‘Know of it,’ said Wield. ‘Hop on. You got a name?’
‘Lee,’ said the boy as he swung his leg over the pillion. ‘You?’
‘You can call me Mac. Hold on.’
The boy ignored the advice and sat there loosely as if not anticipating any need for anchorage. Wield said nothing but accelerated along the car park till the lime trees began to blur, then braked to swing between them and rejoin the main road. He smiled as he felt the boy’s arms swing round his midriff and lock on tight.
Turk’s caff was situated in the lee of the Central Station. It was basic just this side of squalid, but had the advantage of staying open late, the theory being it would catch hungry travellers after the station snackbars pulled down their shutters early in the evening. In fact the regular – indeed one might say the permanent – clientele seemed to consist of solitary men in shabby parkas hunched over empty coffee mugs, who gave few signs that they ever contemplated travelling anywhere. The only person who showed any sign of life, and that only enough to offer a customer slow and resentful service, was the morose and taciturn owner, the eponymous Turk, whose coffee was reason enough to keep a country out of the EU, never mind Human Rights, thought Wield, as he watched the boy drink Coke and tuck into a chunk of glutinous cheesecake.
‘So, Lee,’ he said. ‘What happened back there?’
The boy looked at him. He’d shown either natural courtesy or natural indifference when Wield had removed his helmet to reveal the full ugliness of his face, but now his gaze was sharp.
‘Nowt. Just a bit of hassle, that’s all.’
‘Did you know the guy in the car?’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘Could make the difference between some nutter driving around trying to kidnap kids and a domestic.’
The boy shrugged, chewed another mouthful of cake, washed it down with Coke, then said, ‘What’re you after?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Getting mixed up with this.’
‘You mean I should’ve ridden on by?’
‘Mebbe. Most would.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘OK, but the chat and this –’ he waved the last forkful of cheesecake in the air then devoured it – ‘what’s all that for? You some sort of do-gooder?’
‘Sure,’ said Wield. ‘Let me buy you another piece then I’ll save your soul.’
This amused the boy. When he laughed, his age dropped back to the original low estimate. On the other hand, being smart put as many years on him.
‘OK,’ he said. “Nother Coke too.’
Wield went up to the counter. The cheesecake looked like it contravened every dietary regulation ever written, but the boy needed fattening up. Watch it, Edgar, he told himself mockingly. You’re thinking like your mother! Which thought provoked him into buying a ham sandwich. Edwin was going to be miffed that he was even later than forecast, and it wouldn’t help things if Wield disturbed the even tenor of their pristine kitchen with his ‘disgusting canteen habits’.
As he resumed his seat, the boy pulled a face at the sandwich and said, ‘You gonna eat that? He makes them out of illegals who didn’t survive the trip.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ said Wield. ‘OK. Now, about your soul.’
‘Sold up and gone, long since. What’s your line?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What you do for dosh? Let’s have a look …’
He took Wield’s left hand and ran his index finger gently over the palm.
‘Not a navvy then, Mac,’ he said. ‘Not a brain surgeon neither.’
Wield pulled his hand away more abruptly than he intended and the boy grinned.
He’s sussed me out, thought Wield. A couple of minutes and he’s got to the heart of me. How come someone this age is so sharp? And what the hell signals am I sending out? I told him to call me Mac! Why? Because Wield sounds odd? Because only Edwin calls me Edgar? Good reasons. Except nobody’s called me Mac since …
It was short for Macumazahn, the native name for Allan Quartermain, the hero of some of Wield’s beloved H. Rider Haggard novels. It meant he-who-sleeps-with-his-eyes-open and had been given to him by a long-lost lover. No one else had ever used it until a few years ago a young man had briefly entered his life …
He put the memory of the tragic end of that relationship out of his mind. This wasn’t a young man, this was a kid, and, thank God, he’d never fancied kids. It was time to wrap things up here and get himself back to the domestic peace and safety of Enscombe.
He finished his drink, pushed his chair back and said, ‘OK, let’s forget saving your soul and get your body delivered safely home.’
‘Home? Nah. It’s early doors yet.’
‘Not for kids who’re roaming the streets getting into fights with strange men.’
‘Aye, you’re right, it’s been my night for strange men, hasn’t it? Anyway, not sure if I want to get back on that ancient time machine of yours. No telling where you’d take me.’
Again the knowing grin. It was time to stop messing around.
Wield took out his wallet and produced his police ID.
‘I can either take you home or down the nick till we find out where home is,’ he said.
The boy studied the ID without looking too bothered.
He said, ‘You arresting me, or wha’?’
‘Of course I’m not arresting you. I just want to make sure you get home safe. And as a minor if you don’t co-operate by giving me your address, then it’s my job to find it out.’
‘As a minor?’
The boy reached into his back pocket, pulled out a billfold thick with banknotes and from it took a ragged piece of paper. He handed it over. It was a photocopy of a birth certificate which told Wield he was in the company of Lee Lubanski, native of this city in which he’d been born nineteen years ago.
‘You’re nineteen?’ said Wield, feeling foolish. He should have spotted it from his demeanour straight off … but kids nowadays all acted grown up … or maybe he hadn’t been looking at the youth like a copper should …
‘Yeah. Always getting hassled in pubs is why I carry that around. So no need to see me home, Mac. Or should I call you sergeant now? I should have sussed when you went on about domestics. But you seemed … OK, know what I mean?’
He smiled insinuatingly.
Wield
