Highbridge (11 page)

‘And we're not to talk about alcohol being a drug and all that,' Joey added with a laugh.

‘It's cannabis this week.'

‘What, like Disability Week or something?'

Sean laughed, then took a quick look through the glass door as though he didn't want Sandra to hear him. ‘I'm hosting a CAD event next week.' Then, in answer to Joey's quizzical look, ‘County Against Drugs, CAD. It's a private–public anti-drugs partnership and they've got some new idea about showing people what cannabis plants look like. So if they spot any growing where they shouldn't …'

‘They'll suddenly lose all fears of being kneecapped by the local druggies and turn in their neighbours, will they?'

‘No. But we've got to start by educating people.'

‘You should start by doing something more useful. More direct.'

‘Like what? Beating them up in the Lion car park, perhaps?'

Joey held up an apologetic hand. But then added, ‘Although it would be cheaper.'

Sean gave a slightly nervous glance at the door. ‘You're sounding like Sandra now.'

Joey grinned. ‘Go on then. How much is this spot the pot plant campaign going to cost? Couple of grand? For a few weeks? A few posters, leaflets, talks and visits to schools and then on to something like “get your three, oh no, five a day”? And when they want to waste more of our cash they change it to seven a day?'

‘I get it. But most of it has been raised through private donations.'

‘Still a waste of money. They'll never solve anything like that. The druggies, Sean,' he nodded inside to make the point, ‘are like the brewers. They're out there 24/7. To fight it you have to meet it with a similar level of resource. And commitment.'

‘Which is exactly why we need things like the CAD Partnership. To backfill. Plug the gaps in awareness.'

‘It's not awareness you need to worry about, Sean. It's taking away the opportunities. And those who will exploit those opportunities. And other people.'

Megan came out of the door. ‘Come on Dad, or Mum will make me have that salad thingy.'

‘On our way.' He then turned back to Joey. ‘Sandra hates me spending money on these things, but,' he shrugged. ‘It'd only go on a necklace or something. And, well, this might help. A bit. So, why not?' He let the question hang in the air before following Megan back inside.

Joey waited for a moment and looked out at the hill dominating the skyline. Why not, indeed. It was his money that was funding Luke and Matt while they waited for their opportunity. It was money he was hiding from Natasha. And how long would he have to keep that up? Luke had told him that it definitely wouldn't be this weekend. They wanted the right opportunity. At least three settled days so that the wind and rain wouldn't compromise what they were doing. They wanted a few good clear nights. The weather forecast was crap for the whole of next week. Fatchops might be a dead man walking, but he might just see another weekend. The thing is though, thought Joey, as he went inside to join the now traditional family Sunday lunch, can I hold it together for another week?

BY THE TIME
Joey settled into his seat on the Monday 5.36, he knew his daughter had become the target for some young buck's raging hormones; her mate Becky was being stalked by some foreign bloke; his brother Sean was as idealistic as ever; there'd been three drug-related deaths in the past six months; Fatchops was still alive, and he still hadn't fixed that fence panel. Just another typical weekend at home really. He took a quick glance round the carriage. The usual weekly nomadic tribe of mixed gender and skills heading off as latter-day hunter-gatherers to the richer pastures, or jungle, of London. He nodded to one or two he had shared the journey but nothing more with over the past year or so and flicked open his iPad to catch up on the news. It wasn't long before his mind drifted away from the irrelevant world of sports headlines, political adultery and celebrity trivia.

Would Luke stick with the agreement simply to scare off Fatchops, or would he take it further? Joey just couldn't call it any more. When they were young bucks cruising the streets he'd seen what he thought was a killer look in Luke's eyes many times. When the adrenalin was pumping and he was itching for a fight. Yet, over the past few weekends he'd seen glimpses of something else. But as Joey had told Hilary Jardine, it was Luke who had been acting as the calming influence on him. Until that night at the Co-op and the Lion. That was when it changed, Joey thought. That was when the look in his eyes had changed. He'd heard about the thousand-yard stare. About guys having it after battle. Becoming detached from the reality of war. But Luke now seemed far from detached. It was almost the opposite. Luke was totally engaged. On a mission. And that, Joey reasoned, probably proved he was detached from reality.

He automatically reached for his phone but knew he couldn't contact Luke. He'd have to wait while everything took its course. He'd have to wait for the updates. Instead he scrolled to Natasha's number. Another weekly ritual.
ON TRAIN. MISSING YOU. SPEAK 2NIGHT. LXXJ
He then went back to the iPad and opened the latest revision to the electrical layout he'd downloaded the night before. The steam shower had been doubled in size, the spa had got bigger, again, and now Ivantmoreofich wanted the mood lighting in the pool to be co-ordinated with the cinema, and a separate ring main installed in the kitchen to run at 110 V so he could bring over appliances direct from the US. That, plus the mark-up on the transformers would go a long way to buying a car for Tanya. Keep it coming. Live the dream, mate. And let Benno scavenge at the weekends.

His concentration was broken as the train cruised through Stafford, momentarily projecting an image on to the reflective black of the windows. Another hour for the sun. Instead of refocusing on the drawings, his mind went back to Fatchops. From somewhere on the hill that dominated the town, Luke and Matt would be watching, waiting for that one static moment. When the conditions were just right to take the shot. Or take him out? Christ. The usual nagging question. How did he get involved? Well, he knew that. The typical pub chat about something needing to be done. And Luke saying he knew how to do it.

Joey glanced down the compartment. There were several guys about his and Luke's age. City warriors suited and booted with their laptops out and smartphones at the ready. Most slightly overweight. Some with the polished and honed look that only comes from the controlled conditions of the gym culture. They could probably run a marathon and bench press double their own weight but how many could sleep for ten days on the hill overlooking the town? How many would he want to be standing next to him on a Saturday night, or on the site in London, protecting his back? He reflected again on the ironies, perhaps cruelties of life that determined who and what you became almost as soon as you were born. We all start from different places but the rules of the game never change. Learn to blend in and survive.

He knew he could no more hold his own in whatever corridors of power, meeting rooms or conferences the suited brigade were heading off to face, just as he doubted he could survive something like Iraq or Afghanistan, as Luke appeared to have done. But then again, Joey thought, one of life's biggest ironies was that Luke probably wouldn't last five minutes on a United Nations building site. A bit like a cop being thrown into prison. Without the authority of greater firepower, he'd soon become an Equal Opportunities or Health and Safety casualty. That was something Joey was determined never to become. Which was how the catch-up conversation had turned to why, in all walks of life, someone usually needed to give someone a good slapping. When you couldn't turn to, or rely on, the so-called forces of law and order or the rules and regs that governed life. When Health and Safety could stop you climbing a ladder, but offered no guidance on what to do when you were shoved into a room by three guys demanding a commission on everything you earned or they'd kill you, your wife and kids and dog. Or when everyone knew who the druggies were but kept saying they had to have proof.

That was the common bond, from battlefield to playing field. When natural justice had to take second place to bureaucratic process. That was what had pushed them over the line. Especially when it came too close to Joey's own front door. When it put Tanya in danger. That's how he had got involved. When Tanya, like Janey before her, had found herself fighting off some knife-wielding druggie. When Luke asked if it was time to act. Would he like him to sort it out? It was one simple word. Yes. That was it. That was how it all started. That one word. And what he was keeping from Natasha.

His phone vibrated just as the train hurtled into the Kilsby Tunnel, the twin vibrations causing Joey to jump. He looked at the text. Natasha's reply.
YOU 2. MORE EACH WEEK. MUST TALK TONIGHT. LXXT
. Must talk? He looked at the time. 6.15. Too early for the school run, he thought. Guess I didn't hide things too well after all. He went to reply but whilst the tunnel was one of the engineering wonders built by Robert Stephenson on the London–Birmingham line in the mid-nineteenth century, with the gradients, bends and railway bed still able to facilitate today's inter-city flyers, Stephenson never envisaged mobile phone signals. Joey stared at the No Service icon. At least it would give him time to think.

‘He's up to something, Sean. I know your Joey. And his mate Luke. He's always been trouble. He was only back five minutes and he and Joey were in the police station.'

Sean was trying to keep up with this trail of feminine intuition as he dried off after his morning waterfall shower. He was going in late, to give Sandra a lift. ‘Is all this coming from seeing Joey talking to Luke in Sanderson's car park the other day?'

‘It was the way they were talking.'

‘Which was?'

‘The way the kids do when they don't want us to know what they're up to.'

‘Right.'

‘Is that it?'

‘Yes. I could throw you a “so what”, if you like? But what's really going on here is displacement.'

‘Enlighten me.' Sandra stood, with her old Armani trouser suit in one hand while she held in her stomach and looked in the mirror wall that lined their dressing room. If the Anglomania had been a bit tight, what was this going to be like after a couple of years?

‘That.'

‘What?'

‘You having to go in and see the VAT man. So you think you have to squeeze into your old business suit. That's what's getting to you.'

Sandra let her stomach go. He was right. ‘You want me to look the part, don't you?'

‘You do in whatever you wear. Anywhere. Any time. And,' he added, slightly wearily, ‘we do own the place. You can wear what you like.'

‘I know. But I also know,' she added, pulling her stomach in again, ‘I want to look the part.'

Sean put his arm round her waist and pecked her neck. ‘I love every bit of you. Every inch means a special memory.'

‘That's the trouble. Too many memories. And I've always hated this wall of mirror.'

Sean didn't want to remind her that she designed the dressing area, so tried more displacement theory. ‘I don't know why you don't just buy yourself a new suit. I'm sure no one would notice you've gone from size 12 to size 12.5 or whatever size you've ballooned to over the past fifteen years or so. What time's he coming?'

‘Nine. And that's another thing. It's not a him. It's a “Miss”. Bound to be some size 8 stick insect.'

‘What time will you be free, then?'

‘Fancy taking me to lunch?'

‘In that old suit? Not anywhere public, but er, I was wondering if you'd fancy dropping in to something at lunchtime.' He saw that she had picked up his hesitancy, although, fortunately, a mark on the Armani sleeve had her full attention so he tried to make it sound as casual as he could. ‘You know, I'm letting the anti-drugs partnership use the demonstration area to show people what cannabis plants actually look like.'

A lick and dab at the sleeve. ‘Why?'

‘So they know what they are looking for. And can spot the decoys. We're going to put the real ones in among a few others like tomatoes or lupins. And a few more exotic varieties like Cleome or Castor Bean. To see if people can actually spot the real thing.'

Having salvaged the Armani sleeve, Sandra had moved to the shoe museum, as Sean called her racks of shoes, so he felt confident enough to continue.

‘There's a great tale of an old couple in Bradford who bought what they thought was just a nice little plant from a car boot sale. A few years of TLC and they had a lovely bush outside their window. And armed cops demanding to know why they were growing cannabis in their garden.'

‘Don't tell me. They got sent to prison, or something?'

‘Not this time. Genuine mistake. But they got their bush confiscated.'

‘And I suppose while you're donating our premises, staff and no doubt lunch, everyone else there will be being paid by the taxes we also pay?'

Sean sighed. She'd found the co-ordinated shoes so he now had at least 25 per cent of her attention.

‘It's a public–private partnership. You know. Business in the Community and all that?'

‘Where was the public bit of the partnership when we needed planning permission to turn that muddy field into a car park?'

Sean thought about replying along the lines of water under the bridge but saw that Sandra was about to try on the trousers. ‘Spending our taxes saying no, Sean.' One leg. ‘That's where they were. And why are they having this session today?' Other leg. ‘The Council and police are supposed to be being paid because they know what they are doing.' She was delaying trying the zip.

Sean wondered if he should make his escape as Sandra rattled on, building up the momentum to try the zip. ‘Like, perhaps, anti-drugs people knowing what the drugs they are anti-about actually look like?'