Authors: John Dalton
* * *
The sun was a red balloon caught on the steel gantry of a container crane. The crane, normally yellow, had burned black and it cast a shadow right over to where Des was standing.
The days were drawing in. A foreground and forethought of a colder darkness, pale pinks and violet receding to the horizon of someone else’s summer. Des shivered. The idea was alarming. He
looked away from the pastel fires of the sky and concentrated on the road that stretched before him. From the phone call he’d made he’d learned that Scobie would come in around seven.
There was no suspicion from the guy who answered the phone, to him it was just a call from a crony down the Lime who owed a few quid. Des was propping up a wall at the side of Conference Cars and
making a fag-end carpet. He’d already sussed that Ross was still inside. A prospect of decisive times, if only the sneering shit with the floppy hair would come.
He finally did. A souped-up VW noisily entered the car park and revved to a halt in front of a clump of litter-strewn berberis. Scobie smoothed his hair in the rear-view mirror and then got out.
He whistled tunelessly as he jauntily bounced on ridiculous trainers up the showroom steps. The sun had dipped below the container depot now, so Des could easily move though shadow and catch Scobie
by surprise.
The first hammer blow went straight on his nose. A short, sharp thud, a snapping sound and a sudden burst of blood. Scobie staggered back and teetered on the top step. Des kicked him in the
groin and Scobie went tumbling down. He was on his hands and knees by the time Des had descended the steps. Another hammer blow to the head sent him sprawling onto his back. Des stooped and grabbed
the thick straw hair. He used it to pull Scobie over to the shrubbery, then turned his head and pushed his face into the dark soil. Scobie was soon choking for air and Des let him do so for quite
some time. Then he let the head go and Scobie turned, gulping, his face a mess of blood and dirt. Des didn’t say anything. He saw his enemy’s eyes register recognition and then he put
his foot on Scobie’s windpipe. He pressed down, ground his shoe hard until Scobie writhed and gurgled helplessly. His tongue began to loll out, his blood splattered crisp packets and old
condoms, and turned the berberis prematurely red. Des nearly didn’t stop, but another idea came to him. In turn, Des pinioned both hands and hammered Scobie’s fingers ferociously.
The beneficial effects were immediate. A mighty load had been lifted from his shoulders and a slab of frustration expelled. Des sighed with relief. Leaving Scobie groaning, he stepped up to the
front doors of Conference Cars and pushed them open. He headed straight for the office, giving the cars a good thwack with his hammer as he passed them. Gus hardly had time to see what was
happening. A sudden thrust in his gut from the hammer and then Des had him in an arm-lock, bundling him forward into Ross’s presence.
‘What the fuckin hell –?’
Des pushed Gus’s face onto the desk and then pulled his arm well back behind him. He gave Ross a heavy glare.
‘I’m a very angry man, Constanza. I’ve had it up to here with your shit and it’s got to be sorted!’
‘Jesus. OK, OK, calm down.’
Ross had his hands up in alarm and it was then that Des saw the missing finger. He thought he should’ve known that before, but he couldn’t be bothered to work out why he
didn’t.
‘I’m going to let the geezer go, OK, and we’re going to have a quiet chat, OK, about Wainwright and his randy ways. No fuckery, OK?’
‘So you’re McGinlay, eh? All right, we’ve no need for aggravation right at this moment. It’s business, right?’
Des eased up on the arm-lock and pushed Gus away from him. There were oceans of silent fury in Gus’s eyes, but a look from Ross kept the hate locked in. Gus propped up the wall as Des sat
down in front of the desk.
Ross became quite conciliatory when Des told him of Scobie’s attack.
‘I have to say I am sorry, mate, that guy is out of control. He never bloody does what I tell him to. “No aggro,” I said to him. “Do a deal, steal em if you must, but no
aggro.” I’m glad you told me about it, really. The guy has just got to go. He’s a real liability.’
‘Well he won’t be doing much for a while.’
‘What? You clobbered him?’
‘He’s grovelling in dog turds outside right now.’
‘Bloody hell, that must be the first time Scobie’s got done. Jesus Christ, you’ve done me a favour, mate.’
‘I’m glad we’ve got something going, because perhaps now we can do a deal.’
‘A deal?’
Des reached inside his coat pocket, pulled out some copy prints and threw them on the desk. ‘I’ve got lots of these, dozens, hidden all over the place, and the negatives . . . still
as embarrassing as ever.’
‘So, Scobie, the wanker, got fuck all?’
‘Looks like the lot of you have been one step off the pace all along.’
Ross Constanza had sagged. He lit up a cigarette fussily and kept his eyes well down. His brow had become stretch-marked with thought.
‘Shit,’ he said to no one in particular before he looked up at Des. ‘OK, you’d better tell me what you’ve got in mind,’ he began. ‘But no promises,
right? I’ve got others to consult. OK? So let’s have it.’
Just two final tasks. Des smiled, but was conscious it was an uneasy one. He carefully washed his hammer under the tap and then got a dustpan to remove the chisel-shaped
footprint. That’s when the uneasiness grew. Did he really do that, and enjoy it? Did he really barge in on Constanza without a second thought? Des shivered involuntarily and a sheen of sweat
suddenly flushed his brow. Jesus! How could I? He almost slumped down in delayed shock and might well have done if the phone hadn’t rung. Its cold tones sounded welcoming.
‘Hi there, Desmond. This is Miranda here.’
‘Y-Yeh?’
Another shock, and from a really unexpected direction. Des began to flounder. The floor was turning liquid again.
‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing. I know I really shouldn’t but – well, I was somewhat worried.’
Des felt utterly speechless.
‘You still there?’
‘Y-Yeh, guess so.’
‘It’s that note, Des, and the photo. It just seemed like you were in deep trouble.’
‘You mean you care about it?’
‘Of course I care. Whatever our conflicts, whatever the way we are now, we did have some good times and you still mean something to me.’
‘Could’ve fooled me.’
‘Come on, Des, don’t start. You do know what I mean and you do know why I’ve been the way I have.’
‘Maybe I haven’t had time to think about that.’
‘Are you OK? You’re not in some awful danger, are you?’
‘I’m as fine as I can be under the circumstances.’ Des almost added, ‘And no thanks to you,’ but then realized he didn’t quite feel that way. ‘The
photo, it was just insurance that’s all, like you’re always forking out for but rarely ever need.’
‘That makes me feel better.’
Des remained silent.
‘Let’s not say any more, yeh? I’ll see you around some time?’
‘Yeh, guess so,’ he said.
Des put the phone down. He looked at his TV set with its kicked in screen. He smiled. Shit, I’m not angry, he thought. Pretty well unmoved . . . Des leaned forward as if watching a
programme. Yeh, and the telly’s better this way. He laughed. He hadn’t done that in a long time.
22
The deal was set. Errol rang Des, Des rang Ross and a meet was fixed for the following day. Then it was pay cheque time. And Des could sit back and think about love. In fact,
he was already thinking about love, sitting outside the Waterside Café and waiting for Pearl. Love, some sandy beach and those wispy trees. A new horizon presenting itself, though feebly
perceived amid the brick walls and dank canal that surrounded him. But then, Des had an uncomfortable thought: shoulders drooping and the winter coming, what was a few weeks in the wide-open blue
but a frustrating distraction? Shit, stuff that down the back of the sofa!
He lit a fag and watched Pearl coming over the old iron bridge. They waved. She wore shades and a thigh-length yellow dress that head-turned city suits, making them bump into each other.
Hell, Pearl herself was a beach down by the dark waters – sunshine on sand and strands of golden kelp. Maybe Des could afford to raise his head a few inches?
‘You’re looking pretty stunning, Pearl.’
‘Yeh, turn a few heads down the meat market, fetch a good price.’
‘Well, that’s nice.’
‘You weren’t feeling romantic, were you?’
‘Yeh, actually I was. I was thinking about Madeira or the Canary Isles, like the splash of yellow you are in this dismal place.’
‘Working clothes, Des, and I’ve just had a lousy day.’
‘Looks like I’m going to join you.’
‘Sorry, hon. A couple of really fat punters and Carlos giving me shit for being rude and I’ve just had it.’
‘We were supposed to be keeping all that stuff separate.’
‘Guess it’s not working, huh?’
Pearl frowned and began to chew a nail. Des stared at the murky water.
I reckon I’m getting this. Sod expectation, just go with the flow, no matter how sordid it gets. One working
philosophy for a city dick
. . .
‘I should’ve asked, shouldn’t I? How’re you feeling today?’
‘So much goes on in between . . . I’m feeling OK, Pearl, much better, but now it’s you who’s down in the dumps, what can you do?’
‘I’m going to have to split the scene, Des. I can’t take much more of this. I need a complete fresh start.’
‘A beach mid-Atlantic? I should have the money tomorrow.’
‘A tempting thought, but first, Des, food. Shit, I’m hungry as hell.’ Pearl smiled for the first time. ‘If we don’t move soon, I’m gonna take a bite out of
your big thigh.’
‘Feel free, sweetheart, and I’ll do the same to yours. Who needs a restaurant?’
‘Not a fair deal, Des, your tough old meat for my sweet butt.’
Bad feeling dispelled, Des and Pearl went off to eat. French-style this time, in among business people confidently blathering golf and good wine. A couple of misfits making dreams amid furtive
stares and feared-for wallets. And Des glowered on cue while Pearl pouted and they both fondled hands, seeking out the exact fantasy that would set them free.
‘I could go back to cab-driving.’
‘I’ve got to get off the game, Des, and there’s no way you could afford to keep me.’
‘There must be a respectable end to what I do, good rates and clean work.’
‘I need a good business angle. I was thinking of interior design.’
‘Wouldn’t we be able to think better in Las Palmas?’
‘You just want to get my knickers down.’
‘That, and all those defences.’
‘Don’t say that, Des, it scares me.’
‘Huh? Ah, go with the flow, right?’
‘Don’t you have any other skills you could sell, Des?’
‘Loads, but I haven’t found them yet.’
‘I still think we might have a nice time finding them.’
‘Now that does cheer me up.’
‘Good, because I’ll have to go soon. Second shift; Carlos calls.’
‘Oh no . . .’
‘You mean you’ve got no calls on you?’
‘Just a murder to wrap up.’
‘Ha, you should shout that out loud –’
Des began to look around the restaurant.
‘– But don’t bother, huh. The way it goes for both of us, but I think we’re on the right path.’
‘I can see the plane taking off in the distance.’
‘And maybe just . . .’
‘We two?’
Go with the flow
. Des was doing just that, driving somewhere south-east of the city, a place he didn’t know, looking for Jerry Coton. He felt good, like he’d
found the groove he wanted and that life was on the up. But there was a niggling uneasiness. Go with the flow. Fine, but what if it was sewer-bound? Claudette, she probably felt the same as Des
when she got her hook on Wainwright, moving forward and a view beyond what she could see. Now Des was closing in on her fate and expecting the same payday. The same outcome? Des shivered.
He’d just checked out old grey Frederick and found out about the squat.
‘Watch out dere, man,’ the old geezer had said. ‘Dat bwoy im goin right over the edge.’
Frederick’s words suddenly jarred, as though they could apply to anyone, especially to Des. He turned the car into Anselm Road and cruised down looking at house numbers. ‘Sod
it,’ he groaned. ‘Whatever. Any number of nasty things could crop up, Jerry Coton for one.’
‘This is some shit heap of a place you’ve got here, Jerry.’
‘I d-dunno if I w-want to see you.’
‘Not much choice now.’
‘I’m m-making a n-new start.’
‘Yeh . . .’
Des looked around at the sparse room. A mattress on the floor, an armchair and a few piles of books. Jerry was lying sulkily on the bed smoking ganja.
‘Not even the first rung of the ladder.’
‘Who c-cares?’
‘Sounds like the spliff talking.’
‘What do you want, M-McGinlay?’
‘You trashed Wainwright’s pile, didn’t you, you stupid arsehole? And the pompous toad is blaming me, threatening all kinds of retribution.’
‘I had t-to do something, that’s all, and he d-deserves it, and m-more!’
‘Maybe, but you should keep well out of it. You’re just an ant he wouldn’t even notice squashing.’
‘He’s g-got to p-pay, McGinlay. He c-can’t get away with it!’
‘It’s being arranged, OK? We’re setting up a bit of a scam tomorrow night with the heavies that did it, and what we get out of that should nail Wainwright. So no more fuckery,
Jerry. Just smoke your weed, feel sorry for yourself and go with the flow. I tell you, the world’ll open up again in a few months time.’
‘Wow. M-Mr Optimist.’
‘Two sides of the coin. You look up or you look down. The rest is bollocks.’
‘Oh, M-Mr Cynic now?’
‘Don’t mind me, Jerry.’
Des suddenly noticed the pale square of the picture frame on the wall. He went over to look at it. ‘That is spooky,’ he said. ‘You should give the room a lick of
paint.’
‘It’s a self-portrait.’
‘God . . . Jerry . . . wanker.’
The next meeting was a car park job, back of a burger bar; Des’s rusty Lancia next to the sleek Audi in which a cautious Errol smiled. He had come up trumps. The wire and
Des were official. Any ploy to nobble Ross Constanza was acceptable to the powers that be. He hadn’t, however, dared mention Wainwright, thinking that would make things political and so
scupper proceedings. Awkward for Errol when Des handed over a couple of the notorious prints.