by Jeff Gulvin
He did not need trouble from Tottenham and he certainly did not need any from Irish Jimmy Carter. He placed his son on the floor and told his wife he was going out.
Eilish sat across the table from him, one leg swinging over the other and clicked her tongue. ‘This is going to cost you, baby.’
Stepper grinned his sloppy Eilish grin and inclined his head. ‘Special favour, honey. Special reward for special favours.’
‘Very bloody special.’
‘So you can do it?’
She threw back her head then and looked down the line of her nose. ‘I can do it. If I want to.’
‘And you want to?’
‘You make it worth my while and I want to.’
‘Then do it.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight. Carter’ll already be planning who’ll get Young Young’s head for their birthday’
James put the children to bed and read them a story. He could hear Eilish and Mary-Anne talking in the kitchen downstairs. Funny how Mary-Anne should show up again after all these years. When the children were tucked up he went down and found the two women smoking cigarettes in the kitchen. Mary-Anne smiled at him and bit her nail. Long black hair and pale skin like his sister’s.
‘You okay, Mary Anne?’
She nodded. ‘Doing well so I am.’
‘Where you living now?’
‘Fulham.’
‘Nice.’
‘Not bad.’
‘You working?’
‘Aye.’
‘Good job is it?’
‘Cleaner, Jamie.’
He grinned at her.
When she had gone he followed his sister upstairs and watched her get ready to go out.
‘Where you going tonight?’
‘Just out, James. I’ll not be late.’
‘Don’t bring the mean one back.’
She looked at him then, her chin high. ‘I’ll bring back who I want.’
James let breath go in a hiss. ‘Why d’you let them both into your bed?’
‘I like them both.’
‘Why black?’
‘What’s wrong with black? You’re not racist are you, Jamie?’
She fastened her dress and studied herself in the mirror.
‘What’s wrong with our people, Eilish?’
‘Like your Irish girlfriend you mean?’
He looked away. ‘Don’t.’
‘Then don’t me either.’
He sat on her bed and she slipped on black high-heeled shoes. ‘There was only ever one of our people,’ she said softly. ‘You know that, Jamie.’
He looked beyond her to the mirror and caught the light that flared in her eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know that.’
He left her then to finish her make-up and went downstairs to the lounge. There he stood in the silence and stared at the photograph of their mother. It had been taken years before, part of a family set when she was still young and their father was still one of them. He was long gone now and their mother was back across the border with her family. He wished they were back there. Things had been different then. If they had stayed then maybe things would still be different.
He had been seven when their father left. Eilish eleven and already headstrong and going her own way. She had kept going ever since, too much like her father so their mother told him. He was more like her, dark-haired and gentler than the fire that seemed to bleed from their father. Not once had he made contact. Australia or New Zealand or somewhere, no doubt remarried with other children to call his own. Their mother had struggled when he left but the neighbours were kindly and the priest was a good one and they managed. But when Eilish was nineteen their mother vacated the flat and headed south to be with her own sick mother. Tacitly Eilish took on the flat and James had had the choice to stay with her or go south with their mother. He had chosen to stay with his sister and he had been with her ever since.
Eight
EILISH TOOK A CAB TO Kilburn and left it outside Biddy Mulligans on the corner of Willesden Lane. From there she walked the short distance to the side road and Jimmy Carter’s snooker hall. Her heels sharp against rain-washed pavement, she came to the doors of the club, where the spiky-haired bouncer looked her up and down. His face was red and bloated like a bull frog, the collar of his trench coat turned up over a black bow tie.
‘Yeah?’
‘I want to see Jimmy.’
He leered at her. ‘Jimmy don’t want to see you.’
‘Yes he does.’ She stared at him, one leg protruding through the gap in her coat. ‘Tell him Eilish McCauley is here.’
‘You got an appointment?’
‘I don’t need an appointment.’
Jimmy was in his office behind the main hall. Eilish passed between the snooker tables and smelled fresh paint on the ceiling. He was working on his accounts, sitting at his desk behind the glass of the door, hair oiled flat, sleeves pushed up and a crystal tumbler at his elbow.
He did not look up when she went in, chunky fingers of his right hand punching the keys of a heavy, desktop calculator. Eilish stood before his desk watching the polished crown of his skull where it showed pink through the slicked rash of his hair. After a few moments he steepled his fingers and looked up at her out of piggy eyes that coiled into the flesh of his face.
‘Eilish McCauley,’ he said quietly. ‘For a good Catholic girl you hang out with the wrong kind of people.’
They stared at one another for a long moment then Eilish glanced at the vacant chair on her side of the desk. Jimmy nodded and she sat down.
‘You know why I’m here, Jimmy.’
‘Do I now?’
‘I think so. Young Young. He was acting on his own. It had nothing to do with Stepper-Nap.’
He sat back then and looked at her, a crooked smile on his face. ‘Is that a fact?’
‘You know it is, Jimmy. Stepper wouldn’t fuck up like that.’
‘Wouldn’t he? I never know with blacks. How come you keep such company, Eilish?’
She did not reply, crossed her legs and placed both hands on one exposed knee. Carter watched her, his eyes flicking a line between her legs and her face. He touched his lips with his tongue.
‘Stepper doesn’t want trouble with you, Jimmy. It’s the last thing he wants what with the deal and everything.’
‘Deal is it? That’s what you’re calling it now’ He shook his head, sitting back with the weight of his belly pressing against the strained buttons of his shirt. Suddenly he sat forward and jabbed his index finger at her. ‘Your man ought to keep his mutt on a leash.’
She nodded. ‘I know it. He knows it too.’ She paused then. ‘He didn’t know it was going down, Jimmy. If he had known Holden Biggs was here he’d have sent someone.’
‘To stop Young Young?’ Carter shook his head again. ‘Only one way to stop him.’ He squinted at her then. ‘Does Stepper know you’re screwing him, Eilish?’
Eilish looked away from him and he laughed. ‘Course he doesn’t. Seems like everyone else does though eh. That’s the way of it isn’t it. Always the last one to know.’ He sat back again and rubbed his stomach with his fingers. ‘Young Young’s got an attitude, girl. Thinks he’s tougher than he is.’
Eilish moved in her seat, the air brackish between them. She could smell his sweat, the whiskey, the taint of cigar smoke on his breath. He looked between her legs.
‘Stepper doesn’t want trouble,’ she said again. ‘He wants to make things right.’
His face clouded then and he stared at her. ‘Listen, lady. That black bastard walked into my club with a gun. He wasted a head then shot holes in my ceiling. You think I’m just going to sit here and take it?’ He laughed again only there was no hint of merriment in his voice. ‘You walk in here with your skirt split to the hip and tell me that your crack man wants no trouble. You talk about deals, Eilish.’ He pinched his lips together then, nostrils flaring. ‘Maybe there aren’t any deals. I could give him plenty of trouble if I
want to.’
‘He knows it, Jimmy. Why d’you think I’m sat here?’
Again he sat back and again his eyes wandered her flesh through her clothes. ‘And what exactly have you got to offer me? What can you do for me that’ll stop me cutting Young Young off at the neck?’
She could feel him undressing her and she moved in the chair, perspiration sticking to the seat of her dress.
‘Stepper wants the deal to go through, Jimmy.’
‘You’re not answering my question, girl. What’ve you got that I want?’
And then she steeled herself, hated herself for it, thought momentarily of Tommy and his wild green eyes and slowly hitched up her dress.
She watched his mouth open a fraction, felt the sudden heat of his breath as his eyes moved to her breasts, swollen now against her dress and then to her belly and her thighs as the dress crept further up them. She wasn’t wearing any knickers and a few seconds later he knew it. She opened her own mouth, letting breath trapped in her throat exhale in a hiss. Carter’s eyes stalked and he shifted in his seat. He looked her in the eyes then.
‘Think that’ll do it do ye?’
Eilish stared back at him. ‘I think so, Jimmy. Don’t you?’
Afterwards he re-fastened his trousers and Eilish smoothed away the creases in her dress. She did not feel as dirty as she thought she would, but Stepper owed her big time. Carter was quiet, chastened almost; as if the Catholicism of his past had finally caught up with him there in that office in Kilburn. He lit two cigarettes, passed one to her and poured fresh whiskey into glasses.
He sat back in his chair and rubbed a finger under his nose. ‘What else do I get?’
‘If you smooth the way for me, Jimmy, you get a cut.’
‘I want half.’
She shook her head slowly. ‘You won’t get half.’
‘You’re in no position to bargain.’
‘Come on, Jimmy. Stepper won’t give up half.’
He looked at her and smiled.
‘I want to meet with Cahal,’ she said quietly.
He swallowed whiskey and wiped his mouth. ‘A lot of people worry about Cahal, Eilish. Not as reliable as he was.’
‘Is that right?’
He nodded. ‘How long since you’ve been home?’
‘Awhile.’
‘You’re out of touch.’
‘Am I?’ She sat forward then and placed her glass on the desk. ‘Look, Jimmy. Stepper doesn’t want a war but he will fight you. He’ll lose but he will fight. You might lose some. This way you lose nothing and you get a slice of anything that goes on.’
‘Diplomat now are you.’
‘Five grand, Jimmy. Five grand to make a phonecall.’
‘Two phonecalls,’ he said. ‘Ten grand.’
‘I’ll have to talk to Stepper.’
‘No you won’t — you’ll tell him.’
She shook her head. ‘Come on, Jimmy. Five off the top and their cut? No point in doing business at all.’
‘You let me worry about their cut, Eilish.’
‘And Young Young?’
He looked at her then, brows drawn into lines in the thick skin of his face. ‘He’ll take a beating. I can’t let it go. What would people think?’
‘How bad a beating?’
‘It’ll still work, darling.’
She stood up then. ‘So I can tell Stepper.’
‘You can tell him.’
She turned to go.
‘Eilish.’
She looked back again.
‘I’ve got AIDS.’
‘Fuck you, Jimmy’
Webb and Swann from the Anti-Terrorist Branch drove up the Al to Yorkshire in Webb’s Cavalier. His bomb gear was stowed in two bags, one in the boot with his ballistic helmet and body armour, the other on the back seat. The detachable blue light filled the doorwell in front of Swann’s feet.
‘So tell me about Conchita, Webby.’
‘Conchita?’
Swann grinned at him. ‘The Spanish bird.’
Webb chuckled then, remembering crimson nipples in darkened flesh. He shifted his weight in the seat and grinned at him. ‘Where d’you think I was when the Guv’nor bleeped me.’
‘You old bastard.’ Swann looked through the windscreen and shook his head. ‘I’m much better-looking than you.’
‘Yep.’ Webb overtook a lorry in the outside lane.
‘So how d’you do it?’
‘Some of us’ve got it, Jack.’
‘But not you.’
Webb tapped his skull at the temple. ‘Baby blues, buddy. Paul Newman eyes. Gets them every time.’
Swann squinted at him then and was caught by the look he got out of piercing blue eyes. ‘Bollocks,’ was all he could think of to say.
Swann was attached to 4 Investigation Squad, George Webb, an Exhibits Officer, the second call out man for any bomb blast in London and first for anywhere outside London. Crime Scene Manager. Both of them had worked on the Heathrow Airport attacks. They had been looking for mortars on the ground with only minutes to go before the airport was due to re-open. Swann standing there asking Webb what they looked like with one upended in the turf all but between his legs. Webb had never let him forget it. Between them they had rigged up the Canary Wharf road sign on the wall of the Exhibits office after the ceasefire officially ended in February.
Webb drove quickly, Swann scouring the map. ‘Pickhill,’ he said. ‘I think it’s the Thirsk turn off.’ He glanced at Webb. ‘What else did Westbrook tell you?’
Webb made a face. Only what RUC told him. Ex B Squad man from the eighties. Got blown up pretty badly. Reckons someone is taking a look at him.’
‘The woman in the park with no kids.’
Webb nodded. ‘Three separate occasions.’
Swann lifted an eyebrow. ‘Why would PIRA take a gander at an ex RUC who they’d blown up already?’
‘The Paddy factor, Jack. Why do they do anything?’
They left the Al and made their way to the tiny village of Pickhill. On the right they passed The Nags Head pub and Webb looked wistfully through the window.
‘Theakston’s,’ he muttered to himself.
‘I thought you only drank Spanish beer.’
‘Mate, I’ll drink anything.’
They found the house that fronted the park at the far end of the village and Swann turned his collar against the wind that lifted from the east. ‘Always was cold up here,’ he said.
‘Remember that hide we found?’
Webb nodded and locked the car door.
The house was a bungalow with unusually low windows. There was no doorstep, just a ramp. Webb pressed the doorbell. ‘We should’ve brought him a bottle or something.’ Through the glass they saw a wheelchair approach the door and then it was opened and half a man with thin black hair looked up at them, trousers dangling empty where his legs should have been.
‘Tim Phelan?’ Webb said.
The man nodded. Webb flipped open his warrant card. ‘DS Webb. DS Swann,’ he said. ‘SO13.’
Phelan smiled then, his whole face lighting up. ‘Come in, lads. Come in.’
He laid his only hand on the operating knob of his chair and made a one hundred and eighty degree turn. Webb and Swann followed him into the hall. They closed the door and went through to the lounge. Swann went to the huge flat window and glanced out. He could see a children’s park with swings. The park was empty. Phelan parked his chair in front of the silent TV screen and looked at them both. ‘Good of you to come, lads. Cup of tea is it?’
Webb nodded. ‘Tea’d be good, Tim. Yeah.’
Phelan made tea and wheeled it in on a tray balanced on what remained of his knees. Swann took the tray from him and set it on the coffee table.
‘So what’s happening, fellas?’ Phelan said. ‘You got anyone for the Docklands yet?’
Webb grinned at him. ‘Miss it do you?’
‘Course I miss it. My life for twenty years.’
Webb nodd
ed. ‘We’re looking at nominals, Tim. You know the form.’
Phelan shifted himself in the chair. ‘Knew it couldn’t last,’ he said. ‘The ceasefire.’
Webb looked at Swann. ‘We’ve never stopped working, Tim. Since ’94 we’ve been busier than ever.’ Webb passed him a mug of tea. ‘What’s the story here? Word from your mates back home is that someone’s taking a look at you.’
Phelan’s face darkened. ‘Sounds stupid doesn’t it. I mean what would anybody be wanting with me when they’ve more than got me already.’
Webb glanced at his shattered body. ‘Shit happens, Tim.’
‘You’re right. It does.’ He looked down at himself then smiled. ‘I knew the risks when I joined the reserve.’
Swann stirred sugar into his tea. ‘Tell us about this bird in the park.’
Phelan told them all he could then, the fact that he had seen her three times, sitting on the swings apparently watching his house. As far as he could tell she was a stranger in the village and she had no children with her. He shook his head. ‘Probably nothing, lads. But when you’ve been in the job twenty years you get to know the feeling.’
Swann’s face was serious. ‘What did she look like?’
‘Not very tall. Dark hair, quite long. I couldn’t see much of her face.’ He shrugged. ‘It was on those swings out there. Must be all of fifty yards.’
Webb took his tea to the window and looked the length and breadth of the park. It was empty, the swings rattling on their chains in the gathering pace of the wind. ‘You saw her three times you say?’ He looked back at Phelan then, who nodded. ‘Different days?’
