The Arcadian was in the Bullring branch of the Entertainer. He thought he had got away with it. The phone call he received told him he was wrong.
He was standing there, the cheapest, blondest doll he could find in his hand, when he heard the voice. He immediately put the doll down, left the shop as quickly as he could. The mall was crowded almost to overflowing with pre-Christmas Saturday shoppers, all pushing and jostling for their own bit of personal space, forcing themselves and their bags through. It looked like a slow-motion riot.
Usually he enjoyed being among the masses. It made him feel different, superior. He wasn’t there for the same things they were after. He liked to move through them, mix among them, unobserved, unnoticed, an invisible shark. But not today. Not now. Because the voice had spoken.
Ignoring the mass of humanity around him, he took himself off somewhere quiet – or as quiet as he could manage – and tried to concentrate. He found a passageway that led to toilets and stairs and stood there. Closed his eyes.
‘You fucked up.’
‘I… I… didn’t…’ His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears. He hated to hear weakness, especially his own. It made him angry but there was nothing he could do about it.
‘You did.’ Strong, no arguing. ‘You took the woman as well. You weren’t supposed to do that.’
‘No, no…’ He was shaking his head as he spoke, knowing he would attract attention, starting not to care. This was important. More important than Christmas shoppers. ‘I… She came in. When I was there. She wasn’t supposed to.’
‘So what did you do?’
He almost smiled as he said the word. ‘Improvised.’
A sharp intake of breath. He didn’t like the sound of that.
‘But… but… I made it good. Made it look like a robbery. Threw some, some stuff around. Broke things. You know.’ He recounted it as quietly – as professionally – as possible, making no mention of the rage he had experienced. That wasn’t important. Not now.
‘And left your DNA all over the place, too.’
The Arcadian froze. He had gone over this in his mind, time and time again since the previous night. He was sure he had left nothing incriminating behind. Sure of it. ‘No,’ he said, trying to pump strength into his voice. ‘No. I didn’t.’
‘You sure?’ It was clear he wasn’t believed. ‘Doesn’t sound like it.’
‘No,’ he said shaking his head rapidly. ‘No. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.’ He took a couple of deep breaths, tried to calm himself. Compose himself. Speak like a professional. One professional to another. ‘I was controlled.’ He swallowed hard at the lie. ‘I made sure nothing of mine was left at the scene. Nothing.’
There was a pause. ‘You sure?’
A sudden image came into his mind. The cheap blonde slut lying on the floor the way he had left her. The mess she had been in. And how he had wallowed in that mess. He swallowed again. Felt his fingers shaking as he held the phone. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure. Definitely. Definitely… definitely sure. Yes.’ He nodded to emphasise the point. To convince himself of it, if not the voice on the phone.
Silence. He wondered if the voice had hung up.
The Arcadian felt he had to say something. His reputation was being eroded. He had to do something, say something to bring it back. To convince the voice that he was a professional, that he could be entrusted with jobs like the one the previous night. If he didn’t, then his plan was in jeopardy. He was just another loser. Another sad wannabe.
No. That wasn’t him. He was better than that. And he would prove it.
He took another deep breath. Then another. When he spoke, he modulated his voice so it was lower, slower. Calm and controlled. He had read in one of his self-help books that people responded better to slow, deep voices. Found them more trustworthy. That was what he would do now.
‘There’s no problem,’ he said slowly, ‘none at all. The woman complicated things, yes, no doubt, but, as I said, I did what anyone would do in the circumstances. Any professional. I improvised. There’s no way it can be traced back to me. And there’s no way they’ll connect it with the doll.’
‘The doll?’
‘The last one.’
‘Right.’
‘As I said…’ He paused, building up to the last part of his speech, ‘no… trouble… at… all…’
The voice made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. ‘What you talking like that for? You on Mogadon or something?’
The Arcadian felt himself blush. No one made him blush. No one. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he said, quick as he could.
‘It had better be.’
‘And the next one will be perfect too.’
But the voice had gone.
He stared at his hands. They were shaking. But not just from fear. From anger. From… He didn’t know. So many conflicting emotions.
He pocketed the phone and stood there staring straight ahead, seeing everything. Seeing nothing. The mall was playing the same irritating Christmas songs on a continuous loop that were always played at this time of year. He hated them. Each and every one. Didn’t know how the masses listened to them. Well, he did. Because they were thick. Stupid. Because they knew no better. Not like him.
He thought back to what the voice had said. How it hadn’t replied at the end. And his hands started to shake again. He had to have another one, he had to. If he didn’t, he would just be back in the crowd. No better than the hordes in front of him. And that could never happen.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Felt tears well up. Kept them down.
‘No,’ he said, not realising he had spoken aloud. ‘I can’t. I can’t. I’ve got… There’s things. Things I’ve got to do.’
He looked back at the toy shop. Yes, he thought. Buy the doll. Go home. Everything will be all right when you get home. You’re safe there.
He walked towards the shop, knocking shoppers out of the way, not caring, not apologising. He had work to do. He was on a mission, a calling. He went back to where the doll had been. It was still there, right where he had left it. He wasn’t surprised. What child would want that cheap piece of shit?
He picked it up, walked to the till, ready to pay.
And stopped dead.
There, on a shelf right in front of him, was a red fire engine.
He stood there staring. The years fell away. And there he was, sitting in front of the TV in a flat in Rotherham, his mother pocketing the money, disappearing out of the door.
‘No… no…’
He tried not to think of what had happened next, but his mind was set on a track it couldn’t get off. He felt their hands on him again. Their breath. Making him… making him…
He tried to think of later, when he was out of the YOI, working for them. When he was in charge, when he wasn’t being hurt. But he couldn’t. All he could think of was that poor, sad, hurt little boy. The red fire engine.
The doll dropped to the floor. People were scared. He wondered why. Then he realised he had been shouting.
And crying.
He turned and ran from the shop.
Ran all the way home.