Cleaning Up (21 page)

‘Too fucking smart he is Darrin, no land-line see. No names on the mobile, unless he brings somebody back there, and then they start talking business. What the fuck are we going to get from it, apart from the soundtrack of him enjoying the good life?’

Moz shrugged irritably at it all.

Darrin focused on his kebab and let Mozzer wind down.

‘Remember what you told me Moz - patience, patience.’

For once Moz offered no riposte and then he nodded at him with a rueful smile.

‘You’re right son, taught you well then, din’t I Dazzle boy?’

Darrin saluted him with the remainder of his kebab, ‘that you did Moz that you did - now eat yer bloody grub.’ No harm in keeping the prick happy now was there?

York had been a blast and Jimbo had been right, Quasimodo
would have pulled in that town. They had pulled two women as light and easy as the Artful Dodger picking a pocket or two. The four of them had finished the evening cosied up in a smart little semi somewhere on the edge of town and they’d had a little private party. After the consensuals they had a couple of hours sleep and then a taxi back to the B and B to make sure that they didn’t miss the fry up.

The weekend had satiated him, he didn’t feel in any rush to call Donna and he didn’t feel any guilt about it either. He would give some time to catching up with the old man instead. In fact it felt good to be more measured with her, after all, steady as it goes had not been his normal modus operandi and he’d too often had to repent his haste at leisure. For most of his adult life he had oscillated between the two ends of the spectrum, plenty of meaningless but usually enjoyable sex, interspersed with longish, monogamous relationships in which the possibility of marriage, settling down and kids had always been there, shimmering somewhere in the
mid-distance
but, ultimately, proving to be just a trick of the light. He’d felt that familiar compulsion with Donna, to love and be loved, get in there boots and all. The old, old pattern but the enforced time out because of dramas with the kid and her subsequent pulling away had established parameters that he was happy enough with.

She called him on the Thursday at the Centre. She’d had a bit of roof damage from the weekend’s storm and had suffered a leak that had slightly stained her en-suite wall. She’d booked a roofer to come around tomorrow morning, a friend of a friend, she said.

That evening they went out for a meal and he boxed smart and brought a change of clothes, which meant there would
no rushing around before work and it would also give him the opportunity to find out if her en-suite shower unit could comfortably accommodate two adults.

His mum had called him on Friday to say that she couldn’t pick him up and could he get a cab over to her place tomorrow morning. Pasquale arrived there at about eleven and knocked briskly on the door. She opened up, well grim faced. No hello, no embrace, no kiss. He followed her into the lounge and saw the issue in hand before she had to refer to it. His money tin was on the dining room table - lid off and conspicuously empty.

Pasquale looked at her and waited and she did the same. He was conscious of the click of the kitchen wall clock and the fact that he couldn’t keep his right foot still - it silently percussioned out a jittery tattoo on her beloved carpet.

The fucking storm! He thought, cursing his luck.

Her eyes gestured towards the tin, ‘well Pasquale?’

He didn’t know what to say, he was caught inertly between offence and defence.

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Where did you get the money - tell me?’

‘Ermmm, me and Junior we been…’

She raised her eyebrows, no prompts to help him get there, no gap filling.

‘Working,’ he finished.

‘Working! Working doing what exactly Pasquale?’

The game was up but he stayed quiet - silence seemed to be the best fall back position.

There was no way off the hook though he knew that he was fucked.

‘You and Junior are doing what, to make that kind of money Pasquale?’

He shook his head at her, his eyes filling slightly with the frustration.

She did a little half turn and swept the tin off the table. It bounced off the sofa and hit the radiator under the lounge room window - she was as mad as hell.

‘Tell me, or I’ll call the police and you can tell them instead.’

That snapped him out of it.

‘OK, OK we were doing errands.’

‘Errands?’

‘Yeah, moving weed around on our bikes from the Coleshaw to the Barrington.’

He shrugged his shoulders - what’s the big deal?

Her eyes went inward slightly.

‘Who for?’

He shook his head.

‘Who for Pasquale? It’s me or the police - choose.’

‘Alright, alright. A guy called Dwayne, Junior knows him. For fucks sake!’

‘For fucks sake!’ She yelled back. She slapped him, hard, across the side of the head. The blow knocked him off balance and it dizzied him too.

Pasquale steadied himself, his arms rigid at his side his fists curled and pulsing.

The tears came then and the anger.

‘You can fuckin’ talk!’ He shouted.

‘What do you mean?’ she hissed. Her eyes flicking towards the nearest neighbouring wall.

‘You, you did it for years. How did we get that first house
eh? You only ever did cleaning work. You think I’m daft you do. You made it that way, why not me?’

She sighed and took a step towards him but he backed away.

Her face had softened, slightly.

‘Listen love, listen. You are putting yourself at risk Pasquale. You are putting everything at risk, your future love, your future.’ She looked down and shook her head. ‘I’m not proud of what I did Pasquale but I had less choice than you do now, you understand that don’t you?’

He nodded, ‘where’s my money Mum?’

‘In the bank Pasquale, I opened an account for you.’

He looked at her quizzically - what was she on.

‘Two signatures till you are eighteen and then it’s yours.’

He nodded, mollified a little.

‘No more though Pasquale, if I get a whiff of it again I go to the police, in a flash. No more chances, this is it. Are you sure it’s just weed Pasquale?’

‘Yes Mum, just weed,’ fixing his will on holding her gaze.

‘You do remember Matthew, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do - fucking hell Mum!’

‘Well keep that in mind eh Pasquale, Matthew - sixteen and all gone.’

She held her hand out and softly touched his face - he flinched but he let her do it and then he let her keep it there.

‘You have all the talent in the world son, please don’t throw it away.’

She turned and went through to the kitchen. He stayed in the lounge, stock-still and silent. He wondered if he could continue to keep the rest of it from her, no Dwayne this weekend, he thought, that would be more than pushing it,
it would be dumb. He’d give Junior a bell on Monday maybe announce his retirement. Fuck, he thought, three, four hundred a week down the shitter. He went up to his room and stayed there until she called him down for lunch.

Keith Dalton had thrown them a curve ball, Tuesday night he’d rocked up in the Jag with a young blonde couple in tow, possibly siblings, according to the boys on the watch. They’d had drinks together in the lounge and on the terrace and then Keith had proceeded to ‘entertain’ the pair of them in his bedroom. Mozzer had happily given him all the unnecessary details when they had taken their turn in the Portakabin on the Friday. By Mozzer’s account, it had been a cavalcade of sucking, fucking, moaning and grunting. Plus, and opinion was mixed as to whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, they had lost the mike in the bedroom. A few minutes into the cavorting there had been a loud crash and then nothing. Silent, up until a spent Keithy’s heavy tread had activated the mike in the lounge, Dalton hoarsely calling out to the young ones, asking them if they wanted more drinks.

So that was that - they could try and get back in there but, as yet, the young couple had hardly left the joint since the bounce around. Keithy had come back home with bags of food and plenty of booze on the Thursday. It looked like his friends would be staying for a while.

Still, they had the lounge room mike - Dalton was regularly on the mobile, still only nicknames and initials with no obvious point of reference in the conversations. He was as cute and careful as a shithouse rat.

Saltt had an office and warehouse down on the freight yards and a car breaker’s business near the edge of the city but both businesses had night watchmen and there had not
yet been a safe opportunity to get their tech’ boys into either place without raising suspicion. Plus, DI Bowden was pretty sure that the O’Briens would sweep both premises on a regular basis - the O’Briens and Tibbs had not stayed at the top of their tree through incaution. The bottom line was that the cops had been trying to put it on that band of brothers for more than thirty years and the Saltt crew had been and were still at least a couple of steps ahead of the law and its agents. There had been whispers, of course, of there being a hidden, helping hand from within. But there had never even been a sniff of evidence, never mind any concrete proof, of a source or sources from within the ranks of the thin blue line. It was just the usual urban paranoia.

Mac had introduced June, his ‘missus’, to the regulars at The Admiral and had scored a bit of puff for the pair of them. Johnstone’s beef head brother had given him the smoke and Mac had casually dropped in how ‘her indoors’ liked a bit of the heavier stuff. Pete Johnstone had laughed at that and advised that Mac get her on the game, as he’d need the brass - sound advice.

One recent development had pricked their interest on the Friday shift. Dalton had been caught talking to Blair and Cass, his houseguests, about a party that he would be throwing at the flat in a couple of week’s time. Dalton had purringly reassured the pair that they would be ‘the stars of the show’ and chances were that the two of them were not being booked in to perform magic tricks.

So, at least there was now the feeling of things moving forward and that sense of momentum was helping Darrin deal with the mundane part of the job. This month had seen a continuation of the fine May weather, long warm days and
evenings - fine enough to put the spring in anybody’s step, and there had been plenty of street activity too for them to deal with. They’d had a small scale stand off at the precinct between some Leeside Asian lads and a group over from the Barrington. They’d nipped that in the bud before it had got out of hand - both camps given the bum’s rush whilst swaggeringly keeping face.

He was up for another weekend away too, this time to see to a top, big-name Cuban band that would be playing at the Roundhouse in London. After the gig there was a big salsa party, which was happening in a nearby club. Jolika had sorted some digs out for them in Camden, which seemed to be ridiculously expensive. Still, fuck it, he was on the overtime with plenty more to come. Maybe Keithy Dalton would string them along till Christmas and keep him quids in. Darrin laughed that off, he was turning into Mozzer fucking junior.

Tommy had seen her for lunch and throughout the meal she had looked a little strained and the kid had been conspicuous by his absence from the conversation. He had mooted the idea of a trip down to London to stay with Lee and Bernie for the weekend and she’d brightened a little at the thought of that, but she had ended the discussion with an even, ‘we’ll see.’

It was looking like one of those days. When he got to work, Pauline had told him about an overdose that had taken place over the weekend. The body was found in the stairwell of one of the Coleshaw mid-rises and it had turned out to be the uncle of one of the boys who usually came down for the basketball on Thursday nights. The kid was a good little
soccer player too and had even played a bit for one of the local team’s first eleven, which was no mean achievement for a sixteen year old. Pauline had known the guy when he was on the straight, a tradesman who had done some work on her place years ago, she’d lost track of him and now she knew why.

‘Sad, sad, sad,’ she’d told him at his office door, ‘thirty bloody six.’ She was off to the funeral on Friday.

Donna had called him the next day and inveigled an invite to his for some food. He didn’t mind, it would be nice to cook for somebody else. He hadn’t done it for years apart from helping Mick with a Sunday roast when they couldn’t be bothered with the pub. He’d been subsisting for a long time on a rotating menu of his repertoire of six old favourite dishes and variations there-of.

They’d had a good evening, he’d cooked a seafood lasagne, which was as about as complicated as it got for him in the kitchen. After the food they watched an easily digested romcom for sexy seniors with Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton. After that they had explored each other’s bodies in the long twilight. She was horny, even a little frenzied - pressing down vigorously on him with her eyes closed, her head slightly turned away from him. Not that he minded, she had a great body, which he examined with a pleasurable detachment as he felt the heat in his loins inevitably swell and burst.

They lay quietly together for a while as she was turned towards the bedroom wall. Tommy was slowly running his fingers from her ribs to her hip.

‘London,’ she said.

‘London?’

‘Yeah, those friends of yours, it sounds like fun Tommy.
I’d like that, be good for us to get away.’

Nice one, he thought, he’d call Lee tomorrow. Be interesting to see what they think of her.

Tommy continued to hold her and was just starting to drift off when she started to press back into him. This time it was languid and gentle and she called out his name when he rubbed her to climax.

He gave Lee a bell that morning from work. Lee said he’d run it by Bernie but he was sure it would be fine. They were playing a gig that Saturday, a reggae cover band, Mash it Up, mostly Marley and Peter Tosh. It was a nice earner for the two of them.

Sonny had rained on the parade slightly, calling him to let him know that a group of young guys had steamed into one of the local Asian green-grocers yesterday and had pushed a customer to the floor and damaged some of the shelving and stock. They had taken off for the Coleshaw and a group of older Asian guys had given chase. Some of the locals had got into it with the posse when the Asian crew had skidded to a halt near The Admiral. Just verbals at first with a few of the local kids and then some bozos had spilled out of the boozer, enough of them for the Asian guys to hit reverse and get the fuck out of Dodge. Sonny was a little worried, tensions on the rise and all that - he was heading up to the Coleshaw today to chat to some of the young-uns and he’d also asked the cops for a bit more street presence but they were already stretched too thin to cover more bases. Sonny had been philosophical about it as per.

‘If it is to go off Tommy, then it is in the lap of the one true God.’

‘Gods Sonny, shouldn’t that be Gods?’

‘What are you then Tommy, a bloody Hindu fella?’

‘Not really Sunil, don’t mind the Madras though.’

Sonny laughed, ‘pagan you are Tommy, a bloody devil.’

‘And gonna stay that way Sonny.’

‘Amen to that brother.’

He had a few quiet moments after the call and he thought about Donna for a while. It was moving forward between them but he’d fallen into love before at the first hint of tenderness and he was more than a little tired of that old, sad pattern. His life as a serial monogamist, stumbling in and out of relationships, wounded but none the wiser. Too often he’d been in love with the euphoria of falling in love. He’d had more than a decade of it - setting up the love nest, experiencing the slings and arrows of life together, reality inevitably reasserting itself, then the hitting of the wall and the packing of the bags. A change of address, a little time alone, then he’d be out looking for it again. Good for developing resilience but compulsively dumb too. That had been the pattern right up until meeting and losing Bonnie. But, he’d come through that too and here he was, back in the place that he’d thought he’d left behind. Home, he thought, where the fuck is it and what the fuck is it? He still wasn’t sure.

Pasquale mulled it over and then he’d texted Junior to tell him that he wouldn’t be doing a run the following day. Instead, he’d hung around the refuge. More changes were on the way here too. There was now a supported living arrangement in place for Kat, which included ongoing educational support for her too. Kat was pleased with it but he could tell that she was apprehensive, she was having a lot more quiet moments and she was a little more snappy than usual with
both Neil and Jess. Thank god Al wasn’t still at the ref. She would have bitten his head off.

There was a new kid coming in tonight and he’d be sharing the room with him, a younger one this time, which should be OK. The staff had had a meeting about the admission this morning. He was from down south somewhere and that didn’t augur well for the amount of shit that he was likely to take. Neil and Jess had been chatting excitedly about Daddy D’s upcoming party and Neil had teasingly insinuated an invitation to him, which he had blanked completely.

Junior had called him the next day - no pressure, he said. He had some smoke if he fancied it, meet up at the mill. Junior was there before him, a smoke rolled and already blasting. He looked up and smiled and tossed its twin to Pasquale. They chatted around a few things. Junior was still intent on going down to Haringey before his brother got out.

Pasquale didn’t offer much comment, he was OK up here at the moment, Haringey had lost its lustre for him. It was chill being at the ref.

‘Dwayne asked where you were yesterday. I told him you’d pulled the plug.’

‘He OK with it?’

‘Yeah suppose, kind of. He reckons we were his best boys like, more reliable than the raggedy arses up there on the Coleshaw - the top boys us P, he knows it too.’

Pasquale liked that right enough but he feigned indifference to the compliment.

‘Said he’d up the money for us too if we decide to come back to it.’

That got his interest.

‘Yeah - 60 for the smoke he said and a fucking ton for the
ice! Can’t turn it over fast enough he reckons, there were more cops up there at the weekend though, he’s bugging about that. We had to pull away from the shop to talk. You know, get down to those lanes. Bit boring it was like, hanging about down there.’ Junior shrugged his shoulders.

Fucking hell, Pasquale thought, a ton for the ice!

‘I’d have to find a new stash,’ he said to Junior.

Junior nodded towards the corner of the mill.

‘Look down there, down there, next to yer,’ Junior straightened his long arm and pointed just to the right of him with his boney index finger. Pasquale got it, a loose brick with most of its mortar gone, positioned almost right in the corner of the building.

‘That’ll move easy enough P.’

Pasquale tried it and it did, there was a few inches of space behind the brick and the outer wall of the building.

‘Your mum’s not going to find that, is she?’

Pasquale stood up and grabbed his bicycle.

‘Where you off to bro’?’

‘Pound shop J, get myself a new tin.’

Junior laughed, sprang to his feet and wiped the dust from the arse of his jeans.

‘Top man - we back in business then?’

Pasquale laughed, ‘never really left it bro’.’

Junior sent a text to Dwayne from outside the pound shop, thirty seconds later and the reply came through. He’d have a bag each for them, now.

A hundred smackers, Pasquale thought, like shelling
fuckin
’ peas.

Darrin had worked overtime every evening apart from the
Friday, two days on the Coleshaw and a couple of shifts down at the Quays, the first with Mozzer and a few pleasant hours with Jolika who was binning the readies for the London weekend.

Mac had been down The Admiral on both nights, one with June one without and he’d managed to get into Dwayne for some crystal meth for his ‘old lady’. Dwayne hadn’t said yes but he hadn’t said no either, maybe he was waiting to run it past Johnstone, covering his arse before he took the plunge with a new customer.

Somewhat embarrassingly, both for him and Jolika, randy old Keith and his house guests had chosen their shift to use the lounge for some gymnastics. The fucker was insatiable and all the permutations had appeared to have been tried. The girl was particularly loud and he and Jolika had laughed, awkwardly, at her protracted yodellings. Thankfully, Dalton had a bit of mood music on, maybe as a safeguard against startling the neighbours.

In regards to his movements there was nothing doing, Dalton was as predictable as the lunar cycle. He was out of there most mornings around about eight, they’d done a little tail on him from the flat but there was no meat on that bone. He was clocking on down at the Saltt warehouse in the nearby freight yards - just like a regular working Joe. The young-uns seemed to spend most of the day in the pit, rousing themselves in the late afternoons. They often went out in the evenings and always came back shit faced. The upshot of it all was that the flat was rarely empty and that there was no way that they could get another mike in there. Not that the mike was bringing any great reward, only more chat about the upcoming party. Dalton was always cagey, still only using
names on the mobile when he spoke to either his mum or his sister.