off… Now.’ He took a step forward and Henderson backed away.
As he went, an old man at the bar raised a finger, pushed his way past him, and ordered a pint. The bare wood boards creaked as Henderson walked towards the line of white light that sat beneath the door. As he took the handle the flat wall dimly reflected the street lights outside the bar. The wind bit as he stepped onto the pavement; bitter rain lashed his face as he walked.
Crawley’s car had been ticketed where he had parked; Henderson leaned over and grabbed the sticker from the windscreen, scrunched it up. The wind caught the piece of paper as it dropped towards the gutter; he watched it roll down the street, picking up pace. He opened the door, slumped inside the car and slotted the key in the ignition. As he released the handbrake, the wheels spun on the wet road and he accelerated towards the city centre through the falling rain.
By Crawley’s house, Henderson had released and clamped his teeth so many times that his jaw ached. He felt a still fury bubbling inside him as he slung the wheel towards the driveway and braked heavily. For a moment he sat staring out the window at the lashing rain then a set of twitching curtains in a neighbouring property grabbed his attention. The act seemed to jar him back to consciousness; he reached for the door handle and opened up. In the pathway towards Crawley’s home, Henderson jogged, cupping his burning cigarette in his hand to shelter it from the wind and rain. He had always smoked like this — even before prison — but the movement reminded him of life on the inside once again, of smoking in the yard. What had he done? he thought. He’d taken a man prisoner. What was it Crawley had called it? Kidnapping. Mistaken identity.
‘Bullshit,’ said Henderson.
He knew Crawley was guilty, he didn’t need a judge and jury to confirm it. The man was a nonce, a beast. He’d preyed on young girls; he’d terrified Angela. He tried to remind himself of this as he opened up the door to Crawley’s home. Henderson still felt ice in his veins from the reception he’d received at the Wheatsheaf, but it mattered less to him now. He would take the rest of the cash from Crawley’s accounts tomorrow and he’d settle some more of that score then. He’d be free of Boaby Stevens eventually and he’d be able to think about his next move.
Henderson called out as he closed the door, ‘Here’s Johnny!’
There was no reply; the place seemed too quiet.
Henderson lowered the keys onto the hallway table, rubbed the rain from his hair. He settled his breathing for a moment to listen for movement: he heard nothing. The place was silent. He leaned forward, rested the palm of his hand on the banister, looked up the stairs; the house had darkened now but there was no sign of lights burning. He scratched an itch on his brow, said, ‘Get a grip, Hendy…’
Henderson knew he had the situation under control: he’d tied Crawley up in the front room, he’d checked the knots, they were tight, secure. He smiled to himself, moved towards the living room door. As he grabbed for the handle he felt his breathing still, he double-blinked, halted his action and stopped still.
Something wasn’t right, it was too quiet.
He felt his heart rate ramp as he turned the handle.
The living room was in darkness. The curtains were still open, the night outside showed a catenation of street lamps burning, bathing the pavement in a sickly orange glow. It took Henderson’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, then he settled on where he had left Crawley, tied and bound, before he left to pay his debt to Boaby Stevens. There was a pale patch of carpet and a long loop of unfurled nylon rope, but no Crawley.
Henderson stepped forward, turned towards the wall and groped in the darkness for the light switch.
When the room became illuminated he called out, ‘Crawley, you fucking bastard!’
Chapter 35
Angela Mickle pulled her knees up before her where she sat on the filthy mattress. She rocked on her bony rear and ran the palms of her hands down the fronts of her skinny legs. A car’s horn sounded beyond the window, making her wince; at once she raised her hands to her ears and held them there, tried to block out the world beyond the mattress. Angela knew she should be out on the Links, scoring punters, scoring drugs. She knew that was why she felt the way she did — why her insides felt like they were being slow-cooked over an open flame — but there was a reason why she couldn’t face the Links.
She didn’t know how long Henderson had been away, she found it hard to record the passing of time — all time was withdrawal, minutes soon became hours, which became days. She knew, however, the longer he stayed away, the greater danger she may be in. Henderson didn’t know Colin Crawley; not like she did.
‘No. No. No.’
The memories returned when she thought about him. Angela didn’t want to remember what knowing Crawley had meant.
She turned, twisted herself on the mattress to face the wall. ‘No.’ It didn’t matter how many times she said it though, the images, the pictures and the words, his words, were still there.
‘Angela,’ he was calling to her.
‘Angela…’ She could hear his voice, it hadn’t changed. As a young girl she had been flattered by the voice to begin with. He was a grown-up, an adult. Mr Crawley was her teacher, her gymnastics coach. No one had shown any interest in her until he had. She felt special — he made her feel special.
‘Angela…’ The word set her muscles harder, her toes curled into the mattress. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something else but he was there, taunting her wherever she looked. Henderson thought he was just a square peg, a teacher, but he wasn’t. She had tried to tell him that he was a danger, but it hadn’t registered.
‘He’s a fucking beast, Ange,’ he’d said. ‘A beast! I’ve dealt with them before.’
She didn’t want to know what he planned to do with Crawley, she didn’t want to think about it, but the longer he was away from her the more scared she became. With Henderson around she felt safe, he looked after her on the Links and made sure no harm came to her from the punters or the girls. But Crawley was different, he was capable of much worse than Henderson imagined; she knew, she’d seen it. She remembered again his eyes bulging as he wrestled her to the ground and then she felt his hot breath on her neck as he pressed himself onto her in the field.
‘Oh, God…’ Ange’s voice was low and strained, strangled in her vocal cords. A dull gaze settled in her eyes as she looked towards the window and the street below. It was as good as dark. The street lamps were on. She began to feel the walls of the small flat enclosing her.
She rose, ran to the opposite end of the room and stood by the window. A packet of cigarettes sat on the ledge, a box of matches on top — she snatched them up. Her hands trembled as she clawed open the box and shook out a cigarette. She got the filter to her mouth and struck a match; the tobacco smoke tasted good but was a poor substitute for what she really wanted. As she smoked, Angela noticed the dark black crescents that sat under her nails — Henderson had always warned her about that, said it put off the punters; she somehow felt engulfed by a great sadness at the thought of Henderson now and wondered what had become of him.
‘Neil, Neil… where are you?’
The cigarette burned quickly and when it was finished she stubbed the dowp on the windowsill and let the cold night breeze take the crushed filter tip away. She had seen worse nights; it was dry. A crowd of people had gathered on the other side of the road by the bus stop; it made her feel safe to see so many strangers, but at the same time the loneliness she felt in the empty flat started to prod her. Angela picked up the cigarettes and the matches and walked to the door; her shoes lay beside the skirting, she fitted her feet into them and reached for her coat. She stowed away the cigarettes and checked she had a store of condoms. Her heart was pounding as she opened the front door and walked towards the stairwell.
Angela gripped the banister tightly as she descended the staircase. Her high heels sounded noisily on the stone steps and she tried to raise herself up on her toes to compensate. She felt self-conscious, but she longed to be around people now — the flat seemed suddenly unsafe. Her thoughts had left Henderson, she was preoccupied with herself and her survival through the night; she believed if she could score enough money for drugs then at least she wouldn’t need to think about Crawley; that would be taken care of.
Outside a moonless sky sat low and dark like a backcloth to the tenements. The wind swept litter along the street and struck at Angela’s bare legs like a lash. She dug her hands deeper in her pockets, balled fists as she
