Jack continued to drive around the estate, looking for something that would define the story. The differences in the houses were stark. Many were pristine, with well-tended gardens and shiny double-glazing brightened by his headlights, but they sat next to houses that seemed just the opposite, with cracked or broken windows, the walls splattered with paint and eggs. Graffiti covered many doors, with words like paedo or nonce sprayed in black. On others, the letters WYD were sprayed in large letters.
As he drove, the darkness seemed like a cloak, as whole groups of houses seemed to fade into the night, with street lights broken, and the further he went, the more obvious it became that the lights were broken where the damage was being caused, so that it seemed deliberate, to create a dark space for people to do what they would rather not be seen doing.
He turned into another street, a long stretch of town-houses and three-storey blocks of flats, when his lights caught a group outside a house. He heard shouts and laughter, but it was mocking, not fun. They were dressed in black, although he caught the glimmer of a bike wheel. They must have known he was there, but they didn’t look round. He heard shouts of encouragement, and then something crashed on the floor, like a garden pot being broken.
Jack stopped and climbed out of his car. He was wary, but he knew that Dolby would want this in the story. He pulled out his camera and pointed it towards the group. There was a shout when the flash went off, the burst of light showing up a group of teenagers, pale faces in dark hoods. Some had scarves over their mouths, so all Jack saw was the gleam in their eyes.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ someone shouted, with the deep burr of a man’s voice in a wiry adolescent body.
Jack heard the group move closer to him, the movement just shifting shadows. ‘Do you want to be in the paper?’ Jack said, trying to keep the edginess out of his voice.
‘Fuck, no,’ the same voice said, behind Jack now.
Jack was in darkness, the street light above him not working. He could hear them bouncing around him, muttering, cursing.
‘Which paper?’ someone else asked, the voice higher-pitched this time.
‘Just the local one. I’m writing about the estate.’
They all laughed but Jack stayed still. He wasn’t sure how this would go. He knew he could deal with them one-on-one, but he was outnumbered, in the dark, and he had written enough court stories to know that some teenagers didn’t know when to stop hitting.
‘Why are you throwing things at the house?’ Jack said.
‘Who said we were throwing things?’ the deep voice countered.
Jack’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness now, and he saw that the leader was leaning forward across his handlebars, staring, just his eyes visible above his scarf.
‘What does WYD stand for?’ Jack said.
‘Whitcroft Young Defenders,’ someone said, making them all whoop with laughter, apart from the leader, who didn’t move or say anything.
‘Defending it from what?’ Jack said.
The laughing subsided, and the leader edged forward with his bike, until Jack felt the tyre hit his shin. ‘What the fuck has it got to do with you?’
Everyone else fell silent, and Jack felt the mood turn more hostile.
‘Because I’m writing all about you,’ Jack said. ‘Don’t you want a starring role? Be more famous than the other gangs, if that is what you are.’
‘People know who we are.’
‘So what about that house? Won’t they pay their dues?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Come on, you don’t seem like the stupid type. You all work for Don Roberts, I guessed that much, earning cigarette money by making people sign up for his security firm.’
The tyre jabbed against Jack’s legs.
‘You need to be more careful what you say.’
They were interrupted by a beam of light, and as he looked, Jack saw that it was the security van with the two security guards he had seen earlier. It came to a stop by the pavement, and the leader rolled towards it on his bike. He leaned in and exchanged whispers with the passenger, and then he looked back and gave Jack a slow salute.
‘See you around,’ he said, and started to ride off down the road, the other youths following.
Jack let out a long breath and then went over to the van.
‘You boys work long hours,’ Jack said. ‘I hope he pays well.’
The small one scowled. ‘It would be a shame to see your car get damaged.’
‘Round here, with you boys on duty?’ Jack said, and then shook his head. ‘You keep the estate crime-free, don’t you? For a fee.’
‘Those who pay get the protection,’ he said.
Jack nodded towards his car. ‘Is this going to cost me?’
The security man shook his head, and Jack caught the gleam of his teeth. ‘Call it a trial period.’
‘How long will it last?’
He smiled at Jack, but there wasn’t too much humour in it. ‘Your car will be fine,’ he said, and Jack guessed the hidden meaning, that there wouldn’t be any problems as long as he didn’t write about the security situation.
‘Thanks for that,’ Jack said. ‘Back to work though,’ and he stepped away from the van.
He expected them to follow as he approached the house that had been the target of the youths, but instead the van set off, the path bathed in darkness once more as the headlights went around the corner.
He went slowly along the path, knowing that there was debris. His feet caught the shards of a broken plant pot, and he felt the soil and flowers underfoot. There was the tinkle of broken glass as he reached the door. He rapped hard on the wood.
There was no reply at first, but he could see the soft glow of a bulb inside the house, and so he knocked again. He was about to walk away when he heard coughing from the other side of the door. When it swung open, he saw a tall woman, messy straw-coloured hair that was streaked with grey, her face in shadow from the hall light behind her head.
She didn’t say anything. She swayed slightly, and Jack caught the smell of drink.
‘I’m a reporter,’ he said. ‘I just want to ask you about the damage that’s been caused to your house.’
She put her hand against the door frame to steady herself. ‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ she said, and the words came out with a deep slur.
‘What, you want them to get away with it?’ Jack said. ‘Why don’t you call the police?’
The woman shook her head. ‘There’s no point,’ she said and went to close the door.
Jack put his hand out to stop it. ‘I’m a journalist. I’m doing a piece on the estate. It might stop if you go public.’ He pulled out a business card from his pocket. ‘Call me if you want to talk about the estate,’ he said.
She took it from him and stared at it for a few seconds, before she slammed the door shut, leaving Jack in complete darkness.
He turned away, thinking that he finally had the makings of an article.
David Hoyle’s home was ahead of him, on the other side of the field. He tried to focus. Stick to the plan. No more diversions.
It was one house converted from a small row of almshouses, so it was like a long bungalow with lots of windows. He had watched Hoyle go out before, and so there would be only one person in the house: Angel, his girlfriend. He smiled. He’d done his research.
He stepped out of his van and took a deep breath, felt it force out the noises, so that he could hear just the rush of his blood, everything else on hold, waiting for the aftermath. There was a path along the field that hugged a high hedge and ended next to Hoyle’s home. An escape route.
He walked nonchalantly and pulled on his gloves, tight latex so that he could still feel through them. He tried to look natural, aware that if someone looked out from the houses opposite he would appear suspicious to them. His mouth was dry though, and he was aroused, beads of sweat on his lips. He had to be careful. He didn’t want to leave a trace of DNA.
The path took him onto the street and so he made straight for a gate that led to the back garden. He reached for the latch, careful to make sure it didn’t creak.
As the gate swung open, the street light outside caught the bright colours of garden blooms. He closed the gate slowly and began to move along the stone wall, the edges sharp, making soft swishes against his clothes. He didn’t want to trip a security light, but when he got a full view of the garden, he saw that there was a light shining over the lawn at the back of the house. He sidled to the corner and slowly peered round, letting the room come into view. It was the dining room, a long table stretching towards the back doors, with a kitchen to one side, filled with brushed aluminium and utensils hanging from racks. There was no one there, and as he moved closer, he realised that he could see right through into the living room.
He kneeled down to the flowerbed and scooped up some handfuls of dirt, jamming it into his pocket. His hand pressed on the door handle at the back. It was unlocked. She must be in. He felt his excitement grow, and so he tried to stop his heavy breaths, coming faster now, his tongue flicking onto his lip. He wasn’t wearing a mask. He didn’t expect any witnesses.
The door creaked on its hinges and he paused, waited for the rumble of feet or for someone to call out, but there was nothing.
Why had she left the door unlocked? She had made a choice to put herself at risk.
As he slipped inside, he noticed that it was warm in the house, the air filled with the cloying smell of plug-in air fresheners and the remnants of a microwave meal. He smiled. Dining for one. He thought back to the house layout. Three almshouses knocked through into one. There was a dining room at the end of the house, next to the kitchen. The living room was in the middle, occupying the space of what would have been the next almshouse, and the bedrooms were further along.
He moved slowly through the dining room and headed for the living room. He listened out for the sound of the television, his breathing as quiet as he could make it. He could hear chatter further into the house, just small mumbles of conversation. He stopped. Did she have a friend over? Two people would be hard to take on. He stopped to listen out more, but then he realised that he could only hear one voice. She must be on the telephone.
The living room was empty, the television just a black screen.
He moved towards the archway that led into a corridor separating the three bedrooms. The silence in his head was too quiet, the voices stopped, waiting for him to act, the ecstasy of the release.
The sound of her voice got louder. If she was on the phone it would have to be quick, silently grabbing her before she could say anything, although he grinned when he thought of what the person on the other end might hear. Her cries, muffled, maybe a struggle.
The first bedroom door was ajar, and so he pressed his ear against it. The room seemed silent. He gave the door a gentle push. No one was in there, just paintings scattered around the room.
He backed out of the room and went to the next one along. The door looked closed, but he saw that it wasn’t clicked shut. He put his ear to the door. He could hear that one voice again, but there was something else too. He stopped his breaths so he could work out what it was. It was a clicking, scratching sound, fast but irregular. Then it came to him. It was the sound of fingernails on a keyboard, broken by the occasional laugh or murmur. She was on a computer. He patted his back pocket, felt the handcuffs, his knife in the belt of his trousers.
He pushed gently on the door, ready to rush to her if there was a creak. His mouth was open to keep up with his breaths as the room came slowly into view.
The walls were light, but coloured blue by the glow of the screen. The carpet was thick, so that as he stepped inside his footsteps were silent. The air seemed warm and moist, and he could smell lavender. She must have just come out of the bath.
He saw her. She was facing a computer screen, headphones on, an instant messaging program open. She was wearing a long T-shirt, and her legs were bare.
His back brushed lightly against the wall as he got closer. She was engrossed in the screen and so she didn’t see him, wasn’t aware of him. He held his breath, not wanting to give himself away, but he knew she would become aware soon, even through the headphones. His hands reached behind for the handcuffs. Her fingers were slender, her fingernails manicured, graceful as they flitted across the keys, the glare from the screen catching the whiteness of her teeth.
He moved across the room, away from the comfort of the wall, lightly stepping on the soft carpet. He was almost behind her now. He could reach out and touch her hair, long dark strands flowing down her back.
Then she stopped typing and stared at the monitor.
He stepped back quickly. He had seen someone else on the screen. A woman’s face, the close-up distortion of a webcam. And she had seen him. He had come into view of the webcam. There was a witness. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
The noises rushed back into his head. They had been waiting for this moment. The fail, the mistake. He clamped his ears. There were laughs and whispers and mocking jeers. Then there was a scream from the room. It was her. She was screaming, her legs up to her chest, her eyes wide with fear. People would hear.
He turned to run. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The door flew back as he ran through it, his feet loud on the hardwood flooring in the living room. He was heading for the same way out when he saw the front door. It would be quicker.
The door had a Yale lock, and he gave it a quick turn. He felt the cool breath of the evening air as soon as he stepped outside, making his sweat turn cold.
He heard another scream, but the door was open now and it carried into the street. He imagined the curtains moving on the houses opposite, and so he ran for the track, his heart beating quickly. He was angry with himself. He should have thought about the webcam when he heard the clicks on the keyboard. Someone had seen him.
He tried to shut that thought out as he ran, concentrating only on his escape, his feet thumping against the grass, the jingle of the handcuffs loud in the dark.
If he could just get to his van before he was spotted, no one would ever know.