‘Sure.’
‘And keep away from Jackie Green.’
‘I don’t need no advice on that score.’
Sherry Parker sat on the worn vinyl-covered sofa staring at the faded carpet. The kids were upstairs, shrieking their lungs out, giggling and jumping from bed to bed. But the sound floated by Sherry. Her head ached, and her eyes were dry and sore. She stubbed out her cigarette in an over-full ash tray, her eyes flickering to the clock on the mantelshelf.
The social security money had run out, the rent was four months behind, and tonight’s supper for the kids would be cornflakes – if there was any milk left. Sherry ran her hand through her greasy hair and gazed down at her body. Once she’d been a sprinter, but now, she thought, her legs looked like upturned milk bottles. She lit another cigarette. Four left. Who cares?
‘Mummy, can we have some lemonade?’ asked Sarah from the doorway.
‘There isn’t any.’
‘I could go to the shop.’
‘Go away! Leave me alone!’ screamed Sherry. The little girl backed away, confused and afraid, then ran upstairs. ‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Sherry.
She had always tried to be a good mother, a good wife. At least she thought she had. But Alan was always complaining. She was frigid, he said. Lousy in bed. How were you supposed to react to five minutes of frenzied humping? But she’d tried to change. She’d bought sexy magazines and read them, attempting to titillate him with her new found knowledge. He said she was acting like a whore. Eight years they’d been together, while he whinged and whined and came home reeking of the perfume from the women he casually screwed. Then one day he had moved out, and, on that same day, she realised just how miserable the last eight years had been. Like a prison sentence. Like a loss of life. When Alan Wilks walked out he took a part of Sherry Parker with him – eight years of her youth, and all of her smiles. He had buried the sprinter under the weight of his criticism, cut her with the knife edge of his tongue, and stolen her confidence, sucking it from her into the vacuum of his contempt.
Now he sent no money for the children, and Sherry was about to lose her home, and possibly her kids, to the care of the council.
‘Oh God!’ she said, dropping her face to her hands.
‘When we having tea mum?’ said Simon. Sherry heaved herself from the sofa and wandered into the tiny kitchen. Plates and dishes were piled high on the draining board and the rubbish bin was filled to overflowing. She opened the cupboard and stood staring at the shelves. There was a tin of tomatoes, a half-empty packet of sage stuffing, three slices of bread and some cornflakes.
‘God in Heaven,’ she said.
‘Don’t cry, mummy,’ said Sarah, tears on her face.
‘There’s nothing to sell,’ said Sherry, staring down at her hands. Her wedding ring was long gone, and she’d even sold the television – and that was rented.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ she said.
‘I’m hungry, mummy.’
‘Later. Get your coats on.’
Bimbo was feeding his swan when the children spotted him. He was wearing his old jeans and a torn blue track suit top. Sarah raced towards him. He hoisted her high and she shrieked with delight. Young Simon was further back, but he yelled, ‘Me too, Bimbo! Me too!’ Bimbo obliged, then transferred his gaze to Sherry, who was still some distance away. Her shoulders were bowed, her hair unkempt.
‘Mummy’s bin cryin’,’ said Sarah. ‘And there’s no tea.’
‘’Allo, Sher.’
‘Bimbo.’
‘You aint lookin’ too good.’
‘Nice of you to say so,’ she snapped.
‘Aint what I meant,’ he said, softly.
‘Yeah? What did you mean?’
‘I meant you’re lookin’ ill, like flu or summink,’ he said, carefully. ‘Sit down for a minute.’
‘I can’t stop. I got too much to do.’ But she hovered.
‘Go and play on the swings, kids, I want to talk to yer mum.’ They galloped off, shrieking, in a race to the slide, which Sarah, being the oldest, was bound to win. But Simon battled gamely to catch her. ‘Nice kids,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Sit down. Just for a minute.’ Sherry allowed herself to be led to the park bench and she sagged to the seat, staring at the swan gliding through the water.
‘What’s gettin’ you down?’
‘It’s none of your business. And I don’t want you givin’ no more money to Sarah. We aint a bloody charity case.’
‘You angry with me, Sher?’
‘Don’t call me Sher. I hate it. No, I aint lookin’ too good. But I did once, didn’t I? Which is more than can be said for you. At least I had my day. You used to fancy me rotten, didn’t you? I used to watch you standing in the playground. Never had the nerve to ask me out – not that I’d have gone with you. I used to wonder what you were scared of.’
‘You was always too good for me,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d do better for yourself.’
‘And didn’t I just? Prince bastard Charming I got.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Bit bloody late, isn’t it? The playground’s a long way from here. Or do you just want to get into me knickers? Yeah? I’d even screw you for a tenner for some food. That what you want? A quick bang for a tenner? No. Wouldn’t be worth it, would it? I expect he’s told everyone what a lousy lay I was. Expect I’m the talk of the town.’
She began to cry. Bimbo had no words to ease her pain, but his huge arm circled her, pulling her gently into him. Her head came down on his shoulder and he patted her back. The swan waddled up on to her island and the lonely nest, settling down almost hidden from view.
After a little while Sherry pulled away from him and dried her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean what I said. I wasn’t angry with you.’
‘I know. How come you don’t do Wilks for maintenance?’
She smiled. ‘Unemployed isn’t he? Everyone knows he makes a good living fencin’ for that ponce in Bollo Lane.’
‘What about social security?’
‘I aint a good manager, Bim.’
‘Rent?’
‘I last paid it when Noah was buildin’ the ark.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Bimbo. ‘We’ll talk about it down the McDonald’s. We’ll all have some burgers and chips or summink. The kids’ll like that. And you used to like them chocolate milkshakes, didn’t ya? We’ll have one of them.’ She grinned, and just for a second he caught a glimpse of the girl she had been. They rounded up the children and left the park. At the roadside Sarah grabbed Bimbo’s hand, while Sherry caught hold of Simon. As they crossed the road Sherry felt Bimbo’s free hand at the small of her back, steering her. In that moment she caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window, the greasy hair, the short dumpy figure. But instead of resignation a tiny spark of anger flared.
As the children finished their burgers and milkshakes Sherry reached across the table and took hold of Bimbo’s hand. ‘I’m sorry for what I said, Bim. About you never lookin’ good. Looks aint everythin’.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I never was a picture. But a blind man’d be glad to see me, eh?’
‘I’m glad to see you.’
‘Yeah … well. That’s good. We better be goin’. We’ll have a quick walk through Tesco’s and pick up a few bits.’ Sherry didn’t complain and Bimbo filled a shopping trolley with food and carried the two bulging bags back to her flat.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked, as he dropped the bags in the doorway.
‘Another time. Thanks, anyway. Look after yourself, Sher.’
He ambled away, hands thrust into his pockets, heading for the High Street and home. A car pulled up alongside him, and a woman’s voice called him. He turned. Inside the red Volvo estate he recognised Caroline Shell, wife of the publican who ran the Stag.
‘Can I have a word with you?’ she asked. She was a thin, blonde woman, with a hard face and a harder nature.
‘If you’re gonna tell me I’m barred don’t bovver. I’d already worked it out.’
‘Jack told them he wouldn’t bar you.’
Bimbo was surprised, and touched. ‘Well, that’s nice.’
‘Nice? It was bloody stupid. They said if they heard you’d been served there they’d be back to see him. So stay away. My Jack’s got plenty of bottle, but not much brain. And I won’t see his head kicked in over a thug like you. Do we understand one another?’
‘Yeah. Thank him for me.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I won’t even tell him I’ve seen you. He’d spit blood. Just stay away.’ She slipped the car into gear and sped away.
He took a bus to the estate and made his way through Ironside Towers. Silver was sitting on a wall, talking to three black youths. One of them shouted something but Bimbo ignored it and strolled on. Once home he bathed and changed into a light blue roll-neck sweater and a clean pair of jeans. Delving into his wardrobe he pulled clear the old tweed sports jacket and donned it.
Just before seven a car drew up in the road outside and a horn sounded.
Miranda was sitting in the back seat. Daniel was driving. As Bimbo came down the steps she opened the rear door and he slid in beside her, his long legs cramped in the narrow space. Her perfume was overpowering.
‘Make sure it’s okay for me,’ she said.
‘I aint the Seventh Cavalry. How many gonna be there?’
‘About thirty, I think. Some sort of private party.’
The house was in Perivale, a nice area Bimbo had rarely visited. All the houses were double fronted and reminded him of the old films, the black and white Edgar Wallace jobs. There were four cars in the drive at the building as Daniel drew up, two Porsches, a Jag and a Lotus. Daniel parked the battered Hillman beneath an overhanging willow and the three of them made their way to the front door. Daniel tugged on the bell pull. The door was opened by the tall man Bimbo remembered from the church hall. He had rings on every finger and his hands were wide and thick, the knuckles flat.
‘The lovely Miranda,’ said Ringo, his voice beautifully modulated and very public school. Bimbo was jolted by the contrast. He had expected West London cockney. The man’s eyes switched to the towering figure of Bimbo. ‘King Kong, I presume?’
‘He’s a friend,’ said Miranda.
‘A minder? How quaint. Fighter, are you?’
‘Gonna invite us in, are ya?’ responded Bimbo.
‘But of course. Follow me.’ He led them through to a circular library. You may change in here, my dear. We’ll call you through in about ten minutes. All right?’
‘How many here?’ she asked.
‘Just a small party.’
He left and Bimbo settled down in a wide leather chair and opened his jacket. There was a brass newspaper holder to his left and he idly riffled through the papers. The Times, The Sunday Times, The Daily Telegraph, and several copies of Country Life. He pulled clear a colour supplement and began to leaf through the pages, stopping at an article about a film star called Jack Nicholson. He was being paid ten million dollars for a film role. Bimbo wondered how much that was in real money.
‘’Ere, you seen this?’ said Bimbo, looking up. Miranda had stripped to red panties and bra and was rolling a white stocking up her leg to fasten it to the white suspender belt. ‘Oh. Sorry,’ he said, looking away.
‘I’m not shy,’ she said. ‘Have you got the cream, Daniel?’
‘They might want a double ride,’ he said, opening the nozzle. Bimbo stood and wandered from the library to the hall. This was the last time, he told himself. This isn’t your game. Not even close.
Ringo reappeared, sliding open the doors to an inner room. Bimbo wandered back into the library in time to see the doors slide shut and hear the ripple of applause from beyond. He was about to settle down with his magazine when Ringo came back in, this time from the hallway.
‘A word to the wise,’ he said, offering Bimbo a thin roll of £5 notes. ‘Take a walk.’
‘I’ve already been paid.’
‘Listen, old lad, we’ve had a dreadful time deciding which two get to split the beaver, so we’ve decided we’ll all have a ride. You understand? Now we’ll bonus the lady. And you. So let’s not make this difficult.’
‘How’d you mean, difficult?’ asked Bimbo. The man grinned.
‘I should tell you I’m a former para, and I’ve been trained in martial arts. I could break you in half in two seconds flat. So take the money, because I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘Bimbo!’ screamed Miranda. Just as the scream sounded Bimbo caught a flash of movement. Ringo’s fist swept up. Bimbo patted it away, grabbed the man’s jacket and jerked him forward into the ‘Liverpool kiss’. Their heads smashed together with a sickening crack. Ringo, his nose crushed, slid to the floor. Bimbo put his foot to the door, exploding it inwards. There were four men inside. Miranda was being held down on a white rug by two of them while the other two were partly undressed. Daniel was sitting on a nearby sofa nursing a cut lip.
Bimbo walked forward, grabbed the first man by his hair and lifted him to his feet.
‘Go and sit down,’ he said. The man obeyed. The others joined him. ‘Miranda, get dressed. We’re leaving.’ She scrambled to her feet and gathered her panties from the floor.
‘Look, this is a misunderstanding,’ said one of the group, a middle-aged man with a pot belly. Ringo told us this was a group thing. He charged us all. He hit the boy.’
‘I don’t give a toss,’ Bimbo told him.
‘Look, we’ll throw in another two hundred,’ said the man.
‘Not interested,’ said Bimbo.
‘Hey, wait a minute, man, this is business,’ said Miranda.
‘You aint serious?’ But he could see that she was. Bimbo swallowed hard. He felt sick suddenly, and backed away towards the door. He heard Miranda speaking to the pot bellied man, but it was as if the voice was coming from a great distance.
‘Give the money to Daniel – and the rest of what’s owed me,’ she said. The man walked to an antique dresser and opened a drawer. From it he took a bundle of notes, which he counted out to Daniel.
‘Okay,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s all here.’
‘Give Bimbo an extra twenty and drop him home. I’ll get a cab later,’ said Miranda.
Bimbo looked at the men in the room, the elegant furnishings, the expensive fitments. ‘Fuck this,’ he said. Then he walked out, stepping over the body of Ringo, and striding out to the drive. Daniel joined him.
‘You were terrific,’ said the boy.
‘Shut it, son. And give me my money.’
‘Are you upset?
Bimbo ignored him and walked to the car. The drive home was made in uncomfortable silence. In Maple Road Bimbo climbed out and turned.
‘I don’t want to see you again, son. Or the slag. I don’t wanna hear from you. Or about ya. You understand? Now get lost.’
MacLeeland was sweating as he sat in the long private lounge behind the Royal Swan. He didn’t like Wednesdays much these days. Lately Reardon had taken to finding fault with every aspect of his methods.
‘I see there’s nothing from Williams,’ said Frank Reardon, scanning the books. Jackie Green loomed behind him, saying nothing, his cold blue eyes fixed on Mac’s red and blotchy face.
‘Williams is dead, Mr Reardon. Car accident,’ said Mac.
‘You seen the wife?’
‘Not worth it, Mr Reardon. She’s got nothin’. Council house and no savings.’
‘And you okayed the bloody loan?’ Reardon shook his head. ‘I really don’t know, Mac. Going soft, are you?’
‘Williams was a good man, always paid on the button, dead on ti
me.’
‘Well he’s dead on time now,’ said Jackie Green. Reardon laughed, but the humour faded from his expression as he returned to the books.
‘There’s three others here – all behind,’ said Reardon.
‘I sent Roache after one of them. He’s put the bloke in hospital. Damn near critical. No chance of cash now. We need good collectors, Mr Reardon – men like Bimbo.’ Mac’s heart was hammering now, and he struggled to look calm.
‘Speaking of which, I see he’s still walking around. I told you to get him seen to. Not trying to cross me, Mac, are you?’
‘Course not. It’s just …’
Reardon’s hand came up, and Mac stopped speaking immediately. ‘I don’t want to hear any more of that shit about how popular he is. Why is he still standing?’
‘Roache and Taggart are on it, but I had to pull Roache for the collection. They’ll see to it – if they can.’
‘What does that mean? If they can.’
‘You know what it means, Mr Reardon,’ said Mac, mopping his face with a damp handkerchief. ‘Bimbo’s special. He’s bloody ’andy and I’m not convinced Roache and Taggart are up to it. And anyway, what’s the bloody point? Christ, the man made a mistake. We all make mistakes.’
Reardon leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers behind his neck. ‘Remember at school, Mac, how if you did something wrong you got punished? And the army? Remember Germany, Mac, when they caught me stealing from the NAAFI? Fifty-six days in the glasshouse? That’s what we’re talking about, Mac. Crime and punishment.’
‘At least you did nick the stuff,’ said Mac, wearily. ‘Bimbo just helped out a mate. But that’s beside the point, really. I just wonder whether it’s going to be worth the hassle.’
‘What hassle?’ asked Green. ‘He’s a brainless bouncer. Who’s gonna fucking care?’
Mac looked up. ‘I know the man, Jackie. You don’t. Roache and Taggart are just thugs, and I don’t think they’ve got the bottle to take him. What happens when they fuck up? What happens when the next pair of bouncers fuck up? How are you going to look then, Mr Reardon?’
White Knight/Black Swan Page 10
