by John Dalton
About the Author
John Dalton lives in Birmingham. He has two children and works as an adult literacy tutor.
Also by John Dalton
The Concrete Sea
First published in 2002 by
Tindal Street Press Ltd
217 The Custard Factory, Gibb Street, Birmingham B9 4AA
www.tindalstreet.org.uk
© John Dalton, 2002
The moral right of John Dalton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence, permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1P 0LP.
Typesetting: Tindal Street Press Ltd
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 0 9535895 6 0
eISBN: 9781906994921
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Biddles Ltd, Woodbridge Park Estate, Guildford.
To K and L
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Myra; and to Joel, Emma and Alan at Tindal Street Press for their help and support.
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
1
‘I mean, look at this! What is going on?’
‘Seems like we’re stuck.’
‘Stuck, yeh, like every day it gets quicker to walk! Bleedin crazy!’
‘Hold on, that bloke’s letting you in.’
‘Thank the fuck you!’
Scobie Brent nudged his car into the crawling traffic of the main road. It was half a mile bumper to bumper ahead of him. Once in the flow, he sighed and wiped imaginary sweat off his brow. Then he smiled reassuringly at the woman who sat next to him.
‘Bloody nation’s grinding to a halt,’ Claudette muttered.
‘Yeh, even in our business we have schedules to meet.’
‘Reckon we’ll make it?’
‘Plenty of time . . .’
Scobie hadn’t meant to cuss out loud. ‘Keep your lid on,’ the boss had said. ‘Be smarmy.’ Huh, as if Scobie couldn’t handle a bird like Claudette. This job was a piece of piss. He worked his thumbs into the ribs of the steering wheel, pressed hard and then grinned as they paled with the pressure.
‘Anyway, Scobie, you got any plans to get out of this dump?’
‘Don’t know, luv, I ain’t the kind to make plans. You know, take each day as it comes.’
‘Wow . . .’
There was little point in keeping an eye on the road. Scobie looked in the rear-view mirror, smoothed back his hair and then cast a frank gaze over Claudette.
OK, quite tasty, he thought. Worthy of a second look . . . unlike the rest of the slags. Then he put on a casual smirk and let his eyebrows float.
‘You got plans then, have you, sweetheart?’
‘Too right.’
‘You gonna give me an idea?’
‘I don’t reckon you’d know what I was on about.’
The car nudged forward a few feet at a time. What a flesh creeper, she thought, real dangerous scum. But Claudette reckoned she was used to it, wits and instincts finely tuned to treading the thin line of hassle avoidance. She looked out of the window. The last of daylight had finally gone and city light had taken over. This sudden tilt from day to night seemed to bring more movement in the traffic and Scobie could accelerate down the main street, his leering presence in the car feeling less oppressive. Claudette liked car-cruising in the city. It seemed to her the only way such a place made sense. You could be everywhere and anywhere and somehow feel part of the godawful sprawl. Don’t clog up on me yet, keep moving. Movement is desperately needed, thank you very much.
She leaned back in her seat and felt the thrust of speed. Fingers crossed, one big deal and I’ll be over the horizon and gone for good. Then she smiled at the neon shop signs and imagined the envious thoughts of friends who would wonder how she got away.
‘We’re using the Varna pad tonight,’ Scobie drawled, feeling more relaxed and in the groove of his work.
‘Bit down-market, isn’t it?’
‘It’s what the bloke wants.’
‘What sort of jerk is it this time?’
‘Fuck knows, insurance or something.’
‘Don’t know how the boss manages to find such well-heeled shits.’
‘Cos he knows where they crap, of course!’
Scobie gave out a braying laugh and ignored the grimace that Claudette made. He began to soothe the car through darkened backstreets, skirting empty acres of flattened factories and keeping his eyes alert for signs of police.
‘Do I have to do anything funny?’
The nerves. Always just before, Claudette felt the nerves tighten her mouth and make her stomach queasy.
‘Nah . . . just be your professional self.’
‘Anything else lined up for me?’
‘You know the boss . . . Shit, who knows when he’ll pull out a golden egg?’
‘Yeh, well, he certainly likes his hand up the arse of a bird.’
Scobie parked his car at the rear entrance of Varna Court. He looked up at the three-storey building with its grey bricks and saw that everything was quiet. He grabbed a large sports bag out of the boot and then took Claudette by the arm to the entrance. The flat looked obviously unlived in, but it was furnished respectably and didn’t come over as a knocking shop. Scobie moved straight into the bedroom and began to unzip his bag. He saw his face in the large mirror above the headboard and he grinned uneasily at himself. Why am I on edge? he then thought. Cos the damn bird is getting to me, that’s why. His fingers fumbled for a bottle of Scotch.
‘This place is done out all right.’
‘Seen one, seen em all.’
‘Yeh, but you said the punter wanted something down-market. This looks more like home from home.’
‘What the fuck do you know about how rich pricks live?’
‘Well I was –’
‘Just shut up and take your clothes off!’
‘Why do I have to do that?’
‘Because I’ve got some special kit in this bag. What the bloke ordered, see!’
‘All right, keep your hair on.’
God, Claudette thought, I’ll be glad when this one’s out the way.
But that was the way she’d been feeling with all the tricks since she’d put her plan into action. You don’t realize how much you shut off from the shit until you see a way out. Then, suddenly, the things you’ve done thoughtlessly for years become awkward, precarious even. Claudette took her clothes off slowly, keeping an eye on Scobie in the mirror. She didn’t think too much of stripping in front of him; it was work and common enough. There was a niggle of uneasiness all the same. As Scobie knocked back a few shots of booze she tried to work out what was troubling her. Not the usual nerves, the feeling
didn’t fit in with them. She looked again at Scobie. Surely he couldn’t have found out?
‘What time’s the punter coming?’
‘Nine.’
‘Has he got a name?’
‘You’re to call him James.’
‘And where will you be, Scobie, peeping through a hole in the wall?’
It was the wrong thing to say. Scobie jerked his head round to stare at the now naked Claudette. There was a deep frown on his brow and a dark fierceness in his eyes which made Claudette feel scared.
‘It was only a crack.’
Scobie didn’t reply. He tried to smile but Claudette got the feeling he was hating her for something. She nervously put her hands across herself and cursed silently.
‘S-So are you going to give me that gear then?’
For the first time in a long time Scobie was feeling panic. He’d been trying to work out his next move but it just wouldn’t come to him. Such a thing hadn’t happened before. Most jobs he’d done for the boss had come off naturally. He’d never really needed to think or plan. The Scotch hadn’t helped, but it was the other thing, the solid hard-on that really irked him. This sudden manifestation and the urge it provoked seemed far more important than the job he had to do. Scobie felt himself begin to sweat. He frowned even harder and tried to fumble around in his fuzzy brain for a way to go.
‘Do you have to stare at me like that?’
‘Hello! Are you going to give me the clothes?’
‘You want it, don’t you, you dirty bastard?’
Scobie went with his senses. Still frowning, he got up from off the bed and put his arms around Claudette. A half-sneer, half-smile flickered across his face and his hands roughly pawed over her.
‘Get off me, you fucking shit!’
‘Jesus, Claudette . . .’
‘Get off!’
Claudette tried to fight Scobie off, but then they both stumbled backwards onto the bed. Scobie forced himself on top, shoved his arm across Claudette’s throat and then fumbled for his flies.
‘God, I’ve gotta – Jesus, you are bleedin something.’
‘Get off me, you creep! . . . The boss’ll kill you! . . . I c-can’t bloody well b-breathe!’
Scobie shifted his weight then. He forced himself into Claudette and then pushed both his hands down on her shoulders.
‘Bloody hell,’ he moaned, ‘you are bleedin . . .’
‘I’ll fucking get you for this, you bastard!’
Claudette tried to struggle against the weight that held her. She tried to spit at the frowning face but her throat was dry. Powerless . . . It was then her sobs began, silent and bitter-tasting.
‘Oh . . . Jesus . . . you . . .’
Scobie came. A few feeble, stiff spasms and that was it. Claudette trembled but managed to sneer defiantly at the still frowning face.
‘Bastard! Just piss off, will you.’
‘Yeh, I will, you stupid little slut. But one thing, right –’ Scobie pulled himself forward and put his hands around Claudette’s head.
‘You’re a lousy lay and the fucking boss wants rid of you!’
Scobie sniggered excitedly, then he twisted, right and left, violently, until her neck broke.
2
Last night, saw a face at my window
Sure as hell scared me to death
Thought it was my lover’s ghost
Ha – it was only me staring back!
Cymbals danced like bees’ wings. The lead guitar wound up a high-pitched scream. Bass and drums thundered as Stevie Kitson bellowed, ‘OHHH YEAHH!’ and ended the song.
‘Oh yeh sure, that’s it tonight, brothers and sisters. See you next week – and remember – we love y’all, you Lime Tree people.’
The applause didn’t transcend the noise of chat and laughter in the Lime Tree bar. But that was cool because Stevie Kitson and the Slammers didn’t do the gig for anything but fun. As Stevie once said, ‘Shit, they all talked when Charlie Parker blew his horn. It was the whole scene, man, the music and the vibes.’
Jerry Coton couldn’t have agreed more. He’d say, ‘You f-fork out a b-bomb to see some group and you’re supposed to t-treat them like a snotty soloist in an orchestra. S-Stuff that!’ He raised his pint glass and nudged Mary in the arm.
‘On form t-tonight.’
‘Don’t know how he keeps going . . .’
Stevie Kitson was a feature of the local scene, a small-time celebrity. At one time he’d been lead guitar with the Blue Cruisers who had a couple of hits like the famous ‘She Ain’t What She Is’. He’d made enough out of that to set him up for life, carried on for a while as a session musician, then decided that his hometown and the blues were the place to be.
Jerry lit up a fag and moved his face close to Mary’s, enjoying the chance to sneak some intimacy.
‘He’ll p-probably g-go on till he’s grizzled and grey, like us t-too, half dead and t-toothless, still grooving to the same old riffs.’
‘You speak for yourself. I’m never growing old . . . I’m going to leave the power on and burn out way before then.’
‘I c-could drink to that.’
‘Yeh, so could I, cept I haven’t got one.’ Mary began to ease off her stool. ‘You want another?’
‘Nah. I’m holding on for V-Vin.’
Thursday nights, the Lime Tree was the place to be. Representatives of all the tribes of the inner city came down. All ages too, groovers and straights, hustlers and tarts. You even got some of the big-time bad guys to shake a finger to good old Stevie, and the odd few cops too, no doubt giving Eileen the landlady the protection to carry on the scene. It was needed. The spliffs were discreet but there to be spotted. The after-hours drinking was regular. It was one of those situations where everything seemed to work without controls. There were no fights or other fuckery. For a few boozy hours, that pub was the melting pot in love. Camaraderie and good vibes transcending the myriad schisms that would normally splinter such a grouping apart. The navvy could boogie with a junkie; the Sikh could spar with Rastafari. Even God made it with the pros, and cops and car thief both agreed Marvin Gaye was supreme. Jerry never wanted such nights to end. Instead of the sour morning-after, he wanted the melting pot to be a magic pot where the party never stopped but grew and grew, bursting out of the walls of the Lime Tree and flooding down every road until the city itself became one huge wild party. He was, of course, well on the way to being stoned.
Outside the pub, you’d have been hard pressed to enjoy yourself. It was bucketing down with rain. Vin St James was locking up his car and cursing the weather, the rain already funnelling down his trilby and onto cold brown hands. He made a dash for the Lime Tree, his last port of call, hoping he’d do good business and make the efforts of the night worthwhile. His foot sloshed into a puddle as he staggered through the doors and into the hall. Vin cursed loudly.
‘Don’t take it so personal, man. The puddle wasn’t put there just for a sucker like you.’
Vin found himself face to face with Scobie Brent. He was leaning against the green tiles in the hall, combing his wet hair. Vin felt a momentary sense of panic at this sudden confrontation and he could only cover his confusion with a lame smile. Then he took off his trilby and tried to coolly flick it down.
‘Long time, Scobie,’ he said. ‘Your kinda weather, huh?’
‘You know me, Vin. I take whatever comes, right there.’ A smirking Scobie pointed to his chin.
The next move for Vin was to get past Scobie and into the bar without being drawn into some awkward scene. Scobie was a feared heavy and, according to whim, liked to throw his heaviness around. Vin put on one of his best smiles.
‘You is one hard case, Scobie,’ he said, trying to keep the sarcasm as subtle as possible. ‘Didn’ me a see you las winter out in the snow wid jus you vest on?’
‘The fuck, I was bleedin starkers in the snow!’
Vin laughed over loudly and went to push open the bar door.
‘So how’s you
r woman doin then, Vin?’
‘Eh? Jus fine.’ Vin stalled. ‘Why you ask? What Claudette to you?’
‘Nothin, man, but,’ Scobie’s smile was mocking, ‘you know, I’ve always kind of fancied her.’
‘Oh yeh . . .’
Vin pushed quickly through the bar doors and heaved a sigh of relief. One fuckin mountain a turd! he thought. Inside, the crowd was starting to thin out. Vin ambled through and searched for clients. The half-caste peach with the dishy eyes shook her head. Then he saw nervous Jerry and old grey Frederick. Vin waved. They knew where he’d be.
‘D-Didn’t think you were g-going to turn up, Vin.’
‘Well, Jerry, it a shitty night, me nearly didn’ come at all. Me ain’t no milkman.’
‘More important, man. A weekend smoke is e-ssential.’
‘Huh, you shoulda be tuck up in bed, ole man.’
Frederick was somewhere around sixty years old and he never missed a Thursday night. He had a chubby black face that gleamed with sweat, and white frizzed hair. A sharp suit rippled with shine and chunky cufflinks winked gold from his sleeves. Frederick was a groover. Well into ganja, he could score with the girls too. A fine role model, Jerry would think, maybe there’s hope after all.
They all sheltered in the entrance to the men’s loos as Vin doled out his deals. He was quite a small guy set against the lanky Jerry and Frederick’s broad girth. But Vin, though silent, didn’t get much aggravation. For first-time customers, he would give off the hard eye, then pull out a slim shiv and groom his nails. That demonstration given, Vin would grin and soothe his clients with the winning sparkle of his eyes. Vin St Charm. It was one way to survive.
‘You stayin on feh late drinks, Vin?’ Frederick asked.
‘Nah man, the ole lady a call.’
‘Dem always do but some time you don’t have to hear em.’
‘Come on, man, it neva pay to be deaf to a woman . . .’
Another latecomer poked his head around the bar door. Des McGinlay, feeling desperate, panic lights in his eyes. He’d been stuck in his house – loneliness crawling down the walls like so many spiders out to get me. Des needed company but the boozy energy of the bar made him stall. Smoke and din, sweat on garrulous faces – it seemed to mock him and where he’d fled from. Des groaned, wavered and stared in mild shock at the scene, a scene he should really be part of.
