Cleaning Up (33 page)

The hospice reception directed him to Mick’s room and he spent an hour or so sat in a big comfy chair next to the high bed listening to the old man’s shallow breathing. Mick’s digital radio was playing softly next to the bed. He got up and double-checked that it was tuned into Mick’s favourite
station.

He felt himself start to nod off briefly and when he woke the old man was awake and stirring slightly.

He said, a ‘hello Dad’ and Mick’s eyes turned towards him and he blinked a hello back.

A nurse had a left a beaker of tea on the tray next to Mick’s bed and Tommy stood up, walked around to the tray and asked the old man if he would like a drink. Mick blinked another yes, this time emphasised with the shadow of a nod.

He went to the head of the bed, put his hand between the pillows and lifted Mick’s head up and brought the beaker carefully to his lips.

He tipped the beaker gently and Mick took in a taste.

Tommy put the beaker back down, still holding Mick up with his right arm behind the pillow.

‘How was that then Dad?’

Mick gulped a couple of times and, after a few seconds his voice came to him from a long, long way off. It was no more than a dry rustle but, all the same, it was distinctively Mick.

‘Just right son, just right.’

Tommy nodded and smiled at him. He gently let Mick’s head down and returned back to his chair.

His old man was back asleep within a couple of breaths.

Tommy got up and left the room.

Linda called him at home the next morning just as he was busy gathering up all his work gear in his little kitchen space.

Her voice was wobbly and smeared. Mick had gone just fifteen, twenty minutes ago. She’d been there in the room with him - he hadn’t been alone.

As he tried to absorb the news it felt as if, albeit briefly,
his mind and body had splintered as if he was dimensionless - nowhere and fucking everywhere - ego, sense of self completely gone. The room grew, then shrank and then grew again. He felt himself sway and he had put his hands on the kitchen table to stop himself from falling.

He willed himself into autopilot, jumped in the car and was at the hospice in the usual fifteen minutes drive. The girl on the reception told him that the nurses were laying him out and he could see him as soon as they finished, which, she reassured him with a sympathetic smile, wouldn’t be too much longer. He phoned Jimbo as he waited and gave him the news. Jimbo told him he was leaving work right away and would be there in ten.

A nurse called him in through to a wicker chaired anteroom, it was a warm, sunny, light filled space, which had lots of pot plants, cane furniture and some magazines that were neatly placed into a pile on a low level glassed table. He opened the mid-brown door at the end of the anteroom and there he was. Laid out on a high single bed almost unrecognisable in death as the man he’d always known, a desiccated husk, his face frozen into the rictus of a hollow-cheeked death-mask grimace. They’d dressed him in one of his signature check shirts and track suit bottoms and someone had placed a flower on the pillow just to the right side of his head - a very un-Mick like touch but, still…

Linda got up from a chair in the corner of the room and gave him a kiss and a long hug.

Tommy went over to Mick and stood next to him, nodding to himself without any real meaning in the gesture. He leant down and kissed his dad softly on his forehead and, as the tears rolled down his face, he told Mick that he loved
him. Then he stood there for a long, long while, his hand resting lightly on Mick’s bony chest.

Pasquale had adjusted pretty quickly to life in the unit. He was assigned a key worker as soon as he arrived, this huge bloke from New Zealand, Steve, whose gentle voice belied his mammoth muscles and cool as fuck tattoos. The kids were a mixed bag, some in there because of family problems or because they had nowhere else to go, others like him, inside doing their bird because of criminal offences.

Everything was on a fucking timetable though and there was a privileges system too. If you kept your nose clean, the more brownie points they gave you - fuck up and they were all taken away and you were right back down at the bottom of the ladder.

The place had a good gym that pissed all over that sad ass shed at the ref and there was an expectation that he use it. He didn’t mind the exercise bikes but Steve had got him doing some weights too - all smiles and easy prompts as he busted his bollocks.

It was a little touchy feely at times, inmates were given the opportunity to discuss their issues with each other as they sat in a big, surly, self conscious circle with the staff gawping on.

There was no free access to any room in the joint, staff had to lock and unlock nearly every room apart from the large communal area and that was all a fucking drag. It was a full day of lessons too and there would be no break for what would have normally been the school holidays either.

The kids quickly found out that he was a criminal placement and that gave him a cache of sorts although he made
the point of keeping that in his back pocket. He was towards the older end of the residents so it wasn’t difficult to sort out what was, for him, a comfortable place on the pecking order. His mum came down south every second weekend to see him, she’d banked the dough for him and she had a job transfer in the pipeline, possibly down in the smoke. Junior had sent him an email. He was already down in Haringey. So, maybe, they would hook up again.

Wendy had been in weekly contact from the ref and he was surprised at how much that communication and gesture meant to him. Kat was doing well in her new place and they hadn’t heard anything from Neil since he’d moved out.

A lot of the kids whinged about the place, it was too big, too small, too many rules, too many restrictions, can’t smoke, can’t do this, can’t do fucking that.

But, he liked the rhythm of the place and the regular workouts with Steve and some of the other boys. It was making him feel stronger and cleaner somehow. He felt good about not smoking weed too.

He was doing well at his lessons - knocking them dead in art with his paintings and he’d even done some sculptures, working hard with Rosie the art teacher, proudly keeping the pieces he’d made on display in his room.

He had to see a shrink once a week and she was a smart one too. She was getting him to think about what had brought him to this point in his life, probing around about his mum and his dad and, at first, that had pissed him off a bit. She was like water though, lapping at his shore, forwards and then backwards but always coming.

They told him that, if all went well, towards the end of the year he’d get more supervised time away from the unit -
mobilities they called it.

As Steve said, repeatedly, it was all up to him and if you fuck up it’s because you’ve fucked up. Growing pains, Steve called it.

Pasquale had always known it. In fact, it was like they were holding a mirror up to him. Maybe the time for bullshit was over. His mum had often alluded to the fact that he had no men in his (and her) life and now they were fucking everywhere. Steve was right, he had choices and they were his to make. That had to be a kind of freedom, he supposed.

The station had buzzed for a few days with the Bazzer killing - everybody on the same page that it was a gay-boy tryst gone wrong. They had no leads and no suspects. Mozzer had been pulled onto the investigation team and nobody had approached him about the chat he’d had with Baz, that stone remaining left unturned and he was happy to keep it that way, although it stayed as a sort of wary tension within him, he wasn’t comfortable with the implications of it and his mind regularly wandered through a maze of possible meanings, none of which unburdened him. He was tired of feeling like the lone voice in the wilderness, seeing what nobody else appeared to see.

With regard to Bazzer Dougan they had no leads and no witnesses. They picked up a few guys who were known cottagers in the area but had drawn a blank with them. There was nobody amongst them with that kind of violence on their sheet and Bazzer would have been no easy mark either. Bazzer’s missus was sounding off a fair bit, reckoning that a rival had offed him. According to her, people were envious of Bazzer and his success!

Darrin dropped in to see Mac towards the end of the week but the Coleshaw was still in limbo - kids milling around, the usual crew in and out of The Admiral. Mac had brought June in again to see if they could get another tickle on what was happening with the ice but he was told by steroid Johnstone that he’d heard from big bro that there was nothing doing. This time Pete had recommended rehab to Mac as an option for June. Mac thought that the guy was joking at first but then a look into those slightly frenetic teddy bear button eyes told him that the bozo was speaking in earnest, mate to mate like - Johnstone was fucking nuts.

Mac had been told that they may have to pull the plug on the op - a couple more weeks of nothing and that would be it. There had been word of bottom squeaking sounds being made by the brass about the drain on their angst-ridden budgets.

Friday night he was down at the Quays, leg weary after back-to-back daily workouts with the old man and the hours spent on the pavement with Johno. They’d been working down on the High Street today - the florists and the Footlocker store next door were being pulled down. The buildings had been deemed unsafe. The youngish couple who owned the flower shop were planning a move to Spain. She had family somewhere near Barcelona and was eager to make a fresh start. That news had brought his restlessness back to the surface and he’d resolved to stop fucking about and give SOCA a go this weekend. He’d check out the website again, maybe get the application going at least.

There was a new Detective in the portakabin when he arrived, a young guy with an open face, a straw neck and jug ears who bounded over to shake his hand - a Constable Dave Kingston.

Darrin took over from Lumb on the cans, happy to get off his aching feet for a while. Keithy Dalton was at home watching TV, only moving to refresh his glass and giving out plenty of contented yawns as the evening wore on.

Darrin was frustrated with it all. He had that feeling of important things falling just outside his understanding and well outside his control, a sense of impotence with the whole fucking shebang. He was sure that he had most of the pieces in the jigsaw but he had no way of putting them together, as Mac had said to him, ‘suspicion ain’t knowing and knowing ain’t proving.’

It was just before eleven and he and Dave were killing time swapping resumes when Keith’s mobile rang. Keith said a muffled hello then killed the volume on the box.

‘Gee man, been a while big fella. How’s tricks then chief?’

Then there was a lengthy silence, which was broken intermittently by Keith mouthing, ‘right right.’

‘No man.’ Dalton further responded. ‘It’s all sorted, come on G, it’s tidied up in’t it? Nothing to worry about fella.’

The other party didn’t appear to be mollified.

‘Yeah, yeah that’s fine. Come on boss, let’s let it all calm down. They’re running in circles aren’t they?’ A little urgency in the voice now, the first time in the last few months that Darrin had heard Dalton sound out of kilter.

More silence, nearly a minute of it this time, Keith breathing heavily through his mouth, the tinkling of ice on glass then a slurp.

‘OK, OK, no problem. I’ll be up there in half an hour for fucks sake.’

That was it, the click of the phone, a heavy sigh of exasperation from Dalton then he was quickly out of the lounge.
He was back in there in two minutes tops and then straight out of the flat door.

Kingston looked over at Darrin.

‘Interesting?’

‘Maybe - don’t hold your breath though. Up there with watching Eastenders this shit.’

Dalton hurriedly came out into the pool of light that illuminated the lobby of the block, buttoning up his car coat as he did so. He put his hat on and hunched his shoulders against the cold.

Dalton climbed into the car and he was gone - turning left, maybe heading towards the orbital.

Darrin felt the frustration again, the op was feeling half arsed, too many gaps and the surveillance on the flat was giving them nothing. Mac looked like the best bet but that window might get snapped closed too and then they would just have to pack it all up and for fucking what?

Kingston asked him if he fancied a pint, he did, he was well in the mood. In fact he felt like getting hammered and if they got a shufty on he could still do it.

It was a clear sunny day for Mick’s funeral, almost shirtsleeve warm in the late morning sun. The hearse arrived just before eleven and he, Johnny Buck, Nev, Jimbo and his cousin Dale - Uncle John’s boy who he hadn’t seen for nearly twenty years all climbed into the following car. A funeral director with a top hat and the necessary solemn bearing and gait walked the cortege down the road for a hundred yards or so, stopping, probably not by design, just next to the Farriers. After a brief pause and a nod to Mick’s coffin he climbed in to the leading hearse to ride shotgun with his pal taking off his 
top hat as he climbed into the seat. As soon as he buckled up, the cortege smoothly made tracks to the crematorium.

Predictably, there was a good turn out for the old man; friends, drinking buddies, plenty of old work mates. A number of his own friends were there too, including Lee and Bernie up from London. Pauline and some of the Centre staff were there and Sonny and Estelle had made it, she with a little bairn in her arms. It was a full house inside the chapel.

Drink Gorman was press-ganged in and the six of them lifted the box that housed the old man’s body onto their shoulders, he and Johnny Buck at the back, as they were the two tallest. Steely Dan’s
Do It Again
played as they walked the coffin down in between the pews, his left hand gripping Johnny’s right shoulder tightly as they made their way to the front of the chapel.

It was a nice enough service, JB got up and spoke until he no longer could, his twinkle eyed anecdote about him and Mick afloat on the Norfolk Broads truncated and terminated with an unbridled, choking emotion. Nev said a few words too, simple but affecting. Nev told the congregation that Mick was the straightest bloke he’d ever known and a bloody true mate too. They had asked him if he wanted to say something, read out a poem or do a eulogy but he didn’t think that there was any way that he would have kept it together and he wasn’t going to break down in front of all those people - he’d continue his crying when he was alone.

Half an hour and it was done and dusted. They filed out past the coffin and turned left out of the building. The next lot of mourners were already crowding the entrance ready to take their turn at the heartfelt goodbyes.

The wake was held at the Crown - butties, pies and booze,
there were some tears but plenty more smiles. Everybody was easily slipping into the dictates of the familiar environment. Within a couple of hours it was wrapped up, he thanked Paul the landlord and told him that he’d see him soon, maybe band night. On leaving the pub, he walked the few hundred yards up the slope to his old man’s place and let himself in through the now boarded up front door, a few shards of broken glass still littered the vestibule. He’d come back and clean them up in a couple of days time.

Tommy had a little look around the front room but there wasn’t that much to take in, his old man had been a minimalist. Just his recliner, a sofa that kind of matched the chair and an open display cabinet that was home to some dusty nicotine stained bric a brac - the moraine of family and personal history. He would take the set of Caxton encyclopaedias and, something with a lot more emotional clout to it, a small clog that Mick and his two brothers had worn as infants. The clog had three distinct holes punched into the stiff leather, which denoted the brothers’ different foot sizes.

Linda had been in from next door to do a bit of a clean up. She’d emptied the ashtray and given the chair a good wipe down, he could still smell the disinfectant. There was a betting slip on Mick’s side table just next to the telephone. He’d had a couple of bets on for races that had been run over a fortnight ago now. Tommy put the slip into his pocket and walked the couple of hundred yards back towards the Crown to drop into the nearby bookies. Mick had won thirty-five quid! He folded the winnings put them in his pocket and went straight to his car. He’d come back at the weekend to see what else needed sorting out. He was done for this day.

Darrin had taken the weekend off and he took a long deliberate walk on the Saturday, all the way out to Rosetta Park in order to make the point of checking out the final resting place of Bazzer Dougan. He’d been found by a golden retriever in a little copse of bushes and trees that were some thirty odd yards from the gent’s toilet block. He still didn’t buy the consensus, it was still too pat and still too fucking convenient in its timing. There had been ramifications all right. Moz had been bang on about that.

He had looked at the SOCA website when he’d returned home, taking his time to wade his way through the Personal Qualities Framework. After he’d done that he downloaded the application form. There were no vacancies at the moment but he’d decided to throw his hat into the ring, he filled it out and emailed it on.

Sunday he spent with his folks, Sunday lunch followed by the taking in of a game of amateur rugby league up at the local park with the old man. Tommy Cochrane was up there with that mate of his, Jimbo, and his dad had wandered over at half-time to have a brief chat with him. The old man had gone to Mick’s funeral and whilst they had talked his dad had gripped Tommy by the upper arm and Darrin could see how much Mick’s death had meant to Dougy. There was no lightweight intent behind the exchange. Darrin mused with a palpable sadness that men like Mick and his old man were fast becoming yesterday’s warriors, a slowly eroding bridge to a past that was inevitably becoming more and more remote. Not particularly in terms of the time that had passed, he thought, but all the fucking changes and the speed of that change. He was still in his twenties and he could feel that. God knows what it must be like for people of their generation.