Candleland Read Free Page B

attracting, their personal friction sparked a great working relationship. They also had a friendship that had been tested to the full and still held strong.
    â€œCame round for a couple of things,” Larkin started. He stared at his coffee cup. “First, I won’t be looking at that,” he jerked his thumb towards the window, “for a while.”
    â€œWhat?” asked Andy incredulously. “You goin’ on ’oliday, then?”
    Larkin gave a grim laugh. “Not exactly. But I’ll be out of Newcastle.”
    â€œHow long for?”
    Larkin swirled the remains of the coffee round his mug, watched the patterns. “Don’t know. Depends. Could be indefinitely.”
    â€œIndefinitely? Fuckin’ ’ell!” Andy shouted. “I’ve only just bought this place! I’m only ’ere ’cos you did a number on me about this town. Now you wanna piss off an’ leave me?”
    â€œJust listen a minute –” Larkin began.
    â€œWhat about that new bird of yours?” Andy was in full flow now. “What’s her name? Jo? She’s gonna be well over the moon. You told ’er yet?”
    â€œNot yet, but –”
    â€œFor fuck’s sake, what d’you wanna jack it in now for? Look at the work you’re doin’. Look at the money you’re makin’ from it. What’s the matter with you?”
    It was true. Larkin was doing well. It had happened quite suddenly, taking him by surprise. He was writing the pieces he wanted to write – political exposés, name-and-shame stories, damning indictments of social issues – stuff that had led him to be described by one bitter rival as “the journalistic Jiminy Cricket of the North East”. He didn’t care, though, he took it as a compliment. There was a growing audience for his writing, and, amazingly, he was making good money from it.
    The business with Swanson had had a profound effect on him. There was no way it could have been otherwise. He had seen stuff – fucking awful stuff – that made him want to tell people the truth – to rage about it – and transfer that anger to others. He’d wilfully yanked his old investigative instinct out of hibernation, where he was startled to discover that it was still functioning with razor-sharp capability. That, together with his guiding lights and guardian angels of rage and truth, was the engine that drove him. He concentrated only on the things he wanted to write about – injustice, inequality, giving voice to the voiceless – but in a way that avoided the usual patronising preachiness and worthiness that went with such stories. The resultant pieces sounded like they were written by an outsider kicking in the doors of power, a One Of Us. People started to take notice.
    There was, of course, a “but” to all this, because things weren’t that simple with Larkin. Although his work was taking off, giving him a sense of handsomely rewarded vindication, there was something else inside him, gnawing away. Fear.
    â€œJust listen a minute, will you?” Larkin was getting agitated. This wasn’t turning out the way he’d planned it in his head. “Listen. I’m going down to London. That’s what I came to tell you. But not to live. I don’t think. I’ve been given a job to do down there and I don’t know how long it’ll take.”
    â€œA job? Bolland never said anythin’ to me about a job.”
    â€œIt’s not from Bolland.”
    Andy began to quieten down. This was starting to sound interesting. “Who, then?”
    â€œMoir.”
    â€œEh?” Andy resumed his seat.
    Larkin explained about the meeting. Andy listened in silence.
    â€œSo,” said Andy eventually. “You’re gonna go to London with Henry, find his daughter – or try at least – and then what?”
    Larkin thought of his writing. His work. And the