by Ray Banks
"I'm a liability, am I?"
Gav shot Brian a weary look, as if he'd expected more sense from him, and how Brian would never understand the hardships someone in Gav's position had to endure on a daily basis. "You're not a liability, Brian, you're just not a hundred per cent legit, along with about a million other things round here. I just need to make sure all my drivers are licensed, all the cars have their MOTs up to date, fuckin' building insurance is all paid. Pain in the arse stuff like that. So don't worry, it's not you. Nothing bad's going to happen."
Brian squinted. "But you're saying I can't work, right?"
Gav nodded. "I'm saying you need to not come into work for a little while until I can get you licensed. I'll handle it for you. I've got friends at the Council, so it shouldn't be a problem."
"I need to work, Gav."
"I know you do. We all do."
"How long's it going to take?"
"Not long."
"How long?"
Gav was exasperated. "I don't know. A couple of weeks. Just ... leave it with us, will you? Have a holiday or something. Enjoy yourself."
"What about tonight? I'm supposed to be on shift."
"Go home. Get pissed. Watch telly."
"I need money."
Gav paused, looked like he was struggling to keep his patience. Then he opened his desk drawer and rifled through the staplers and pads and pens for a while before he withdrew a fistful of twenties. He held the money out to Brian. "Go on. I'll talk to you soon, all right?"
Brian grabbed the money and shoved it into his pocket. "I know him. He's going to wreck this place. He's going to wreck you, too. He doesn't care."
Gav gestured towards the door. The look on his face told Brian all he needed to know. This wasn't a suspension, it was a sacking. The money swelling his back pocket was a pay-off. Because there was a new boss in charge of Puma Cabs, and neither Brian nor Gav could do a damn thing about it.
WINTER, 1987
49
Michael Fish came on the telly, said that he'd heard there was some woman worried about high winds, and that really there was nothing to worry about, and three hours later a hurricane hit the south. Joe watched the footage on the news – slates whipped from their roofs, fences slapped down, everyone frightened and angry and panicking – and reckoned it served them all right for voting blue. This was what happened when you decided you were all right on your own. You were tested.
The old man agreed. As it turned out, now that they were talking, Joe had found that they agreed on quite a bit these days. It was Michelle who'd asked him to have a word – it was uncomfortable in the small house when two out of four of its inhabitants weren't speaking – and Joe had broken the seal as favour to her. The old man was easy to talk to, as long as the topic of conversation wasn't too deep. The old man could make small talk with the best of them and once Joe managed to switch off his irritation and let himself go, the low drone of meaningless family conversation became a soothing white noise. The only trouble was that the old man wouldn't be content with banality. He had things on his mind. He was getting older. He was thinking about things. And now Joe had opened the door, the old man was going to make the most of it.
He'd been circling for a few days, apparently unsure how to broach a bigger subject than whatever was on the telly or the dinner table that night. When he finally made his move, it was midnight on a Sunday night in the middle of October. Cold outside, those southern winds barrelling north. Michelle was in bed. The bairn was asleep. Joe sat at the kitchen table, smoking a tab, a glass of milk near his hand and the Chronicle spread in front of him. The milk was a booze substitute, and it was less the effect than the consistency – Joe liked to have something to drink, and water didn't quite cut it. He'd stripped the booze from the house in the wake of his arrival back. He didn't want drink available to him, was afraid that would be the next crutch. He'd expected resistance from the old man, who liked to have a few cans in just in case, but he'd agreed immediately. It was all for the greater good, wasn't it?
Joe heard the old man before he saw him – the slow thump of the foot, the clunk of the stick as he approached. The door squeaked as he pushed it open. He feigned surprise at seeing Joe up and about, and nodded a greeting as he shuffled over to the kettle. "You want a brew?"
Joe looked at his milk. "Yeah, okay."
"Milk and one?"
"Two."
The old man put the kettle on. "Sweet tooth."
"Aye."
The kettle fizzed. The old man took down a couple of mugs and shuffled over to the cupboard, got the tea jar and plucked out two tea bags. Then he stopped still. The room fell silent. He heaved a deep breath and then swallowed. "Didn't think you'd still be up."
"Aye. Well."
"Having trouble sleeping, is it?"
"Nah. Not really. Maybe." He shrugged. "Just not tired."
"Thought maybe it's the methadone or something."
"No."
"You still taking the sleeping tablets?"
Joe shook his head. "They give us headaches in the morning."
"Like you didn't get a good night?"
"That's it."
"Yeah, I know that." The old man moved to the cutlery drawer, pulled it open and extracted a teaspoon. He nudged the drawer. It stopped halfway. Joe prodded it closed. The old man nodded. "Ta."
"Nae bother."
The kettle bubbled and clicked off. The old man poured the water. Joe stubbed his tab and got up, went to the fridge. "You had a good day?"
"All right."
He put the bottle of milk on the counter next to the kettle. "Win owt?"
The old man smiled. "Me? Nah, son. Not me. Never win owt, me."
"Bad luck."
The smile became vague on the old man's face. "Nah, I don't think so, like. Think it's probably just me not knowing my arse from me elbow."
"You been at it long enough."
"I know. I should know better."
"So it's bad luck."
The smile returned, but smaller than before, and his eyes glazed over for a moment.
"Here." Joe nodded at the cups. "Be careful that doesn't stew."
The old man blinked himself awake. He dipped and scooped the bags out of the mug. Joe added his own milk and waited for the spoon to come back before he dipped it into the sugar bowl. The old man shuffled over to the kitchen table and sat down. Joe leaned against the counter. He looked into the swirling milk, stirred the tea until the sugar dissolved, then returned to the table. He picked up his cigarettes, took one out of the pack and then offered the pack to the old man. The old man took one and Joe waited until he'd sparked up with the hissing disposable before he lit his own.
Joe sat at the table. "So how come you're up?"
"Can't sleep."
"Not tired?"
"Nah, I'm tired, like." The old man half-shook his head. "It's me leg."
"Trouble?"
"Aye. Just cramps an' that. Nothing I can't walk out. Normally I have a banana."
"Is that supposed to do something?"
"Got potassium in it." He shrugged. "Supposed to help. I read it somewhere. I don't know if it does or not. Maybe it's all up in my head."
"Worth a try. It's not going to kill you."
"Aye."
A pause. A few degrees warmer than usual, despite the howling gale outside. The old man smoked. He glanced at Joe a couple of times. Furtive, his mouth open, showing his bottom teeth, his eyebrows shifting above his beady little eyes. Been building up to this for a while, Joe could tell.
The old man cleared his throat. "So have you thought about what you're going to do?"
"Do?"
"Michelle told us about the army." The old man looked at his tea. "About the discharge."
"Right."
"I don't care. I never liked you being in there, anyway."
Joe raised his eyebrows. "Oh aye? Could've fooled me."
"I know." The old man stared at him, looked hurt. "You never thought
that I gave a shit. You thought the only thing I cared about was that you had a full-time job. Or that you got out of the house. But that wasn't it. You know I saw lads down the works, I knew what was going to happen. They were looking to close that place when I started."
"I know. You wanted me to have a job."
"Bairn on the way, it was only the right thing to do. I didn't want you to go into the army. I didn't want you to put yourself in any danger. I didn't think you'd take to it, either."
Joe closed his hands around his mug. "I never did."
"I know that now." The old man blinked rapidly, as if angry and confused, even though Joe knew he was neither. "When you were away, our Michelle and me, we used to talk about it. Talked about it a lot." He shook his head. "You know I never liked it, I wanted you to have a nice job, something safe, something near. That's not too much to ask, is it? You look around, there's plenty of people doing it, so why can't you?"
"Not clever enough." Joe smiled at his tea.
"Bollocks. You're not stupid. You're cleverer than me." He moved his head. "I know that's not saying much." He cleared his throat again, his voice becoming tentative. "But I thought about, you know, what your mam would say—"
"That's all right."
"I know, but—"
"We don't need to talk about that."
"I think we do, son."
Joe was silent.
"Your mam was ill for a long time. Longer than you might remember."
"I know."
"And I know you miss her."
"I didn't ..." He shook his head. "I was too young, you know?"
"You miss her. I know you do. You might not think you remember her, but you do. And there's nothing I can do about what I did except say sorry and try to make it better from now on. I made mistakes. We all make mistakes. I didn't connect with anything. I couldn't. I was upset. It was a difficult time. The way she reacted to the illness ... I didn't know what to do. I wasn't very good about it, I know."
"You were all right."
"I tried to make it up to you. And I tried my best with you when you were growing up, but I don't think I was strong enough for you. I wasn't strong enough for her. I mean, you and your mam, you're cut from the same cloth."
"You think so?"
"I know so, son. It's difficult for me sometimes. I see so much of her in you. Both stubborn bastards when you want to be. Won't be helped, will you?"
"I suppose not."
"Then all that shite at the works happened and ..." He sighed. "Suppose what I'm trying to say, son, is I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough for you. I'm sorry I didn't do better with you. I'm sorry ..." He took a deep breath. He swallowed. "I'm sorry that the only choice you had was the army or the dole. I never meant for any of that. You know, you have these dreams ..."
"It's okay."
It was the kind of thing Joe said all the time to the old man. Whenever he drank, he got sentimental, starting talking about Joe's mam. The old man said Joe remembered her, but he really didn't anymore. He remembered the pain of her last few weeks, but he couldn't remember her alive beyond a sense of warmth and a fine, comforting floral smell. Maybe a laugh, the touch of skin, but he was only a bairn when she got sick, and he didn't like to think of her in the last few years. He didn't like to think of her at all, really. It was a done thing. It was a sad thing, and a thing that people said shouldn't have happened, but it wasn't as if he'd had a mam and then she died. He barely knew her. So he didn't know what he was supposed to have missed beyond what other people thought should've happened. And other people had a fucked-up idea of normality. It was all family reunions and open fires. It was a Val Doonican Christmas Special. But there was something that nagged the old man. Joe always thought it was grief – he'd never had the chance to mourn her properly, too busy feeling sorry for himself and being soft – but there was something else.
"You have these dreams for your kids. You'll know. For your bairn. There's these yuppies out there, they want their bairns to grow up to be bloody superheroes, big fucking leaders of the world. All I wanted was for you to grow up happy."
"Wasn't your fault."
"You say that—"
"Don't blame yourself. It's too easy. You want to take it all on, you be my guest, but it's not right and I'm not going to be a party to it." Joe tapped ash. "Aye, I want the bairn to be happy. Course I do. And she won't be."
"It's still early days yet—"
"She won't be, because that's not the way life is, is it? You're not happy, are you? I'm not happy. Michelle isn't happy. Why the fuck should the bairn be happy? Happy isn't the normal state of affairs. You ever known anyone to be really happy?" Joe shook his head. "That's the problem. That's your problem. Say you're thinking about me, but you're not. You're thinking about yourself. What you did wrong, how you failed us, how much you miss Mam. You need to do something else. You need to get your head back from drifting. You put too much pressure on things to be fuckin' right ... I tried to do something, all right?" He stared at the old man. "I tried to do something over there, but there was no way it was going to happen. You can't do anything right when the odds are stacked against you that much. So in the end I just thought, fuck it. Took my ball and went home." He sniffed. "Came home, thought I could do something good for the estate. Hoped I could. Hoped that would make us feel better, make us happy. Except happy's a moment, isn't it? It's not a constant." Joe blew smoke. He shook his head. "I don't know."
Something prickled in his brain. He didn't know what he was talking about; Christ, he sounded just like the old man when he got on to his lectures. It was stupid. It was fucking stupid, and it made him sound mental, which was the one thing he didn't want to be anymore.
"I understand."
Joe nodded. Aye, right he did. Joe didn't understand himself.
"You try to help people. That's the way you get comfort. And the odds are stacked against it. People aren't used to being nice. Especially not in this country. Not now. We're growing cold, son. I can see it. Seen it happen for a while. We're breaking apart, we're becoming – no, you're right, you are – selfish. And I don't think there's much we can do about that except try to look after each other."
"You really believe that?"
The old man nodded.
There was a long silence. Both men stared into their tea. Joe finished first. The mug was still warm. He sucked the last of his cigarette into his lungs.
"Well." Joe exhaled. "I think I better go up."
"You tired?"
"Aye."
"All right."
"You staying up?"
"For a little bit." The old man gestured to his mug. "Finish this off."
"Don't forget your banana."
The old man smiled.
Joe went to the door. The old man called his name. Joe half-turned.
The old man had an odd look on his face. "I'm glad you came back. And I think you're doing the right thing."
Joe stared at him. Then he nodded and opened the door. "Night, Dad."
"Night, son."
50
Greys was a members-only club in the middle of Newcastle, the kind of place that was little more than a heavy, hatched door on the outside – easily passed and immediately forgotten – but which opened into a stately home once you crossed the threshold. Dark wood and hushed voices predominated. The staff wore white shirts as crisp as their accents. The whole place had been around longer than most of its patrons, which was saying something. It was the kind of place that would've intimidated Gav had he not been so irritated.
He was there because Bernard King preferred to do business this way, and he was very much in the mood to do business, especially now Crosby was a part of it. They seemed to know each other, even though there was easily a forty-year age difference between them. Maybe arseholes recognised arseholes, no matter what the generation.
There was small talk over the starters, which became bigger once the red meat and wine hit the table. The way Crosby and King ta
lked, the deal was a foregone conclusion, and Gav couldn't shake the suspicion that they were going through the motions, that this whole thing had been cooked up somehow, and when the contracts were finally signed over coffee and brandy in the lounge area, it was as if Gav was watching the whole thing on a television in the corner of the room. He should have felt victorious, vindicated. This was what he'd been building up to, wasn't it? He should have felt happy. Instead, he needed to go to the toilet. He excused himself.
Gav was washing his hands when King came in. He twisted off the tap, went to the blower.
"You all right, Gavin?"
"Me?" He forced a smile. "I'm great, Bernie." He slapped the button and the dryer made a sound like a jet taking off.
King went up to the urinal and unzipped. The dryer died and Gav heard King grunt as the first thick splatter of piss hit porcelain. Gav rubbed his hands together, shook the remaining moisture away, and turned towards the door.
"You keep that attitude up, Gavin, I'll tear this fucking deal in two." The piss paused. Another grunt, and it continued.
Gav stopped by the door. "What?"
"Let me tell you something." King raised his head, appeared to be addressing the space where the tile met the ceiling. His voice boomed in the confines of the toilet. "There are three main attributes that a man looks for as part of a good deal." The piss stopped. He shook twice and stepped away from the urinal, moving towards the basins. "Firstly, there has to be something in it for him – that goes without saying. Otherwise, it's not business, it's charity. And there's a reason why charities need money all the time." He twisted the tap, pumped soap into his hands, and lathered up. "Second, there should be an easily identifiable reason why the other person is offering the deal. You don't have a reason to come to me and offer me this then I have to ask, what are you hiding? Because I'll find out sooner or later, and I don't want to be caught in an unfortunate situation, do I?" He smiled at Gav in the mirror, killed the water. Shook his hands. "Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, the deal has to have a certain level of credibility." He walked to the dryer. Hit the button. Shouted over the din. "Now when you came to me originally, when that pinko Dryden vouched for you, you had some credibility, didn't you?"
