by Ray Banks
“Which ones said I was a joke?” I said, nice and quiet.
“Don't get me wrong, Detective. I don't mean to insult you, I'm just spelling out the situation.”
“Nice of you.”
“I don't want you to think that every time you kick open those doors that you're scaring the shit out of us, because that's not the case. You might think that you have an audience here while you wait for Callum to turn up, but what you don't know is most of that audience is laughing at you.”
“Really?” I said. “That's interesting.”
“Plus, if you take him to the floor in here, you'll have to bring reinforcements.”
I pulled myself up straighter on the desk. “And what's that, then? You threatening me, Mr Gray?”
“No,” he said. “I'm just giving you a likely scenario if you get nasty here. I've got the future of this place to think about, so I wouldn't want you pounded any more than you need to be. But I'm warning you, if you keep coming in here thinking you're invincible, spouting off and throwing your sizeable fuckin' weight around, one day someone's going to call you on it.”
“You?”
The poof moved closer to us. I didn't move, wasn't about to let someone like him call the shots, so I straightened up full height to make my point. It'd been a good while since I'd gone the rounds with someone bigger and stronger. And I'll admit, recent circumstances had put us sufficiently on edge that a good fight might've been just what I needed.
“Calm it,” he said.
“Back,” I said.
“What I'm saying—”
“You're saying you want to be arrested for assaulting a police officer, you don't back the fuck up, big lad.”
He stepped off. “Be an adult about this, Detective. All I'm saying is you want to talk to Callum Innes, be a copper about it and find out where he actually is. I'm saying use what they taught you your first day about adapting to situations in order to avoid conflict. And I'm also saying that if you continue to show your face round here, causing trouble for people like Frank — who's done his time, completely rehabilitated himself, and is now a productive member of that society you've promised to protect — then I'll have no option but to file a formal complaint with your superiors.”
I thought about what he said for a good long while, took on his arguments, digested them.
Then I gave him my answer: “Get fucked.”
“I could complain about you now, anyway. And I will if you don't haul your arse out of my club in the next ten seconds.”
I pointed at him. “I won't be threatened.”
“You're not being threatened.”
“Nah, I'm not going to be threatened by some poof fuckin' jailbird—
“You're being promised, Detective. Cal's a good lad, but if he's hit, he'll hit back, sometimes a little too hard for his own good. And I don't need you provoking him on my premises. You want to get your jollies harassing ex-cons, do it somewhere else.”
A pause, let the tension bubble for a minute, then I smiled at him, nodded my head like everything was matey. “Okay, I get you.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” I said. “No problems here.”
He moved out of my way, waved at the door. “Glad we understand each other.”
I went out into the gym, saw the lads who'd been watching go back to punch bags and sparring. I opened my baccy tin, pulled out the ciggie I rolled before and put it in my mouth. Halfway across the gym, I sparked it up. Made sure I'd smoked it down by the time I got to the front doors, then I dropped and stamped, turned round to see the poof glaring at us from the doorway to the office.
Let him file his fucking complaints. We both knew I'd be back, and that I'd keep coming back until I got a hold of Callum Innes.
4
DONKIN
I was fucked if I went back to the station, and my hackles were still well and truly up, so instead of calling it a morning, I decided to cruise round the old estates, looking for a familiar face.
Pissed us off that Innes wasn't at the poof's club, but it pissed us off even more that I didn't have an official reason for going round there. I'd heard that he was a mong or whatever, reckoned I had a spare morning, I might as well go round there and take the piss out of him for a bit. But then the poof had to stick his fucking nose in, take the fun out of the situation.
So I had an itch that needed to be scratched. And I didn't think I was going to get any relief until I saw Paddy Reece.
The first thing about Paddy Reece, he wasn't Irish, but every March he'd be on the streets and in most of the pubs, making out he was blarney as fuck in order to get a free pint. Second thing, Paddy was a nine-carat smackhead. Not only that, but he was the kind of bastard you wouldn't want to babysit, not with his priors. Two girls, they were fourteen and he was eighteen. Didn't matter that both girls were early drinkers, and that both looked like they were forty years old with the experience to match. Whatever it said on their birth certificate was what the court prosecuted, and smackhead Reece, for poking the pair of them in a drunken haze, found himself down for a two-stretch as an adult kiddie-fiddler. After he got out, he kept himself to himself, except for when he needed to score or when I managed to get my hands on him.
I drew my car up alongside Paddy as he walked. When I honked the horn, two short bursts, he near shit himself.
“Y'alright, Paddy, I didn't know you were out.”
He saw us, pulled a face. “Aw, fuck.”
“That's not much of a hello, is it?” I cranked the wheel, jumped the pavement. This lad wanted to pump his feet, I could keep driving, run the bastard down. I flung open the car door and he backed up a couple of steps. I got out of the car, pulled out my baccy tin, started to roll a ciggie. “Were you going to run there, Pads?”
“Nah,” he said, wiping his feet like he had an itch on the soles. “I wouldn't run, Sergeant.”
“Detective.”
“Right. Detective. Not daft enough to run, am I?”
“Used to be a fuckin' rabbit, as I recall.” I looked around the street, but the place was dead apart from a slow rain that'd started as soon as I left the poof's club. Right enough, most people who lived out here, they'd still be in their kip, sleeping it off. “Didn't know you lived round here.”
“I don't,” said Paddy.
Stuck the cigarette in my mouth, lit it. “Thought you did.”
“No, I never lived round here.”
“Then what you doing?”
“I was just walking, like.”
He couldn't get his eyes on me. I blew the first lungful of smoke his way and got a bit closer. “Where from?”
“Just walking, Detective. No law—”
“You must've come from somewhere, though. Y'know, if you don't live round here. So where was it? You still getting your piss test at the clinic up the road, are you?”
“Nah.”
“You don't do 'em anymore, is that it?”
“I do 'em.”
“But not today, right?”
He pulled a De Niro. Just for a second.
“Whoa, the fuck was that, Paddy?”
“Nowt.”
“That face you just pulled at us.”
“Nowt,” he said. “I dunno what you mean.”
I got right in there, stared at him. Caught a sniff of some nasty Superdrug aftershave he was wearing. “Oof, Jesus, what you wearing that for?”
He shook his head.
“Fuckin' humming, that. You got a fuckin' gash round here or what?”
He looked around him, didn't say anything. Probably searching for an escape route.
“I asked you a question. Last thing I knew, you were a bloke with a fuckin' tongue in his head, could answer questions when someone asked them at you, am I right?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Fuckin' hell, it speaks. So you got a lady friend round here? Hope for your sake she's done her GCSEs.”
“A mate,” he said, his lips dead thin. Looking at us now
, almost had this defiant glint in his eyes. And a glint of any kind in Paddy's eyes was a weird sight. “Up the road.”
“This mate a bloke?”
“Yeah.”
“And you went to see him with aftershave on?”
“Yeah.”
“You turn poof in the nick, Pads?”
“Nah.”
“You did something,” I said, pointing at him. Gave him a wink. “I know you did something.”
His voice got big. “I was just seeing a mate, wasn't I?”
Paddy was lying to us. He was the same as all the rest, got shouty when they knew they were caught, played indignant to get out of the cuffs. And I would've let it go, except Paddy got mouthier than usual, moved his face back into mine.
“You can't stop us like this,” he said. “It's not legal. You want to watch I don't put in a complaint about you.”
“For what?” I said.
“For fuckin' harassment, that's what.”
“Right y'are.” I stared at the bastard for a good long time. He knew the moment he made a move to run, I'd be on him, and it'd be the worst kicking he ever got. So he shifted his weight, one leg to the other, and he tried to keep his gaze anywhere but at me. When he finally found a spot on the wall next to him to look at, I spoke. Kept my voice low as I said, “How's about you and me, we go up that alley over there? I think we need to have a quiet word.”
I pointed up behind him. An alley, long and narrow, boxed in high on both sides, led to the other estate. Looked like the kind of corridor Paddy used to squat down when he was committed fully to the smack and fuck knows what else. He obviously didn't like the idea, pulled another De Niro face.
“You still on the gear?” I said.
“No.”
“Right then.” I pointed the way. “Up you go.”
“The fuck?”
I put a hand on him, pushed him in his hollow chest towards the alley. He was a streak of piss, nearly buckled under my shove, and when I pushed him again, he flinched like he was set to come back at us.
“What?” I said. “You want something, Paddy?”
Yeah, he wanted to get fucking bolshy, push us back. But he knew, he put a finger on us, I'd have him back in a piss-soaked cell, the kind with that thick stink that got right in your clothes. See how he fancied going back to his “mate” with that smell on him.
Paddy trudged into the alley. I checked behind us, made sure there was nobody with a nose on them, or about to do one with my car. Then I followed him, rubbing my hands to get them warm. I saw the puke and broken glass on the ground, reckoned this'd be perfect. It was even slightly sheltered against the rain.
“Up against the wall,” I said.
“Eh?”
“Don't waste my fuckin' time, Paddy. Get your back scraping that wall, son.”
He did what I told him, but he still had a face on.
“You testing?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Showing clean?”
“Wouldn't be here if I wasn't, would I?” Big grin on his face now of the fuck-you variety. He rolled up the sleeves of his jumper and slapped his arms to show them unmarked. “Kind of daft fuckin' question's that?”
I scratched my cheek. “Alright, it's time to listen to us now, Paddy. This is important an' all so do us a favour and pay very close attention. You can slap your arms all you fuckin' want, son, but that doesn't mean you're not a smackhead, so don't treat us like your fuckin' PO. You're sharp as a baby's fingernails, Paddy, I'll give you that, but you're not as sharp as me. Not even close.”
Paddy didn't say anything.
“So I'll ask you again, and this time you'll stow the attitude. Are you clean?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“You're clean.” I could taste blood coming from somewhere in my mouth. I looked at Paddy's feet. Pumas, box-white. Someone was getting paid these days.
“So is that it?” he said.
“You're definitely clean.”
“I told you.”
“Okay.”
“Right.” He made a move off the wall.
I put a hand on his chest, pushed him back. “So if I got you to turn out your pockets, I'm not going to find anything?”
Paddy's face pinched up. “You're not—”
“I'm not going to find smack, anything like that? You haven't shifted onto coke or nowt?”
“Fuck off, you can't—”
I slapped him, open hand. Once. Hard. Paddy didn't see it, didn't roll, caught it all. His face flared where I hit him, and he clamped a hand over the mark, his mouth open.
“Don't interrupt us, Paddy. From now on you speak when you're fuckin' well spoken to. Now, is there anything on your person that you think I should know about, given our current situation?”
“I don't—”
“I know, none of the gear. I know it, I'm aware. But you wouldn't happen to have any pills, resin, owt like that? Doesn't have to be intent to sell. Even if it's a smidge, I need to know.”
“Fuckin' shite.” His eyes were red and shiny.
I pulled the cigarette from my mouth and chucked it down the alley. Looked around to make sure we were still alone. “Turn 'em out, son.”
Paddy sucked his teeth.
“Here or down the nick, whichever way you want to play it. If it's down the nick, mind, you know I'll have to charge you.” I sniffed. “So chop-chop, eh?”
Paddy paused, then dug his hands into his pockets, started to turn them out, and what a stash it was. Got what looked like about an eighth of resin in foil, scraped down from what was probably a quarter at one point. Meant he was selling, because there wasn't a testing smackhead in the world would risk pissing dirty because he'd been smoking resin. Other stuff: Clipper lighter, flint rod sticking out, Zig Zags pack with the front flap all ripped up. Ten pack of Bensons. Flipped that open, found four and a half cigarettes left. I took one of the full ciggies, lit it and blinked against the smoke.
“Other one,” I said.
The other pocket wasn't half as exciting, but I still scored a wrap of speed in amongst the fluff and change. When I looked up at Paddy, he was pale as fuck. Sweating despite the chill. I stuffed the haul into my leather jacket, craned to see the lip of the alley. My car was still up there. Untouched, as far as I could see, but I didn't want to push my luck much more.
“Well?” he said.
I sniffed, then blew smoke. “Shoes.”
“You what?”
“I'm not joking, and I don't have all day. Take 'em off.”
“Why?”
“Need to make sure you're not a terrorist. What the fuck difference does it make? I tell you to do something, you fuckin' well do it.”
Paddy leaned back against the wall, scooched down a bit and grabbed his left trainer. Undid the laces, handed me the shoe with his sock foot against the wall. I looked inside the trainer. Nothing. I didn't think there would be, like, but I thought I'd pretend to be interested anyway.
“And the other one.”
He pulled a face at us, but I didn't bite this time. Then he rocked on his heels, leaned on the ball of his sock foot and yanked the other trainer off.
“Jesus, the stink doesn't really hit you until you've got the pair, does it?”
That must've hit a nerve, because Paddy turned on the charm. “The fuck is this about, Donkey?”
And as soon as the word spilled out of his mouth, he knew he'd fucked up big-style.
Not that I didn't know that people called us Donkey. It was a nickname that'd stuck to me like shit to a quilt. It was just that most people had the common decency not to call us it to my face. And Paddy Reece was the kind of bloke who was never above getting a solid beating at the best of times, so I didn't know where the fuck he got the idea he could up the ante by calling me that.
“What's that, Pads?”
“Nothing.”
“Didn't quite catch it. Say it again.”
He mumbled something, shook his head, already the col
our back in his face.
I held up one shoe, squinted down the alley. Then I pulled back and flung his Puma as far as I could. It flew for a good distance, then bounced off a bin and landed hole-down in a puddle. Paddy groaned loud.
“What'd you do that for?” he said.
“There was nothing in it.”
He made a move to get up. I kicked him in the middle of his chest. Paddy hit the wall, scuffed down a bit further, his face twisted and the breath torn from his lungs. I leaned over, held the other trainer up so he could see it.
“You want to fuck about your whole life,” I said, “that's fine by me. But if you choose to fuck about with the men in charge, they're liable to make that life seriously fuckin' uncomfortable.”
I hefted the weight of his other trainer in my hand, then started back to my car.
“Wait a minute,” he said.
I looked back at him. He stared up the alley at the thrown trainer, then back at me. Struggled upright, put one of his feet on the ground and withdrew it sharply.
“Mind yourself walking,” I said. “Think some dirty fuckin' smackhead's been using it as a shooting gallery.”
“Detective Donkin, come on—”
“I just taught you an important lesson, Patrick, and I didn't have to kick shite out of you to do it. You should be grateful.”
I turned to the street, spotted a variety of targets, and finally picked a cat that was stretching on a wheely bin across the road. I chucked Paddy's trainer as hard as I could. It bounced off the bottom of the wheely bin, scared the shit out of the cat. Behind us, Paddy let out this long sigh.
“You got off light, son,” I told him, getting into the car. “Next time you see fit to mess us around, I'll put you in the fuckin' hospital. Think on.”
5
INNES
The sign outside the Lads Club reads IC INVESTIGATIONS.
The I stands for Innes, the C for Collier. It was a long, draining and argumentative night when we finally agreed on a name. Look at it now, and it still seems a little naff, but it's too late to change and besides, the eyeball logo doesn't look too bad. One of the lads who used to come to the club was on his art foundation course, and he needed a stuffed portfolio more than cash. Managed to get some mileage out of that eye — not only does it grace the sign outside, but it's a metallic fixture of our new posh business cards. The silvery finish was Paulo's idea, and to hell with the cost, we'll make the money back. But while he's optimistic about this little venture, I still think the idea of Frank and me as trustworthy professional private investigators seems, well, sarcastic.