“What, now?”
“Should I come back on shrove Tuesday? Course, now. Set it up. Let me wallow in memory lane.”
I took down the game, my fingers making indents in the grime on the box. I placed the coloured pieces on the starting circles. “What colour do you want to be, sir?”
“I’ll take blue and yellow. You take red and green, I’m sure you know the old saying,” he smirked, “you roll first.”
I dinked the die, a four.
“Your turn, sir.”
He shook his head. “You roll for me.”
“You scared to get your prints on it? You don’t need to worry, it’s legit. I’m not hard up enough be nicking board games just yet.”
“Aye, roll for me.”
I rolled for Tavistock, a six straight away.
He winked. “Take out the blue.”
I rolled again, another six.
“Take out the yellow.”
I ground my teeth. Rolled again.
A gust of wind billowed the curtains, flapping against the pane.
A third six.
I looked up at him and he cut me off before I could speak. “Don’t even bother with your superstitious bollocks sunshine. The number of the Beast, eh? Bollocks. Go back far enough in the scriptures and the number was six one six. Believing in superstition is as dangerous as believing in bad luck. It lets the imagination create all kinds. Belief, a powerful thing and not always wise, good or true. Anyway, who says the six is the right way up? Flip em up and what do you get? Three nines.” He laughed. “Move the yellow,” motioned for me to roll again.
A three. “Shift the yellow again.”
I counted out the squares. Eighteen minus three. fifteen. Tabitha’s age.
My hand shook; my roll, a six. “Welcome to the game,” he said. I brought out the green pawn.
Rolled a two, tapped out the move.
His roll, a two.
“So you’re keeping busy, that’s the best way, Lad. Either that or get resting up. Move the yellow.
What’s got your attention at the moment?”
I rolled myself a six, took out a second green. Then a five, moving the first one. I replied, “Remember Tommy Rellis?”
“Vaguely.”
“Used to forge signatures on benefit books and that kind of stuff, the odd batch of stolen goods. Proper talks through his nose.”
“Rings a bell. Go on.”
“He’s hired me to find his daughter. Apparently he and a bloke called The Joey set up a fake kidnap to bleed money out of his ex wife, only his partner’s backed out and is keeping the girl as an earner in other ways.”
“So you’re working for scum now are you lad?”
“I’m employed directly by the people. Cutting out the middlemen, gaffer. Can’t see the difference, I was working for the people before anyway, before they made me quit-”
“They didn’t make you, you resigned of your own will. Don’t think I don’t know-”
“It was either that or an office job somewhere in the basement, Tavistock. Don’t you fucking judge me. You know full well I’m better out and about.” I sent the die skittering off the table onto the floor and sat forward, fists tensing.
He ignored my posturing and bent down.
“It’s a six. Move the blue piece.” I thumped the six squares, making the other pieces jump, “now pick up the dice-”
“Die”
“Sorry?”
“Die. Singular. One die, is a die. More than one are dice, sir.”
“Does the distinction matter, Pitkin?”
“Does the distinction matter if I work on my own or as part of a department, sir?”
“Strange analogy, that is, lad. I think you need some sleep.”
“Fuck off,” I shouted. I reached down, snatched the die and rolled.
Another fucking six for Tavistock.
“Move the blue. It’s a dodgy predicament for a police officer, even an ex police officer, to start taking money off known criminals, sunshine. Are you sure you’re all right, mental wise?”
“I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not doing it for Tommy, either. It’s not his daughter’s fault her dad used her. I’ll take his money and get her back. Just you watch.” I slammed down the die.
A one.
I looked up at Tavistock. He grinned. “Move the blue.”
I moved it to the square occupied by my green, replacing it and moving it back to its starting circle.
He said, “Six and six and one is thirteen. Who said thirteen was unlucky, eh? I told you, superstitious bollocks. And it was you who rolled them and all.”
I upturned the coffee table, shattering the surface, sending the board skidding into the wall. I stared at the shards. “Always fucking hated that game.”
Tavistock chuckled. “Not a bad thing you don’t like losing, son. But when you’re not willing to play for fear of losing, you’re missing out. Missing out, lad. Where’s the woman’s touch in the place? I can barely remember you with a bloody woman apart from the odd mention you’d chip at us.”
“There have been women as a matter of record, sir. Quite a few in fact. And when there were I kept them well away from that bastard job and everything and everybody that went with it. In fact, I’ll tell you if you want. If you really want to know why there’s no woman’s touch in this depressing little waking coffin of an abode, listen closely. Not long before Christmas, me and a girl I was very serious about, we found out we were pregnant. We did up the box room, neutral colour like, it was too early to tell the gender. Anyway, I proposed over a Chinese takeaway the next night. She accepted. A few weeks later I get a call while I’m out doing a visit. Not good news. The baby is dead, miscarried. We hadn’t even settled on a name. She was devastated. I keep saying she, she was called Andrea, Andrea Folith. She, Andrea, Andrea was told it had done damage inside, that she’d not be able to carry to term ever again. I came home a couple of days before Christmas and she’d gone. Not even a note. Her dad sent me a letter not long after, inviting me to her funeral. She’d fucking topped herself. Fucking topped herself, man.”
I don’t know why this was coming out now. It was something I’d thought buried deep inside. It was always there, rippling at the surface, but I’d held it and the thin veneer had eroded. I looked over at Tavistock.
He shook his head, the smile gone. “And you never told any of us. Not nobody sunshine?”
“What for? What would I tell anyone that for? There’s nothing could have been said or done to change matters.”
“Fuck’s sake, we’d have been there for you. Nowt wrong with fucking getting upset, doesn’t make you less of a man, you idiot. I think that I can see your problem, you’re scared. Scared of losing what you love. That fear is normal, especially with what you’ve been through, but if you let it overrun you, you’ll never get to have another experience or take another chance at happiness. That’s an empty existence, Pitkin. You can’t always control everything and everybody, look now, even in a silly game. I let you roll the die with your own hand and what happened? You’ve got to be able to take the losses along with the wins.”
“How about you either take your own advice or keep it to your fucking self!” I shouted.
His words had needled me, but I regretted the outburst immediately.
He stared out of the window, itching at his stubbled chin.
I turned away, unable to face him.
“I think you need my advice, sunshine, when you’re running blind after somebody without back up or a valid badge. Why don’t you call it in anyway? Let them down the station find her? Saving one doesn’t bring the lost back. Doesn’t work that way, trust me.”
“I’m earning a living. The way I want. End of story. End of fucking story. I’m not calling it in either. This is my cop. My fucking cop.”
“All right, all right. I’ll leave you to it. Don’t want to outstay my welcome. Watch yourself, lad. And if you’re going to take that pistol, and I advise that
you do by the way, make sure you ditch it afterward.”
“How did you know about the gun?”
“I just do. It’s down as missing. It had already been inventoried before you thought you were slick, swiping it.”
“Do you know what? I don’t think I give a fuck any more, sir.”
I heard him sigh and his voice faded down the hall. He shouted, “It’s your life, I suppose. Live it how you will. Finish at the top and work your way down, eh? Take care, now.”
I felt my blood pulsing in my temples and went back into the bathroom, my teeth clenched tightly. I unclipped my straight razor and pushed the tip next to my taut carotid artery. I risked a glance in the mirror. My face was worn, sallow. I grimaced, pressed the blade into my neck and my arm tensed. A crunching of splintered glass jolted me. I held my breath and listened: nothing apart from the flapping curtain now. I dropped the razor in the sink. I looked back at myself in the mirror, into my eyes. My reflection melted into the image of a scared girl. I ripped the mirror off the wall and smashed it against the radiator.
***
I dressed in the first suit I’d ever bought myself for plainclothes work when I’d made detective sergeant almost ten years ago; a navy blue single breast. A black silk tie found my fingers, knotting perfectly overtop a white shirt collar. I went back into the living room and to the shelves. I slid out the draughts board, laid it flat and unclipped the hinge. I took out the Browning pistol from beneath the pieces and tucked into the belt of my lower back.
I’d taken the gun from a confiscated stockpile of an ex-army vet who’d shot up the town library a couple of years ago, unable to cope after being tortured overseas. If Tavistock was telling the truth, the gun would be traceable. I could have gone and bought one anywhere but I’d owe the seller for discretion and I had enough debts to pay so I let it be. When I took it I told myself the gun would do some good some day. Roll the die and let it lie.
I shrugged my black overcoat on and switched the light out as I exited through the living room into the hall. The buzzing from the television sets gnawed into my temples and I stomped hard down the stairs and out into the cold dense air.
I couldn’t remember the last time Tavistock had talked when he visited, whether it was days or weeks. Most of the time he’d come and just sit, not saying anything. Comfortable silences between old friends. Old friends, close colleagues. He was different than most of the newer breed of corporate careerists. Old fashioned hard with old fashioned sensibilities and I looked up to him. If I was honest with myself, I wanted to be him for a long time. But that was gone now. I took a deep breath and my chest rattled hollow.
I shook the ruminations away, forced myself to think about the girl and sprinted into town.
Five
The Jack’s Bar insignia glowed a scarlet red from its navy awning. British flags flapped in the gale at either end. I heaved open the door and scanned the tap room. A faux crystal chandelier hung in the centre of the ceiling, light bouncing off the orange painted walls. I’d known it as a coppers’ pub since I’d been in uniform. I’d spent more time in there than in my flat in the days when I could enjoy a drink and trust my mind to shut off into the temporary haven of a blackout.
A pack of off-duty plainclothes gathered around mahogany tables in the far corner near the dart boards. I made out the droopy ginger moustache of DC Don Iverson and he noticed my presence. The other men and women followed his gaze and went silent in recognition. He reluctantly got up and walked over as the boys nudged each other and mumbled between themselves. “It’ll only take a minute, Don.”
He’d carried his pint over and pulled at his ‘tache with his free hand. “Better had, Pitkin. Can’t be seen with you, can I? You know the score, mate. I told you before, if you need me, phone my mobile. I gave you the number, use it. But not often,” he said impatiently. There was a seriousness in his expression I’d never seen before.
“And I told you I’ve no interest in carrying a mobile. I’m not having those fuckers following my every move whenever they want, tapping my line and eavesdropping. I just nee-”
“Eavesdropping? You’re paranoid, man. And anyway, they don’t need to track you. Everyone in the cop shop knows you sit int’ train station every night like a fucking tramp. Rail cops passed C.I.D. the tapes. They’re all laughing at you, Inspec…Ben.”
Being addressed with the old professional rank fired a fleeting nostalgia that crept into my chest, prodding my temper. My voice raised just loud enough and I aimed over his shoulder. “You think I give a fuck what they think? Look at ‘em, pissed out of their skulls while the town’s fucked. You fucking useless bunch of piss artist bast-”
He dragged me outside before I could complete the reunion speech I’d rehearsed night after night on the desolate platform, said, “Knock it off. What, what? What is it you want?”
I glared hard and he took a step back. “You’ve a short memory, Don. You owe me, you fucking cunt.”
He took a long swig that did nothing for his furrowed brow and growled, “You knew how it’d be. You’re out. You damn well knew, they told you but you wouldn’t listen. You quit, remember? You did that. I’m still in, remember. I can’t do owt for you, you know that. I don’t know what you’re playing at in front of them lot. I told you, be discrete and I’ll do my best for you on the sly whenever I can, but no, not Ben Pitkin, you have to come barging in here, showing me up and showing yourself up. What? What the fuck do you want?”
Deep down I knew he was right but I gave him a left hook anyway.
He dropped the beer glass, shattering on the cobbles, and staggered back.
I grabbed his tie and pulled his head close. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not going to apologise for gate crashing your gathering. I don’t have the time for good graces. There’s a girl missing. What do you know about a kidnap payoff that never materialized?”
The tie was constricting his throat so I loosened my grip. A little.
“Somebody’s having you on Ben. That’s not come through to us. We’ve had missing persons, nothing about a kidnap though, honest.”
“Nothing? Well, what have you and the geniuses done about the missing cases? Apart from get pissed?”
I retightened my grip. He choked, “Knock it off will you, we’re off shift. Who are you after? Give me a name and I’ll ask around.”
“Off shift?” I let go and shoved him against the wall. “You shouldn’t need to ask around. Should be up here, lad. In your brain if you had one. Who’s The Joey?”
He looked away immediately. “Who?” He said, staring at the cobbles.
I dug my fingers into his cheeks and pushed my face into his. “The Joey,” I repeated through my clenched jaw, bored into him.
He looked back for a second, then closed his eyes. He hissed, “You’re fucking loco. Do you still see Tavistock?”
His face was bloodied and he was either grinning or grimacing. I hit him like it was the former. “You know what, fuck off back to your pals.”
I burst his nose and gave him two more jabs, watching him clatter into the wall and slide down to the deck.
The door swung open and a stocky suit with a skewed tie staggered outside. He brushed the dark hair out of his face, looked down at Iverson and said, “What’s going on here?”
“Mind your own.”
“It is mine sunshine, I’m the Law.”
I took deep breaths and let the hand that instinctively reached for the pistol relax. I laughed.
“I’m going anyway. Who wants to fight the Law?”
As I was walking away, Iverson shouted, “He’s fucking dead. Been dead for months, Ben! You need fucking treatment. Sort yourself out, mate.”
“Mate? Fuck off.”
I walked faster, humming The Clash over and over. I cut through the silent, serene churchyard via a short alley across from Jack’s Bar and came out into the contrasting raucousness of the revelling crowd lining King Street.
Six
&nb
sp; King Street was the main through-road of the town centre, housing its hub of nightlife. It heaved and teemed. I pushed through the jostling groups of young partygoers huddled outside the bars smoking cigarettes and entered Retro, an eighties themed dive blaring out Gary Numan’s Cars. A glitter ball threw globs of light sporadically across the dance floor sparsely populated by middle aged swayers.
Roland ‘Beak’ Fenk polished glasses with a dirty rag behind the bar. Small time coke shifter and a big nose gave him his nickname. He was my long time GMP informer and I hoped he could earn himself my money.
He greeted me by dropping his head and swearing under his breath. He trudged towards me at the corner of the bar and said, “I could have sworn I begged you to leave me alone, man. I’m legit.”
“Fuck off, Roland. I ask, you tell. You’ve not forgotten that already have you?”
He shook his head. “Hang about, Pitkin. Ben. Benny, Benny Benjamin. Everyone knows you got sacked. I always thought you were bent, in more ways than one and-”
I grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him round the corner, pinning him to the wall. “You think it matters? Bent or not, copper or not? I could hang you out to dry any time I wanted. Being out of the force, you know what that means, don’t you? No code of conduct to adhere to. I can do what I fucking well want. I could print your picture with a big grass underneath and pin it in every shop window in town. And neither you nor anybody could do a damn thing about it,” I gave him a grin, “and they’d have your bollocks on skewers. You’d best remember that.”
“Whoa, Lay off, Mr Pitkin. I’m paid a real graft now, I’m trying to make a proper honest go of it.”
I squashed his face into the wall. “You? Honest? Get a grip, we know each other better than that.”
“It’s true, I swear, I’ve a babbie due for dropping soon, please, just leave me alone, man.”
His shoulders slumped and he looked like he was going to start crying.
The Hard Cold Shoulder - L A Sykes Page 3