Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  Halfway up the road a white lorry with blacked-out windows pulled up at the lights beside them. In front of them a girl in a mini-skirt was waiting to cross the road and a load of banging started up inside the vehicle.

  'It's a prison van, ferrying people from Strangeways to the courts over there, 'Tom explained, pointing vaguely ahead and to the right. The lights changed and the van pulled away. Written into the dirt on its rear doors were the words, 'Crim Coach. Bad men insi-'The 'd' and 'e' of the last word had been wiped off by a handprint.

  It was a side to the city Tom didn't want his guests to see. As if on cue, Will said, 'Is there still a lot of deprivation in Manchester? Coming in on the train, outside of the pristine centre you're showing us around, there seemed to be a lot of run down and empty buildings. Ones with chimneys like in those Lowry paintings. They weren't being done up by any property developers.'

  Tom almost said that behind the nice building wraps, you're never far from dereliction in Manchester. Instead he parroted a politician's reply. 'Well, the industrial parts of the city undeniably suffered as manufacturing died away. But things are looking up, thanks to over two billion pounds of government, council and EU money.'

  Will was looking unconvinced as they reached Piccadilly Gardens. Tom gestured around. 'This was only opened four weeks ago. Once the Games start there'll be giant screens set up and carnival performers and street entertainers walking around. The side of Sunley Tower here,' he directed a finger at a tall thin building overlooking the gardens, 'will have a seventy-three-metre-tall image of an athlete hanging down it.'

  The two men looked around, James saying, 'And if we get the weather, that fountain will prove a hit.'

  They watched as dozens of columns of water began emerging from the flat, round surface of what appeared to be a large concrete disc laid over the lawns. Half a dozen soaking kids began screaming with delight.

  A hit with whom? thought Tom, choosing not to tell his visitors that, before being revamped, the old Piccadilly Gardens had been listed as one of Europe's top five spots for picking up rent boys. Already complaints had been made to the police about older men loitering in the new gardens, watching children playing in the fountain.

  Tom walked them over the lawns and on to the expanse of new paving interspersed with saplings and benches. 'This area is already popular with workers at lunchtime.'

  James looked down. 'It's lovely stone – swirling reds and greys. Such a shame about the gum.' 'The gum?' Tom looked down at his feet.

  'Those white blobs. It's chewing gum people have spat out. It's far worse round London. Mind you, these pavements are new. Give it a few weeks though...'

  Tom looked with revulsion at the paving surrounding them. Dotted here and there was the occasional circular shape of greyish white. He'd always been vaguely aware of the strange markings on the pavements, but had never realized until now that it was discarded chewing gum. He felt saliva flood his mouth and the blood drain from his face.

  To his side, Will said, 'They spend a fortune trying to clear it up. I think they should ban it like they've done in Singapore.'

  Tom cleared his throat. 'I imagine the council will keep close control. I know litter clearing is a massive priority with the number of visitors expected.' He looked around and lifted his voice. 'Shall we return to the office? I suppose it's time we got your bags and checked you in at your hotel.'

  James looked at his watch. 'You're right. So you'll pick us up at around nine? We can't wait to try out Manchester's nightlife. Canal Street is where it all happens, isn't it?'

  'Yeah, there are plenty of good bars there,' answered Tom, wondering if they knew it was the gay village.

  Back home he found a note in the kitchen. 'At my evening aerobics class. See you later.' He flipped the square of paper over and wrote. 'Out with clients, back who-knows-when. See you in the morning.' After heating up a meal for one, he showered and changed into a Ralph Lauren shirt and DKNY jeans then sat down to start signing off the internal expenditure for that week. Clicking open his briefcase, he stifled a yawn and began leafing through the pile of paper inside, looking for where he'd stashed the sheath of purchase orders.

  His eyes caught on a fax at the bottom and before he'd even read the first line, his head was in his hands and he was whispering 'Shit,' over and over again. In a gesture that combined despair with defeat, he drew his fingertips down his cheeks, pulling the skin around his eyes down and exposing the red insides of his eyelids. Blinking several times he looked back down at the piece of paper, suddenly feeling very tired. It was a reminder from Centri-Media telling him that, if he didn't immediately confirm their slot at Piccadilly Station for the X-treme chewing gum promotion, it would be offered to another company. He remembered shoving the papers in his briefcase before a pub lunch with his colleagues days ago. He hadn't looked at them since. Tom's eyes crept over the page to the date of the fax: it had been sent ten days ago.

  The energy seeped out of him and he sat back in the seat. He felt like he was sinking. As fast as he cleared jobs, more were piling up. The only thing to keep the pressure from totally stifling him was the thought of resigning in just a few weeks' time. He imagined the bonus that he was due – the key to his move to Cornwall. The clock in the corner of his computer screen told him it was almost time to go out and meet his clients, but all he wanted to do was slump in front of the TV or, better still, go straight to bed and catch up on his sleep.

  He stood up, raised a hand to his jaw and began massaging it, wondering what to do. There was nothing he could do but forget about the missed promotion until the morning and go and pick up his clients. Fatigue seemed to have suddenly rooted him to the spot. He reached up to the top shelf and felt around with his fingertips until he located the little plastic bag.

  Brain's words came back to him: 'Just a leetle beet, amigo.' He licked the very tip of one finger and lightly dabbed the powder. It clung to the moist skin like a dusting of mould. Licking it off he rubbed his tongue on the roof of his mouth savouring for an instant the faintly sharp taste. Then it was gone, diluted by his saliva. He swallowed and put the sachet back on the shelf.

  By the time his taxi dropped him off at the Malmaison a new lease of life was flowing through him. On the way he'd chatted animatedly with the cab driver about the forthcoming Games, the driver joking that if tourists wanted to walk through the likes of Beswick to get to Sportcity, the police had better form a corridor of officers the entire way or there would be the biggest mugging spree the city had ever seen.

  Tom found himself laughing as he walked through the smoked glass doors into the hotel lobby. Will and James were waiting for him in the bar so he sat down, took out his company credit card and enthusiastically said, 'Another drink before we hit Canal Street?'

  Five bars later and Tom was fairly certain his clients were gay. What had clinched it was Will's reaction on seeing the defaced CANAL STREET sign. Someone had scratched off the first letter of each word, causing Will to burst out laughing at the words 'ANAL TREET'.

  As ten o'clock approached James said, 'A friend of mine recommended a club called Cruise – is it near here?'

  'Yeah,' nodded Tom. 'Just over there. You want to go now?'

  'Sounds good,' replied James.

  They cut round the back of Bar Med, walking along the side of a deserted NCP car park towards the brightly lit rainbow banner hanging above the doors to Cruise. As they neared the club they could hear music thumping. Groups of immaculately dressed men were moving inside, the light colours of their clothes contrasting with the black suits of the bouncers. Stepping into the pool of light shining down from the lamps above the door, Tom saw that the pavement in front of the entrance was covered in a cluster of pale chewing gum circles. As he watched, a man approaching the open doorway paused to pick a piece of gum from his mouth and flick it away. Tom watched it land and then roll a few inches before sticking fast to the stone surface, glistening slightly in the bright light. Imagining the warm, slippery sen
sation of it in his mouth, his stomach contracted. To make it to the doors, he would have to cross the marbled patch of pavement.

  'I'm sorry guys – I ... 'He struggled for an excuse. 'I really need to call it a night.'

  He looked at their confused faces.

  'You don't want to go in?' asked James, frowning.

  'Is that all right? It's just suddenly caught up on me.' He reached into his pocket. 'Here, you two go for it. Have a good time.' He held out a fan of ten-pound notes.

  'Tom. 'Will stepped towards him with a patronizing smile. 'We're not a couple, you know. You won't be playing gooseberry while we snog on the dance floor.'

  'No, it's not that. Loads of my friends are gay.' He couldn't believe he'd just come out with that. 'As I said, I'm just knackered. Here – please take it; it's all on expenses.' He held out the money but James waved it away. 'Not if you're not coming in with us. We'll pay our own way, thanks.'

  'OK.' Tom knew he was breaking the cardinal rule of client entertainment by not being the last to bed. 'What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?'

  'Ten?' said James, already moving away from him.

  Unable to step any closer to the gum-spattered area in front of the doors, Tom could only stand where he was and weakly call out, 'Have a great time!'

  Chapter 11

  1 November 2002

  Jon shifted the shopping bag to his other hand and looked at his watch. 'I'm not going to make this. McCloughlin wants to see me at 11.30. If I walk with you back to Piccadilly station, you can get the train home and I'll get a cab over to the nick. Is that all right?'

  Alice linked her arm through his. 'Two whole hours of shopping; I should count my lucky stars I've had you this long.' She looked up into his face. 'You're going to be buried in this new investigation, aren't you?'

  Jon looked away, eyes on the passing traffic. 'Not necessarily. There are some promising leads.'

  Alice squeezed his arm. 'Jon Spicer, the only time you agree to go shopping with me is when you're trying to atone in advance for something.'

  Jon thought about the coming weekend. He'd already made himself unavailable for Cheadle Ironside's match on Saturday, receiving a load of grief from the coach when he did. He was fairly certain their plans to go walking in the Peak District with his sister on Sunday were going to fall by the wayside too. 'OK, yeah. You might be having Sunday lunch at the Nag's Head Inn without me.'

  She pressed her head against his upper arm. 'There'll be other weekends when we can do that.'

  He put his arm around her and hugged her close, thankful as always for how understanding she was. But a small part of him quietly whispered, Will she be this reasonable if there's a baby in the house?

  Jon stared down at his feet. 'I'm going to miss Ellie again. I was looking forward to seeing her.'

  'What about if we invite her round tonight? She hates being stuck in on her own on a Friday. I'll get a video and stuff.' 'Nice thinking. I'll try and get away at a decent time.' He pulled his mobile out and dialled. 'Ellie, it's me, Jon. How are you doing?'

  He could detect the forced cheer in her voice as she claimed that she was fine.

  'Listen,' Jon continued. 'I'm caught up in this new investigation, so probably can't make Edale with you and Alice this Sunday.'

  'Oh,' she said, voice now small.

  Jon continued quickly, 'What are you doing tonight?'

  There was silence as Alice waved at him vigorously. 'Just ask her!' she silently mouthed.

  Realizing his question had put her on the spot, Jon said, 'How about coming round to ours? Alice will get a video and curry so we can just take it easy.'

  Ellie pretended to think about it for a second. 'Yeah, that sounds great. Cheers.'

  'OK,' said Jon, winking at Alice. 'By the way, I'm going to be flitting round the city centre. You want me to get you anything from that delicatessen you like? Some of that Aussie chocolate – what's it called, Violet Crumble?'

  There was a smile in her voice as she said, 'No, you're all right. But thanks for the offer.'

  Mary Walters smoothed her bedcovers down and straightened up. One by one, she picked up the soft toys from the bedside table and placed them carefully on her pillow. The routine was a daily one, largest bears at the back, leaning against the headboard, smaller ones at the front, leaning against their larger companions. Sometimes she would swap the smaller toys round a bit, just to give each one a front-row view of her bedroom.

  Satisfied with her arrangement, she turned her back on their collection of sweet faces. In the hallway she went through her coupons and vouchers, deciding that she would visit Netto later to cash in her discounts on Robinson's Barley Water; even though the sunny weather was long over, the taste would remind her of the summer. She thanked the Lord for little pleasures like that.

  Now in her front room, she peeked out of the window at the yard behind her flat, face squirming with distaste at what she might see. But, to her relief, no used condoms were stretched out on the asphalt like huge albino slugs. Her sign had really worked and she thanked the Lord again.

  At the table she sat down, knowing there were a couple of hours before her friend Emma arrived. She began sorting through the notices for the forthcoming play at Sunday school. Noah's Ark. It never failed to get the children excited, all the pairs of lovely animals trooping on to the cardboard ship, blue sheets ready in the wings for when the flood waters began to rise.

  She glanced at her watch and, as if on cue, the doorbell rang. Mary looked round the curtain and saw a man standing on the top step. He was wearing a suit and holding a briefcase. He looked just like one of the men she went knocking on doors with, handing out the Lord's magazines. As she opened her front door to him, he smiled and said, 'Miss Mary Walters?'

  Jon and Alice continued their walk up Portland Street. As they drew level with the Yates's Wine Lodge, Jon said, 'Let's cut round by the law courts – it'll save us a few minutes.'

  He moved the shopping bag back to his other hand, examining the ruts the thin plastic handles had gouged in his fingers, flexing them back and forth to help get the blood flowing again.

  'No pain, no gain, 'Alice joked. 'It'll be worth it, you'll see.'

  Jon looked into the bag at the juicer box inside. 'It had better, the amount it cost.'

  'You just wait – I've found this excellent recipe book. With the amount of healthy drinks we'll be having, there'll be no colds in our house this Christmas.'

  'No, just mounds of fruit pulp!'

  'There's even suggestions for juice drinks to combat cravings. Ginger, aniseed or wheat grass can all help, apparently.'

  An image of Alice as some modern-day witch dropping God-knows-what into the top of the appliance appeared in his mind. 'Hubble bubble,' he murmured to himself as they got to the corner of the law courts.

  Jon looked at the derelict building opposite, The Department of Employment. There's got to be some sort of irony in that, he thought, scrutinizing the court entrance as the last of another bunch of shaven-headed scrotes in shell suits shuffled inside for their hearing. They crossed the tram tracks curving away to Piccadilly station and Alice began examining the fly sheets that had been pasted on to the chipboards nailed over the ground-floor windows of the empty building. The council had been round making half-hearted attempts at peeling them away, but had only succeeded in ripping off the top layers and revealing what had been taking place on the music scene several months before.

  'Heathen Chemistry by Oasis,' said Alice. 'That bombed.'

  'Kylie Minogue's Fever Tour, the little minx,' said Jon looking at another. Alice punched him on the arm as he continued, 'David Bowie at the Move festival; we really should have got tickets for that.'

  'Yeah,' answered Alice, a nostalgic look on her face. 'The Thin White Duke – that brings back memories.' She snaked both arms round Jon's waist and pressed her body against his. 'In fact, one of our first ever snogs was to 'Ashes to Ashes'. Do you remember? Outside the scout hut disco?'

>   Jon smiled with the memory.

  'How about it? Just for old time's sake,' she asked mischievously.

  Jon looked around, seeing other bag-laden shoppers making their way back towards the station. 'Here? Now?'

  She pouted with mock petulance. 'You never kiss me in public any more.' She dropped her arms and walked away.

  They carried on, walking past the top of Canal Street and then along the side of the Malmaison hotel, crossing over London Road at the big set of traffic lights. The station's gently sloping approach road had only been properly completed in the weeks after the Commonwealth Games had finished – an attendant permanently stationed in a little hut at the junction prevented cars from trying to drive up what was now a road reserved for buses and British Transport Police vehicles. They slipped between the bollards placed across it, stepped on to the pavement and made their way up to the main entrance.

  In the tunnel below the station a tram slid to a halt and Sly stepped out on to the platform. He followed the other passengers up the stairs and then on to the shiny escalator, emerging in the main station area.

  Looking around, he saw that the interior had been carefully designed to make it hard for beggars to find places to sit. Shame, he thought, thinking about the money he used to make around the old station.

  Without consciously doing it, he began to scan the people around him, automatically looking for anyone not guarding their bags properly.

  Jon and Alice were standing at the departures board, trying to work out when the next train to Heaton Chapel was. Finally the display changed. 'Ten minutes,' Jon announced.

  'Great. Listen, I've got to have a wee; the toilets are over in the far corner now, I think. Wait here with the shopping.'

  'Go on then,' said Jon, putting the bag down.