‘That’s how they swim out of the test tube.’
Thorne fought to control a smile, but couldn’t manage it.
‘He’s not normally quite this mental,’ Aziz said. ‘He’s just a bit over-excited.’
‘Tell him why.’
‘ You tell him.’
‘I’m getting out in two weeks,’ Darren said, beaming. ‘And I’m going to be a dad. My girlfriend’s having our baby.’ He smacked his chest proudly, then pointed at the DVD, to the picture of the foetus in the womb. ‘Our own little baby, just like this one.’
‘That’s good,’ Thorne said. ‘Best make sure you don’t come back then.’
Darren nodded, solemn.
‘How long have you been inside?’
‘Eighteen months,’ Darren said. He looked at Thorne and then at his friend. ‘What…?’
Aziz was still laughing as Thorne gathered up all the files, and the PO was smirking behind her magazine. Darren looked confused but continued to smile. Thorne turned round again, just in time to see the boy in the corner walking out through the library doors.
SEVENTEEN
The takeaway where Danny Armstrong worked was fifty yards from Essex Road railway station, between a dry cleaners’ and a shop that seemed deserted but still had a few old vacuum cleaners on display. Holland and Kitson stared in through the steamy window and spotted a likely-looking teenager chopping tomatoes behind the counter. He looked up when they entered, pushed the tomatoes into a plastic container and wiped his hands on the back of his jeans.
‘Yes, mate?’
The place sold kebabs, burgers, chicken; pretty much anything that could be deep-fried and stuck inside a bun. Come half past eleven at night with a few drinks inside you, it probably smelled like heaven, but, stone cold sober at lunchtime, Holland was suddenly feeling a little less hungry than he had been.
He produced his warrant card.
‘Just a quick word, Danny.’
Armstrong looked nervously towards a doorway to his right and, on cue, a burly, middle-aged man appeared carrying a metal tray piled high with chicken wings. He was Greek, Holland guessed, or Turkish, and he watched as Kitson went to the door and turned the sign to CLOSED.
‘Hey… ’
Holland flashed his ID again, but the man shook his head and shouted at Kitson. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Yes, I can,’ Kitson said.
Holland said that he was sorry for the inconvenience, but that they would only need a few minutes of the boy’s time. The man laid his tray down and pointed at Armstrong. He said, ‘It’s coming out your wages,’ then turned and walked out.
Armstrong looked at Holland. ‘Cheers.’
Kitson walked across and placed a five-pound note on the counter. ‘We’ll have a couple of bags of chips then,’ she said. ‘Keep your boss happy, OK?’
Armstrong grunted, moved to the deep-fat fryer and pushed up the lid.
‘Amin Akhtar,’ Holland said. ‘Remember him? He died in prison a few months back and we were wondering if you’d heard about it.’
Armstrong didn’t look up. ‘News to me.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I told you.’ He raised his head. ‘I swear… I didn’t know that.’
‘Not spoken to Scott Clarkson about it, maybe?’ Kitson asked. ‘Or Lee Slater’s dad?’
‘Don’t really see them.’
‘You might see them now though, right? Have a few drinks to celebrate.’
‘Yeah, why not?’ Armstrong shovelled chips out and into a styrofoam container. ‘Be a year soon enough anyway, since Lee was killed. So yeah, we might get together.’
‘Lee’s brother might be out by then,’ Holland said. ‘I imagine he’ll be pretty pleased to hear about Amin, too. Don’t you reckon?’ It was clear enough from Armstrong’s expression that not only was the answer blindingly obvious, but that he did not understand why he was being asked the question. Holland glanced at Kitson and saw that she’d seen it too. However many insinuations they made or however hard they tried to dig for something, the kid was every bit as surprised as Slater’s father had been to hear about Amin Akhtar’s death.
Armstrong dug out a second portion of chips. ‘You want salt and vinegar?’
Kitson leaned across and helped herself, then pushed the containers back for Armstrong to wrap. ‘He killed himself, just so you know. So you know exactly what you’ll be drinking to. After he was attacked and put in hospital. After he was raped.’
‘Yeah, well, he’d have enjoyed that,’ Armstrong muttered.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing, just? ’ Armstrong reddened and quickly wrapped another sheet of paper around the takeaway cartons. He shoved them into a plastic bag and looked at Kitson. ‘Look, he deserved it, all right? Not dying I mean, I didn’t even… know about that. Getting banged up, though, that was fair enough.’
‘You reckon?’
‘For what he done to Lee.’
‘What, after you and your mates attacked him, you mean?’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
Armstrong tried to protest but Holland cut him off. ‘I know, just a harmless bit of snowballing, right?’
‘He stabbed Lee.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Kitson said. ‘That’s what happens when you take a knife to a snowball fight.’
‘Hey, when can I open my bloody shop?’
They all turned to see that the owner had reappeared in the doorway.
‘That’s three pounds for the chips,’ Armstrong said. He took the note and put it into the till, laid two pound coins down on the counter.
Holland pushed Kitson’s change towards her and snatched the bag. He nodded across at the conical slab of grey meat turning slowly on a spit in the corner. ‘You’re as full of shit as that is, Danny,’ he said.
*
Helen had drifted away. Her eyes closed and her head back against the cool metal of the radiator.
Alfie was laughing and Paul was there and he was laughing too. The way she had almost forgotten, because she was unable to call his face quickly and clearly to mind. The features blurring, until she was left with nothing but the shape of him. A muddy image of his mouth half open while he slept, or that thunderous scowl when he was pissed off. Each expression growing fuzzier with every week that passed, while she searched desperately for the ghosts of them in her son’s face.
It was clear enough now though.
A daydream that she wished more than anything was a memory, or better yet a vision of the future.
Jammy little bugger’s got my looks.
You reckon?
Come on, he’s bloody gorgeous!
He’s a damn sight less moody than you, that’s for sure.
‘I need a drink.’
Helen opened her eyes, astonished to hear Mitchell finally talking. She turned to look at him and saw him nodding towards Akhtar who was sitting at the desk and staring at the wall above their heads.
‘I need a drink,’ Mitchell said again. ‘Can I please have something to drink?’
Akhtar nodded and stood up. ‘Coke or something?’
