Cleaning Up (31 page)

Anyway, no fuss, he was on the clock plenty enough back oop north and he was determined to let the weekend pass by in a laissez-faire state of mind. They made their way out, chucked a left and with a hop skip and a jump, which was slightly stalled by the number of cars rolling down the seafront road, they hit the wide promenade and strolled on eastwards down towards the pier. It was a bright warm day and the Hove end of the seafront was busy, but you still had plenty of space to move and, apart from the odd jogger, people were very much taking their time with it. However, as soon as they walked past the striking angel statue, which marked the Brighton-Hove border, the promenade got much narrower and a hell of a lot busier. It was still a chill vibe though, plenty of folk languishing on the pebbled beach on deck chairs and towels; family groups, some oldies and plenty of younger people too, a real mix of ages and very, very relaxed - people happy at just being were they were.

Lee asked him what his first impressions were as they strolled past the little outdoor market that was situated near the remarkable enduring skeleton of the west pier. Impressed, he told him ‘pleasantly surprised.’

Inland just past the little market were the city’s landmark
hotels, the Hilton and the Grand, it was the latter that the IRA had lit up in their attempt to off the Blessed Margaret all those years ago.

Two drag queens passed them down near the beach volleyball sand pit, glammed up to the max, both of them well over six foot in their heels, arm in arm and deep in conversation. Seemingly oblivious and impervious to any rubber necked stares and, Tommy noted interestingly enough, most people didn’t seem to give a rat’s arse about their presence. In fact, the townsfolk appeared to be conspicuously indifferent. That was something else he hadn’t experienced for a long time, not since walking down Oxford Street and Darlinghurst Road in Sydney. Fucking hell, he thought, here all these years and he’d never known that such a place existed in the UK.

They had a leisurely nosh of some chips on the Palace Pier, stuffing their faces as they leaned against the pier’s rails. Tommy took in the distant view to the east, the resonant shimmering drama of the south coast’s iconic white cliffs, striking despite or maybe because of their familiarity and then he turned to take in the western view with its long sweep of fine Regency buildings. All that slightly faded glamour. Inland to the north up behind the urban spill there was a glimpse of the lush soft green roll of the Sussex Downs.

Stomachs satisfied, they made a slow paced return trip towards the hotel and, as they did so, it struck him that, for him, Hove was the place to be if you were living here. It was close to the action, everything was in easy walking distance but not too mad either - much more the pace of life for a middle-aged codger like himself.

They had a late lunch/early tea at a place just over the road
from the hotel. The restaurant/bar was a bamboo decorated, cocooned throwback to some time in the seventies, which was a little incongruously located in the ground floor of a largish block of flats. The place was owned by a Javanese family who worked both the bar and the in-house Indonesian restaurant. There was little natural light in the joint and a flyer cello-taped to one of the bar’s large supporting columns told him it was karaoke night tonight. Bernie wouldn’t be having that with a barge pole, she could be a little elitist when it came to try-hard amateur warblers could our Bern.

Her friends, who had been waiting for them in the bar area were right enough, a pair of hippies for the new millennium kinda folk, which, he ruminated, would be pretty much the same as hippies of the old millennium kinda folk. Both disarmingly gentle with the guy, the talker of the two. As they sipped the first round of drinks he gave them the lowdown on the town, they loved it down here, the guy said it was a haven of ‘relative tolerance’ and he theorised that its ‘specialness’ was down to the fact that it was situated on a ley-line, which ran under some park in Hove and then on out into the Channel. This got Bernie’s juices flowing, sending her off into one of her white witch, Wicca reveries, inspiring her enough to put the idea to Lee that they should come back down on the shortest day of the year to join their friends and others for a little solstice ceremony. Lee didn’t miss a beat, Mr. Straight Bat keeping it in neutral with a couple of half-hearted maybes followed by a well timed visit to the bar. Tommy had to hide his grin at his friend’s retreat with some superfluous use of his napkin.

Another round and then they fare-welled the couple, with a time arranged to meet up later in Kemptown. The
guy was playing keyboards in a local Latin American combo, the Three Wise Monkeys, so that was the evening sorted.

The guy told Tommy that that was the gay part of town. Tommy felt an irritation at the unnecessary information, which he knew was being given for his benefit alone. To him it was an example of how even the right on can be hobbled by their own misperceptions, but in the spirit of the weekend and as a nod to his ever obliging friends he let it pass.

They had a crash at the hotel for a couple of hours. He checked his mobile, which was drained now so he turned it back off and stuck it back in his travel bag. He slept heavily for a couple of hours - no problems with his legs this time and no Jovian voices in his head either - that was a fucking bizarre experience!

After a stroll through the heart of the city, they were at the pub by nine and it was packed and already buzzing with anticipation. The band did a little cursory sound check then ripped into it. The Three Wise Monkeys were four white boys fronted by an older South American guy dressed in an immaculate white suit and matching Panama hat. He had an ageless look and a good voice. His baritone pipes were augmented with a judicious leathering of the cowbell, mercurial feet and a twinkle eyed regard for the pretty chicas who were busting their moves just a yard away from his mike stand. The band was fucking fab’ and Bernie didn’t need any urging to get him to dance and when he got up he stayed up. Lee usually only danced internally but, yeah, it looked like he was dancing, a bit Flock of Seagulls maybe but borderline exuberance for him.

The Monkeys played until half ten and then had a little break, which allowed half of the pub to pour outside and
take the time to cool down in both the busy main street and the side street that led on to the sea. Tommy wiped his face with his shirt then looked up at a flat across the street, wherein sat a guy in his lounge room engrossed in whatever was on his computer while a beefy seagull patrolled the window sill of his flat.

They went back inside to bounce around for another sweat-soaked hour. After the gig they walked all the way back to the hotel and it was still well busy down on the seafront; a few drunks, plenty of kids but nothing to get alarmed about, there was no need for him to reach for the brass knuckles. Yeah, he thought, he could live down here, no problem- Jaysus, he felt young again.

On the Sunday, they caught the late afternoon train back to London after a day walking the city centre and the seafront. They had parked off at a promenade café for some people watching, washed down with coffee and some good quality carrot cake. Lee had brought down his travel set backgammon with him and they had a best of five whilst Bern went off for a bit of a wander - la Dolce fucking Vita alright.

Tommy had said goodbye to Lee and Bern at Victoria and then made the tube trip across to Euston. When he got back to his flat, he put the phone on charge but left it turned off. He needed some time out and an early night, he’d let his life back in tomorrow. He was meeting up with Pauline in the morning to try and get a bit of a clearer structure together for the temporary locations of the activities that were on the youth service’s programme for the rest of the calendar year. The youth service, the young mothers’ programme and the oldies would have to be sharing the reception area for a while and it all needed sorting asap. He thought about firing up the
lap top to see what the Brighton singles scene had to offer, lord knows he’d seen plenty of attractive women down there but he decided against it and went for sofa surfing with some golden era Bowie instead. Two hours of contentment that culminated in the pleasure of climbing back into his own bed.

Pasquale’s Mum had come to see him the day before his court appearance and they had chatted for a while in the privacy of his room, which was her idea not his. He’d given her the money before they’d taken a seat. She’d given him a look and pursed her lips as if she was about to bollock him but then she let it go and accepted it without any comment. Front up, she told him that she was considering a move away, looking at a transfer through her present job. She thought that this would give ‘them a fresh start’. He noted the ‘them’ but this time it was his turn to keep it zipped.

She left after half an hour or so and he spent the rest of the evening getting his gear together then he went outside to join the others out the back of the ref and chilled out for a while, half listening to their comforting, familiar babble.

He set his alarm early so he could get some time alone before he left. He looked for the owl as he always did at that time of the day but he hadn’t seen the bird for a little while now. Sonny picked him up just after eight and a pyjama-ed trio of Kat, Jess and Neil made a little guard of honour to farewell him. Tight hugs and kisses from the girls and he even gave a slightly tearful Neil a warm embrace. Wendy had dropped in on her day off to say goodbye to him and he had to bite down hard on his emotions to keep it all in check.

As it transpired Sonny was on the money - they gave him
one year in a secure unit down in Oxford.

The female magistrate had given him a lengthy bollocking, peering at him as she did so over her wanky half-moon glasses. Telling him, as she did so, that she was not giving him the soft option, it was all the usual predictable shite. She had noted that he had been ‘cooperative with the authorities,’ which caused him to look nervously around the room - no Dwayne or Bazzer Dougan to be seen in the gallery though, only an impassive Sonny, his slightly anxious looking mum and some indifferent stone-faced officials.

He had half an hour of being forced to listen to what he already knew. The magistrate gave him the opportunity to talk, he had plenty to say but he wasn’t going to do that here. He stumbled out a ‘no’ and as he did so his legs jumped and twitched uncontrollably under the table. The magistrate gave him a stern nod and then turned to his mum and gave her the chance to comment. Thankfully she kept it brief and without any ‘he’s a good boy my Pasquale’ shit either.

She told the court of her plans to relocate and of her concerns for his academic prospects. She was all very
businesslike
, her voice clear and steady - quite impressive, he thought - nice one.

And then it was done - Sonny was to make the drive and she was heading back to work.

Sonny gave them a moment alone.

She rested her hand on his shoulders and he noted again that they were almost eye-to-eye now.

She looked at him unwaveringly for a few moments then her chin wobbled slightly when she made to speak and her mouth seemed to move a couple of times of its own volition but she breathed deeply and sucked it on down. ‘Well son -
it’s not how I saw it going for us, but…’

He stepped in, he’d have plenty of time to think about it all.

‘It will be OK Mum - I’ll be right, don’t worry…you worry too much some times, you do.’

She nodded and breathed in sharply and gulped in a little more air.

Then she kissed him on the forehead and turned quickly away, her heels clipping past Sonny who was stood a few strides away, leaning against the bonnet of his car, his hands folded across his chest, slowly chewing his bottom lip with a look on his mug that said he would rather be somewhere else.

Pasquale picked up his two bags and threw them in the boot of Sonny’s car.

They jumped in and Sonny turned to him to tell him to strap up, making no comment about the tear that was sliding down his right cheek.

‘OK then Pasquale, let’s go - hope you like your new home.’

Darrin approached Young on Tuesday about getting an order to dig up the kid but Young brushed it off, not for giving it any play at all.

‘Don’t know about that Darrin, why? No new evidence is there and, if I remember, it was clearly an overdose, right?’

He shrugged a half hearted agreement at Young but he didn’t want it to be bounced away that easily.

‘Thought, you know Sarge, if the kid had been to the party we might find some DNA on him. Those kids are going there to be fucked after all - not to play games of Boggle.’

Young looked at him then down at his pressed, knife-edge slacks and proceeded to brush something away that, to Darrin’s eye, clearly wasn’t there. Mutual irritation was becoming their normal mode of communication. Darrin realised that he didn’t have a lot left to play in his hand.

Young gave him a compromise of sorts.

‘I’ll kick it up stairs to the gaffers, we’ll see what they have to say about it. You’re on for tonight at Dalton’s aren’t you?’ He was, Dalton was now back from France, this time without his houseguests.

‘Anything been going down yet?’ Darrin asked.

‘Usual shit - back and forward to the warehouse, up to the Coleshaw to see his mum and sister - presents for them both from his holiday on the Med’.’

‘Yeah, OK then, I’m on it, I’ll be there by six. Anything been happening up the Coleshaw after Dwayne’s collar?’

‘Yeah it’s looking promising up there. Mac noticed a bit of tension between Chris Johnstone and his brother, a bit of finger pointing and raised voices in The Admiral. No doubt they’ll find some bozo to step in to replace Dwayne but there’s been nothing on the street. It looks like the sweet shop has temporarily closed for business - maybe the pressure is getting to them.’

‘Nothing falling back on Mac though, is there?’ It was a dumb question really, just gap filling trying to get Young back on an even keel with him.

‘No he’s sweet - canny bastard he is.’