Troll Read online

  I know who you are.

  He poured more Scotch and lit another cigarette while he waited for a reply. He didn’t have to wait long.

  Who am I?

  You’re my son.

  Your bastard. Yes.

  What do you want?

  Fortune drank and smoked and watched the screen, waited for it to light up. Again, he didn’t wait long.

  You found my name. Now you just need to find me. Five days.

  Fortune knew that at one point he and Jean had been happy, had had hopes for the future, plans that involved each other. Had it been some fundamental incompatibility that had made them drift apart? Or had it been the fact that Fortune had never really wanted a family but had known it was the thing to do, find a wife and start a family, only once he had all that, he’d hated it, dreaded his time at home, realized that he preferred work. Much preferred it. Valued it more, prized it more highly. Found more meaning in it. So the more he worked, the better he felt and the less time he had to devote to a family he didn’t want or understand. Was that it? He poured more Scotch. He didn’t know. It had stopped feeling right, him being at home. He and Jean had stopped talking, started passing each other in the kitchen, withdrawing.

  And then he’d met Claudia. At work. Where else? Claudia. A secretary, obviously. Young, beautiful and twenty-two. Exciting, enthralling, dazzling. A to-hell-with-it shake of her black hair, before diving into something illicit, dangerous. Leaving her underwear in his pigeonhole. Booking a hotel for a lunchtime liaison. Following him to his car after work, one dark night, getting in with him and … Fortune swept away by the attention, the mystery, the exoticism of it all. She was so young yet so … in control. Confident. And he became infatuated, addicted to the danger and thrill of it all, his lack of choice in Claudia’s mad whims, her scary excesses. The antithesis of his home life, of the squabbles and the silences and Sophie, always Sophie, screaming and demanding, and Jean shattered … And of course the more time he spent with Claudia, the less time he spent at home, even less time, leaving Jean alone with Sophie, holding the baby. She could only have been, what? A year? Eighteen months?

  Fortune heard the sound of a car engine outside the caravan, getting closer, headlight beams sweeping across the interior. He stood and looked out but couldn’t tell what kind of car it was, or whether it was the police. Why would anybody be out here at this time? He stood, motionless, listening as the car came nearer, nearer, then stopped. He heard the sound of a door opening, then closing. He looked at the bottle of Scotch, wondering whether he could use it as a weapon. He realized he was holding his breath and let it out quietly. He heard footsteps just before the knock on the caravan door.

  ‘Yes?’

  No answer. He walked to the door and opened it. The teenage boy from reception was standing there, swaying slightly. Drunk.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yeah, bruv, just … just checking,’ he said. He sounded slow, confused. Drunk and stoned. The hope of our nation, thought Fortune, right here. ‘So … everything cool?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  The boy looked at the cigarette in Fortune’s hand, his hand against the frame of the caravan door. ‘Not supposed to smoke.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘Well.’ The boy paused again, ruminated. ‘Maybe, like, don’t?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Fortune, though he didn’t put out his cigarette and the boy didn’t seem too concerned. He was skinny, with a shaved head and some kind of tattoo on his neck, and he looked like he could use some vitamins. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No,’ said the boy. ‘Just that.’

  ‘All right,’ said Fortune. ‘Good night.’ He closed the caravan door and poured more Scotch, wondering why he wasn’t drunker. He should be drunk by now. He listened to the car leave, heard it accelerate. The boy didn’t look old enough to drive. He listened to the engine, revving too high, in the wrong gear, then heard a heavy sound, some kind of collision. He stood motionless but didn’t hear anything else for some time, until he thought he heard the distant sound of a car door closing. He opened the caravan door and looked out into the darkness, but he couldn’t see anything, and there were no other sounds. He closed the door and sat back down, in the dark and silence of the caravan.

  A memory surfaced in his mind, another occasion when he had been sitting in darkness, this time at his office desk, alone, long after everybody had left for the day. He’d been finding things to do, making sure that he was too late for dinner, too late to help with Sophie. His phone had rung, and he’d picked up.

  ‘Yes? Fortune.’

  ‘Come to the lobby.’ It had been Claudia. Her voice only half remembered now, but husky, that much he hadn’t forgotten.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just come. Come to the lobby, do not leave.’ She’d giggled. ‘Just wait.’

  He’d got up and walked past the rows of empty desks, down the corridor to reception. It had been dark there, too, and empty. He’d waited, how long? Minutes. Growing impatient. Then the lift had pinged, the arrow above lit up. The doors had opened and there had been Claudia, a fur coat shrugged off her shoulders, rucked around her waist, the tops of her arms bare. Everything bare. Wearing heels and a smile. That had been Claudia.

  How long had it been? How long had he juggled work and family and Claudia, trying to keep all the balls in the air? Two years? No longer, whatever Jean thought. He thought of their relationship, him and Claudia, like a star, a star that burned and burned but could not sustain, that was always heading for some dreadful and explosive end. He’d tried to finish it, tried many times, but she was more dangerous at arm’s length than she was up close, her passion turned into white-hot rage, uncontrollable, powerful and without reason. She’d threatened him: she’d tell his wife, tell the police, make up allegations, take him to a tribunal. Ruin him, destroy his life, his family. Until at last she had told him that, anyway, it was irrelevant because she was pregnant, the child was his and now he had to leave his wife and make a new life with her. And he had said no, no way, she was on her own and it was over. They were through and he no longer cared what she did, he’d had it, done.

  But it wasn’t done. She wasn’t done. She’d gone to his house, spoken to his wife. Had told her everything they had done, the details, the full extent of the deception and betrayal. Jean had reacted with cold disinterest, their meeting, Fortune imagined, like the forces of light and dark, the ultimate clash of opposites, fire and ice. Claudia had left, left Fortune, left her job, disappeared. But Fortune had never forgotten her, and Jean had never forgiven him, and their marriage had never recovered. They’d made some perfunctory attempts, some dinners out, a couple of holidays, but it was too late. They had stayed together for Sophie, for her school, the golf club, Fortune’s work functions. It was easier that way, appearances maintained. But trust had gone, and love with it.

  And, what, four years later? Four years later he had heard that Claudia had killed herself. Hanged herself. Some ex-colleague of hers who had thought that Fortune ‘ought to know’, though he suspected she just wanted to see his reaction, feel the vicarious thrill of delivering bad, salacious, shocking news.

  You, thought Fortune, pouring the last of the Scotch and lighting another cigarette. You are a weak and selfish and contemptible man, and it’s only now, when it’s far, far too late, that you realize it. He wished that he could go back twenty, twenty-five years, and try again. Do it better, make an effort, contribute some love. Try to understand his wife and daughter, two good people who had once believed in him. He laughed at himself, softly, contemptuously. He’d never had time for people who traded in if onlys.

  thirty-eight

  WHO AM I? FORTUNE KNEW THE ANSWER TO THAT NOW. HE wasn’t just a troll. He was his son. Your bastard. But it was only a partial answer, not a solution. He had no name, no address, no idea who he really was, where he lived, what he did for a living. Nothing. He was a ghost, a person he hadn’t even known existed, had never wanted to ex
ist. Fortune sat back at the table, the same table he had drunk at the night before. He took two aspirin, added another. Two for the headache, one for the cancer, he thought. He didn’t imagine they’d cure either.

  Think. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Think. You need to find out where he is. But first, you need to find out who he is, who he really is. His name. You need his name. Start there.

  Okay. What was Claudia’s surname? Emmerson. Claudia Emmerson. From … where was she from? She’d been twenty-four when they, what, when they split up? Whatever, she’d been twenty-four, and twenty-four-year-olds, when they have their hearts broken, go home. They go back to their mother. Who lived … Hell. Where did she live? Where did Claudia come from? He knew, he knew, he had known, once, twenty years ago he had known. Somewhere down south, near the coast. Brighton? No. Hastings. That was it. She was from Hastings, had moved up to London for work and rented a room. Hastings. All right. It was a start, he had a start.

  He packed his bag, locked the caravan behind him, got into his car and drove back to the entrance. There was a car parked sideways outside reception, but as Fortune drew closer, he saw that it wasn’t parked, it had crashed, the side of it badly dented, one tyre in a ditch. The natural consequence of putting a drunk teenager behind the wheel, he thought. He drove past, but before he reached the entrance, the teenage boy ran out and waved his hands. Fortune stopped, dropped his window.

  ‘Did you do that?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Last night.’

  ‘You’d been drinking?’

  ‘A bit.’

  A bit. Right. ‘Is it your car?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘My mum’s.’ He chewed his lip for a moment, then said, ‘Help me get it sorted out?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Fortune. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere.’

  ‘Please?’ said the boy. ‘My mum’s going to kill me.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Holiday. With her boyfriend.’

  ‘I see.’ Fortune paused and watched his exhaust make thick clouds in the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you supposed to be renting out caravans?’

  ‘Needed the money,’ the boy said. It wasn’t an answer, but it was close enough.

  ‘When’s she back?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘Few days.’

  Fortune looked at the boy, wondering how old he was. He looked fifteen, but he also looked malnourished, so he could be older. One thing was certain, he wasn’t too bright. Fortune sensed an opportunity. It was a long shot, and it wasn’t something he wanted to do. It wasn’t a good thing. But it was an opportunity, and he had to take what he could. For Sophie’s sake.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’d like to, but I really can’t. I do need to be somewhere.’

  ‘Please, bruv, come on. Please?’

  Fortune sighed and killed the engine. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view and had to do a double-take. He looked tired and ill and he had the beginnings of a beard. He’d never had a beard before. People like him, they just didn’t.

  ‘Look, I’ve got a friend who works with cars. He could help. I can give you his address.’

  ‘No, but I can’t, man. I can’t drive, don’t have a licence.’

  ‘Right.’ Fortune nodded. ‘Well, I’m sorry.’ He started his car and put it into gear, but he didn’t drive away. The thing was, he needed transport. Okay, so he had a car, but the police would be looking for it. Fortune knew about automatic number-plate readers. He’d be on the road a long time and there was no way he’d get away with it. His plan had been to ditch the car somewhere and hitch the rest of the way. But now he had a better plan. He waited and revved the engine. Here he was, playing brinkmanship with an underage hung-over pothead. What had he become?

  The boy put his hand on the ledge of Fortune’s open window.

  ‘Can’t you do it?’

  Bingo, thought Fortune, without much pleasure. He cut the engine a second time, and looked around slowly at the boy, leaving a long pause. ‘What?’ he said, eventually.

  ‘Take it. I’ll …’ The boy thought for a couple of seconds. ‘You can stay here for nothing. Long as you want. Well, until my mum comes back. If you help.’

  ‘What about my car?’ said Fortune. Ask him a question. Empower him. Bring him in, get him involved.

  ‘Leave it here.’

  Fortune smiled. ‘So you can crash mine too?’ Use of humour. Textbook.

  ‘No, I swear. Swear I won’t.’

  ‘So …’ Fortune closed his eyes, pretended to think. ‘I take your car, get it fixed up, bring it back and I can stay here for nothing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Who’ll pay for the repair?’

  The boy put his hand in his pocket and took out the money Fortune had given him. ‘I’ve got this.’

  Fortune grimaced. ‘You’ll need more than that.’

  ‘All I got. Come on, please? Bruv?’

  Fortune sighed again, deeply. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Lee.’ Lee. He was as much a Lee as Jeff was a Jeff.

  ‘I’ll be away at least a night,’ said Fortune.

  ‘Nah, that’s fine. That’s sweet.’

  ‘Christ.’ Fortune shook his head, opened his car door and climbed out. Just that exertion made him cough, left him light-headed. ‘I must be crazy. All right, give me the keys.’

  Lee’s mother’s car was a ten-year-old Golf that had done over 100,000 miles, most of which, Fortune suspected, had been driven in the wrong gear. He was worried about the tyres, doubted they’d pass a roadside inspection, and kept his speed a steady seventy, good motorway practice, treating each lane as an overtaking lane. He’d used Lee’s mother’s computer to search for Emmersons who lived in Hastings, and come up with three. At least it was unlikely he’d be recognized. He looked three stone lighter and ten years older than any recent photo, plus about three social classes lower, thanks to the coat Jake had made him buy.

  He listened to the radio on the way and heard his name mentioned on the news as a man wanted for questioning in connection with the death of Charlie Jackson. He watched cars pass him and realized that the people in them, going to work or to visit friends or to buy groceries, whatever, were now ineffably and entirely different to him. They were free, could do anything they wanted, had no constraints. He had to con children into lending him cars, had to pay in cash, economize, sleep in caravans, keep off the radar. A different life, a life he had never imagined. He remembered the stories of escaped prisoners of war he had read as a child, British soldiers at large in Germany, always on the move, with forged documents and constant fear. That was him, now, in a society built for surveillance, cameras everywhere, a near-police-state infrastructure. And he couldn’t let himself be found, because his daughter needed him. At least, he thought, Lee didn’t look the kind who followed the news.

  He came off the M25 and headed south, turning the radio off and trying not to think about the dangers he was surrounded by, the near impossibility of staying undiscovered. Twenty miles outside Hastings he heard sirens and saw a police car behind him, headlights alternating. He wondered whether it was worth trying to outrun it, but no, not in Lee’s mother’s wreck of a car, so he indicated, pulled over and watched the police car blow past, the officers inside not even giving him a glance. He stopped at a service station and bought a map of Hastings and a phone charger for the mobile the troll had left him. That his son had left him. Don’t think about it. Keep moving. It’s Sophie that matters. Four days. Find her. Find him, find her.

  The first Emmerson, whose name began with P but whose gender was a mystery, lived in an apartment in a tall Victorian town house overlooking the sea. Fortune rang the buzzer and waited, unsure if it had sounded or not. The house had been painted white, although it was now a kind of dirty grey, the colour of the scummy foam that washed over the beach’s pebbles.

  ‘Yes?’ The voice was distorted by the intercom system, tinny and distant, hard to hear over the wind blowing in off t
he sea, although he could tell it was a woman.

  ‘Mrs Emmerson?’

  ‘Miss Emmerson, yes,’ said the voice. ‘I don’t want to buy anything.’

  ‘I just wanted to speak with you,’ he said. ‘I’m doing some research into the Emmerson family.’

  ‘Family?’ said the voice. ‘I don’t have any family.’ The voice was thin, and even through the intercom Fortune could tell that it belonged to an elderly person.

  ‘You never knew a Claudia Emmerson?’

  ‘Claudia Emmerson?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fortune waited, waited for some moments.

  ‘There is no Claudia Emmerson,’ the voice said.

  ‘I know,’ said Fortune. ‘But did you know her once? Years ago?’

  ‘I have told you,’ said the voice, wobbling with geriatric indignation. ‘I do not know anybody of that name.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Fortune. She sounded senile, he thought. She probably wasn’t sure about anything.

  ‘Will you please go away?’ said the voice, a high-pitched quaver. ‘I’m missing my radio programme.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mrs, sorry, Miss Emmerson. Thank you for your time.’ Fortune released the intercom button. Scratch Miss P. Emmerson off the list, he thought. Next.

  thirty-nine

  TODAY I WENT BACK TO THE GAMES ROOM. BUT TODAY WAS different. Today, the troll told me to put the hood on, and take everything else off.

  What? I said.

  Everything. Your clothes. All of them.

  Why?

  Because it’s part of the game, he said. Don’t worry, I won’t touch you.

  No, I said. No, I won’t.

  Yes, he said. You will. Because if you don’t, I will cut your toes off. He said it with that conviction he has, that implacable certainty. He will cut my toes off. I don’t doubt it, not for a second.

  So I did it. I took off everything, folded my clothes and put them on the bed, then put the hood over my head. It was cold, standing there with nothing on, but that wasn’t the only reason I was trembling. This was, what do you call it? An escalation. This was worse than anything he’d asked me to do before, worse than anything he’d threatened. I told him that I’d done it and stood there with the hood over my head, feeling like a captured Iraqi soldier about to have a dog set on him. And the troll led me to the Games Room, and locked me in.