by Ray Banks
Gav nodded. For all his work, this was an entitled man, and while that entitlement might have come with decades of hard work, Gav wondered how much work he was doing these days, the fat bastard. After all, this man was used to eating in restaurants. You could tell by the way he related to the waiter – never looked directly at him, but still very much the centre of attention – the way he flicked his napkin, and the way he used his cutlery. His tie was knotted in a heavy Oxford, symmetrical and square. He was also clearly the kind of man who had his hair cut regularly, whether he needed it or not, and even though that immaculate hair framed a face that was a blistered and bloodied, badly folded map of red wine dinners and brandy nightcaps. He also moved his left leg every now and then as if he were trying to shake some blood into it or the gout out of it. In short, he was a man used to talking about how hard he worked, but that was about it.
"... so what you've got to understand, Gavin, is that I'm not just going to throw this business away. I may be getting a bit older, but I'm not going to hand it off to someone who doesn't know what they're doing."
"That makes sense."
King waited for him to continue. He didn't.
Dryden prompted: "I was telling Bernard that you might be interested in taking over, Gavin."
"That's right." Gav chewed, swallowed. "But only if you're interested in selling. I wouldn't want to waste your time."
"I just told you I was retiring, didn't I?"
He hadn't. Or maybe he'd done it earlier. Gav didn't remember.
"Of course you did."
"So then, don't make me repeat myself." King sipped wine, appeared to address his glass rather than Gav. "Yes, I'm interested in selling. I'm very interested in selling." Another taste of the wine. He gave a little nod. "Mm. But don't confuse interested in selling with willing to sell at any price."
Gav smiled as politely as he could. For a man who liked to give it to you straight, King didn't half talk a lot of bollocks.
"Who did you deal with on Puma Cabs?"
"Neil Bigelow."
"One of the brothers?"
"That's right."
King's nose twitched. "I see. So you've been through the process before."
Dryden tutted genially. "Come on, Bernard. I don't think we're dealing with a neophyte here."
Gav didn't know what a neophyte was, but he raised one eyebrow as if to agree with Dryden.
King nodded at the table. "You're absolutely correct, Alan. I'm so used to dealing with ..." A wave of the hand. He leaned forward. "How about you make me an offer I can't refuse?"
Gav shook his head. "How about you make me an offer to take it off your hands?"
King spluttered a laugh. Dryden was quick to join in, even though he seemed confused.
The laughter subsided into a cigar-gravel chuckle. "That's bloody priceless. Good God, I'll tell you, if nothing else, you can make me laugh. All right, well, let's play it your way, shall we? I heard you were a man to be reckoned with, but I suppose I had to see it for myself."
"My reputation precedes me." Gav smiled. It was the kind of thing he'd always wanted to say. He punctuated the statement with a sip of red wine. He didn't much like the taste, but he wasn't going to order beer at a business lunch.
"It certainly does, Gavin. Well, let me have a look at my finances, and maybe my people can talk to your people."
And that was how they left it. They finished their lunch in peace – Dryden picked up the bill – and then Gav shook hands with Bernard King on the way out, promising to keep in touch.
That had been a week ago. Whoever King's people were, they were taking their sweet time about getting back to him. In the meantime, he was two drivers down, so Gav had taken to working fares himself to keep the place ticking over, as well as to keep his mind occupied with other things. But it was no good. This was a level of business that he wasn't familiar with, and he wondered if he should be doing something, perhaps arranging his finances, even though there'd been no mention of a figure.
He called Dryden's office. Reckoned he might be able to give an update. Dryden wasn't there. His secretary took Gav's number and promised that Dryden would call him back just as soon as he was free. He didn't. Two days later, Gav called again, and was handed the same shite.
Was the deal on or not? He knew he couldn't be pushy about it – and he definitely knew that bringing Phil Cruddas along for a snide visit was out of the question – but he still got the feeling that he'd been dragged out for show and dismissed without being told. After a week and a half, Gav seriously considered calling King direct, but it wasn't an idea that took root. He couldn't trust himself with King. Didn't want to appear desperate. Despite his bluster, King had the experience, and he'd nail Gav the moment he sensed weakness. He just had to be strong, wait it out. Patience was a prerequisite if you wanted to succeed in business.
Ultimately, what he had to do – and this was so fucking simple – was take a deep breath and wait. So he did. Parked out by the playground, leaning against the side of his cab, smoking a cigarette to calm his nerves. It was dark outside, getting colder. Felt like they hadn't had much of a summer.
It would be fine, he told himself. He hadn't done anything wrong. He just had to remember that he was the strong one here. It was easy to forget, tempting to fall into the behaviour patterns of those around him – all those grown men acting like children, and his children acting like toddlers. Nobody willing to take responsibility for themselves. At work, the drivers acted up because they didn't like him anymore. At home, the kids acted up because he wasn't there to smack them into shape.
But it would all be fine in the long run. He just had to stay strong and patient, keep things ticking over for the moment, wait out Bernard King and put the bid in when necessary. He had Alan Dryden on his side, he'd made a favourable impression on King. All this was just mind games, testing him to see how desperate he was to get out of Derwent Hall. Juvenile stuff, quite unnecessary if you were the kind of hard-nosed businessman that Bernard King liked to think he was.
And that was his weakness, wasn't it? He'd been in the game too long. Thought he could play with people, make them jump through a few hoops before he did anything serious. He was bored with business, turned petty and vain after all those years of sitting on his arse and thinking he was the big man.
What he didn't realise was that Gavin Scott had dealt with more dangerous men than Bernard King would ever know. And he'd come out of it without a scratch. That made him the better man. And the better man always came out on top.
38
"How are you feeling?"
Joe felt nothing, but told the old man he was fine. He just wanted to be left alone. The old man set down a cup of tea by the side of the settee – "It's there if you want it" – and left the room. Joe continued staring through the television.
When the doctors brought him back, Joe wanted to ask them why they'd bothered, but he didn't have the breath and he didn't stay conscious for long. He wavered for a few days after that and the way the old man told it, they were seriously worried about him making it to the end of the week. Later, once they'd taken Joe off the respirator and he was awake, the attending doctor – a young man with an easy, middle-class smile – stopped by to visit. "I had to come by and say hello. You're the first to die on me, you see."
Die?
Twice on the way to the hospital alone. When the medics clattered through the doors with him, Joe was breathing once every ten seconds. He died again when they were trying to save him. "Tell you, it was like you were doing it out of spite."
That sounded like him. Except he didn't die, because there was something in him that demanded a few more years. That was the way the doctor put it. "I just wanted you to know that no matter what your brain was saying, your body was saying different."
Well, his body was a bastard then, wasn't it?
The withdrawal peaked with three days and, a week after that, had disappeared altogether. But the withdrawal was never the problem;
it was the life that awaited him beyond the hospital walls. The porter whistled an accompaniment as he wheeled Joe to the front doors, the old man flanking him, telling him that everything was going to be okay, just you wait and see. That sometimes you needed to fall down before you could pick yourself up again. Joe wondered what kind of bollocks self-help book he'd been reading, but said nothing.
He stayed dumb for a few weeks after that, wrapped and insulated by the methadone and temazepam. He couldn't think for very long. He was tired and bored and vaguely angry. He didn't see the point in moving unless it was to go to the toilet. Beyond that, he was better off on the settee than he was anywhere else. The television provided little relief. Most of the programmes annoyed him. Everyone talked too loud about stuff that wasn't important. He watched the news on mute and stared at the images over Nicholas Witchell's shoulder. He didn't need to hear the words to know the whole world was going to shit. Every now and then, he heard voices in the kitchen. Michelle and the old man, talking about him, wondering what to do.
Joe knew. All they had to do was leave him the fuck alone. And it was the one thing they didn't do.
Michelle didn't bother him as much as he thought she would. If anything, she backed away, seemed frightened by his presence. She treated him as if he was unstable, liable to lash out at any moment, like she'd accidentally let a frothing stray dog into the front room. So she kept her distance, and Joe didn't make her feel worse by sharing a bed with her. Instead, he tried to kip on the settee most nights, even though the night hours were spent in largely the same way as those in the day – slumped in front of the television or else staring at a spot on the wall that looked a bit like Jimmy Tarbuck.
The old man was a different matter, though. He wouldn't leave Joe alone. The old man was a fund of well-meaning bollocks that did little more than show him up to be a weak-minded old fuck. He fussed like an old woman, making sure that Joe was fed and watered, kept in tea and didn't want for anything but a bit of peace and quiet. Joe endured his presence most of the time, but found it impossible when the old man sat down on the settee next to him and tried to talk. The old man picked up the remote control and killed the television. Joe stared at his reflection in the blank screen.
"How you getting on?"
It was a variation on a theme. Joe shrugged.
"You need anything?"
Joe shook his head. He reached for the remote. The old man took it away. Joe stared at the old man. Normally he'd take the hint and fuck off.
"We need to talk, son. About this."
Joe kept staring.
"Or if you're not comfortable talking to me about it, then we can have a look and see if there's someone else you can talk to. But you're going to need to talk to someone, do you understand me?"
"Why?" Joe's voice was cracked.
There was the scratch of a smile at the corner of the old man's mouth. "That's better."
"I've got nowt to say."
"That doesn't matter. You can't stay like this, can you? You're scaring Michelle. You're not interested in the bairn. You're just sitting here day after day. It's like you don't want to be here."
"I don't."
"Then where do you want to be?"
Joe didn't answer.
"They're not going to let you re-enlist." The old man looked at his hands. "I mean, I don't know if they’ve been on to you or anything—"
"No."
"But I was just thinking, if you were wanting to go back into the army—"
"I don't."
The old man nodded, obviously relieved. Didn't seem to realise that there was no army anymore.
"Then what do you want to do?"
"I want to watch telly." Joe held out a hand for the remote.
The old man shook his head. "You need help."
"Fuck do you know about it?"
"I know. I've seen it before."
Joe stared. Lowered his hand. Turned back to the television. He shouldn't have opened his mouth. Shouldn't have engaged. He was happy as he was, or as close to happy as he was ever likely to get these days.
"Your mam—"
"Don't."
Silence. The old man sighed.
"I just meant—"
"I'm not kidding. Nowt you can say that I want to hear on that subject. So you'd better leave it alone before I lose my fuckin' temper with you."
The old man stayed put. He looked as if he was trying to come up with another angle. Joe watched him, then snatched the remote from him and turned the television back on. The old man opened his mouth, then closed it. After a few minutes, Joe felt the settee next to him lift as the old man stood and left the room.
He wanted to talk about Mam, did he? Fucking cheek of it. They hadn't talked about Mam for years. There was no need to talk about her. Said everything they had to say at the time. Joe's feelings on the matter hadn't changed and from the sound of the old man his hadn't, either. So what was it going to be? The same old shite in a perpetual fucking loop, on and on. He didn't need it. He didn't need Michelle listening to it, either.
Joe watched something that looked Australian. Young people with bad haircuts who didn't so much walk as bound around the place. Joe rubbed his face and sniffed.
He wasn't like Mam. She had breast cancer. He must've been about twelve when she got the diagnosis. She dealt with it the same way she dealt with everything, with a smile on her face and a positive outlook. Then she started the chemo and the treatments and the hospital stays, and Joe watched her age twenty years in two. Soon her skin hung off her, her hair was thinning and loose, and she seemed to get sick every time he came into the room, like there was something he was doing wrong, or the smell of him nauseated her. She'd always look so apologetic about it, too. The old man told him that it wasn't personal; it was the disease. Joe realised then that the old man was full of shit.
After a while, Mam withdrew. She lay on the single bed they had downstairs and stared at the ceiling. The old man tried to distract her with books and magazines and knitting, but she wasn't interested in any of it. She said she was too tired to concentrate, but Joe knew different. She wasn't interested because she wanted it over with. Joe remembered her telling the old man that she wanted to move to a hospice. She didn't want to stay at home. The old man didn't understand, but Joe did – she didn't want to be looked at by them. She'd be all right in a hospice where everyone was a stranger. It would've been easier on her, but the old man refused. He never told her why, but Joe knew. He was embarrassed by her. She was so far from the woman she'd been a few years earlier. He didn't want people to see her. He took it as a personal affront when she asked to be moved, like he wasn't doing a good enough job of looking after her.
Mam drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. She got confused. She didn't recognise the old man sometimes. Once the chemo stopped, Joe was safe to come into the room without her spewing, but he might as well have been a stranger to her. In a weird way, she seemed to like him better because of that. Whenever Mam recognised the old man, she shouted at him to leave. She didn't want anything to do with him. Sometimes when Joe stayed up late with her, he thought he could hear the old man moving around upstairs. Once he thought he heard the old man crying. He didn't care. Mam didn't want him around; neither did he.
Just after three o’clock one morning, Mam complained that her feet were cold. Joe threw an extra blanket over them. The noise confused her, made her start. She shouted. The old man came down the stairs, but by the time he made into the front room, Mam had fallen unconscious. They both watched over her for the rest of the night and by the time the sun rose, she was gone. Neither knew when exactly she'd died – there hadn't been any last words, any final noise or twitch to signal that death had taken place – and neither the old man nor Joe said anything once it was confirmed. The old man went to the phone in the hall and called for an ambulance. Joe stayed with Mam and stared at her for as long as he could, trying to commit her face to memory.
She was gone now, memory and
all. All she was now was an argument waiting to happen, an emotional weak spot to be prodded by both men. The old man never forgave Joe for taking his place, for looking after her, for getting her to talk to him. Joe never forgave the old man for not letting her die where she wanted. There was no getting round it now, and the fact that the old man had brought Mam up just meant he was desperate to wound Joe in some way.
Joe tried to shake it off, but he couldn't. Before he knew it, he was crying, then sobbing. A rush of emotion, a dam cracked then smashed, and he curled on the settee. He didn't know how long he stayed like that. Or how long Michelle sat next to him, rubbing his back. All he knew was that he wanted to be somewhere far away from here and as dead as his mam.
39
Brian couldn't stop himself brooding, replaying the events of Danielle's birthday with obsessive rigour. He'd turned the situation in his head so many times, it had stopped making sense, like spelling the same word over and over again. Except he'd been trying to spell that word for months now.
There were things he understood, and others he couldn't.
Danielle had been hiding from him, of course. She'd been embarrassed, or still pissed off at him for embarrassing her at the MetroCentre. Poor kid had been kept from her friends, must have been feeling isolated from them living over in Low Fell; she didn't have much chance of seeing them outside of school, and the one chance she did get – a brief jaunt to the shopping centre to hang out and catch up – had been irrevocably marred by the presence of her scruffy old mall-cleaning dad. That made sense. If his teenage self had seen his dad doing a woman's work for a living, he would've been mortified. He probably wouldn't have hidden from him, but then Danielle had always been remarkably sensitive to how people saw her – probably something to do with being a girl, and being – let's fucking face it here – a superficial one at that. Not that there was anything inherently wrong with it – she was a teenager, after all, and what teenager wasn't superficial on a certain core level? They were all as bad as each other. Christ, if he stopped to remember how awkward and emotional he'd been when he was her age ...
