Cleaning Up

by Paul Connor-Kearns

  She was looking at him for an answer, ‘Well Tommy?’

  ‘Don’t know Donna, I don’t know. He’s fortunate though, I know that.’

  Looking at her face was not any great source of comfort to him but, fuck it, he was tired of tiptoeing around, trying to compartmentalise everything in his fucking life.

  She laid her knife and fork down at the side of her plate and calmly asked him to leave the house.

  Tommy had a dumb moment, not a hundred percent sure if she was being serious. She noted his uncertainty and she repeated it for him.

  He hadn’t finished his curry but maybe it wasn’t time to point that out.

  He stood up, walked past her and let himself out, a little embarrassed, a little angry and more than a little relieved.

  He went back home and lay on the couch and flicked on the TV and watched a wildlife documentary. Nev was right, TV can be pretty good. He was still a little tired from the all dayer on Saturday. What a fucking weekend, he thought, shit sprayed all over the walls.

  Tommy thought about his own youth - the punk rock years and good ole Maggie Thatcher. He agreed with Mick, that you could draw a line of consequence from that blighted era. It had been a tipping point in the nation’s history, one that had seen so many of the working class start to slide into membership of a burgeoning underclass. There and then so much of the self-identification of the community had started to erode. The bridge between youth and adulthood was now even more fraught and uncertain. Back in the day that difficult part of the journey had been made easier by the learning of a trade and the pride and certainty that that brought. A life of substance and meaning had been replaced by a rancid gruel of drugs, daytime TV, mindless computer games, the worship of baubles and trinkets and the celebrity fuck fest.

  He loathed the actions of the little fuckers but he understood it, it hadn’t risen out of a vacuum and that generation were now the product and the proponents of a nihilism that had not been there when he was a kid. Everybody, to different degrees, was copping the consequences, the only question was, where to from here?

  Tommy half rolled off the couch with a groan feeling stiff and creaky - old, old, old, he thought and turned off the box. He put on the first Clash album and listened to the bristling energy and the band’s vehement calls for action and awareness. Still ringing like a bell after all those years. He felt restless but didn’t know where to take it - that was an old feeling but one that he hadn’t had in a long time. He turned the music off and did some breathing exercises for ten minutes or so and that seemed to do the trick, his thoughts no longer tumbling and disjointed. Becalmed, he flicked the TV back on and surfed for a few minutes finding nothing on that he wanted to watch. His dad was right, he thought, TV is shit.

  He phoned Lee and asked if it was cool if he headed back down in a couple of weeks time. They chatted about the riot for a while and Lee asked if Donna would be coming down too but didn’t offer any comment when he’d told him no. Lee mentioned a trip to Brighton as a reccie for Bernie and himself. Tommy liked the sound of that, a day by the seaside would be just the ticket to blow away some of the urban angst.

  They said their goodbyes and he sat in the quiet for a while, turning off the lamp and looking at the night sky noting, again, the lack of starlight. He awoke an hour or so later. Feeling stiff and more than a little cold he made his way to his bed.

  Darrin had let his mum feed him for a few more days, the shoulder was still tender and sore enough to make a lot of doing the basics a drag. He didn’t mind being fussed over for a little while, dealing with the riot seemed to have worked wonders for his patience. He’d popped into work on Tuesday and sat in the canteen for half an hour with a few of his colleagues picking over the bones of Saturday night. Chev was still in the hospital; jaw wired up, some missing teeth and concussion - twenty or so of the crew had picked up injuries. A dozen or so of the crew were now off work.

  Sarge Thomas stuck his head in the canteen door and told him that a call had come through for him from DS Young. He said his goodbyes to his colleagues and made his way to the desk. Sarge Thomas gave him the phone with a little wriggle-lifting of the eyebrows, which spoke volumes about what he thought about the young detective. Young was his usual effervescent self. ‘I’ve been told you did well on Saturday Dazzer boy, regular hero is the word in dispatches. Take all the time off you need son, we want you back but only when you’re hundred percent.’

  Darrin noted, again, the oft-used ‘son’ but let it slide. He reassured Young that he was OK and would probably be able to get back to the operation whenever they needed him. He was already getting a little bored, missing the action and even the inaction of station life. Again, Young told him to take his time and fed his appetite with a brief update. Dalton was now planning a little ‘naughtyical’ (Young’s expression) holiday away in the South of France with his two young friends. Apparently, the Saltt crew had a yacht down on the Cote d’Azure. ‘If you’re right for Friday,’ Young told him, ‘climb back on board with Mac - let me know the day before though.’

  Darrin said he would and he knew that he would be more than ready for it. Standing at the flat window wasn’t going to worry his shoulder any. He looked at his watch, it was getting on for one and his mum had promised him rag pudding and mushy peas for dinner. Time to hit the road, he gave the Sarge a goodbye and Thomas shooed him on his way. ‘You need a life you do son - a few more hobbies on top of that bloody dancing of yours.’

  Darrin didn’t give that any thought, he was OK with the way it all was. He gingerly wind-milled his shoulder as he walked out of the station doors, thinking about Friday up at the Coleshaw

  AUTUMN

  SEPTEMBER

  Monday evening and he and Junior had met down at the mill - the light was starting to drop away conspicuously earlier now, though at least it was still warm. They chatted about the riots. Junior had heard they’d pulled in at least fifty of the lads and that the coppers were using Blackberry, Twitter and Facebook to try to nail the ones that they did have and to track down those that they didn’t. Junior had cycled past the Community Centre just that morning, ‘we fucked that place up good and proper.’ he told him.

  Pasquale was reassured by the ‘we’- realising that he and Junior were sharing a lot of secrets these days. Junior asked him if was sure about pulling out. ‘Good, good money blood. You know it.’ Pasquale nodded along - he didn’t need reminding about that. He had more than two grand stashed in the tin in the wall and he wasn’t sure what to do with it other than keep it there. He’d only use it when he was ready to make a move. They spent the next half hour talking it through, leading to the conclusion that he’d formed before they had started talking, that he wasn’t yet ready to give it away.

  Junior called Dwayne and asked if he would meet them in the park from which they had watched the Centre burn, Dwayne hummed and hawed a bit but they knew that they were his top lads. Dwayne couldn’t trust those dopey bleeders up the Coleshaw. He agreed to meet them in one hour, Junior strolled off and scored some pizza slices to take the edge off the hunger, at least they now had a plan.

  Dwayne took his time mulling it over, his head bobbing up and down while he stroked on his sizeable Adam’s apple. As he did so, his slightly bulbous eyes scoured the nearby tree line of the park like he was on the look out for bleeding snipers. Junior reckoned that Dwayne rarely left the Coleshaw, ‘like a bleeding old man he is.’

  He and Junior had worked it all out. There was a narrow walkway that doglegged off Strickland. It went on through to meet the lane, way at the back of Linden. Dwayne could meet them there for the pick up instead; it would be well away from any prying eyes. They would fix a definite time before they arrived at the estate, they didn’t want to be hanging around the Coleshaw for fucking ages before they got down to business. ‘In and out,’ Pasquale told him, ‘we’ll cycle down the lane way to Oak, fifty yards back up to Strickland and off we go - sorted.’

  Dwayne managed to get his head
around it, speculating with them for a while as to who had put the word out to Sonny. He made a show of staunchly standing up for his boys but it was obvious that he wasn’t sure about their loyalty. ‘Anyway the other boys needn’t to fuckin’ know,’ Dwayne said, ‘well away from the fuckin’ shops, keep it between the fuckin’ three of us.’

  Junior and Pasquale stayed quiet, letting him own the idea. Dwayne did a bit more head bobbing, ‘alright fellas, I’ll run it past the fuckin’ gaffer.’ He looked at his chunky wristwatch, which dwarfed his fine boned wrist and forearm, ‘talk to to yer tomorra.’ Dwayne split for the Coleshaw and he and Junior headed back to the mill. He had an hour to kill and a little smoke before returning to the ref ’ would help seal the deal.

  The next day Junior called him before lunch, they were on designated time, six o’clock and they’d keep that flexible, change up, if necessary, on a day to day basis. That evening they were up there two minutes before the appointed time and Dwayne only kept them waiting for five minutes, they did the exchange with no fuss and a minimum of chat and then they were down the lane and off, gone before any fucker knew that they were even there.

  Thursday evening and Darrin was back at the window listening to Mac whistle a few bars of Black Velvet Band something that he’d heard his mum belt out a few times when he was a kid, during her couple of gins in at the Sunday gatherings of the clan. Daylight was starting to ebb away and he’d only have a couple of hours before the watch would be pointless. Mac had had a development though. Last night his podgy tormentor had had another go at him, loudly asking Mac, for the benefit of his mates, if June was up for a little spit roast action. Mac had put down his pool cue and dropped him with a palm heel strike to the solar plexus, effective enough for the guy to deposit the night’s festivities and his daily carb’ intake into a retching pile, right next to the pool table. As Mac told it, a few beats after the damage had been done, Pete ‘Biffo’ Johnson had done his best enforcer impression, rumbling across the room like he was about to bench press somebody, stolidly and superfluously placing himself between the severely chastened, supine silver medallist and the calm but still battle ready Mac. ‘To be fair to the dim fucker he did enough to make sure that nobody else joined in for which I was truly thankful and, I got the money prize too. A bit later on big bro’ Chris called me over for a chin-wag and plied me for a bit more background info. I slipped him the military stuff and, sure enough, that caught his attention. We can flesh that out if needs be.’ ‘He liked the cut of your jib, eh Mac?’

  ‘He did that young Daz - everybody is either of use or not of use to a fucker like him. We’ll see if he runs something past me, I might be sitting on his sofa in a week checking out the home cinema.’ Darrin laughed, ‘watching Scarface no doubt.’

  ‘You got it bucko - wont be bloody Toy Story that’s for sure.’

  Darrin turned his attention back to the window, Dwayne had broken off from the mob twenty or so minutes ago and now was strolling back to them with that slightly comical bow legged roll of his, idly scratching his balls as he did so - pure fucking bonobo that lad.

  He and Mac chewed the fat for a while longer and then Mac headed off to The Admiral just before eight. Tonight was the pool competition, earlier this year the pub had been allowed back in the local league after a three year ban for a disagreement that had got out of hand at the Bull’s Head, which was another rough hole down on the Hill. Darrin wasn’t sure about the pool but the stoush would have been a fair match up.

  He left the flat five minutes after Mac left for The Admiral. He thought about heading to the Quays then binned it. Darrin was bored with Dalton and his empty headed lovebirds, sharing inanities and getting off on their porno films. South of France! That drop-kick, living the fucking high life, taking everything and putting in nowt.

  Darrin called Young from his car and he’d been right in his assessment, fuck all was moving down there too. Keithy was off at the weekend but they were holding back on going into the flat. It look liked Dalton might have arranged a house sitter. Some bloke and his bird would be in there, they had no name as yet but Dalton had been a little deferential during the calls, so, one of the party crew maybe. He’d get down there and check it out, if not Saturday then the Sunday. He was back on the plod on Monday - desk duties, he’d been ordered to ease his way back in. He drove home via the High Street, which was open again to the public although some of the shop fronts remained boarded up and were still taped off. A couple of bored looking coppers had been posted to make sure that people respected the exclusion zones. He’d heard about it on the radio a few days after the riot. The estimated cost to the community; the damage to property, the business lost, the insurance costs, overtime for the boys, all in all it added up to well over a million quid. There had been an organised clean up on Wednesday, which was both symbolic and practical; shopkeepers, local community leaders and Mr and Mrs Joe Public coming together to take the time to show that they gave a fuck. Maybe all was not lost after all, he thought, Darrin gunned the engine and, this time, headed back to his own gaff. He’d had enough nurture - it was big boy time again.

  Tommy called Sonny at the end of the week after the lengthy, emergency staff meeting that was held in the temporarily closed to the public reception area of the Centre. There had been a few tears amongst the staff but nobody was bailing out, Pauline referred to them all as her ‘second family’ and that was like a sunburst around the room, he had nearly teared up a little himself at that. He told Sonny about the chat with Donna. Sonny thought he was doing the right thing to walk and stay away. ‘It’s too big a fucking elephant to ignore that one Tom - he’ll always be her boy - know what I mean?’

  That he did, Sonny was right and he was feeling a sense of relief around the decision to let it go, it was a clean slate of sorts. He also shared with Sonny his suspicions about the community centre fire. The investigators had confirmed that it had started at his office window, smashed in from the outside - petrol used to kick it off. Sonny told him to keep that under his hat, ‘I reckon that boy is on borrowed time, thinks he knows everything and knows fuck all.’ close

  ‘Yeah you’re right. You know Sonny, Mick used to tell me that all the time when I was a spotty teenager, trying to give him all of my adolescent shit. He’d give me that and the fact that he’d already forgotten more than I knew. I used to hate it when he said that to me.’

  ‘Well you didn’t forget that though, did you Tom?’

  Tommy laughed, good old mercurial Sonny, ‘nah mate - he was right though - of course.’

  ‘It’s a tough one eh? We can’t expect them to behave like forty year olds when they’re fifteen but…’

  ‘There has to be consequences.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  Speaking of Mick, he was now freed up for the weekend, if the weather was fine they could have another run up to the ressie whilst the warmth was still around.

  Young had been right about Dalton’s houseguest, he turned out to be a middle-aged dude, who Darrin thought he recognised but couldn’t quite place. The guy had arrived in a new model BMW pulling into Keith’s parking space only an hour or so after Dalton and his friends had pulled away in the Jag. Enough bags had been thrown in the boot of the car to keep the three of them away for a month.

  The stranger had light footed it around the front of the car in order to open the passenger door for a drop-dead leggy blonde. He then gathered up a couple of night bags from the back seat, pulling in his midriff as he made his way on over to her. She waited for him at the lobby entrance exuding all the entitlement of glamour and beauty, her hand idly twisting a strand of her golden locks as she did so. Darrin had called Young up to the observation window.

  ‘Know him Sarge?’

  Darrin gave a curt nod towards the couple and that was followed by a protracted silence as Young, the stupid prick, made one of his theatrical shows of considering the implications.

  ‘Well?’ Darrin asked again, this time a little sharper than
he intended but, what the fuck.

  Young gave him a little peeved look, which was quickly replaced by his ventriloquist dummy, high beam smile.

  ‘That Constable May is an underworld celebrity. Mr Niall O’Brien, the eldest brother of the brothers O’Brien. Chairman of the Saltt board of directors.’

  It clicked for him then, the photo in the file that Young had shown him had to be at least twenty years old. He mentioned that and let its implications sink in, that got rid of Young’s fucking smile for a while.

  Lumb let him listen in to the couple’s conversation but, again, there was nothing of interest, just lots of sugars, honeys and babes, the tinkling of glasses, the slide and close of the balcony door and Sade crooning her smooth as molasses torch songs. Niall was indeed old school.

  Bottom line it was another snooze fest unless you were into jacking off on other peoples’ trysts. He bottomed out around about ten and called up Trish, the crew were in Piccolos and it sounded like it was rocking. Just ten minutes away, he’d leave the car in the theatre car park. Darrin gave Lumb and Young a curt farewell and hit the night air. There was still plenty of time to get a glow on.

  Dwayne was bang on reliable for the first few days and he and Junior were in and out like clockwork. Sunday afternoon and they’d arranged it for five this time. It was drizzling slightly and he’d thrown up the hood of the red top that she’d bought him for his birthday. He’d spent last night with her but she had barely said a word to him and after tea he’d spent the time up in his room on the Xbox - enjoying the solitude and the feeling of being in the zone with the game.