Bring it Back Home

by Niall Griffiths

  BRING IT BACK HOME

  NIALL GRIFFITHS

  ACCENT PRESS LTD

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2007

  ISBN 9781435611030

  Copyright © Niall Griffiths 2007

  The right of Niall Griffiths to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid-Glamorgan, CF46 6SA.

  The Quick Reads project in Wales is a joint venture between the Basic Skills Agency and the Welsh Books Council. Titles are funded through the Basic Skills Agency as part of the National Basic Skills Strategy for Wales on behalf of the Welsh Assembly Government.

  Printed and bound in the UK

  Cover Design by Emma Barnes

  Bring It Back Home

  Chapter One

  Lewis sat at the bar of the empty pub, a shot of Bell's whisky in front of him and a bulging rucksack at his feet. A cigarette burned in an ashtray, he stared at it for some time, at the fiery red tip and the blue smoke rising towards the ceiling, before taking a last drag on it, mashing it out in the ashtray and gulping the raw whisky which burned his throat. He coughed and looked around him, at the empty pub where he'd worked for nearly three years. At the beer-pumps he'd pulled, at the optics he'd emptied and replaced a thousand times. At the cigarette machine, the fourth since he'd started working there – the first three having been damaged beyond repair by kicks or crowbars worked up inside them to get at their contents. At the sticky carpets and yellowed walls bearing pictures of the Queen.

  Time to say goodbye to it all. Time to let it go.

  He got off the stool, leaned down and hoisted the rucksack onto his back, grunting at its weight. Who'd've thought that money could be so heavy? It's just paper. As he turned to go he saw the pub door reflected in the mirror behind the bar swing inwards and a stocky baseball-capped figure come in.

  'Closed,'Lewis said. ‘Sorry. Don't open till eleven,’

  ‘Oh what a shame,' said the figure and Lewis, with a heavy heart, recognized the voice. ‘A man can't even get a drink in his own fucking pub. Terrible state of affairs, that. Something should be done.'

  'Cakes,'Lewis said with surprise. ‘Today's only Tuesday. Wasn't expecting you til tomorrow.'

  ‘Need some money, don't I? Got a bit of business needs sorting out. The none-of-yourkind of business, before you ask. What's in the rucksack?'

  Jonathan'Cakes' Cunningham; so called because, as well as the Queen's Head pub they were standing in, he owned a bakery and that's how he moved his drugs around London, hidden in confectionery. Couriers would drive cream sponges across the city, hollowed out inside and filled with powder. Or boxes of éclairs concealing clingfilm-wrapped bundles of pills. Shaking, skinny, spotty people would come into the bakery and purchase doughnuts at ten or twenty pounds each, a small envelope hidden where the jam should be. And as well as the bakery and the pub and the drug dealership, Cakes also owned a group of men loyal to him and the wages he paid them. All of them would happily use knives, even guns, on anyone Cakes told them to. And as well as the bakery and the pub and the gang of vicious men, Cakes also owned a terrible temper, a black rage that made him famous around King's Cross. People would whisper that he knew where bodies were buried. That he'd put them there. There was a rumour that Cakes once used his bakery's mincing machine to dispose of a victim, and the sausage rolls and pasties from there tasted very strange for a month or so. An old granny, enjoying her meat-and-potato pie lunch, had chipped her tooth on a wedding ring. Such were the stories that were attached to Jonathan 'Cakes' Cunningham.

  'I said, what's in the rucksack?'

  Lewis's mouth had dried up. His hands were shaking slightly.

  'Just some washing,’ he said. 'Machine's on the blink. Need to go to the laundrette.'

  Cakes ducked under the bar flap and disappeared. Lewis knew what he was doing; he was opening the safe which was set in the floor behind the bar. Except he wouldn't, at the moment, need the combination.

  'Ah well,'Cakes's voice came up from behind the bar. ‘Make sure you're back for opening time. On the fucking dot. I heard that you were late opening yesterday and – '

  There was a half-empty bottle of Bells on the bar. Lewis reached for it and held it by the neck like a weapon.

  '– and that means I lost money. And if there's one thing I hate it's losing money. It'll come out of your wages. I…Why's this safe open? Where's the fucking money gone?'

  Cakes rose up from behind the bar and as soon as Lewis saw his baseball cap he brought the bottle down onto it, as hard as he could. It didn't break but there was a terrible THUNK noise. Lewis felt the impact in his shoulder and Cakes went back down behind the bar as if shot. Lewis raised the bottle again and waited for Cakes to re-appear and when he didn't he leaned over the bar to look. Saw Cakes, on his back, his eyes rolled to show the whites. For a horrible moment Lewis thought he might be dead, but then he saw Cakes's chest rising and falling so he dropped the bottle and hoisted the heavy rucksack back onto his shoulders and ran.

  He made for the nearest tube station but suddenly it seemed very far away so he hailed a taxi instead. He could afford the fare, now, and could even afford to leave a tip for the driver at Paddington station where he bought a ticket, one-way, for the next Swansea train. It wasn't leaving for an hour, so he went into the station bar and bought a pint of lager and a whisky nip and sat in the corner facing the door so he could see who came in. His hands shook as he raised the drinks to his lips and they only stopped shaking after four drinks: two pints and two whiskies. The rucksack he held on his knee, protecting it with an arm as he might protect a child. His knees twitched. He chainsmoked cigarettes and drummed on the tabletop with his fingertips and his nerves screamed. He thought of sausage rolls that dripped blood. He thought about cutting into a pie and finding his own eyes staring out at him. He thought of Cakes, big man Cakes, and his fury when he regained consciousness, and when the Swansea train was announced over the tannoy Lewis ran onto it and found a seat. Only when it began moving was he able to relax again. As he moved out of London he felt himself calming down. Felt his heartbeat returning to normal.

  He took out his mobile phone and tapped a number into it. The Old Man answered.

  'Hello?'

  ‘It's Lewis. I'm on the train and I'm coming home. I'll be there in a few hours.'

  'You okay, son? You sound upset.'

  ‘I'm okay.'

  'You sure? You don't soundokay. What's wrong, boy?'

  ‘Nothing, nothing. I'm fine. I've just…'

  ‘Just what?'

  'Nothing. I'll tell you when I get there. In a few hours.'

  ‘Okay, son. Bring yourself back home. It's been too long.'

  ‘I've just…'

  ‘It's okay, Lewis. Whatever it is, bring it back home and we'll sort it out.'

  Lewis hung up and sat back to stare out of the window. The Old Man's voice echoed in his head, which was spinning due to the booze. He thought of green hills and small white houses. He thought of his mother's gravestone in the churchyard on the hill that overlooked the village – he thought of his brothers and he thought of Manon. More than anything he thought of Manon, her skin and her smile and h
er eyes. He thought of Cakes and the Queen's Head pub and London and how happy he was to be going away from all of that. He'd never go back there again.

  Tiredness came on him. His eyes started to close. He put the rucksack on his knee and wrapped one of its straps tightly around his wrist. He leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. By the time the train reached Reading he was fast asleep, dreaming of the place he was aiming for, the place he still called home.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Can you believe it? He hits me – me– over the head with a fucking bottle. He's taken every last penny from the safe and fucked off and I know where he's gone – back to bleedin' Wales. Taffland. Mark my words. Can't believe the fucking cheek of him. Thinks he can get away with this, does he? With this?'

  Cakes removed his baseball hat and leaned to show the raised lump on his shaven skull. The size of a plum beneath the skin. Same colour as a plum, too. The three men around him looked and tutted. One of them, the one the others called Daft Larry, touched it gently; Cakes yelled and leapt back.

  ‘Fuck's sakes, Larry! I didn't say to touchthe fucking thing, did I? How fucking stupid areyou? See how you like it, eh?'

  Cakes grabbed Larry in a headlock, picked up a rolling pin from the counter-top and thwacked it hard four times on Larry's skull. Larry screamed loudly. Cakes let him go and he scurried into the corner by the bread-slicing machine. He crouched down behind it, holding his head in his hands, and whimpered.

  Cakes regarded him with disgust and shook his head and then looked up at the other two men, Scottish Jim and an older man called Smith. Smith was carefully inserting small bundles of plastic-wrapped pills into hollowed-out scones.

  ‘I'm sorry for what happened and the boy needs to be taught a lesson right enough,’ Scottish Jim said, ‘but what do you want us to do about it?'

  ‘Do? It's not what I wantyou to do but what you're going to do. Both of you.'

  ‘And that is?'

  Cakes leaned back against the fridge and picked up a Bakewell tart. He bit into it and pulled a face. He spat half-chewed pastry out onto the floor and then threw the rest of the tart at Daft Larry who howled again and shrunk further into the corner.

  ‘Tastes like shit. No sugar in it. Who made that? That brain dead dickhead over there?'

  Smith shook his head. ‘No. I did. You never said anything about making the cakes tastegood, boss. I mean, nobody's going to eatthem, are they? Not thisbatch, anyway. And sugar costs money. That's what you said.'

  Cakes stared at Smith until Smith looked away and then he said:

  ‘Right. This is what's going to happen. I'm going to Wales to find that thieving bastard Lewis. It'll take me –'

  ‘How will you do that, boss?'

  ‘What?'

  ‘How will you find him? I mean, how'd you know where he lives?'

  ‘Oh, I'll find him, don't you worry about that. I'll find the fucker. Follow him to the fucking moon if I have to. But it's going to take me a couple of days, and in the meantime here's what you're going to do.'

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

  ‘You're going to bake me a wedding cake. Big one, three tiers, loads of icing. Little bride and groom on the top of it. Here's a list of the ingredients. Special ingredients.'

  He gave the list to Jim and both he and Smith read it together. Smith gave a low whistle and Jim raised his eyebrows.

  'You sure about this?'

  ‘Never been surer.'

  ‘I mean, this is a lot.'

  ‘I know that. Got to make it worthwhile, tho’, Jim, haven't I? Got to cause a lotof trouble. Not going all the way to Wales to just mess about, know what I mean?'

  ‘Okay. You're the boss.'

  ‘And don't you everfucking forget it.'

  Cakes pointed at the piece of paper in Jim's hand.

  ‘At the bottom of that list is an address. I want the cake delivered to that address at three in the afternoon on the day after tomorrow. Understand?'

  ‘How can we do that?’ said Smith. ‘Post Office can't guarantee time of delivery, can they?'

  ‘Then use Parcelforce or something, shit-for-brains. Jesus, pay a fucking cabbie to take it if you have to. I don't care as long as thatcake gets to thataddress at thattime on thatday. Three o’clock, day after tomorrow. Understand me? Do what I pay you to do.'

  Both men nodded. Cakes went on:

  ‘Don't fuck up. ’Cos if you do I'll come back and I won't be carrying a bag of flour. '

  He picked a bag of self-raising from the counter-top and held it up in his hand to show the two men, then he threw it, with force, at Daft Larry. It struck the bread-slicing machine and burst and Larry howled again as the white powder covered him and turned him into a cringing ghost. Cakes again shook his head in disgust and left the bakery. He got into his van, started it up and headed westwards out of London.

  Chapter Three

  Lewis got off the train at Swansea, stood on the platform and stretched and yawned. People scurried past him and the accents they spoke in were pleasing to his ear; such a relief to hear them after the years of hard Cockney in King's Cross, or the hundred languages that weren't variants of English spoken there. He had a cup of tea and a KitKat in the station cafe as he waited for the Carmarthen train. When he was on that train he gazed out the window at the passing scenery and the expression on his face was a contented one. He got off at Ferryside and then caught a bus that took him up into the hills. He got off in a small village by a garage, streams of sparks lighting up the dark workshop. He took his rucksack into that dark workshop and a man in greasy blue overalls stepped out of the shadows beneath a car up on jacks. His teeth looked very white in his oil-streaked face as he smiled. Lewis and this man leapt at each other and hugged and Lewis yelled:

  ‘Robat! Brother!'

  ‘Aw Christ, Lewis. The Old Man said you were coming. Great to see you. Is everything okay? What brings you back?'

  ‘I'll tell you later. Where is he?'

  ‘Who?'

  'The Old Man.'

  ‘He said to call him when you got here. You give him a ring and I'll go and get us all a bit of dinner.'

  Robat left the garage and Lewis called the Old Man. When Robat returned with bags of food from the chipshop, they set up a lunch table in the garage office – a pot of tea and a plate of white sliced bread, salt and vinegar and ketchup and four packets of fish and chips. The third brother, Marc, soon appeared and greeted Lewis with a hug and a slap on the back and as they sat down to eat the Old Man appeared too. He stood at the end of the table with his big beard and halo of thin hair shining whitely in the gloom. He and Lewis did not hug, they merely exchanged nods.

  ‘Hello, son. Journey okay?'

  ‘Yes.'

  ‘That's good, then.'

  They sat and unwrapped their food parcels and steam rose in a vinegary whiff. Lewis poured four mugs of tea and passed them around. Hands reached out and took slices of bread and folded them around chips. The ketchup bottle was passed around and squeezed and dispensed sauce four times with four farty noises. The men ate in silence. Only their slurps of tea and wet chewing sounds hung in the oily air. And the slight cracking noises as they broke crisp batter on fish with the edges of forks.

  After ten minutes or so the Old Man crumpled his empty wrapper into a ball, burped and sat back in his chair. He linked his hands across his bowling-ball of a belly that pushed out at his faded checked shirt. He worked a piece of food out from between his front teeth with his tongue and chewed it and swallowed it. He stared at Lewis. Lewis stared back and then looked away. A shred of golden batter was caught in the Old Man's beard like a fly in a web. He said:

  ‘Lewis. Here he is back from London with his tail between his legs, no warning, no explanation. Tell me now, boy – should I be worried, or what?'

  Robat and Marc stared at Lewis. They both took packets of tobacco out of their breast pockets and rolled cigarettes, even though the Old Man tutted in disappr
oval at their doing so. Lewis shook his head.

  ‘I don't think so, no. They're never going to find me here, are they? All they know is that I'm from Wales. They haven't got a clue where I live.'

  ‘"They"? And tell me, who are "they"?'

  ‘Well, Cakes Cunningham and his boys. Y'know Cakes? Remember me telling you about Cakes back when I first started working for him?’

  The Old Man nodded. ‘The feller with the bakery and the pub?'

  ‘That's him. It's not justa bakery, tho’…'

  And Lewis told his family about Cakes's illegal operations, about the drug-running, and about the violence that he was willing to use on those who threatened his business. About Scottish Jim and old Smithy and Daft Larry, a mentally-retarded young man whom Cakes treated as a kind of clown or dog to taunt and kick when he was frustrated. And he told them about stealing Cakes's money and what he was intending to use it for – but he didn't tell them about needing to whack Cakes over the head with a whisky bottle. That seemed to be a detail that his family didn't need to know about.

  They listened to Lewis's tale in silence and expressed no surprise, which surprised Lewis, in turn. Then the Old Man sighed and rubbed his hand across his face.

  ‘I knew no good would come of it,' he said. 'Didn't I, boys? Didn't I say no good would come of it all?'

  He looked at Marc and Robat who murmured and nodded in agreement but did not look at Lewis. Like twins they studied the ends of their cigarettes and Lewis reached for his tobacco on the table and rolled one too. The Old Man tutted again.

  ‘But, listen,’ Lewis said. ‘It was you who told me to go to London in the first place. After that stuff with Manon, remember? You told me to get out of the village. Go and disappear in the city. That's what you said.'

  'Yes, and why? Because Manon's dad was on the bloody warpath. He was going to tear you limb from limb and feed you to his pigs. It was for your own protection. Getting a sixteen-year-old girl pregnant, what were you thinking of?'