Thorn In My Side (4 page)

Ignoring her,
Mike shoved the now protesting man into a side room and left,
quickly locking the door, not trusting himself to be alone with him
for a moment longer.

Hurrying down
the corridor he barged in to the commander’s office, the door
swinging behind him. Two other people were in the room, Detectives
Tom Berriman and Anthony Driver. One had been a good friend, almost
a brother, since they were boys with the same burning ambition. He
had moved to London ten years ago and ranked with Mike. The other
was not much better than the grey- haired bespectacled prat in
front of him. The same prat who hid behind everyone in the
department and managed to come out smiling each time he bungled
things. Commander Ross Simmonds, alias Oliver Hardy.

Well, not this
time, mate.

Throwing the
holdall on to the desk and scattering papers every which way, Mike
shouted, 'Clean sweep of the area, eh? Eh? That’s what you said,
isn’t it?'

Commander
Simmonds spluttered, but Mike wasn’t letting him have the chance to
say anything and wriggle out of this one.

'Nice quiet
little backwater you said, decent people earning a decent living.
No one will know who or what you are, a safe cover…Yeah,
right.'

The commander
frowned, his small square gold-framed glasses slipping down his
nose, the same glasses that Mike was itching to snatch off the
pompous prat’s face and stamp on. 'I don’t understand, Yorke, what
seems to be the problem? And aren’t you supposed to be out on a
bust?' Shoving his glasses back up his nose, he glanced at the
clock on the wall above Mike’s head.

Without mincing
words Mike proceeded to tell him exactly what the problem was,
demanding to know, in the process, what the fuck the man who had
lived in the flat below him for the last three months, the very man
who had pretended to be his friend, was doing with a fucking
machine gun in his possession, and lying in wait for him to
show.

Smiler grabbed
the bag of goodies, held them up to the light, looked at them for a
moment, then slowly studied Snakes. You could tell right off that
this fool was addicted to the shit he sold.

Not so long
ago I would have had the same look on my face, a
look of
pure worship.

'Go on, man…'
Snakes' eyes glittered. He knew how much Smiler had been dependent
on him before, how much money he’d cost him this last month or two,
when he’d somehow managed to wriggle out of the net, and just how
far Smiler would have gone in past times to get his fix. Marks like
Smiler, you didn’t like to lose. 'I fucking promise you, kid,
there’s nothing like it.'

'Nothing like
it, eh?'

'Yeah, man,
they’ve only hit the streets this week, and already everybody’s
raving about them… Going crazy for the little yellow fuckers… Don’t
know how you haven’t heard, it’s all the buzz… Oh yes, been shacked
up with your new friend, haven’t you.' He sniffed loudly and wiped
his nose on his sleeve.

Smiler watched,
then his eyes were drawn back to the packet.

Just one.
That’s all, so I can remember.

One more
time.

Seeing Smiler’s
fascination and sensing his growing weakness, Snakes went in for
the kill. 'Take some for him, why don’t you? Go on man, chill out
together.' He threw his head back, exposing the filth in the
creases of his neck, and laughed, 'You know it’s not a party on
your own.'

He leaned
forward smirking in Smiler’s face now, close enough for Smiler to
see his manky green teeth and realise that’s where the smell was
coming from. Quickly, trying not to gag, Smiler moved his face away
from the smell.

Snakes laughed,
confident that this fish was hooked again, and counting the quid’s
already. He couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. He got a shock a
moment later though, when Smiler threw his wares back in his face,
and the bag burst, scattering the contents all over the path and
into the gutter.

'Thanks, but no
thanks.' Wondering where he’d summoned the courage to walk away,
Smiler turned and headed quickly back the way he had come, leaving
a cursing screaming Snakes to pick his goodies up out of the
gutter.

I owe Mike
an apology. I’ve been stupid, bloody stupid
.

He knew that
Mike didn’t go for 'mumbo jumbo’ as he frequently called it, but
Smiler knew the visions weren’t coming from the drugs. He’d been
having them for as long as he could remember, and been terrified
from the beginning.

He stuck his
chin out, a stubborn look on his face.
If Mike
could only
see inside my head, see what I see.

But it’s
because of Mike that I had the strength to walk away.
Without him I would have caved, and one more hit would
probably
see me in a straightjacket for life.

I owe him big
time.

Mike was nearly
at the safe house when his mobile rang. Pulling over to the side of
the road, he opened it. Caller id said ‘Tony.’ Mike was amazed to
find he was a little miffed at his old friend. He hadn’t given it
much thought until now, but he’d stood there and said nothing the
whole time he was in the prat’s office.

'Hmm.' He put
the mobile to his ear. 'Yes, it’s Mike.'

'Hi, where are
you?'

'Why?'

'Thought we
might have a nightcap, seeing as you’re leaving in the
morning.'

Mike hid a
sigh. It would be churlish to say no. He guessed that Tony was
probably aware that he was pissed off with him. 'OK, where?'

'The
Clachan?'

'Right, ten,
fifteen minutes.' Mike put his mobile away and, taking the first
right, headed towards Soho.

The Clachan, a
quaint Victorian pub with a lot of its main features still intact,
was in Kingly Street. It still had its original ornate ceiling,
rich woodcarving and pretty tiles in the entrance. It was a place
Mike liked to relax in. Also it had the added attraction of serving
real ales. When he got there he found Tony already seated at the
back with two pints of ale in front of him.

On the surface
Tony looked calm, his blond hair cropped close to his head, the
usual pale grey suit and blue tie, always the perfect match to his
eyes. He had dozens of them and demanded them for presents, and God
help you if you bought the wrong shade. But Mike knew Tony well.
He’d thought for weeks that something was bothering his old friend
and had tried in roundabout ways to get it out of him, but nothing
had worked. Sitting, he picked his pint up and took a long swallow.
As he put the glass back on the table, Tony said, 'So I guess
that’s it, then. Back home tomorrow.'

'No thanks to
you.'

'Look, Mike, I
did everything I could to help. You just rubbed each other the
wrong way.'

Mike raised an
eyebrow, 'Strange, I don’t remember you ever being in my corner,
even when you knew he was wrong… Which was, come to think of it,
most of the damn time.'

'You didn’t
know how to handle him. If I had stuck up for you in front of him,
believe me, you would have been sent packing long ago.'

'So you’re
saying you worked behind the scenes?'

'How do you
think you lasted this long? I did my best, not that you made it
easy for him to like you with quips like, “How about never, is
never good for you?' ' Mike grinned as Tony went on, 'And “Your
cry-baby whiny-arsed opinion would be?' And what about, “This isn’t
an office, it’s hell with florescent lighting!' ' That one made
Mike wince, as Tony carried on, 'And how about, “Wait a minute, I’m
trying to imagine you with a personality.' ' Mike shrugged. 'But
the humdinger just had to be, “If I throw a stick, will you
leave?'… Jesus, Mike! Simmonds has about as much a sense of humour
as an upside-down tortoise.'

'Hmm. Well, all
I can say in my defence is, it seemed like a good idea at the
time.' He looked at Tony. A second later they both burst out
laughing.

'Guess I’m
better off up home… And,' he pulled a face, 'an upside- down
tortoise?'

Tony nodded,
'Picture it… And I guess you are… Better back home.' He picked his
pint up and took a good long drink, smacking his lips, a habit Mike
remembered from their school days. Tony used to do the same
whenever they got their hands on a glass of pop.

Putting the
glass down, Tony said, 'OK, he’s a prat, you’re right. But better
the prat you know than the one you don’t… He only got promoted to
the top spot because of his connections.'

'The old boy
network?'

'Something like
that. One of his cousins is a count or an earl, what you might call
very highly connected.'

'Huh.'

Tony shrugged.
'It’s the way of the world, Mike. You should get used to it.'

'Huh.'

'Are you gonna
sulk all night?'

Mike sighed.
'Guess not.' He did believe that Tony would have protected his
back. They’d looked out for each other for as long as he could
remember, the three of them, him, Tony and Dave, the three amigos.
'OK.' He smiled, drained his pint, and put the empty glass on the
table. 'It's your turn, mate.'

'Er, I don’t
think so, didn’t I just get them in?'

'Yeah, but I’ve
been very upset,' Mike laughed.

'You’d make a
damn good conman, Michael Yorke,' Tony said, as he got up and went
to the bar.

When he
returned Mike said solemnly, 'So what do I tell her? You know she’s
gonna be hounding me for news.'

Tony frowned.
Looking genuinely regretful, he said, 'Tell her I’m sorry but I
will be up north soon, I promise.'

'Yeah,
really?'

Tony couldn’t
disguise the look of guilt as he said. 'I do phone often, you know,
and I never ever miss a birthday.'

Mike turned his
head and looked Tony full in his face. 'It’s not the same though,
is it?' But the thing that bothered Mike the most was that Tony had
said, 'up north', and not 'up home'.

Mike switched
the TV on in the hotel bedroom. Half a dozen policemen had been
sent to his flat to collect his belongings. He’d left them packed.
No sense in unpacking for one night, he was on the nine o’clock
train home in the morning.

And personally
he couldn’t wait. Most of the guys down here had been pretty much
all right. A couple of them had even taken him home to meet their
families and provided a cooked meal, more than once. And it had
been great meeting up and spending time with Tony, whose visits
home lately had been rare, as well as working on the same job as
him. But, like everywhere, there were always tits and prats and the
commander was the biggest cock-up he’d ever met.

He laughed at
himself as he channel-hopped. He watched the depressing news for a
minute wondering if commentators were brainwashed to ignore
anything good that ever came over the wires, instead choosing the
worst shit they could find to depress the world.

He threw the
remote on the bed. Inside he was still seething, though he’d never
let on to Tony.
Three months' work down the drain,
and
that bastard downstairs had my number all along.

'Nice night,
just going over the common with the dog, fancy tagging along?' Mike
mimicked, then growled, 'The cheeky twat… Oh, shit, the dog!'

Jumping up, he
shrugged into his jacket. He’d been told to keep away from the area
for his own safety, but the idea of the dog left to starve he
couldn’t live with. It could be days before they got round to
searching the flat. He could phone it in, but the dog was no cutie
that would easily be rehomed. And he knew that he would only be
kept so long before they put him to sleep.

It took a few
minutes to climb down the fire escape at the back to avoid the
patrol car outside, then twenty minutes to drive back to his old
place. Parking two streets away in a dark patch where some toe rag
had conveniently smashed the street light, he quietly made his way
to the flat. There was only one house light on in the whole street,
and that was an old lady who lived alone in the middle. Rumour had
it that she’d been a big star in the fifties, though no one knew
what name she’d used. Mike thought she’d probably started the
rumours herself. She always smiled and said hello very regally when
Mike bumped into her in the corner shop on a morning. She also
reminded him very much of his Aunt May.
Now, she would be quite
capable of
concocting something like that.

He reached his
flat and went down the basement steps. Silently he opened the
letterbox and put his ear to the empty space. He heard a snuffling
then a thumping noise as Tiny’s tail beat off the wall.

'Shh, boy… Get
back,' Mike whispered as he straightened up. Turning sideways, he
caved the door in with his shoulder. A moment later he was pounced
on by one of the biggest German shepherd-cross-Irish wolfhounds
he’d ever seen, his face soaked in moments by dog kisses.

'Come on,' Mike
whispered, as he wiped his face with his hand and reached up for
Tiny’s lead from the hanger on the back of the broken door.

Two more
minutes and they were in the car. As Mike pulled away, a car with
three very unhappy-looking men pulled into the street. Jumping
quickly out of the car, two of them ran up to Mike’s flat. The
other one headed towards the basement flat.

Stopping at a
twenty-four hour Tesco, Mike bought dog food, let Tiny out of the
car and fed him. As Mike watched the dog wolf the food down, his
thoughts turned to Smiler, wondering how to let him know he would
be gone tomorrow.
It doesn’t seem right to just
up and
go. I would at least like a chance to talk to him again, maybes
get him to come up north sometime for a holiday. It would be
good to keep in
contact with him.