Candleland Read Free

prepared for that.”
    â€œWhat d’you mean?”
    â€œI’m coming with you.”
    The first sign of hope appeared across Moir’s features. “But –”
    â€œNo arguments. Count me in. Just let me sort some things out and I’ll be with you.” He stood up to go, looking at the lightening sky. “Going to be cloudy today.”
    Moir gave a snort. “It’s cloudy every fuckin’ day. You’ve got to make the most of the sunny spells because you know they won’t last.”
    Larkin began to move away. He didn’t want to hear Moir’s gratitude. It was difficult enough for the big man to ask.
    â€œListen, er …”
    Larkin turned. Too late. Moir was standing now, his eyes imploring, his mouth twitching inarticulately. “Yeah?”
    Moir seemed on the verge of saying something important, but he couldn’t quite take those last few steps. Instead he sat back down on the bench. “I’ll see you later,” he mumbled.
    Larkin nodded and began to walk. Reaching the road he paused and looked back. Moir was still in the same position on the bench, drinking. But now he’d dispensed with the cup and the tea and was drinking straight from the bottle.
    He should wait until the Cathedral opens, thought Larkin. Then he could go inside and say a prayer to St Jude. An obscure but relevant saint. The patron saint of hopeless causes.

In Transit
    Three days after Larkin’s early morning meeting with Moir, he found himself in the passenger seat of his Saab 900 with the policeman at full stretch on the back seat and Andy Brennan in the driving seat, travelling down the Al. The Saab was new – or new to Larkin at any rate – an early Nineties black soft-top in the classic Saab shape: a Giger-designed bathtub. Larkin loved the car and had happily traded in his Golf for it.
    The three men had started the journey with only the most cursory of small talk – Moir making it quite clear that Andy was there only on the greatest of sufferance, because he had promised them wonderful accommodation at a house he knew in Clapham – and had soon lapsed into silence. None of them was looking forward to the trip.
    Larkin glanced over his shoulder. Moir was asleep, his mouth wide open.
    â€œHe gone?” asked Andy.
    â€œSpark out,” Larkin replied.
    â€œNot surprised, poor bastard,” said Andy. He rummaged about in the glove box, his eyes darting between that and the road, until he found a tape he could listen to.
    â€œStick it on but don’t wake him,” said Larkin.
    â€œMore than my life’s worth to get on the wrong side of him, innit? The way he thinks of me,” Andy replied with a smile. He looked through the tapes he found, tossing one after another back into the glove box. “All this shit you listen to, it’s a struggle to find anythin’ decent. Look at this,” he said rummaging, “The Smiths … The Pixies … Husker Du – Husker Du? Who the fuck were they?”
    Larkin began to answer.
    â€œNever mind, I don’t wanna know. An’ I certainly don’t wanna hear them. Look at this lot. It’s all either Eighties indie shite, country and western, or professional miserable bastards! Mind you, that’s all the same thing really.”
    â€œFrom someone whose idea of music revolves around overweight black men boasting about their genitalia, I’ll take that as a compliment.” Larkin hated to have his musical taste called into question. “If you don’t like it, there’s the door.”
    â€œTouchy. Oh …” Andy smiled in surprise and took out a tape. “Don’t know how this one crept in but we’d better make the most of it.” He slipped it in the player.
    The tape led in and Angel by Massive Attack started up. Andy tapped the steering wheel in time to the repetitive bass riff. The drums thumped in, then the rest. Dark,