by Ray Banks
I nudge open the doors with my stick and push into the Lads Club. Slowly, my fingers white around the cardboard tray that holds the coffees, I manage to slip through into the gym. In the large championship ring at the back of the place, two of Paulo's top lads are slapping gloves. The blonde kid who's about to batter hell out of the other lad is Jason Kelly. He's this year's Liam Woolley, without so many priors. Jason's not the aggro type, but it was drug trouble that put him in the institution. Now he works as a plasterer's apprentice, but he's obviously better with his fists than he is with a trowel and paddle, because Paulo's taken a keen interest.
Other than that, I don't know much about him. As soon as Paulo registered a stake in the lad's career, I backed off, barely spoke to him. I might be superstitious about it, but after the Los Angeles thing, I've found it's best to separate myself from a majority of what happens in the Lads Club. And the continued success of Paulo's boxers leaves me feeling that I was definitely the jinx that fucked Liam Woolley's career.
The two lads are still circling. Paulo watches them from the ropes. He has a foul look on his face. When the doors scream closed behind me, he glances over, but doesn't acknowledge me. I'm halfway across the gym when I see Frank emerge from the back office. And my stomach turns. The way he's coming at me, his face all creased, it looks as if he's had a full-blown panic attack and I'm the cause.
He stops in front of me, and the expression doesn't change. “Where've you been?”
I hold up the coffees.
“All this time?” Looking at his watch as if he can't believe it, and it would be comical if it weren't so annoying. “Really?”
“What is it?”
He looks over at Paulo, who leans forward to clang the bell. The two lads break and head to their respective corners. Paulo swings under the rope, starts telling them both what they were doing wrong in a loud voice that seems aimed at me. Frank grabs my arm, jostling the coffees. “Jesus, Frank.”
“Can't talk about it out here,” he says, ushering me towards the office.
“Alright, just … don't be handy.”
He leads the way, watches me follow, shuffling, into the office. Then he closes the door as I put the coffees down on his desk. The furniture's arranged in an L shape around the room, my desk facing the door, Frank's backing onto a window that has a fine view of the bins but very little else. Frank watches Paulo through the partition window. When he finally turns my way, I hand him his juice.
“Frank, tell me.”
“You had someone round asking for you.”
“Who?”
“A policeman. Big guy, looked like he wanted to beat the snot out of you, actually.”
“Uniform?”
“No.” He uncaps his juice. “Said his name was Detective Sergeant Donkin.”
I move over to my desk, pull out my chair and ease down onto it. Reach for my coffee and take a sip. It's still hot enough to sit for a while, and when I look up, Frank's standing there looking at me, looks like he's waiting for an answer to a question I didn't hear.
“You know him?”
I nod. “What'd he say?”
“He wanted to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“He didn't say.”
“He come to … arrest me?”
“Just wanted to talk, he said. Came in specially to see you, though.”
“About what?”
“Wouldn't tell us.”
“Then it's nowt.”
Frank squints at me. “You think?”
“Trust me. He just wanted … to fuck with me. Wind me up.”
“Because I'll tell you, Cal, I was worried.”
I keep nodding like I understand, it's nothing, don't worry about it, not worth your time. Frank's not used to coppers like Donkey, doesn't know how to handle them.
“If he's after you for something—”
“He's not.”
“—we should probably talk about it.”
“It's nothing.” I stare at him. “Okay?”
Frank leans against his desk, watches me, his arms folded. He cricks his neck, doesn't look at me when he says, “You sure? Because if this is going to have a knock-on effect on our business here, Callum, you should tell us what's going on. I mean, you saw Paulo.”
I look out the window at the gym. “He was here?”
“Yeah, took him to one side.”
“Who did?”
“Paulo did, took the copper to one side.”
I pick up my coffee again, thumb off the lid and blow on the contents. “He … pissed off?”
“He's something. Not been right since he had a word with the policeman.”
“That's usual. He's angry.”
“Why?”
I think about what I'm going to say. Breathe slowly. “Because he doesn't like … having coppers around. Does he? It's nothing. How many … times do I have to. Tell you?”
“Okay, okay.” He gulps down half his juice, sucks on his bottom lip. “I'm just making sure. I don't want anything coming out of the woodwork to bite us on the you-know-what.”
Jesus, a grown man with a criminal record and he doesn't swear. This is what I have to work with.
“I know.”
He holds up the juice bottle, pushing himself off the desk at the same time. “Thanks for this.”
“Don't mention it.”
Points at the door. “I'm just going—”
“Yeah.”
He's going to the toilet, I know. It's pretty regular halfway down a juice, but he still feels the need to tell me. And because the man has the bladder of an infant, I hear it about nine times a day if I'm stuck in the office. I'm actually beginning to think there might be something wrong with his prostate, but I don't want to say anything. Fuck it, I'm not sure I can say anything.
I watch him go, the door easing closed behind him. Take another sip of my coffee.
Donkey's got some fucking timing, I'll give him that. If he's sniffing around it means one thing — he's bored and he wants to sweat someone. Which is stupid considering I'm clean as soap and he knows it. Unless he's heard about the stroke and wants to rub it in. Wouldn't put it past him.
Of course, he might've heard that I'm working for Tiernan.
No. Not possible. I just got in from seeing him. Word doesn't travel that fast, but I'm still checking off the people who might've seen Tiernan and me together. Only one I can come up with is Brian, the landlord of the Wheatsheaf, and he's not stupid or unlucky enough to be one of Donkey's grasses.
Still, it's only a matter of time. I get to my feet as Frank emerges from the toilets, the sound of a flush following him out. He opens the office door as I approach it.
“Going somewhere?” he says.
I nod. Frank shifts out of the way, holds the door open for me.
“Where?”
Trying to think of an answer, gazing out across the gym. I watch one of the lads head towards the double doors, a bag in his hand. He puts one hand on the door, grey light leaking in for a second.
“I need to—”
There's a muffled crack and the lad ducks back into the club. “Fuckin' hell!”
I nod towards the front door. Frank follows my gaze.
Paulo's out in the middle of the gym, half-jogging to the lad who shouted. The bag's on the floor now and I think I can see blood on the lad's trackie bottoms. Paulo looks back to us, and Frank runs across. I follow as quickly as I can.
“… fuckin' mentalist,” says the lad as I get within earshot. He's staring at the double doors. Definitely blood on the back of his leg, but it's not a gusher. “Fuckin' shot us.”
A loud crack, and we all flinch. Paulo crouches as the doors fly open and a couple more lads burst into the gym. He waves them through. Someone screams outside. It's a shrill sound, could be a woman. And another shot makes Paulo whip his head away from the open door. A crowd develops around the wounded lad.
“Get him away from the door,” Paulo says.
Frank g
rabs the wounded lad and drags him across the wooden floor, the lad screaming.
“What's up?” I say.
It's Jason who speaks. “Aaron says there's a fuckin' mental case out there.”
“See what it was?”
The lad called Aaron stops screaming long enough to shout, “She was fuckin' shooting at us.”
Another series of loud, dry bangs, a triple bill. Paulo doesn't flinch this time. “It's okay. It's just an air rifle.”
“Get out here!”
I push to the doors, peek out. Right enough, there's a woman out on the street in front of the club, looks to be in her early fifties and has the air of a senior librarian gone Michael Ryan. She has an air pistol in her hand, and a rifle slung over her shoulder. Her face looks like a used tissue, screwed up and wet with tears.
She's shouting, “Get out here, get out here this instant. I'm not going anywhere, I can stand here all day until you come out, so you get out here.”
Over and over again, the same pitch and volume, like a screaming mantra.
“What d'you think?” says Frank.
Paulo sniffs, reaches into his jeans for his mobile. “Call the police.”
“No,” I say.
Paulo glares at me. “What?”
“You serious? You want the police round here?”
He works his mouth, keeps quiet. I straighten up as best I can. The woman's still screaming for someone to come outside, that she knows they're in there somewhere and she won't leave until she sees them.
“Let me handle it,” I say.
Frank shakes his head, his eyes wide. “You can't go out there.”
“Course I can.”
“She's mental.”
“She won't shoot me.”
“Why not?”
“Look at me,” I say as I put my hand on the door. “Far too … pathetic to shoot.”
At least I hope that's the case.
6
INNES
Call me a hero if you like, but there's something to be said for looking vulnerable. As soon as the woman sees me, the pistol is up and pointed at me, but the barrel shakes and there's doubt on her face. I think it's doubt, anyway. Could well be grim determination at this distance.
I stop in front of the Lads Club, raise one hand. Feels like I should be waving a white hankie or something: we surrender. She glances at my other hand, which is gripping my walking stick.
“Don't shoot,” I say, with no irony whatsoever.
She keeps the pistol pointed my way, moves her head slightly to one side as if she's spotted something behind me. “Where are they?”
“Who?”
Back to me now, and her eyes are narrowed but there's the tremble in the gun that means she's scared. She wasn't expecting someone like me. “You work in there?”
I gesture to the sign by the door. “I'm the I.”
She squints at the sign. Looks like someone forgot their glasses, which means she probably couldn't hit a barn door right now. She still hit that lad, but I get the feeling that it was a lucky shot. I'd make a move for the gun if that move wouldn't take me half a fucking hour.
“I can't … what is it?” she says.
“IC Investigations.”
“Then it's not you. I don't want you. I want the boys.”
“What boys?”
“I'll know them when I see them.”
“You sure?” I say, thinking about those missing glasses.
She tightens her grip on the pistol. Her other hand tugs on the rifle strap. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“They're criminals.”
“Okay,” I say. “But not anymore.”
“They're vandals.”
“Some of them. Were.”
“No, they're vandals now,” she says. “I know it's them.”
I wave my hand at her. “You want to … put the gun down.”
“No.” Shaking her head, but her eyes are fixed on me. “You bring them out here.”
“We can talk.”
“We're talking. You bring them out.”
“I don't know who … you mean.”
“You do.”
There's a desperation in her voice that I don't like. She's breathing too hard, looks like she might hyperventilate and keel over.
“Please. Put it down.” I take a couple of shuffled steps towards her.
She looks at me, obviously thinking about it. But wondering why I'm talking to her as if she's dangerous. Then she glances behind me, I hear some movement, and her arm straightens. I don't need to turn to know that Paulo just stepped out of the gym. If he thinks this is something to do with his lads, he'll be out to defend them, whatever the cost.
“Which lads?” he says.
“I can pick them out.”
“Pick 'em off, more like.”
“I don't know their names.”
“But you know what they look like.”
Confusion clouds her face, and she blinks. “There's … too many of them.”
I hear Paulo breathe out. “Look, I'm trying to help you here, love, but you're not exactly making it easy for us, are you? You reckon you've got something to tell us about the lads in there, it'll be better for you if you get specific, know what I mean? Otherwise you're going to look like a fuckin' basket case.”
“I'm not a …” She pinches her mouth closed, swallows the phrase. “Don't use language like that in front of me, please.”
“He's sorry,” I say. “It's raining. He doesn't like … the rain.”
She looks back to me. I extend my hand, start hobbling towards her. Nice and slow, deliberate movements, don't want to spook her. Make it obvious that I'm not going to break into a run or make a sudden grab for the pistol. Instead, I'm going to ask nicely.
“C'mon,” I say. “Give me the gun.”
She backs up, the pistol aimed at me. Rainwater drips off her nose. She sniffs some of it up one nostril.
“We really want to help you, love,” says Paulo, and it sounds like a warning. “But if you're going to act like a care in the community, we can just let the police sort it out.”
“Call the police,” she says. “I don't care.”
“Alright.” I hear the door to the club get pulled open.
“Don't, Paulo.”
He stops. I turn and look at him.
Shaking my head: “Don't.”
Don't make this worse, mate. You bring the police into this, you up the ante, and things'll only go to shit after that. She'll probably start shooting again, and guess who's the nearest fucking target?
My hand stays up, palm out. Again, don't shoot.
She shakes her head. Tears mixing with the rain.
“Come on,” I say.
Want to say, don't be a fucking idiot, hand me the gun before this all blows up in your face. You seem like a nice enough biddy, but you give it a couple more minutes of this stand-off, and Paulo's going to pull out his mobile and call the police.
That's if Frank hasn't already done it. It'd be like him to take the wrong cue.
“Missus,” I say. “Please. Don't do this. It's not worth it.”
She works her mouth. Looks as if the pistol weighs a tonne. Doesn't seem to know what she's doing with the weapon now, as if she's fallen back into her old librarian life. And when she lands, it's obviously painful. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her hand shaking.
“It's okay. Just … you know.”
She offers me the pistol. I take it by the barrel, lean forward as she pulls the rifle from her shoulder. Tears streaming down her face, her mouth turned in on itself, her entire body shaking with sobs.
I take the rifle. Hand it and the pistol to Paulo and put one hand on her back.
“Thanks.”
And somewhere behind me I can hear Paulo saying, “Frank, while you're doing fuck all, mate, how's about you make us a brew, eh? Soaked to the skin out here.”
****
The woman's name is Elizabeth Sadler. She's a history teacher at Buil
e Hill, which isn't that far from here, but still makes me wonder what connections she's made. Now she's sat in the back office clutching a mug of tea in both hands, she's noticeably more relaxed, even slightly embarrassed at all the fuss she's caused. The rifle's propped up behind my desk, the pistol on it, both of them out of reach.
You never know.
Frank asks all the questions, slightly louder than usual because of the rain that buckshots the windows. Since we got in, it's been coming down in sheets, and I wouldn't be surprised if the rain had actually turned to hail, from the sound of it. Paulo doesn't say anything, standing by the door to the office, watching the lads on the couch outside.
Our chief suspects. Three of them. Mrs Sadler pointed them out as soon as she managed to calm down. One kid, Justin Scott, is a proper vandal, done youth time for it. Keen on burning stuff at one point, from what I hear. The other two are brothers, Aaron and Karl Hills, ginger twins who were a double pain in the arse, one of whom has a pain in the arse thanks to Mrs Sadler. But they're nothing special, tagged a couple of buildings in their time, never struck me as more than a couple of delinquent Weasleys.
Still, when Karl makes a move from the couch, Paulo's on him.
“The fuck d'you think you're going?”
“Bog.”
“Sit down.”
“I'm fuckin' bursting.”
“You'll park your arse or I'll put a clout on you, son.”
“He's going to piss on the couch, then,” says Aaron.
“You piss on the couch, you're cleaning it.”
“I can't hold it.”
“You're a grown fuckin' lad, you can hold it. Get your brother to tie a knot in it if you want, but I see you shift from that seat, I'll do you.”
“It wasn't us,” says Justin.
“We'll see.”
“Here,” says Aaron. “Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”