Nine Inches

by Colin Bateman

  It was a little after two o’clock in the afternoon. That gave me roughly twenty-two hours to come up with something that would satisfy the Millers and possibly save Bobby Murray’s life.

  I was not optimistic.

  37

  ‘Where’s the car?’ was the first thing Trish asked when she saw the taxi driving off.

  ‘I got a flat,’ was an approximation of the truth.

  ‘So you just abandoned it?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  She showed me into the lounge and disappeared into the kitchen. She returned swiftly with a can of Harp.

  ‘You may need it,’ she said.

  ‘What happened with the butcher?’

  ‘Bobby got shouted at, so he walked.’

  ‘Why was he shouted at?’

  ‘Smoking in the cold room.’

  ‘As you would. What does Joe say – is he done with him?’

  ‘Nope. I think they’re both quite volatile; difference is Joe doesn’t sulk. He’ll have him back tomorrow. He says Bobby shows a definite flair for cutting and chopping.’

  ‘It’s good to have a talent. What does Bobby say?’

  ‘Very little.’

  ‘Will he go back?’

  ‘Not if he has to apologise first.’

  ‘Is that a condition?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘From Joe?’

  ‘From me.’

  ‘My house, my rules?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Good job you never applied them to me.’

  ‘You were beyond saving.’

  I opened my Harp. ‘You shouldn’t give up so easy.’

  ‘Who says I have?’ Her smile. Love it. ‘Will I get him?’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘Go easy on him, Dan.’

  ‘Trish, the time for going easy has passed.’

  She shouted from the bottom of the stairs.

  He yelled back, ‘Just let me get to the end of this level.’

  ‘No, now!’

  Ten minutes later he sauntered in. He was wearing one of my T-shirts. It had the front cover of The Clash’s first album on it. It was twenty-three years old, and too tight for me.

  As an icebreaker I said, ‘Have you heard of The Clash?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the muck you try to impress me with when I’m in your car.’

  Patricia smirked. ‘Are you still doing that?’

  I made let’s get serious eyes at her.

  Bobby sat on the armchair, sideways, with his legs over the arm. I still hadn’t quite got used to the fake one.

  ‘Bobby . . .’ I began.

  ‘I’m not fuckin’ sayin’ sorry to him,’ he snapped. ‘There was no need to scream at me like that.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m here,’ I said. ‘Though I would advise it.’

  ‘No way am I fuckin’—’

  ‘Shhhh, Bobby, listen to me. It’s not about the butcher’s.’

  ‘What then? What else have I done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Trish. ‘You’ve done nothing.’

  ‘Trish, please . . .’ I said, ‘let me . . .’

  ‘Of course. Sorry. Master of diplomacy.’

  She held her hands up in apology. She pretended to zip her lips. Bobby watched her, and then me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bobby – this situation is untenable.’

  ‘Unwhatable?’

  ‘This can’t continue. Living here, working at Joe’s, even staying at my apartment, you’re putting us all in danger.’

  ‘All right, fuck it.’ He swung his legs off and began to haul himself up. ‘I’m off, then.’

  ‘Bobby – sit down.’

  ‘Make your bloody mind—’

  ‘SIT DOWN!’ It roared out of me, unbidden. Trish looked shocked, but not as shocked as Bobby.

  ‘All right, keep your hair on.’ He lowered himself back down.

  ‘Okay. Sorry. Look, all I’m saying is that the Millers are still after you, and it’s only a matter of time before someone spots you and gives you away. That not only means that they’ll come for you, but they’ll punish whoever’s been harbouring you. You know this, it’s what they’re like.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So? Don’t you care about anyone apart from yourself?’

  ‘Dan . . .’

  ‘Well, fuck it, the selfish little—’

  ‘Dan . . . please.’

  Bobby’s mouth twisted up in contempt. ‘Do you think I need you?’ he spat across. ‘I can walk outta here today, no problem . . .’

  ‘Yeah, right, you’re the big man, you’ll be fine, for about five minutes, then they’ll carve you into little tiny bits . . .’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘You have no idea what they’re capable of.’

  ‘Do I not, do I not?’ He jutted his false leg out. ‘Do I fucking not?’

  ‘Bobby, that’s nothing. It’s a scratch compared to . . .’

  ‘Dan.’

  ‘. . . what they’re capable of . . .’

  ‘Dan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you just stop . . . fucking . . . lecturing.’

  ‘I was only . . .’

  ‘Well, just . . . stop. Let me say something, okay?’

  ‘Right. Yes. Okay. The floor is yours.’

  I sat back. Sarcastically.

  Trish took a deep breath. She let it ease out. Bobby looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Bobby – just hear me out, okay?’ He shrugged. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good. Now, my late husband . . . sorry, Dan, that’s not quite what I mean . . . or is it?’ She smiled. ‘Dan, my ex-partner, may go about things in an arsey way, but he is right.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Shut up. Bobby. This cannot continue. I like having you here. But I can’t live like this. Every time a car goes past, thinking they’re coming for you. Or coming for me. I lived like that for a long time with this eejit, and I’m not going back there. This has to be resolved. If your leg had been left to fester, then it would have killed you. At some point the surgeons had to make a call, lose the leg or lose you. Well that’s the point we’re at; we have to make a decision on what to do. You can’t sit upstairs thinking it will all just go away. It won’t. It’s festering, Bobby, and very soon we’ll be at the point where that decision is taken out of our hands.’

  ‘That’s what I was going to say,’ I said.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Trish. She was firm, she was direct, she was the voice of reason in a way that I, even though I was saying essentially the same thing, was not. ‘Bobby – who killed your mum?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Simple question. You said you saw them.’

  ‘She was askin’ for it.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked, and you know you don’t really believe that. Who was it?’

  ‘Yeah, right. I tell you that, I’m a dead man.’

  ‘Bobby, you’re a dead man anyway.’

  ‘No chance, no way. I tell you, everyone finds out I’m a tout, I may as well top myself. Never be able to show my face again.’

  ‘Bobby . . .’

  ‘I’m not a fuckin’ squealer!’

  ‘Bobby, you are fourteen, your mother is dead, you have no money, nowhere to go, you cannot walk the streets and you are not safe for anyone to be around while the Millers are after you.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

  ‘I know you do,’ said Trish, ‘but if you’re not prepared to name names, then we’ve pretty much run out of options.’

  She looked at me, and gave me my cue.

  ‘Even your dad isn’t interested,’ I said.

  ‘You fucking what . . .?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, I tracked him down. He’s living a nice comfortable little life in England, with his wife, with his children. He doesn’t want to know, Bobby.’

  ‘So? Big deal.’

  But I could see from his face, despite
all the bluster, that it was a big deal.

  ‘I tried, Bobby, but he’s really not fussed. It just kind of underlines what your mum did for you. No matter what you think of her now, she stood up for you, she protected you, she died for you, for fucksake. So think about it. She’s gone and she isn’t coming back. Your dad isn’t interested and your relatives don’t want to know either; it would be like signing their own death warrant. So listen to this and have a good hard think about it: you know and I know it was the Millers who were behind it. You wanted me to fetch the Xbox so you could get the gun and go after them. Well that’s not going to happen. The only way you’re ever going to be able to show your face again is by helping me. If you know who it was, you tell me. I’ll work out some way to connect it to the Millers. I’ll do whatever the hell I can to sort this out, to allow you to walk out of that door and not have to worry about someone shooting your fucking spine out. Do you hear me? I’m not asking you to go down the station and make a statement, I know you won’t do that, but I need something to work on.’

  Beside me, Trish said: ‘Please.’

  Bobby’s cheeks were red and his eyes black-ringed and hollow. He was sucking one of his lips into his mouth and biting down on it. He released it and I could see blood.

  ‘What did he say?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘What did who say?’

  ‘My dad.’

  ‘He was . . . he wanted to know how you were. What you’re like. He’s just in a difficult position with his family.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘That you were a little angel.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. What did you want me to tell him, the truth?’

  ‘What does he do? For a living.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know much.’

  ‘It was on the phone, Bobby, I’m sure I can find out . . .’

  ‘Don’t bother. If he’s not interested, he’s not interested. Fuck him.’

  Bobby hauled himself out of the chair. He walked to the door. Trish and I looked at each other in confusion.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re not finished here,’ I said.

  He stopped at the door and looked back at us. ‘I lied,’ he said, ‘The fire at my house. I didn’t fucking see who did it. I was too busy running away.’

  He clumped up the stairs, and stomped along the hall into his room.

  I raised an eyebrow at Trish. ‘Do you think our parenting skills could do with a little polishing?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s upset,’ said Trish.

  ‘He’s upset? I’m fucking furious.’

  She was going to respond, but then stopped, listening. Bobby was on the move again. We tracked him along the hall and then back down the stairs, one step at a time. Trish raised her hands in a what do you think? gesture. I returned it.

  Bobby came back in. He had a mobile phone in his hand.

  ‘Where did you get . . .?’ I began.

  ‘Shhhh,’ said Trish.

  ‘I didn’t see who did it. But my mates across the road did.’

  ‘Those cheeky wee shits? They’re your friends?’

  ‘They saw it from their bedroom window. Took photos on their phone and sent them to me. Most of them look like shite, but there’s one you can see a face.’ He took a deep breath. ‘This isn’t me squealing, this is just you seeing a photograph someone else took.’

  Bobby turned the phone, tapped the screen, and held it up for me to see.

  It was indeed a good clear picture, with the flames in the background providing the necessary lighting.

  Neville was right, it is a small world.

  Mr Paddy Barr, come on down.

  38

  I told Trish I needed to borrow her car. She told me to get away to fuck. I rephrased it using the words please and pretty please. She said, ‘Do you want me to help you change your tyre? Because that’s usually why—’

  ‘I haven’t time for this, Trish. I have to get moving now. Come on. I can fix this, but I can’t afford to bugger around. Lend me the car, which, technically, is my fucking car anyway.’

  ‘Technically?’

  ‘Purchased with my money, in my name.’

  ‘Do you seriously want to go down that road?’

  ‘No! So just lend it to me!’

  We only stopped when Bobby came barging back into the room with his replacement Xbox in his hands and said, ‘It’s fucking broken.’

  ‘What did you do to it?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything! Why do I always have to have done something?’

  ‘Dan! Will you leave him alone? Things break!’

  ‘I didn’t do nothin’!’ Bobby shouted.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this!’ I yelled. ‘If it’s broken, go and buy another one with your earnings! Oh, that’s right, you got yourself sacked!’

  ‘Dan,’ said Trish, ‘if you hadn’t scrimped on a secondhand one in the first place . . .’

  ‘Scrimped! So it’s my fucking fault?’

  ‘Yes! No! Okay! Just everyone settle down!’ Her shout was louder and higher-pitched than we could match, like a dog whistle for humans, annoying to the point of acquiescence. ‘Okay, fine, that’s better. Bobby – is it broken beyond repair?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was in shit shape to start with.’

  ‘Will I just throw it out, then?’

  Bobby and I both laughed at the same time.

  ‘Trish, Jesus,’ I said, ‘how long were we married? Don’t you know anything about men? We never, repeat, never throw electrical equipment out.’

  ‘Why would you throw it out?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘Because it’s broken and beyond fixing?’

  ‘Nothing is beyond fixing,’ said Bobby.

  ‘And even if it can’t be fixed,’ I said, ‘you can cannibalise it for parts.’

  ‘Dan Starkey, you can’t wire a plug.’

  ‘I can learn.’

  ‘Christ, one minute you’re bickering like a couple of kids, the next you’re uniting against me. Here!’ She threw her keys at me. ‘Take the bloody car. And take the Xbox and either get it fixed or dump it.’

  I was this close to high-fiving with Bobby, but he cut me off at the pass by snapping: ‘My high score’s on there. Try not to lose it.’

  Trish had a Peugeot 107. Silver. It was comfortable, unremarkable, and benefited in terms of clandestine surveillance by not having PEDOFIAL etched on the side. I was parked in Boucher Crescent, about half a mile from Cityscape FM, and opposite the headquarters of Malone Security, hoping to catch up with Paddy Barr. It operated out of a two-storey building, glass-fronted. A receptionist’s stacked blonde hair was just visible behind a high counter. There were two cars with the Malone logo outside, and others came and went. A few of the faces I vaguely recognised from my beating. I had their website up on my phone. It said they offered a bespoke service. It was definitely the cool thing to offer. They were established in 1996. They were all about protecting the community. They had thirty employees, all highly trained, without specifying where they’d received their training or what in. In another country it might have said they were ex-police or army; here, that would alienate half their clientele. There was a photo of someone called Derek Beattie, the managing director and founder. Fat face, bald head, stern look.

  I phoned the invisible blonde and asked to speak to Paddy Barr. She said he was out on a job at the moment and could she take a message. I said it was urgent and asked for his mobile number. She gave it without a problem. How secure. I phoned him. He was in the middle of a conversation with the cruiser when he answered. Something about Manchester United. There was music playing, and the sounds of traffic.

  He said, ‘Hi.’

  I said, ‘I’m a Liverpool man myself.’

  ‘Tragic, mate, tragic,’ he said jovially. ‘Who’s this?’
>
  ‘It’s Dan Starkey.’

  For some reason, his joviality faded. ‘You . . . Where the fuck did you get this number?’

  ‘I looked it up in the book.’

  ‘What book? It’s a fucking mobile.’

  ‘The Penguin Book of Wee Skinny Fuck Faces.’

  ‘What the . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Paddy, and listen to me. I’m sending you a photo by SMS.’

  ‘Photo? What the . . .?’

  ‘Take a good look at it, because I’m on the verge of sending it out to every newspaper in the land. When you’ve had a look, you come and see me. I’m going to be in the café, first floor, House of Fraser, Victoria Square, in thirty minutes. You come alone. You try anything smart, I’ve people wired to send it out anyway.’

  ‘Send what? What are you . . .? Do you never fucking learn? You don’t mess with—’

  ‘Paddy.’ I said it quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just look at the photo.’

  He said nothing for a bit. I could hear the Script on the radio, and the cruiser singing along.

  ‘Why House of Fraser?’

  ‘Because it’s comfortable and offers a wide range of quality goods. Should you give a fuck? No. Just be there. And Paddy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bring my Xbox.’

  ‘How the fuck do you—’

  I cut the line. Then I sent the photo of him outside Jean Murray’s burning home.

  He approached warily, the Xbox in a large green plastic M&S bag. His eyes roved over the customers at the other tables. He pulled out a chair and sat. He reached the games console across to me. From the weight of it, I guessed the money, drugs and gun were still safe inside.

  He said, ‘It doesn’t work.’

  ‘I know. Why didn’t you just throw it out?’

  ‘I was going to get it fixed. How did you know I had it?’

  ‘Because you would have checked my car over before you had it towed. It was probably in your boot, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Was it in the boot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how much did you get for the car?’