They got to the party at about two and left it in the light of the early morning. He’d scored, not scored, scored and not scored again and, in the end, he just didn’t care, happy to let himself be carried away by the buzz. Three hours kip, up to pack, breakfast and back to Euston. Darrin was out for the count before they passed Wembley Stadium and he awoke to the announcement that the train was pulling into Macclesfield.
Donna had called him to say that the kid was going to be home for the next two nights but that she was still definitely on for the London trip. Tommy organised the next Friday afternoon off, the Centre owed him some hours for the unpaid overtime that he’d racked up through working at the monthly safe raves.
Pauline was still palpably sweating it on the Centre getting the big money. The Lottery had contacted her to let her know that the funding decisions were to be made in the next few days.
Pauline had learned to develop stoicism and patience in her role but it was obvious that the uncertainty was plaguing her. She had tuned out immediately after giving him the update, absently scratching her head for a few seconds as she looked out through her office window, the view from which was probably her only concession to her status at the Centre, a wide angle vista of the wild and lonely moors.
Tommy coughed and she came back to the room turning away from the window with a wan smile.
‘We can plan ahead then, when we find out,’ she told him, ‘you know Tommy, twenty five years hard work and we still have to bloody wing it.’
‘It’s not that bad Pauline, it will all still be here long after we’re gone.’
‘Hmmm, it would be nice to share your optimism Tommy, but there are plenty of others, just as good as we are, that have folded love. The bloody funding tap switched off, making do with volunteers rather than paid staff…hmmm.’ Another look out of the window and another strained ‘what can you do?’ smile.
‘Hey - worst option, like you said, we all go to part time. That’s OK eh? it’s not ideal but it’s not the end of the world either. We can keep looking for other sources of dough, you know, use more volunteers ourselves if we have to, keep the programmes going - no problem.’
‘Ah well Thomas, I guess at least we will soon know - thanks for the support though love - appreciate it.’
He nodded and smiled but he didn’t have any pep talk left. Some shit was just out of your hands.
Thursday he had run over to Donna’s after an hour or so chewing the fat with the old man. Mick had been venting about free schools this time, brandishing The Observer as he did so. Corporate capitalism by stealth was Mick’s take on it. ‘Everything is about a quid with these fuckers - you watch. It’ll be bloody hi-jacked by big business and the bloody holy rollers. If I were younger Tommy I tell yer, I’d be gone from here in a flash and fuck the lot of them.’
When a little of the steam had boiled off, he managed to steer his old man on to cricket and they’d talked about taking a trip on the train up to Durham. Catch a one dayer up there somewhere near the end of the season - the old man was up for it, train travel and cricket - two of Mick’s staples.
Donna had warmed up some curry that was left over from the previous day for tea and they had chilled out for a while after the food, watching a show about four soft English kids who had been shooed off to some retirement joint in California to test their comparative fitness levels with the resident oldies. The show was a classic example of the body following the mind. The relentless ‘can do’ spirit of the American retirees and the embarrassment of the kids at getting their arses kicked by people fifty years their senior had, eventually, whipped the young ones out of their affectations and torpor. He’d found it surprisingly inspirational and the show had left him feeling positive about what a little bit of will, support and good attitude could achieve. Tommy had made to share his thoughts with Donna but it didn’t look as if the show had had the same impact on her. Maybe she had a steeper hill to climb before she touched down in the Promised Land.
There was a look on her face that he hadn’t seen before - dark was the word that came to mind.
He asked her if she was OK and she told him no, he asked her why and she told him.
There it was; the kid, the roof, the tin, the money, the fucking drugs.
At first he was surprised, then, with a little reflection, not surprised at all. She had found over a grand in there - fuck.
He asked her if she wanted him to speak to Sonny and she gave him an emphatic no, even looking a little annoyed with the suggestion.
‘I’ll do it if I have to Tommy - he’s my son.’
That pierced him a bit but he bit down on any words that he may soon live to regret. Shut the fuck up, he told himself, willing himself, with no little effort, into a neutral space.
‘What are you going to do then Donna?’
‘Give him a chance Tommy, I’ll call the refuge, see what he’s been up to after school and then if he lets me down…’
‘Hmm, well lets hope he doesn’t,’ thinking that maybe the kid needed the fall. He’d had a lifetime of being given chances - the little twat.
‘Just weed eh?’
‘That’s what he says Tommy.’
He breathed out heavily, reluctantly climbing into the back seat and letting her stay in charge of it. He wondered how long he would be able to keep his mouth shut.
‘You’re still sure about coming down to London?’ he asked.
She nodded and put her hand on his shoulder.
‘Yes, do me good - stop me moping about all this nonsense for a while.’
Tommy nodded at her although he wasn’t convinced that 200 miles and some quality reggae covers would be enough for that job. Jimbo had called him earlier in the week, asking if he was interested in taking a package trip to Thailand in November. He’d been lukewarm in response although he hadn’t binned it either. Maybe he’d green light it. He could feel the pressure dropping all around him with the prospect of a bumpy ride ahead. Tommy looked around the room and he made the inventory: Donna, the overkill photo collection, the delicately tasteful origami and her stupid little prick of a son.
This week was to be the last regular week of lessons, just a few group tutorials and then the summer break. Plenty of leisure activities had been put forward by the refuge staff with input and feedback from the residents but they were all optional. That left him with plenty of time to hang out and chill. The ref now had a leaving date for Kat and she’d already been to her new flat with a female worker for a try-out sleep-over.
Neil and Jess were revving up for the party at the weekend. Jess had given Sean the arse, again, and was now ‘young, free and single.’
‘Maybe not free pet,’ Neil reminded her.
The new kid, Liam, was kind of OK, quite self contained and pretty sharp and the others didn’t seem to mind him either. He smoked like a chimney but shared his fags out and that kept him in brownie points. He made a point of taking the piss out of the workers, particularly Rob, who took his shit with a slightly disconcerting good humour. Pasquale didn’t trust the little fucker as far as he could throw him. Liam had asked him a couple of times if he could come along for the ride in the afternoon and he’d abruptly palmed him off. He’d appeared unperturbed by the rebuff and it hadn’t stopped the fucker from asking again. Dwayne was keeping them busy; regular runs and now some smaller packs direct to the customer. He’d done a run on the Coleshaw itself, a short ride over to one of the piss stinking mid rises near The Admiral pub. Some lank haired bird had answered the door. Her old man had given him a casual glance and a half-smile from the dump of the lounge/kitchen. The guy was a short, tough looking old dude and Pasquale had found his gaze a little disconcerting, he didn’t look like a user-loser either, definitely not.
He’d had a couple of pangs about his mum as he peddled it but he reckoned he could keep it separate if he was smart. She was away this weekend too - friends she’d told him - probably Tommy from her look but he didn’t give a flying fuck.
On Friday the Jag had pulled up next to them as they were chatting with one of Dwayne’s boys, the three of them were hanging out down between Linden and Sycamore - Junior didn’t like it down there, he preferred the shops and the pub, to him it was all the same, just part of the same fucking dump - no difference at all.
The guy had given them a warm hello, his eyes flicking over Junior and Bailey but finally coming to a rest on him, as he instinctively knew that they would.
‘Hope you boys are behaving yourselves.’ No context, no build up to the words. He was a jarring fucker.
They all nodded but remained mute, Pasquale felt his heart race again, his gaze held by the man’s smiling, watery, blue eyes.
‘How old are you son?’ he asked Pasquale.
‘Sixteen.’ he managed, pleased at sounding level with it.
‘Sixteen eh…good age that - sixteen.’
The guy gave him a wink then a raspy laugh.
‘Later boys,’ and then he pulled away to make the turn into Sycamore.
Pasquale looked at Junior who grimaced and spat on the floor.
‘Creepy fucker he is,’ Junior said.
Pasquale nodded but Bailey said nothing and if he had bothered to speak he still would have said nothing. A shrill whistle told them that Dwayne was ready for them down in the alley. Bailey took up post whilst they made their way to the rendezvous point.
‘New batch this fuckin’ lot boys,’ Dwayne had told them on meet up, ‘better quality for the same fuckin’ price, tell Johnny to pass that onto the fuckin’ crew down there. Sell the product and the fuckin’ product sells itself. Off you fuckin’ go then lads.’
They wheeled away and this time they made the trip by a different route. Dwayne had told them that they needed to mix it up a bit, warning them against predictability, this from a guy who never left the fucking estate!
Pasquale looked over his shoulder and saw that Dwayne was heading back down Oak towards the shops. He felt a momentary anxiety pass through him that didn’t really make any sense. He kick-started his bike and did a slingshot around the corner, already trailing in Junior’s wake.
The following week was even busier than the previous one. Darrin had alternated the nights between the Quays and the Coleshaw. There had been no sign of Keithy Dalton up on the estate but he’d been keeping up the family contact with brief nightly chats with the mum and the sister. There was also plenty of talk around Saturday’s soiree - Dalton doing plenty of thinking with his dick.
Young and Mac had chatted about the possibility of pulling Dwayne in to put some pressure on, see how far up the food chain he might go. Young wasn’t confident that Dwayne would fold though and he was advocating keeping it slow and steady like he was a fucking oil tanker captain, eyes to be kept on the bigger prizes down the line. Mac was a little pissed off with the holding pattern though, the kid coming to the door had rankled him.
‘Little fucker, well dressed and cold eyed, all fucking business he was the little shit - Jesus.’ But Mac saw the merit in Young’s argument. Johnstone the Elder was still keeping his distance from him; no drug talk, no money talk - nothing. Johnstone had done a few years stir though and that tended to keep a thinking man cautious. Mac was starting to see how bigger fish like the Saltt crew might be happy to have a man like him on board.
‘Ignore the shell suit and you’ve possibly got a three figure IQ,’ was Mac’s reassessment.
Darrin regularly spotted the two kids that he and Moz had interviewed about Matthew Marshall, the lad in the skip. They were fixtures up on the Coleshaw appearing or already present whenever he was on. The pair of them were now hanging out well away from the pub, usually about three-quarters of the way down Oak. He was starting to pay particular attention to them, clocking them this evening as they chatted with Dwayne and a couple of the younger boys. A simple pattern to their movements quickly emerged, a meet up and chat with Dwayne and whichever of his cohorts happened to be hanging around, then the two of them disappearing down the lane whenever Dwayne made tracks, the pair reappearing five or so minutes later on Oak then hitting it away from the estate and a left turn into Strickland. Darrin wondered if a tail would be feasible on the up-to-no-good little fuckers. He couldn’t see how they could nab them on the estate, there were too many people around to alert the pair to their presence. In transit would be better but that was manpower and they were stretched as it was. Darrin sighed, logistics - what a fucking headache.
He’d pulled up at the Portakabin after salsa on Thursday, too revved up to just go home and he took a pew in there with Young and Lumb. Tonight, there was just the young couple in the flat, occasionally shouting at each other over the sound of the blaring TV. No sign of Keithy himself, maybe he was out getting the party hats and condoms for this Saturday night.
Darrin pulled the pin about midnight, nodding off at the table whilst reluctantly listening to some dance music shit on Dalton’s sound system. The inconsiderate fuckers had been whooping it up a little bit to the music, the pair not paying much heed to Dalton’s daily instructions for them to keep it down. Dalton must have tolerant neighbours, he thought, they wouldn’t be getting away with that shit next door to his gaff.
Friday and it was plod time around the centre on yet another beautiful warm day. The pubs, inevitably, were doing a lively trade. Last night there had been another dust up near the precinct, an argument in the kebab shop had escalated out of control and some little fucker had pulled a knife and chivved another customer, a young Asian guy. The shop owners had chased the protagonist off, but Sarge Thomas had stressed again the need to be proactive, ‘nip it in the bud boys and girls - Mount Olympus,’ a theatrical raising of his bushy eyebrows to the heavens, ‘is getting nervous and that means they start giving me shit and that means’ - he sardonically looked around the room, ‘you know the rest.’
Darrin asked Jolika if she fancied some of his overtime and thankfully she stepped in to pick it up. He’d be down the Quays on Saturday and he would be staying there until Dalton’s party wound up and that would make it a very long day. He went over to his folk’s place and let his mum feed him. After the grub, the old man pulled the pin to head off to the gym for a few hours and he sat down with his mum on the sofa watching the box and answering her mildly probing questions with an abridged version of that which constituted his life and his career.
She liked the fact that he was dancing salsa. Back in the day she’d been nifty on her pins herself but the old man had to be put into a half-nelson to get up and shake his stuff. He marvelled at her loyalty to his father, thirty years living in his shadow and the day in day out accommodation of the old man’s restless truculence.
He asked her how she would feel if he was to transfer away.
She gave him her gentle appraisal, ‘thinking of it, are you then Darrin love?’
‘Not yet Mum, let’s see how things pan out first.’
She laughed, ‘always looking to the next thing eh our Darrin? It’s alright love, as long as you still come home and see us.’
And that was that - she was OK with it. Not that it would have made any difference if she wasn’t. In that regard he knew that he was his father’s son.
Friday night he and Junior had heeded Dwayne’s advice and taken a different route to the Barrington, they’d headed down through Leeside this time. Junior had pulled over for a pit stop at the offie on Prince Street. He’d promised his mum he’d pick her up a packet of fags. They would do the drop then run the smokes over to his mum on their way back to Dwayne. The offie was a Paki shop that he and Junior scored cans in from time to time. On making their way back out of the shop they found that this time they had company. An older Asian guy with a fair bit of facial fuzz was sat on Junior’s bike bigging it up to his mates. They were a crew of five or six lads, mid to late teens, all of them would be locals - the Leeside boys never strayed that far apart from the area with its grid of uniform redbrick terraces. Junior took a breath and implacably told the dickhead to get off th
e bike. The guy smirked at his mates - not for having it was he.
‘Nah, I fancy a ride chap - Az! Grab the other one. Let’s take ‘em for a spin.’
The guy turned the wheel to move off as the tallest of his mates stepped forward to grab Pasquale’s bicycle. Pasquale already had his hands on the handles and frame, no fucking way. As the tall guy came forward, Junior shot out his right arm and caught the ringleader in the shoulder, the blow as fast as fuck. The guy hit the shop wall but just about managed to stay on board the bike - his cheeks now flush with colour. A ripple of unease ran round the group and they held their positions. Az had backed off about half a step from Pasquale, a little uncertain now. Behind them they heard some bustle followed by a loud bellow from the door of the shop, Mr Shamir, as angry as a wild hog and as loud as a banshee.
‘You little bastards - you bring bloody trouble here, leave these boys alone you bloody bastards.’
Mr Shamir took a surprisingly quick step forward past Pasquale and grabbed hold of Az by a handful of his hair pulling him up onto his toes.
‘And what did I tell you before, that I go and talk to your bloody parents, tell them what little bastards you are.’
Aziz was in a lot of pain but was keeping his mouth shut. The other guy quickly hopped off Junior’s bike and held up his hands placatingly to Mr Shamir. Telling him with little conviction that they were just having fun.
Mr Shamir was not a taker.
‘Bullshit and cobblers boy! You, you are a little bastard Mansoor, always the bloody trouble maker round here, better that you get a bloody job, you lazy bastard.’
He threw Aziz into a couple of his mates who stumbled a little as they broke his trajectory. The group took that as their cue to beat it, all of them were going in the same direction now, quickly away from a still pissed off Mr. Shamir.
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