Acid Casuals

by Nicholas Blincoe

  When they arrived at the travel agents, Cozy barely spoke. She never stopped talking, hot and breathless but unsure what they were going to do next. They cased the shop, front door and back. They ended sheltering from the rain under a tree in the old churchyard on Cheapside, staring across at the pictures of Balearic Islands and Miami winters that filled the unlit window opposite. Before they made their move, she wanted to test Cozy’s knowledge of the shop, to make certain that it was enough to work on. While she questioned him, they shared a joint. She had bought it, ready-rolled, inside the Croner. The burning end fizzed like a sparkler as the cocaine sprinkled amongst the dope flared up.

  She forced her way inside the shop via a glass half-light over the back door. It was the only alarm-free window, so narrow and dangerous, it had been overlooked when the security was installed. Or so Cozy believed, and he had been right. Theresa stood on his shoulders to attack the wireglass with a chisel. Once the window was smashed, she had to chip out every tiny piece of protruding wire. Cozy trembled below her.

  Through the window, there was no way to go but down. She hung, almost all the way through, knowing that when she dropped hands-first to the floor, the first thing she would find were the fragments of splintered glass scattered below her. She pulled the sleeves of her jacket as far over her exposed hands as she could. She dropped. The pain was terrible, but it was in her shoulders and her arms and her back as she took the jolt of the fall. Only the tiniest of gouge marks bled from her palms.

  Cozy’s face was at the window. He was pointing towards the alarm box on the wall, where he said it would be. She took the flashlight he passed down to her and shone it on the box. He couldn’t remember the exact code, but had used it often enough to picture the sequence in his head. He chanted the instructions down to her, ‘Middle row, end button … top row, first button … same button again …’

  There were eight numbers. Cozy only paused once. She saw him up at the window, pushing imaginary buttons in the air before he said okay. She tapped the last two digits and the flashing light at the front of the box went out.

  Cozy used her chisel to break through the lock on his side of the door. Once inside, he took the flashlight to guide her through to the front of the shop where they both hoped the free-standing racks of brochures would hide the light from Cozy’s terminal. He fumbled on the floor to reach the plug socket and switch his computer on.

  Cozy worked nervously, efficiently; as though he were trying to channel his mind on to the roaming green pixel-figures and forget exactly what he was doing. She had tried watching him but found her eyes drawn deeper into her own reflection. She saw her reflection, again, in the washroom mirror when she began to wash her hands and pull out the stray bits of glass. Her pupils dilated, her swollen lips carrying a frosting of sweat; all of the signs. The way she had bullied Cozy, the hours of anticipation, the way she felt as she cut herself loose from her fear. All of it like continuous foreplay…

  She could imagine pulling him away from the keyboard. Bearing down on his mouth with her own open lips. She could imagine the indecency of being naked, there on the shop floor, as the different colours skidded across her white flesh, the lights of the computer, the amber of the street lights. She felt the blood swelling at her crotch, pumping out the folds until she couldn’t even think of closing her legs.

  And looking at Cozy, hearing the damp tap of his fingers on the keyboard, she had known absolutely that he wasn’t anyone that she could get it on with.

  He was still with her, here in the Passenger Club, although there was no call for him to be. Theresa bit down on a headache caused by too much excitement and only an uncertain end.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The black night rain had made Wythenshawe lonely and sick. Across the estate, the houses were shaken and thrown; they stood where they landed.

  The drunk couldn’t find the door catch. Amjad had to get out of his seat and help him. Pressed against the edge of the wind, he opened the rear doors and looked down at the sodden body. Amjad forced his voice, hoping to overcome the drift of the wind. The price of the ride was a fiver. The drunk pushed his hand flat into a tight hip pocket. The well-seasoned, screwed note he pulled out had an excremental sheen. Amjad took it and hauled the drunk out. He was glad to shut the door on the back of this damned pissed twat. People talked about dirty money, but what did they mean? The lifeless notes collected in the tills of the cornershops that sold cigarettes in singles and baked beans by the drip? The money taken in curry houses at the business end of the night, overprinted by skid marks after a circuit through the city? Let the Pakis face the embarrassment of paying these soiled tissues into the bank.

  When the BMW passed Amjad on the central lines, he didn’t decide to follow it. It was taking the road he would have chosen anyway. But when he saw it take a corner, Amjad sped up. He caught sight of it again on the far side of an Escort and allowed another two cars to slip between its tail lights and his Nissan. He could swear to it, this was the same car used in the attack on Jabhar’s restaurant. Never mind that he was losing work, Amjad was going to follow the motherfucker. If for no better reason, he might learn something about the monster who had destroyed his friend’s dreams. He should know what kind of people didn’t care if they started a war between the Blacks and the Pakistanis.

  In the language of the holy Koran, Jabhar meant Mighty. In plain English, Jabhar jabbered in shock when he saw the trashed remnants of his restaurant. He had refitted the place himself. Losing the flock wallpaper and the plaster reliefs of Mecca, Jabhar styled his restaurant as a cool blue diner where the light was sharp enough for anyone to see that the modern Moghul food was served on spotless tables. It had been beautiful.

  The wiper blades pushed sheets of rainwater across the edge of his bonnet. Beneath the car, the rubber on his retreads created smooth space wherever they failed to grip the road. The BMW was pushing the pace. Perhaps its anti-lock brakes could spin a little friction into the tarmac blacktop – if Amjad ever had to stop, he might slide for miles. On to Princess Park Way, the road lights gave an orange tint to the night but failed against the dense sheets of rain. Amjad had to jump a series of amber lights to keep parity with the BMW, which rode on a lucky green wave through four junctions. Amjad drew square at the fifth set of lights and in that pause, looked over. It was better to look directly. Wiser than being caught stealing a discreet glance.

  There was only one man in the BMW. He was, at most, thirty years old and had distinctive tramlines cut into his short hair. Amjad would never have known his name, if his little brother hadn’t pointed him out as the Tasmanian.

  Amjad put his eyes back on to the road. It was enough. Without better proof, he knew that he’d got the right man. The motherfucker lived in Wythenshaw but drove a BMW. One day he might be rich enough to afford a house as well as a car. Better, he might end up dead.

  The BMW took a right turn. Amjad followed him to the Passenger Club and, when he was sure that was the final stop, Amjad pulled over and turned off his lights. He wasn’t sure why he had decided to stay on the tail a little longer. Still, he turned off his radio. At the other end of the wireless link, his uncle would wonder why he had dropped out of the circuit. It would not matter, though.

  The No-Smoking sign that did not apply to Amjad was framed by beads. Some of those beads brought good luck – if Amjad knew which ones, he would throw the rest away. He opened a pack of Embassy Filters and lit up. Why would he need luck, if he was only going to sit and watch? All he had to decide was whether he wanted to listen to Bhangra or to a tape of Sufi chants. That did not call for luck.

  Over towards the Passenger Club, the Tasmanian got out of his BMW and pointed his key ring at his car.

  Amjad mouthed the electronic ‘beep’ that he could not actually hear. In the halogen spotlight above the club door, Amjad saw a flat, squat face and dead eyes. The tramlines in his hair ran all the way around his head, razored into a lightning flash above the nape of his neck. N
o question, it was the one his little brother had identified as an evil motherfucker. (‘Watch your fucking language,’ Amjad said when he slapped his brother down. ‘Don’t let your mum hear you talking that way.’)

  Although he was not going to do it, Amjad could walk over to the car and look around. He could open it up inside a few minutes. But he could only silence the alarm after he had broken into the car and he did not fancy doing that, not right outside the Passenger Club.

  The bouncers, dressed uniformly in black shellsuits, greeted the Tasmanian with hand-slaps. He Yo’ed them back. no smile. He lifted his arms to shoulder height and made a half-turn, forwards and back – but no one actually patted him down. He might be armed now. He might still have the machine guns in his car. Why not? The police had gun-carrying cars travelling endlessly around Manchester, circling the town as aimlessly as lost spirits until they were called to respond. Why wouldn’t a gangster do the same? Amjad pulled on his cigarette and sank a little lower in his seat. Driving a Nissan was like carrying a taxi sign on the top of your car, but these streets were worked by unlicensed cabs, driven by black lads who couldn’t afford wheels any other way.

  Many other people entered the Passenger Club, but at this time the flow was so unhurried that Amjad could look each one over individually and read whatever he could read in their faces. Many were similar to the BMW driver. Most were younger, both males and females but all of them black.

  He had been parked for over three-quarters of an hour when be recognised Michael Cross. Striding out from a gallery of concrete pillars under the Moss Side tower blocks, Michael Cross did not shorten his steps for the woman beside him. If he was deliberately forcing the pace, the woman showed no sign of trouble as she kept up with him – despite her heels. It was the same one, the half-caste woman from this afternoon. The one whose mother came from Surinam. What would they do together in the Club? Were they about to dance? Amjad had no idea of the connection between this partly foreign woman and Michael Cross.

  When they reached the door, Michael shook hands with the doormen – there was no slapping. When Michael lifted his arms for the security search, they shook their heads as if it was a joke. But one still crunched up the pockets of the jacket he was wearing. As one of the bouncers stood to the side to let Michael pass, Amjad saw him surreptitiously lift the back of Michael’s jacket. If he was expecting to find a handgun tucked into the waistband, he didn’t find one.

  *

  Estela caught the bouncer’s clandestine manoeuvre at Michael’s back. Did he want a quick sight of Michael’s still pert backside? She gave the bouncer a wink, embarrassing him. When it was her turn to be searched, what she did, apart from open her bag, was shrug out of her coat and twirl for the security team. Ain’t nothing under this tight dress that should not be there. One of them took her coat for a second and felt down to its pockets. She told them: ‘It doesn’t matter – it’s going in the checkroom anyway.’

  All the way down the dark corridor, Michael tried to behave like he didn’t know Estela. He was still mad at her. She could cope; she walked ahead of him, smiling freely at anyone who gasped or whistled as she swung past. After she’d checked her coat, she stood waiting for Michael to catch her up. Michael took his time, greeting everyone who greeted him and making it clear he wasn’t going to introduce Estela to anyone.

  When he reached her at the cloakroom, she tilted her elbow out for him to catch. He slapped it down, he wasn’t even going to touch her after what she’d done to him. She followed him through the pair of swing fire-doors and into the club.

  Ragga boomed out of a monster sound-system, the walls were sweating in time to the music. Down on the floor, the dancers leant back at impossible angles, thrusting out their hips, hard and low. Their crotches throbbing inside ultra-wide trousers or super-tight skirts. The dancers up-stage led the revolution, their dancing wilder, their clothes more improbable.

  She took a few steps, winked at Michael and asked if he wanted anything from the bar.

  ‘Not with you, I’m going club class – upstairs.’

  He moved off. She wondered how long he was going to be like this. She had told him, he was the one who first hooked her on martial arts: if he thought about it, it was almost a compliment that she had put him down on his ass.

  Like the corridor into the club, the stairs were lined with bodies. It seemed that if anyone wanted to just hang, they chose the main trade routes around the club. The way Michael moved up the stairs, sending out nods rather than full handshakes to anyone who called out to him, it was clear that there was a hierarchy to hanging. Estela frosted her smile. She barely turned her head as the yo-baby-baby brigade tried to distract her. At the head of the stairs, Michael never paused to see if she was still behind him.

  She walked into the glare of full light, a smoky bar with airport lounge furniture and pine panelling straight out of the 1970s. Every chair was already taken in the half of the room that Estela could see. Beyond a pine and glass screen, the more secluded half looked as though it might still have sitting room.

  Michael said, ‘I’ll get my own drink. If you’re sticking around, don’t let on that you’re a tranny.’

  ‘I’m not. But if you want to buy – get a gin and French for the lady, Michael.’

  The spread of ages in this upstairs bar surprised Estela. Mostly men, some of the older ones could have been sitting in a West Indian social club and not a ragga dance hall. She recognised quite a few, men who weren’t so grey the last time she had seen them. Some that she guessed wore grey dreads, underneath the crochet of their caps. The atmosphere was mellow, humming with good-natured laughter, fragrant with grass and rum. Michael returned from the bar with a pint of Guinness held between his finger and thumb, a shot of rum with the remaining fingers. He had nothing at all for her.

  When he sank the rum down, he made an mm-mm sound. Delicious. That would show her.

  She took short steps between the low-slung, crowded tables, keeping up with Michael as he moved on towards the next set of men he had to greet. A new warmth had soaked into his voice, that could not be pinned on the rum chaser. His handshakes grew longer as he worked his way through the tables. Estela draped a hand across his shoulder, looking round the table she said, ‘I’m Estela.’

  Everyone turned towards her with interest, and to Michael with approval. Only one of them asked: ‘I know you, girl?’ Estela told him that he didn’t and let him kiss her hand, thinking: you never did that before, Carlton Smith.

  She said, ‘Can I buy everyone drinks? If someone could help me carry them?’

  She got her volunteer. Michael was scowling but all she gave him was a sweet grin. Let him work out if there was a smug edge to it. She passed a fifty over to the man who’d stood to help her. ‘The atmosphere’s gone straight to my head. Would you mind getting them, honey?’

  Michael’s friends made room for her around the table. She squeezed in, rolling her eyes and fanning her face; Heavens, I’m such a cissy.

  Her eyes were already drifting to the darker half of the bar. She could see that’s where the gangstas held court. She was marking them, watching their moves. And she could see the Taz-Man, furthest back in the shadows. He half-turned to accept the hand of his lieutenant. She recognised the gesture – a Hollywood handshake customised for Manchester.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Theresa saw Estela first, squashed between ten other people, forced around a single table. They were almost on top of each other in the crowded room, on the overcrowded bench. They seemed to be joking as they passed around a cartoonish joint – the size of a dinghy.

  When Estela looked up, she saw Cozy first. She sent him a fresh, wide smile. When she saw Theresa her smile was different, softer and unlascivious.

  Estela took extra pains to introduce Theresa around the table but left Michael so far to the last that Michael had to introduce himself, moving in and slipping Theresa a hand that felt gentle, despite the darker callouses on the knuckles.


  All Theresa wanted was to manoeuvre Estela to one side, ask her, please if, she could follow her.

  In the Ladies, the girls crowded around the mirror but left the stalls free. Theresa pushed Estela through, letting the door swing to when they were both inside. Estela took the seat. Theresa leant against the partition.

  Estela said, ‘So you found out Burgess is a money launderer.’

  How had she known that? She said it was a guess; Theresa wondered how much more she already knew.

  ‘I know he employs morons, so they won’ notice how little business passes through the front of the shop.’

  ‘Cozy isn’t a moron. This evening, we went down to Burgess’s shop and he picked up these.’

  Theresa swung the rucksack on to Estela’s lap. Estela groaned as the sudden weight fell on her crotch.

  ‘Burgess’s accounts with three separate airlines. Cozy says that well over half of Burgess’s business is with these companies. And not one of them flies out of Britain.’

  Estela pulled open the drawstring on the rucksack and picked out a handful of counterfoils. The airlines were called InterAmericas, Caribair and Fly-East. Theresa asked her if she had heard of any of them. Estela sucked at her lower lip, uncommittedly.

  ‘Cozy said he looked these companies up in a business directory. They’re all registered in non-countries, offshore tax-havens and their sole agent in Britain is John Burgess, through offices in London, Nottingham and Manchester.’

  ‘Where are these flights going?’ asked Estela, rustling the wad of counterfoils.