Cleaning Up (2 page)

‘Don’t try to be a tough guy Bones,’ he had told him, again, ‘try and be a decent one.’

Bones would take the advice with laughable cod seriousness; a couple of beats of faux introspection and then the grin was back on.

‘Yeah, yeah, I see it Tommy. But, Tommy. He was asking for it man. I mean, what would you have done like?’

Hunger and restlessness finally saw Bones bugger off home. He now had half an hour to kill before the start of the staff meeting and he used the time to walk up to the corner shop for a paper. The paper was the price of walking into the shop, 
that and ten minutes listening to Mr Aziz give it to the council, national politicians and some of the local kids. He was as predictable as old Mick in his tub thumping. Luckily, just a couple of minutes into the old fella’s circumlocutory diatribe, Jamal - Mr. Aziz’s eldest son, came into the shop and that quickly helped to change the focus. Jamal was a light breeze compared to his old man.

For Tommy, walking into the shop would always trigger an indulgent memory of Noora. He and Noora had had a very discreet thing a long, long time ago. Fear of discovery and its repercussions had heightened and coloured the already considerable erotic charge between them. He was pretty sure that Jamal had been aware of it and probably Sohail, the other son, too. But, a little surprisingly, they’d kept their counsel, which was probably due to the force of personality of both their older sister and their father.

Before they’d found the resolve to make a serious commitment, he’d made his choice to leave his home town. They hadn’t stayed in touch. There had not even been the pretence of it - she was pissed off and hurt by his decision and had made no bones about what she wanted and by the time he’d got back she’d gone. She was now living in Newcastle with her done-well Asian solicitor husband and everything that they once had now belonged up stream in the past.

On his return to the Centre he went straight to the meeting room. Even though he was a little early most of the staff were already in there. Pauline, the Centre manger, was up on her feet, busy circling the tables, divvying up the minutes and what looked like a pleasingly short agenda. She was emitting her usual vibe, an egalitarian good cheer offset by a barely hidden, tight-eyed worry. Tommy knew that her tension was a
product of her ongoing struggle to ensure the financial health and viability of the Centre and, a consequence of her unyielding, unconditional love and practical support of a son who battled with a combination of mental health problems and an unhelpful fondness for Class A drugs. Tommy was staggered at her stamina and her tolerance of the foibles of both her son and of humanity in general. In his opinion, Pauline Hughes was a minor-league urban saint.

Sonny the youth team street worker had popped in for this particular staff meeting as he sometimes did. Sonny, who had become a bona fide mate, was well…sunny. An always welcome source of respite from the meetings’ frequent bursts of ponderous worthiness.

Sonny took the empty seat next to his. His missus was expecting their first born and they chatted briefly about that and then they moved on quickly to a spate of muggings that had flared up on the Barrington Estate. The Barrington was a colossal shithole, a peripherally located mini town with the ambience and crumbling infrastructure of a dystopian,
sweat-soaked
nightmare.

Pauline called the meeting to order as Geoff, the Centre’s coach driver ambled into the room mumbling slightly
red-faced
apologies for his tardiness. Nobody was that mithered, the Centre had yet to embrace anything within sniffing distance of the ‘corporate’ model and thank fucking Christ for that.

They did the round the table thing and the talkers took the opportunity to talk and the rest did a quick, cursory pass the parcel. Tommy spoke a little about the literacy group and the need for some new sports equipment which brought a slight frown of worry from Pauline so he didn’t press on it. He
thought about mentioning next week’s ‘safe rave’ at the Centre but he didn’t want to open that particular can of worms either. Too many people were prepared to share their opinion on it and in this instance he was soliciting brevity not a talk-a- thon.

His mind drifted as the staff continued round the table. He’d get down to the Crown later on. Catch up with the old man for a couple then maybe pop into Piccolos to round the night off. He corralled Sonny after the meeting to see if he was up for it but Sonny declined the invitation

‘Like to bro, but, you know, Estelle. She likes having me home, now it’s getting close.’

Tommy had been back for well over a year and he was still struggling to find regular playmates. Years spent away had seen all the old gang inevitably paired up and settled down. A couple of them had moved away though nobody had gone as far as he had. Twenty years was a long, long time.

These, he knew, had been predictable drifts in a place that was still a rough facsimile of what he had gladly left behind. Now here he was, back again; older, single, still jumping the hoops, still trying to stay solid and rolling on. Despite the passing of the years he remained ambivalently set apart from his birthplace. Sometimes, he could taste the loneliness in his throat. That was a feeling that a few beers could never quite wash away.

Darrin had hung around the station for a little more time than was his usual inclination. He was nursing a hangover that had left every cell of his body feeling dried out, frazzled and frayed. He got away with it for a while up until Thommo, the gnarled Welsh desk sergeant, had flicked a querulous eyebrow his way that was followed by a pointed glance in the direction
of the reception’s wall clock.

He had a couple of follow ups to do, a young mum who had had her letter box vandalised and an old lady whose purse had been snatched in one of the supermarket car parks. The old lady’s description of her assailants didn’t bode well for an early collar; a pair of hoodies, low-rise denim jeans, one black youth, one white. The old girl was shaken though, she’d held on tightly to her bag making them work for it and she’d taken a tumble and banged up her knee. Turned out she wasn’t one of the ‘flog em and hang em’ brigade and she had even displayed a degree of compassion for the perpetrators that had made him feel like throttling the little fuckers. If he got the collar maybe he would put a little bit of hurt on them.

The mum was quite a tidy piece, she had a good idea who the culprits were and when she told him the names he realised that the kids’ families were known to him. He’d go up and have a word later although he knew that it would probably be as effective as plaiting sea mist. Still, it was good to have the chat, let the pricks know that they didn’t have carte-blanche.

He got back to the station to do the paperwork and to engage in some routinely unsubtle banter with Trish and Big Chev about last night’s shenanigans in The Ship. His hangover was just about on the ebb and the next blow out was already being planned. They’d start at The Ship, have a few in The Moor Hen then end up in Piccolos, the late night place just off the High Street that was owned by a pair of shirt lifters.

The crew had to cherry pick the pubs they frequented, if there was enough of them it didn’t really matter but any small groups had to plan ahead and use a bit of common sense, they were known after all, and not everybody in town had the plod on their Christmas card list. He pencilled himself in with the
caveat that he’d get down to the old man’s gym for a work out first. Boozy benders had put the start of a belly on him over the Christmas and New Year and his dad hadn’t let that go without comment. There were plenty of examples of the Ghost of Christmas Future knocking around the station and, besides, what self respecting bird didn’t like the look and feel of a well toned six-pack.

He had been teamed up with one of the experienced detectives to do some door knocking about the muggings on the Barrington. A couple of the incidents had been nasty - much more assault and battery than anything else. They had pulled up at the estate’s dingy looking row of shops and their arrival was sullenly scoped by a group of Barra’ boys who were hanging out near the entrance of the launderette.

By the time they’d climbed out of the car most of the kids had turned their backs, the lads slightly raising their voices in order to share their limited command of the English language with them. The D was an old lag with a rep for business-like toughness and he didn’t even bother looking over in their direction. He made a point of eyeballing a couple of the young ‘uns and his challenge had elicited laughter from the group. Darrin felt his face colour and the tension rise in his back and shoulders, but he didn’t push it. He caught up with the D in a few long-legged strides. Later, he thought, later.

Pasquale had got into school today - no problem. He’d got there because his mum had dropped him off at the fuckin’ school gates. He’d landed back home at around eleven last night. He’d sent her a text about seven but had ignored her subsequent responses, eventually turning the mobile off just to get her out of his head. He’d been smoking with Matt and
Junior pretty much all of the afternoon and for most of the evening too. He was well battered. They had headed out for a kebab, too skint to score any more weed and then they had gone back to M’s for some more Grand Theft Auto. Matty only had the third one but he was talking up being at the front of the queue to buy the new one.

She’d gone ballistic when he made it home, coming out of the lounge room at him like a bat out of hell. She’d caught up with him just as he’d placed his foot on the first of the stairs. She must have been sat there in the dark and silence waiting for him, fucking mad she was. At first he thought she was going to hit him, that was something she hadn’t done for years and he was surprised at his reaction to her anger. He’d instinctively pulled back from her with a jolt of fear. But, as usual, her concern had outweighed her anger and, after a lengthy bollocking, she’d made them both toast before insisting that he go up to bed.

Now here he was, stuck in this fucking dump of a school. Apart from the late morning history lesson with O’Donnell he’d been bored absolutely shitless. He’d always liked Donno, a big bluff Glaswegian, who effortlessly handled the kids whilst bringing the subject alive. Last year, Pasquale had done a project for him on Scott’s South Pole expedition and he had been given the best marks in the class. He’d really pulled that out of the bag - writing the assignment as a diary illuminated with sketches. O’Donnell had been that impressed that he’d taken it off to show the other teachers, some of whom had shown it to their own kids. He’d been a fucking star for the rest of that week. Today was a monumental drag but at least the fit girls in the class were a distraction and there were more than a few of them to perv at.

Anyway, he’d be out of here next year right enough. He, M and Junior had a plan to make some readies. The three of them were putting down some rhymes together. They were always up for it but they often ended up too blasted to really get it together and whatever they tried was usually lost in a fit of giggles and piss taking. They nailed it sometimes though - for real. He’d keep it low key for the next few days at least until she cooled down. She’d come round, she always did. After all, she was his mum.

Tommy’s old man was at the bar when he walked into the Crown, holding court with a small gaggle of his cronies in attendance. Mick may have been physically diminished but, in his cups, he was as verbally robust as he’d ever been. A break in the juke box roar gave him the gist of the conversation.

‘Free trade, free trade,’ Mick opined, ‘what’s so fucking free about it. Bending over for t’ rich and powerful they mean… fucking wankers.’

Yep he’d heard that one before - plenty of times. He agreed with it too but he wasn’t in the mood for the splenetics, not just yet. Mick’s Think Tank nodded along in easy unison; Nev, an easy going beta male who was an old mate of his dad’s from the Union days, Teddy Black, a ruddy faced scowler who only smiled on public holidays and Danny ‘Drink’ Gorman who looked plastered enough to nod along in agreement to Pol Pot.

He stuck his name up on the board and fed some coins into the jukebox, wryly noting that none of his selections had been penned after the turn of the millennium.

Just as he finished his choices there was bit of a commotion behind him at the tight entry doors of the pub. A few youngish scallies had rolled in. They were travelling abroad
by the look of them, down here from either the Coleshaw or the Barrington. They were loud enough, with plenty of piss and vinegar, but they were also savvy enough to tread a little lightly. The Crown had plenty of old school in it, ever ready to defend its shop worn honour.

There was a middle-aged guy with the crew, somewhat incongruous compared to his younger mates; nice clobber, a nifty pork pie hat, untrimmed sidies that were worn a little long and sharp, shrewd eyes that gave the pub the once over with a look that was as light and unobtrusive as a zephyr. He gave one of the lads, a slightly mad-eyed fucker with full feminine lips a twenty and nodded him towards the bar. Tommy briefly locked eyes with the stranger and the guy smiled at him, a pleasant, no sweat grin that set off a dim distant echo of memory.

Nugget Dawson came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder - it was his turn on the pool. Tonight he was in the mood for it and well on form and he kept the table for a good hour. The old man had sent a pint his way and he’d reciprocated. The stranger and the shell suits had had a drink and fucked off, probably gone down into town looking for action that they would probably find.

His old man had quietened down by the time Tommy made his way to meet him at the end of the bar. Nev gave him an easy smile and Danny burbled a greeting and proffered a warm, clammy handshake. Ted Black had left the crew which suited him fine, Tommy found his company to be as refreshing and palatable as a bucket of slops.

His Dad pulled him slightly to one side just a little way from the others. ‘Yer clock that bloke, came in here before, with the young uns?’