Theresa wiggled her mouth side-to-side, trying to feel for any damage to her nose. Perhaps it wasn’t broken;
Burgess’s fist had landed partially on the bridge, but he had really punched between her eyes. That was where the full force had hit her, that was why she had a headache. She stood up and walked over to the cupboard.
The television stood on the desk, a cupboard to the side. On the TV screen, Estela’s face was paused, staring up towards her – the mouth slightly open, the head tilted backwards. Theresa had nowhere to go.
She couldn’t run, not while the stairs were blocked. She could only hide. She looked from the cupboard to the desk. Hiding under the desk seemed pathetic, it wasn’t as if she would be out-of-view. But the cupboard looked too small. She pulled at the cupboard handles and swung the double doors open. The cupboard was lined from top to bottom with shelves, leaving no more room.
Outside, the footsteps grew louder as they climbed towards her. She thought, oh hell, and scooted under the desk. If the doors to the cupboard remained open, she was almost out-of-sight. She brought her knees up to her chin, making herself as compact as she could.
Several sets of legs, cut off at the knees, came into the room – four pairs. Theresa recognised Burgess by his brown elasticated boots. The black Doctor Martens beside him stuck out beneath blue trouser legs. Theresa knew that if she traced those legs up through the cruddy suit they must belong to, they would end with a policeman’s head. If the brogues belonged to a second, possibly younger, cop then the white hi-top trainers must be Bernard’s. Theresa hadn’t noticed them before. He must think he looked totally sharp in his Nikes.
The Doctor Marten-man was speaking as the crowd of legs moved through to the room: ‘So why didn’t you turn the tapes over to the police?’
Burgess now: ‘We were conducting an internal investigation.’
‘Oh yeah? On a murder? Does that come under staff problems, or what? The takings on the bar are down, the toilets are clogged and there’s a dead body in the DJ box. This isn’t Cluedo, Mr Burgess.’
‘The tapes are here, Mr Green. No one was keeping them from you.’
‘So I see. And look who you’ve got there. A good picture, too. Mr Paul Sorel; hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘Paul Sorel?’ Burgess’s voice had gone up at least two octaves.
‘It can’t be just hormone tablets, can it? I’d say there’s been some kind of plastic surgery done on the cheekbones, as well. And what do they call that stuff they inject into your lips to puff them about a bit? I know it’s what that Madonna did to hers: cauli-gen. Looks like someone’s given you a smack in the gob. Do you reckon he had that done as well? I know Sorel’s been touched by the tar-brush but I would have said his lips used to be on the thin side. Those lips look ready for anything, eh? And that’s a mouth made for big things.’
The Doctor Martens were right by Theresa now. This Mr Green seemed to be pointing straight to the television screen. She could hear a tap-tap-tap, as though he were indicating different features with a baton. Burgess was right behind him.
‘Paul Sorel?’
Bernard’s hi-tops were there, too: ‘Sorel?’
‘What a beauty,’ said DI Green. ‘I wonder what he’s doing back here, after all these years?’
Neither Bernard or Burgess said anything this time. Their feet remained rooted to the left and right side of DI Green’s Doctor Martens.
‘Don’t crowd me, boys, don’t crowd me.’ Bernard and Burgess moved backwards. ‘Are those the rest of the tapes, on top of the telly? Right. Take those, Sergeant.’
The brogues moved forward, the hi-tops and the elasticated boots stepped out of the way. Theresa followed Burgess’s boots around to her left, where they stopped. Something made her look up, following on from Burgess’s boots until she reached his face. Burgess stared down at her, one eyebrow very slightly raised. Theresa looked back at him, sullen and over-stretched with fear. When DI Green next spoke, Burgess looked away without saying a word about Theresa.
‘You want me down at the station?’ asked Burgess. ‘Why? You’ve got the tapes.’
‘Yeah, I’ve got the tapes now. But there’s a lot more you can help me with. Now that your old partner Paul Sorel’s back on the scene, there’s about a million questions that spring to mind.’
‘Partner?’
‘He kept the accounts, didn’t he? Back in the days when you were speed-king of Manchester.’
‘Fuck all that, I’m not answering questions on a case your lot fucked up twelve years ago.’
‘Not quite that long. And now that Sorel’s back, I’d say the whole case has been reopened.’
‘You don’t think I knew that was Paul? How am I supposed to recognise him when he’s dressed like that?’
‘Why not? He always had transvestite tendencies. Only now he’s on hormone tablets, he’s had his tits done. I don’t know if he’s gone for the final chop or not. Maybe that’s another question I should ask you?’
‘I’m telling you, I didn’t know it was Paul Sorel.’
‘Then why did you hold back the tapes – and why did you have this one paused, freeze-framed on his face?’
‘Me and Bernie were looking at her – him. He was the one that was taken to the station with Junk, after John Caxton’s body was found. I was interested. I mean, why shouldn’t I be looking?’
‘As part of your internal investigation?’
Burgess didn’t answer.
‘Well, you can explain all that down at the station.’
‘And how do you want me there?’ asked Burgess.
‘In a squad car, I suppose. It’s not as though we don’t have the wheels – we aren’t going to make you catch a bus.’
‘I mean, am I helping with inquiries or am I under arrest?’
‘Does it matter? These kind of distinctions are more bureaucratic than concrete. If I want you down the station, you’re coming.’
‘Then, excuse me while I phone my lawyer.’
‘You’re not getting nervous, are you?’ asked DI Green.
‘I’d say wary. If you want to conjure up some kind of tie between me and Sorel, now that he’s turned up as a Colombian transvestite, then I want a lawyer on hand to remind you of my rights.’
‘Colombian? He had a Brazilian passport when I spoke to him. Why do you say he’s Colombian?’
There was a pause: ‘I heard Colombian,’ said Burgess. ‘But Latin American, anyway.’
‘It’s funny you should say Colombian, though. I mean, Colombia being the place the schizo powder comes from.’
‘If you’re going to keep up with this shit, I’d better get that fucking lawyer down here now.’
‘Don’t worry. At the station will do, we’re ready for off anyway.’
DI Green finished by turning towards the door. Waiting, while his sergeant ushered Burgess and Bernard ahead of him, and then following through. Theresa lifted her head above the desk and watched him disappear down the corridor. Then all that was left were footsteps on the stairs.
Chapter Eighteen
‘The taxi driver knew how to find you.’
‘Yeah?’ Michael rotated the joint so it burnt evenly, letting the smoke play around his lips, alternately folding and unfolding the blueish wisps with his pouting lower lip. The ash lay piled on a plate on his knee, among the remains of his goat curry. He didn’t seem to have registered anything she’d said; the implied question, why are you so close to the Pakis?
He took another drag on his joint and held the smoke in his lungs. When he spoke his words were flattened, without the breath to round them out. ‘What’s this cabbie call himself?’
So, he had been listening. Estela tried to recall the man’s name. ‘Anjit?’
‘Yeah, sweet.’ Michael let the smoke flow across his lower lip, vacuuming it back like a waterfall trick-filmed in reverse. ‘Amjad, yeah. He’s all right. I met him through one of his cousins.’
Michael had style, but it was p
ure street style. Estela could not tell if he was reformed. He had never stopped dealing. He still had a pusher’s insouciant front, with dark hints of reverse-side violence. She needed to know how Michael fitted into her astral scheme, the salad that fate had tossed together for her return to Manchester. Nothing was ever clear or straight when it came to destiny; fate could never keep a clean house.
Estela wondered how this would play: ‘You are pushing heroin?’
‘No fucking way.’
Why should she believe him? ‘But the Pakistanis are still bringing it into Manchester. I know it’s true. Why else would a couple of brothers machine gun that curry house? You can read all about it in the Evening News.’
‘I don’t read the paper, but I know Jabhar’s place was hit. Yeah, some Pakis are bringing in heroin. Instead of the mafia or the triads or shit, Manchester’s got its own independent trade routes. The golden triangle: Manchester, Bradford, Karachi. Pakis smuggle it over, niggers sell it. Whitey buy it. Sweet – but I’ve got nothing to do with it, and neither’s Amjad.’
‘How do you know Amjad’s cousin, then?’
Michael’s smile returned. She would not believe this. ‘He’s a top clothes designer – I’m going to be his super model.’ Michael spun out the last words with a cute babyish stress that made it sound like ‘Mo-khul’.
She arched a plucked eyebrow. ‘Yeah? A catwalk queen?’
‘You don’t catch me mincing. I walk out like a man, maybe swing my butt a little for the ladies.’
Michael snuffed his joint at the roach and flourished a new skin from his Rizla pack, rolling the new joint as he spoke. ‘You should see me on the catwalk, super-fucking-fit. Amjad’s cousin is down with the seventies style: tight tanktops, Oxford bags and leather ankle coats. Also some terrace gear but that’s more eighties. Old skool style, burgundy jumbo cords and crew necks. I’m a natural for it all.’
‘So you started trading on your hooligan past?’
Michael shook his head. ‘I was no hooligan, or not to everyone. You remember what it was like back then. It wasn’t only the boneheads who sang ‘Hey ho the lights are flashing, we’re going Paki-bashing.’ You could hear kids too young to even understand it, singing it in the playgrounds. We stopped that, we almost stopped it on the terraces. Why shouldn’t he ask me to model the stuff – I’m proud of those days.’
Estela said, ‘You built unity. And now brothers are shooting at Pakis with machine guns.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Michael trailed off to end with a shrug. He licked down the last insecure edge of a newly rolled spliff and lit up.
‘You know who attacked the restaurant?’
Michael nodded, sure.
Estela waited, but he was not saying. ‘Why ask me? Go ask your friend Junk – he gets his gear from those guys.’
‘Junk’s using smack?’
‘Not smack. They don’t just deal in heroin. Not enough profit, now heroin is strictly a minority taste. Mostly they’re pushing coke, or crack. Junk gets his before it’s gone in the microwave.’
Estela had not wanted to believe Junk could turn to heroin; that his moods were so dangerous they needed that kind of tranquillisation. But she knew why he bought coke. ‘Junk’s clean. He buys the coke for Burgess. He either runs errands for the boss or he waves goodbye to his job.’
‘It’s for Burgess? I didn’t know that, I thought the bastard had gone straight.’
‘He’s given up manufacturing, I doubt that he’s straight. I know he’s got himself a coke problem he prefers to keep quiet.’
‘If it’s not a business to Burgess, it is to Junk. He isn’t buying the coke, he’s trading it for speed. Eighty per cent pure amphetamine sulphate. The same mix we used to push.’
Eighty per cent pure, that was too close to the old recipe and despite his appetite for the stuff, Junk had never learnt to manufacture it.
‘How can Junk have got access to such high-quality gear?’
Michael had his suspicions. ‘It’s almost like he’s still sitting on the last consignment, the stuff the police never found.’
Estela remembered a chest freezer stored in a rundown factory on the outskirts of Rochdale. She remembered the look on Junk’s face when he opened the lid and saw the bluey-white sulphate packed almost to the rim. She’d had to hold on to him, otherwise he would certainly have dived forward. His mouth was already open, gulping for a taste. Junk was quite mad by then; explicitly, officially insane. The night they were arrested, she’d been put in the holding cell next to his. All night, she listened as he threw himself against the walls. For eight hours, he had raged solidly, thumping against the tiles.
Estela had been on her way to meet Burgess when the police picked her up. The van overtook her on Corporation Street. She had no hope of running, tottering along on stiletto heels in a red kimono and a Debbie Harry wig. When they hauled her to the station, Junk was already there. She wasn’t told. She could hear him, screaming at the end of a cold corridor.
She was made to stand at a desk and watch as the duty sergeant catalogued her belongings; all her bits and pieces, the shoes and the wig, the stockings that could be used in a suicide attempt and so couldn’t be allowed to remain on. Finally, the sergeant came to Burgess’s money: three thousand twenty-pound notes, packed like four slightly ruffled Jackie Collins paperbacks at the bottom of her bag. He counted each note, painfully precise as Junk roared and gibbered in the background. Estela tried to tell him ‘The man needs a doctor.’ The sergeant just leered at her. The same sergeant that almost twisted her balls off during a body search. He said he had to check everything, just for the record. Her testicles remained swollen during the whole of her first week in Risley remand centre.
The money was the only evidence the police ever found; the drugs were gone. It was certain Burgess never once suspected Junk of stealing them. Junk may have been mad enough to try, but was much too mad to succeed. He would have died in the attempt; they would have found him where he landed, headlong in the freezer, legs rigid in the air and his head encased, dead by misadventure. It was inconceivable that a long-time speedhead like Junk could be peddling it, years later, a few ounces every week. If Burgess had the vaguest hint, he would bury Junk himself. He would stuff every orifice with sulphate and leave Junk to explode.
Michael put down his joint and took a square look at her eyes. He said, ‘You’ve come back for Burgess, haven’t you? That’s why you want a gun.’
Junk had thought the very same thing. But it wasn’t true. She had no idea who she was going to kill when she arrived in Manchester. Estela sifted her few words carefully. ‘It wasn’t my intention. It just appears that killing him has got tied in with my destiny.’
‘Yeah, right.’ There was a sarcastic underbite. ‘It’s not like I want to stand in the way of destiny.’
Michael stood and turned to her; the bite had gone. ‘I say the bastard deserves to die for what he did to you. I’ve got a gun. If you take it – you can follow whatever star you like.’
Estela nodded her thanks. Michael left the room and she reached inside her bag for her compact, intending to spend some quality time with her cosmetics, maybe remind herself how much someone could change in twelve years. Instead, her hand closed around the plastic tampon case. The bullets were still inside. Why ever she had kept them, she did not know. They could only tie her in with a lost Beretta, tagged as evidence and sitting on a shelf in the basement of some police station.
She dug deeper and found the compact. Flipping open the lid, her face shone out of the convex mirror – oh baby, baby, baby. There was a woman. She stroked her lips with a brush dipped in mocha rouge and trimmed the edges with a soft chocolate pencil.
She was not designed for prison. Her friends, her contacts, her reputation, they had all protected her during the short prison days. Nothing could protect her at night when she lay awake, freezing under a single blanket as the wind sliced through the glassless window, heaving on the smells of shit and piss that stuck t
o Risley, shrinking into a narrow slit of depression. Wearing Y-fronts that fifty men had worn before her.
Michael and Junk both expected her to kill Burgess, but neither of them knew for sure what happened that last night, the very last time she and Burgess met. And the indirect ironic cold fact was that Burgess had kept her alive. She had been able to bear her time on remand only because she knew Burgess would have to get her out.
*
On the journey back to Risley, after her second preliminary appearance at court, the prison van was caught in traffic. Estela sat slumped inside, back to the tin wall, cuffed hands squeezed between her thighs so she didn’t have to see the bracelets or the chain. Her head down so she wouldn’t have to look at the prison officer facing her. When the van lurched into the air she was thrown forward. Even then, although she couldn’t know for sure that this was her moment, her great escape, she butted the officer cold.
She must have been three feet above the Salford pavement when the back doors popped their hinges and the van crashed to earth. Michael Cross was waiting for her. He wore a stocking over his head but was grinning beneath it. She was in tears.
It had been Michael’s idea to sandwich the van between two breaker trucks and use their tow cranes to rip it apart. His boys threw one chain through the van’s windscreen; they attached the other to the back doors. When the trucks drove in opposite directions, the van swung wildly in the air until its back doors gave way.
Estela felt like Cool Hand Lucretia, stepping into her rescuer’s arms wearing prison uniform, brown denim jacket and jeans. Michael had a three-litre Capri waiting (the most stupid touch, too flash and too frequently stolen to blend into the early evening traffic). He hid her until it was safe for her to meet Burgess. She found him in his new club, a cramped shebeen the police had not yet discovered.
*
She was still working on her lips when Michael came back in the room. He caught her puckering out of a tingling, squealing, long lipstick suck that gave the rouge a pre-worn veneer.
Acid Casuals Page 12
