Why not? Fuck it.
He directed his feet to the Oddfellows Arms side of the street.
Perhaps the sight of Stevens making a spectacle of himself would cheer him up.
There was a poster for a drag act that was most definitely not Detective Inspector Stevens but a strip of paper had been stuck across it like a beauty queen’s sash.
ONE NIGHT ONLY!
SPECIAL ENGAGEMENT!
TASHA THE FLASHA!!
Pattimore managed a chuckle. He was pleased to see his co-worker was attracting quite a crowd. Lots of the regular customers were already in evidence and there were many unfamiliar faces rocking up.
He sidled up to the bar and nodded to Luigi for a pint.
The bar manager emerged from the cellar. He clocked Pattimore right away and interrupted the transaction.
“All right, Jason my love,” Dickon flashed his teeth at the detective constable. “I don’t say it very often but you can put that away. I mean your money’s no good here, not tonight. Anything he wants,” he instructed the barman, “he can have on the house.”
“Oh, I get it,” said Pattimore. “Bit of police presence for the price of a few drinks.”
Dickon made an effort to appear scandalised. “However could you think such a thing? Devious minds, you coppers. And you’re spot on. You’ve got me right to bang.”
“Er - bang to rights?”
“Now that doesn’t sound half as much fun. Other half not with you, I see.”
“Um, no.”
“Working too hard. He wants to loosen up, that one. You tell him from me. That man needs lube for his brain. You can tell him that and all.”
Pattimore took a sip of his lager top.
“Oh dear!” Dickon pouted in concern. “Don’t tell me there’s kerfuffle in Paradise?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Pattimore mumbled.
“Well, thank fuck for that! Last thing I want on a busy night is to listen to your boring-arsed sob story. Ha, I’m kidding, Jason love. Listen, you have another drink or three and if you feel like it afterwards, we can have a little chat, okay? And you will keep your baby blues on this lot for me, won’t you? Cheers.”
He flitted away before Pattimore could respond.
Pattimore stayed at the bar even though the place was getting busier by the minute. Thirsty gays all in good moods jostled his shoulders as they waved banknotes at the bar staff in bids to get attention. Pattimore tried to focus on the insistent, pulsating beat of the music, but the sound of the burgeoning crowd was like someone had let foxes loose in a parrot sanctuary. He thought of the zoo, which was just beyond the bounds of the pub car park and suddenly felt sorry for the animals banged up in there. I spend my life looking for people to lock up and those poor creatures have done nothing
He took another maudlin sip of his pint and gestured for a packet of dry roasted peanuts. Beer on an empty stomach always brought him down.
***
“Cheer up, cocker; it might never happen.”
Pattimore found he was being addressed by a diminutive lesbian with a shock of pink hair and a spider’s web tattoo across half of her face. Pattimore grunted and turned away.
“Face on him!” he heard the lesbian address the barman. “Anybody’d think it was a fucking funeral. Pint of stout and blackcurrant, please, thank you, cheers.”
Dickon appeared and hooked Pattimore by the arm.
“Now, now, Jason love. Can’t have you moping around with a face like a nun’s dry gusset.” He steered the miserable copper away from the counter and through to the smaller lounge area where a couple of older gays were nursing coffees and watching Emmerdale on a flat screen TV with the sound off.
“The boys can handle front-of-house for a few minutes. If they can’t, well, I suppose the smoke alarm will alert us to impending catastrophe. Now, tell your Aunty Dickon, who’s pissed on your chips and told you it’s vinegar?”
Pattimore looked into the eyes of the bar manager: kindly old Dickon who had taken Pattimore under his wing when he’d taken his first steps into Dedley’s gay scene - such as it was. Pattimore crumbled.
“Oh, Dickon!” he began to sob. “I’ve been a proper fucking bastard.”
“There, there, love,” Dickon patted the policeman’s shoulder and wondered how much of his valuable time this was going to eat up.
***
Having brought Chief Inspector Wheeler up-to-speed, Detective Sergeant Miller was under strict orders to go home and get some shut-eye. Wheeler had brooked no protestations and had even threatened to drive Miller home all sirens blazing if need be.
And so, Miller was installed on the sofa with a duvet and a bottle of energy drink while Jerry warmed up soup in the kitchen. He was singing the theme song from Minder, happy to have Mel home where he could take care of her.
The telly was on. Some actors pretending to be Cockneys were on the brink of a brawl in a boozer but Miller wasn’t taking any of it in. Her mind was occupied by thoughts of the Oddfellows Arms and what might be going on there - and she didn’t just mean that wanker Stevens’s debut as a female impersonator.
Perhaps a good night’s kip would see her right. Then, in the morning, she’d be able to carry out her plan of going in as an Environmental Health officer.
“Soup and crusty bread for my lady,” Jerry announced as he came in bearing a tea tray. Miller thanked him and because he was standing over her grinning like a proud parent, she sampled a spoonful.
“Mmm,” she said, feigning enthusiasm. “There’s going to be a scrap; you’m standing in the road.”
Jerry realised she was talking about some godawful soap opera and stepped aside. He suggested she try some of the bread. Miller tore a chunk in two and dipped one of the pieces in the soup.
“Well?” Jerry was on tenterhooks.
“Well, I can’t eat with you standing over me like the bloody Gestapo, can I?”
“I don’t think the Gestapo go in for much catering,” he pouted, but withdrew to a nearby chair.
“Jerry...”
“I recognise that tone of voice. Whatever it is, Mel, the answer’s no.”
“But - but you don’t know what I’m going to ask for yet. I could be asking for some pepper.”
“If you wanted pepper, you’d ask for pepper. You wouldn’t have to try and wheedle it out of me.”
“Jerry... if I eat up all my soup like a big girl, will you drive me to the pub?”
“Fuck that!”
“It’s for work! I just need to check something out.”
“Work can wait. You’m not strong enough, Mel. There’s plenty more soup where that came from. So get it down your neck. I’m not going to talk to you until that bastard tureen’s empty.”
He folded his arms to signal how serious he was.
Miller lifted another cautious spoonful to her lips and gave a loud slurp Jerry couldn’t fail to hear. Who did he think he was? Her boyfriend, her nursemaid or her bloody gaoler?
The soup was good though.
Miller ate as much as she could then sat back and nodded off just as the Cockneys were all rounded up and arrested.
***
The Oddfellows Arms was also prominent in the thoughts of Detective Inspector Brough who was sitting under the shower, cradling his knees.
He imagined it was where Pattimore would end up. Which meant he would get stinking drunk. Which meant he would come home - if he made it home - in a terrible state. Which could mean more violence and aggression.
Brough hugged his thighs tight against his chest. Surely I don’t deserve this treatment, he wondered.
Ah, said a dark thought breaking the surface of his mind, perhaps you do. Remember your schoolboy Latin, David: in vino veritas.
But - the first time - Jason hadn’t been drinking. Or the second, come to think of it.
Oho! Then you must really deserve it!
Powerless against this twisted reasoning, Brough remained curled up in the shower long after all the hot water was gone.
9.
Dickon took to the stage and detached the mic from its stand. Shielding his eyes against the spotlights, he squinted into the excitable crowd. Anticipation levels were high.
“Get ’em off!” yelled one wag from the back. Dickon aimed his response in the direction of the voice.
“Hello, Dad! I always knew you’d come back one day.”
The crowd roared. Dickon had pitched his tasteless riposte just right.
“And now, boys, men and assorted others, without further hairdo, I present our main attraction of the evening. The one, the only (please, God!) moustachioed minger, the hirsute harlot herself, all the way from Brierley Hill, put your hands together, if you please, for Tasha the Flasha!”
Dickon extended his arm to the nearest doorway as the crowd went wild.
The hirsute harlot failed to appear.
“Tashaaaaa the Flashaaaaa!” Dickon repeated, playing for time. “Probably can’t hear me. Got tampons in her ears again, silly moo, just because I said she was bloody-minded. All right then, gang, it’s panto time. Count of three and we’ll all call her name together. Are you ready? One! Two! Three!”
In the Ladies’, Stevens swore and dropped his illicit cigarette in the sink. He tugged his wig down, hitched up his padded bra and gave himself a last fleeting appraisal in the mirror.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered. He tottered on unaccustomed heels, feeling sick to his stomach.
A roar welcomed him like a blast of air. He staggered to the stage, grateful that the bright lights meant he was unable to make out individual faces. Dickon replaced the microphone in the stand and backed away, applauding.
Stevens turned his back on the audience. The introduction to Hey, Big Spender struck up. Stevens’s backside, in a shiny PVC skirt and fishnet tights began to move. The crowd sang along with the instrumental and yelled along with the lyrics. Stevens turned to face them, opening and closing his plastic mac in time with the music, affording them glimpses of his leopard print blouse, which was straining over his bra, which was padded with helium-filled balloons.
Buoyed by the crowd’s encouragement, Stevens became bolder. He made a V with his fingers and poked his tongue through it repeatedly and rapidly. He put the mic stand between his knees and bobbed up and down like a pole dancer - all those years of ‘research’ were finally paying off. Getting carried away, he went over on one of his ankles and almost fell into the crowd.
“Wahey!” the punters laughed, always up for a spot of slapstick.
Limping a little, Stevens was flagging. He bent his arms into chicken wings and strutted up and down. He was about to resort to the Funky Gibbon when a chant arose.
“Tasha, flash! Tasha, flash!...”
Oh yeah, he thought dimly. He opened his mackintosh wide and twirled around faster and faster. He took off the coat and thrashed the stage with it. The chant continued. Stevens peeled the blouse off one of his shoulders, exposing bare, but hairy, skin.
The applause was tumultuous. The whistles, whoops and catcalls re-energised him. He undid a button. And another.
But then he met the eye of a pink-haired lesbian who had pushed her way to the front. Stevens faltered. One of his balloons popped and the other floated free up to the ceiling.
Stevens snatched up his coat, held it protectively in front of himself and scurried from the stage. The crowd was momentarily stunned. Then someone started a slow clap. It spread like an STD at an orgy. Dickon hurried to the mic and tried to calm everyone down.
“Tasha the Flasha, everyone! Gone for a break, I imagine. The perfect opportunity for you to refill your glasses or visit the Gents’ for a piss or whatever takes your fancy. But let’s give it up one more time for Tasha the Flasha!”
He started to clap but no one joined in. Muttering darkly to himself, Dickon put the mic back in place and left the stage. He headed to the Ladies’.
He was going to have strong words with his headline act.
***
He could hear voices through the door. He pushed it just enough so he could peer in. The faces of the speakers were visible in the mirror above the washbasins. Tasha had removed her wig and was in the process of trying to take off her hoop earrings. The other bloke was that Jason one.
“Here, let me,” the Jason one said. “You’ll rip your lobes tugging at them like that.”
Stevens froze until Pattimore lowered his hand again.
“Do you think they liked me?” he asked Pattimore’s reflection.
“Mate, you were blinding!” Pattimore gave Stevens’s arse a smack.
“Gerroff!” Stevens whelped, “I’m not that kind of girl.”
At the door, Dickon’s mind was racing. Either the young copper was a fast worker or the two blokes knew each other... but from where... and how?
“But was I really good though?” Stevens continued to fish for critical appraisal.
“Once you got going, yeah. It was the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.”
Stevens scowled. He wasn’t sure that funny was what he was going for.
“Perhaps I should try a different outfit; I don’t think these are my colours...”
Pattimore was astonished. “Mate, you did it; you’re in! Just keep your eyes and ears but not your legs open and see what you can find out about our walking dead friends.”
Dickon withdrew into the corridor. So! Tasha the Flasha was really Lizzie the Bizzie!
He put a hand to his chest. His heart was fluttering like a startled bird. Think fast, Dickon, he urged himself.
He slunk off to the bar. Two coppers on the premises and those were just the ones he knew about. Like cockroaches, the place could be crawling with them and you wouldn’t know.
And the thing to do with cockroaches is get rid of them.
“Excuse me, Luigi love,” Dickon squeezed behind the bar and the bar man. “Fetching a drink for Tasha.”
“Oh yeah!” Luigi enthused “She’s really funny. What’s her poison?”
Dickon smirked. “You leave that to me, Luigi love. You leave that to me.”
***
Tasha the Flasha did not appear to do a second set that evening. Quite a few of the patrons asked the bar staff when she’d be coming back on but Luigi - and especially Edward - could only shrug.
“Probably already gone home,“ said Luigi. “Took off all the slap and slunk out all incognito and you’d never know. Do you reckon that ’tache was real?”
Edward blinked.
“Imagine the feel of it,” Luigi continued, “Between your thighs...”
Edward blinked again.
Luigi was still giggling when Dickon came up from the cellar with a bottle of champagne. “All right, boss? Tasha get off, did she? Only some of the punters -”
Dickon looked stricken.
“Um, yeah. I paid her off. Well, novelty acts: good for a giggle but the novelty wears off, doesn’t it? Put this on ice, will you?”
Luigi admired the bottle. “Who’s the shampoo for?”
“Never you mind!” Dickon chuckled. “If your dick was as long as your nose, you’d be the most popular man in Dedley. Now, go on; call time. Get these buggers out of here. You can leave the tidying up until the morning.”
He left the barmen to close up. Luigi gave Edward a significant look but Edward was oblivious. Luigi nodded at the champagne. “That’ll be for him and his date.”
“Hmm?” said Edward.
“You know...” Luigi twisted his lips to look like Keith’s.
; “Oh...”
“Mind you, haven’t seen him all night. I don’t think he’s right for Dickon. I mean Dickon’s all -” he did jazz hands, “- and that bloke’s all -” he slumped his shoulders and twisted his lips.
“Hmm,” said Edward.
They set about their closing-up routine, switching off lights and locking doors. Luigi said goodnight to the last remaining stragglers and Edward held the door open and smiled.
10.
Brough was sitting on the bed, watching the electronic digits of the alarm clock. It was long after closing time for normal pubs; he knew that sometimes The Oddfellows opened into the small hours but that was usually at the weekends. Perhaps, with the post-Christmas, pre-New Year lull it was making a special effort. If Stevens in drag could be considered a special effort.
He kept expecting to hear Pattimore’s key turning in the front door.
A couple of suitcases, bulging with Brough’s belongings sat at his feet like doting pets.
I should have left already, he kept telling himself. What am I doing still sitting here? Waiting for another confrontation?
Or am I giving him - giving us - another chance?
Brough knew he didn’t know what he wanted, but as the hours had passed and the last train and the last bus were ruled out as options, he realised he wouldn’t be leaving that night.
Oh, he still might leave the flat but he’d still be in Dedley. He’d thought about going to Miller’s and begging use of the sofa but, given her current debilitation, he dismissed that idea.
I have no other friends, he realised. And it’s too far to get to Mum and Dad’s.
The truth was he didn’t want his parents to know - he was uncomfortable that they knew he was in a relationship at all, let alone an abusive one.
Shit fuck. An abusive relationship!
This is what I have become. Add one more to the statistics.
The numerals rolled over and quietly revealed it was two a.m. Brough let out an exasperated cry. How could he give Pattimore one last chance if the bastard hadn’t the decency to come home?
Coffin Dodgers Page 9