by Matthew Ross
But that’s not.
I wonder how much of this nonsense has Hamlet put out himself? Talk about fake news. Does every bloke in every pub swap stories adding their own little nugget each time? This mythology of a local thug was ludicrous because that’s all he is. A thug with a bit of charm and patter, a local celebrity: one may smile, and smile, and be a villain. I’d known Hamlet quite well, as well as anyone could probably know him, and he’s certainly no criminal mastermind. Tony Soprano? Tony Hadley more like, especially with that silly pop-star haircut. I was beginning to get annoyed by Disco’s fan worship of him.
Now, listen closely, I know exactly how he got started, how he made his money and who keeps him in a position of power. Do you want to know? Really? Can you keep a secret? Well – so can I.
16
‘Look, I’ve apologised, what else can I do?’
‘You can stop the van and let me out, that’s what! You’ve kidnapped me under false pretences.’
Disco was probably right, but I needed him, so I picked my words carefully to try and placate him: ‘Oh shut up and quit your moaning, it won’t take long.’
Unfortunately for Disco, he was outside having a smoke when Hamlet called with a bit of work. The implication was clear, if I wanted a favour, first I had to earn it. I knew this would happen. I regretted from the outset ever asking him, but if you’re going to be in a jam, be prepared to have your pips squeezed. Hamlet had been very clear; time was of the essence.
Without hanging about, I left the dismal and slightly sticky confines of the Eagle, pulling Disco along with me, and waited until we were well on the way before telling him where we were going, and for who. I braced myself for a very colourful onslaught of some of his finest swearing, but not a peep. Poor old Disco must have been so disorientated he couldn’t even string an obscenity laden sentence together anymore, and I have to admit the lack of fruity language made me feel a little bad about misleading him like this, so we sat quietly for the remainder of the journey, awkwardly pretending to listen to some unfunny sketch show on the radio.
We pulled up outside a row of empty shop units in a dilapidated housing estate of ugly, dark square blocks and a flat-roof pub that looked so unappealing even Disco didn’t want to go there. Looking around, it was a run-down and cheerless environment. All I could think was Thank God I don’t have to live here. My Dad used to say, ‘Pay cheap, pay twice’, but judging by the general squalor all around, ‘twice’ won’t be coming any time soon.
Even the road was cheap and nasty: poured concrete finished roughly. Large cracks split the surface, breaking off corners and lifting edges, moving apart like melting ice floes. Cars never glide gracefully over concrete roads and I could hear our tyres thup, thup, thup, arguing with the uneven surface.
Wire mesh caged the only unit still trading, suggesting the shopkeeper considered himself at risk, more the endangered species than the last man standing. Pebble-dashed walls gave it the look of weathered sea defences, only adding to the sense of desolation.
Newspaper and whitewash obscured the other four units. Above one, the lettering for a butcher was visible in reflection where the nameboard had been taken out and refitted back to front. Where a community once flourished, it was now reduced to empty dark voids. It made me think of graves and, by association, my head filled with thoughts of Tommy. I felt a prickling sensation around my eyes again. I shook it off with a forced cough and rub of my face before Disco noticed.
We parked up and waited. The daylight was fading and the one working streetlamp cast a dull nicotine-stained glow across everything.
A black Mercedes pulled up, about twelve years old, not worth a lot, but it looked flawless – straight out of the box. Brazil emerged from the driver’s side, and Dunlop the passenger’s. I motioned to Disco to get out and we went across to them. It was clear that the Merc was Brazil’s pride and joy. He’d invested a lot of love and time in it and I knew the proper thing to do would be to compliment him on it, so I didn’t. Instead, I remained silent waiting for one of them to speak first.
‘This way ladies,’ said Dunlop, nodding his head towards a unit that according to its nameboard was once a carpet remnant seller. Disco and I stood obediently outside the shopfront while Dunlop faffed about with a massive ring of keys, trying one after another without success. At the sound of a gentle thup thup thup Disco and I looked up to see a slow-moving Mondeo trundle past us. As the reflected light caught it, we could see the driver was looking straight at us, nosy git. A bit of activity in an empty property and all the neighbourhood curtain-twitchers are out in force desperate to find out what’s happening.
With a twist of a key, Dunlop finally opened the door and ushered us in through an ankle-deep drift of junk mail. Disco looked around the bare empty shell of a place, then at me, perplexed, and I tried to reassure him with a small nod. From the road came the heavy breathing of an overworked diesel engine reverberating off the hard concrete beneath.
‘Truck’s here,’ said Dunlop. ‘Come on then, let’s get you started.’
Disco and I ferried everything in from the lorry. Brazil and Dunlop of course didn’t lift a finger, instead they loitered outside and got in the way smoking and swapping porn by Bluetooth, eventually giving us our instructions after everything was inside.
Disco was assigned to erecting a screen right inside the doorway, floor to ceiling – for most passers-by the whitewashed glass obscured any view of the interior, but for the more prying of eye Disco’s screen blocked everything.
Me, I ran cables and connected lamps – lots and lots of bright halogen lamps across the entire area, as well as servicing the air-conditioning units and checking the existing wiring could carry the increased electrical loading. As we worked through the night, Brazil and Dunlop made several inspections from outside to be sure my bright light didn’t bleed through Disco’s screen.
We finished just before two in the morning and were told to follow Brazil to his black Mercedes where he reached into the glove box to remove a carrier bag.
‘Mr Hamlet says to be sure you know the rules.’
‘I didn’t see anything, I don’t know anything, I wasn’t here, I have never been here,’ I recited, proving I still knew them.
‘Then this is for you.’ Brazil tossed the bag at me which I caught and brought into my chest like a rugby ball. ‘You can count it if you like but you aren’t getting any more. It was good enough for your mate, what he always used to get paid, so as far as Mr Hamlet’s concerned that’s a fair rate. You can go now. Ta ta.’
We loaded our tools back into the van, and flopped our tired bodies into the seats. I opened the bag and shared the money equally with Disco. It was worth more than three days work for both of us, but then we weren’t being paid for our labour, were we.
A beam of headlights came straight at us, just for a moment but long enough to make us blink away white blurs from our eyes after it passed. The driver of the vehicle, a large box van, stopped directly outside the shop unit and high-fived Dunlop. Brazil emerged in the doorway and took a high five too. Neither Disco or I spoke, watching the driver drop the tail lift and open the back of his vehicle. He hopped up inside and re-emerged pushing a large, black, square container, lowered it to the pavement, and with the assistance of Brazil took it into the shop unit. Judging by their faces and grunts it was heavy.
‘What do you think they’re going to do in there, Mark?’ said Disco, but I slowly shook my head.
‘Best not to know. We don’t ask questions, we don’t know anything, and that’s the best way to leave it. Forget about tonight, it never happened.’
In the quiet of the van, as the adrenaline rush of panic from being purloined to work for Hamlet faded, Disco’s body clock finally caught up with him.
‘I need a drink’ he said.
17
‘Hello, who is this?’
I’d been yanked from sleep by an insistent ringing phone. Bleary eyed and wanting it to stop, I picked it up
and answered without looking – a fiery temper for a cold caller.
‘Mark?’ I was awake, I was alert, I was afraid. ‘You know who this is, don’t insult my intelligence.’
The very sound of the voice frightened me. Alone in my bed, wearing only yesterday’s underpants, I’d never felt so vulnerable. I was aware that I’d pulled the duvet up over me, perhaps my subconscious hoped it would bring me protection.
‘You still there?’ I hadn’t spoken since answering, I needed to form the words in my head to make them come out.
‘I’m here. What do you want?’
‘What do you think I want?’ said Blunt. ‘I do hope you’ve not forgotten you owe us a considerable lot of money.’
‘I know. I messaged you to confirm you’ll get it on Friday.’
‘I saw that, but I’ve heard you’ve downed tools on your job and haven’t been on site for the past couple of days. Seems a funny way of topping out and getting paid to me.’
I didn’t respond and instead remained quiet.
‘You promised me my dough by Friday. How’re you going to do that if you’re not working?’
‘You should have thought about that before getting me shut down shouldn’t you.’ I said without thinking, and at once regretted it.
‘What does that mean? I’ve been very fair with you Mark, but this is starting to worry me. I don’t want us falling out.’
‘I’ve told you you’re getting it on Friday, I’ll be in the Lamb at lunchtime. Find me there,’ and I killed the call.
Blunt’s always been a punch-first-think-later primitive, his ideal night out ends in a fight or a fuck, or if he’s lucky both, and if he’s really really lucky both at the same time. He’s been barred from every pub in the area at least twice. He’s trouble and he’s troubled, but I never expected him to be quite so blasé: ‘I don’t want us falling out.’ Murder’s nothing more than a couple of names off the Christmas card list?
I sat there dazed and amazed to discover it was ten o’clock. I realised two things that morning: one, I had to clear myself of Blunt and get out from under his debt as quickly as I could – I’d be a fool not to recognise that call had been my final warning, and two, I’m too old to be working through the night anymore.
I opened the drawer beside the bed, relieved to find my money still there. My half of last night’s proceeds. Hamlet had been generous in his payment, it’d keep me going for the rest of this week, but it wasn’t enough to dig me out of trouble. As if on cue, the uncaring postman pushed more bills and demands through the letterbox. Great, that’s a few more people to avoid for the foreseeable future.
Among them, an envelope with the Macmillan Nurses logo. I opened it: Dear Mr Poynter thank you for supporting us in making the lives of those suffering with cancer more bearable, unfortunately our direct debit request this month was declined by your bank… Bastard bank! Couldn’t they have let that one through? It’s only a few pounds a month, it’ll cost them more than that to write telling me they’ve refused it. Bastards. I owed the charity so much for all they did. At this moment I’d never felt so embarrassed about my finances, and the more I thought about it the tighter my breathing became.
Having a self-induced panic attack was a pointless exercise, so I tried to clear my head and take stock of the situation. My notes valuing everything I owned were still on the side. I gathered them, along with all the other loose papers strewn about, and stacked them in a neat pile. Problem solved. If I can’t fix it, I can pretend to ignore it.
The dismal valuation of my entire worldly possessions sat on top of Tommy’s stuff which sat on top of all the bills and my freshly awoken brain cells made the connection. Maybe Tommy could help me out? Maybe Tommy could lend me the money? There’s over a hundred and fifty thousand sitting out in my garage gathering dust. Would he mind if I borrowed a little, only until I sorted myself out? I’d pay it back as soon as everyone had paid me, plus I’d add a little bit of interest, surely, he wouldn’t object to that? Would he? By the time I’d showered and dressed and was leaving the house, I’d convinced myself that he’d be happy to lend me the money, and not only that, being such good mates, he’d waive the interest too.
I’d heard the expression ‘like a weight off your shoulders’ all my life but I’d never appreciated what it meant until today. It feels exactly what it sounds like, I found I was standing straighter, I felt lighter, bouncy and free in my walk, I was as happy as a frog at a wedding, my problems had gone.
‘Oi!’ My daydream was popped. A woman’s voice came from behind, ‘Hey, can you hear me?’
I turned to see who had spoiled my happy high, and was faced with a woman of about thirty who, although dressed in shapeless blue medical scrubs, looked stunning. Her eyes were breathtaking, her cheekbones sharp and her hair razored short into a trendy style – pixie crop, is that what they call it? She wore minimal, but expertly applied, make-up. She was astonishing. The morning seemed to be getting better and better.
‘I called you a couple of times but you looked a little distracted,’ she said. ‘I’m your new neighbour. Hello, I’m Perry.’
‘Hi, I’m Mark.’
I approached to shake her outstretched hand and noticed the name badge on her uniform. Perry was short for Parminder.
‘Look, I know it’s a bit cheeky to ask, seeing as it was in the rubbish and all, and the binmen have been and everything…’ She had that upward inflection at the end of her sentences that I find annoying in others but she was getting away with it. ‘Can I have my box back?’
I must have stood there a second or two too long like a stunned fish as she gave up waiting for a response.
‘For the kettle? I saw you take it yesterday.’
Oh, that box. This could be awkward.
‘I’m not a nosy neighbour, honest. You see, I only moved in two days ago and look,’ she gestured up to the top window, ‘no curtains yet. I noticed you when I was getting ready yesterday.’
‘Sorry, I don’t have it any more. I needed a box to put some materials in, made it easier to deliver to the client’s house. Sorry.’
Her smile dropped and I felt as though I’d destroyed some spectacular work of art. She began explaining that due to the perils of on-line shopping she needed the original packaging to return her expensive but faulty new kettle. Of all the problems I’ve had this week, this was the only one that mattered, this was the one I wanted to fix right here, right now. Telling her I was an electrician got me ushered indoors straight away.
When I first moved in, a wonderful old lady called Vi lived in this house next door. I’d be happy to pop round and help with whatever odd job she wanted. I always had time for Vi. I loved her stories about when, as a little girl, her brothers took her to the river’s edge. Scrambled from nearby airfields, the Spitfires flew low above the water, the roar of the engines blew warm across her face, and the rolling waves in their wake splashed her shoes. The vapour trails braided with the rising plumes of smoke in a tapestry, and the sirens wailed all around her. The Luftwaffe, in formation high above, carried their bombs towards Chatham’s naval dockyard – the same dockyard that would kill my Dad sixty years later. The big anti-aircraft cruiser moored out on the Medway opposed them with its huge guns, and every time it fired, the vibration shook the ground where she sat. Her tired, jowly face shone with excitement as she recounted her story, and from it I could see her at seven, watching it all play out around her. After she died, after the funeral, I went to the spot at Sharps Green she’d described and threw a flower into the water for her memories. I realised that I hadn’t been back to that spot, nor indeed inside this house since that day nearly eight years ago.
There had been four or five new tenants since then. The living room was now redecorated with the rental standard of bland cream walls and pale laminate flooring, but as I was led through, I discovered the kitchen was still the same, even the cooker and tumble dryer that I’d installed for Vi were still there. That’s the trouble with Buy-to-Let l
andlords, they never spend any money. The units looked a lot more tired than I remembered. The vinyl flooring was sun-bleached in parts, and the counter top chipped and scuffed. The gleaming Ferrari red kettle looked very modern and out of place in the kitchen that time forgot.
As it turned out, there wasn’t anything wrong with it, nothing an expert fiddle couldn’t fix and Perry offered to make the inaugural brew with it as a way of saying thanks. I gratefully accepted.
We chatted and it was easy, it flowed freely. She told me she’d moved up from Brighton for a nursing position at Medway Hospital. I found, for once, I was enjoying myself. She was bright, she was funny and she was one of those people that touch you when they talk – the sensation of her hand on my forearm as she laughed stayed with me long after she’d removed it.
And then, ‘…so I figured I’ve just qualified, I’ve got no ties, I’m single so why not take the opportunity, make a fresh start in a new place, so here I am…’ Bingo!
From its awful start, this morning has got better and better, what could possibly go wrong?
18
What could go wrong? How about a visit from Uncle Bern? Normally as much fun as pissing on the live rail, but he seemed in good form today, probably because Auntie Val hadn’t come with him this time.
Uncle Bern’s my mum’s younger brother. He lives an itinerant, low-cost lifestyle that seems to work for him. He’ll spend the winter in his apartment in Spain, which he’ll then rent out during the Summer and come back here to pick up whatever work he can, usually from me and any other contacts he’s got. The rest of the year he flits back and forth whenever the money or Val’s patience runs out, whichever comes sooner. When he’s here he might spend a few days helping me out pulling cables and holding ladders, or he might be washing cars at his mate’s second-hand lot. In this day and age of all things digital he’s the master of finding cash-in-hand casual jobs.