Cal had straightened his back, as if to say: fine by me.
He wanted to think things through, get them straight in his head, which was why he’d come into his bedroom rather than sitting up with Jamie. But even before he’d reached that sanctuary, his thoughts had turned to Darren Rough. The hall was half-full of placards. They sat against the wall, still smelling of fresh paint. Cardboard boxes had been cut up flat, messages written on their blank sides. DESTROY ALL MONSTERS; KEEP AWAY FROM OUR KIDS; LET’S PLAY HANG THE PERV.
Destroy all monsters, Cal was thinking, lying on his bed, smoking a cigarette. He got up abruptly, thumped on the far wall.
‘Will you fucking well shut up, the pair of you!’
Silence, then muffled laughter. For a moment, Cal was ready to burst in on them, but he knew what his mum would do to him. And besides, last thing he wanted was to see her like that.
Destroy all monsters.
The doorbell. Who the fuck at this time of night...? Cal went to see. Recognised the woman. She looked agitated, rubbing her hands like she was doing the washing-up.
‘You haven’t seen our Billy, have you?’ She was Joanna Horman, Billy’s mum. Billy was one of Jamie’s pals. Cal called for him and Jamie came out of the living room.
‘Have you seen Billy Boy?’ Cal asked. Jamie shook his head. He had a packet of crisps in his hand. Cal turned back to Joanna Horman. Some of his friends reckoned she looked all right. Right now, though, she looked a mess.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘He went out to play about seven, I haven’t seen him since. I thought maybe he’d gone to his gran’s, but when I checked she hadn’t clapped eyes on him.’
‘I’m just in. Hold on a minute.’ He went and banged on Van’s door: as good an excuse as any to break things up in there. ‘Hiy, Maw, has Billy Horman been round here the night?’
Noises from within. Joanna Horman was leaning against the door, looking ready to fall down. Not a bad body, Cal decided. Bit squishy, but he didn’t like them all skin and bones. His mother’s bedroom door opened. Van was wearing her dress, arranging it over her. Nothing on underneath, he’d bet. She closed the door quickly behind her; no way to tell who else was in the room.
‘Something the matter, Joanna?’ Pushing past Cal, ignoring him altogether.
‘It’s wee Billy, Van. He’s disappeared.’
‘Aw, Christ. Come into the living room.’
‘I just don’t know what to do.’
‘Where have you looked?’
Cal followed the two women into the living room.
‘Everywhere. I think maybe it’s time I called the police.’
Van snorted. ‘Oh aye, they’d be round here like a shot. Only thing those buggers are interested in is protecting perverts...’ Her voice died away; for the first time, she looked at her son. They knew one another so well, no words were needed.
‘Joanna, pet,’ Van said quietly, ‘you stay there. I’m going to round up the troops. If your Billy’s anywhere on the estate, we’ll find him, don’t you worry.’
Within half an hour, Van Brady had the search parties organised. People were going from door to door, asking questions, getting new volunteers. Jamie had been sent to bed, but wasn’t asleep, and Joanna Horman was in the living room with a tumbler of rum and Coke. Cal had offered to keep an eye on her. She was on the sofa, and he was in the chair. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Wasn’t normally this tongue-tied. He found himself aroused by her grief, the way it softened her. But he felt ashamed to be so affected by her, and his brain was spinning the way it did when he’d drunk too much or taken some speed.
He got up, opened the door to Jamie’s room.
‘Get up, you, and keep an eye on Billy’s mum. I’ve got to go out.’
Then he opened the main door and stalked down the hallway. Down the stairwell and out into the night. There were some lock-ups across the way. He had the key to one of them. He was keeping some stuff there. Jerry Langham’s lock-up it was, but Jerry was serving three-to-five in Saughton, another six months before he’d have even a whiff of roly-paroley. He kept his car in the lock-up. It was a 1970s Merc with rusty sills and a custard-yellow paint job, but Jerry loved it.
‘I don’t keep my missus under lock and key, but no way am I letting any bastard near my Merc.’
This was by way of a warning: use the lock-up, keep an eye on the motor, but never think of touching it. Not that Cal had heeded the advice. He unlocked the car sometimes and sat in it, pretending to be driving. And he’d opened the boot once, too, so he knew what was inside.
He unlocked it now, lifted out the jerrycan and gave it a shake. He was sure there’d been more than that; it was barely half-full now. Evaporation or something. He supposed petrol could do that. On a stack of shelves he found some oily rags. Stuffed them into his pockets and he was ready.
Back to the block of flats, taking the steps two at a time. He had a purpose now, jerrycan making quiet sloshing sounds. Close your eyes, you could almost be at the seaside. Crept along to Darren Rough’s flat. Fresh lengths of board across his window. The kids had already been busy with their aerosols. GAP had made the flat their first stop tonight: no answer, nobody home. Cal opened the mouth of the can, held it high so the petrol trickled out of it, running it the length of the boarded window, then across the door. Took a ball of rag from his pocket and doused it in petrol. Stuffed it into the narrow gap between board and wall. Then another and another. Chucked the empty can over the balcony, then cursed to himself: there’d be prints on it. And besides, Jerry might want it. He’d go retrieve it in a minute.
Took out his cigarette lighter, the one Jamie had given him for Christmas. Jamie... he was doing this for Jamie and his pals, for all the kids. Jamie was bright. Didn’t like school, but then who did? Didn’t make him thick. He could go places, do things with his life: a couple of times when drunk, Cal had tried to tell him as much. He got the feeling it hadn’t come out right, had come out like he was envious. Maybe he was, just a little. A kid like Jamie, the world was his oyster. Cal looked at the lighter. Another thing about his wee brother: he had shoplifting down to an art.
23
When Rebus got to Greenfield, half the estate was out watching the fire, or what was left of it.
Rebus knew one of the firemen, guy called Eddie Dickson. Dickson nodded a greeting. He was in full uniform, standing guard by his engine.
‘If I move, they’ll be in about it.’ Meaning the local kids; meaning they’d strip it of anything they could find. ‘We got bottled coming in.’
‘Who by?’
Dickson shrugged. ‘Came flying out of the dark. I get the feeling we weren’t wanted.’
Uniforms from St Leonard’s were trying to get the spectators to go back to bed.
‘Any casualties?’
Dickson shrugged again. ‘You mean from the bottles?’
Rebus stared at him. ‘I mean in there.’ Pointing towards Darren Rough’s flat.
‘Place was empty when we got here.’
‘Door open?’
Dickson shook his head. ‘Had to kick in what was left of it. Grudge thing, is it?’
‘Don’t you read the papers?’
‘When do I get the time, John?’
‘Paedophile.’
Dickson nodded. ‘Remember it now. Frying’s too good for them, eh?’
Rebus left him to his guard duty, headed for Cragside Court. The uniform in the lobby told him not to bother with the lifts.
‘One’s buggered, the other’s a toilet.’