Top Hard

by Stephen Booth

  Nuala works part-time in that travel agent's Moxon was banging on about. I think she's probably good at selling things, talking like she does. But I don't know. If the customers get awkward or something, she's likely to lose her temper. And that's a nasty experience, I can tell you.

  Right now, I think she might have been telling me something about a problem with a holiday to the Seychelles. There was some mention of a cancelled flight and luggage that ended up at the wrong airport, and a mix-up over a visa that she'd sorted out single-handed. She made it sound as though she was Cat Woman cleaning up crime in Gotham City.

  I stifled the yawns, looked at the scenery, and waited for Nuala's spring to wind down so the real action could start.

  Eventually, she turned towards me and indicated she was inclined to use her mouth for something other than talking. Her sweater bounced and waggled. I swear that all that yakking gets her in the mood. She was certainly gasping for a bit of social intercourse now, and within seconds the windows of the Subaru were steaming up. The scenery disappeared as if a warm mist had fallen. Then, for a while, it was goodbye squirrels, hello bunny rabbits.

  * * * *

  In the car on the way back to Medensworth, Nuala said something really strange.

  "Tomorrow, Stones," she said. "Will you take me out again?"

  "Eh? We've just been out. Didn't you notice all that green stuff on the floor and the big sticky-up brown things? That was out."

  "No. Somewhere nice, I mean."

  It was baffling to me that Nuala didn't think Clumber Park was 'nice'. This place is one of the jewels in the crown of the National Trust. The tourists flock to it. They pay to get in, for heaven's sake.

  "You could take me out for lunch again. A drink at least."

  "Oh, right."

  Twice in two days? This was in danger of becoming a habit.

  "So that I know you're not ashamed to be seen with me," she said.

  "No worries. I know just the place."

  When we got back to the house, I pointed Nuala in the direction of the kitchen while I made a few calls, careful with my words in case the clattering of plates wasn't loud enough to cover me.

  Nuala had nearly finished producing a microwaved steak and a beer when the phone rang. I answered it a bit hesitantly, nervous at doing it in front of her but not wanting to miss the call in case it was business. But it wasn't. It was my Uncle Willis.

  "Now then, Livingstone. How are you?"

  "All right, Uncle."

  He's almost the only person alive who can call me Livingstone and get away with it. I hate the name. It makes me sound like a bad music hall joke. The next person to utter the words 'I presume' will get my boot up his Stanley.

  "And how's, ah... what's her name?"

  "She's fine too, Uncle."

  He has no idea, of course, who the current 'what's her name' is, but feels he has to ask anyway. It's one of those conventions, like telling someone you must meet up some time when you've got no intention of setting eyes on the pillock ever again. Uncle Willis lost track of my 'what's her names' a long time ago and doesn't bother trying to keep up now. This is a bit of luck, since it means I can insert any name necessary into the conversation with him, depending on who happens to be in earshot at the time.

  "But how are you keeping anyway, Uncle? Is everything all right at Rolling Meadows?"

  Willis is in one of those nice modern nursing homes. You know the ones. The old folk in these places are not being looked after, they're 'in a personal care situation'. In the mornings they spend their time practising something called 'living skills', which as far as I can make out means making your own bed and burning a bit of toast for your own breakfast. Then in the afternoon they move on to 'social and recreational skills', which means watching Countdown on the telly and listening to Val Doonican records. I think the Doonicans were probably bought at the car boot sale. Well, somebody has to buy them.

  In keeping with this approach, the nursing home is called Rolling Meadows, which obviously means that it's in the middle of a modern Wimpey estate that has never seen a meadow in its life, let alone anything rolling. Still, Uncle Willis likes it, which is all that matters. He says he appreciates the proportion of women to men in there. Maybe I'm just a chip off the old block after all.

  "It's as bad as ever, youth," he said. "But they've let me have my annual phone call, you see. It was either my lawyer or my nephew, and the lawyer wasn't in."

  This was his joke, and just in case I'd forgotten and was about to take him seriously, he let loose a painful metallic rattling that ought to have me sending for a British Telecom engineer to mend my phone, except that I knew it was just my uncle laughing.

  "Right. What have they been doing to you now then, Uncle?"

  "Torture it is, bleedin' torture. They've cut down my cigarettes. Can you believe it?"

  "Why's that?"

  "Oh, they had some pimply youth in here called Darren, who said he was a doctor. He can't have been more than fifteen. Do they let them do house calls while they're on work experience these days? Honestly, Livingstone, I don't know how they think they can fool me. I told him, I've had more varicose veins and gurgling chests than he's had clean socks. When I'm sick I expect to see a doctor who really is a doctor, not a snotty-nosed fifth former doing GCSE Biology."

  "But did he say what's wrong with you?"

  "Oh just a wheezy chest. Have to cut down for a bit, youth. Still, it's made all these old girls cluck round me like a lot of hens. Nothing like it for getting the women going, you know, thinking that you're ill."

  I could imagine it. Uncle Willis's charm isn't lost on the elderly female residents of the Meadows. Or on some of the staff, for that matter. I had a bit of a fling with one of the care assistants myself once, and I had to drop her like a ton of bricks when she started comparing me unfavourably with my aged uncle. Women really know how to hurt.

  "Would you like me to come and see you, Uncle?"

  It might sound as though I shouldn't have to ask this. I do go regularly to see the old bloke, but if I don't ask I'm liable to turn up and find that he's out somewhere gadding around. They go for day trips to Alton Towers, Mansfield Brewery, stuff like that. And other days he's just off for a stroll in the car park with one of his admirers. That's when he's not practising his compulsory social and recreational skills, anyway.

  "Yes, that would be nice, Livingstone. Come tomorrow afternoon. There's only Jurassic Park on the telly, and I've seen it three times."

  "No problem."

  "I've something I want to talk to you about anyway."

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  "I'll tell you tomorrow."

  Nuala brought the steak in just at the right time to take my mind off what it might be that the old man wanted to talk about.

  "That your uncle?" said Nuala when I put the phone down.

  "Yes."

  "That's nice."

  "What is?"

  "Looking after your uncle, of course. You take care of him don't you, Stones?"

  "No - he's in a home, Nuala."

  "Well, I know. But you look out for him. You're concerned. You're close, like a family should be. That's what I mean. You're a real caring sort of man, aren't you? You'd make such a good father yourself, it's a shame."

  I dug my knife into the steak a bit too hard and almost went through the plate. Me, a dad? I've spent the best years of my life trying to avoid it. Not to mention the money I've spent on condoms.

  "I don't think so, Nuala."

  But she'd gone all dreamy now. You know, the way women do when they get the least sniff of a nappy on someone else's brat. I could see what was going through her mind. This was ridiculous. Nuala was supposed to be the new bird. How come I'd ended up with two of them getting all broody and meaningful? There was something very wrong here. Was it me? Was I pulling the wrong sort of women? Was I getting too old? Maybe I could ask Uncle Willis when I saw him.

  "You don't really want to be living in this
house on your own, do you, Stones?" said Nuala.

  But she might as well have been talking to herself as far as I was concerned.

  "Yes."

  "It's lonely for a man on his own. You can't look after yourself properly, can you?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm sure the reason you haven't married is because you've just been looking for the right woman all this time, isn't it?"

  "No."

  You can see I was trying to keep it simple for her, but she still didn't understand. Spell it out, Stones, quick.

  "I don't want to get married, Nuala. I'm perfectly happy as I am."

  She smiled at me understandingly. Or rather non-understandingly. It was a look that said she was a woman and could therefore see right into the shallow depths of my male soul. Having looked in there, she felt - what? Pity, probably. Her look meant she knew what I wanted better than I did, but was prepared to let me go on believing my pathetic little fantasy that I knew my own mind. Women, eh?

  "I could always just move in with you, Stones. We don't have to get married. How would that be?"

  "No. And no. And awful."

  Well, I'm not made for living with, that's all. But I realised I'd perhaps been too abrupt. She was starting to look hurt now.

  "It's not you, love. I just I prefer to be on my own, that's all. It's the way I am."

  She smiled, reassured that I wasn't a totally lost cause.

  "We'll see."

  Okay, we'd see. But what we'd see wasn't what she thought we'd see. Not by a long way, see?

  Unfortunately, the steak and the beer seemed to have had more of a softening-up effect on me than Nuala's arguments. After a bit, she started to look very desirable and a visit to the bedroom seemed called for urgently.

  She was right, after all - I did need looking after, in a way.

  8

  Monday morning there was bad news. A 'load lost' message on the answering machine. Not a big job like the French rig, but bad news all the same.

  I'm reasonably good in the mornings as a rule, but this particular Monday morning my brain didn't seem to be able to get into proper gear, like there was dirt on my clutch plate. I got Slow Kid on the phone. I thought he might have had something to tell me about Rawlings and Lee by now, but he was about as informative as a Council Tax demand.

  "As far anybody can tell, they're working for themselves," he said.

  "Yeah? So what have they got against you and me?"

  "Pass."

  "So what did Sean say?"

  "Not much. Just kept telling me to stay clear of Josh Lee. He doesn't know Rawlings at all."

  "Great," I said. "What about on the streets? Anybody new dealing round here?"

  "Dunno, Stones. There's always rumours, but you know I don't have anything to do with 'em."

  "Come on, Slow. What rumours?"

  "Well, just someone around the pubs and clubs, chatting to the kids. A few may have scored from him. Just talk, though. Nothing you can pin down."

  "Could it be Lee?"

  "Can't tell, Stones."

  "This is great, this is. Some organisation we are, pissing about in the dark like nuns in a power cut."

  "Aw, Stones, you know what it's like."

  "Keep trying, Slow."

  "Course."

  A bit later I was in the Cow's Arse for lunch with Nuala. I'd promised her the best, and I always follow through on a promise. She'd get her lunch, and be seen with me too. She would even get the genuine Cow's Arse ambience.

  I was thinking about Rawlings and Lee and that burnt-out van. Nuala may have noticed that I was a bit distracted, but she kept up the conversation on her own, without my help.

  Then I spotted Moggie Carr across the bar, and something seemed to click in my mind. Moggie is the sort of bloke who doesn't do anything much himself, but seems to know everyone who does do something. This makes him a top class source of information, and that's what you need these days.

  And something else too - Moggie is a member of the other travellers' clan, the Carrs. No love lost between them and the Lees, of course. But he knows what's going on there. It's in his interests. In a moment I was across the room, my hand on Moggie's sleeve. He jumped as if he'd been shot. It doesn't do to sneak up on somebody like Moggie unless you want to give him a heart attack.

  "Oh, shit," he said, slopping beer on my boots. "Don't do that."

  Moggie's face was brown and creased, like one of those bits of leather on Ernie and Stella's stall at the Sunday market, but more genuine. He always looked as though it was a long time since his last square meal and even longer since his last proper wash.

  "Nervous, Moggie? Who were you expecting?"

  "Nobody at all. I just don't like surprises."

  "Nor me. Particularly the sort somebody nearly gave me a day or two back with a van load of stuff."

  "What's that, Stones?"

  Moggie looked intrigued. He scented a new bit of information. I told him about the burnt-out van, and how the goods had nearly been in my possession.

  "You're joking," he said.

  I wish people wouldn't keep going on about me joking. Sometimes I do joke, yeah. I can be a real comic. There are times when I can be so hilarious that I have them rolling on the floor and wetting their pants with my wit. But this wasn't one of those times.

  "What do you know about any drugs business around here, Moggie?"

  "Me, Stones? I'm not into stuff like that. You've got to be - "

  "Don't say it, pillock. I'm not chuffin' joking. You know what's going on, Moggie. Who's into the drugs now? Is there someone new?"

  "I wouldn't know anything like that."

  "Oh? Would you know what's it's like to have that glass shoved down your throat? Tell me."

  Moggie looked worried. But was it me he was bothered about, or something else? Time to try a different tack.

  "Do you know someone called Josh Lee?"

  "Shit. If you know about him already, why are you hassling me?"

  "Moggie. Come over here and whisper in my ear."

  "Er, I think your bird's looking for you," he suggested.

  I looked round. Sure enough, Nuala was staring my way. She was sitting on her own and she didn't look happy, but at least she hadn't stopped talking. It was just that the words she was using weren't very complimentary, and you could tell that even from a distance. I gave her a quick wave with my free hand and tried to suggest with a few facial expressions that I wouldn't be long. She mouthed something at me that I couldn't make out, but the first word definitely began with an 'f' and the other with a 'b'. She might have been asking for a firkin and a basket, but they don't serve those at the Cow.

  "Over here, Moggie." I pulled him into an alcove out of sight. I wasn't really worried about anybody seeing us, but Nuala was putting me off.

  "There ain't nothing I can tell you, Stones. Honest."

  When people start saying 'honest', I know they're lying. I do it myself. Moggie Carr was only honest when he was really leaned on hard, and I hadn't started leaning yet.

  "Josh Lee," I said. "Tell me about him. Everything you know."

  "Well, I can tell you he's one of the Lees."

  "Yeah, yeah. Even I can figure that one out, pillock."

  "He lives at the caravan site out at Highbrook."

  "The Lees run that place themselves, don't they?"

  "Old man Daniel Lee runs it. He's the gaffer. Josh is his grandson."

  "And Josh is into drugs? That's a bit out of the usual for the Lees, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, right. If old Daniel found out, Josh would be out on his ear. If he still had any ears by then."

  "Not their scene then, the Lees?"

  "No way. Anything else, but not drugs. Try the Nottingham Yardies. Or there's Craig, of course. But I don't need to tell you that, Stones."

  "Yeah. Craig."

  I let Moggie go, but his jacket stayed crumpled.

  "What about a bloke called Rawlings then?"

  He shook his
head firmly. "Never heard of him. Is he new?"

  I didn't like the way Moggie was turning the conversation round so that he could get information out of me. That was a knack he had, a bit of a talent. Everybody has to have a talent. Moggie would make a good television interviewer, if they could smarten him up enough not to break the camera.

  I was about to turn away and find my back to Nuala when Moggie made his mistake. He'd been thinking about Rawlings, trying to file him away in his mental filing cabinet, and he let something slip.

  "Maybe he's working with the other bloke then."

  I turned round again so fast that he didn't have time to back off, and we collided hard enough to make his glasses fall off and land in his beer.

  "Shit. Now look what you've done."

  "What other bloke?"

  Moggie fished around in his pint with a finger and dragged the glasses out. "The lenses will be all sticky now."

  "What other new bloke, Moggie?"

  "I won't be able to see my way to the bar to get myself another drink. You've ruined my beer as well."

  "Okay, okay, I'll buy you a drink," I said through gritted teeth. "But first you tell me - what other bloke?"

  "Well, I dunno really."

  "Moggie, I'm getting seriously pissed off."

  "It's just one or two things I've heard around. No names. Just that some of the blokes have been getting work from somewhere. Not from Craig. They ain't talking about it too much. It's been going on for a bit, but word is that the outfit is expanding now. Starting to exercise a bit of muscle. Maybe that's where Josh Lee fits in. Does that help?"

  "I need a name, Moggie."

  "I told you, no one's saying."

  "Who's not saying?"

  "Well, there's Mick Kelk for one. He's had a driving job this week, I think. For God's sake, Stones, don't tell him you found that out from me."