Sonny the youth team street worker had popped in for this particular staff meeting as he sometimes did. Sonny, who had become a bona fide mate, was well…sunny. An always welcome source of respite from the meetings’ frequent bursts of ponderous worthiness.
Sonny took the empty seat next to his. His missus was expecting their first born and they chatted briefly about that and then they moved on quickly to a spate of muggings that had flared up on the Barrington Estate. The Barrington was a colossal shithole, a peripherally located mini town with the ambience and crumbling infrastructure of a dystopian, sweat-soaked nightmare.
Pauline called the meeting to order as Geoff, the Centre’s coach driver ambled into the room mumbling slightly red-faced apologies for his tardiness. Nobody was that mithered, the Centre had yet to embrace anything within sniffing distance of the ‘corporate’ model and thank fucking Christ for that.
They did the round the table thing and the talkers took the opportunity to talk and the rest did a quick, cursory pass the parcel. Tommy spoke a little about the literacy group and the need for some new sports equipment which brought a slight frown of worry from Pauline so he didn’t press on it. He thought about mentioning next week’s ‘safe rave’ at the Centre but he didn’t want to open that particular can of worms either. Too many people were prepared to share their opinion on it and in this instance he was soliciting brevity not a talk-a- thon.
His mind drifted as the staff continued round the table. He’d get down to the Crown later on. Catch up with the old man for a couple then maybe pop into Piccolos to round the night off. He corralled Sonny after the meeting to see if he was up for it but Sonny declined the invitation
‘Like to bro, but, you know, Estelle. She likes having me home, now it’s getting close.’
Tommy had been back for well over a year and he was still struggling to find regular playmates. Years spent away had seen all the old gang inevitably paired up and settled down. A couple of them had moved away though nobody had gone as far as he had. Twenty years was a long, long time.
These, he knew, had been predictable drifts in a place that was still a rough facsimile of what he had gladly left behind. Now here he was, back again; older, single, still jumping the hoops, still trying to stay solid and rolling on. Despite the passing of the years he remained ambivalently set apart from his birthplace. Sometimes, he could taste the loneliness in his throat. That was a feeling that a few beers could never quite wash away.
Darrin had hung around the station for a little more time than was his usual inclination. He was nursing a hangover that had left every cell of his body feeling dried out, frazzled and frayed. He got away with it for a while up until Thommo, the gnarled Welsh desk sergeant, had flicked a querulous eyebrow his way that was followed by a pointed glance in the direction of the reception’s wall clock.
He had a couple of follow ups to do, a young mum who had had her letter box vandalised and an old lady whose purse had been snatched in one of the supermarket car parks. The old lady’s description of her assailants didn’t bode well for an early collar; a pair of hoodies, low-rise denim jeans, one black youth, one white. The old girl was shaken though, she’d held on tightly to her bag making them work for it and she’d taken a tumble and banged up her knee. Turned out she wasn’t one of the ‘flog em and hang em’ brigade and she had even displayed a degree of compassion for the perpetrators that had made him feel like throttling the little fuckers. If he got the collar maybe he would put a little bit of hurt on them.
The mum was quite a tidy piece, she had a good idea who the culprits were and when she told him the names he realised that the kids’ families were known to him. He’d go up and have a word later although he knew that it would probably be as effective as plaiting sea mist. Still, it was good to have the chat, let the pricks know that they didn’t have carte-blanche.
He got back to the station to do the paperwork and to engage in some routinely unsubtle banter with Trish and Big Chev about last night’s shenanigans in The Ship. His hangover was just about on the ebb and the next blow out was already being planned. They’d start at The Ship, have a few in The Moor Hen then end up in Piccolos, the late night place just off the High Street that was owned by a pair of shirt lifters.
The crew had to cherry pick the pubs they frequented, if there was enough of them it didn’t really matter but any small groups had to plan ahead and use a bit of common sense, they were known after all, and not everybody in town had the plod on their Christmas card list. He pencilled himself in with the caveat that he’d get down to the old man’s gym for a work out first. Boozy benders had put the start of a belly on him over the Christmas and New Year and his dad hadn’t let that go without comment. There were plenty of examples of the Ghost of Christmas Future knocking around the station and, besides, what self respecting bird didn’t like the look and feel of a well toned six-pack.
He had been teamed up with one of the experienced detectives to do some door knocking about the muggings on the Barrington. A couple of the incidents had been nasty - much more assault and battery than anything else. They had pulled up at the estate’s dingy looking row of shops and their arrival was sullenly scoped by a group of Barra’ boys who were hanging out near the entrance of the launderette.
By the time they’d climbed out of the car most of the kids had turned their backs, the lads slightly raising their voices in order to share their limited command of the English language with them. The D was an old lag with a rep for business-like toughness and he didn’t even bother looking over in their direction. He made a point of eyeballing a couple of the young ‘uns and his challenge had elicited laughter from the group. Darrin felt his face colour and the tension rise in his back and shoulders, but he didn’t push it. He caught up with the D in a few long-legged strides. Later, he thought, later.
Pasquale had got into school today - no problem. He’d got there because his mum had dropped him off at the fuckin’ school gates. He’d landed back home at around eleven last night. He’d sent her a text about seven but had ignored her subsequent responses, eventually turning the mobile off just to get her out of his head. He’d been smoking with Matt and Junior pretty much all of the afternoon and for most of the evening too. He was well battered. They had headed out for a kebab, too skint to score any more weed and then they had gone back to M’s for some more Grand Theft Auto. Matty only had the third one but he was talking up being at the front of the queue to buy the new one.
She’d gone ballistic when he made it home, coming out of the lounge room at him like a bat out of hell. She’d caught up with him just as he’d placed his foot on the first of the stairs. She must have been sat there in the dark and silence waiting for him, fucking mad she was. At first he thought she was going to hit him, that was something she hadn’t done for years and he was surprised at his reaction to her anger. He’d instinctively pulled back from her with a jolt of fear. But, as usual, her concern had outweighed her anger and, after a lengthy bollocking, she’d made them both toast before insisting that he go up to bed.
Now here he was, stuck in this fucking dump of a school. Apart from the late morning history lesson with O’Donnell he’d been bored absolutely shitless. He’d always liked Donno, a big bluff Glaswegian, who effortlessly handled the kids whilst bringing the subject alive. Last year, Pasquale had done a project for him on Scott’s South Pole expedition and he had been given the best marks in the class. He’d really pulled that out of the bag - writing the assignment as a diary illuminated with sketches. O’Donnell had been that impressed that he’d taken it off to show the other teachers, some of whom had shown it to their own kids. He’d been a fucking star for the rest of that week. Today was a monumental drag but at least the fit girls in the class were a distraction and there were more than a few of them to perv at.
Anyway, he’d be out of here next year right enough. He, M and Junior had a plan to make some readies. The three of them were putting down some rhymes together. They were always up fo
r it but they often ended up too blasted to really get it together and whatever they tried was usually lost in a fit of giggles and piss taking. They nailed it sometimes though - for real. He’d keep it low key for the next few days at least until she cooled down. She’d come round, she always did. After all, she was his mum.
Tommy’s old man was at the bar when he walked into the Crown, holding court with a small gaggle of his cronies in attendance. Mick may have been physically diminished but, in his cups, he was as verbally robust as he’d ever been. A break in the juke box roar gave him the gist of the conversation.
‘Free trade, free trade,’ Mick opined, ‘what’s so fucking free about it. Bending over for t’ rich and powerful they mean… fucking wankers.’
Yep he’d heard that one before - plenty of times. He agreed with it too but he wasn’t in the mood for the splenetics, not just yet. Mick’s Think Tank nodded along in easy unison; Nev, an easy going beta male who was an old mate of his dad’s from the Union days, Teddy Black, a ruddy faced scowler who only smiled on public holidays and Danny ‘Drink’ Gorman who looked plastered enough to nod along in agreement to Pol Pot.
He stuck his name up on the board and fed some coins into the jukebox, wryly noting that none of his selections had been penned after the turn of the millennium.
Just as he finished his choices there was bit of a commotion behind him at the tight entry doors of the pub. A few youngish scallies had rolled in. They were travelling abroad by the look of them, down here from either the Coleshaw or the Barrington. They were loud enough, with plenty of piss and vinegar, but they were also savvy enough to tread a little lightly. The Crown had plenty of old school in it, ever ready to defend its shop worn honour.
There was a middle-aged guy with the crew, somewhat incongruous compared to his younger mates; nice clobber, a nifty pork pie hat, untrimmed sidies that were worn a little long and sharp, shrewd eyes that gave the pub the once over with a look that was as light and unobtrusive as a zephyr. He gave one of the lads, a slightly mad-eyed fucker with full feminine lips a twenty and nodded him towards the bar. Tommy briefly locked eyes with the stranger and the guy smiled at him, a pleasant, no sweat grin that set off a dim distant echo of memory.
Nugget Dawson came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder - it was his turn on the pool. Tonight he was in the mood for it and well on form and he kept the table for a good hour. The old man had sent a pint his way and he’d reciprocated. The stranger and the shell suits had had a drink and fucked off, probably gone down into town looking for action that they would probably find.
His old man had quietened down by the time Tommy made his way to meet him at the end of the bar. Nev gave him an easy smile and Danny burbled a greeting and proffered a warm, clammy handshake. Ted Black had left the crew which suited him fine, Tommy found his company to be as refreshing and palatable as a bucket of slops.
His Dad pulled him slightly to one side just a little way from the others. ‘Yer clock that bloke, came in here before, with the young uns?’
He nodded, ‘yeah, I did, and?’
‘Gypsy Keith, Keithy Dalton - you remember him from bloody way back now?’
He did and the name still fitted the face. Tommy nodded at his old man
‘Thought you would, with that bloody memory of yours. Haven’t seen that fucker for nearly twenty years,’ Mick said, ‘he’s not changed no doubt. Trouble, he is.’
His old man was right about that, Keith Dalton; a connected drug dealer, fence, a card skimmer, a sometime bare knuckled fighter back in his youth and a reputed procurer of young kids. He had a colourful CV alright did Keithy. Tommy remembered that Dalton had gone away some time ago for a two year stretch, sent down for glassing some guy in that poxy old pub near the central railway station. But that had to be a fair time ago now. He’d have a chat with Sonny about it next time they caught up. Keithy might be clocking on a bit to be involved with the street stuff. But, given the company he was still keeping, who knows?
Tommy got a text around half ten. Chris and Jimbo were in Piccolos. Did he fancy it? It was only a ten-minute cab ride away. The bar was home to a mixed straight and gay crowd - what passed for the city’s bohemia. And there was always more than a smattering of talent in there. He had a quick one with the old man and told him of his of plans.
‘Piccolos,’ Mick vented, ‘bloody Piccolos, a bloody wine bar! Ten bob millionaires and over priced piss.’
Mick wouldn’t be joining him then. ‘Be careful in there Tom,’ Nev offered, ‘you don’t want to have one of those el-o-el- a- la Lola - moments.’
They had a good laugh at that, although it crossed Tommy’s mind that a few of the Piccolo trannies were convincing enough to have turned plenty of heads in the Crown. He kept that thought to himself, there were audiences and there were audiences.
The cab quickly arrived, the driver calling out his name as he walked in through the doors. He necked his Guinness with a couple of hungry gulps and made his way out. As he did so he overheard Danny commenting to his old man.
‘He’s reight your lad Mick in’t he…sorted like.’ From Danny ‘Drink’ Gorman there was no higher compliment.
Darrin’s dad had worked him hard on the pads for nearly half an hour and then the crew had worked him over with pints and chasers in the cop friendly boozers around the centre of town, and down along the rough holes on Argylle Street. At Trish’s suggestion they had ended up at Piccolos. She seemed to love hanging out with gay boys and the drag queens. He’d only been in there with her the one time before, just after their festive shag and he had spent an arse clenching hour making sure that the shirt lifters weren’t checking him out. She’d disconcerted him further by telling him in front of a couple of her gay mates that she was a queer man in a woman’s body - the three of them laughing uproariously at his ill concealed discomfort. All in all it had not exactly been conducive to a relaxing night out.
He was glad that he had given it another go though. It had been more of a mixed crowd last night, the place packed but refreshingly good humoured. He had to admit there was some quality skirt in there too. Barnesy had teased him a little about going over to chat with a couple of drag queens and he’d held Barnesy’s eyes a little longer than usual to let him know that it would be wise to drop it. Turned out that Ged Keegan, who was in the bar when they had arrived, knew the ‘girls’ in question and Ged had silently took Barnesy at his word and ambled over to chew the fat with the gaudy pair. That move had left Barnesy a little querulous and wide-eyed - rocking the skinny, bandy legged fucker’s world right enough. Keegan had leant in close to the pair to make himself heard over the babble that bounced off the low ceiling of the bar. A nudge, a wink and that irritating thing he sometimes did whenever the crew were out on the piss - twisting his closed hand in front of his nose along with a pursed lip look in Darrin and Barnesy’s direction had set the pair off. The two of them laughing like a pair of drains, as lady like as a pair of old school tag-team wrestlers. Keegan, according to Trish, was mates with the owners; a couple of blokes that had previously owned a ‘celebrity’ hair and beauty salon down near the city’s coach station. Darrin never knew where he was with that ham-hocked fucker, who didn’t need to be chatting up a couple of drag queens to be disconcerting. Keegan had been a detective, a very successful one at that, for twenty plus years now. The brass gave him plenty of leash and he had the rep of a one man wrecking crew - plenty of beef yet very light on his feet. A formidable fucker was Ged, always comfortable in his own skin, seemingly relaxed and easy going but with the unmistakeable purr of a big engine. Darrin had to work hard at just appearing to be himself whenever the big man was around.
He’d also caught a glimpse of Tommy Cochrane. Tommy was still looking good, chilled and at ease, out and about with a couple of his mates. His dad still mentioned Tommy now and again. The old man had known the Cochranes since Tommy was a nipper. He was thinning a little on top but yeah, he looked good, colour in his face and plenty of size in
his shoulders and chest, it looked like he still had plenty under the hood too. Trish had broken the train of thought - his pencil sketches of handy, capable middle-aged men. She’d grabbed his arm and swayed into him, pulling him into the circle to make him listen to another one of Choppy’s slightly off colour jokes.
Come one o’clock and he had been more than ready to pull the plug. He was working tomorrow and starting to flag after a long day and a busy week. Barnesy was on next day’s early shift and he needed no persuading in joining him to make tracks and they had left the joint together. Darrin was hungry and the kebab shop on the High Street was just around the corner from the bar, but there was too much of a queue in there to justify the wait. He’d do a couple of those mini pizzas when he got home.
They made their way up to the top end of the street, dodging through the still surging hordes of the marauding piss heads. They walked up the incline to the Maria that was parked across the middle of the road making sure that there would be no through traffic. It was pedestrians only on the Golden half-mile of the town’s boozy epicentre on both Friday and Saturday nights.
Travers, Sarge Collins and Jolika were guarding the van. The three of them had drawn short straw duty tonight. Out of politeness and comradeship, he and Barnesy chewed the fat with them for a little while and Jolika had given him a couple of nice smiles, which made him forget about the mini pizzas for a while. Apparently, it had been a relatively quiet night, which explained why the three of them looked so chilled out. There had been one dust up in the nearest taxi rank but the taxi marshalls had pretty much nipped that in the bud. Although, as Travers pointed out, the marshalls themselves could be cause for plenty of concern. It was too cold to be hanging around. His feet were starting to numb and they said their good nights and made their way back to the nearest rank. A couple of blowsy, pissed up girls were already in the queue and the marshalls briefly interrupted their wit and repartee with the lasses to gave them their due nods of recognition and respect.
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