The Norway Room

by Mick Scully

  Carrow was back. The city hadn’t changed. Why should it? It was only a year. No: all the changes were his own.

  Copper – no more.

  Highly paid bodyguard – no more.

  Jamaican beach bum – no more.

  Grieving son – well he’d take a check on that.

  Was he unhappy? No. Happy? Well he’d take a check on that too.

  But the night was good. The dark wet cold Birmingham night. He’d stepped outside the Norway Room to breathe the city’s damp air – to mix it with some nicotine. A month ago he had been breathing the salty Caribbean winds of Bluefields Beach. But he was glad to be back. The muted throb of electronic music seeped out through the old walls of the Norway Room, something to keep him company beneath the blue lamp.

  He inhaled. Good. But a spliff would be better. And a woman. He looked at his watch. Three a.m. The time door duties slowed down. No one would mind if he went for a shufty round, see what he could fix up. He’d be back at the door before four – throwing-out time.

  A nurse. Perfect. ‘Ruthie,’ she said. And he knew he was in even before she said ‘I’ve got a weakness for black guys.’

  And she obviously had. He noticed the framed photograph of one with his arm around her on the sideboard as soon as she led him into her flat. ‘Is he yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Ruthie put the picture in a drawer. ‘Away for a bit.’

  ‘Inside.’

  ‘Inside,’ she repeated.

  The next day when the time came to leave – toast, coffee, cigarettes all finished – he didn’t want to go.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  The question surprised her. ‘Howard. Howie.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Another three months. If he behaves.’

  ‘I’d like to come back some time.’

  ‘Tonight if you like.’

  ‘I used to be a copper.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Thoughtful. ‘I can see that.’

  It was blatant – these things always are. The Rover snails up Firth Street. Eases to a halt outside the Norway. Empties four Chinks. All in suits. The lanky one pulls the gun. Carrow feels it jab into his forehead before his vision can focus the moving object.

  ‘The boss.’

  No point arguing. Day eight, Carrow thinks. Eight days here, and now I’ve got a gun slapped into my head. He drops his cigarette. He understands the score. He is not in danger so long as he obeys instructions – at least that’s what he tells himself. He turns. Slow. And easy. Leads them in. ‘It’s okay’ – he nods to Mia at the desk – ‘they’re with me.’ Round the dance floor. Up through the Oslo Lounge. He feels like a boxer on his way to the ring for a prizefight, flanked by his entourage. Along the corridor. He stops at Stretton’s door. The gun comes out again. Rests on the back of his collar. Kisses his neck. He bangs his fist on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ Bad-tempered.

  Carrow tries the handle. Unlocked. Opens the door. Stretton looks up from his desk. Counting cash. Trudy side-on to him doing the same. The gun slips from Carrow’s collar to rest on his shoulder. Stretton’s fingers leave the notes. He leans back in his chair. Takes in the picture in his doorway. Not too surprised it seems. Trudy stops counting. Reaches out to a cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. Hard blue eyes. Scarlet fingernails, with glitter. Slowly she brings the cigarette to her lips. Cool, Carrow thinks.

  ‘Go and have a drink, Carra,’ Stretton says. ‘Take Trudy with you.’ The gun slides from his shoulder. The Chinks shuffle a path for them to leave. He hears the door slam shut. Trudy leans against the corridor wall. ‘I’m staying here,’ she says. Still smoking.

  At the bar he orders a Bacardi. Ice and lime. Thinks Jamaica. Thinks Bluefields Beach. Thinks Fort Clarence. Tries not to think of his mother. He takes a hefty slug. Toga comes across. ‘What’s goin’ down?’

  ‘Search me. Gun in my head and they want the boss.’

  ‘Dragons.’

  ‘I thought this place was clean.’

  ‘It is.’ A sneer curves his lips. ‘Must be business. I’d heard there was a spot of interest. Takeover.’

  Danger. It was in the way he kissed her. That’s how you know. Especially on the second night. The kissing. And touching. Slow. Smiles and sighs. That’s dangerous.

  ‘Old people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you like it?’

  ‘I’ve done all sorts. You have to. A&E. Gynaecology. Intensive care. But I’ll stick with this. Geriatrics. It’s what I like.’

  When he’d first seen her, dancing in the Norway Room, she’d been in a silky black dress. Now he thought nurses’ uniforms. Imagined her in one, pushing a wheelchair. He didn’t want to see what was in the chair.

  It was more than lust. Or there was an interceptor. A feeling that he wasn’t looking for. Not right now anyway. He’d had enough of feelings. But it was there. She played with his ear. ‘I’ll see you around,’ he said.

  It was inevitable that Carrow would come across some Birmingham faces here on the door at the Norway. They had their own pubs, places like the Little Moscow in Tyseley, the Last Morsel in Aston and the Earl in Newtown, but the younger guys liked a night out in the clubs as much as anyone. And there were the opportunities: watching; checking out what was what – something to take back to the boss; networking. Then, his third Saturday in, he sees Kieran and Pricey from Crawford’s mob lining up to come in – all nicely dressed and well behaved. They recognised him. A sort of nod from Kieran. Now he wasn’t the law it seemed he could at least be acknowledged.

  A little later Kieran came up to him. ‘Crawford heard you was back. Dutchland didn’t work out then?’ Carrow said nothing. He saw Pricey lurking in the background. ‘I suppose he thought you’d go back on the force. But it looks like you’ve decided against that?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He didn’t add – for now.

  ‘Well, Crawford would like a word. It’s no good asking me what about. I don’t know. He could be offering you door work at one of the clubs. But I doubt that, somehow.’ Kieran took a card for the Spotted Hippo from inside his jacket. On the back was written a mobile phone number in blue biro. ‘Give him a ring. Make an appointment.’

  The Spotted Hippo at eleven in the morning – dull and dingy. The scarlet stage curtains, rich and vivid in stage light, were just garish in the gloom of the standard overhead lighting that exposed stains on the carpets, cigarette burns on tables, brown plush seating the colour of dried blood. The glittering poles were pointless without their female pendants. The bars that edged the room were shuttered and locked. A strong smell of air freshener. Two heavy-eyed young women pushed Hoovers around.

  The guy who had let Carrow in – all bouncer gear, at this time in the morning – led him through the club to Crawford’s office.

  Stretton’s office at the Norway was a grubby, windowless little room. Crawford’s office was spacious and light; you could see the Rotunda from a tall window behind Crawford’s desk.

  Crawford had a reputation for being immaculately dressed, the price he paid for suits. Today it was a blue suit, white shirt, red silk tie. He rose beaming, arm outstretched. ‘Mr Carrow. Good morning. It is Mister now, isn’t it? You’re not working undercover for Dowd, or anything like that?’ He laughed, but it was only just a laugh. Sean Dowd had been Carrow’s boss on the force, another man known for being well dressed – and for his ruthless ambition. Quite similar, Dowd and Crawford; just on opposite sides of the line.

  ‘It’s Mister. Carra to my friends.’ He’d see what he made of that.

  Crawford led Carrow to a pair of leather armchairs and a small table that held an open pack of cigarettes, a couple of lighters and a glass ashtray. ‘I was sorry to hear about your bad news. Your mom. Especially coming right on top of the Holland business.’ Carrow was taken aback. How the hell did he know all this about him? Holland, yes. It had been in the papers here. But his mother?

  Crawfor
d lifted the cigarettes, selected one and put it in his mouth. He lifted the packet to Crawford, like a tennis player showing new balls. ‘Fag?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Crawford lobbed the pack towards Carrow.

  When both men had lit their cigarettes Crawford started. ‘Why I’ve got you in here Carra is to offer you a little job. Nothing to worry about. It’s all legit. Just because you’re no longer in the force doesn’t mean you’re not the same honest bloke you’ve always been.’ He looked hard at Carrow. ‘You know I’ve either got an interest in, or own, quite a number of the clubs in the city centre?’

  Carrow nodded. He could have said, And those you don’t own are paying you protection, but he left it, for now. Just see what the man was up to.

  ‘Now a place I’ve had my eye on for some time is the Norway Room. Your own place of work. Negotiations with Stretton are in the very early stages. He’s a wily bird. You don’t know him very well yet, but believe me he is. This little incident last week with the Chinese, he said nothing to me about it, I’ve had to discover it through other sources. But I hear you were involved.’

  Crawford leaned forward, put his cigarette in the ashtray, put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands. A friendly smile on his face. ‘In the drawer of my desk over there is an envelope with two grand in fifties in it. It can be in your back pocket in five minutes. What I want is information. Nothing more. The Chinese turn up I want you on the mobile straight away. That’s another thousand. Also any comings and goings.’ Carrow was about to speak but Crawford cut him off. ‘The reason I’m dishing you such a payday is because you’re experienced enough to know exactly what I mean by comings and goings. You’ll be well paid for anything you put my way. All I want from you is information. It’s not going to lead to anything unsavoury, and even if it did there is no way you would be implicated.’

  So there it was. Carrow knew now what Crawford was after. It was a job offer – of sorts. And he knew pretty well immediately that he was likely to accept. If he was going to stick around at the Norway and take the risks, he might as well make some money out of it – and Crawford was offering big bucks. He wasn’t getting into anything he couldn’t get out of. He could sniff a few things out for Crawford, go along so far, then cut out if necessary. Crawford knew that with his connections on the force anything seriously over the line could go to them, so he wasn’t likely to try and push him into anything technically unlawful. So why not go with it? It was a boring job most of the time at the Norway and this would make it a bit more interesting; a lot more lucrative anyway.

  ‘It crosses the line and I’m out.’ Carrow waited. Crawford nodded. ‘But if it’s just information – well, I’m happy to oblige.’

  ‘Good man.’ Crawford stubbed his cigarette and rose. ‘How was home by the way?’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Jamaica.’

  ‘Home is here, Birmingham, where I was born and raised, just like you. But Jamaica was good.’ He phoneyed a Jamaican accent. ‘Excellent, mon.’

  Crawford dropped the envelope on the table. This felt like a scene from a film. Was Crawford going to ask him if he wanted to count it? He did, which made Carrow smile. ‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ he said.

  How many actors had bagged good paydays saying those words?

  ‘I’ve a feeling some of the gangs might be trying to get a toe in as well as the Chinese. Not for the place, they’re not in that league, but on the supply front. What’s it like at the moment?’

  ‘Pretty clean. Some punters doing coke in the toilets, but not much and definitely not bought on the premises. Never seen any evidence of weed or ganga. And certainly not crack.’

  Crawford nodded. ‘Okay. But you know the crews. Dobermans. Newtown Aces. Any of them turn up for a night out, let me know.’

  Crawford rose. ‘Come over here.’ He beckoned Carrow who followed him over to his desk. ‘I would also like a call’ – he pressed a couple of keys on his laptop – ‘if this girl turns up one night.’ And there staring out at him was Ruthie.

  10

  Call it instinct. The car turned the corner at Pinks. That’s when Carrow knew. No time for language – a grunt alerted Toga. Nearside rear passenger window descending – fast slow motion. A gun barrel. A fucking shotgun. Two shots. Roaring through the streets. Roaring up into the sky. Everything shuddered. His ears burnt as the car squealed away. But – he was still standing. And so was Toga. Standing together in silence. The doors flew open and the guys piled out. Neville and Sylvester. The two Lukes. Matty Fallon.

  He went away – for a minute. A high. I am not dead. He wanted to weep. Toga grabbed him. Rested his head on his shoulder. ‘Man.’ He let his head touch Toga’s. They had survived together.

  ‘Man,’ Toga repeated. A whisper. Hoarse. ‘That was close.’

  The other guys whipped about them, running this way and that. Toga crouched down. Touched the pavement where a bullet had struck. Felt the shape of the scar.

  It’s an empty club except for Carrow and Toga sitting at the bar with cigarettes and beer. A novelty – smoking inside. Against house rules, doormen smoking in the club. No music. Another novelty. No bass pounding away. Stretton told them to stay behind after he’d finished his little pep talk to the team.

  He’s got everything under control, he says. This won’t happen again. ‘I’m taking the initiative from now on.’ Neville looked as if he was going to say something, but didn’t. Trudy came round with little envelopes. Her lips high-gloss pink. Her eyes swimming-pool blue. She looked only at the envelopes. ‘Carra and Toga, you two hold on,’ Stretton said. ‘I’ll sort you out myself. Pour yourselves a drink. I’ll be back.’ Everyone knows these two are in for a bigger divvy. And why not? Fair enough. They danced with the bullets, so why not?

  Stretton turned up with two wads. Dropped them on the counter. Naked fifties held in a blue rubber band. He pulled himself a whiskey from the optic. ‘It’s a grand each, lads. And like I said to the others, double time for the next few nights.’ He knocked back the whiskey. Stretched to the optic for a refill. ‘Just till I can get some hardware in.’

  ‘Hardware?’ Carrow was shocked.

  ‘Just a couple of straps lurking in the background.’ The second whiskey went where the first had gone, just as quick. Stretton sighed. ‘I’ll rent. From someone who’ll put the word around. Let the Chinese know what they’re taking on.’

  Toga lifted his bundle of notes from the counter. Slapped it hard into the palm of his left hand. ‘This here’s appreciated, Mr Stretton.’ His voice was slow and deep. ‘But this,’ he waved the notes, and the blue snake tattooed the length of his left arm slithered, ‘double time, treble, whatever. One of us takes a bullet in the eye – it don’t mean a thing. I know what you said. And I know it’s true. If they’d been out for a kill they’d have made one. This, tonight, sounds like it’s just putting on the pressure. Step by step.’ His finger ran across the top of the bundle of notes, fanning them. Making just the smallest breeze. ‘Yes. I’m sure that’s true. But, what’s also true, Mr Stretton, for me at least, is that that don’t make me feel a whole lot better. When the bullets come flying in my direction.’

  They’d taken a few bottles and a little weed back to Toga’s place on the Mendy. Seventeenth floor of Elgar. Neither wanted to go home alone. Or sleep. Or be inside. So, sitting wrapped in overcoats on the balcony, with the booze and the weed to keep them warm, they watched the night. The scattered lights of the estate, chains and rings, and other shapes. The changing shade of darkness as behind the tower blocks the night progressed to dawn. Black became blue became a paler blue. Purple appeared, became red, orange, yellow. It wasn’t dissimilar to a dawn sky Carrow had seen in Jamaica, or to one Toga had seen in Guyana. Here on the Mendy? In winter? A secret. Just these two guys in their tower block knew about it.

  ‘You thinking of turning it in then?’ asked Carrow.

  ‘Tonight was close. But there’s too much money starting to flow to quit. And things can change
fast. Opportunities for the sort of dough we pocketed tonight don’t come around every night. Stretton won’t want to lose us. Tonight’s hardly the sort of induction that’s going to encourage new staff to stay.’

  ‘But what you said about the dangers.’

  ‘Sure. You have to weigh risk against money. But the Chinese aren’t stupid. People start getting killed and the whole city becomes a crime scene. Everything tightens up. On all fronts. This is just manoeuvres.’

  ‘You talk like it’s a war situation.’

  Toga took his big arms up behind his head. Looped his fingers to a cradle. Spread his legs. Like he was taking his ease, looking at the sunrise. Like he was far away from the Mendy watching the sun come up in Georgetown. He smirked. ‘No, this ain’t no war. Not yet anyway.’

  11

  With some real money in his back pocket for the first time in ages, Carrow intended his first job to be to look for a decent flat, get out of the Hockley dump he was in. But since the night of the Chinese attack he had gradually moved in with Toga on the seventeenth floor of Elgar.

  Perhaps it was going home alone in the early hours, but inevitably as they made to leave at the end of their shifts at the Norway Toga would ask him back for a drink or a smoke, or both, and he would end up crashing there for the night, sometimes two or three nights in succession, leaving stuff there – I’ll collect this next time – until eventually it was obvious that he should give notice on his own place and bring his stuff over. Not that there was much of that. He had learned to travel light.

  Travel? He thought he had come home. Leaving Jamaica after a final visit to his mother’s grave, a final drink in Jake’s Place looking out at the sea and the sun, looking forward to going home – coming home – here to Brum. But now he wasn’t so sure. Did it feel like home? As much as anywhere could, he guessed.

  So, why the restlessness? After the gun attack Stretton had brought in an armed team, which seemed to have done the trick. There had been no trouble from the Chinese since. But there was still a lot of tension, everyone alert, waiting for something to kick off, wondering what would happen if it did. The tension extended to off-duty time too. Made you watchful, wary. He and Toga were keyed up, checking everything, ready.