Cleaning Up (12 page)

‘Nah, nah Darrin, bloody hell, I never met her in there. You must be fucking joking - she would a been hanging from a bloody lamp post the next day.’

As they spoke a group of four older men shoulder rolled their way through The Admiral car park.

‘Hey up son, I do believe that’s Mr Johnstone - our resident King Scrote. See the streak of piss in the blue windcheater?’

Darrin joined Mozzer at the window for a gander.

‘Who’s the beef with him then Moz?’

‘That would be his brother Peter - ‘roid rage Pete’. If he had an IQ above fifty he’d be dangerous that twat. Don’t recognise the other two though, the usual fucking hangers on probably.’

The four men made their way into the boozer, a pool of light flooded a little way into the car park then snapped quickly off as the door shut behind them.

‘You reckon they would clock me in there Moz?’

‘In a fucking heartbeat son, if you go in there it will only be as part of a wedge formation. Although I’ve got a curly blonde wig at home, you can have that if yer like.’

‘Goes with your cocktail dress does it Moz?’

The fat fuck liked that one - a couple of walrus laughs,
loud enough to drown out the vibration of the bass for a couple of bars.

‘Ah very good Dazzler, very good indeed. Bloody cocktail dress - nice one. Speaking of which aren’t you doing your rhumba whatsit tonight?’

Moz executed a couple of surprisingly nimble yet indeterminate steps.

‘Salsa Moz, salsa.’

‘Hmm, hot and spicy eh son?’ This with a lewd rolling of the daft fucker’s mid-section.

Darrin glanced pointedly down at Moz’s gut.

‘Might do you a bit of good Moz, what yer reckon?’

‘Oh I’m dancing inside young un - every bloody day me.’

Darrin shook his head with a grin, a waste of fuckin’ time that was. He turned and grabbed his coat from the slightly sticky faux leather sofa.

‘Enjoy yourself then Moz.’

Moz gave him an airy wave.

‘You too son - don’t sprain anything.’

Tommy had a training day on the Tuesday, effective contemporary work practises with disaffected urban youth in a multicultural environment, no less. Despite the egg sucking, it made for a break from his normal routine and he did what he always did to make the day go that little bit more quickly, he took a lively part in proceedings. A couple of times he though about chipping in with some personal stuff about Bonnie and her family but he kept it back. It was worlds away from here and experience had taught him how quickly people could be dragged away from their comprehension, interest and comfort zones. He had long preferred to share
such things with those that he knew cared to give a fuck.

The group had chatted in the morning session about devising possible strategies for breaking down the gang culture, which was now part of the fabric of life on the local estates. Sometimes the gangs were formed around ethnic groupings but on places like the Coleshaw, where people from a variety of ethnic backgrounds had been thrown together, the boys (and some of the girls) had had no problem in forming a Rainbow Coalition. The kids united through circumstance, shared values and location.

All the usual rationalisations were robustly trotted out by the group; the break down of family, the loosening of community ties, the insidious impact of drugs etc etc. All of it right enough, but, Tommy thought, it was somehow an incomplete picture. He found those explanations a little pat and patronising too, as if the kids on the estates didn’t have the capacity to choose to pull themselves out of the mire and that they were somehow inherently blighted - lesser if you like. Tommy knew that it wasn’t an easy road when you were starting from the back of the field but he also knew that it was, unequivocally, possible. There were plenty of examples of it in amongst all the cop-out surrender. The older he got the more of an advocate he had become for self help. He now believed that, to a degree, the community sector had, unintentionally, disempowered the community.

It was Sonny’s presentation that he’d signed up for, a two hour lecture and discussion about an initiative in Glasgow that had worked wonders on the gangs up there. It was an effective combination of carrot and stick that had given their rough lads the opportunity to pull themselves out of the shit with the caveat that if they chose not to take the opportunity
that they would be hit and hit hard by the coppers and the justice system. It had rekindled memories of him chatting about such things with Ralph, Bonnie’s lovable rogue
truck-driving
dad. In truth, Ralph was a proponent of using the stick a lot more than he was of using the carrot. Aboriginal traditional law was strict and unyielding and its enforcement was the responsibility of all members of the community - everybody was the police, in fact no such distinctions were made. Old Ralph eh? Tommy wondered how that rum old sod was going.

Four o’clock and it was school out, he had a bit of paperwork to sort out then he was off to a gym in town.

When he returned to the Centre there were a few messages on the work phone one of which was from Donna. He smiled when he heard her voice but the tone inferred that she wasn’t calling him to share any good news. He called her back and she had plenty to feel unhappy about. Last night the kid had gone ballistic over her refusal to buy him a ticket for some cage fighting shit that was to be held in the city. The kid had picked up a chair and threw it through the lounge room window, doing his bit for the local property values - worse still, the little prick had pushed her. He could hear the tears in her smeared voice and as he listened to it unfold he had gripped the receiver, hard, hard enough to make his hand ache. The little fucker had blown the coop, he hadn’t come home that night and he still wasn’t answering his phone. He’d sent her a terse text just before midnight to say that he was OK but that wouldn’t be racking up any brownie points. She said she may have to take a rain check for Thursday and that was all she wrote. Sonny had been informed and they were looking at ‘options’ for him.

Tommy had called Sonny pretty much straight away and Sonny was palpably keen on the time out option for the kid, especially as there had been more than an intimation of violence.

The kid had shown up at the Centre yesterday and he’d taken that as a sign that he was maybe ready to start getting past the thing with Matthew. He’d been a little more taciturn than usual but he’d warmed up when they’d got into it, they’d even shared a couple of smiles. Pasquale had picked his moment and his target - his mum, then. Understandable, maybe, given what had happened to his friend, but definitely not excusable.

She rang him again on Thursday morning. Sonny had been round to the house and they’d talked about the kid going to the local refuge for time out if things stayed tense at home. She didn’t feel ready for that, although it had transpired that the kid was up for it!

‘Maybe it would be a good idea Tommy - what do you think?’

Hmm, he thought, he sensed deep waters with enough of an undercurrent to get him quickly caught in the shit and keeping opinions to himself had never been his strong suit.

‘Well I can have a chat with him if you like - is he at home now?’

‘No he’s out - with his mates. That’s what he said.’

‘What about the Greaves, that’s near you, we could meet about - sevenish?’

‘OK Tommy,’ she sighed, ‘that would be nice - see you then.’

He left the Centre about five and let Jimbo know the change of plan, Jimbo wasn’t that fussed - that rum turkey
always had a plan B up his sleeve.

She was already there when he walked into the quiet bar, nursing a gin and tonic by the looks of it. She was sat gazing quietly at nothing in particular, a little tramline of worry visible between her eyebrows. She gave him a nice smile, which he returned. He signalled another one for her which she knocked back. He hit the bar and came back to her with a Guinness and took the seat opposite her. The table had a tilt and wobble and he lost a bit of the pint when he carelessly plonked it down.

They talked for a couple of hours and this time it was all about her and the kid; the past, the present, options for the future. He tried to just listen but, as she talked, his mind kept returning to Australia. He played with the idea of her being there with him and he managed it. He brought the kid into the picture and it immediately felt like a hell of a reach. Single mums and their single sons, it was a recipe for intense codependency. Part of him, a large part of him, felt like edging away - kill it before it grows.

Just before nine she received a text from Pasquale, he was home.

She was half out of her seat as soon as the call was killed.

‘Better go Tommy.’

He leaned across the table slightly unsettling his pint of Guinness, again, as he did so and took hold of her hand. She momentarily tensed, then relaxed, she retook her seat and let him keep the contact. He gently stroked the inside of her wrist and forearm, her skin was warm, supple and smooth and, as he did so, some of the tension started to leach from her. Tommy’s mum had left him and Mick when he was still in primary school and he knew that Mick still carried a torch
for her. It didn’t bear to think what Mick would have done if he had ever pushed his mother - there would have been blood and snot on the walls, no preamble, no discussion.

‘Listen Donna, why don’t we go out this Saturday instead, let’s do something nice together?’

She smiled and nodded.

‘Be good to live a little eh?’ he said.

She looked at him a little sharply this time and he reproached himself for the glib presumption.

She pushed the clouds away again.

‘You are right Tommy, let’s, why not.’

He walked her back to her place and said goodbye at the front yard gate. He noted the fresh putty around the new window in the lounge and the light that was on in the upstairs bedroom, which confirmed that the kid was home. They said their good-byes and he strolled back for his car, dropping in at a late night mini-mart in order to pick up the daily rag. He quickly flicked through the paper in the shop, nothing at all in there about Matthew Marshall. Fucking fish wrapper, he thought. A cold wind started to pluck at the collar of his jacket. He picked up his pace and grabbed his car from the Greaves car park.

It had been a shit week, one of the worst - she’d knocked him back for the cage fighting night - telling him that no way was she working to pay for things like that and he’d had a moment in which he’d heard only the blood roaring in his head. Pasquale had acted without any recognisable forethought, sweeping his food off the table and onto the floor, the food a heaped steaming mess on her beloved carpet. He couldn’t remember much of the details of the next couple of minutes
but he did remember the look on her face when he’d pushed her - shock, dismay, hurt and finally anger. This time, his mum had acted purely for her own benefit. Her son had become an adversary. She pushed him with both hands, hard, in the chest. Hard enough to knock him off balance and a salutary reminder to him that his mother was still a strong woman.

She’d got the window sorted straight away, clicking quickly into her fall back efficiency and even that had irritated the shit out of him. Every statement he made quickly swept away, tidied up, dealt with.

Sonny had showed up at the house a couple of days later and the refuge had been mentioned to him as an option and he fancied it just to get away. Matty had spent some time there a couple of years ago but M couldn’t handle the rules and the ‘faggot youth workers.’ It was a mixed joint though, girls too, and that was something. She wasn’t for having it though - no fuckin’ chance and he relented a bit to the end of Sonny’s visit. He’d stay home, wait and see.

On the Friday she’d come to his bedroom and told him that she had a date the next night and it was with Tommy - all very matter of fact and even a little bit fuck you when she said it. He didn’t know how he felt about it, maybe like she was somehow gate crashing his world. He liked Tommy though and maybe it would help make things better between them, get her off his case a bit.

Junior was planning a stay down in London in a couple of months and he’d told him that it was cool for him to come down for the ride. He’d let the dust settle first before putting that to her. He felt that familiar wave of anxiety at the thought of leaving home, it was as if the pace of his life was
somehow speeding up, taking him downstream with it. All slightly out of his control, fuck did he need a smoke.

She was getting ready to go out - a girls’ night. He called out a breezy ‘see ya’ as she made her usual getting ready to leave noises in the little hallway. She said a flat sounding goodbye then opened and closed the door - gone.

Pasquale still had a tenner left from the money that she had given him last week. If Junior could divvy up the same they would have enough for a foil.

Friday night Darrin had got on the lash with the crew - Trish pressing her leg heavily against his own as they sat at a table in the Lucky Lad wine bar in town. Fuck he’d been tempted but, in a moment of clarity and foresight, he was up and out of his seat for a lengthy chat with Jolika and Stuart instead. They were seated up at the busy bar, all cosied up together with their glasses of red. He’d stayed away from her long enough for Johno to have taken both his seat and Trish’s attentions. She’d caught his eye when he’d scoped the new seating arrangements and she’d given him a little reproachful look. Darrin had grinned back at her with a mock raising of his glass, which elicited the response of her raised middle finger. She’d be fine, Trish was as tough as anybody in the station and, to her all was fair in love and war.

He did a late afternoon on the Coleshaw, remotely engaged in more observation of the chav legions and their feckless meanderings. He had the company of a digital radio today and, for once, there was no reggae sledge hammering its bass through the thin wall. Chris Johnstone had hit The Admiral with his crew around about five, probably down there for the game on the box. Then, just after six, something caught
his interest, a maroon Jag had pulled into Oak Road and the driver had slowed down and pulled over next to Dwayne and that other toe-rag. The three of them had exchanged pleasantries for a couple of minutes. The binocs had revealed the wide faced mug of a well-dressed middle aged guy with longish wavy hair. He looked a little like Arthur Daley’s much tougher brother. After a wee chat the guy zipped up the window then turned into Sycamore. Darrin wrote down the plate, personalised- GYPO1 talk about the dog’s bollocks.