by Ray Banks
“No, you’re not.”
“So you didn’t read it.”
Plummer marches through to his office. I follow him. He grabs a newspaper off his desk and hands it to me. He’s made front page this time. The pickets are city-wide.
“He gave me earache all the way to the office,” he says. “And then I come in to this bollocks, and you’re giving me gyp because you’re, what, bored?”
I fold the paper, drop it onto his desk. “Right, then. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Where d’you think you’re going?”
“You haven’t heard from Frank, I’m going to see him.”
“That’s why you came round?”
“What were you expecting?”
He leans against his desk, folds his arms. “A progress report.”
“Nothing much to say.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re fucking this up, aren’t you?”
“I have a couple of leads,” I say. “You didn’t tell me what happened to the office.”
“What do you think happened? Someone trashed the place.”
“When?”
“Last night.” Plummer gestures to the office behind me. “Broke in. Of course the building manager knows nothing about it. What am I saying, building manager? The man’s a fucking caretaker, bent as the next ex-squaddie. He probably let the little shit in for a couple of twenties.”
“Anything missing?”
“How am I supposed to know? I’ve got five years’ worth of tenants scattered all over the place. I don’t think anything’s missing — I mean, I’ve checked what’s left of petty cash — but I don’t have time to file, do I? And I don’t have the money to pay anyone else to do it. Whatever they took, they took. Good luck to them. I hope it’s what they wanted.”
I look behind me at the carnage. Doesn’t look like the work of one person. If it is, it must’ve taken them some time to wreck the place this much. “Any idea who might’ve done it?”
“Oh, what, you think I should let you investigate this too?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Because you’re doing such a bang-up job of earning your money so far, aren’t you?”
“I’m working on it, Don.”
“That’s great news. Well done.” He sighs, and the life seems to drain out of him as he exhales. “Doesn’t matter anyway, does it? I’m pretty much finished here. What with that little prick Beeston trying to make out I’m Satan, the student reps giving me grief every minute of the day and that bastard that just left, I’m done. The rest of you are rats leaving a sinking ship, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Who was that bloke?”
“Craig Faulkner,” he says. “Come here on behalf of the company that owns the building. He’s the weasel they get to do their dirty work.”
“How d’you mean?”
“They want me out, Callum. Said they don’t want to do business with someone like me.” He scratches his ear, eyes bugging with suppressed rage. “Doesn’t matter that I’ve paid my rent in advance, they still want me out. Tell you, they better do it properly. I’m not about to give them one fucking inch. They’ll have to take this through the courts. Get an official notice of eviction and I’ll think about it. Fight the bastards the rest of the time.”
Plummer breathes out. Then he looks up at me.
“Yeah, and don’t think the irony of the situation has escaped me,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I’m still trying to help you, Don.”
“Of course you are. Help me like a hole in my fucking head.” He looks around. “Which is beginning to sound like a good idea.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“Daft?” He pulls out his wallet, flicks through it and extracts a photograph. He holds it up to me. Him, a middle-aged woman who looks like she barely remembers her best years, and a kid who’s maybe in his early teens. “That’s my family. My wife and son.”
“Okay,” I say. I didn’t know he was married. Always thought of him as a bachelor, definitely always thought of him as someone who lived alone. I didn’t honestly think anyone would be able to stand his company long enough to marry him.
“Fourteen years,” he says. “Wedding anniversary the night that fucking house burned down, did you know that?”
“No, you didn’t mention it.”
“No, I don’t think I would have.” He looks at the photo, then around at the office. “Spent the night here. Slept in my chair. It’s amazing where you can sleep if you’re tired enough. Makes me glad I spent all that money on it. At least it reclines.”
He looks at me now. A red rim around his eyes that I hope is fatigue and not some crying jag waiting to happen.
“Things have been … strained,” he says. “For a while. Really, since the press got their hooks into me. She — Cheryl, my wife — thinks that it’s best we separate for a while.”
I don’t say anything. Try to look sympathetic when I probably just look uncomfortable. Plummer places the photo back into his wallet and breathes out painfully.
“She says it’s for my son’s sake. He gets shit at school because of me. My boy’s not much of a fighter, I’m afraid.”
He doesn’t continue. He hasn’t burst into tears yet, but if I don’t say something to pull him out of this, I can see it coming. He tugs at his face, showing his bottom teeth. I doubt he knows he’s doing it.
“Well, I haven’t given up,” I say. “But I still need to get in touch with Frank.”
Plummer snaps his attention back to me, his mood switched from maudlin to indignant. “Poach my workforce, why don’t you?” He frowns. “No, it’s good you’ve got help. Let’s see, should take that lot another couple of days to send me totally broke, and then you and Frank will be able to stop those Nazis from burning down a house that I don’t own anymore.”
“You had any more notes?”
Plummer shakes his head.
“Then we’ve still got time, haven’t we?”
“Yeah, you do what you want, Callum. I doubt it’ll make a lick of difference, old son, but you carry on.” He moves from the desk, goes round the back and pulls out a bottle of Glenfiddich. “Me, I’m going to get off my face and snooze the rest of the day, but you call me if anything comes up.”
“I will.”
I leave the office, take the stairs as quick as I can, calling for a cab on the way down. Once the taxi’s on its way, I call Frank’s house again. The phone rings out.
Try his mobile. Voice mail.
“Fuckin’ pick up, you spaz.”
I kill the call.
When the cab arrives, I hop into the back, tell the driver to take me to Crumpsall and I’ll give him directions from there.
25
It’s a bit of a drive, and despite the fact that I’m used to dropping him off around here at night, I’m still not sure where exactly Frank lives. So when I finally see a recognisable block of flats at the end of the street, it’s a fucking relief. Not least to the driver, who looks like he’s about to knock me out if I take him up one more cul-de-sac.
When I see Plummer’s silver Merc in the car park, I nod to myself.
Frank’s in. He’s just not answering his phone. Which means that something went wrong and he’s bottled telling me about it. I had a feeling something like that would happen, but I didn’t want to say it out loud. I wanted to think I could trust the guy to stand in one place with a tape recorder running, but obviously that’s beyond him.
I kill the engine, get out of the Micra and walk to the main entrance to the block.
The thing that really boils my piss, though, is that he didn’t even have the balls to tell me he’d fucked up. What the hell did he think was going to happen if I didn’t get him on the phone? He think I was just going to, what, leave it?
But he obviously doesn’t think like that. He thinks like a kid, because that’s his mental age. And what do kids do when it all goes
pear-shaped? They run. Except Frank can’t run anywhere, so he just hides in his flat and hopes that I won’t come knocking.
I lean hard on his buzzer.
Wait.
Nothing.
So I lean hard on all the buzzers. There must be someone in this block who’s either expecting someone or shit about security.
Right enough, through the chorus of irritation, there’s the sound of someone saying, “Just come right up.”
I push into the block, take the stairs because the lift looks like a death-trap and smells like a septic tank. Three flights later, I’m at his landing and out of breath, taking in the twisted mixed smell of chip fat and antiseptic in the air. My hip aches, spreads to the base of my spine. I can’t remember the last time I took some pills, but reckon now’s a good a time as any. Swallow them dry and straighten up slowly, take my time walking down the corridor to Frank’s flat.
It’s not bad up here. A bit cheap, maybe, but I’ve seen worse. Better than him living with his mum, which is what Frank was doing up until he got the job with Plummer. I never met the woman, but from what little Frank’s told me, she sounds like a lovely woman with her claws so deep into her son, it’s almost a sitcom. But then what do I know? It’s not like my family’s that close. Frank and his mum might be the norm.
As I get closer, I notice the front door to Frank’s flat is open.
I wouldn’t see the gap between the door and the frame if I was just passing. The door’s barely ajar, but that gap’s all it takes to put the fear in me.
Something bad happened here.
Not just kind of bad, either. Really bad.
I push the door with one hand. God help me, but it fucking creaks. I know I shouldn’t go any further, feeling like a blonde in a slasher flick.
Telling myself that Frank’s just been burgled, because I don’t want to think about the alternatives.
The hallway’s dark. And a strange smell in here, cloying.
Sweat. Whisky.
And cigarette smoke.
As my eyes adjust, I see strips of light under the door at the far end of the hall, and the door to my right. I turn, nudge the door open and the smoke smell is stronger in here. I squint against the light, my entire body tense, ready for a fight-or-flight moment.
Frank’s living room. A portable telly in the corner, cheap three-piece. Coffee table with a bowl sitting in the middle of it, overflowing with cigarette butts. I stare at the bowl. Don’t get it. As I get closer, I see most of the dog-ends are roll-ups, roaches made out of the cardboard from a pack of Rizlas.
The fuck’s gone on here?
I step back out into the hall, turn towards the other lit door. Must be his kitchen — the layout of the flat would point to that — but it’s been a while since I was last here. Then I think, have I ever been here?
The answer: probably not.
And my survival instinct kicks in — go no further. Get out. Bad stuff happens in kitchens. Anywhere with wipe-clean surfaces and a handy array of knives.
A blast from the past: Rob Stokes with his pants around his ankles, blood already congealed down his chest.
Get out.
Get out now.
I clear my throat instead.
“Frank?”
There’s a sound from the kitchen. A voice, maybe, but shot through with a thick dose of phlegm and cracked with pain.
“Ghagum.”
I freeze.
There’s a thump from the kitchen. A sharp exhalation of breath, comes out like a hiss, then another thump, closer.
The door moves.
“Frank,” I say. “That you, mate?”
A groan, then another hard thump against the door. It bounces against the frame, then swings open.
I can’t see, the light blinding me for a moment.
There it is again, that sound: “Ghagum.”
Can’t make out who just spoke, can’t see anyone in the doorway until I look down.
Frank.
And he’s had a proper hiding.
His face looks like it’s been chopped down the centre, a rusty blood trail running down a mashed nose. Cracked lips and teeth. His mouth drops open and he’s staring at me with his one good eye, the other already puffed shut. One arm wedged up against the door, holding it open.
“Fuckin’ … hell, mate. Jesus Christ.”
I can’t move for a couple of seconds, can’t believe what I’m seeing. This big bastard of a bloke on the floor, looking like he’s been run over.
He says, “Ghagum.”
And I get it now.
I move forward, ease Frank onto his back. His shirt’s been ripped open, the buttons scattered across the kitchen floor. I grab him under the arms, shuffle round and grab one of the kitchen chairs for him. Takes a while, but I finally manage to get him sitting upright. He pulls at his shirt with one hand, trying to close it, keep some modesty. I cover him up, noticing as I do so the patchwork of yellow and purple that make up his ribs and gut.
Once he’s settled, I take a step back, and get a better look at the kitchen.
There was a hell of a struggle in here. A block of knives lies broken and scattered, blades reflecting in the strip light. Smashed glasses in bloody shards on the floor, more blood pooling in the corner, against the sink, around the door. Red handprints on the kitchen table and chairs.
There’s the smell of cigarette smoke again, mingled with sweat and blood. Something else. A brief look at Frank, and he’s trying to cover up the fact that he pissed himself. And the smell of whisky, too. Something I caught in the living room, but it’s like someone smashed a litre bottle of the cheap shit in here, it’s that overpowering.
Right enough, there it is, a broken bottle of Glen Rotgut by the door. It was a big bottle, too.
I look at Frank. He’s pawing at himself. Uncomfortable, in too much pain to think straight.
“What the fuck happened here, mate?”
Frank opens his mouth, his bottom lip splitting in the middle. Cracks his jaw, the sound loud as the bones scrape together. Frank’s jaw locks. He raises one grazed hand, massages just under his ear, his eyes screwed shut. The lock breaks with another loud crack. A ragged breath of relief spills from Frank’s mouth.
I grab the only glass in the place that hasn’t been smashed, fill it with water and set it on the table. Dig around in my pocket and shake two codeine into the palm of my hand.
Jerk my head at him and say, “Get these down you.”
Frank reaches for the pills, but he can barely see them. I help him with the water. He grimaces and looks at me, probably wondering why I’ve got prescription pills to hand, his head all over the place.
Like maybe I set him up for this.
“Who was it?” I say.
Frank opens his mouth to speak, blood on his teeth.
Nothing comes out.
“C’mon, mate …”
He shakes his head slowly. Looks like he’s about to tap out, all the energy drained from him.
“Frank, tell me who did this to you.”
He raises an eyebrow. Waves one hand at the kitchen cupboards.
“What, you want a drink?”
A couple of fast waves, his shirt falling open again, then his hand drops to his side.
“What is it?” I go to the cupboards, open them up. Big lad’s got more cereal than Seinfeld. “There’s nothing in here but Shreddies, man.”
He breathes out through his nose. It whistles. Looks at the floor, then brings his head up and grunts, like he’s angry at me. He waves his hand at the kitchen cupboards again.
I pull out the cereal boxes, put them on the kitchen counter.
Then, right at the back of the cupboard, I find it.
The tape recorder.
And it’s still in one piece.
26
Frank was at the meeting, just like he promised. From the tape, I can make out that they had coffee — “Kwiksave No Frills instant,” says Frank — and a tea that he couldn’t pla
ce. From the sounds of it, caffeine’s the last thing these people need. Sounds more like a zoo than a community meeting.
Frank motions me to fast-forward.
“Nothing happened?” I say.
He shakes his head, keeps motioning.
“I read the paper, man. Says there was a brawl.”
Another shake, another fast-forward gesture.
I do as he says, the hiss of the tape hitting the sound of voices suddenly. Frank waves at me to stop and rewind.
Whatever happened at the meeting, the tape recorder didn’t pick it up. Too far away, maybe — there’s just white noise and the occasional raised voice. That fucker at Dixons scammed me. But the way Frank’s acting, the meeting’s something I can strain my ears listening to later. He’s more interested in afterwards, what I’m guessing he did to get himself kicked to shit.
“… was saying in there …”
Frank’s voice.
“Yeah?”
A male voice. I don’t recognise it.
“Just saying, y’know, I thought you was right, like. We’re in trouble. Tell you, I’m worried.”
“You’re worried. Right.”
Some laughter. Loud and kind of obnoxious.
“Big bloke like you, you’re fuckin’ worried … Jesus, I don’t hold out much hope for the rest of us …”
“Yeah, I’m worried,” says Frank on the tape. “I mean, Phil Collins, right, he’s acting like he knows what’s happening round here. But that’s not what I’ve seen, is it?”
“He’s a politician, mate. He’ll say black’s white. Besides, he’s old-school, he’s not one of us. Fuckin’ Phil Collins is more concerned about keeping the fuckin’ peace than he is owt else, the cunt.”
“Got to be something I can do about it, mind.”
Laughter, but not from anywhere near the microphone. Frank’s speaking to more than one bloke, it sounds like. And the background noise — not a church hall, more like a pub. The voices raised not in anger, but to be heard over the general noise. So the meeting’s over. And Daft Frank went to the pub.