Cleaning Up (22 page)

Young had called him up on Thursday. The night before June had gone into The Admiral wearing a wire and they now had Dwayne firmly by the bollocks - product and price clearly caught on the tape. After a brief discussion with June and Mac, Dwayne had told her to meet him in the lane that backed up between Linden and Sycamore. Dwayne had handed June a ton’s worth of ice, Dwayne’s fingerprints were all over the package, bang to fucking rights indeed.

However, Young and Bowden didn’t want to pull him in just yet. They wanted to hold back on it, banking on Dwayne still being an in to Johnstone and the possibility of a bust higher up the food chain. The team were happy with that, nobody was of the opinion that Dwayne was going anywhere, it was a just a matter of turning the calendar pages before Dwayne would meet his destiny.

During the days, he was foot patrolling around the precinct, the new shopping mall and the High Street. Patrols had been upped for the summer months as some of the natives had been getting restless. Things hadn’t really kicked off up here for over twenty years and the Chief and the Super had made it crystal that they wanted it to stay that way.

Friday he’d had a session with the old man; circuits, some weights, pad and bags. He was revved alright - work busy - social life buzzing.

The weekend was over before he knew it - the band was a blast although he found the Roundhouse a little too crowded for his taste. He’d quickly tired of the pull and sway of the crowd so, half an hour into the set, he’d made his way over to the margins of the audience. He had quickly been
pounced upon by a group of youngish Latina women, one of whom was drop dead gorgeous, edible in a backless, gravity defying dress and four inch heels. They played pass the parcel with him for the rest of the set and by the end of the gig he was drenched in sweat. The girls were off to some party in Archway and the stunner had given him the address. Darrin was tempted, but they’d already shelled out for the after gig party and he knew that there would be plenty of talent there too. He couldn’t see Jolika, Stuart or any of the crew that had made the trip down amongst the exiting crowd but, when he stumbled outside into the busy Camden streets, Jolika and Stu were already out there, chatting to some short, good looking salsero. According to the fliers he had in his hand he was a dance teacher down in Brighton - using the gig to tout for business. The three of them were talking about a festival in France that was coming up in August, three days of bands and dancing. It looked like supply was matching demand in the salsa world.

They got to the party at about two and left it in the light of the early morning. He’d scored, not scored, scored and not scored again and, in the end, he just didn’t care, happy to let himself be carried away by the buzz. Three hours kip, up to pack, breakfast and back to Euston. Darrin was out for the count before they passed Wembley Stadium and he awoke to the announcement that the train was pulling into Macclesfield.

Donna had called him to say that the kid was going to be home for the next two nights but that she was still definitely on for the London trip. Tommy organised the next Friday afternoon off, the Centre owed him some hours for the unpaid
overtime that he’d racked up through working at the monthly safe raves.

Pauline was still palpably sweating it on the Centre getting the big money. The Lottery had contacted her to let her know that the funding decisions were to be made in the next few days.

Pauline had learned to develop stoicism and patience in her role but it was obvious that the uncertainty was plaguing her. She had tuned out immediately after giving him the update, absently scratching her head for a few seconds as she looked out through her office window, the view from which was probably her only concession to her status at the Centre, a wide angle vista of the wild and lonely moors.

Tommy coughed and she came back to the room turning away from the window with a wan smile.

‘We can plan ahead then, when we find out,’ she told him, ‘you know Tommy, twenty five years hard work and we still have to bloody wing it.’

‘It’s not that bad Pauline, it will all still be here long after we’re gone.’

‘Hmmm, it would be nice to share your optimism Tommy, but there are plenty of others, just as good as we are, that have folded love. The bloody funding tap switched off, making do with volunteers rather than paid staff…hmmm.’ Another look out of the window and another strained ‘what can you do?’ smile.

‘Hey - worst option, like you said, we all go to part time. That’s OK eh? it’s not ideal but it’s not the end of the world either. We can keep looking for other sources of dough, you know, use more volunteers ourselves if we have to, keep the programmes going - no problem.’

‘Ah well Thomas, I guess at least we will soon know - thanks for the support though love - appreciate it.’

He nodded and smiled but he didn’t have any pep talk left. Some shit was just out of your hands.

Thursday he had run over to Donna’s after an hour or so chewing the fat with the old man. Mick had been venting about free schools this time, brandishing
The Observer
as he did so. Corporate capitalism by stealth was Mick’s take on it. ‘Everything is about a quid with these fuckers - you watch. It’ll be bloody hi-jacked by big business and the bloody holy rollers. If I were younger Tommy I tell yer, I’d be gone from here in a flash and fuck the lot of them.’

When a little of the steam had boiled off, he managed to steer his old man on to cricket and they’d talked about taking a trip on the train up to Durham. Catch a one dayer up there somewhere near the end of the season - the old man was up for it, train travel and cricket - two of Mick’s staples.

Donna had warmed up some curry that was left over from the previous day for tea and they had chilled out for a while after the food, watching a show about four soft English kids who had been shooed off to some retirement joint in California to test their comparative fitness levels with the resident oldies. The show was a classic example of the body following the mind. The relentless ‘can do’ spirit of the American retirees and the embarrassment of the kids at getting their arses kicked by people fifty years their senior had, eventually, whipped the young ones out of their affectations and torpor. He’d found it surprisingly inspirational and the show had left him feeling positive about what a little bit of will, support and good attitude could achieve. Tommy had made to share his thoughts with Donna but it didn’t look as if the show had
had the same impact on her. Maybe she had a steeper hill to climb before she touched down in the Promised Land.

There was a look on her face that he hadn’t seen before - dark was the word that came to mind.

He asked her if she was OK and she told him no, he asked her why and she told him.

There it was; the kid, the roof, the tin, the money, the fucking drugs.

At first he was surprised, then, with a little reflection, not surprised at all. She had found over a grand in there - fuck.

He asked her if she wanted him to speak to Sonny and she gave him an emphatic no, even looking a little annoyed with the suggestion.

‘I’ll do it if I have to Tommy - he’s my son.’

That pierced him a bit but he bit down on any words that he may soon live to regret. Shut the fuck up, he told himself, willing himself, with no little effort, into a neutral space.

‘What are you going to do then Donna?’

‘Give him a chance Tommy, I’ll call the refuge, see what he’s been up to after school and then if he lets me down…’

‘Hmm, well lets hope he doesn’t,’ thinking that maybe the kid needed the fall. He’d had a lifetime of being given chances - the little twat.

‘Just weed eh?’

‘That’s what he says Tommy.’

He breathed out heavily, reluctantly climbing into the back seat and letting her stay in charge of it. He wondered how long he would be able to keep his mouth shut.

‘You’re still sure about coming down to London?’ he asked.

She nodded and put her hand on his shoulder.

‘Yes, do me good - stop me moping about all this nonsense for a while.’

Tommy nodded at her although he wasn’t convinced that 200 miles and some quality reggae covers would be enough for that job. Jimbo had called him earlier in the week, asking if he was interested in taking a package trip to Thailand in November. He’d been lukewarm in response although he hadn’t binned it either. Maybe he’d green light it. He could feel the pressure dropping all around him with the prospect of a bumpy ride ahead. Tommy looked around the room and he made the inventory: Donna, the overkill photo collection, the delicately tasteful origami and her stupid little prick of a son.

This week was to be the last regular week of lessons, just a few group tutorials and then the summer break. Plenty of leisure activities had been put forward by the refuge staff with input and feedback from the residents but they were all optional. That left him with plenty of time to hang out and chill. The ref now had a leaving date for Kat and she’d already been to her new flat with a female worker for a try-out sleep-over.

Neil and Jess were revving up for the party at the weekend. Jess had given Sean the arse, again, and was now ‘young, free and single.’

‘Maybe not free pet,’ Neil reminded her.

The new kid, Liam, was kind of OK, quite self contained and pretty sharp and the others didn’t seem to mind him either. He smoked like a chimney but shared his fags out and that kept him in brownie points. He made a point of taking the piss out of the workers, particularly Rob, who took
his shit with a slightly disconcerting good humour. Pasquale didn’t trust the little fucker as far as he could throw him. Liam had asked him a couple of times if he could come along for the ride in the afternoon and he’d abruptly palmed him off. He’d appeared unperturbed by the rebuff and it hadn’t stopped the fucker from asking again. Dwayne was keeping them busy; regular runs and now some smaller packs direct to the customer. He’d done a run on the Coleshaw itself, a short ride over to one of the piss stinking mid rises near The Admiral pub. Some lank haired bird had answered the door. Her old man had given him a casual glance and a half-smile from the dump of the lounge/kitchen. The guy was a short, tough looking old dude and Pasquale had found his gaze a little disconcerting, he didn’t look like a user-loser either, definitely not.

He’d had a couple of pangs about his mum as he peddled it but he reckoned he could keep it separate if he was smart. She was away this weekend too - friends she’d told him - probably Tommy from her look but he didn’t give a flying fuck.

On Friday the Jag had pulled up next to them as they were chatting with one of Dwayne’s boys, the three of them were hanging out down between Linden and Sycamore - Junior didn’t like it down there, he preferred the shops and the pub, to him it was all the same, just part of the same fucking dump - no difference at all.

The guy had given them a warm hello, his eyes flicking over Junior and Bailey but finally coming to a rest on him, as he instinctively knew that they would.

‘Hope you boys are behaving yourselves.’ No context, no build up to the words. He was a jarring fucker.

They all nodded but remained mute, Pasquale felt his
heart race again, his gaze held by the man’s smiling, watery, blue eyes.

‘How old are you son?’ he asked Pasquale.

‘Sixteen.’ he managed, pleased at sounding level with it.

‘Sixteen eh…good age that - sixteen.’

The guy gave him a wink then a raspy laugh.

‘Later boys,’ and then he pulled away to make the turn into Sycamore.

Pasquale looked at Junior who grimaced and spat on the floor.

‘Creepy fucker he is,’ Junior said.

Pasquale nodded but Bailey said nothing and if he had bothered to speak he still would have said nothing. A shrill whistle told them that Dwayne was ready for them down in the alley. Bailey took up post whilst they made their way to the rendezvous point.

‘New batch this fuckin’ lot boys,’ Dwayne had told them on meet up, ‘better quality for the same fuckin’ price, tell Johnny to pass that onto the fuckin’ crew down there. Sell the product and the fuckin’ product sells itself. Off you fuckin’ go then lads.’

They wheeled away and this time they made the trip by a different route. Dwayne had told them that they needed to mix it up a bit, warning them against predictability, this from a guy who never left the fucking estate!

Pasquale looked over his shoulder and saw that Dwayne was heading back down Oak towards the shops. He felt a momentary anxiety pass through him that didn’t really make any sense. He kick-started his bike and did a slingshot around the corner, already trailing in Junior’s wake.

The following week was even busier than the previous one. Darrin had alternated the nights between the Quays and the Coleshaw. There had been no sign of Keithy Dalton up on the estate but he’d been keeping up the family contact with brief nightly chats with the mum and the sister. There was also plenty of talk around Saturday’s soiree - Dalton doing plenty of thinking with his dick.

Young and Mac had chatted about the possibility of pulling Dwayne in to put some pressure on, see how far up the food chain he might go. Young wasn’t confident that Dwayne would fold though and he was advocating keeping it slow and steady like he was a fucking oil tanker captain, eyes to be kept on the bigger prizes down the line. Mac was a little pissed off with the holding pattern though, the kid coming to the door had rankled him.

‘Little fucker, well dressed and cold eyed, all fucking business he was the little shit - Jesus.’ But Mac saw the merit in Young’s argument. Johnstone the Elder was still keeping his distance from him; no drug talk, no money talk - nothing. Johnstone had done a few years stir though and that tended to keep a thinking man cautious. Mac was starting to see how bigger fish like the Saltt crew might be happy to have a man like him on board.

‘Ignore the shell suit and you’ve possibly got a three figure IQ,’ was Mac’s reassessment.

Darrin regularly spotted the two kids that he and Moz had interviewed about Matthew Marshall, the lad in the skip. They were fixtures up on the Coleshaw appearing or already present whenever he was on. The pair of them were now hanging out well away from the pub, usually about
three-quarters
of the way down Oak. He was starting to pay particular
attention to them, clocking them this evening as they chatted with Dwayne and a couple of the younger boys. A simple pattern to their movements quickly emerged, a meet up and chat with Dwayne and whichever of his cohorts happened to be hanging around, then the two of them disappearing down the lane whenever Dwayne made tracks, the pair reappearing five or so minutes later on Oak then hitting it away from the estate and a left turn into Strickland. Darrin wondered if a tail would be feasible on the up-to-no-good little fuckers. He couldn’t see how they could nab them on the estate, there were too many people around to alert the pair to their presence. In transit would be better but that was manpower and they were stretched as it was. Darrin sighed, logistics - what a fucking headache.