Best Served Cold

by Limey Lady

  ‘Thought it best if he didn't come on his own,’ Henry explained. ‘He fell down in the street, you see. I'm sure it isn't epilepsy, but you never know. I couldn't risk him flaking out at fifty miles an hour.’

  Geoff got out of the passenger side, looking very shamefaced, telling everyone who would listen that he was all right. But he clearly wasn't all right, because he had to use the car door to haul his body upright and needed Henry's help to negotiate the two low steps into the house. While he slumped in an armchair Henry filled Penny in with more detail. Then, clearly embarrassed, he made his excuses and headed off to the Jag.

  ‘Tell him to take as long as it takes,’ he said in parting. ‘We'll keep his seat warm 'til he gets back. No hurry at all.’

  Penny made Geoff a cup of tea, medicating it with three sugars. As he sipped at the hot drink she extracted a few more details. It had been the lack of balance, far worse than before. No, he didn't think his right leg had failed . . .

  But there again, he had drifted to his right . . .

  Before falling to his left . . .

  That was probably his co-ordination though. He might have overcompensated.

  It was the sudden weakness that bothered him most. Overnight he seemed to have lost strength just simply everywhere.

  ‘The nurse told me I need to be in hospital,’ Geoff said. ‘If the doc doesn't get me admitted there on Monday, she said I have to go to A&E at Airedale.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks,’ said Penny. ‘If he doesn't get you admitted this afternoon I’m ringing 999.’

  ‘I'll never get an appointment this late in the day. The surgery will be booked up.’

  ‘Who said anything about the surgery?’ Penny looked up from her mobile, the number already entered. ‘We aren't going there, he's coming here.’

  ‘You think he’ll do a home visit? Not a chance.’

  ‘No? Watch this, then.’

  *****

  ‘So,’ Sean began, ‘you and Debra are together, are you? That was quick.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pat said evenly. ‘We’re together.’

  ‘Did you have her on the train? Or were you polite enough to let her get onto the platform?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘

  We had something going years ago, if you must know. It's happened again, and we want to be open about it this time. And I want you to at least pretend to be glad for Dee's sake, if not for mine. She told me this morning she'd woken up happy for the first time in years.’

  ‘Oh, so Dee told you that,’ Sean sneered. ‘Our mum's on a slab somewhere, and suddenly DeeDee is happy for the first time in years.’

  Pat couldn't stop himself from leaning across the table and giving his so-called mate a slap. He didn't make it too hard, but the sound of the contact echoed in the otherwise empty Meeting Room. They glared daggers at each other.

  Then Sean shook his head.

  ‘Sorry,’ he grunted.

  ‘Me too,’ said Pat. ‘Dee's gutted about your mum.’

  ‘I'll send flowers. I presume I'll find her at your place for the immediate future?’

  ‘Yes, you will. And you should be grateful. If it wasn't for me, you'd be sending them to Bristol, care of some twat called Gavin.’

  ‘What a narrow escape. I couldn't possibly let myself be related to a Gavin.’ Sean didn’t so much grin as grimace. ‘Talking about relations, I got a call from Joey yesterday; before I got too pissed.’

  Pat winced. Joey and Mike McGuire were his cousins. They’d left Belfast soon after peace broke out. Nowadays they were using their paramilitary skills to run a business in Bradford. Sean was one of their best customers.

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Nothing to do with the past, so don't panic. It was only a sales call. Or as near a sales call as he's ever likely to make. Credit must really be crunching in Drabford, eh?’

  ‘What was he selling?’

  ‘Just about everything you can think of. He even offered me two of those shoulder rocket things.’

  ‘Do you mean RPGs?’

  ‘No, proper rockets in tubes; they’re lots more deadly.’

  ‘Did you buy them?’

  ‘Not yet. We're going to see him next week. Well, I am; you'll probably be out buying rolls of wallpaper with DeeDee.’

  Pat ignored the dig. ‘I can understand business being slow for the McGuires, but what do we want more guns for? You haven't got a new deal over the Moss, have you?’

  ‘Not yet I haven’t, but Joey's no mug. Before we even started talking hardware and money he told me his competitors are selling to Williamson, and big-time at that. Apparently they've got plenty of new bodies in, Bubbles is back with a wooden leg and good old Harry's hot to trot.’

  Hearing anything about Harry Williamson always depressed Pat. ‘That bastard's like toothache,’ he said. ‘You reckon he's getting ready for us?’

  Sean shrugged. ‘Who knows? That cunt can certainly hold a grudge. When my head stops throbbing I'm going to work out how strong we are compared to last time . . . and the time before that.’ He laughed. ‘Joey offered to hire me Mike at two grand a day. If it comes to a fight I might take him up. Just word of it will get Williamson shitting his pants. Failing that, I'm going to buy those rockets and go after him mano-a-mano. Maybe that's the way we've always been supposed to end; me killing the twat, hand to hand.’

  ‘Tell me when you’re getting it on,’ Pat said, ‘I'll come along and hold your coat.’

  ‘No need; you'll already be there, mano-a-mano with Bubbles.’

  Pat scowled. When Jonjo Blake had been younger he had had curly blond hair, like the boy in the old soap advert. He'd been known as Bubbles in rugby circles, but only by enemies, because he hated it and going bald before he was twenty hadn't helped. Using the nickname to his face hadn't been advisable for a long, long time. Sean knew this, of course, and never called him anything but.

  He got up to leave but Sean called him back. Unusually self-conscious, he said: ‘I need a favour, Pat old pal . . . old buddy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I need to clear my head. This throbbing, you know. I can't think straight. Have you got any magic dust?’

  ‘You mean coke?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sean, with a shit-eating grin.

  ‘After all the holier-than-thou crap you've given me over the years?’

  ‘Yeah, well, this is a one-off. The Underberg's woken me up and got rid of my hangover, but it doesn't help me think, like your stuff will.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Pat said mercilessly. ‘You renounced everything stronger than grass in 1902.’

  Sean looked more self-conscious than ever. ‘One of the girls had some. She shared a line with me. I'd forgotten how clearly you can see afterwards.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Right now you need to see clearer than ever.’

  ‘Yeah; it’s purely for business reasons.’

  ‘Business reasons my arse! This is a one-off, right?’

  ‘Too true it is. I’ll never ask again. And I’ll stop giving you grief.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when it happens.’ Pat slid a cellophane envelope across the desk. ‘For Christ's sake don't use it all at once. There’s enough to last you a week.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Sean said. Then, resorting to type: ‘I hope you're not giving my sister any of this.’

  ‘Two answers to that,’ Pat growled. ‘One: Dee is a grown woman who will do whatever she likes, bugger what you want. And two: I would never, ever give that stuff to anyone who's never had it before. Not even you.’

  *****

  Normally Moggs could have put the good things about Kyle Cassidy on the back of a first class stamp. Today, though, he didn’t seem so bad. He was still a twat, obviously, but not quite as much of a twat as he’d thought.

  ‘Was that all right for you?’

  Moggs grinned in reply. ‘It was fan-fucking-tastic. Those three must have cost a packet.’

/>   ‘Don’t worry about it. Consider it my treat.’

  ‘I was doing.’ Moggs couldn’t help laughing at his own wicked humour.

  ‘Want another blast?’

  Moggs allowed himself the briefest of hesitations. Then, laughing again: ‘Sure, why not?’

  They’d been on a job for Sean in Bradford . . . or, as the man himself would have said, Drabford. A simple collection that had gone smooth as could be. A perfect, end-of-the-week outing that didn’t involve violence or even mild threats. Their contact had even been waiting for them, cash in hand, eager to pay. After two nights swimming, drinking and whoring, a nice and easy job had been exactly what Moggs had needed.

  Kyle’s mood had been good too, to say he hadn’t been invited to Sean’s spur-of-the-moment pool party. Instead of heading straight back to civilization he’d driven them to a big, Victorian-looking house in a surprisingly well-preserved part of town. Then grinning, he’d said it was time to meet “the girls”.

  ‘Who are the girls?’ Moggs had asked.

  ‘They’re friends of mine. I’m having my party now,’ Kyle said. ‘You can come with me or wait here. But I might be all afternoon.’

  Inside the house was set up like a hotel, except without any apparent staff or guests. Moggs guessed it was some sort of knocking shop, but at first hadn’t seen any whores. The only people there apart from themselves had been three young lasses who looked like students, sat smoking and idly drinking in what seemed to be a shut-down bar area.

  It had been more or less dinnertime when they got there. Moggs had felt out of place to begin with, but Kyle quickly introduced “the girls” and they quickly produced an amazing selection of booze and soft-to-hard drugs . . . including the sort of stuff Sean heavily frowned upon.

  Not H, but practically everything else.

  ‘This is our free time,’ Kyle had said. ‘We’re away from home. And what happens away from home stays away from home. Is that right?’

  Just then, before the girls got really friendly, it hadn’t seemed “right”. But Kyle had had the car keys and he was trying to be matey for once . . .

  And two nights whoring or not, those student-types were seriously hot.

  So Moggs had nodded and said okay and within an hour they’d all become best mates. Half an hour after that, when he’d started to wonder if sex was going to enter into proceedings or not, the one calling herself “Cher” had asked him to show her more of his scars. Right there in the shut-down bar area, while the other three carried on chatting and ignoring them, Cher had skilfully extracted his old man then blown him for what seemed like a year.

  Memories wobbled a bit after that. He didn’t think it was the booze (which he was used to) as much as the drugs (which he wasn’t). But it had been somehow low key and almost innocent for all that . . . and it had been as friendly as could be. Cher’s mates called themselves “Misty” and “Trixie” and they both sort of complimented each other by contrast. He couldn’t exactly recall when Cher dropped out of the action, but would never forget bleached-blonde Misty tipping startlingly white powder on Trixie’s ebony skin.

  Or the kick he’d got snorting it off her.

  Unlike Cher, Misty and Trixie had happened in the privacy of a bedroom . . . if three on a bed could ever involve “privacy”. Moggs supposed Cher and Kyle must have stayed in the bar or gone somewhere else to entertain each other. He was glad about that, even if he’d missed getting fully inside Cher. Less of a twat or not, he wouldn’t have wanted Kyle to know what Misty had made him do . . . twice.

  They were back in the car now, Kyle behind the wheel. His knuckles were scraped and bruised, as if he’d been recently fighting. That wasn’t anything new; his knuckles were always scraped and bruised.

  Moggs took the fresh blast then leant back in his seat and closed his eyes. The world was spinning slowly. It felt good. In fact everything about the universe felt good.

  And warm.

  And mellow.

  ‘Are you okay to drive?’ he wondered.

  ‘I’m cool,’ Kyle replied. ‘How are you? Are you okay to talk?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Moggs, still with his eyes shut. ‘What do you want to talk about, Trixie’s lovely black lips?’

  ‘No mate. We’re going to talk about Sean. Okay?’

  ‘Sean?’ Moggs chortled. ‘He’ll go up the wall if he finds out.’

  ‘Sean isn’t going to find out anything. Away from home stays away, remember?’

  ‘Don’t think I’ll remember anything in the morning. It’s . . . it’s like drowsy. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, by tomorrow you’ll have forgotten everything about Trixie’s snatch . . . and Cher’s mouth. And whatever the fuck Misty did for you. We’ll all have forgotten. Because we were all in it together, right?’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Maybe it is. But remembering about details doesn’t matter, does it? You’ll know you got pissed and fucked. What more do you need?’

  ‘I want to remember Trixie. She was fun.’

  ‘Talk then. Tell me.’

  ‘Tell you about Trixie?’ Moggs could feel the creases on his forehead; they seemed like furrows cut in a ploughed field. ‘Shit. I’m forgetting her already. She has a nice arse, I remember that.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Kyle. ‘It’s the stuff you took. It does that.’

  ‘What did I take?’

  ‘Don’t worry; nothing too nasty. It was harmless coke with just a sprinkling of truth drug.’

  ‘It was truth drug?’ Moggs sniggered. ‘Don’t tell me you’re with the KGB.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve got at you with Soviet booze, fanny and truth drug. Now you’re going to tell me just everything you know.’

  Moggs opened his eyes. Saw a suburban street lined with parked vehicles but no people.

  ‘Posh bit of Bradford this,’ he said. ‘The pros are all indoors.’

  ‘Forget the pros. Tell me about Sean.’

  ‘Sean?’ Moggs felt a sudden and amazing urge to talk. He knew lots about Sean Dwyer, more than anyone else on the planet. He could go on Mastermind with Sean Dwyer as his specialist subject.

  ‘Yeah; tell me how Sean did the McGuires’ safe.’

  Moggs’ laugh was rich and enormous. It boomed out, resonating through the car’s metalwork.

  ‘Sean wasn’t even there.’

  ‘Who was there, then?’

  ‘It was Tinner and Angel.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s right. Sean told them what to do. They did it.’

  ‘Who did the safe? It can’t have been either of them. Was it Arthur Laing?’

  ‘Christ no; Arthur was well out of it.’

  ‘Who was it, then?’

  In a distant part of his brain Moggs knew he was talking too much. And to somebody he should never be talking to. But that urge was irresistible. He was the expert on this subject and needed to please. He also needed to show how clever he was.

  And besides, Kyle was right. Come tomorrow morning everyone would have forgotten all about it.

  ‘They got this guy in special,’ he began. ‘A safecracker from Burnley . . .’

  *****

  Dr Brown arrived at Ferrands Terrace in a surprisingly upbeat mood. Geoff thought perhaps he was glad to be out in the real world for once. Or perhaps he was anxious to keep in Penny's good books, doctors being educated, wise and all that. After the smallest of small talk he asked Geoff for his version of events and, with Penny listening carefully, he obliged.

  The GP hummed and hawed a bit then, after shining a penlight in Geoff's eyes, asked if he'd banged his head during one of his recent falls.

  ‘No,’ Geoff said. ‘And I've only fallen once.’

  ‘Have there been any other falls? Ones you might not have associated with this condition?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I have never been surer in my life.’

  ‘And you haven
't bumped your head any other way; when getting out of the car, for example?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mrs Rodgers, do you think your husband could have bumped his head and somehow forgotten it had happened?’