House of Birds: Forget who you were before... (The Azo Coke thrillers Book 2)

by Roland Lloyd Parry

  Becky pointed up at the church door. The woman stepped away, shaking her head. She went in. Becky hung around a bit then came back down the street to me.

  “Alright?” I said.

  She shrugged.

  “What was she like?”

  “Weird.”

  “You tell her your sob story?”

  She nodded.

  “She like you?”

  “Don’t know. She gave me ciggies. Wouldn’t give me anything else.”

  “She wouldn’t let you in there?”

  “She said it was just for foreigners.”

  I thought for a sec.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Some reporter you are,” I said. “Find out her name.”

  I sent her back there next morning without any breakfast.

  I stayed in my room at the pub this time. Better that way. Make Becky feel more on her own. Make her stick at it. Drop her in it, like Paterson had done to me.

  I lay down on my bed. I wanted to call Paterson. Wanted to know what he’d heard about Gibbsy and Sandra the bizzie. But he had me at arm’s length now. For everyone’s safety, he’d said. He only wanted me to call him for something big.

  He’d handed me a bag of cash when he’d dropped by to recruit Becky. It’d pay for the pub rooms for a few weeks. I’d done all I could for now. It was up to her. I could breathe a bit.

  I rolled over and had a nap. I dreamt I was in a lift. I pressed a button and instead of taking me up it went down. Down and down. I woke up gasping before it stopped.

  Becky was gone all day this time.

  I waited up for her till past midnight with a bottle of Woodpecker. When I opened my eyes it was light. Her room was empty.

  13

  I ate my scrambled eggs then headed to Princes Road. I put my hood up and strolled past the big house. Curtains drawn. I went in the alley round the back and listened outside the yard. Nothing.

  I hung around there a bit wondering what to do. Then I heard something. A clunk behind the yard door. Someone lifting the old metal latch.

  It opened.

  I legged it back out of the alley to the side road and across to the other side. Held my phone to my head, trying to look harmless.

  I watched her come down the alley and into the road on the far side from me. She headed for the main street. The girl I’d seen that first time in a bathrobe.

  It was a grey day. She was wearing a headscarf and a puffer jacket and trackie trousers with trainies. Handbags over her shoulder. This sports holdall in her hand.

  She crossed the avenue to a bus stop. The bench was free but she stood to wait. I sat off on a wall a few yards away and behind with my hood up, looking at my phone.

  I glanced at her now and then. She looked in her early twenties. Headscarf on, but it was pushed back, her hair showing at the front, parted in the middle. Thin pretty face. Sad and clever looking.

  She didn’t look at me.

  I stepped on the bus behind her and waited as she paid the driver. She asked for James Street. I couldn’t guess anything about her voice. Wasn’t English. I couldn’t tell what it was just from two words.

  She put the bag down while she dug for her change. I checked it out. Black canvas holdall. It was filled out, like it was stuffed with clothes.

  She went off to sit down.

  I asked for James Street too.

  She took a seat on the bottom floor at the back. I plonked myself down a few rows in front. She didn’t look at me the whole time. I had my hood up.

  She got off in town and headed up east into the Ropewalks.

  Hello. I knew this neck of the woods. That’s where the Glasshouse was. Nightclub of my youth. Dancing, romancing. Getting pissed, stoned, pilled. They had some good bogs for snorting charlie in. And that dance floor. Gwurgh. Pit of dreams. I’d frigged off Jenna Badham on there, standing up dancing to Rihanna with a pint in my spare hand.

  I’d not been clubbing in two years. Life had changed.

  It was all by the by. I had my mind on the job.

  She turned into Seel Street.

  Hello. You’re joking.

  They stopped at a door and pressed a buzzer.

  Fuck off.

  I nipped back across the road so I could watch without getting spotted. I drew level with her on the far side.

  Big metal double doors, painted purple.

  There was new writing over them. Big purple letters. It was called The Kingston now. But it looked like the same old Glasshouse.

  The girl huddled around the doors until one of them opened.

  A feller let her in. I didn’t know him. Bouncer in a black puffer jacket. Six-three and thick all over. Blond hair shaved with a number one.

  He showed his face in the gap of the door, then stepped out of sight as he opened it wider for them to step in. It closed. Even from across the road I heard the bolt clunk.

  I found a cafe a few doors up. Kind of kebab place stroke greasy spoon, run by Yemenis. I’d used to eat there sometimes after an all-nighter at the Glassie. They didn’t remember me.

  I asked for a full English. Asked them how long the Glasshouse had been called the Kingston. Few months, they reckoned. They’d known the old owner a bit. Didn’t know the new one.

  Sitting in the window, I could still see the double doors of the club. I supped a tea and a ginger beer and had a think.

  I was sat there an hour and the club doors never opened.

  I paid the bill and headed off. On the way out I picked up a wodge of flyers. Ads for the caff. I headed back across the road to the double doors and rang on the buzzer.

  The big feller opened again.

  “Alright there lad,” I said.

  He just looked at me.

  “Mind if I put some flyers down?” I said. I showed him. “Kebabs for hungry clubbers.”

  He looked. He glanced across the road at the caff and back at the flyers.

  “We could do a two for one or something,” I said.

  He let me in.

  I stepped through into the entryway. Just like the old Glasshouse. Same purple walls. Same smell of sweat and stale beer. They’d took out the skanky purple carpet and put down lino instead. Wipe-clean.

  There was the window on the right still where you paid to get in. At the end, about ten yards down, the double doors to the main bar and dance floor.

  He pointed to a low shelf along the wall. It ran from the ticket window to the front doors. A mess of leaflets and business cards spread along it. I put my stack of flyers on the floor while I tidied the shelf up a bit.

  The bouncer went and leant against the wall by the ticket place. I looked over my shoulder and talked as I tidied, as chirpy as I could.

  “This is bringing back the old days,” I said. “I used to come here most weekends.”

  He hadn’t much to say. It’s a tiring life, being a hard man. Can’t be having bantz. You’ve got to save your strength for when drunk scallies are trying to stab you.

  “Back when it was the Glasshouse, eh,” I said. I grinned to myself and shook my head. The more like a div I seemed, the less suss he’d be. At least that was my plan. Seemed to work, cos just then he piped up.

  “No more Glasshouse, lad,” he said. “There's no more drugs in here.”

  I frowned and nodded. “Good on you,” I said. I waved a wad of flyers. “Don't want any druggies in our place either.”

  Stack, stack. I finished up placing my flyers. I stood up and held out my hand to him.

  “I’m Azo, by the way.”

  “Parkesy.”

  We shook.

  “Eh, Parkesy lad,” I said then. “I couldn’t use your bogs, just quickly? We’ve got the plumbers in ours this morning.”

  “They’re just cleaning them,” he said.

  “Arrey, I’ll be really gentle,” I said. Not sure what that meant but I chuckled like a div, like it was really funny. “I’ll be dead quick, lad, then I’ll let th
em get on. Hey, I’ll see the dance floor for old time’s sake!”

  He sighed. He shrugged. He didn’t give a toss really. Just wanted a quiet life. He went ahead and held open the double door.

  He waited by the bar. A skinny lad with long hair was lifting glasses out of a dishwasher.

  There it was. The old Glasshouse smell. Same sweat and beer mix I’d whiffed from out in the entryway, but stronger now.

  The bogs were in a passage through a black door on the far side. I went through it. The smell got stronger. Piss and vomit and bleach blended in. It peaked as I pushed open the door to the gents.

  She was in there, mopping the white floor tiles.

  There was a lot of scuzz to mop. Spliff-ends. Muddy footprints. One of the wall-pissers had a pint glass stood in it, blocking the plughole. The glass was full of wazz.

  “Alright love,” I said. “Sorry.”

  I shut myself in one of the stalls. I listened for a bit to her swishing the mop. I came out and went to the basin.

  I couldn’t wash my hands. The plughole was blocked with soggy bog roll. The basin was full of water mixed with orange puke.

  I looked at the woman. She had green rubber gloves on.

  “Sorry, love,” I said, pointing at it. “Could you?”

  She didn’t look at me. She went to the sink, stuck her hand in and picked the soggy out of the hole. She didn’t smile. Didn’t wince.

  I looked at her close-up.

  She seemed smaller and thinner the closer you got. This softness and kindness in her face. Long black eyelashes. She’d had her eyebrows plucked.

  She’d fixed her headscarf so her hair was hidden under it. I didn’t blame her. It was like she’d needed extra cover when she walked into that shitstack. She had a blue apron on. A lightweight zippy sports top under it, black, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Black trackie bottoms with a white three-stripe. White trainies with no logo.

  She cleared the plug and lobbed the soggy scraps in the bin. The water drained out. She had to rinse the orange tide mark of sick away down the hole. She didn’t bat an eyelid.

  “Waste of some good ravioli, that,” I said.

  She swabbed the basin.

  “What’s it like working here, love?” I said. “They treat you alright? Pay you alright?”

  She just kept swabbing.

  “Do you speak English?”

  She picked up her mop again. I stepped up to wash my hands.

  There wasn’t any soap in the squeezer, was there.

  I pointed at it. “Sorry, love?”

  She put down the mop and went out into the passage.

  She passed the ladies’ and went on to a door a few yards beyond it. I ducked back in the gents so she wouldn’t see me spying. I stood in the open crack, listening.

  Across from me, the door to the dance floor opened. Parkesy stuck his head through.

  “Eh, sorry,” I said. I jerked my thumb to the right, pointing up the way at the girl. “She’s had to go and get more soap.”

  He frowned. “You health and safety?”

  I laughed. “No chance. I just got slimed.”

  I held up my hands. He pulled a face and shook his head. He turned and headed back to the bar.

  I left the doorway of the gents and walked along to the door the girl had gone through.

  It wasn’t a swingy like the bogs ones. It had stayed open. I looked inside.

  There was shelves of bleach and stuff. A peg with her coat hanging on it.

  There was a door at the end. Cupboard. The girl opened it with a key. Brooms and stuff in the shadows. She flicked on a light. It lit up the black holdall on the floor.

  I moved out of sight before she spotted me. I strolled back along to the gents.

  She came back in a bit with a bag of soap from the cupboard. She fitted it in the squeezer. She popped out. I waited for a sec, then nipped back along after her.

  She’d pulled the door to. I peered through the crack. The girl was locking the door of the cupboard with the holdall inside it.

  14

  I went and spied on the church again. Thought I might see Becky there. I hadn’t heard from her for two days.

  I saw the foreigners and the two other women from the first time. No sign of Dicey though. And no sign of Becky.

  I started to worry. I’d only had her under my wing for a few days before turfing her out to hunt the banshee. I’d been hoping she’d check in with me at the pub in the evenings or at least call. Maybe she was scared of blowing her cover. Or couldn’t call because the banshee had rumbled her.

  I went into the church tea room. One of the other helpers was there. A woman. About the same age as the banshee, but posher, in jeans and a cardie. Tea and biscuits laid out in front of her. The next table was covered in leaflets.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “I’m looking for a friend.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Toxteth.”

  “And where further?”

  “Eh? Bootle.”

  She looked let down. I got it. She heard my Scouse voice now. She’d been hoping I’d say Syria or Eritrea or somewhere so she could try and help me.

  “And is your friend one of the visitors here?”

  Her voice had this bossy tilt at the end of each line.

  “Becky,” I said.

  She looked at me like I was soft. Then the penny dropped. She remembered something.

  “Becky been in here?” I said.

  Her jaw tightened. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “So she has been?”

  “This isn’t a shelter,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t come in here unless you’re one of our overseas friends.”

  “What about Becky?”

  “I’m sure we’ll find her some help.”

  “She gone with that other lady?”

  “This isn’t a shelter.”

  She stepped back and watched me. Waiting for me to leave.

  I looked at her for a sec. Then I got it. There I was asking after the poor homeless girl they’d helped out. She thought I was the bastard ex who’d been slapping her.

  Good. Let them think it.

  But I made off quick in case she called the bizzies.

  Find her some help. With the banshee. I hoped that meant what I thought it did.

  I spent a few days getting sod all done. Hung around a bit outside the house and The Kingston and watched who came and went. The girl took the bus to town each morning Wednesday to Sunday. The banshee went to Tesco every other day and the church three days a week.

  No sign of anyone else. I was going round in circles in my head and getting nowhere. It was worse than being on the dole. I didn’t know where to start. Where to go. Who to call. I was like a broken phone.

  Becky hadn’t called.

  I woke up late one day and went and snooped around near the big house again. Couldn’t think of anything better to do. It was early afternoon. The girl must have come home from her cleaning job and gone back down into the dungeon. And Becky? There was no sign of her. No sign of any of them.

  I sat on my arse on the bench on Prince’s Avenue, my head in a trance, smoking and rocking. Took a few buzzes before I felt my phone going in my trackie pocket.

  I swiped the screen to answer and heard Frank’s voice.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk to the Northern Line. I rode for two stops and got off near The Port of Spain.

  He was at the bar with his pint of Cain’s.

  I sat down next to him. He turned and clocked me. He nodded. Pretty warm as Frank’s welcomes went.

  I asked the woman for a cider. I turned to Frank.

  “Have you seen Ali?” I said.

  He shook his head. “Leanne won’t let me near him either now.”

  “So you’re drinking here?” I said.

  “We can’t go back to The Grace.”

  I could understand that after what had
happened there. It was a shame, though. Too bad for the landlord, Gibbsy. He was one of Frank’s best mates.

  The woman put my pint down. I took a big glug and nodded into the glass.

  “Gibbsy selling up?” I said.

  He stared into his pint too and shook his head.

  “Gibbsy’s dead.”

  “Aw,” I said.

  The poor speccy twat. We’d not been close. But Gibbsy had part of my life in a way. Always there in the background, Friday and Saturday nights and into the early morning. He’d been nice to me because he knew I was one of Frank’s. He’d picked me up off the floor a few times and not grumbled.

  It was sad. Not enough to send me on a bender, with everything else that I had on. But I felt it, a teary glow in my chest, for a few seconds.

  “What was it?” I said. “His heart?”

  Frank looked at me. These dark rings under his eyes that I’d not seen before.

  “Behind his bar,” Frank said. “Shot in the back of the head.”

  I felt sick.

  That Gibbsy. Always so straight with you. Always too kind.

  I thought back to that night the summer before. When I battered that stoned lad in The Grace. When this whole mess started.

  “Don’t tell me Gibbsy was selling drugs,” I said.

  “Never.”

  I frowned. Bad thoughts started coming. I forced a sticky gobful of cider down my throat and waited for it to warm my insides up.

  I made myself ask it.

  “You reckon it’s to do with me?” I said.

  Frank shrugged. He made it look like it hurt. “Gibbsy never had fights with anyone,” he said. “Hardly had any in his pub even. Only when you were in there.”

  I kept my eyes down.

  “Then one day a feller gets slotted in his pub at breakfast time, just like that.” Frank said. “Two months later Gibbsy’s slotted too. Hard to think they’re not linked.”

  I rocked on my stool. I was thinking about the other killing. I didn’t have the words to tell Frank about it after what he’d just said. I should have told him about it sooner. About that bizzie. That Sandra. Hard not to think that wasn’t linked as well.