by Ray Banks
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” he says. “Just, y’know, I read the papers, man.”
“I know you do.”
He flicks the cheque. “And I just wonder if you’re okay with taking money from Donald Plummer.”
“I’ve done it before.”
“He wasn’t in the news before.” Paulo folds the cheque. For one sick second, I think he’s going to tear it in half. “Look, I’m not telling you who you should be taking on as a client, Cal, you know that—”
“Yeah, I do. And I know you’re looking out for me, but I’ve already been through it myself. The reason I left was because I kept getting my arse handed to me, alright? No way I would take on this job if I thought it was going to happen again.”
“Okay,” he says.
“And let’s face it, mate, he’s hardly Morris Tiernan, is he?”
“Suppose not.” Paulo tucks the cheque into his pocket and heads into the main gym area. The heavy bags have arrived, and Paulo digs out a Stanley knife, starts slicing the plastic from them.
“Hey, I’ll be fine,” I tell him.
Behind me, another van turns up. A delivery guy hops out of the cab, electronic clipboard in hand. Another guy gets out the back, unloading boxes. Paulo shouts at one of the workmen to sign for them. The decorator does what he’s told — he knows better than to backchat.
“I hope so,” says Paulo, pulling the plastic from one of the bags in one sudden jerk. “Because it wasn’t so long ago, you were the kind of bloke who’d welcome a good kicking.”
“Fuck off.”
“Hey, you never thought you did.” Gathering up the plastic and nudging it into the corner of the room. “But you weren’t shy about throwing yourself into situations that could only end in tears. Fetch those boxes across for us, will you?”
As Paulo lifts and hangs the heavy bag, I head to the entrance, grab one of the boxes. It isn’t heavy, but it’s bulky as hell, so I struggle returning to Paulo. “I’m still alive, mate.”
“I know,” says Paulo, gesturing for me to put the box down. “And are you still on the pills?”
I dump the box in front of him, head back for another one. It gives me a chance to think of a decent lie. I hear him taking his Stanley blade to the tape on the box. Grab another box and heft it up, say, “I’ve still got problems with my back, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yeah, you look it.”
“This isn’t heavy.”
Paulo brings out a bag of focus pads, drops it to the floor. “That’s not what I asked anyway.”
“Then what did you ask?” I say, stalling.
“You know.”
I don’t say anything. Put the box down. He stares at me for a second, then clicks the blade back into his Stanley.
“Because I’ll tell you something,” he says. “I don’t know how daft you think I am, son, but I do know that you don’t get prescriptions that often and that large.”
“Paulo—”
“And if I was of a mind to get fuckin’ disappointed, I’d check with your GP and find out if he’s the one been prescribing them to you.”
He’s bluffing. There’s no way he’d be able to do that, but there’s a part of me that feels like a scared kid around Paulo. I keep quiet. Don’t want to incriminate myself, and I know that if I start blurting out excuses, he’ll just get angrier.
Paulo pulls the unopened box towards himself.
“What I think,” he says, “is that you’re getting them from somewhere else.”
I shake my head. Can’t bring myself to deny it out loud. There’s a pain in my throat.
He tears open the box, then stands up. His voice drops in volume. “If I find out you’re buying from a fuckin’ dealer, Cal, we’re going to have some problems.”
“I understand that. I have a medical condition.”
“Then let a doctor deal with it.”
“I do.”
His face tenses for a moment. Same face he pulls when someone’s missed a session and come up with a bullshit excuse. “All I’m saying, do me a favour on this job and don’t get fucked up so bad you keep taking those pills. Because when you come back here, that’s something I’d rather you didn’t bring with you.”
I say, “You know that’s not going to happen, mate.”
Lying through my teeth, already coming up with future excuses, ways I can get around this.
“I won’t put up with dealers in here.”
“Paulo.” I smile. “Don’t fuckin’ worry about it. I understand what you’re saying and it’ll be taken care of, believe me.”
He stares at me for a long time. “Okay.”
“Now stick the cheque in the bank first thing tomorrow, alright?” I clear my throat; the ache seems to be going. “Time is of the essence with Plummer. I don’t think he’s going to be in business much longer, so catch him while he’s solvent.”
“You can spare it?” he says.
“It’s a cheque, so I’m going to have to, aren’t I? No, I’m fine. It’s a bit more than half of what I’m on at the moment.”
Paulo pulls out the second bag — looks like more pads. “You bumped up your prices, didn’t you?”
“Well, I’m a celebrity now.”
“Course you are.”
“And this job, I demanded the extra cash.”
“How so?”
“Danger money.”
He turns. And welcome back to that same old worried expression that used to make me want to slap him. Now I just want to hug the old bastard.
“Joking,” I say.
“You better be.”
“It’s Donald Plummer, Paulo. Course I’m going to charge him through the nose. The fucker’s been underpaying me ever since I started working for him.”
Paulo continues to unload the box. “Onwards and upwards.”
“Yeah. Look, I better be going, mate. Got stuff to do. Look like you’re kind of busy yourself.”
“Listen, you get some time tomorrow, we’re getting the rings delivered.”
I head for the front doors. “Yeah, that should be fun.”
“We could use some help setting them up.”
“I’ll see what’s happening, mate. Give you a call about it, okay?”
“Of course,” he says. “You’re a working man now.”
“Fuck, yeah. Working for myself. About time, too.”
21
It’s been a long day, and I keep thinking I’ve forgotten something.
But no — everything’s sorted with this meeting tonight. Whatever Frank digs up — if he manages to get anything — should keep me busy for a while. It’s just I can’t stop worrying about it, when I really should take the opportunity to relax.
So I pop round Sainsbury’s to get a shop in. I’m in the mood for a big meal, something stodgy, followed by a bottle of the posh vodka — the kind you can’t spell without using an entirely new alphabet — and then early to bed. Frank can leave a message on the answer machine and I’ll pick it up tomorrow morning before I head out to Longsight, see if I can scare up a few more leads.
“Excuse me, you’re Callum Innes, aren’t you?”
I turn to see the kind of woman who I know has a people carrier parked outside. The scrubbed face of a young, middle-class mother, her apple cheeks and watery blue eyes passed on to the kid who’s currently clutching her trouser leg. I can’t place his age, but I try to look friendly. “Yeah.”
“You saved that boy.” She’s smiling now. Shifting the massive bag on her shoulder.
“I suppose I did, yeah.”
She blinks. “Oh, sorry, have I got the wrong person?”
“No,” I say. Shaking my head, telling myself I should enjoy the attention. “I saved the lad, yeah.”
She bites her bottom lip. Nods as if I’m the first celebrity she’s ever met, when I know for a fact that half the regular cast of Coronation Street shop in this Sainsbury’s. Mostly in the off-licence part of it, but from what I hear, g
roceries that clink together are still groceries.
“We’re so proud of you,” she says.
“Thank you. Who’s we?”
“I live in Prestwich.”
I nod.
“You’re quite the hero round our way.” Her smile flickers again, a brief frown. “I mean, in our area.”
“News travels fast,” I say. “It was only yesterday I was in the paper.”
“It’s a popular paper.” The smile brightens a notch. “My name’s Kelly.”
“Nice to meet you, Kelly.” I make a move to crouch, but my back won’t let me. “What’s your name, son?”
“He doesn’t speak to strangers.” She lets go of the kid’s hand for a second to open her large handbag. “Actually, I was wondering …”
Here we go again. Another autograph. I hope she’s got a pen.
Kelly brings out a sheaf of paper. Sheets of A4, tabled and covered with signatures, different-coloured inks scratched all over. She sorts through them, biting her lip again, hefting the pile of papers as she juggles them, the bag, and her kid tugging at her trouser leg.
“Don’t be a nuisance,” she says to the kid. Then she finds a sheet with a blank space on it, hands me the lot.
“What’s this?” I say, still trying to smile, but buckling a little with the awkwardness of the thing.
“A petition. I’d love you to sign it.”
So it is an autograph. Of sorts.
“What’s it for?” I wink at the boy. He flinches.
“Well,” she says, “you know …”
I look up. “Sorry?”
She takes a step forward, pointing out the names. I don’t recognise any of them. “It would be marvellous if we could get you to sign. Someone like you, well, your name may have a little more weight attached to it.”
I try to read the type at the top of the sheet. The lights in the supermarket make it difficult to focus. I knew I shouldn’t have tried to crouch for that kid; the pain’s spreading up my back to the bottom of my neck now.
“Sorry,” I say. “I can’t read this.”
Kelly holds out a biro. I take it off her.
“You must have heard,” she says.
“I’ve heard a lot of things the last couple of days, Kelly. You’re going to have to refresh my memory.”
“They’re trying to move asylum seekers into Prestwich.”
“Right.”
“Nelson Road. The old flats. You know them?”
“And you’re … against this?”
“Have you ever been to Prestwich, Mr Innes?”
I look back at the petition. Name after name, all in delicate cursive script. “I’ve passed through a couple of times, yeah. It’s a nice area. Bit too posh for me.”
“Exactly.”
“Sorry?”
“It is a nice area.” The smile’s still on her face, but it’s also hardened at the edges, starting to turn into a grimace. “And we’d very much like to keep it that way.”
“Right,” I say, trying to swallow the urge to sigh. “You don’t want foreigners in your street.”
Kelly blinks. “I’m not racist, Mr Innes.”
“Course you’re not.”
“I don’t care what colour they are or where they come from,” she says, grabbing the boy’s hand as if he’s going to pipe up and corroborate. “But you must know the way areas go once they’ve allowed that sort into the community.”
“That sort?” I shake my head, grab a loaf, shove it in my basket. “No, I don’t. Sorry, Kelly.”
I hand her the petition, start moving up the aisle. She follows me, dragging the kid behind her.
“You’ve been to Longsight. You were in that house, you know how they live.”
“I really have to be going. Thanks, anyway.”
She grabs onto my arm. I resist the urge to put my elbow in her face.
“You’re not going to sign?”
“Politics isn’t really my thing.”
“This isn’t about politics,” she says. “It’s—”
“It’s always about politics, Kelly.” I turn to face her. “Look, I’m knackered, I’ve had a long day and I just want to get some shopping in, then go home. You’ll forgive me if I don’t want to exercise my right to screw people I don’t know. It was nice to meet you. You too, son.”
I move away up the aisle. Glance over my shoulder and Kelly is staring at the little boy as if he was the one to scare me off. The boy looks my way. I wink at him again; he still flinches.
I’m not surprised now. Not with that as a mother. I move into the booze aisle and sack the posh vodka in favour of a couple of four-packs of beer. Better I stay away from the spirits tonight. Not only do I have to be up in the morning, get the jump on this case, but there’s a strong part of me that’s scared I’ll end up back round Greg’s.
So I’ll slow down on the pills. It’s going to be a bastard trying to get them past Paulo anyway, so might as well drop my dose unless the pain gets really bad. See how well I function. But as I’m heading to the bus stop, I take two codeine anyway.
Pre-emptive measure.
TWO
THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND
22
Next morning, I’m on a bus to Longsight, thinking about the list that Plummer gave me. It must have come from somewhere, and it can’t have been easy to get hold of. Most letting agencies have some sort of landlord confidentiality. Most places bring up the Data Protection Act, doesn’t matter how personal the question. After all, it’s the only widely known legal excuse for being an unhelpful twat.
But still, someone managed to get the list.
I don’t know what security at the smaller agencies is like. And Plummer only goes through the smaller firms. He looks for a quick, constant turnover of tenants. He’s not interested in long-term lets because that means he’d actually have to maintain the properties to a certain level, which just isn’t economically viable in his world. He also goes local because the national letting agencies won’t touch him with a ten-foot fucking pole.
The trouble is, which local agencies does he use?
When I round the corner on Stockport Road, I see the most likely candidate. Can’t make out the name of the place, because it’s been obscured by a wall of young people, could well be students. A picket, a protest and enough placards to tickle even the most apathetic bloke’s curiosity.
If I needed any more evidence, a girl turns to reveal her sign: GOT PLUMMER PROBLEMS?
Apparently so. I head for the door. A girl with ginger dreads, her hands full of bright yellow leaflets, steps in front of me.
“You going in there?”
She has a look on her face like I’ve just eaten a dog hair sandwich. On white bread.
I try my best smile on her. “Y’know, I thought I might.”
“You’re not thinking of renting from here, are you?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, is it?”
She presses a leaflet into my hand. A badly photocopied picture of Donald Plummer on the front, nicked from the newspaper article, so he’s gurning something rotten. I look up at the student. She knows who Plummer is, but she doesn’t know me. That’s fine; I can live with that.
“Read that,” she says. “Be prepared.”
“Okay. You going to let me past?”
“You want to cross the picket, you can cross the picket. We won’t stop you.”
Like they’re a serious threat.
“Thanks ever so much,” I say, and push inside.
A bell rings as the door opens. A stringy lad with a full beard is sitting opposite a severe blonde woman in a beige suit that looks too much like a uniform to be flattering. The lad’s wearing a biker jacket — either vintage, or new and fashionably scuffed — and seems to be in the middle of an indignant rant. Two mates with him, one with a rugby shirt and the features to match, chewed ears, coloured cheeks and heavy features. The other is a girl who looks like a dinner wouldn’t kill her, a metal stud
shining in her nose. Charity and friendship bracelets hang off one wrist, the kind of doe-eyed girl who makes Bono lie awake at night thinking he’s just not doing enough.
“Pending a full investigation?” says the stringy lad. “You’re not going to tell him where to go?”
The blonde woman blinks slowly. “I appreciate your concern, David. And you know, we have discussed this with your student representative.”
“You haven’t discussed it with us.”
A smile, tight and condescending. “We don’t deal with you.”
“You know as well as I do that those people don’t know their arse from their elbow.”
“That’s as maybe,” says the blonde woman, “but that’s who we’re dealing with at this moment in time. We have to go through the proper channels, I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“Do you want more picket lines?” says David, turning to his two mates for support. “I mean, we can arrange a rolling picket if you want.”
“As long as it’s peaceful, you can do whatever you think is right. It’s a free country.”
“Right you are, it’s a free country.” Nods from behind him, the most emphatic from the skinny girl. “I’m free to speak my mind, and I’m free to organise protest—”
“David, if there’s nothing else …” The blonde woman nods my way. “There’s a gentleman I should really attend to.”
David stops talking, twists in his seat and looks at me. His lips go thin, then he nods to himself. Pushes his chair back, gets to his feet and holds out his hand to the blonde woman. All business, frosty now. She takes his hand, but only for a moment.
“We’ll be back,” he says.
The agency woman smiles at him. “I’m sure you will.”
I watch the students leave, hear the bell ring again to signal their departure. Then I turn to the woman. The badge on her jacket reads MEG. Can’t say the name suits her. With that nose, she looks more like a Diana.
“What can I do for you?” she says.
“I need a little information. About a landlord.”
“Donald Plummer.” A statement.
“Read my mind. I didn’t know you were a mystic, Meg.”
