by Peter Cocks
“Not the worst thing she’s had sprayed over her tonight!” Terry wheezed.
His date slapped him playfully and they roared louder. It was clearly not their first drink of the night.
“Anyway,” Terry laughed, “Sylv don’t drink much…”
The others waited in anticipation of the well-worn pub joke.
“…she spills most of it!”
Their mouths flew open in abandoned laughter, none wider than Barry’s. He shook his head and slapped his knee, mopping imaginary tears from his eyes, as if in disbelief that anything so funny could have been said, here, tonight, in his very own bar.
“Tell us one of yours, Tucker.” Terry nudged the other man at the table, who was more muted in his laughter.
“You know I ain’t good at jokes, Tel,” he protested. The girls egged him on, but he sat deeper in his chair. Terry seemed disproportionately disappointed that Tucker wasn’t joining in. The smile creases disappeared from the corners of his eyes and mouth. The women stopped laughing too.
“Tell us a fucking joke, Tucker,” Terry barked. “Tell us a joke. Now.”
Tucker squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, then pulled himself to his feet. “I’ll show you the one-eared elephant.” He looked eagerly from face to face for approval. The girls smiled, urging him on, but Terry’s expression was stony.
Tucker pulled the pocket of his trousers inside out and went to undo his flies. The girls laughed … the joke seemed to be that merely the suggestion of what he was about to do made it funny. Terry looked on, unsmiling.
“Go on then,” he said. “What you scared about, you knob? The cat got your dong?” He stared hard at Tucker.
“That’s the joke, Tel,” Tucker pleaded. “You don’t actually get the old chap out.”
“Do it,” Terry commanded.
Tucker swallowed hard and proceeded to unzip his flies, then limply exposed himself to the table – and anyone else who was brave enough to be watching.
Suddenly Terry burst out laughing, slapping Tucker on the back and shaking his hand. “You fell for that, Tuck!” he roared. “I was having a laugh!”
Tucker looked somewhere between tears and laughter, but managed to get a grip.
The party, and Barry, collapsed again into helpless laughter.
“Número dos!” Terry shouted, waving the empty Bollinger bottle at Barry. Barry flicked his fingers at me and I went to find another. Juana had it ready behind the bar.
“Who are they?” I asked. I already knew the type. I had hung around with plenty of them while working for Tommy Kelly.
“He’s called Terry Gadd,” she said, waving her fingers at her neck to indicate the mullet. “The one with the hair. He’s not a nice man.”
“I guessed that,” I said. I took the next bottle to the table. Barry patted me on the back and urged me to pour.
“Careful this time, Pedro,” he said. “Then get some food for this table. Tapas, olives, anchovies and that.” He followed me as I left the table. The Spanish couples who were eating inside were beginning to leave, annoyed by the raucous behaviour out front. Juana, everyone’s favourite waitress, cleared their tables with apologies and liqueurs on the house.
“Be very nice, kid – anything they want,” Barry confided. “No questions. Mr Gadd’s offered us a sweet catering job this weekend. Top dollar, champagne all night.”
I nodded, impressed.
“All leave is cancelled,” Barry slurred. “We’re going to pull out the stops and show them the kind of spread Jubarry’s can put on.”
“Sure,” I said. It was what I was here for, after all.
“It’s a birthday party.” Barry leant in close and I could smell sour, anxious shit-breath. “Someone special.”
“Who?” I asked, chancing it. I was right to try. Barry was pissed and full of it. He tapped his nose and held his finger to his lips in the way only drunks do.
“Mr Kelly.” He winked.
I felt myself go cold.
“Patsy Kelly.”
TWENTY-SIX
Donnie sat on his new information for a few days. Chewed it over in his mind, and then over and over again, until it was like a spent piece of gum in his mouth, lacking flavour, surprise or satisfaction. It had hardened into a chewy lump of fact, bound to be spat out at some point.
As the information became used and familiar, Donnie began to dissect Dave’s parting shot.
Be careful who you tell.
Dave must have known that there were very few people Donnie could share the news with. Who was he going to tell? A couple of nightclub bouncers? His ex-girlfriend? Cogs began to clunk into place and Donnie wondered if by feeding him the gen, Dave had meant Donnie to share it with the one big contact he still had. Maybe Tommy wanted Patsy to know that he was being moved to a less secure environment, and that from there he would be able to exert his influence more powerfully.
The thought firmed up in Donnie’s mind.
Get back in, Dave had said. That could only mean getting back in with Patsy. Eyes and ears. Reporting back to Dave. In with Tommy as well. All bases covered. Donnie felt the surge of a new mission begin to take hold.
He was sitting outside a backstreet café in the port. He’d finished his coffee and first brandy of the day and sat back, enjoying the sun on his face. He began to think that a line of marching powder might be just the thing to liven up another dull day in Paradise. Something to kick-start his mind and give him the confidence to think bigger. He shuffled in his seat as the waiter brought him another café solo and a brandy, crossed his legs and studied his shoes. He’d bought this one good pair since he’d been here. Light Spanish moccasins. They were expensive and the leather was soft enough to deal with his swollen feet – and the occasional crippling attack of gout in his big toe. He looked at the shoes, stretched at the toe joint, scuffed and beginning to go through at the soles. In a rare flash of insight, Donnie likened the shoes to himself. Quality – well made from good materials but beginning to get scuffed and battered through hard usage. Ready to be binned or repaired. Donnie was of the opinion that quality gear should be maintained and repaired. He always took his suits to the dry cleaners, ironed his own shirts and sewed on buttons where necessary, if clumsily. He was like that, he thought. Repairable. Just needed brushing off and dusting down to be as good as new. Back in the game.
That brandy was good stuff.
Encouraged by his train of thought, Donnie heaved himself out of the café chair and through to the lavabos at the back of the bar, where he unfolded a paper wrap and treated himself to a large line of the granulated white powder. He snorted it through a rolled ten note on top of the toilet cistern and wiped up the remainder with his finger, rubbing it across his gums. Hygiene wasn’t at the forefront of his mind.
Donnie unrolled the ten and slapped it on the bar on his way out. Seizing the moment, he took out his mobile and speed-dialled the number for Casa Pampas. Terry Gadd answered.
“Yes, Don?” he snapped. “What do you want? If it’s money, don’t ask. If you’ve had enough of the job, fuck off and your cheque will be in the post. Everything’s going jolly well and I don’t need you kicking off. Keep it tidy down there, mopping up the wallahs, and your position in the firm is safe. OK, Don? Nice to talk to you, you old c…”
Donnie was silent, his hatred for Terry Gadd hardening in his bowels. He let the silence continue.
“Well?” Gadd asked. Donnie’s silence had momentarily put him off his stride.
Donnie coughed. Put on his nearly-posh voice. “I would like to see Patsy,” he said deliberately. “On his own.”
Gadd was silent for a few seconds too. “It’s his birthday,” he rasped. “He ain’t seeing no one. There’s a photographer here. Celebrity photographer, from Lundun.”
It was as if the presence of a photographer superseded all other business. Donnie knew the syndrome. Tommy, if he had a weakness, was a bit infected himself. If anything showbizzy came his way – meeting a celebrity or
someone who had once been on telly or in the pages of Hello! – he went all soppy. A few years before, Tommy had had his photo taken at a do with his arm around the Scottish TV presenter Lorraine Kelly.
Crime had become the same as all other industries, Donnie thought. Celebrity endorsement would cure all ills.
“I think he’ll want to talk to me,” Donnie said, undeterred.
“Fuck off, Don,” Terry Gadd said.
The line went dead.
Deflated, Donnie, went back into the bar and knocked back the last of his brandy and coffee. Then his phone went off.
“What is it, Don?” Patsy’s voice.
“I got something I think you should know. Can’t talk on the blower.”
“Get a cab up here,” Patsy told him. “You’ve got five minutes with me. If it’s shit, you’re brown bread.”
Casa Pampas was full of noise and excitement. It was Patsy’s fiftieth, and there was going to be a bash the next day, Saturday. Donnie felt about half his normal size, diminished as he always was here, tiptoeing across the slippery tiled floor of the hall. Felt he should have taken his shoes off, like you did in posh houses back home.
There were kids in the pool this time, chaperoned by Patsy’s ex-wife Jacqui and her Botoxed mates. They were all blonde highlights, tits, legs and Liz Hurley bikinis, drinking around the pool. Either Jacqui hadn’t wanted to be in the photos or she hadn’t been asked. Donnie stepped into the vast living room that led to the poolside, where the shoot had been set up. A spiky woman with tortoiseshell glasses and a linen trouser suit shot Donnie a look that could have frozen molten lead at a hundred metres. She was running the set-up; clipboards, studio lights and bottled water. She looked completely out of place, but what she was being paid at London fashion rates, Donnie guessed, she wasn’t grumbling. She put a finger to her lips and Donnie stood silently in the background, as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit. The photographer, a complete, dyed-in-the-wool woofter to Donnie’s eyes, danced around behind the tripod with tousled hair and a white shirt open to the waist.
“Lovely, that’s great. Fantastic. Look to me…”
The lights popped and Donnie looked at Patsy, sitting on a designer throne-like affair with his three kids, Chantelle, Storm and Victoria, at his feet. Chantelle and little Victoria were dressed as fairies and Storm Kelly sported a tiny black pin-striped suit and a trilby.
Patsy was something else. Donnie could have sworn he was wearing orange make-up, and his suspicions were confirmed by the slight stain on the collar of his frilly white shirt. He wore a purple velvet suit and crocodile loafers with the distinctive gold Gucci snaffle glinting in the lights. Patsy shook his wrist to make sure that the Rolex with the diamond numerals got in the shot. His hair had been brushed into a smooth red meringue and he smiled, giving the full effect of white, American-style dentistry.
“Lovely, great,” the photographer said. “Got that. If the kiddies could change into the Bo Peep stuff, we’ll move on.”
Donnie thought it looked like a gyppo’s wedding.
The lights went dead and Patsy stepped off the set and came over to Donnie, looking like a cross between some poncey French king and Liberace.
“Birkin,” Patsy said. “Best photographer in the world, bar none. He only goes by the one name. All the best smudgers do that. He’ll get this in Vogue, Tatler, Vanity Fair, whatever. He’s done Naomi Campbell and the Queen. All legit, Don. Show the Russians we’ve still got it. Class.”
Donnie nodded. Tommy would never have allowed his celebrity photos to be published. They were for his study and for silver frames on top of the grand piano.
“Kids look lovely,” Donnie said. “And you look … special.”
Patsy gave him a glance, making sure he wasn’t taking the piss. Donnie gave nothing away.
“You got five minutes,” Patsy said. “While I get changed.”
Donnie followed Patsy to a bedroom, where another set of clothes were laid out. There was a tailcoat, silk waistcoat, buttoned breeches and buckled shoes. Donnie watched while Patsy stripped to his pants, looking almost vulnerable in frilly shirt and bare legs with socks.
“Well?” Patsy asked, struggling with his breeches.
“I got some information, Pats.”
“Where from?”
Donnie coughed, shuffled his feet. “You’ll understand, I have to keep my sources secret at this point, et cetera. But straight from the horse’s mouth—”
“Stop fannying about,” Patsy barked. “What?”
“I have conditions,” Donny chanced. Patsy Kelly stopped still and hoicked the breeches up to his waist.
“You’re priceless, Don, you know that? Conditions? You waste of space. Fuck off.”
Donnie stood his ground. “Nothing big, Pats. I just want to be back up here, in the firm. Not doing street-cleaning duties.”
“What have you got?” Patsy asked.
“I’ve got word from Tommy,” Donnie said.
Patsy paused for a moment while he considered. Donnie had his attention.
“OK, here’s the deal,” he said. “If what you’ve got is of the slightest interest to me, you can come back up here and lick my bath out every day. Clean the whole gaff up with your tongue. Deal?”
“Whatever you say, Patsy.”
“Give.”
“They’re moving Tommy from Belmarsh.”
Donnie could see from Patsy’s expression that this was news.
“When?” Patsy asked.
“Dunno yet. I can find out.” Donnie attempted not to sound eager.
Patsy Kelly thought for a moment. Put on the waistcoat. “OK, Donnie boy, I want a full report of whatever your ‘sources’ tell you. And I can find out who they are, so don’t muck me about, understood?”
“You got it,” Donnie said, swelling.
Patsy pulled the tailcoat over his shoulders, looking like something out of a Hollywood Dickens film. If they’d ever done the porn version. He went to a drawer in his bedroom and pulled out a roll of fifty euro notes, then handed them to Donnie.
“If you’re useful, I might reassign you some duties, OK?” he said. “Not a word to Terry or anyone. Don’t let me down, Don.”
Donnie nodded. Trousered the money. New shoes, he thought.
“Welcome back,” Patsy said. “Now piss off, I’m making movies.”
III
Tercio de Banderillas
Tercio de banderillas (“third of flags”). In this stage the three banderilleros each attempt to plant two sharp barbed sticks into the bull’s shoulders. These weaken the bull but also anger it, resulting in even more ferocious charges.
TWENTY-SEVEN
We were all at Jubarry’s by six in the morning on the Saturday, yawning and bleary-eyed. I don’t think Barry had been to bed.
Juana had been off the night before, but even she looked tired. There was a puffiness under her eyes and her hair was wet, straight from the shower, but she still looked lovely. Although I’d only known her a few days, she kissed me on both cheeks when I arrived, like an old friend. She made me feel safe and warm, in touch with another real human being. I realized I’d hardly thought about Sophie since I’d clapped eyes on Juana.
Barry jumped around the kitchen, twitching and coughing instructions, less than useless. He drank strong small coffees by the bucket load, which made him jumpier than ever.
Carlos seemed to run on different fuel from everyone else. Years of producing breakfast, lunch and dinner for hotels full of package tourists meant that a party for a hundred or so was a walk in the park for him. He’d been in the kitchen for forty-eight hours non-stop, making bread rolls, cold soup, vegetable stews and salsas that would form the basis of the buffet. The tourist slump had meant that Carlos could recruit a cheap army of freelance seasoned caterers for the day, making it look like Jubarry’s had a staff of thousands.
They grilled prawns, stuffed mussels, steamed clams, split lobsters and battered squid until there was an ocean of cold seafood
on platters, ready to go. The hake in green sauce and paella would be produced on-site.
Carlos ran around like a conductor on whizz, layering platters into the back of a couple of Transit vans hired for the occasion. Serious-looking Spanish women in black clothes clucked among themselves and tended the loading.
Barry, on his fifteenth fag of the morning, took me and Juana aside. “I want you two front of house. Meet and greet, make sure everyone’s got a drink, comprendez?” He took a deep pull. “Ninety per cent speak English, so you can do the how d’you dos and Carlos’s lot can do the service. Make me proud.”
Barry took a double vodka from the optic behind the bar, and seeing his hand shake I would have been surprised if he made it through the day.
Of course, I knew who Patsy Kelly was. And over the past few days I had found myself wondering whether I’d been planted here. Was it just a coincidence or had I been drawn, by my own stupid instinct, into the nest? No one had told me to come to Spain to begin with. I thought I’d come with Gav Taylor out of choice, but my paranoia made me wonder if there had been a bigger plan.
Fate? Surely not.
Coming across another member of Tommy Kelly’s family in my first week was more than coincidence. I had a growing feeling in my gut that I’d been stitched up again, so before I left that morning I’d armed myself with a handful of bugs, my mobile and the knife that I liked – well if not liked, the knife that made me feel safe.
With the food all loaded, we piled into the vans and several cars and drove across the motorway and up into the hills above Benalmádena, where Patsy Kelly lived, hidden away behind acres of olive trees and winding, rocky roads.
Casa Pampas wasn’t visible at first. All that grew out of the cactuses and prickly pears was a white wall, and all that could be seen at the entrance was a steel gate surrounded by cameras and barbed wire. The house was set back somewhere behind this barricade.
My heart started thumping as we waited for the gate to be opened. I was trying not to be overdramatic about it, but there was something almost symbolic in the gate: my portal back into the world of the Kelly family.