Cleaning Up (17 page)

They talked about the kid for a while. Sonny thought that Pasquale would benefit from the more structured environment of the refuge. School hours were strictly observed there and his education would be part of a personal program designed to get him back to a good place. He would have time to himself in the evenings but had to be back at six if he wanted his grub. Twice a week, he was expected to help cook. Tommy knew that that would be the acquisition of a new skill.

‘So’, Sonny asked, ‘you and Donna, how’s that going?’

He told Sonny about the weekend and the fact that he wanted a bit of time out. Sonny didn’t think that it was that big a deal.

‘Gee not been long has it? Bit of space though, yeah that might work. Give you two the chance to reignite the flames of passion Tommy Boy. You can reweave your magic!’

Tommy rolled his eyes at the silly bastard but, Sonny was right, a little easing of the pressure had to work for all of them. At the moment it was just crap that he didn’t really need.

Later that day he popped up to see his old man and they set up a wet the whistle night on Friday and a trip out for Sunday lunch. His dad fancied a walk up to the reservoir now that the days were getting warmer.

Tommy had doubts about his old man making it up there - it was a pretty steep climb in parts but a slow pace and some fair weather should be enough to get the old man up to the top.

His old man was giving him the beady eye - he knew the look, Mick curious about withheld information.

‘Thought you’d be introducing me to that new bird of yours soon son, are you hiding me or hiding her?’

‘Neither Mick - we’re cooling off a bit.’

‘Cooling off, cooling off! You’ve only just started seeing her haven’t yer? Bloody hell, cooling off.’ The old man cackling to him self and shaking his head, forever amused at the folly of his fellow human beings.

So, with a fair degree of initial reluctance, he reiterated the events of the last few days and wondered, as he told the tale, what the fuck he had ever talked about before the Edward’s family had come into his life. His dad was engaged with it though, genuinely interested and once he got past the start it was easy enough to give the old fart the full lowdown.

‘Sixteen eh? Old enough to start getting his shit together
- the lad, needs to get off the bloody tit by the sounds of it - I reckon.’

Amen to that, Tommy thought, he turned his mind back to the Saturday and the kid practically throwing those jeans in her face, fucking abysmal that was.

Mick wasn’t too impressed with that part of the story either. He didn’t buy into the poor Pasquale refrain.

‘That’s a reason but not a fucking excuse son. Is he going to be thirty and falling back on that shit? No dad, no mum, no fucking family pet - bloody hell! You know I never thought that this lot could make things worse than what those Tory bastards started. But all this poncing about, wiping peoples’ arses for them. What fucking good is that for folk? Opportunities with responsibility son, it’s not fucking rocket science. These fuckers are like something out of Lewis bloody Carroll, I tell yer.’

Good old Mick, he thought, from the personal to the political in a nano-second. He was bang on the money though and Mick’s thoughts echoed what Sonny had been telling him about the work that was being done with the Glasgow gangs. Mick had it nailed, the keys to the asylum needed to be taken back from the lunatics and as time marched on it looked like that was going to be a big, big job.

Tommy called her when he got home. Donna’s voice was a little flat, not much coming back his way. The kid was scheduled to go home for the weekend. She was pleased but she was still sad at the way it had gone.

‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘Stay in touch, maybe we could grab a bite some time.’

Hmmm, that didn’t exactly get her doing cartwheels either.

‘Maybe,’ she’d replied.

There you go Sonny, he thought, good old Tommy reweaving his magic.

He rung off and then fired up the lap top, he wondered if that bird from Watford was still on the site - thankfully she was.

His mum drove him to the refuge early Wednesday morning, two holdalls worth of gear that she had let him pack by himself.

A ten minute drive and they were there, his new home for the next few months.

The refuge itself was a squat, rectangular, one-level yellow brick building that was located on a good size block of land with plenty of space between it and the neighbours.

Pasquale pulled the bags from the back seat and they said a low-key goodbye to each other. Just as she had been since she’d made the decision his mum was calm, almost matter of fact. He leaned in through the driver’s window and gave her a peck on the cheek then turned towards the building. He briskly walked up the meandering path to the heavy looking, double locked front door. It swung open on his first knock and he was warmly greeted by a small, middle-aged woman who had dark circles under her eyes and hair the colour of dried out straw. Looming behind her was a tallish guy with big shoulders that were more than offset by a prominent gut.

They smiled at him and the woman did the introductions, they were Wendy and Rob.

The pair shepherded him on through to the office
whereupon
a fresh-looking Sonny was already there to greet him with a cheery wink.

‘Good to see you young un,’ Sonny told him. ‘Wendy will take you through the paperwork and then I’ll be here to sit in while we go through the refuge’s programmes, and its expectations.’

Sonny gave him a level look which he softened with a smile then he stood up and left the room. Wendy clucked her way through the paperwork and when that was finished Rob went off to bring back Sonny.

Sonny helped him throw his bags into his new room, two beds in what was a fresh looking, good-sized space. He’d be sharing then. After that they went outside to a paved area at the back of the building. In the right hand far corner of the yard was a large, open corrugated shed that Sonny told him doubled up as the refuge’s gym. They sat down at a couple of scratched up round plastic tables, both of which housed ashtrays. One of the ashtrays had three butts mashed up in it, which were coloured at their tips with what looked like Wendy’s shade of lipstick - had to be Wendy, he’d smelt the smoke on her.

He sat down and stared into space. Without any preamble or obvious reason Sonny stood up and did a slow 360 of the yard. Satisfied with whatever it was that he saw he returned to take his seat.

‘Think you’ll be OK here son?’

Pasquale nodded.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah Sonny - I’ll be fine.’

‘Good, glad to hear it. They’re good people here P - Wendy, Rob and the rest of the crew. This would be a good place for you to start pulling it together - know what I mean?’

Pasquale nodded and pulled his right foot up underneath
him. Sonny wasn’t finished with him yet.

‘Just take your time Pasquale, you’re a bright kid, Tommy’s told me that. You still fancy going on to Art College?’

‘Yeah, I like the idea of, you know doing fine art, sculpture, maybe getting rich and famous like that Damien Hirst guy.’

Sonny raised his eyebrows. He wasn’t in the mood for any flippancy.

‘Well let’s see. Do the work first eh? One step at a time like.’

Pasquale regretted being a bit of a smart arse with him, although he had meant it too in a way, why the fuck not.

Sonny looked at his watch then lightly slapped his thighs and stood up again. He offered Pasquale his hand and said his goodbyes. Pasquale got up too and followed him on through the lounge room. Sonny went back to the office and he turned a right towards what was now his bedroom and spent the next half an hour unpacking his bags and sticking away his gear. When he finished he sent a text to Junior who texted him back straight away.

He wandered back to the office, he’d noticed a bicycle in the gym cum shed and he asked Wendy if he could borrow it.

Wendy shot Rob a quick look then nodded her assent.

‘Be careful with it now, wont you dear, it’s the only one we’ve got.’

He gave her his promise then took off. He had twenty minutes to get down to the precinct to meet Junior and he made it in fifteen. Junior was already there, lounging with usual cool just outside Foot Locker, nodding along to his iPod. They did a quick catch up and then took off to the Coleshaw to meet up with Dwayne. He told Dwayne and Junior
a little about the ref, reassuring a disinterested Dwayne that he was still up for the afternoons. Dwayne was fuckin’ cool with that. He had plenty of other lads ready to step in for the morning run.

Only fifty today, just weed, but that was OK. The other gear still made him think about M too much.

It took a fortnight before the Drug boys finally got their shit together to sort out what they were going to do with the observation post in the Coleshaw flat. A tough looking squat Geordie with a pair of Stalinesque eyebrows who had introduced himself as, ‘Mac just Mac,’ would now be taking up post there on a full time basis. Mac was five six in his boots but he had axe handle wide shoulders and a handshake that could have strangled a drainpipe. He was a little taciturn was Mac but he gave out enough information to let Darrin know that Mac knew who he was.

As the days were now getting longer there were plenty of kids hanging about near the pub and down Oak Road. Some of the kids were hanging with Dwayne and his crew, the others, mostly the younger ones, sticking tight to their own little groups. He’d clocked the pair that he, Moz and Sonny had spoken to about Matthew Marshall a few times, lanky Junior and his sad-eyed olive skinned mate Pasquale. Both of the boys out there on their bicycles, both wearing backpacks, which was a dead set sign that they’re probably shifting the shit. They didn’t seem to hang around the estate that long but Dwayne would always give them a nod hello and then made the point of engaging with them and he wouldn’t be doing that because he was a social butterfly.

The Admiral was getting busier too, plenty of older scrotes emerging into the light, kitted out in muscle vests, seemingly Coleshaw de rigueur for the warmer months. Johnstone and his brother were rolling along to the boozer
most evenings now like a couple of fucking low rent kings.

Mozzer hadn’t said that much to him of late, despite the initial enthusiasm and kudos, the spontaneous tail job had obviously pissed him off for some reason. Maybe he’d made the lazy fucker look bad or something. Mozzer had told him that Young had been in touch with him about the same gig, the setting up of a parallel observation post down at the Quays - Dalton’s pad.

Darrin had asked Moz if Young had mentioned him in dispatches, just to stir the fucker up a bit, help shake him out of the terse, thin lipped, cold as an Eskimo’s todger shit. With a sigh and a bit of a grunt Mozzer had reluctantly told him that yes, he had.

He had given Mozzer a shit-eating grin. ‘Ta for letting me know Mozzer.’

Moz gave him the raised eyebrows and a begrudging grin but still kept quiet. He’d come around the lazy old fucker. They might even get on the Quays end of it together and share a hanging cheese and pickle butty or two.

Darrin had done a bit of background in prep for the job, digging out some dried out old paperwork on Dalton and his doings.

There was nothing much more there than what was on the up to date computer summary. Although there was one detail that more than grabbed his attention, the name of the arresting officer for the procurement charge that had eventually been dropped, a Detective Constable Gerard Keegan no less. Keegan, who was of a similar vintage to Dalton, Keegan; the station’s bona fide, gimlet eyed enforcer. Darrin re-filed the info and stashed that golden nugget into his memory banks.

Mac was down The Admiral tonight, with the view of ingratiating himself with the Johnstone crew. The cover seemed solid enough and Mac was implacably unphased at the thought of swilling Stella with some of the more entrepreneurial end of the underclass. Johno had told Darrin that Mac was ex-army but that fucker was the station gossip and he was surprised that Johno hadn’t yet sprouted a pair of tits. Speaking of which, he thought, the big blonde he’d met down Brum was heading up to Leeds for a salsa weekend next week. She’d texted him a couple of days ago and the responding warmth in his loins would provide enough energy to get him easily onto the A62 and over the Pennines.

Later that evening, he stood at the window and watched Mac saunter over to The Admiral with that loose, easy stroll of his. It was a pleasant enough evening; a few of the locals were hanging around outside the pub entrance, smoking fags and bullshitting to each other. Johnstone had been in there for just under an hour and there was a match on the box so he’d be set for the night.

The game finished at nine thirty and Johnstone and his brother left the pub about ten minutes after that. Mac strolled out about twenty minutes later, zipping his coat up against the chill of the wind. A couple of minutes and the key was turning in the lock, Mac came in and heavily dropped down on the sofa. Darrin made him them both a brew and took the other end of the settee.

‘How did it go then Mac?’

‘All right son - played some pool, talked football with a couple of guys at the bar. Johnstone’s brother came over and introduced himself.’ Mac laughed softly. ‘The older one never took his eyes off us when he did.’

‘Bought it, yer reckon?’

‘Early days but yeah, I kept it simple. Meathead’s not a big conversationalist really and I’m a smallish bloke too, so, as far as he’s concerned, I’m no threat. That’s the most important thing to a bloke like him.’

They drank their brews in silence for a while.

‘How long you been in the service then Mac?’

‘Few years now, didn’t come in till I was near thirty but I’m ex-army and did a bit in there too.’

‘And what works best like - you know – when working undercover?’

‘Well like, yer know, keep it simple, like I said, and take your time with it. Good lies have to have a lot of truth in them. When you’re dealing with dullards like those across the way it’s often better to just shut the fuck up and keep your eyes and ears open. If there is a talker amongst them have a run at him - but don’t rush it. But in saying that, and this is important, always be ready for battle stations - it can happen like that.’ Mac clicked his fingers for emphasis. ‘Bit like you did with that bloody tail job eh?’

Mac grinned at him then bent down to start pulling off his boots.

‘Anyway Darrin, I’m getting some shuteye. Up at six and off at six thirty to keep up appearances of the common working man and, as your superior officer, I am ordering you to fuck off home.’

Darrin stood up, took the cups back to the kitchen and rinsed them both out.

Mac thanked him with another grin then looked at him with just one eye open. Maybe he was a little bit pissed after all.

‘You’re OK you are son, still a colt in some ways, but a
smart one at that.’

Mac saluted him a goodbye and Darrin left him to it - he’d be back on Friday.

Tommy had called her a couple of days after the kid had been parcelled off to the refuge, but the conversation never got out of first gear. He alluded to meeting up but she quickly told him that she needed some time alone. He told her that was probably a good thing but that was the opposite of how he felt. He was missing her but he didn’t say it. Lee was coming up for the weekend to catch up with his dear old mum so at least he’d have some company.

Sonny called him the next day to talk about the trip up to Glasgow, on for next week if he fancied it. Sonny’s employers had stumped up for him and, if he could get the Centre to do the same, he would be on the train too. He could do with a change of scene, the thing with Donna and the kid had him feeling more than a little wrung out. He caught Pauline after lunch, it was no problem with her, still plenty in the training budget and she saw the merits of the trip - what a gal.

He sorted it out straight away, switching the diary around, getting Corrine to cover a couple of groups for him - easy peasy.

Tommy had vowed to let the thing with Donna ride. That would be the smartest deal all round really. He didn’t trust the kid not too fuck up at the refuge and boomerang back to her doorstep and he wasn’t in the mood for another bash at playing the role of Uncle Tommy, a resented back up and back stop for Donna’s ongoing domestic drama.

He thought back to Sunday and the gentle stroll that he and Mick had taken up to the reservoir. Plenty of pit stops
along the way but the old man had made it. Mick had taken time out to puff contentedly on a well-deserved gasper at the top of the climb. His old man had taken a perch on the grass with his back to the reservoir’s perimeter stone wall, chilling out in the peacefulness of all that mellow space.

Tommy took a stroll around the water’s edge while his old man stayed put. He rewound his memory further back; to what had to be a decade or so ago now.

A Christmas spent on a friend’s bush property down near the area that the Aussies referred to, with their laconic literalness, as the ‘Snow’. After a late breakfast, he and the old man had marched up a scrubby brown knob of a hill that was a mile or so from the property. At first, his old man had matched him stride for stride but his breathing became quickly more ragged as the climb went on. Mick pulled the pin three quarters of the way to the top, he was bent over double, raggedly trying to suck in air that his tobacco battered lungs wouldn’t let him access. It had jolted Tommy. The experience had been a palpable reminder of the passage of time. His once nimble footed, quick moving father debilitated and hitting such a relatively low wall. Neither of them made any reference to the event but it was indisputable evidence of both Mick’s physical decline and of the incremental passing of the torch between them - the old stag and the young one. At the reservoir Tommy had taken time out to look back towards Mick’s resting spot and had felt a swell of sad protectiveness for his father. Mick prided himself on his abundant resilience; it was a badge of honour to him. But, nobody beat the clock.

He had pushed the thoughts away and was brought back to the now by the keening peep of the resident kestrel. He
immediately looked for it and there it was, circling just a little to the left of where he had seen it before.

The old man looked bright-eyed on his return and Mick managed to get to his pins without any assistance or the offer of it.

They went back to his place and watched a DVD of Chinatown - they were both film noir boys, it was his old man who had introduced him to the genre, both the movies and the books.

It was a great film, a young, slim, hard-edged Jack Nicholson taking on the big boys and losing, the drama played out under the Californian sun.

All in all, he thought, it had been a damned fine day. His dad was off to the races this weekend and Nev had called him to let him know that he’d be keeping an eye on the old bloke - thank God, he thought, for willing, clandestine minders. Lee would be here anyway and Tommy had bought tickets for a hometown band that were on the verge of cracking the big time. They were a decent enough listen although not exactly the Clash at the Apollo. But, Lee rated them, and it would be a nice change of pace from the Crown and the local blues ensemble.

Pasquale was into the swing of it now - enjoying the rhythms of the refuge despite sharing a room and despite the non-negotiable demands that the place made on his time. Five other kids were presently in there with him, which made the joint two shy of being a full house.

He was sharing a room with a big red headed silent kid, Frankie, who the girls and Neil had nicknamed Lurch. In the next room to theirs was Al, a little mouthy jockey of a
kid from down in the Midlands somewhere. He was teased mercilessly by the two girls who scathingly and repeatedly referred to him as ‘pin dick’. In the single room was Neil, a slightly discomforting, tall, out there, seventeen year old gay kid who provided most of the laughs in the place and finally, the two girls themselves; Jess, a big titted blonde, who loved to prance around the refuge in her underwear and thrived on any melodrama and, finally, the Queen of the joint, Kat, a slightly Goth looking, older girl. She was smart with a whip like wit and she was tough too, a real package. Pasquale had noticed that even the workers were a little circumspect with her. Kat burned brightly most of the time and had, thankfully, taken a shine to him, often referring to him as ‘her little cutie’. But, cloud could quickly block out that sun and then Al or even poor Lurch copped it. She had a mouth that could bubble paint.

He’d settled in with the others kids quickly, a couple hours of sussing each other out and that was it, sorted. The staff seemed pretty OK too, Wendy slightly over did the clucking mother hen bit but she knew when to back off and you could have a laugh with her. Rod was a big lazy fucker who spent most of his shift in the office either on the phone or on the computer playing backgammon or chess. There was a younger guy working there too. Colin. He had plenty of energy and always spent the first hour of his shift trying to corral them out of the refuge to do some social or recreational activity - a real pain in the arse. The guy did a lot of flirting with the girls too, which both of them readily lapped up, playing him to the max. Neil had caught his eye a couple of times when Colin was plying his charm with Kat and Jess. Neil made no pretence of the fact that he thought Colin was
a wanker and, he had a point.

Pasquale was surprised at how cool he was with Neil but maybe that was because Neil himself was cool. His mum had had a couple of gay male friends who had come to the house when they still had dinner parties and, for that matter, when she’d had a few wilder parties too. It was Kim who had shown him the paper folding and, at the weekends, he’d taken him and his mum out to galleries. He’d liked Kim - he was upbeat and chill, the best boyfriend his mum had never had. He’d been sure that she had been a little in love with him too.

Still, that was years ago now.

The staff had done this goals thing with him and they were trying to set down an education programme that would get him into a local sixth form college, specialising in art and maybe history. Wendy had explained that it was do-able, if he committed himself. He needed some qual’s though and he knew that he still had a lot of catching up to do.

He invariably met up with Junior in the late afternoons and they rode the packages to the Barrington, regular and as smooth as. He had the money stashed in the refuge but it was risky and vulnerable there, he could have asked the staff to keep it for him maybe but they would ask questions - £500 plus. No way would they take that at face value, not even that dopy bleeder Rod.