Beggars Banquet (6 page)

And to tell you the truth, I was relieved to see that there was someone standing on the doorstep, another visitor. I felt my whole body relax. The man crouched to peer through the letter box, then knocked again. As I walked down the path towards him, I saw that he was tall and well-built with a black leather jacket and short black hair.

‘Isn’t he in?’

The man turned his head slowly towards me. I didn’t like the look of his face. It was grey and hard like the side of a house.

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ he said. ‘Any idea where he’d be?’

He was standing up straight now, his head hanging down over mine. Police, I thought for a second. But he wasn’t police. I swallowed. I started to shake my head, but then I had an idea. I released my grip on the knife.

‘If he’s not in he’s probably down the club,’ I said. ‘Do you know where it is?’

‘No.’

‘Go back down to the bottom of the road, take a left, and when you come to the shops it’s up a side road between the launderette and the chip shop.’

He studied me. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘You know what he looks like?’

He nodded in perfect slow motion. He never took his eyes off me.

‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Oh, and you might have to park outside the shops. The car-park’s usually full when there’s a band on.’

‘There’s a band?’

‘In the club.’ I smiled. ‘It gets noisy, you can hardly hear a word that’s said to you, even in the toilets.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that is so.’

Then I walked back down the path and gave him a slight wave as I headed for home. I made sure I walked home too. I didn’t want him thinking I was on my way to the club ahead of him.

‘Short walk,’ Mum said. She was pouring tea for Mrs Gregg.

‘Bit cold.’

‘Cold?’ squeaked Mrs Gregg. ‘A lad your age shouldn’t feel the cold.’

‘Have you seen my knife?’ Mum asked. She was looking down at the cake she’d made. It was on one of the better plates and hadn’t been cut yet. I brought the knife out of my pocket.

‘Here you are, Mum.’

‘What’s it doing in your pocket?’

‘The lock on the car-boot’s not working. I’d to cut some string to tie it shut.’

‘Do you want some tea?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said. ‘I’m off to bed.’

I suppose they have to make a living as best they can. We all do.

It was the assistant manager who found Daintry. He was doing his nightly check of the club to see how many drunks had managed to fall asleep in how many hidden places. Nobody used the end cubicle of the gents’ much; it didn’t have any toilet seat. But there sat Daintry, not caring any more about the lack of amenities. Police were called, staff and clientele interviewed, but no one had anything much to say.

Well, not to the police at any rate. But there was plenty of gossip on the streets and in the shops. And slowly a story emerged. Mr McAndrew, remember, had been a lad at one time. He was rumoured still to have a few contacts, a few friends who owed him. Or maybe he just stumped up cash. Whatever, everyone knew Mr McAndrew had put out the contract on Daintry. And, as also agreed, good riddance to him. On a Friday night too. So anyone who’d tapped him for a loan could see the sun rise on Monday morning with a big wide smile.

Meantime, the body was found in Daintry’s lock-up. Well, the police knew who was responsible for that, didn’t they? Though they did wonder about the broken lock. Kids most likely, intent on burglary but doing a runner when they saw the corpse. Seemed feasible to me too.

Mr McAndrew, eh? I watched him more closely after that. He still looked to me like a nice old man. But then it was only a story after all, only one of many. Me, I had other things to think about. I knew I could do it now. I could take Brenda away from Harry. Don’t ask me why I feel so sure, I just do.

‘Christ, isn’t it? Six years.’

‘Six is a long one.’

‘The longest,’ Thomas agreed. ‘I’ve only ever done two and a half.’

‘Three, me,’ said Paul. ‘My shout then.’

‘No, Paul, it’s mine,’ Philip said.

‘Your money’s no good today, Philip,’ Paul said. ‘Hiy, Matthew, give us two spesh, a dark rum, and a vodka.’

Paul was buying. Paul, for a change, had plenty of money.

‘Cheers, Paul.’

‘Aye, all the best, Paolo.’

‘You’re quiet, Leonard,’ Paul said.

‘Eh?’

‘Quiet.’

Leonard shrugged. He wasn’t usually quiet. But then it wasn’t a normal day. ‘Just thinking about Anthony.’

‘Six years,’ said Philip, exhaling.

‘Hellish,’ said Paul. ‘Here, Leonard, have a—’

‘No, I’ll take it neat.’

‘You always have a skoosh of Irn-Bru in your vodka.’

‘Not today.’

‘What’s wrong, Leonardo?’

‘Christ, nothing, I just don’t . . . look, okay, give me the Irn-Bru.’

‘Not if you don’t want it.’

‘I want it.’

‘You’ve changed your mind?’

‘Just give the bottle here.’

‘Touchy today, isn’t he, Thomasino?’

‘A bit, Paul, I’d have to agree with you there.’

‘Hell, all I said was . . .’

‘Okay, Leonard, no problemo, big man. You take your vodka any way you want your vodka. No big deal. Okay?’

‘It’s only vodka.’

‘A metaphysical statement indeed. So get it down you. Hiy, Philip, how’s your spesh?’

‘Nothing special.’

Paul laughed. ‘Says the same thing every time. Dependable, Philip, that’s you. Not like these two.’

‘What?’

‘Look at you,’ Paul told them. ‘Leonard usually going twenty to the dozen, Thomas like a deaf mute in a sensory deprivation tank. Roles reversed today, eh?’

‘What’s a sensory deprivation tank?’

‘Well,’ said Philip, ‘here’s to Anthony.’

‘Anthony.’

‘Cheers.’

‘All the best.’

‘So . . . a wee skoosh of Irn-Bru after all, eh, Leonard?’

‘I thought we weren’t going to—’

‘You are not wrong, I was out of turn. Sorry, Leonard.’

‘Leonard’s all right.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘One for yourself, Matthew?’

The barman was still waiting to be paid. ‘Thanks, Paul, I’ll stick one aside for later.’ He walked back to his till with the cash.

‘Matthew’s all right,’ Paul said, tucking his wallet back into his pocket.

‘Not bad.’

‘Keeps himself to himself.’

‘Wise in a place like this,’ said Thomas, wiping foam from his top lip, ‘full of people like us. I’ll tell you something, Paul, if I wasn’t me,
I
wouldn’t drink in here.’

‘Where else is there?’

‘There’s the Last Drop or the World’s End.’

‘No chance.’

‘Well, it’s a hell-hole all the same.’

‘Ach, you get used to it. I’ve been drinking here thirty years, man and boy. Come on, Leonard, no slacking.’

‘I’m pacing myself.’

‘Philip’s finished his spesh already, by the way.’

‘Thirsty,’ Philip explained.

‘Whose shout?’

‘I mean,’ Paul went on, ‘this is a big night, a kind of wake. No night to be pacing yourself. Six years: we’re drinking for Anthony tonight.’

‘That judge . . .’

‘And the jury.’

‘Ach, it was the evidence though,’ said Philip. ‘If they’ve got the evidence, what can you do?’

‘You can’t scare off every jury.’

‘They knew everything.’

‘Who did?’ Leonard asked.

‘Those two cops. How did they know all that?’

‘Go on then.’

‘What do you say, Leonard?’

‘Huh?’

‘You’re the one with the brains. How did those two cops know?’

‘Guesswork? I don’t know.’

‘Maybe they got lucky,’ Philip suggested.

‘They can’t all be as thick as the ones we know,’ Thomas added.

‘Or as scared.’

‘Anthony’ll be all right,’ said Paul. ‘Whichever nick he goes to, he’ll end up running the place.’

‘Very true,’ said Philip. ‘All the same, six years. He’ll be out in . . . what? Three? Three years locked up, no fresh air . . .’

‘When did that ever bother Anthony?’

‘How do you mean, Leonard?’

‘Or any of us, come to that,’ Leonard went on. ‘I mean, at least the screws will make him go for a walk around the yard. That’s more fresh air than he ever got sitting in here.’

‘You’re a cheery bugger,’ said Thomas.

‘He’s probably got a cell bigger than this . . . and better decorated.’

‘Leonard, Leonard, where would we be without you, eh? Always joking.’

‘Am I?’

‘You know you are,’ Paul said, lighting a cigarette and passing the pack on. ‘We’re all gutted, it’s a natural reaction.’

‘What is?’

‘Eh? Good man, Matthew. Put them down there, and chalk up another for yourself.’ Paul reached into his pocket for the wallet.

‘Where did all that cash come from, by the way?’ Leonard asked.

‘Never you mind.’ Paul winked and handed Matthew another ten. Matthew went back to the till.

‘You know,’ Paul said quietly, ‘I sometimes wonder how much Matthew hears.’

‘You mean how much he listens?’

‘Yes.’

‘Matthew’s all right.’

‘Well, he knows everything we talk about in here.’

‘We never talk jobs.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying he’d . . . you know.’

‘What’s going on?’ Thomas asked, appearing not to follow things at all.

‘Just a natural reaction,’ said Philip. He was watching Paul hand out the drinks. ‘We’re all . . . something like this, it guts you, doesn’t it?’

‘All right, Thomas,’ Paul said, ‘get this down you, leave all your troubles behind. Leonard, another wee vodka. There’s the Irn-Bru, your decision, okay? You’re a free agent. All right there, Thomasino? Cough it up. Good man, now get that down you. Philip, one pint of delicious foaming spesh. Enough to quench the fire, eh?’

‘It’s never enough.’

‘Cheers, Paul.’

‘No, but it’s only natural, isn’t it?’ Paul said, not touching his own Black Heart. ‘I mean, natural to wonder, to ask yourself how the cops knew. It’s a reaction, we’ll get over it. Having trouble with that bottle-top, Leonard?’

‘You always screw the fucking thing back on too tight.’

‘Give it here.’

‘No, I can—’

‘Here, I’ll—’

‘
I can do it!
’

‘Whoah there, Leonard. Brakes on, pal, no need for this. Look, there it is, the top’s off. Amazing how strong you can get when you’re angry. Right then, everybody, good health.’

‘Cheers.’

‘All the best.’

‘Aye.’

‘Hiy, Matthew,’ Thomas called, ‘can you no’ open a window? It’s like a furnace in here.’ He turned to Paul. ‘Windows, they paint over them, you can’t open the things. Never would have happened in the old days. Sloppy these days, decorators. I mean, hot’s fine in the winter, but this isn’t winter.’

‘Hellish hot,’ Leonard agreed, calm again. ‘It’s always too hot in here.’

‘You could heat pies without a microwave.’

‘One of those ceiling fans would be nice,’ Paul said. ‘There used to be one, didn’t there?’

‘Did there?’

‘This was before your time, Leonard, before you came here. Up there it was, a big white electric fan.’

‘White electric?’

‘I mean painted white, run on electric.’

‘Right.’

‘I don’t know how you can put Irn-Bru in that.’

‘You want me to drink it neat?’

‘Christ, don’t be so . . . look, just do what—’

‘I like Irn-Bru.’

‘Me too,’ said Philip.

‘Ach, everyone likes Irn-Bru . . . but with vodka?’

‘I used to drink it that way at school,’ Leonard said. ‘I’d steal some voddy from the drinks cabinet and mix it in an Irn-Bru bottle.’

‘Drinks cabinet, eh? Your family had class, Leonard.’

‘Didn’t stop him turning into a criminal at an early age.’

‘I was born a criminal.’

‘Isn’t everybody?’ Philip said, deep into his drink.

‘No,’ said Leonard, ‘some people have to learn. Anthony wasn’t a born criminal.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘He told me so. He ran with his big brother’s gang. He was okay till he started running with them.’

‘His brother Donny?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘You don’t see him in here.’

‘He’s gone away,’ said Thomas. ‘Been away a while.’

‘There’s a lot you don’t see in here any more.’

‘Well, we’re here,’ said Paul, ‘and that’s all that matters.’

‘Aye, we’re always here.’

‘For ever and ever, amen.’

‘Where
did
you get that money though, Paul?’

Paul winked again. ‘Is it bothering you, Leonard?’

‘Was it the gee-gees?’ Thomas asked. ‘Lottery? Dogs? Pools? I’ll bet it was a betting thing.’

‘You’d lose your money. Now either stop asking, or stop taking drinks off me.’

Thomas laughed. ‘Nobody’d be that daft.’

‘No? What about you, Leonard?’

‘What about me?’

‘Nothing,’ said Paul.

‘No,’ Leonard persisted, ‘what is it? Something’s stuck up your arse and I’d like to know what it is.’

Paul looked amazed. ‘Me? There’s nothing bothering
me
, pal. What about you, Leonardo?’

‘Here we go again,’ said Philip. ‘Just cool it, compadres.’

‘You’re right, Philip,’ said Paul, ‘as ever. How come you’re always right? You never lose your rag, do you? You’re a calm sort, controlled. Isn’t he, lads?’ Paul tapped his own brow. There was a sheen of sweat on it. ‘But we know there’s a lot going on in that head of his.’

‘It’s the quiet ones you have to watch,’ said Thomas.

‘Thomas, you’ll never say a truer word. Out of the mouths of babes, as they say. Jesus, Philip, are you finished already?’

‘It’s hot,’ Philip said.

‘A furnace.’

‘This thirst,’ Philip added, ‘I can’t seem to shake it.’

‘Christ, Matthew,’ Paul called, ‘do something, will you?’

‘Like what?’

‘Open the fridge door or something. Start putting ice in the drinks.
Something
.’

‘We’re out of ice.’

‘You’ll be out of a job if we take our custom elsewhere.’

Matthew smiled. ‘You four aren’t going anywhere.’

‘No talking back to the customers, Matthew,’ Paul said, pointing a finger. ‘Leonard, ready for another?’

‘I’ve two in front of me.’

‘Apply yourself to the task. We’ll have the same again, Matthew.’

‘Not for me,’ said Leonard.

‘Play the game, Leonardo. Give him another, Matthew.’ The barman walked back to the optics.

‘You’re wasting your money, Paul.’

‘It’s my money.’

‘You’ll be skint again tomorrow.’

‘Who cares about tomorrow?’

‘Suit yourself.’

‘I always do.’

‘This is very pleasant,’ said Philip.

‘It’s not meant to be pleasant,’ Paul said. ‘It’s a wake, remember?’

‘How can I forget?’

‘Levity ill becomes you, Filipi.’

‘What’s levity?’ Thomas asked.

‘Lightness,’ Leonard explained.

Thomas nodded. ‘Like being light in the head?’

‘Lot of levity about here,’ Paul said, winking.

‘Maybe I’m ill,’ said Philip, loosening his collar. ‘My mouth’s parched all day.’

‘Could be a lot of reasons for that,’ Paul said. ‘Could be nerves.’

‘Nerves?’

‘I saw something yesterday,’ Thomas said, ‘on the telly. It was about these insects that eat each other. Or maybe it was their babies they ate.’

Paul and Philip looked at one another, the way they did when Thomas said this sort of thing.

‘That’s not so rare,’ Leonard told Thomas, his eyes on Paul.

‘You’re a smart one, aren’t you?’ said Paul.

Leonard shook his head, drained one of his vodkas. ‘It’s all relative,’ he said. Then he slipped off his barstool.