As we pushed our way through the crowd, the noise subsided around us, then came back to its full volume after we'd passed. I reckon it was Dave's shadow falling across them, or maybe they saw him coming and were trying to protect their pork pies and crisps, like starlings with a clutch of eggs when the sparrowhawk appears overhead.
Dave forced his way through to the bar by the simple means of putting a huge meaty hand on a few shoulders, as if he was patting them to say hello. When he arrived, he turned to one side, pushing back the tide to allow me to reach the bar unhindered.
This had the effect of attracting the landlord's attention pretty quick, and we got served straight away. Somebody grumbled behind me, but Dave moved his head and gave them his low-grade glower. They shut up.
"Who're you looking for?" The bloke behind the bar certainly caught on pretty quick.
"Mick Kelk."
"Playing pool."
"Cheers."
I suppose he thought we might be less trouble if we did what we had to do and got out. It's an attitude that's probably let him keep his licence this long.
The lads round the pool table weren't really lads at all. They were wearing jeans and t-shirts cut high at the sleeves to show their muscles, and some of them had hair that was a bit too long. But their beer guts were straining their t-shirts more than their pectorals were, and their faces were lined from years of absorbing ale and smoke in places just like the Ferret. Also their tattoos were out of date. Black Sabbath are definitely not the current thing this year.
One of the lads was Mick Kelk. I had a moment of curiosity about the others. I had no idea who they were, which meant they were from outside Medensworth. But I didn't really want to know just now. There was a general shuffling of position as they all took a pace backwards or sideways, arranging themselves into a defensive group with Kelk in the middle. Some of them took their hands out of their pockets, put down fags, picked up beer bottles.
"Kelky. I want a word with you."
Dave strolled up and stood over the pool table. Mick was about to play a shot. He had the blue ball in a good position, but he wouldn't get the white back to where he could pot the pink. Not the way his hand was shaking.
"I'm busy."
"You look it. It's just a friendly chat, like, but it's got to be now. So drop out of the game for a bit then, Kelky."
"I'm still busy."
"Tell you what - I'll just let you miss this shot, then we'll talk."
"I don't miss shots like this, pal."
"Yeah?"
He looked at me and then glanced sideways at Dave, who was watching Mick's cue as if it was the first time he'd ever seen one. Mick couldn't look soft in front of his mates. If it came to real trouble, he wanted them to back him up, not throw him to the wolves, which they would if he ruined his cred now. Act tough and you get accepted. Show you're scared and the pack disowns you. Mick knew that all right.
He certainly took his time lining up the shot, considering how easy it was. The tip of his cue seemed to be wavering all round the white ball, until eventually he whacked it down the table. It hit the blue all right, bouncing it hard off the cushion and away over the table beyond a clutch of reds. The white hovered uncertainly as if sensing the atmosphere, then nipped into the pocket like a mouse going for its hole when the cat appears.
"Well, if that ain't missing, my tadger's a pot plant."
Mick straightened up, his cue gripped firmly in his right hand, ready to shift it to make use of the heavy end if necessary. The other three lads shuffled their feet, not quite sure what was going on. Everybody seemed to be watching Doncaster Dave, except me. I've seen him before, so he's no novelty. But I knew he'd be getting hungry thinking about the Shah Naz. And when he's hungry he loses patience.
Helpfully, Dave leaned forward to retrieve the ball from the pocket where Mick had potted it. He placed the ball on the table, right on the D. He was moving slow, as if he'd lost interest in what was going and had decided to keep himself amused with a game. He reached out a large hand towards the nearest of the lads, and a cue was automatically placed into it. It looked like a toothpick when he gripped it like that.
"I really need to talk to you, Mick," I said. "I'll be upset if you don't co-operate."
"I told you, I'm busy."
"Well, personally I can wait, but it'll mean Dave here going past his supper time."
Mick's eyes followed Dave, fascinated, as he handled the pool cue. He had a funny grip on it, as if he'd never held one before. For a moment, I thought Mick was going to put him right. It wouldn't have been wise.
He turned back towards me instead. "I've got nothing to say, McClure."
Suddenly, Dave had hold of the narrow end of the cue in both fists. It whistled through the air and the blunt end came down on the cue ball with tremendous force, smacking it with a great thud that sent the ball flying off the table at two thousand miles an hour and accelerating. Its trajectory took it skidding past Mick Kelk's right ear to shatter a beer glass standing behind him on a head-high shelf.
There was a pause in the conversation. I could hear the drip of the beer running down the wall and even the trickle of Mick's blood as it drained from his face. He was working out that if the ball had been an inch or two to the right, he'd have been able to go to the next fancy dress party as Admiral Nelson. One of his mates bravely hefted his own cue, a reflex action only. It accidentally snapped on Dave's hand and the bloke had to sit down on the floor suddenly out of surprise. Dave was being quite restrained. I hoped he wasn't getting too weak from hunger or something.
"Okay, what do you want to know?" said Mick shakily.
Conversation started up again. The landlord came and cleared up the broken glass with a resigned expression. We sat in the corner while Mick's mates pretended to carry on with the game under Dave's critical eye. He grunted with disapproval every time a wavering shot went wide of the pocket.
"I'm interested in any driving jobs you've had recently, Mick, that's all. Nothing to worry about."
"I drive all the time. That's my business. I'm a driver."
"I know that, Mick. That's why I'm talking to you. If I want to know who's been doing driving jobs recently, then that's who I ask - a driver. Right?"
He licked his lips. He looked as though he wanted his beer, but it was soaking into the floor, and I wasn't about to buy him another. Two free drinks in one day was beyond the call of duty. He was nervous, and I thought it might not be entirely because of Doncaster Dave.
"So. What have you been driving recently, Mick?"
"I took a load of pallets down to Derby on Monday."
"Pallets? Are you kidding me?"
"There's a bloke pays cash for 'em."
"And where did these pallets come from?"
"You know, here and there. Surplus stuff."
I shouldn't have asked really. Well, you don't. Of course they were surplus stuff. That means they were nicked from factories, warehouses, transport depots. Pits too, if he'd been able to find one that hadn't been cleared out already. Anything that's left lying about is 'surplus'.
"Pay well?"
"Next to nowt."
"So what did you bring back?"
"A bit of scrap, that's all. For one of the yards in Mansfield."
"And then?"
"Eh?"
"That was Monday, Mick. Today's Friday. What have you been doing since? I can see you haven't been practising your pool all that time."
He sighed. "I can't tell you, Stones. It's not worth it."
I had a sneaky sympathy for him, but I needed to know.
"Is it a new firm? A fresh bit of business?"
"Maybe."
"Who, Mick?"
He said nothing. This was worrying. "If I have to tell Doncaster Dave that his supper will be late because you don't want to talk, he won't be happy."
"Look." He was starting to plead. "They're not people to cross, Stones. I'll be right in the shit as it is."
"Are you working
for a bloke called Rawlings? How about Josh Lee? "
"I know 'em. All right?"
"What's their game? Is Rawlings the boss, or is there someone else?"
But then the pub really did go quiet. Silent as the grave. Suddenly I could see right across the room, as if the Red Sea had parted for Moses and the Israelites. But this was no Moses. This was a hefty bloke with a broken nose, a badly fitting suit, and teeth like Stonehenge. I recognised him straightaway. He used to do a lot of boxing round the local amateur circuit until his last brain cell died. His nose is a particularly distinctive shape, like one of those novelty potatoes that people keep because they look like Mickey Mouse or General de Gaulle. Only this one was shaped more like Dumbo the Elephant.
They call this lad Sledgehammer Stan, but I won't bother you with the technical reasons. More importantly, he's one of Eddie Craig's favourite boys. With Stan were three more big lads, looking mean and shouldering people aside. If this was the landlord's way of calling 'time', he had a point.
"What the hell are Craig's boys doing here?"
Dave was eyeing up the three apes speculatively as they came our way. I might have put odds on him in a fair fight, but Eddie Craig's lads were usually tooled up some way. It might be time for a strategic withdrawal. Pity - a few more minutes and Kelk might have turned co-operative.
Dave's back passed in front of me, so I couldn't see Sledgehammer Stan any more. Even better, he couldn't see me. There was a fire door behind us, and I began edging backwards, ready to make a run for it, with Dave as my rearguard if necessary.
As we got to the door, I took a quick peek round Donc's shoulder. Stan wasn't even taking any interest in us. He'd zeroed straight in on Mick Kelk, who was now propped up between two of the lads, his feet dangling just short of the floor.
Poor old Mick. The balls really weren't breaking for him tonight. Or then again, perhaps they were.
* * * *
It was a relief to get away from the Ferret. I didn't have much concern for Kelk's welfare. If he'd upset Eddie Craig, then there was nothing to be done for him. Keep out of the way, that's the thing when Craig and his boys are about.
If you ever saw Eddie Craig, you'd think he looks harmless, like some middle-aged businessman or bank manager, someone who has a comfortable house, grown-up kids, a villa in France and membership of the local golf club. No doubt Craig has all of these. But he also has the best organised and toughest little empire in north Nottinghamshire.
Our paths don't normally cross much. Even now that I was trying to move up a bit, I wouldn't expect to run into trouble with Craig. What I'm involved in is small beer to Craig - a bit down market, like. There's big money to be made in his game, if that's what you're into.
Personally, I wouldn't spit on Eddie Craig or his type of business. It seems to me he's only making money out of people destroying themselves. In some circles that's thought to be okay these days. Enough big companies do it, so why not people like Craig? It's only free enterprise, after all. Right. Pass the sick bag.
Wherever there's big money involved, there's always people prepared to do anything to get it, or to protect it when they've got it. Craig doesn't need to dirty his hands with that side of it any more - not while Stan and a hundred others are willing to jump at his command, lump hammers at the ready. And Craig is never reluctant to give that command. There are enough blokes around here with the scars and the permanent limps to testify.
Dave had only one thing to say as Slow Kid drove us towards the Shah Naz.
"That was my trick shot, Stones."
"Brilliant, Donc. Does Steve Davis know about it?"
"I dunno. Do you want me to lean on him a bit and find out?"
"Never mind."
It was the most I'd heard him say in weeks. He must have been bubbling over with it.
Slow Kid was taking us back out on Baulk Lane, which curves north of Medensworth, to get to the end of the village where the Naz could be found.
Maybe it was the lack of conversation that made me notice the car that was following us all the way, refusing to take any of the turnings off towards Edwinstowe or Warsop, staying a constant distance behind us - far enough so that I couldn't make out the occupants or the registration number in the dark.
It just shows my positive outlook on life that I assumed they were the police. I certainly wouldn't have put it past Frank Moxon to put a tail on us, even though we were all perfectly innocent. That's the way the cops operate these days, harassing innocent citizens
I nudged Slow Kid. No point mentioning this to Dave. He wasn't quite asleep, but his brain had gone into a sort of suspended animation while he waited for the food to arrive.
"I think we're being followed, Slow."
He nodded and put his foot down. He soon had the Subaru up to seventy, and then eighty, on the long stretch past the bridge. The car behind stayed with us. I hated the thought of the cops catching up with us out here. Like the sheriff's last words, it was much too quiet.
"Can we lose them?"
"No probs. Just hang on. I'll take the twocker track."
At the back of the old pumping station there's an area of land like rough heath, covered in weeds and scrub, and some trees further in. Across this are tracks much favoured by the Medensworth twockers for a burn-up in their nicked motors, before they literally burn them up in some quiet spot among the woods. There are plenty of scorched trees in there and a few burnt-out hulks still waiting for someone to take them away. In its official guide, the council describes this as an ancient woodland beauty spot. And I'm Lord Byron's mother.
I was glad Slow Kid was driving. Given a suitable bit of tarmac, I knew he could let the car behind get right onto our bumper, then hit a handbrake turn and be away back down the road before they knew what had happened.
No cop car in Nottinghamshire ever caught Slow when he was racing. Unfortunately, after a while, they all knew where he lived, so they didn't have to chase him at all. They just went round to his house and sat and had tea with his mum while they waited for him to come home. Such is fame.
The speed had woken Dave up in the back seat.
"Woss going on?"
"Cops are after us."
"Yeah?"
"Slow's going to lose 'em, so get belted up."
"Hang on, I can't get it fastened," he complained, stretching the fabric over his belly. Right enough, the seat belt was adjusted for someone of normal size, like me.
"For God's sake, breathe in or something. The track's coming up."
It was no more than a fire break in the woods really, but the kids used it a lot, and the corners were nicely chewed off. Slow Kid seemed to reckon he could make it, even at sixty miles an hour. We might mangle the undergrowth, but who cares about a few bits of broken bracken? Would it ruin the ambience of the ancient woodland beauty spot? I think not. Doncaster Dave's weight falling around the car willy nilly was a different matter. It would be like steering a rowing boat with an elephant balanced on the side. There was a lot of grunting, and finally I heard the click of the belt.
"Now - lean this way!"
We both lurched to the right just as Slow Kid jumped on the brakes and spun the wheel to the left. Thank God I went for something with power steering as well as four-wheel drive. Dirt sprayed and the back end swung towards a birch tree, scything down bracken and brambles. But the wheels stayed on the track and we kept going, accelerating up towards the trees. It would be no problem to lose the cops once we got on the hill.
"Can you see them?"
Dave turned round and watched the end of the track.
"Yeah, lights," he said, just before we disappeared from view round the first bend.
Slow Kid was away now. If he took a left turn by the wrecked Nissan that was up there and went round the pond, we'd be on the far side of the hill and into the access road for the pumping station. The cops would never follow us. They're all townies, and it's a different world out here.
"Still see anything?"
"Maybe."
The Nissan had been there a long time, just a blackened lump of metal now. Slow Kid knew exactly where it was on the track and screeched round with inches to spare. Then, up ahead, there was another car. It was a Peugeot hatchback, its lights off and its windows smashed. Three kids stood round it pouring petrol onto the seats. They were laughing and shouting to each other as they got ready for their bit of excitement. They looked up in amazement as our tyres slid round the corner and our headlights caught them.
Slow Kid pulled the wheel to the right and the car tilted at an angle as we skidded half off the track to get past. The white face of one lad was so close to the window as we went by that I could have counted the spots on his chin. The kids didn't have time to react before we were past them and away again. One more minute, though, and we could have been copying those stunt riders who go through burning hoops.
"Close thing, that," said Slow cheerfully as he floored the accelerator and got back onto the track to take the hill.
A minute later we heard a bang and the horrible grinding of crumpled metal. I craned my neck to look down through the trees and saw lights down below and figures milling about. I thought I could hear voices, too - several of them, and they sounded angry.
"Looks like one of them expensive German jobs. Saloon car."
"Nice motor," said Slow Kid.
We drove on for a few minutes, then Slow Kid stopped on the edge of the access road, killed the lights and switched off the engine. I pressed the button to lower the window.
All we could hear were an owl complaining in the woods and the sound of someone having a party down on the estate below us. It sounded like Meatloaf's Bat out of Hell turned up to full volume. I kind of wished I was there right now.
"Nothing. We lost 'em."
"We going to the Shah Naz now then, Stones?"
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