstairs and outside, followed by Eileen. Back to play with the other children.

Jack opened his eyes. Slowly. His head still hurt. He looked around.

He was still in Johnny's flat, lying along the sofa. He tried to sit up, felt nauseous from the sudden movement. A shape he didn't recognize hove into view. Jack flinched, expecting a blow.

‘He's back,' said a rough London accent.

‘Good,' said a voice Jack recognized. Ben Marshall.

Jack looked at the owner of the first voice. A big man, muscled, not fat, wearing a three-button suit, white shirt and dark tie and a history of violence on his face. Broken nose. Scars. Misshapen ears. Jack saw a bulge beneath the left side of his jacket. Gun. Jack didn't move.

Ben Marshall entered the room, usual supercilious smile in place.

‘Hello, Jack,' he said. ‘Bit sneaky, coming here early.' He held Jack's gun up. ‘Anyone would think you had bad intentions in mind. Good job Dougie was on hand to meet you.'

‘I had to,' said Jack, rubbing his sore head. ‘I thought you might try something like this.'

Ben Marshall sat down on a dining chair.

‘So what did you want, Jack?' He pointed the Enfield at Jack. ‘To kill me? Is that it?'

‘That's for protection,' said Jack. ‘I just wanted to talk to you.'

‘So why not make an appointment at my office? Why all this cloak-and-dagger shit?'

‘Because I thought you'd try something when you heard what I had to say.'

Ben Marshall sat back, an amused look on his face.

‘And what was that, Jack? What did you want to say?'

Jack swallowed hard. ‘I know who you are.'

Ben just looked at him, smiled. ‘Course you do.'

‘I mean who you were.'

Ben remained smiling, but his eyes hardened, darkened.

‘Did you work that out for yourself?' he said, ‘or did that whore tell you?'

‘The … she told me. I wasn't convinced. But you've just convinced me.'

Ben nodded.

‘So, let's see … You thought you'd come in here, hold a gun on me, get a confession from me … then what? Take me to the police? Kill me? Out of a sense of revenge for Ralph Bell? Am I right?'