Fear No Evil

I knocked, hard, on the wood of the door. It was painted a puke green, with a small square panel at the top made out of smoky reinforced glass. No lights, no sounds, no answer, nothing. I walked over to the flat opposite, with its identical door, and pushed open the letter box. It was stuffed with old junk mail and a free weekly paper that had been delivered three months before. I suspected all the flats would be the same. Nobody lived in this block – they’d probably all been moved out into the much nicer new estate that’d been built half a mile, and a whole world away.

All except one. The letter box of Dodgy Bobby’s place was free of clutter, and when I wiggled my fingers through it, they felt warm air circulating. If it was uninhabited, it would have been cold. Damp. Frigid. I could see tiny curtains either side of the glass panel, and I managed to run my fingers over them when I twisted my hand up at a socket-popping angle. No dust.

He was in there. And he had known I was coming early enough to pretend otherwise.

‘Bobby!’ I yelled through the letter box, ‘come out now or I’m fetching Eugene! I’ve got my mobile here, and if you don’t talk to me, I’ll call him – he’ll send the lads round and kick this bloody door down!’

I might not be psychic, but I do have good hearing. There was a scuffle and a rattle from inside, and eventually the door edged open an inch. I shoved it as hard as I could, and Dodgy Bobby flew backwards, hitting the woodchip wall with a thump.

‘What do you want? What does bloody Eugene want? I’ve done everything I can!’ he said, his voice an anguished, nasal whine that seeped out of his nostrils and the tiny slit in his thin, clamped lips. It looked like he was in a room full of toxic gas and was trying to keep his mouth closed when he spoke.

I strode into the living room. Tiny. A beige shagpile decorated with ash, a velour sofa that looked like it was a match for my mum’s shabby market armchair. Three bar electric fire, switched off but the elements still shining orange. A portable black and white telly, with an aerial made out of a wire coat hanger. A copy of the Racing Post and an enormous fish tank, stuffed completely full with cigarette butts. It stank to high heaven.

The only redeeming feature of the whole place was the view – a magnificent vista of the city at night, the glitzy shopping malls and the cathedrals and the beacon of St John’s tower, sticking like an antenna 400 feet into the air.

I turned to stare at Bobby. He looked pretty dodgy, that was for sure. A small man, narrow shoulders hunched in on themselves, trying to appear even smaller. His face was long and thin, with an enormous bulbous nose taking pride of place.

‘Go on then, love,’ he said, sticking his hands into the front pockets of his baggy beige cardigan, ‘do yer worst. What does he want? ’Cause I’m not going back to that place, I don’t give a fuck what he threatens me with.’

I could see his hands shaking inside the pockets, and his left eye was twitching uncontrollably. Bobby had probably spent much of his life in fear of one kind or another, but this time he was obviously terrified.

‘I lied. I’m not from Eugene,’ I said.

He looked relieved, and plonked himself down on the sagging sofa.

‘Thought not,’ he said, ‘you look more like a bizzy to me. That right?’

‘Maybe,’ I replied, not really wanting to give away more than was strictly necessary. I looked round for somewhere to sit. There was no way I was getting on that filthy, sagging couch – my bum would hit the floor and I’d never make it up again without a crane. I grabbed a hard-backed kitchen chair, and pulled it close enough so I could stare him down and scare him, but far enough that there was no danger of me accidentally touching him.

‘I was sent here by Mystic Melissa – Clive. He’s a friend of mine.’ That was stretching a point, but it clearly helped Bobby relax. He even cracked his lips open a quarter of an inch in a yellow-toothed smile.

‘He thought you might be able to help me with something.’

‘Yeah? Happy to help, queen. But what’s it worth to me? Quick blow job?’

He leered up at me, and it suddenly seemed like a very sensible idea to beat the crap out of him. But not yet – I had work to do.

‘In your dreams, Bobby. Put that thing anywhere near me and I’ll neuter you – a service to humanity. But if you help me out, I won’t kick your arse, and I’ll make it worth your time.’

I pulled out the twenty quid note I’d ready prepared in my pocket. He snatched it out of my hand with remarkable speed – it was like one of those frogs scooping up a fly with their tongue at ninety miles an hour. Yuk. He rolled the note up, and popped it behind his left ear. The right one was already occupied with a ciggie.

‘Tell me about Geneva Casey,’ I said, and saw his face scrumple back up in fear.

‘Don’t know nobody by that name,’ he muttered, holding his knees steady with his palms.

I shook my head, and replied: ‘Bobby, that makes me sad. I’ve been straight with you – mostly. I’ve given you some of my hard-earned cash. Now I expect something in return. I’m sure you wouldn’t want any problems with the law, would you, nice fella like yourself?’

‘Cunt,’ he hissed, without opening his lips at all. I leaned forward and smacked his forehead with the heel of my palm, hard enough to make his skull wobble like it was on a spring.

‘Don’t swear at me, you fucking bastard,’ I said. Possibly somewhat hypocritically.

Bobby shook the slap away, his eyes watery, and stared off at the fish tank.

‘Not Casey,’ he said eventually. ‘Geneva Connelly. Stuck with her mum’s name for, you know, privacy reasons.’

Ah. That made more sense – it explained why I hadn’t heard anything. If the Caseys had kept their profile low when it came to the prodigal granddaughter, and let the mother deal with it all, the connection might not have been made. They’d have made her lie, talk to the police as though she was a single parent so the family name didn’t get dragged through the mud. Heaven forbid the Caseys get associated with anything as shady as higher education.

‘Go on,’ I said, softening my tone. ‘I won’t hurt you, Bobby – and if you’re hiding from the Caseys, I won’t tell them where you are. I know something happened to Geneva, something bad, and I’m trying to stop it happening to anyone else. At the moment I know nothing – so enlighten me.’

He looked back at me with narrowed eyes, which made him look even more like a rat. ‘What do you mean, you know nothing? There’d be a file, wouldn’t there?’ I met his gaze steadily.

‘Oh. You’re not with the pigs at all, are you?’

‘Never said I was, Bobby. Bit disappointing you didn’t figure that out, considering you’re supposed to be this psychic superstar. Now tell me all about it and I might even have another twenty for you. I can see you’ve not been able to get out and work much.’

‘Nah. It’s me bad back,’ he said, stroking his spine as though it had suddenly started aching. Yeah, right.

‘Okay,’ he sighed,’ but you’ve got to promise me you won’t tell them where I am. This place only has leccy for the next few weeks so I’ll be moving on anyway. Been all right here – no bloody people disturbing my peace.’

‘I swear, Bobby – if anyone finds out about this place, it won’t be from me. And you know Clive wouldn’t have passed on your details if you couldn’t trust me.’

‘’Spose so,’ he said, sniffing up a nose full of stray snot.

‘Well, I got the call out from Wigwam. Do you know him?’

I nodded. Of course I knew him. Wigwam was the stuff of legend in Liverpool. Eugene Casey’s number one enforcer; black father, white mother, probably Peter Sutcliffe as an uncle. To be found on his nights off doing a stand-up routine at the basement comedy club down Churchill Street. I kid you not – a thug with a sense of humour. And believe me, everyone laughed. They didn’t dare not to.

‘He made me one of them offers you can’t refuse – get every bone in me body broke, or earn a couple of hundred knicker. I might not be winning Mastermind any time soon, but I’m not thick, am I? I took the money, and got driven for a meeting with Eugene at his office. He was fucked up, love… what’s your name, anyway?’

‘Jayne McCartney,’ I said. Bobby didn’t ask the usual question about my family connection to Sir Paul. I suppose he already knew the answer.

‘His boy, Sean, was there. Couldn’t speak. The missus was in the corner, looked like she was drugged up to the eyeballs, chain-smoking and hitting the vodka as well. Eugene was crying, not even trying to hide it. It was a bad scene, queen, I tell you.’

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘I don’t know what Clive told you about me. Don’t know the truth of it myself, or what the name is for what I can do. Got called plenty of names in my time, none I’d want to see on me gravestone. But I’ve always been able to sense things. I can look at someone and know what they’re thinking – not all the time, and not on demand, but just a flash, here and there? And especially when it relates to me, if they’re thinking of finding me or doing something to me. I suppose that comes from the early days, when I was a nipper. Life wasn’t exactly a party for me back then.’

I felt a vague tugging of my heartstrings, but knew he was doing it deliberately. And I really don’t like being manipulated.

‘Yeah, yeah, spare me the tales of woe and get on with it Bobby. Wigwam. Eugene. Geneva Connelly.’

‘Hard-faced bitch, aren’t you? At least you’re trying to be. Not true though, is it, deep down? Bit of a soft touch, you are.’

‘Bobby. Shut the fuck up, and talk,’ I said.

‘All right, all right, keep your wig on. So Geneva had been killed, fallen down the stairs. Her cousin Theresa was there as well, sobbing her mascara off, saying Geneva’d been having problems. With, you know, a ghost.’

He looked up at me expectantly, obviously waiting for a reaction – disbelief, fear, amazement, I don’t know. He didn’t get any, so he carried on.