The evil and the pure, p.11
The Evil And The Pure, page 11
So he went where he knew he’d be welcome, where a friend would surely be glad to see him, to the lab and its constant prisoner, Dr Tony Phials.
Bragging of his exploits to Phials, emptying his pockets, showing him the money, describing the night’s deals, dreaming aloud. “Enough nights like this, Dave will have to take me seriously. I’ll be given more responsibility, more respect, then… Shula and America.”
“I hope so,” Phials said, smiling mechanically, wishing Clint had brought some hash. It was a lot easier to listen to the dealer when he was half-stoned.
“I could go now,” Clint insisted. “More than seven grand in my bank account. I could cash in my shares with Dave, must be worth fifteen, maybe twenty thousand, maybe more.”
“So why don’t you?” Phials prodded him. “It’s a good time of year, New York not too hot, not too cold. Twenty-five thousand sterling is, what, forty or more in dollars? You could go a long way on that.”
“Without Shula?” Clint snorted.
“Maybe it would be easier to start without her. Move there by yourself. Get established. Come back for her when you’re in a position to really wow her.”
“I dunno,” Clint said uneasily. “Nobody would know me. I don’t have contacts. I wouldn’t know who to trust.”
“If I could get out of here and come with you, I could help,” Phials said, trying to sound casual. He’d been dropping hints like this every time Clint called in, always apparently offhand. “I know people in New York. I could steer you right.”
“You could give me their names and numbers,” Clint suggested.
“No point,” Phials smiled. “I’ve been away a long time. People move, change addresses and phones, especially in my line. I’d have to track them down.”
Clint glanced at the doc, wondered if he could put direct questions to him, decided to go for it. “Tony…” Hesitant, a rare use of Phials’ first name. “What are you working on? Why are you kept locked up?”
Phials hid a smile. He’d been waiting weeks for the kid to work up the nerve to ask. Shook his head mock-glumly. “I can’t really talk about that.”
“Oh. OK.” Clint ready to drop the subject instantly.
“You could always ask your cousin,” Phials said slyly, planting the seed. “It’s probably not a problem, but you should clear it with him first.”
“I might do that,” Clint shrugged, acting like he didn’t care. But Phials had seen interest flare in Clint’s eyes. Clint would ask Bushinsky. He’d better. Phials would have wasted a hell of a lot of time on the dull little coward if he didn’t. Not sure how he might be able to use Clint, but scenting possibilities in the weak but cunning young man.
October passing in a blur, Clint selling lots of E’s, grass and coke, but most of it on the Tube or in pubs and clubs, one-off deals, not building a regular customer base like he’d planned. The money was good, but chump change to the Bush. Clint had been thinking a lot about what Dave had said the night of Shula’s party, about contacts and Clint needing to get serious to get ahead. Clint was good at selling to students and clubbers, he could talk with them, joke with them, win their trust and make sales. But when it came to the rich people, the confident, the powerful and influential, he was lost. He didn’t know how to handle them. And without them there could be no progress, no Shula, no America.
He’d made a half-hearted attempt to use Kevin and Tulip Tyne. The men who paid for their services were men of wealth and dark pleasures, in the market for all of Clint’s goods. But they had their own established dealers. They saw Clint as a pimp, didn’t take him seriously when he offered to meet their other needs too.
So Clint continued surfing the trains, hitting pubs, circling clubs, doing good business, making good money, but feeling stale, stuck in neutral, going nowhere fast. Until Larry Drake came to see him in a house of God.
The Church of Sacred Martyrs. Clint sat near the back, head bowed, waiting to be approached. Not a religious man, raised Protestant but hadn’t been in any kind of chapel for years, until meeting Fr Sebastian in a pub some months earlier. Fr Sebastian had seen Clint touting for business. Once he’d checked every face in the pub to make sure nobody from his flock was present, he sidled up to the dealer and muttered, “I need grass, pills, coke if you have it.” Clint on guard immediately, unaccustomed to being accosted directly. Then he saw the hunger in the stranger’s eyes and relaxed. Sold him a couple of E’s in the toilet, watched him pop them, curiously studying the pale-faced man in the shabby duffel coat, not making him for a priest but sensing something different about him.
The truth surfaced a week later when the man came to Clint again. The first time, Fr Sebastian had left his clerical collar at home, but this time he forgot and had to hurriedly stick it in a pocket. It fell out when he was paying Clint. His face ashen, putting it back quickly, leaving without the merchandise. Clint hurried after him, caught him at the end of the street, made him take the coke, assured him his secret was safe. “I ask no questions, tell no tales. I don’t know your name and I won’t look for it. You’re safe with me. You can trust me.”
And Fr Sebastian did come to trust Clint. So much so that within a fortnight he’d told Clint his name and where his church was, and even invited Clint to deal to him there, figuring it was safer than meeting him in public places.
On his second visit to the church, while he waited his turn for the confessional, Clint was gazing around, enjoying the peace and calm, when he had a crazy but brilliant thought — this would be a great place to deal! At first he dismissed the notion, sold the coke to Fr Sebastian, went home. But he kept coming back to the idea. He could force Fr Sebastian to let him use the church. It would be a safe haven — police didn’t stake out churches. And if he was ever busted, he could cut a deal with the police by betraying the priest to them. They’d be much more interested in taking down a priest than a dealer.
Fr Sebastian savagely opposed the plan until Clint threatened to cut off his supply and drop a few hints locally about the priest’s fondness for nose candy. He agreed eventually, reluctantly, on the condition that Clint only sell to those the priest sent his way — he didn’t want the dealer bringing trash into his church. It hadn’t occured to Clint that the priest might know other junkies, that he would be prepared to send them to Clint. He couldn’t believe his luck.
Clint agreed to Fr Sebastian’s condition, let the priest supply him with a slim but steady stream of customers, told none of his own clients about the sweet set-up. But only for a few weeks. Once he’d established himself, he spread the word about his new base, telling some of cousin Dave’s crew, paying them to send their select clients his way. He was able to charge more than normal, the novelty of the backdrop a turn-on for yuppies who could boast to their friends about scoring in a church.
The Sacred Martyrs was soon a roaring success, Clint dropping in three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, between midday and three. The regular church-goers were surprised by the upturn in business, but they thought it was the appeal of Fr Sebastian, figuring he must be more charismatic than they’d assumed.
One Wednesday, while Clint sat soaking up the silence, a man genuflected at the end of Clint’s pew then slid over to where Clint was waiting. When Clint looked up he saw Larry Drake.
“Luh-luh-luh-Larry?” Clint said stupidly, louder than he intended.
“Quiet,” Drake hissed, then spared Clint a nervous grin. “I like your office. I heard you’re selling good shit, blessed by the Pope himself.”
“Not in puh-person,” Clint grinned, “but he gave the shipment his huh-holy seal of approval. What are you looking for?”
Drake sniffed, trying to be casual. “Whatever.”
“This a one-off duh-deal?”
“Depends on the quality and how quiet you can keep it.”
“I can keep it real quiet,” Clint said. “I can do you a good deal too – twenty percent duh-discount – if…”
“Go on.”
“Lots of muh-money in showbusiness. You mix with celebrities, directors, pruh-producers and the rest. If you send some of them my way, I’ll be generous, cut you a duh-discount every time.”
“I scratch your back, you scratch mine,” Drake chuckled. Every dealer he knew would sell their grandmother for the chance to tap into celeb money. He kept most of his contacts well away from his showbiz associates, but a guy with enough imagination to deal from a church might be worth introducing to certain people. “I’ll test the shit and see if you can keep this under your hat. Later… yeah, maybe. What can you supply?”
“Anything,” Cliff said confidently. “I always carry coke, grass, E’s. If you want something else, let me know in advance. You have my nuh-number?”
“No.”
Clint slipped a card to Drake — he’d printed off a load in a shopping mall a while back. Drake pocketed the card without looking. Clint gave the church a quick scan, to make sure nobody was watching. “What can I tuh-tempt you with?”
“Like I said, whatever you have. I’m stocking up for the weekend.”
Clint searched through his pockets, produced a cigarette box full of E’s, a thick stick of hash, two small baggies of coke. “That enough or do you want more?”
Drake’s eyes lit up. “Fuck no, that’s plenty.” Snatching the gear from Clint, stashing it inside his jacket. “What do I owe you?”
“First batch on the huh-house,” Clint said freely. He’d never given away that much before but Drake was a potential mother lode.
“You’re sure?” Drake asked, surprised but not astonished.
“As long as you’re on the level about recommending me to your friends.”
“If the shit’s good,” Drake said, rising and clapping Clint lightly on the back, “you can consider it a deal.”
Drake slid out, masking his face with the lapels of his jacket, walking fast. Clint leant back, smiling radiantly, wishing he could shout out loud with triumph, the tumblers of the future clicking into place. His shit was good. Drake would return and bring others. Nothing could stop him now. Yankee doodle Clint!
ELEVEN
Tulip lit a candle, stared into the heart of the flickering flame, pulled back slowly and crossed herself, praying silently. Kevin sat nearby, nervous, never comfortable in church even when he had nothing to hide from God, genuinely edgy now that he was engaged in unnatural acts with his sister. Not really convinced that God existed, but if he did and was watching…
Kevin kept trying to talk Tulip out of her visits to the Church of Sacred Martyrs, but she turned a deaf ear to his pleas and threats. She’d always been religious – talk of becoming a nun when she was seven or eight, though that soon passed – but now more than ever, now that she needed God more than before. Kevin had thought the stain of sexual sin would drive her from the church, but it had served only to strengthen her faith. Tulip believed her current pains were a test, and that only by remaining true to God could she come through them intact.
Watching her pray, Kevin felt guilt bubble up inside him. At moments like this he could see the truth — a sixteen year old girl turned into a drug addict and whored out by her perverted brother, victim of the monster he’d become, unwilling to break free because she loved him and feared for his life if she abandoned him. He wanted to release her, seek help, engage the monster within himself and defeat it. But he was too weak. He knew that once they left the sanctity of the church, the sick cravings would return and he’d succumb. His suffering was minor compared with Tulip’s, but he did suffer. At times he even took comfort in his pain. If he could feel hurt, it proved he wasn’t truly evil, didn’t it?
Tulip crossed herself and rose, her auburn hair straggly and unhealthy in the dim light, looking fatter than she was, old, haggard — but still somehow innocent. “I want to make confession,” she said.
Kevin stiffened. “Can’t you confess privately to God?”
“I do that constantly,” Tulip replied softly. “But I need to confess to a priest as well.”
Kevin didn’t like it – he knew she confessed all her sins – but at least Fr Sebastian would respect the privacy of the confessional, like his predecessor. Kevin still recalled the terror he’d experienced when Tulip first told him she’d confessed to a priest. Blind panic, jamming a bag with clothes, planning to flee London with Tulip, expecting the police to come crashing through the door. He only calmed down when Tulip explained that she’d confessed several times over the last three months — if the priest was going to break his solemn vows and inform on the Tynes, he would have done so long before now.
“What did he say when you told him about us?” Kevin screamed.
“I can’t tell you,” Tulip answered calmly. “That’s between us and God.”
Kevin threatened to stop her going to mass, yank her out of school, take her away from everyone she knew and everywhere she felt safe. It had no impact on her. She knew that he knew she wouldn’t stand for such upheval, that she’d send him to prison before she’d let him come between her and God. Eventually his anger abated and he let her continue going to mass and confession.
Fresh fear when Fr Sebastian replaced Fr Andrew earlier in the year — new man, perhaps new rules. He begged Tulip not to confess to the incoming priest but she ignored him. Fr Sebastian wasn’t as reserved as Fr Andrew had been. Whereas the previous priest had simply subjected Kevin to the cold shoulder and dirty looks, Fr Sebastian stormed over to him after hearing Tulip’s confession, dragged him outside and throttled him, crying, “You demon! Demon! Demon!”
Fr Sebastian told Kevin never to return, vowed to kill him if he did. Kevin stumbled home, shaken, followed by a bemused Tulip. He said they weren’t going back, the priest was a lunatic. She said he could abstain if he wished, but she wouldn’t. He offered to take her to a different church but she said Sacred Martyrs had been their mother’s church and it was now hers and she had no wish to change.
In the end Tulip got her way. Kevin avoided the church for many weeks, until Fr Sebastian issued him with a summons — the priest wanted to see him one evening on his own, not to tell Tulip. Kevin went, trembling, half-afraid the priest was planning to execute him. But Fr Sebastian only wanted to talk, hopeful of convincing Kevin to stop doing this to his sister. A long conversation, the first of many, in which the priest beseeched Kevin to confess to God and the police, to seek professional help and divine forgiveness. When his pleas fell on deaf ears, he asked Kevin to explain how he had come to this terrible place.
“It’s not the money,” Kevin insisted. “I couldn’t care less about that. It’s the thrill and the sexual release. I’m addicted.”
He told the priest about his father’s death two and a half years earlier, moving back into the family apartment to look after Tulip, nothing but her best interests at heart. For six months just brotherly love, helping her cope with her grief, caring for her, providing. Some time after her fourteenth birthday he began noticing her as a young woman, her body changing, maturing, developing. Tulip wasn’t prudish around the apartment, Kevin often catching sight of her naked coming out of the bathroom, or of her breasts as she walked about in a loose robe. Nothing provocative in Tulip’s flashes of flesh. She still thought of herself as a girl, Kevin her harmless brother, sexual attraction between them an impossibility.
Over the coming months Kevin would sometimes fantasize about his sister, but only hazily, the way he’d fix on any woman’s face when he was masturbating. He harboured no dark desires, had no wish to interfere with her, didn’t believe himself capable of genuine lust for Tulip.
“I’d had a few girlfriends before,” he explained, “but sex never thrilled me the way it did other people. I was starting to think that maybe celibacy was more my line. Then I caught Tulip making love.”
He’d returned home early one day with a headache, expecting Tulip to be at school. Entering their apartment, he heard the sounds of sex in her bedroom. Shocked, the first thing that crossed his mind was that she was being raped. The door was half-open. He almost barged in, but stopped when he realised her moans of pleasure meant she was a willing participant. He stood by the door uncertainly, worried about her, wondering if he should break it up. While he was debating what to do, he caught a whiff of marijuana. With a frown he leant forward and spotted the sexually engaged teenagers in Tulip’s dressing table mirror.
And everything changed.
“The sight of her fucking…” Kevin’s voice and eyes filled with wicked wonder. Fr Sebastian clocked the wonder and knew in that moment that Kevin Tyne was beyond salvation, his vice born of a genuinely twisted urge, no mere bad man, but one who was lost to his inner demons, truly warped.
Kevin said nothing to Tulip but obsessed about her for the next few weeks, masturbating frequently, feeding on the image of her with her boyfriend. Then the power of the image faded and needed to be refreshed. He started coming home early regularly, making up all manner of excuses, or telling Tulip that he would be working late then sneaking home at the normal time. But he didn’t catch her at it again. Frustrated, he took a week off work and shadowed her when she was at school or hanging out with her friends. No joy, Tulip not even kissing or petting.
But she wasn’t entirely clean. He saw her smoking pot a few times and found a stash in her room. He remembered the smell in the air that day. Maybe the hash had lowered her inhibitions. Maybe drugs were his way in.
He confronted her one evening, said he’d been cleaning her room and had found the pot. Tulip wept, said all her friends were doing it, begged him not to tell anyone. He waved her worries away, said it was no big thing, he’d smoked when he was younger, still had the occasional spliff when he was feeling low. In fact, would she mind sharing a joint with him now?
Tulip was delighted that he wasn’t judging her, even more delighted to share. They had an amazing night, smoking, talking, more honest with one another than they’d ever been. Kevin cried for the first time since they’d buried their father. Tulip held him and did what she could to comfort him.
