by Ray Banks
"I could always use a bit of extra money, Phil."
Phil cracked a grin, slapped his shoulder. "All right then, you're on the night, are you?"
"Yeah."
"Then listen out for Dunston Park, all right?"
"Dunston Park?"
He nodded. "Dunston Park pick up. You get that, you go there, all right?" Looked like he was about to leave before he stopped and drew closer. "Oh, and do us a favour and don't mention it to Gav, eh?"
"I'm not going to—"
"Yeah, I know you're not a grass, but this bit extra's off the books. Not for the gaffer's eyes, know what I mean?"
"Right."
"Don't worry. It's not too snide. Listen out, anyway. See you tonight."
Brian nodded, but he didn't have a clue what Phil was talking about. Spent his shift thinking about it, too – slightly worried, like something was expected of him, like he'd been invited to a party and he didn't know what the dress code was, or whether he should bring a bottle, or if he should eat first, or what the hell it was. Wasn't like giving him a fucking code name made it any more apparent, either. Dunston Park? Why would there be a pick up at Dunston Park? It was the middle of nowhere. It didn't make any sense.
There were two fares into town, and one fare back. Otherwise, it was dead. Dead time was dangerous to Brian. He brought a book along most nights, kept the radio on a low fizz in the car, but his thoughts kept running away from him, kept circling around Danielle, and the way she'd looked at him in the MetroCentre. Disdain, embarrassment, downright humiliation, and that bizarre anger. Not from the other girls, either – they were superficial, but he didn't honestly think they'd give Danielle any real shit for her dad's line of work. No, this was all Danielle, all on her. This was mortification personified. This was the kind of look her mother would give him, did give him, whenever he lost a job, whenever he expressed some desire to create something – write a book maybe, or some poetry, or learn the guitar, spend his time productively and keep his head occupied while he looked for a job. That kind of look that said he wasn't worth anything, he would never amount to anything, that he was a child, concerned only with childish, stupid things.
They'd never said any of this to him outright, of course. That wasn't the way the Turner girls liked to operate – or rather, one Turner girl and one Jessop girl, seeing as Lynne had reverted to her maiden name. No, their derision was all looks, snorts (normally as punctuation to a sudden fit of harsh laughter) and the occasional arched eyebrow. It was all he could do to infer their disappointment and embarrassment. He'd taken it from both of them for thirteen years, but he didn't have to deal with Lynne anymore – just Danielle.
He lowered the book. Cracked the window a little to get some air into the car. It wasn't Danielle's fault. She hadn't exactly seen the best of him and no amount of explanation would help. All she'd ever seen was a sad sack middle-aged man, greying at the temples and thinning up top, the kind of man who blended, slope-shouldered and paunchy, into the wallpaper. The kind of man whose best jokes were stolen from dead entertainers, whose trouser cuffs were always just that little bit too high, and whose mouth always seemed to burn with the remnants of a boozed-up night before. That had to change. It would change. He knew it would. She needed to see him back on top, or at least working towards it. The upside was that anything he became would be better than what she'd already seen – either mopping up puke or bleeding in the street. The only problem was Lynne. He had to play this right. The next time he saw them, he had to be clean, sober and prosperous. He had to buy Danielle something good for her birthday, something that her mother wouldn't get her. Something that changed their relationship, something that showed Danielle that her dad knew her, understood her, and was a better parent than he'd been given credit for.
That would be a start, at least.
"Dunston ... Dunston Park." The radio crackled. "Pick up at Dunston Park."
Another crackle. Phil's voice: "Ten?"
Agreements of "ten" from a couple of the other drivers.
Phil's voice again: "Brian?"
Brian picked up the mike. "Yeah."
"Good lad."
Dunston Park was pitch black. There were three cabs parked on the grass. Lights shining on something, someone, huddled in the middle. Brian pulled up and killed the engine. He sat, his lights off, staring at the three sets of headlights and the three men who circled the bundle on the ground. A sharp knock at his right snapped his head around. It was Phil. The big man grinned and gestured for him to get out of the car. As Brian stepped out, he heard the whimpering from the centre of the lights, that muffled high-pitched noise of abject fear that brought back skin-prickling memories.
"What is this?"
Phil put a hand on Brian's back, made him walk towards the lights. "Our lads are out there on the streets, keeping their ears open for anyone who might sound a bit suspicious, know what I mean? It's a common attitude. You had it – you must've had it – that weird fuckin' tension in the back of the cab. Like, you know you've got a proper shithead in the back, thinks he's king of the fuckin' world. And when that happens, they'll come in with the Dunston Park pick-up. And then we give 'em a time back – ten, twenty, something like that – and we meet up at that time. Once they turn up, that's when the fun starts."
Brian could see the man in the middle better now. He was young, brown-skinned, wide-eyed, and looking from one to the other. Something about this lad surrounded by these white, grinning faces made Brian uneasy. He half expected to see a coil of rope in one of the drivers' hands. "They're dealers?"
"Aye."
"And they're not expecting it?"
"No."
“I mean, they haven’t heard about dealers getting jumped?”
"Oh, aye, they've heard. But they don't know until they get here, do they? And by that time there's nowt they can do except bray on the windows and cry, like this cunt here." Phil smiled at the floored lad. "Tell you, we started doing this, I don't know, maybe a couple of months back? Done about four of 'em so far, not had a single bloke to kick off properly. You know why? Because they're not sure. These lads are like everyone else – they're more scared of looking like an arsehole than they are of getting it kicked, know what I mean?"
"Why wouldn't they avoid the cabs, though?"
Phil smiled. "Aye, you'd think they'd talk to each other, wouldn't you? But we spaced it out enough. Nice long period in between, let them build up their confidence and their cash—"
"Their cash?"
"Too right. You think we're doing this just for fun?" Phil approached the circle of light and grinned. "All right, lads, what we got?"
A fat bloke with a face like a stubbled marshmallow, Brian knew him as Fat Bob, pointed at the Asian lad. "Fuckin' dealer."
The lad opened his mouth to say something. Whatever it was clicked in the back of his throat and promptly disappeared as Phil whipped out a short-handled rounders bat. The sight of it made Brian's chest tighten. Phil stepped forward. The lad's hand shot up to protect himself. Phil swatted the lad across the back of his shoulders, sent him stumbling through the freshly churned mud. The lad made it three feet before Scouse Clive blocked his escape. The lad backed up. Clive told him to come ahead.
Phil poked the lad with the end of the bat. "You a dealer, son?"
The lad looked at the mud. Shook his head. He didn't look like any dealer to Brian, but then the alternative didn't bear thinking about.
Phil poked him again. "Asked you a fuckin' question, son."
The lad spluttered something – heavily accented, absolutely terrified – that Brian didn't understand. Phil chopped the lad with the bat, looked like he'd knocked the lad's shoulder out of his socket. The lad screamed his answer again. It was monosyllabic and negative. As he toppled forward, Clive kicked him back. The lad landed on his dislocated shoulder, sobbed once and rolled onto his back before pain shifted him round onto his other side, where his knees slowly rose to his stomach as he let out a low, gurgling moan.
>
Brian saw Fat Bob waddle over. There were other men in the shadows. He thought he recognised Viv Francis and Smokey Benson.
Phil wiped his nose. "Pockets."
Bob smiled, a thick wrinkle in a bloated face. and lowered into a tight crouch, his thighs smoothing his trousers until it looked as if the seams were about to go. He grabbed at the lad's jacket. The lad went to snatch Bob's cue; Bob slammed the thick end into the lad's face, broke something delicate, sent a dark spray up through the white light and the lad back into the mud.
Bob wiped his face. "Don't be a twat, son." He resumed his search.
There was money. A roll of it. Fives and tens. Bob held up the roll like it was evidence of something, then tossed it to Phil. Phil peeled off the elastic band and fanned the notes as his mouth spread into a grin. He handed his bat to Brian. "Here."
"What?"
"Take care of him."
"You what?"
"You heard."
Brian looked around. The other drivers were watching him. They'd stepped back to allow him access. "No, I can't—"
"You did it before, right?"
Brian swallowed. Phil knew. They all knew. Someone had talked. Brian's grip tightened around the bat. He suddenly felt as if he had to fight his way out. When the panic settled, he realised that he wasn't that far wrong. This was why he was here. He could nod and smile all he wanted, he could listen to their tasteless jokes and their bitching about their football teams and their wives and their children and those shitty fares they'd had the night before and try to join in on their drinking stories and all the rest of it, but the real test was here, wasn't it?
The real test was this bat and that bastard.
Brian thought it would be hard. He was sober. He was frightened. But it wasn't hard at all, not after the first connection – when the bat cracked off the dislocated shoulder and made the lad howl. When the lad swore at him, when he acted like the dealer they all knew he was, then it became easy. Then it became good. Brian swung twice more, hit twice. Again, a shuddering crack against the back of the lad's head that put the lad into the mud and an ache into Brian's arms. Then Brian stepped in and brought the bat down again and again. He felt bones crack and snap under each blow. He felt ribs snap away from the cage, he felt the attitude drain out of the lad as he resigned himself to a rain of agony. Just as Brian had suffered, so this lad did, so the dealer on his doorstep had. And when he felt hands on his shoulders pulling him away, he resisted at first, caught up in the moment, let out a grunt of defiance before he realised where he was.
He dropped the bat and walked away. Someone grabbed his hand and pressed money into it. He barely registered the amount, just closed his fingers around it. He heard Phil tell Smokey and Clive to "dump the cunt over the water, will you?" and leaned against the side of his cab.
He heard Phil approach. "Fuckin' hell, you know something, Bri? You're a killer, man."
He looked across at Smokey, dragging the dealer towards his cab. Nah, he wasn't a killer. But he was a close second. And maybe there was a day when he would've felt ashamed about something like that. Not now.
Because he had money now. And that had a way of excusing anything.
30
Money was no object, at least in theory. Gav felt like celebrating.
"Yeah, I know it's going to cost a bit, but d'you not think it'll be worth it?"
Fiona didn't understand. "Why, though? What've they ever done for you?"
"They've supported us, love."
"How?"
"They've ..." He couldn't think how. "Lookuh, all right, we'll call it a party to celebrate the new business. How’s that?"
And so they did. Gav sent out the invitations to everyone on Kielder Walk – he was now the proud owner-proprietor of Puma Cabs, and wanted everyone to join him in a big fat street party to celebrate that fact. And while Fiona didn't think he'd had any support, Gav knew that there were people on the street who could've ruined everything with one word to the police. They'd chosen not to because of the patrols, because what Gav and the boys had done was wanted. And he counted that not just as support, but as an invitation to do more for the community. Because Gavin Scott wasn't about to stop at the role of small businessman – he had ambitions far beyond the Derwent Hall estate, and they'd get a good head start if he could set himself as a man of the people.
So Gav went down the butchers, got a load of steaks, burgers, sausages, even some chops. Had a word with Mr Khan down the corner shop, managed to get a deal on a couple pallets of lager (about to go out of code, according to Khan), some bottles of fizz for the ladies, half a dozen boxes of wine, and a load of pop for the kids. It was sunny enough, so everyone brought their chairs and tables out and Gav and the drivers got a good barbeque going once Fat Bob had singed his eyebrows into wisps and everyone'd had a fucking good laugh about it.
Fiona played hostess. Even though she didn't really want to, she did it because she loved him and she wanted him to be happy. She did a good job of it, too. Made sure everyone was bevvied and holding a paper plate buckled with food at all times. She'd had her hair done special by Brenda Purdie, and when she walked through the crowd, she moved like Princess Di, pristine but approachable, the perfect society wife. As long as she was around, his ambitions seemed attainable. Gav couldn’t help but smile. She was beautiful.
By noon, the sun was hot enough to split concrete and someone had one of those ghetto blaster things playing Radio One. Couldn't have been better.
Gav took a moment away from the barbeque and worked the crowd for a bit, checking that everyone was well served. He didn't see Fiona anywhere, but guessed she was dealing with Sophie. He saw Kevin skulking over by their front door with a burger and a comic. Andy was nowhere to be seen, though he'd spotted Wayne Orton knocking around before. The Ortons had been invited by default, simply because they lived on the same street. Fiona hadn't wanted it, but it wasn't like he could invite everyone but them, was it? He had to know everyone; he had to keep everyone onside, after all.
He pumped Howard Oakley's hand and smiled at Joan Oakley. "I haven't seen you since Christmas. How was the Costa?"
"Oh, lovely." Joan beamed at him. "You should get out there yourself."
"Wish I could. Wish I had the time."
Howard beetled his eyebrows in mock concern. "You need a break."
"Aye, maybe once we've got everything up and running."
"Everything?"
Gav tapped his nose and moved away. "You'll see."
"Gavin!" Arthur Gresham from up the road – hunched, florid and five years from his grave – shifted his paper plate to one trembling hand, and sucked the grease from his free thumb before he stuck out his hand to shake. "Good to see you."
"You too, Arthur." Gav took the hand, shook it, even though his gut hopped at the touch of skin on elderly skin.
"Nice spread you put on here, like."
"Not bad, is it?"
"What's all this in aid of?"
"Do I need a reason?" Gav retreated with a smile "Just a get everyone together thing, isn't it?"
Over at the other side of the tables, he saw the soldier leaving his house. Gav made his excuses and headed through the crowd. "Joe."
The soldier stopped at the sound of his name. He was pale, his hair plastered to his skull. He wore a coat even though it was sunny out. Looked like he'd stepped out of another country and didn't speak the lingo. He moved his head in acknowledgement when he saw Gav.
"You got a minute?"
Joe looked around. He ran a hand under his nose. "What is it?"
"You all right?"
"I'm fine. What d'you want?"
Gav came closer. Joe backed off. Gav stopped. Obviously had himself a wide bubble of personal space here. "You look like shit."
"Tired." Joe jerked his head towards the house. "Bairn an' that."
"How old?"
Joe shrugged.
Gav nodded. "All right, listen. It's just I haven't seen you about an' tha
t. I wondered how we stood."
"Stood?" Joe looked confused.
"Wanted to make sure we were still all right an' that."
"Oh, aye. We're fine."
"No hard feelings?"
"None here." Joe shook his head. "What about you?"
"No. So what you up to now?"
"Up to?"
"You working or what?"
"Why?" Joe scratched his cheek and squinted in the sun.
"Just like, if you were looking for a job or owt ..."
"Right."
"Outside the army. If you fancied a change, or if you needed something between tours, I don't know—"
"No, I understand. You paying your gang now, are you?"
Gav bristled. Didn't like the way Joe was looking at him. He decided to let it go. "I always did. You ever want to join us, I've always got vacancies for drivers."
Joe shook his head. "Don't drive."
"Don't or can't?"
"Both." Joe flickered a polite smile then walked away.
"You not staying for the party?"
Joe didn't answer. He carried on up the street. Gav watched him and swore under his breath. Would've been nice to get the soldier on side. He turned and looked at Joe's house. Derek was watching in the window. It was Derek who'd tugged on his sleeve down the pub the other night, asked him if he had something he could offer his son. Joe wasn't right, he'd said. He'd just come out of the army, Derek didn't think he was going to go back in, and he needed to get his head right, get it on something else and start earning again, or else there was a chance he'd just stagnate. Gav said he'd see what he could do. And offering the fucker a job seemed like the best thing to start with. Course, there was only so much you could do.
No hard feelings. Fuck that. There were plenty of hard feelings. Just Joe Warren wasn't the kind of bloke to go screaming about them in the middle of a street party. Well, let him go on. Probably off to see his dealer, anyway. There were rumours, and those rumours looked like facts once you got close enough to see the junkie bastard's face.