by Mark Newman
Draining the rest of his pint, Garrett places the empty glass back on the table. ‘Just taking stock.’
‘That was quite a thing you did back there.’
‘Not my usual way of an introduction I’ll admit but... Doesn’t matter, it’s done with now.’
‘Lets hope so.’
‘You think they’ll be back?’
‘Count on it, regular as clockwork these days, but don’t worry—its not you they’re interested in, and I don’t think that skinny streak of piss is going to come looking for you any time soon either. He’ll be licking his wounds. That’s quite a left hook you’ve got there.’
‘Lucky punch.’
The old-timer nods but says nothing.
Garrett’s lost in thought as he continues to stare at the empty glass. He notices the old boy’s ACAB dots tattooed on the knuckles of his right fist. Standard prison tattoo, All Coppers Are Bastards. A badge of honour for those who graduated from borstal in the sixties and seventies.
The old boy studies him, intrigued, he can’t place him, but there’s something familiar about him.
He breaks the silence. ‘Another?’
Garrett nods agreement.
The old-timer signals to the barmaid for the same again. He clears his throat. ‘If we’re to sit here and drink on, we best get the introductions out of the way, Alan Tweedy,’ he says, holding out his hand.
Garrett takes the hand, gripping it with confidence. ‘Martin.’
‘Martin, you don’t look like a Martin.’
‘Everyone calls me Garrett, my surname but it’s fine.’
Tweedy’s eyes are distant, a note of recognition transporting him back in time. His brow is furrowed by thick lines, ‘Garrett... I used to know a guy by the name of Stan Garrett, a while back now. A regular in here he was. A relative of yours perhaps?’
Time for the show and tell. ‘Sounds like that could’ve been my father, more in name than anything else. He used to come in here. Didn’t see that much of him. Spent most of his time in and out of prison when I was a kid.’
‘Stan Garrett, Jesus, that’s a name that takes me back. Now it makes sense, that left hook of yours, inherited it from Garrett senior.’
Garrett shifts his gaze around the room, the memories flooding back. ‘Way I remember it, this was his second home.’
Karen arrives with fresh drinks, and sets them down on the table. Garrett takes a fresh gulp of Guinness, furnishing him with a white, frothy moustache. He dabs at his top lip with finger and thumb. ‘So, you knew the old man then?’
Tweedy takes a long pull on his Banks’s Mild, letting the news sink in. ‘Everyone knew Stan Garrett; he was that kind of guy. Had a presence, least I guess that’s what you’d call it. People respected him. Never had to buy his own drink—put it that way. Things were different then, not like it is now.’
‘You mean those two fuckwits?’
‘No, they’re just foot soldiers, cannon fodder. They’ll be doing a spell on the inside by this time next year. Why the interest?’
‘No reason... Just seemed odd. Like they were expecting something.’
‘Nothing for you to concern yourself with.’
Tweedy changes the subject. ‘So what brings you here, a nostalgia tour is it?’
‘No, just visiting an old friend at the hospital.’
‘St Vincent’s?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘One of those fancy new Super hospitals. I remember the local press made a huge thing about it when it opened. Won awards for its architecture, everything hi-tech, shiny, and modern. Wouldn’t look out of place in the middle of London. Never had cause to go in there, thank God.’
‘Yeah, I read about that too.’
‘So, this friend of yours, they’re okay?’
‘It’s early days.’
Tweedy searches for his cigarettes, taking one out, he lights it with a gold-plated, Zippo lighter. He offers one to Garrett, he declines the offer. Smoke drifts up, Tweedy’s eyes narrow, ‘so why’d you really come here today, you the Old Bill or something?’
Garrett raises his glass—slow and deliberate, taking another drink. ‘Yeah, fucking National Crime Agency, had you under surveillance for that truck load of iPhones’ you’ve been punting to the regulars.’
Tweedy chuckles, his laugh turning to a hacking cough. ‘Fucking comedian.’
‘Believe me, after the morning I’ve had, I needed a drink. That’s how I ended up here. God’s honest truth, I’d forgotten all about this place until I rounded the corner. The name threw me though. The last time I was in here...’ He gathers his thoughts trying to recall the year. ‘Must’ve been ninety-nine or early two thousand. This was the... the...’
Tweedy chips in, ‘The Mercers Arms.’
‘That’s the one. Why the name change?’
Tweedy chuckles to himself, taking a drag on his cigarette. ‘You don’t remember? Back in the mid to late nineties this place had a reputation for all the wrong reasons. Attracted unnecessary attention from the police. Fights kicked off a little too regular. Too many undesirables under one roof,’ he says with a wink. ‘Spit and sawdust, a real mans pub. The place needed rebranding. Especially after that nasty incident with the young lassie, the whole thing a shitty business.’
‘What was that?’
‘Come on, you must know? You from round these parts back then, it was big news. The underage girl, the one that snuck out from her folks house, fancied a night out with her mates, except they didn’t turn up.’
Garrett shakes his head, unable to recall the incident.
Tweedy continues, ‘the sixteen-year-old lass, come on— you must remember that?’
‘No can’t say that I do.’
‘The two guys plying her with drinks. No?’
‘Guess I must’ve missed that one, been out of town or something.’
Tweedy shuffles in his seat, readying himself to take on the role of storyteller. ‘Okay, these boys—right, they reckon they’re on to a good thing. The girl, young and naïve, dolled up to the nines. She looks the part, bumps in all the right places, if you get my meaning. So they feed her up, a mixture of Alco-pops and shots, and then as she relaxes, they drop a pill into her drink. Not long after, they make out like they’re going outside to get some air, but instead they drag her in to the Gents loo. Now these boys have done their homework, they know that they’re on CCTV, so they keep their heads low, impossible to get a positive ID, especially back then, as the quality of CCTV imagery was shocking, not much better now, but then it was total shite. Anyway, out of sight of the corridor camera they’ve got a free rein. Once in there, she never stood a chance. Bastards dragged her in to a cubicle and took turns with her while the other stood guard. When they’d both had their way, they left her comatosed on the floor. Waltzed out of there without a care in the world.
‘Who found her?’
‘Maggie, barmaid at the time, just happened to be on her break, stuck her head round the door, found her lying in a pool of piss. Not only had they assaulted the poor lass, the bastards then had the audacity to degrade her further. I mean, you wouldn’t treat a dog like that would you?’
‘They pissed on her?’
‘Aye, marking their territory.’
‘Jesus, poor girl.’
‘The next thing, the Old Bill are all over this place, dabbing this, and swabbing that, analysing the CCTV footage, questioning me and the staff. Went on for weeks. Nearly got us closed down for good.’
‘So what happened to the two blokes?’
‘Never caught, well not by the police anyhow. Local knowledge goes a long way. Stan Garrett, your old man, he knew that.’
Tweedy swallows another gulp of beer, then changes the subject. ‘Aye, some things are best left in the past.’
Garrett glances at his watch. Twelve forty-five. Ninety minutes in, he’s starting to feel the alcoholic glow.
Tweedy watches with intent. ‘You needing to be somewhere?’
>
‘Should have been somewhere first thing.’
‘No sense in sweating it now then. Another?’ intones Tweedy.
Garrett looks at his watch again. ‘Yeah, why not.’
‘Good man.’ Tweedy hoists the empties aloft, indicating for Karen to pour the refills.
Garrett turns and faces the bar. She’s cute. More so than he remembered when he first came in. Confident. Worldly beyond her years. He can’t decide if that’s good or bad. That smile and those green eyes, a knockout combination. ‘What’s her story?’ asks Garrett, trying to sound casual as he looks over towards the bar.
‘Ah, wee Karen.... my niece. Told my brother I’d look out for her. Did my best, treated her like my own.’
Garrett chokes on his beer. ‘Your niece?’
‘Aye, my niece... Why?’ Tweedy’s tone like iced steel.
‘No reason... I just thought she...’ Garrett lets the words tail off, not wanting to cause offence.
‘My woman,’ Tweedy cackles. ‘Oh aye, state of me,’ he says, taking another hit of Ventolin. ‘My days as a Lothario are long gone, more’s the pity.’
Karen arrives with the drinks, setting them down on the table before making her way back to the bar, Garrett’s hungry eyes following her every step.
Tweedy takes another gulp. He tells Garrett to do the same. ‘Drink up, man.’ His tastebuds tingling with the anticipation of more drink. ‘This is no time for lightweights.’
Garrett complies and drains his pint.
‘You ever heard the name Cullen?’ asks Tweedy.
‘No, can’t say that I have.’
‘He’s a real piece of work.’ Tweedy eyes the bar, towards Karen. ‘Grade A total shitbag.’
‘And the hoodies, they belong to him?’
‘Get daily visits now, sometimes twice a day. He’s just trying it on. Take more than a couple of loudmouth pill heads to scare me in to selling up. Wouldn’t have happened in Stan Garrett’s day, I know that much. He’d have nailed their hands to the bar for even daring to poke their heads through the door.’
‘Yeah, I heard those stories too, thought they were more like urban legends.’
‘No, trust me, they were real enough. You didn’t cross Stan if you knew what was good for you. How’d you think I got this?’ Tweedy says, pointing to the facial scar running the length of his face.
‘He did that?’
‘Card game. Guess I should’ve let him win. I never made the same mistake twice though.’
The conversation halts, Tweedy’s eyes remain fixed on Garrett as he takes two gulps of beer. He lights another cigarette, contemplating the unfolding scenario.
Garrett yawns, rubbing at his eyes. ‘Time I was going.’ He stands, swaying, gravity getting the upper hand. Like a matelot yet to find sea legs, he plonks back down in his seat.
Tweedy chuckles, amused at the onset of Garrett’s intoxication. ‘Your in no fit state to go anywhere, let alone drive.’
He tries to stand again. His legs refusing to comply, Garrett falls to the floor. He takes the table and its contents with him, smacking his head off the metal table leg, and tearing a jagged gash to the side of his left eye.
The room’s spinning, warm, fresh blood running into his eye, Garrett struggles to focus. He tries to speak but his lips feel like melting rubber on a hot day, making it impossible to form the words. Browns and greys meld into one. He can hear voices. Imagined or real, he can’t be sure. The world turning black.
Chapter 8
Approaching the car, he could see that the windscreen was daubed with yellow parking tickets. Garrett checked his watch. He’d outstayed his welcome by eight hours. Shit. He snatched the ticket, read the fine, and then peeled off the remaining, adhesive plastic wallets.
He had a choice, he could pay now or later. The prospect of settling in cold, hard cash, immediate and cheaper—offering a lesser tariff of sixty pounds. Garrett scanned the mass of parked cars trying to locate the attendant’s hut—confident that he could explain and negotiate—due to his extenuating circumstance.
His eyes fixed on the weather-beaten, seven by five yellow cabin, the interior light illuminating a window fogged with condensation. He strode towards it, covering the short fifty-yard stretch in less than a minute. Garrett had a bad taste in his mouth—sour and bitter. A remnant of the alcohol he’d consumed, or maybe it was the injustice he felt for the penalty imposed upon him. His gut twisted and lurched, but he managed to hold it in.
Garrett reached the hut, fixed penalty in hand. To the left, he saw the parking meter—rendered obsolete. Smothered by a tattered, orange hood, the words OUT OF ORDER stencilled across it. Even if he had the cash, he still couldn’t pay. He turned back to the cabin, the tinny sound of a portable radio pumping out an excited voice, a race commentator—dog racing. He rapped his knuckles against the door and waited.
The race neared climax as the commentator’s excitement peaked. Garrett banged against the door for a second time, this time with his size ten.
The cabin vibrated as movement from inside indicated its occupant was mobile. Garrett stepped back just in time as the door swung open. An irritated attendant stood towering over him, six feet three inches tall, and four stone overweight, his stomach hanging over his trousers. Unkempt, wearing a food-stained, light blue shirt, flapping in the wind. He was the wrong side of sixty—waiting for death or retirement, whichever rushed up to greet him first. By the look of him, the grim reaper was odds on favourite. He was munching on the last remnants of a hot dog roll, the tangy aroma of onion making Garrett’s nose twitch.
He swallowed down the last bite, licking the grease from his fingers. ‘Yeah?’
Garrett held the fixed penalty notice in his right hand. ‘I think there’s been some kind of mistake.’
The attendant’s podgy paw swiped the ticket, wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand. He read it aloud, muttering to himself. ‘Looks fine to me. Says here, failure to display a valid ticket, straightforward enough.’ He thrust the penalty back towards Garrett and went to close the door.
Garrett stepped forward. ‘Look, let me explain—I had an appointment...
The attendant cut in, ‘that expired eight hours ago.’
‘Come on, give me break, It’s been a shitty day, I just lost track of time.’ Garrett pointed towards the obsolete parking meter. ‘I’d pay now, but your machine’s on the blink.’
He stood staring at Garrett, eager to get back to his racing and out of the biting cold. ‘It’s not my machine, I just check the tickets, mate.’
Garrett let out a sigh, ‘I know that and...’
The attendant puffed his cheeks out, blowing air from his mouth. ‘The contact details are on the back, you’ll have to put it writing, state your case to them. I’m just doing my job.’
Garrett held his hands up to placate the attendant. ‘Okay, I get it, just hold on a moment.’ He fumbled through his jacket searching for his wallet. ‘Let’s call it twenty quid, treat yourself.’ Must be here somewhere.
‘Twenty lousy quid, more than my job’s worth, pal. Do yourself favour, pay the fine and piss off. Not like you can’t afford it, is it?’ he said, looking over in the direction of the Audi R8 roadster.
Garrett felt the irritation rise from the pit of his stomach, like an annoying itch he couldn’t reach.
‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my racing, what’s left of it anyway.’
Garrett balled his fists, then stretched his palms wide, Seemed like people were just hell bent on getting in his face today. ‘You’ve at least got a supervisor I can talk to - right?’
The attendant sighed, raising his eyes to the sky. ‘Christsake,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘No, they got rid of him at the end of last year, latest round of cut backs.’
Garrett stood his ground. ‘So that’s it?’
The attendant locked eyes with Garrett, his irritation unmasked. ‘You’re not letting this one go are you, mate?’ His mout
h twisted into a wry, self-satisfied smile. ‘The car park’s run by a private company. They set the tariffs, not the Trust. Pay now or later, it’s up to you.’ He pulled back to step inside the cabin.
Garrett took another step forward, trying hard to bottle his temper. ‘The machine’s out of order, so I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?’
‘The engineer’s been called, and your ticket was issued when the machine was working, so it’s valid.’
The attendant took another step backwards. Reaching for the door handle, he began to pull it towards him. Garrett grabbed the edge, wrenching the handle from his grip. ‘I don’t think you’re listening.’
The startled attendant narrowed his eyes. ‘You really don’t want to do that.’
Garrett lunged, clamping his thumb and index finger around the attendant’s throat, shoving him backwards in to the cabin, out of sight, forcing him to slump down in to his seat. ‘Let’s try again.’
The attendant tried to get up from his chair; gravity and the sight of Garrett fixing him in place.
‘All I want to do is pay this bastard fine, but you’re telling me I can’t even do that, because your fucking machine isn’t working.’
The attendant nursed his bruised throat with his right hand, trying to keep the panic from his voice, ‘I don’t make the rules.’
Garrett loomed, spittle flying from the side of his mouth. ‘I don’t give a shit.’
He’d only taken the job part time to get him out of the house a couple of times a week, he didn’t need this kind of stress or aggravation. It wasn’t good for his heart. He protested his innocence. ‘It’s not my fault, I just do what I’m told.’
‘Well guess what...’ Garrett spied his name badge. ‘Bill. I’m promoting you. Congratulations, you’re now the decision maker here.’
Despite the chill, the attendant was sweating. Garrett wasn’t done yet.
‘What’s wrong, Bill, you don’t look so good. Can’t handle the pressure?’
The attendant was still rubbing at his throat, his eyes wide with fear, watching for any sudden move. ‘Look, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just an employee of the Trust, just doing my job, that’s all.’
