Free Candleland by Martyn Waites Page B

Microscopic rather than small talk, but any communication was better than none at all.
    The evening slipped slowly away. Moir and Andy came into the room and they all sat drinking, watching TV. A biting wind lashed the rain against the window, and the four of them sat, bruised, damaged, but still hanging in there. The house kept them sheltered and safe from the suicidal February outside, while they wished for a similar kind of thing within themselves.

Over the Threshold
    The next morning found Larkin again in the cafe, coat collar up, tabloids spread in front of him, mug of coffee at his side. Upon entering he had been surprised to discover not Rayman behind the counter but a surly young black guy.
    â€œYou waitin’ for Rayman?” the man asked.
    Larkin answered that he was.
    â€œSit there.” The man gestured to a table. “He be here soon.”
    Larkin had done as he was told, and sat there, waiting. He had thought of sitting at another table other than the one the man had specified, just to annoy him, but didn’t think it was worth it. The man had just stared at him and stood in front of the doorway to the back of the kitchen, arms folded. He looked more like a sentry than a cafe worker, thought Larkin. His build showed he could handle himself, the faint scars on his face showed he had handled himself, and the bulge in his jacket pocket looked too heavy to be a mobile phone.
    Larkin swallowed hard. The coffee seemed to be going down in lumps. He didn’t quite know what he was getting into and he still had time to back out. He could just get up and walk away, and that would be that. Instead he stayed where he was and tried to read his paper. Waiting for Rayman to arrive.
    About fifteen minutes later, the door opened and Rayman entered.
    â€œHey, my man Larkin! I knew you’d show.”
    Larkin turned. The man who had spoken bore only a passing resemblance to the cafe owner he’d met yesterday. This man looked like Rayman’s flashy twin brother. He was dressed in a long leather coat, buttoned up, with only the top of a roll-neck sweater showing. All in black. He exuded confidence and focus, with a dangerous kind of swagger. Larkin’s doubts had grown from chrysalis stage to full-blown butterflies.
    â€œHello Rayman,” Larkin croaked.
    â€œYou didn’t disappoint me. Good.” He walked towards the back of the cafe and said over his shoulder, “Come on, white boy, we got work to do.”
    Larkin dumbly followed, the young guy following him. That was it, he was in now.
    Once past the bead curtain, he found the back room had a kitchen area where food was prepared and stored, a table and chairs, and some weighing and measuring equipment shelved on one side. Larkin knew immediately what that was. He pointed towards it.
    â€œYou still dealing, Rayman?”
    â€œSure am, man. Can’t make a livin’ servin’ up slop round these parts.” His amiable Jamaican accent had been replaced by a much harder East London one. “You met Kwesi, my lieutenant?”
    The young guy gave an imperceptible nod.
    â€œWe met,” said Larkin.
    Rayman smiled. “His mother named him Winston but he named himself Kwesi. Wanted something African, take him back to his roots even though he lived all his life round here. Isn’t that right, Tottenham boy?”
    Kwesi said nothing, just stood impassively. Rayman let out a harsh cackle.
    What the fuck have I got myself into? thought Larkin.
    â€œWe not messin’ about, this is what we do,” said Rayman sitting at the table. Kwesi sat also. Larkin followed suit. “You go to the door of the crack house.” He pointed at Larkin. “An’ say Lonnie sent you. That’s important. Lonnie.”
    â€œWho’s Lonnie?” asked Larkin.
    Rayman smiled. “Some junkie. OD’d over there. They’ll know. Just sound like you’re a junkie, moan a bit. Tell them you’re desperate.