Cleaning Up
Page 13
She was a lot happier at the moment - humming and singing around the flat when she got home. Leaving him alone more and that was working for him. She’d promised him a meal down Chinatown next weekend on the basis that Tommy would be there too and he’d given her a cool yes, which seemed to please her no end.
He’d do a run in the morning, first up, get over to the Coleshaw about eleven and grab Junior on the way. Planning ahead, he thought, like a businessman. They were going to clean up.
He was back at the flat window on the Monday evening and Delroy was definitely in tonight, sounded like he had a couple of buddies in there with him too. Darrin could hear their low murmuring and volleys of laughter whenever the music shuddered to a halt. There was fuck all happening down the street, just a couple of kids knocking about near the pub, which was obviously quiet after a busy weekend. The pub was bleak and hard looking in the cool drizzle, the antithesis of good cheer.
At change over Darrin asked Johno if he’d seen Dalton’s car at all and Johno told him that he had. The guy had rolled up to The Admiral on the Saturday afternoon. He’d had a couple of hours in there this time.
He was still a bit sore from his salsa weekend and, for once, it was in all the right places. The weekend had been a blast, a church hall for the lessons and a nice club for the live band and dancing on the Saturday night. He’d pulled this big blonde from Hastings? Harrow? Darrin couldn’t remember which. She’d been a mover in the club and even more so in the hotel room and a couple of hours were spent bouncing each other off the walls. He’d grabbed her mobile number; she was well worth a return visit.
The lessons had been challenging, he’d held his hand up for the intermediates, which were being taken by this tall, athletic looking Cuban guy with a gap toothed grin and business like eyes. After a couple of minutes he had pulled half a dozen of them out of the class and he’d made them sit it out and wait for the next beginners’ group. Luis was crystal clear in his assessment of their skill levels.
‘You’re dancing something,’ he had told them, ‘but it’s not salsa.’
Jolika had given him a little encouraging smile as he’d made his way back to his seat with the other members of the rhythmically challenged posse.
Two hours later Luis had made them do the basic step for a full hour. Luis got the class to clap on the four beat as they rocked backwards and forwards. At least he managed to clap in time with his steps, a couple of the guys in the class were struggling to do that and their failure to do so elicited some amazed head shaking and whistling through the front teeth from Luis. Real fucking confidence booster he was, old Luis.
He’d been sweating like a horse after the hour but he had a few dances after the lesson and yeah, it felt better, Luis quickly proven to be right. He had more flow somehow. It looked like the thirty quid had not been wasted after all.
He’d mentioned the lack of current address for Dalton to Moz and suggested that some kind of tail should be put on him when he drove away from the Coleshaw. Moz had looked at him like he was a fucking loon.
‘You think they’ll sign off on that PC May, following a guy because he bothers to see his mum on a regular basis?’
Something had broken though, the boy in the hospital had given them a name of the older kid who had fired up the meth for him at the party, ‘Dagger’ or ‘Tagger’ the kid had said. The description was hazy but he was definitely a white kid. All the name drew, back at the station, was scratched heads, shrugged shoulders and blank looks - so the info was a hardly a case buster.
Wednesday, he took over from a tall young cop who’d just been transferred to them from down south somewhere. He had a similar kind of accent to the blonde that he’d banged. The bloke was pleasant enough and he didn’t even comment about the dancing when they shared a few perfunctory weekend stories, other than to say that he’d had a girlfriend who was into ballroom.
There was bit more action in The Admiral tonight, locals, just the scrag-enders though, no Johnstone, no Dalton.
Then just after nine the maroon Jag’ pulled into Oak - Dalton went straight to his mum’s place this time.
Fuck it, he thought, it was time to make something happen. He grabbed his coat, made his way out of the flat and the block and went hurriedly across to his Triumph, which he’d parked in a pool of light at the back of the single row of old folks’ flats that abutted the midrise.
Darrin was the last man on and he wasn’t in the mood for another hour of nut-scratching and chin pulling, more time wasted revising or not revising his plans for the future whilst staring down at people who had marginally more interesting lives than a fungal infection. He quickly drove round the front of the flats, on past The Admiral, Sycamore and then took a steady right turn into Ivy Close. He turned the car round at the end of the cul-de-sac and waited there just twenty or so yards from Oak Street, he killed the engine and waited.
It was touching eleven before Dalton’s car rolled on past his windscreen and he’d nearly missed it. He’d been fighting hard to keep awake after two sedentary hours, amusing himself with thoughts of the blonde and some half-formed, idle speculation, again, about where he was going to go with his career.
He gunned the engine and pulled out to the edge of Ivy waiting for Dalton to turn left into Strickland Road, before he pulled the car out into Oak. He hung well back and got lucky as a taxi picking up a fare from the Farrier’s chopped him up - two cars on the street and the fucker couldn’t wait ten seconds. It worked for him, though he now had a buffer between him and the Jag’. The Jag’ made a couple of turns which led on towards the Orbital and, thankfully, the taxi duly followed Dalton’s car. The three of them got onto the slip road and the maroon car had hit the motorway at pretty close to the limit. Darrin kept a reasonable distance back from the taxi which was cruising in the middle lane. The cab was now roughly equidistant between himself and Dalton.
Dalton went past the first three possible turns offs from the Orbital and then there was a quick blink of his left light as he neared the fourth exit, Keithy was off to the Quays then. The taxi kept on going straight and Darrin gunned it a bit, he didn’t know this area that well so it was going to have to be a bit of a wing and a prayer. Thankfully, the turn off proved to be pretty close to Dalton’s destination. Five hundred yards or so and Dalton made another left, he could see that the prick was talking on his mobile but maybe that would be distraction enough from the tail. He knew they were somewhere near the canal but he wasn’t quite sure where. Up ahead the Jag’ had braked and then Dalton made a languid turn into a wide brick archway that led into a complex of newly built town houses and flats.
Darrin drove on past the entrance, tracking the car over his right shoulder as he did so. It looked like Dalton was looking to park up as close as possible to the pool of light, which marked the lobbied entrance of one of the blocks of units. He kept driving for a couple of hundred yards then made a measured turn to pull up fifty or so yards before he got back to the arch. He got out of the car quickly but quietly, just resting the door against the jamb. He stilled himself and listened intently for a minute or two - nothing! The prick must already be inside the building.
He gave it a couple more minutes, leaning against the driver’s door and gazing over towards the city lights that lay a couple of miles to the east. Then he made his way over to the lobby nearest to Dalton’s car.
There were eight buzzers on the wall plate, no names next to them, just the flat numbers. He started with number one, no answer, there was a woman at home in two, he asked for Irene and she irritably told him no, ‘no Irene,’ he had the wrong flat, she snarled a parting ‘God’ in his ear. There was nobody responding in three or four either and then he got a pissed sounding guy in five - who told him with some slur and no little bonhomie that he couldn’t help him, ‘sorry chief.’ He rang six a couple of times and waited again, nothing, he reached for seven and the intercom crackled, number six was home.
‘Yeah’ - deep voice, local accent.
‘She’s not here son,’ number six responded, ‘but if you do catch up with her say goodnight from me.’ That was followed by a rich sounding chuckle. A real fucking joker was Keithy Dalton.
Darrin stood in the light for a while nodding to himself, number six. He’d got it, 6/4 Gloucester Mews, the Quays - a current address for Mr. Keith Dalton and a sizeable gap in the op now filled.
MAY
Tommy had planned to meet with the two of them on the edge of Chinatown on what was a lively Saturday afternoon down in the bustling city centre. He’d got down there early giving himself the time to take a walk through the heart of the city for a detour on over to the old red brick Victorian railway station. Just for old time’s sake and to look briefly at the commemorated gate that his Grandfather had marched through on his way to Flanders. He was down there a little longer then he had intended and he bumped into Lenny Cole. Lenny was an old work mate of his dad’s and was now only a year or so from retirement himself. They chatted for a while about all the changes both on the railways and beyond. Len was a big picture man and as hard-core militant as Mick. Time and old age hadn’t softened Len’s feelings about what he viewed as a betrayal of the men who had given their time and energy to the British railway industry.
‘I remember your old man on the picket line back in the eighties, for that local strike like. The rum bugger had borrowed your steel toecaps han’t he? Two sizes too big for him they were, curling up at the front like a pair of bloody bananas!’
They had a good laugh at that.
Tommy had been concreting at the time with an Irish crew that had a hand in motorway maintenance work, hence the work boots.
He remembered that his dad had asked him for a borrow of the boots on the Friday evening, as they were getting ready to go out for what would be a well earned piss up at the end of the working week.
‘Sure Dad, what’s happening, fancy dress is it?’
‘No you daft sod, they reckon the SPG are coming down to the picket line temorra to sort out the picket. If any copper puts their hands on me they’re getting one of those in the knackers.’
Tommy had grinned at that but he knew that there was no bluster there - Mick’s bite could be a lot worse than his bark.
‘They’re out there in the kitchen - all yours, with my blessing.’
Mick had only received meagre strike pay during the dispute and as the strike had dragged on he’d bunged his old man whatever surplus he’d had and they’d economised too; more nights in, no benders at the weekend and plenty of scrag end stew for a while.
They had been out on strike for nearly six months Tommy remembered, up until the combined forces of a splintering in the ranks and the privations of a tough winter had forced them back in. The rifts from the strike had created plenty of rancour in the community and there had been more than the odd punch up in the local boozers over it.
He looked at his watch, it was time to shoot off. He wished Lenny well and Lenny clapped him warmly on the back.
‘Say hello to the old goat for me.’
‘I will Lenny, get your arse up there some time - he’d love it.’
Lenny promised that he would and they made their separate ways. Lenny strolled off to the far end of the station to catch a train home and Tommy made his way back to the bustle and sway of the city centre.
They were waiting for him at the entrance to the restaurant, Donna with a smile but the kid looked as cloudy as a wet Wednesday.
He felt an inward sigh but kept the smile on his face.
Tommy gave the kid a present, a best of Gil Scott Heron CD. Hopefully it would help to school the little fucker a bit beyond the reading and writing lessons he was receiving at the Centre. At least the kid remembered his manners and brightened up slightly at the gift and gesture, although Donna seemed to appreciate it more than the kid did.
The place, a Chinese eat as much as you can joint, was busy and the food was better than average and the prices more than reasonable. They ate in a semi-comfortable silence that Donna regularly punctuated with questions that were directed to both of them. He’d never been a big talker while eating but he thought he’d help her share the load a bit. He asked the kid the right questions and Pasquale came alive for a while, talking about his plans to apply next year to the local art college. Tommy knew that they would look at school attendance when considering his admission and, unfortunately, that was going to make it tough for the kid. Over the last couple of years he’d been scarcer than the Scarlet Pimpernel.
She asked him if he’d like to come back to their place to have some cake and a cuppa with them. He didn’t particularly want to, he was finding the sub-current brittle, but he said yes, trying to keep it all on a nice footing, give her the moral support, show her what a decent cove he was. They had a little moment at the car, the kid had moved quickly to the front passenger door but Donna had evenly told him to get in the back. Tommy wouldn’t normally have been that bothered but the kid’s rudeness irked him and he made a point of reaching around him, opening the door and swinging himself robustly into the front seat. As he did so, the kid swore under his breath just loud enough for Tommy to hear it. It wasn’t really directed at him but, all the same, he felt the heat rise up in his face.
Donna fired up the engine and immediately turned the radio on, some Hall and Oats spilled out, Sara Smile, which led to an almost involuntary shared look between them. Maybe the kid caught it maybe he didn’t, maybe Tommy didn’t really give too much of a fuck either way. They settled into the journey, she was a good driver, smooth and relaxed and she made it back to base with a slick reverse park just a little downwind from their front door.
The kid made to go straight upstairs but she called him back. She wanted to give him the presents she’d bought him. She went into the lounge and came back with three neatly wrapped parcels. The first one, which the kid opened with no great enthusiasm, was a book on fine art. Thankfully, the kid had brightened at that.
‘Might be good for college,’ Donna said, Tommy did the right thing and nodded supportively along.
Next up was an expensive looking hooded red top, which got a slightly surly thumbs up although his eyes gave away his pleasure and then, finally, a pair of jeans. He wasn’t so happy with those.
‘I’m not wearing these things Mum.’
‘You don’t like them love?’
The kid looked at the ground and truculently shook his head.
‘Gay they are Mum, gay as fuck.’
Donna looked at Tommy, wide-eyed with embarrassment, Tommy felt as neutralised and useful as a marble statue.
‘Alright love we can replace them, no need to swear though - is there?’
That set the little fucker off.
‘Swearing, what’s the matter with fucking swearing! You swear, he fucking swears!’
‘Pasquale,’ Tommy said, but Donna had already taken a little half step between them.
‘Maybe your room is a good idea Pasquale.’
‘Right,’ the kid said and he threw the jeans at the dining room table. They skidded across the table surface and knocked off a glass, which bounced soundlessly on the carpet.
The kid glared at the unbroken glass then back at Donna.
‘I’m going - leave you in fucking peace, with him.’
Then he was gone - Tommy glanced at her, conscious of the rhythm of his breathing, slow and heavy through his nose. He looked at Donna and saw that she was close to tears, angry, embarrassed and maybe even temporarily defeated. They sat together on the sofa for a while and she rested her head on his shoulders while his mind churned.
He looked up at the photos on the fine mahogany cabinet. He was already becoming a little more familiar with their various moods and poses. Donna kitted out as a lady cop with the kid as a pantomime villain - a bag of swag, stripy shirt and painted on moustache, mother and son happily
hamming it up for the camera. The two of them in tourist mode standing together against a backdrop of the milling crowds at the St. Peter’s Basilica. The centrepiece was a large framed picture of Donna’s university graduation, both of them were smiling widely in that one.
After a while, he gently freed himself from her and stood up and stretched, he felt old and more than a little jaded.
‘I’ll go and have a chat with him Donna.’
‘You sure Tommy - you think that’s the right thing?’
‘I am, be good I think.’ He knew that the kid was in the front bedroom over the lounge, she had the en-suite at the back of the house.
After his first gentle knock got no response he realised that the kid was on the headphones and he had to knock hard until he heard the kid spring from the bed.
The kid came to door and stood in the entrance, his long light brown hand resting on the door handle, a brief look up at him then his eyes wandered restlessly over no fixed points.
Tommy felt like chinning him but he took the metaphorical deep breath.
‘Listen Pasquale, I know that this is your home and I’m not here to cramp your style or, whatever. But gee mate, talking to your mum like that, it’s not on. Have some respect eh? She’s a good woman is your mum.’
The kid looked up at him then, the little fucker, angryeyed, ready to pick up the glove.
‘Respect, you don’t know her mate, respect, I could tell you things about her.’
He looked at the kid levelly.
‘Well, tell me then.’
‘You don’t know her mate, you don’t know.’
‘Well tell me and then I’ll know, wont I?’
The kid mouthed something unintelligible down at the carpet, then turned back inside the room.
Tommy wanted to say more but, what the hell, it was just pure fucking psychodrama and angst.