The City Trap

by John Dalton

  ‘It a Friday night. The girls dem a tekkin break from work.’

  There was Ida, Sandy and there was Colette. The three women squeezed around Jerry and Frederick and suddenly the atmosphere changed. Well-cushioned thighs and brazen boobs pushed out and the raucous chat that had previously jarred was dispelled to the far reaches of the room. Frederick did the intros as he sneakily rolled a spliff on his knees.

  ‘Social workers of the world, ennit, sisters?’

  ‘Too right, Fred,’ the big-shouldered Ida replied. ‘There ain’t a man’s problems we don’t fix.’

  ‘Fuck the prisons, eh, jus gi em lots a pussy.’

  ‘Yeh, well we ain’t working at the mo, Fred, so leave it out, eh.’

  ‘Yeh, you is right, sis.’

  ‘So how’s it goin with you, old man? How’s the weary bones an that dreaded arthritis?’

  ‘No way you shoulda mention dat. It like the weather, Ida, which in dis country is none at all good. Why you tink me a spliff up all the time?’

  ‘Huh, that’s just an excuse to get high and you know it. You wanna get into training, old man. That’s what we do, ain’t it, Sandy?’

  Ida raised her arm to show off her biceps. She nudged Sandy as she did so.

  ‘Leave off, Ida!’

  ‘Blimey!’ Ida turned back to Frederick. ‘She had a real slimebag earlier on. We had to help her out. Jesus, you need to be fit.’

  ‘Well you know what happen to Claudette.’

  ‘Yeh. But it forgettin time now, ain’t it? Time for fun, eh?’

  ‘Too, too right.’

  As Ida spoke, Jerry found himself looking at her nutbrown hands and the eight silver rings that adorned them. One had a skull on it. Jerry couldn’t stop staring and suddenly felt his stomach churn. The sight of Mary’s bloody head came looming. And then another hand reached out and touched Jerry’s. It belonged to Colette, the one with the ginger curls.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘J-Just about.’

  ‘You feelin sick?’

  ‘B-Badly.’

  Colette pouted her lips and frowned. ‘Now I’m here it ain’t allowed.’

  She smiled, shoved a fag in Jerry’s mouth and suddenly the death’s head receded. The flow of drinks increased as the girls began to blow hard-earned money. The laughter grew too, the girls taking the piss out of punters, talking telly and movies and most of all weighing the options of where they’d most like to be – Spain, Greece, LA, Orlando – it looked like Florida would win hands down.

  ‘Stop dis dreamin!’ Frederick shouted. ‘The night it a young, the pub a closin an we should go party elsewhere.’

  ‘Why not your yard, Fred?’ Ida bawled.

  ‘Oh no, me gotta much better idea.’

  It was the end house of a condemned row. Looking out of a side window, all Jerry could see were dark humps of earth and brick rubble. The broken terrain seemed to last for ever, only ceasing, it seemed, at far-off lights in some other part of the city. The window was in the hall, a place a few precious decibels quieter than the rest of the blues party, where rap and reggae thundered. Heavy bass pounded into the walls and foundations, and then went off into the bowels of the earth. Jerry could see the house being prematurely demolished by the end of the night.

  ‘Women dem a bitches, man. Dem play up like queens an mek man pay.’

  ‘Ugh?’

  Jerry was propping up a wall in the hall with a Red Stripe and a solid vibration up his spine. This guy Wishbone was talking. He was a kind of travelling salesman with a big bag full of dope, chocolate bars and overpriced fags.

  ‘We the hunters man, an women, dey is creation, ennit? Pickneys an dumplins an sweet-scented fannies, right?’

  ‘Er . . . right.’

  ‘Right, an we out in the bleedin jungle gettin cut up and fuck up an strung way out, an all we friggin want, man, when we get back fi yard is a lickle bit a sweet –’ Wishbone rubbed his fingers under Jerry’s nose.

  ‘Yeh, r-right . . .’

  ‘Right, an do we get it? No fuckin way, man, less we kiss dem friggin feet firs!’

  Jerry didn’t know what the guy was on about or how come he was talking of sweet-scented fannies. Frederick had drifted off some time ago to rub-a-dub with the off-duty whores. He could see them grooving and soothing away the sweat of their labour with crackling bush and the rhythms of Africa. Maybe Frederick had said to the guys that Jerry was mourning or maybe it was his sad drooling eyes that Wishbone noticed as Jerry watched tight pants throb and hanging cleavages drip with sweat.

  ‘But me don’t tek none a dat now. Me mek sure me skirt a one who know me is the boss!’

  Wishbone showed a gold tooth and then pushed a gold knuckle up towards Jerry’s eyes. All he could do was grin. Copious amounts of dope and pummelling sounds had moulded him into a kind of fluid oblivion, a throbbing organism that just was, whatever went on around him. And that was good because the pain had gone. There was nothing but the numb beat, the uncomplicated pulse that went on and on.

  14

  The Mirpur Gardens wasn’t exactly teeming with life. Only four others, two couples, sat up front by the plate glass window, their faces washed green by the restaurant sign. Within the rest of the room, surrounded by the gold-embossed flock of rose and vine, there was just one other person. Des McGinlay mopped up the last of his balti with a cold remnant of naan. The tables were covered with plum-coloured cloths and had sheets of glass on top. In the reflection of one, Des could see the cold cabinet with its trays of sweets and the disembodied, upside-down head of Zafeer. A disconcerting view that seemed to sum up how uncomfortable he felt. Sweat dappled his brow, a brow that felt taut as though ratcheted from behind. And the floral walls, they twitched and swirled in the corners of his tired eyes. Des gripped the edges of the table. The room, dimly lit, suddenly seemed to elongate and Zafeer, eyes almost closed, appeared twenty yards away, a shrivelled nut of a head bathed in the green neon glow. Des knew he had to move. He eased his way over to the counter. He paid the bill, fumblingly, cash clattering on glass, with Zafeer’s bleary eyes looking out into the night for mathematical inspiration. It was a transaction of sorts, though the details seemed arbitrary. Des didn’t mind; a hollow ‘Cheers’ and he was out into the cool night air.

  It was what he needed, the air and the exercise. Back on the move, eyes alert, on the lookout for Jerry Coton. He crossed Stoney Lane and entered the terraced streets, all yellow glare, deep shadow and covered windows hinting secrets. A taxi prowled past him looking for its fare. Then a pair of black ghost forms appeared. Purdah robes. Wary, they hugged the house walls and then scurried past Des. He caught the merest flicker of a furtive eye. Further on, Des had the feeling he was being followed, but there was no one to see. He shrugged. Just bad feelings on his tail. In that yard behind the wall, a death that should’ve been avoided. Over in the shop doorway, fear pretending to check out the small ads. And further back, in deeper cover, Miranda was doggedly clinging on. He gritted his teeth. Nothing much else could be done. It was a test of nerve.

  Friday night and there was no Stevie Kitson down at the Lime Tree. This night seemed to attract mostly black clientele so Des didn’t feel especially hopeful. Still, he pushed his way through the throng and wondered whether a drink would dispel the night creatures that followed him. He decided it would and ordered a large whisky. As he did so, he caught Eileen’s eye and beckoned her over. It being pay cheque night, it was a while before Eileen came. Des surveyed the bar. There were few faces he recognized.

  ‘Can’t talk long, Des, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Sorry, Eileen, just a quick thing. You seen Jerry Coton here tonight?’

  ‘The tall guy who stutters?’

  ‘Yeh, guess that’s him.’

  ‘Surely, he was here earlier on, but then went off with Frederick.’

  ‘Old grey Frederick?’

  ‘Huh-uh.’

  ‘No idea where?’

  ‘I think Frederick som
etimes goes down the George.’

  ‘Right.’

  Des downed his whisky in one go. Then he felt a little something give him a tug. Big wallow here. See all those smiling faces, that warm amber glow? How about, you know, another little shot before you think to leave? Des stood up abruptly. ‘No way,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘No way I fall for that again.’ And he made his way through the crowd.

  So it was once more out into the city streets where bad vibes prowled like ghosts in black. He went up a street of shuttered shops, all riot and ram-raider proof, and then turned the corner at the Dodyal Sweet House where bullet holes could still be seen in the concrete wall. He kept his head well down. Eyes on automatic de-select. If you don’t see the shit, the world looks better. He didn’t even look into the window of the all-night taxi office where grey-faced drivers kicked heels, chewed fat and went goggle-eyed in front of the TV box. Being this withdrawn, Des didn’t see the guy coming round the corner. He couldn’t stop his shoulder sending Vin St James flying.

  ‘Jesus fuck, man!’ Vin had landed on his backside. He angrily glared up at Des. ‘It you! You the bleeda who sock me before. You the bastard who los me bes blade!’

  ‘Sorry, man. Shit, let me help you up.’

  ‘Don’t you dare touch me, man!’

  ‘You look like you need help. I mean, what happened, Vin?’

  Vin was certainly struggling to get to the vertical. His left arm was in a sling and there seemed to be something wrong with one of his legs. He managed to get his weight on his good arm but then struggled to get his feet to move.

  ‘Shit!’ he gasped.

  Des moved over, grabbed him under the armpits and pulled Vin up like a pillow. But he didn’t get any thanks, merely a suspicious, surly look as Vin dusted himself down. Des noticed a set of stitches right across his brow.

  ‘So what happened then, eh?’

  ‘It ent nuttin feh you to know bout.’

  ‘Come on, you know my interest. I’m still working for Bertha.’

  Vin looked up and down the street. His shoulders seemed droopier than before and his cheeks more hollow. The guy had aged a lot in a week.

  ‘Yeh, what the fuck,’ Vin muttered.

  ‘Did you get clobbered because of Claudette?’

  ‘You t’ink me s’pose fi know dat?’ The shoulders drooped more. ‘Yeh, man, it probably was. Look, man, you put it togedda. Me go an see Ross Constanza, ask im if he know anytin bout what Claudette she up to. Im don’t know. Few day later, Scobie turn up on me plot an me end up in a hospital wid me whole crop a trash.’

  ‘Scobie?’

  ‘Wha? You mean you don’t know im?’ Vin kissed his teeth. ‘Scobie im Ross bad bwoy, im muscle. Man, me pull firs an im still get me.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Vin, but, you know, why would this Ross guy know anything?’

  ‘Come on, you ain’t that dumb, or is you jus playin the fool?’

  ‘Hey –’

  ‘Look, Ross im run girl too, at the posh end a the market. Me jus thought she might a gone to im feh extra dough. Turn out she was fuckin roun wid some other guy, but dat don’t bother Ross. You ain’t s’pose to question Ross.’

  ‘You got any proof?’

  ‘Man, me know nuttin right, cept me a fuck up bad an feelin pressure.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the info anyway.’

  ‘Don’t t’ank me, man, cos it could be a curse.’ Vin suddenly turned a shifty eye up and straight into Des’s gaze. ‘Scobie, the rat, im coulda come after you!’

  A half-hearted laugh came out of Vin’s mouth as he turned and limped away. Des leaned back against a wall. For a moment he was encouraged by what he’d heard about Ross Constanza. Another connection, another snippet of information that made the case move. But then he sighed loudly. ‘Just another sordid little fix really,’ he muttered to himself. ‘So why am I roaming the streets?’ Des set off once again for the George. ‘Could it be because I don’t want to go back to Bertha?’

  The George Inn was considerably quieter than the Lime Tree. This was a Sikh-run pub and was known to be stricter in adhering to the rules. The clientele, therefore, were perhaps a bit more respectable. That, or they were serious drinkers unconcerned with pick-ups or partying. Des got himself half a bitter. He asked at the bar about Frederick but got the same story that he’d been and gone. He found a fairly quiet corner and slumped down. The temptation was to start picking over the case, and that would probably have happened, if a woman hadn’t stared him out of his thoughts. She wouldn’t stop looking, a ginger-haired mixed-race woman with mocking eyes and the prominent thighs of a girl in the trade. Des began to get shifty. Her face was familiar.

  ‘You clocked it yet?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘Could be a delicate matter, certainly embarrassing.’

  ‘That’s probably why I’ve forgot.’

  ‘Think of precious jewels.’

  ‘Rubies?’

  ‘Better than that.’

  ‘Diamonds?’

  ‘No, this has a sea connection.’

  ‘Oh no . . .’

  It was the kind of situation that might have got Des running, but there was something about Pearl that made him smile.

  ‘I’m kind of surprised you remembered. One limp john must look like any other,’ he said.

  ‘You didn’t come over as any john. You didn’t even seem like a john, more like a guy who was having a bad time. A bit like now, huh?’

  ‘Very perceptive.’

  ‘It’s useful to know how to size a guy up.’

  ‘In one minute flat?’

  ‘Often that’s all the time there is.’

  Des found himself beginning to relax. It was weird, her just sitting there and latching onto him, but there seemed no angles, no shit to be stirred. Is this friendliness, Des thought, that I am warming to?

  ‘Do you normally do this? I mean, talk to ex-clients?’ he asked. ‘I guess this is your time off.’

  ‘Too right it is. I come here for some peace and quiet. And you? Well you, I guess, aren’t really an ex-client. I kind of respect a guy who isn’t into cold sex.’

  ‘Yeh?’ Des wondered whether he was blushing. ‘Well, it’s nice to meet you, Pearl.’

  ‘You too, mister.’

  They both shook hands and Des suddenly thought of the sea and of a beach of yellow sand yet to be visited.

  15

  Old grey Frederick lived on the second floor of a converted Victorian house. A housing association job, Des could tell. He stood on the porch on a bright sunny morning and rang the relevant bell. It was almost a good mood day. He’d stayed away from Bertha. And there was a new spirit to warm up his weary heart. They hadn’t stayed chatting for long, and it was just routine stuff about living in the city, but Des had actually made a date with Pearl. OK, so she was a pro and had a nasty pimp hanging around. She wasn’t exactly a good catch, but for Des the date seemed like an achievement in the aftermath of Miranda and the deal he had with Bertha. He rang the bell again. Nine o’clock. It was disgustingly early he knew, but this was a good mood day and there was a big case to work on. ‘Put it there,’ Des said to a scruffy cat that came out of the shrubbery. He held out his hand. The cat sniffed it but then moved on to wait by the front door. ‘You want him too, huh?’

  The old guy did eventually come down and open the door. A black face, sallow and bereft of shine, Frederick peered out at the sunlight and groaned.

  ‘Err . . . wha the fuck is it, man?’

  ‘Your cat’s hungry, Frederick.’

  ‘Huh, neva nuttin else.’ A red eye prised itself a little further open. ‘Who the fuck are you, man, and why the fuck you wekin me up at dis lunatic hour?’

  Des almost felt like launching into some kind of Jehovah spiel and taking the piss, but he managed to keep in a work mode.

  ‘Yeh, sorry about this, but, well actually I want to see Jerry.’

  ‘How’d you fin me, man, an im for dat matter?
’

  ‘I’m local, Frederick. I know who to ask.’

  ‘Yeh . . . well, man. Jerry, im stone cold out, got block up to im eyeball las night cos im woman got kill.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’m here.’

  Frederick opened the door a little wider. Des saw a white shirt half stuffed into jogging pants. He also saw unshaven white fuzz on Frederick’s jaw and thought then of Wayne, wondering whether he should get a match out and strike up for his first fag of the day.

  ‘Well, man, me guess you can try an wek Jerry up if you want, but it’ll prob’ly tek all day.’

  Frederick turned towards the stairs, the cat at his ankles and Des following behind.

  It could almost have been that Jerry Coton had joined Mary Holmes in the garden of rest. He lay on his back on the bed, white and totally immobile. His mouth resembled the last gasp of a fish drowned in air. Des did light up his first fag of the day and pondered the arts of resurrection. His first impulse was to want to shave off Jerry’s straggly beard and comb his knotted hair as if he was an undertaker out to groom a corpse. But the sun was shining and urgent in his heart and Des was impatient to get on. Frederick muttered, ‘What the fuck?’ as Des got out the ice-cube tray and returned to the laid-out Jerry. A cube for each of the eyes, several slotted in the mouth and then the rest piled on a hardly moving chest. Des squeezed Jerry’s nose and waited. Like a train approaching in the distance, a few vibrations began in Jerry’s body, a few twitches and stifled snorts and then a more distinct and continuous writhing until Jerry jolted upright, spat out water and coughed raucously.

  ‘Welcome back . . .’

  ‘Wha –?’

  ‘To the land of the living, man.’

  Bloodshot eyes glanced briefly at Des in incomprehension before the coughing fit resumed. Des knew he was only halfway there.

  The cornmeal porridge sitting before Jerry Coton looked more like an oral excretion than breakfast food. Des concentrated on plying coffee. It was the third top-up and still Jerry hadn’t spoken a word. His elbows were pinioned to the table while the rest of him shivered, his red eyes staring implacably at a sugar bowl and the brown coffee stains that marred its contents.