He nodded, ‘where’s my money Mum?’
‘In the bank Pasquale, I opened an account for you.’
He looked at her quizzically - what was she on.
‘Two signatures till you are eighteen and then it’s yours.’
He nodded, mollified a little.
‘No more though Pasquale, if I get a whiff of it again I go to the police, in a flash. No more chances, this is it. Are you sure it’s just weed Pasquale?’
‘Yes Mum, just weed,’ fixing his will on holding her gaze.
‘You do remember Matthew, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do - fucking hell Mum!’
‘Well keep that in mind eh Pasquale, Matthew - sixteen and all gone.’
She held her hand out and softly touched his face - he flinched but he let her do it and then he let her keep it there.
‘You have all the talent in the world son, please don’t throw it away.’
She turned and went through to the kitchen. He stayed in the lounge, stock-still and silent. He wondered if he could continue to keep the rest of it from her, no Dwayne this weekend, he thought, that would be more than pushing it, it would be dumb. He’d give Junior a bell on Monday maybe announce his retirement. Fuck, he thought, three, four hundred a week down the shitter. He went up to his room and stayed there until she called him down for lunch.
JULY
Keith Dalton had thrown them a curve ball, Tuesday night he’d rocked up in the Jag with a young blonde couple in tow, possibly siblings, according to the boys on the watch. They’d had drinks together in the lounge and on the terrace and then Keith had proceeded to ‘entertain’ the pair of them in his bedroom. Mozzer had happily given him all the unnecessary details when they had taken their turn in the Portakabin on the Friday. By Mozzer’s account, it had been a cavalcade of sucking, fucking, moaning and grunting. Plus, and opinion was mixed as to whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, they had lost the mike in the bedroom. A few minutes into the cavorting there had been a loud crash and then nothing. Silent, up until a spent Keithy’s heavy tread had activated the mike in the lounge, Dalton hoarsely calling out to the young ones, asking them if they wanted more drinks.
So that was that - they could try and get back in there but, as yet, the young couple had hardly left the joint since the bounce around. Keithy had come back home with bags of food and plenty of booze on the Thursday. It looked like his friends would be staying for a while.
Still, they had the lounge room mike - Dalton was regularly on the mobile, still only nicknames and initials with no obvious point of reference in the conversations. He was as cute and careful as a shithouse rat.
Saltt had an office and warehouse down on the freight yards and a car breaker’s business near the edge of the city but both businesses had night watchmen and there had not yet been a safe opportunity to get their tech’ boys into either place without raising suspicion. Plus, DI Bowden was pretty sure that the O’Briens would sweep both premises on a regular basis - the O’Briens and Tibbs had not stayed at the top of their tree through incaution. The bottom line was that the cops had been trying to put it on that band of brothers for more than thirty years and the Saltt crew had been and were still at least a couple of steps ahead of the law and its agents. There had been whispers, of course, of there being a hidden, helping hand from within. But there had never even been a sniff of evidence, never mind any concrete proof, of a source or sources from within the ranks of the thin blue line. It was just the usual urban paranoia.
Mac had introduced June, his ‘missus’, to the regulars at The Admiral and had scored a bit of puff for the pair of them. Johnstone’s beef head brother had given him the smoke and Mac had casually dropped in how ‘her indoors’ liked a bit of the heavier stuff. Pete Johnstone had laughed at that and advised that Mac get her on the game, as he’d need the brass - sound advice.
One recent development had pricked their interest on the Friday shift. Dalton had been caught talking to Blair and Cass, his houseguests, about a party that he would be throwing at the flat in a couple of week’s time. Dalton had purringly reassured the pair that they would be ‘the stars of the show’ and chances were that the two of them were not being booked in to perform magic tricks.
So, at least there was now the feeling of things moving forward and that sense of momentum was helping Darrin deal with the mundane part of the job. This month had seen a continuation of the fine May weather, long warm days and evenings - fine enough to put the spring in anybody’s step, and there had been plenty of street activity too for them to deal with. They’d had a small scale stand off at the precinct between some Leeside Asian lads and a group over from the Barrington. They’d nipped that in the bud before it had got out of hand - both camps given the bum’s rush whilst swaggeringly keeping face.
He was up for another weekend away too, this time to see to a top, big-name Cuban band that would be playing at the Roundhouse in London. After the gig there was a big salsa party, which was happening in a nearby club. Jolika had sorted some digs out for them in Camden, which seemed to be ridiculously expensive. Still, fuck it, he was on the overtime with plenty more to come. Maybe Keithy Dalton would string them along till Christmas and keep him quids in. Darrin laughed that off, he was turning into Mozzer fucking junior.
Tommy had seen her for lunch and throughout the meal she had looked a little strained and the kid had been conspicuous by his absence from the conversation. He had mooted the idea of a trip down to London to stay with Lee and Bernie for the weekend and she’d brightened a little at the thought of that, but she had ended the discussion with an even, ‘we’ll see.’
It was looking like one of those days. When he got to work, Pauline had told him about an overdose that had taken place over the weekend. The body was found in the stairwell of one of the Coleshaw mid-rises and it had turned out to be the uncle of one of the boys who usually came down for the basketball on Thursday nights. The kid was a good little soccer player too and had even played a bit for one of the local team’s first eleven, which was no mean achievement for a sixteen year old. Pauline had known the guy when he was on the straight, a tradesman who had done some work on her place years ago, she’d lost track of him and now she knew why.
‘Sad, sad, sad,’ she’d told him at his office door, ‘thirty bloody six.’ She was off to the funeral on Friday.
Donna had called him the next day and inveigled an invite to his for some food. He didn’t mind, it would be nice to cook for somebody else. He hadn’t done it for years apart from helping Mick with a Sunday roast when they couldn’t be bothered with the pub. He’d been subsisting for a long time on a rotating menu of his repertoire of six old favourite dishes and variations there-of.
They’d had a good evening, he’d cooked a seafood lasagne, which was as about as complicated as it got for him in the kitchen. After the food they watched an easily digested romcom for sexy seniors with Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton. After that they had explored each other’s bodies in the long twilight. She was horny, even a little frenzied - pressing down vigorously on him with her eyes closed, her head slightly turned away from him. Not that he minded, she had a great body, which he examined with a pleasurable detachment as he felt the heat in his loins inevitably swell and burst.
They lay quietly together for a while as she was turned towards the bedroom wall. Tommy was slowly running his fingers from her ribs to her hip.
‘London,’ she said.
‘London?’
‘Yeah, those friends of yours, it sounds like fun Tommy. I’d like that, be good for us to get away.’
Nice one, he thought, he’d call Lee tomorrow. Be interesting to see what they think of her.
Tommy continued to hold her and was just starting to drift off when she started to press back into him. This time it was languid and gentle and she called out his name when he rubbed her to climax.
He gave Lee a bell that morning from work. Lee said he’d run it by Bernie but he was s
ure it would be fine. They were playing a gig that Saturday, a reggae cover band, Mash it Up, mostly Marley and Peter Tosh. It was a nice earner for the two of them.
Sonny had rained on the parade slightly, calling him to let him know that a group of young guys had steamed into one of the local Asian green-grocers yesterday and had pushed a customer to the floor and damaged some of the shelving and stock. They had taken off for the Coleshaw and a group of older Asian guys had given chase. Some of the locals had got into it with the posse when the Asian crew had skidded to a halt near The Admiral. Just verbals at first with a few of the local kids and then some bozos had spilled out of the boozer, enough of them for the Asian guys to hit reverse and get the fuck out of Dodge. Sonny was a little worried, tensions on the rise and all that - he was heading up to the Coleshaw today to chat to some of the young-uns and he’d also asked the cops for a bit more street presence but they were already stretched too thin to cover more bases. Sonny had been philosophical about it as per.
‘If it is to go off Tommy, then it is in the lap of the one true God.’
‘Gods Sonny, shouldn’t that be Gods?’
‘What are you then Tommy, a bloody Hindu fella?’
‘Not really Sunil, don’t mind the Madras though.’
Sonny laughed, ‘pagan you are Tommy, a bloody devil.’
‘And gonna stay that way Sonny.’
‘Amen to that brother.’
He had a few quiet moments after the call and he thought about Donna for a while. It was moving forward between them but he’d fallen into love before at the first hint of tenderness and he was more than a little tired of that old, sad pattern. His life as a serial monogamist, stumbling in and out of relationships, wounded but none the wiser. Too often he’d been in love with the euphoria of falling in love. He’d had more than a decade of it - setting up the love nest, experiencing the slings and arrows of life together, reality inevitably reasserting itself, then the hitting of the wall and the packing of the bags. A change of address, a little time alone, then he’d be out looking for it again. Good for developing resilience but compulsively dumb too. That had been the pattern right up until meeting and losing Bonnie. But, he’d come through that too and here he was, back in the place that he’d thought he’d left behind. Home, he thought, where the fuck is it and what the fuck is it? He still wasn’t sure.
Pasquale mulled it over and then he’d texted Junior to tell him that he wouldn’t be doing a run the following day. Instead, he’d hung around the refuge. More changes were on the way here too. There was now a supported living arrangement in place for Kat, which included ongoing educational support for her too. Kat was pleased with it but he could tell that she was apprehensive, she was having a lot more quiet moments and she was a little more snappy than usual with both Neil and Jess. Thank god Al wasn’t still at the ref. She would have bitten his head off.
There was a new kid coming in tonight and he’d be sharing the room with him, a younger one this time, which should be OK. The staff had had a meeting about the admission this morning. He was from down south somewhere and that didn’t augur well for the amount of shit that he was likely to take. Neil and Jess had been chatting excitedly about Daddy D’s upcoming party and Neil had teasingly insinuated an invitation to him, which he had blanked completely.
Junior had called him the next day - no pressure, he said. He had some smoke if he fancied it, meet up at the mill. Junior was there before him, a smoke rolled and already blasting. He looked up and smiled and tossed its twin to Pasquale. They chatted around a few things. Junior was still intent on going down to Haringey before his brother got out.
Pasquale didn’t offer much comment, he was OK up here at the moment, Haringey had lost its lustre for him. It was chill being at the ref.
‘Dwayne asked where you were yesterday. I told him you’d pulled the plug.’
‘He OK with it?’
‘Yeah suppose, kind of. He reckons we were his best boys like, more reliable than the raggedy arses up there on the Coleshaw - the top boys us P, he knows it too.’
Pasquale liked that right enough but he feigned indifference to the compliment.
‘Said he’d up the money for us too if we decide to come back to it.’
That got his interest.
‘Yeah - 60 for the smoke he said and a fucking ton for the ice! Can’t turn it over fast enough he reckons, there were more cops up there at the weekend though, he’s bugging about that. We had to pull away from the shop to talk. You know, get down to those lanes. Bit boring it was like, hanging about down there.’ Junior shrugged his shoulders.
Fucking hell, Pasquale thought, a ton for the ice!
‘I’d have to find a new stash,’ he said to Junior.
Junior nodded towards the corner of the mill.
‘Look down there, down there, next to yer,’ Junior straightened his long arm and pointed just to the right of him with his boney index finger. Pasquale got it, a loose brick with most of its mortar gone, positioned almost right in the corner of the building.
‘That’ll move easy enough P.’
Pasquale tried it and it did, there was a few inches of space behind the brick and the outer wall of the building.
‘Your mum’s not going to find that, is she?’
Pasquale stood up and grabbed his bicycle.
‘Where you off to bro’?’
‘Pound shop J, get myself a new tin.’
Junior laughed, sprang to his feet and wiped the dust from the arse of his jeans.
‘Top man - we back in business then?’
Pasquale laughed, ‘never really left it bro’.’
Junior sent a text to Dwayne from outside the pound shop, thirty seconds later and the reply came through. He’d have a bag each for them, now.
A hundred smackers, Pasquale thought, like shelling fuckin’ peas.
Darrin had worked overtime every evening apart from the Friday, two days on the Coleshaw and a couple of shifts down at the Quays, the first with Mozzer and a few pleasant hours with Jolika who was binning the readies for the London weekend.
Mac had been down The Admiral on both nights, one with June one without and he’d managed to get into Dwayne for some crystal meth for his ‘old lady’. Dwayne hadn’t said yes but he hadn’t said no either, maybe he was waiting to run it past Johnstone, covering his arse before he took the plunge with a new customer.
Somewhat embarrassingly, both for him and Jolika, randy old Keith and his house guests had chosen their shift to use the lounge for some gymnastics. The fucker was insatiable and all the permutations had appeared to have been tried. The girl was particularly loud and he and Jolika had laughed, awkwardly, at her protracted yodellings. Thankfully, Dalton had a bit of mood music on, maybe as a safeguard against startling the neighbours.
In regards to his movements there was nothing doing, Dalton was as predictable as the lunar cycle. He was out of there most mornings around about eight, they’d done a little tail on him from the flat but there was no meat on that bone. He was clocking on down at the Saltt warehouse in the nearby freight yards - just like a regular working Joe. The young-uns seemed to spend most of the day in the pit, rousing themselves in the late afternoons. They often went out in the evenings and always came back shit faced. The upshot of it all was that the flat was rarely empty and that there was no way that they could get another mike in there. Not that the mike was bringing any great reward, only more chat about the upcoming party. Dalton was always cagey, still only using names on the mobile when he spoke to either his mum or his sister.
Young had called him up on Thursday. The night before June had gone into The Admiral wearing a wire and they now had Dwayne firmly by the bollocks - product and price clearly caught on the tape. After a brief discussion with June and Mac, Dwayne had told her to meet him in the lane that backed up between Linden and Sycamore. Dwayne had handed June a ton’s worth of ice, Dwayne’s fingerprints were all over the package, bang to fucking rights indeed.
During the days, he was foot patrolling around the precinct, the new shopping mall and the High Street. Patrols had been upped for the summer months as some of the natives had been getting restless. Things hadn’t really kicked off up here for over twenty years and the Chief and the Super had made it crystal that they wanted it to stay that way.
Friday he’d had a session with the old man; circuits, some weights, pad and bags. He was revved alright - work busy - social life buzzing.
The weekend was over before he knew it - the band was a blast although he found the Roundhouse a little too crowded for his taste. He’d quickly tired of the pull and sway of the crowd so, half an hour into the set, he’d made his way over to the margins of the audience. He had quickly been pounced upon by a group of youngish Latina women, one of whom was drop dead gorgeous, edible in a backless, gravity defying dress and four inch heels. They played pass the parcel with him for the rest of the set and by the end of the gig he was drenched in sweat. The girls were off to some party in Archway and the stunner had given him the address. Darrin was tempted, but they’d already shelled out for the after gig party and he knew that there would be plenty of talent there too. He couldn’t see Jolika, Stuart or any of the crew that had made the trip down amongst the exiting crowd but, when he stumbled outside into the busy Camden streets, Jolika and Stu were already out there, chatting to some short, good looking salsero. According to the fliers he had in his hand he was a dance teacher down in Brighton - using the gig to tout for business. The three of them were talking about a festival in France that was coming up in August, three days of bands and dancing. It looked like supply was matching demand in the salsa world.
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