by Hannah Howe
Naz sprang forward again, propelled by his chair. If he kept doing that, he’d put his back out. “You taking the piss?” he asked.
“Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
He shook his head while his fingers ripped the playing card to shreds. “I got better things to do with my time.”
“Like reading Mein Kampf,” I said.
He grinned. “After sex, every night.”
From the warehouse, the sound of laughter, clanging and cursing drifted into the office. Naz’s men were packing up his wares, preparing to ship them out.
Standing, I thought it best to take my leave, before I became the dogs’ dinner. Though as I stepped through the door, Naz called out, “Listen, scrubber; the new broom is gonna sweep clean, clear the old junk away. And if you get in the way, it will sweep you aside too. Unnerstand?”
“Understand,” I said, “the word contains a d, two in fact, one near the beginning, the other at the end.”
“Beat it,” he growled, “before I set the dogs on you.”
A wise man once said, if you win an argument with an idiot, all you can pride yourself in is that you’ve won an argument with an idiot. I didn’t see the point of arguing with Naz any longer, so I turned on my heel and left his warehouse.
Chapter Seven
That evening, in my flat in Grangetown – soon to be Faye’s flat because she was taking over the lease – I found myself standing to attention, arms outstretched as Faye pinned and unpinned my wedding dress, made minor alterations to her creation.
“Breathe in,” Faye instructed. I did so and she wrapped a measuring tape around my waist. Then she studied the number on the tape and scowled, “You’ve put on weight; too much time sitting on your butt.”
“I’ll run it off before the wedding.”
“And put it straight back on again, at the wedding feast.”
“I’ve always been too thin. I reckon a size ten to twelve is something I should aim for.”
Faye nodded. She pointed at the measurement on the tape. “Well aim no longer, honey; you’re already there.”
I smiled. I didn’t regard the extra weight as a problem. Indeed, adding a few pounds and upping a dress size was a long-term aim. “That’s called love, Faye, contentment.”
“Is that so?” she frowned.
“Yeah. If you’re in love and content you enjoy your food more and you worry less.”
“Uh-huh. That explains it then.”
“Explains what?” I asked.
“Our obese society; must be a helluva lot of contented people out there.”
“You can’t talk,” I said, “your diet is appalling.” Faye had an incredibly sweet tooth, and a capacity for junk food that brought a smile to a certain fast food chain’s face.
“But I’ve got a figure to die for, haven’t I?” she asked, pirouetting, turning to face me. “Haven’t I?” she persisted, when I didn’t answer.
At that moment, it struck me that Faye was feeling vulnerable, maybe because of the impending change, of me moving in with Alan, with her taking full control of the flat. And, maybe, that explained her current need for regular affirmation in regard to her looks and behaviour.
“You do have a figure to die for,” I replied truthfully.
At that, Faye smiled and appeared to relax. She returned to my dress, a sleeveless, champagne number with a lacy bodice and hem, adorned with a rose motif. She added a few nips and tucks then announced herself satisfied. “There, what do you think?” she asked.
I wandered over to the hall mirror, where I swayed casually to my right, then left, smiled and admired the dress. “Looks lovely,” I said. “Thanks, Faye.”
From the hall, I strolled into my bedroom, where I wriggled out of the dress then slipped into a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt. The evening was humid and heavy, oppressively hot. Maybe we’d experience a thunderstorm, maybe the weather would break. Whatever, I hoped the sun would shine on our wedding day.
“So, who’s our new client then?” Faye asked as I handed her the dress for safekeeping.
“New client?” I frowned.
“I saw him, Sam,” Faye scowled. She placed the dress on a hanger then hooked that hanger on to a rail inside her wardrobe. “He was on the lookout for me,” she added, returning to the living room, flopping on to an armchair; “thinks I missed him, but I saw him.”
“You’re very observant,” I said.
“Trained by the best,” she grinned while nodding at me. “So, who is he?” she asked. “Gawain Morgan; your dad.”
“How do you know that?” I frowned.
“I put two and two together; those regular trips to Porthcawl. I reckoned that either you were going there to sit on the deckchairs, unlikely, to meet up with a fancy man, highly unlikely because you couldn’t handle the guilt, or call on Gawain Morgan. And who do people call on regularly? Close friends and kin.”
“You are very observant,” I said.
Faye offered a diffident shrug, though the smile on her face revealed the truth; she was pleased with my comment. Turning to her left, she picked up a can of cola and a stick of barley sugar from a nest of tables. She dipped the barley sugar into the cola then gave the sweet, twisted stick a long suck.
“Why did you keep it quiet,” she asked, “because he’s a con?”
“Ex-con,” I corrected her. “It was Gawain’s idea. He didn’t want to upset me or the business. But we’ve agreed to get it out in the open; I was going to tell you, when the moment was right.”
“So now we know,” Faye said, running her tongue over the barley sugar, pausing to sip her cola. “But why has he hired you?”
“He wants me to track down an old colleague, Frankie Quinn.”
“Getting anywhere?” Faye asked.
I shrugged. “Wandering around in circles.” Then a thought: “Do you still have contacts from your time on the street?”
“I didn’t walk the street that often,” Faye said, dabbing her sweet lips with a napkin, dropping the barley sugar into the cola so that a third protruded, like a saccharine straw. “I was a call girl. High class hooker, me,” she added tartly.
“That’s behind you,” I said, and she offered a hesitant nod.
After straightening a cushion that was already straight, she said, “I still have contacts, yeah.”
“Tap them up for me; see if we can get a lead on Frankie.”
“Sure,” Faye said. She opened her laptop computer and selected a file dedicated to the wedding. She made a note in the file then asked, “How do you feel about having an ex-con for a father?”
“Not great,” I admitted. “But I suppose I always suspected that he was crooked, and that’s why he never got in touch.”
“Are you going to invite him to the wedding?”
I nodded. “Add him to the guest list, please. In truth, even though he’s my dad and we’ve talked recently, I don’t really know him; he’s still a stranger to me.”
“Then time you got to know him,” Faye said while adding my father to the guest list, “before you start your new life as Mrs Storey.”
Chapter Eight
Twenty hours later, Faye’s contacts turned up trumps and we discovered that Frankie Quinn had a girlfriend called Gina McBride. Gina lived in a slum area of Canton, in an attic bedsit. So, with Faye in tow, I made my way to the bedsit to talk with Gina McBride.
We climbed the metal-framed exterior staircase, the fire escape for the original building, and knocked on a freshly painted wooden door. A young woman, in her early twenties, opened the door. She matched Gina’s description, as offered by Faye’s street contacts.
The young woman had wavy, shoulder-length hair, a patchwork of blonde and brown, and brown eyes heavily lined with mascara and green eyeshadow. Of medium height, she had a plain face, a face dominated by sullen lips. She wore a short skirt, green tights and a baggy male tee-shirt, possibly one of Frankie Quinn’s. A number of silver studs adorned her ears and earlobes, while tatt
oos and scars covered her arms. Also, she’d painted her fingernails with black nail varnish. Moreover, she was heavily, probably nine months, pregnant.
“Gina McBride?” I asked.
“Who are you?” she frowned.
“My name’s Sam. This is Faye. We’re enquiry agents. We’re looking for Frankie Quinn.”
“To shop him?” she scowled.
“No. On the contrary, we want to keep Frankie away from the police, out of trouble.”
Gina leaned against the door frame, her right hand on the door handle. She stared at me, then at Faye. She spent a long time gazing at Faye then reached a decision. “Okay,” she said, “you’d better come in.”
The attic smelled fresh, of pine, but that was the only good thing you could say about it. The walls were bare brick, the cement barely dry, while the rafters and supporting joists were visible to the naked eye. Furthermore, a metal ladder leaned against a roof beam. Two unadorned windows in the gable end offered light while a camp stove, an airbed and a radio littered the bare floorboards. An open, incomplete, toilet cubicle stood in the far corner, along with a washbasin, though I failed to see a bath. A spirit level propped against the back wall underlined the fact that this was a builder’s yard, not a home.
“Be nice when it’s finished, eh?” Gina said, noting my bewildered look.
“Why hasn’t the builder finished it?” I asked.
Gina shrugged and the oversized tee-shirt drifted off her left shoulder. “Landlord ran out of readies, so he said.”
“And you can’t find anywhere better?”
“Can’t afford anything better more like.” Gina waddled over to the toilet and washbasin. “Want a drink?” she asked. “Got plenty of water in the tap.”
“But no bath or shower?” I asked.
“Got a shower,” she said. “It’s in a box, over there.”
We followed her gaze to a jumble of wood and rubble, to a tea chest and a collection of cardboard boxes.
“Have you seen Frankie recently?” I asked.
Gina dragged a canvas chair away from the wall. She unfolded the chair then sat upon it. She wasn’t a large woman, but she was heavily pregnant, so the canvas on the chair sagged alarmingly while a few more threads strayed from the seams.
“No,” she said. “I haven’t seen Frankie recently; he’s crawled into the long grass. Why are you asking?”
“Our client wants a word.”
“Your client wants a word,” Gina flapped her arms in despair, “the landlord wants a word, I want a word, and some money.”
“Are you working?” Faye asked.
“Between jobs,” Gina said. “I got sacked from the TV factory.”
“For being pregnant?” I asked.
“For using heroin.”
“You using now?”
“I quit,” Gina said. “When I discovered I was pregnant.”
Faye squatted beside the airbed. She ran a hand over a threadbare blanket. Apart from the blanket, there was no sign of linen, or clothing in the room, although items in the washbasin suggested that Gina had a change of underwear.
“You went cold turkey?” Faye asked.
Gina nodded.
“Alone?”
She nodded again then grimaced.
“That must have been tough,” Faye said.
“It was. But I did it for me kid. Told myself I had a heavy cold or something; I got through.”
Faye nodded. She examined a woollen doll, which occupied the pillow, filled the space where Gina slept. The doll was multicoloured, homemade, fashioned from scraps.
“You’re carrying Frankie’s baby?” Faye asked.
“Yeah. I know what you’re thinking, he’s old enough to be my grandfather. But he gave me love, affection, sort of. A place to live. He’s not a bad man.”
“He’s just come out of prison,” I said.
“A short stretch,” Gina shrugged. “A few months, for receiving. It was a slap on the wrist really, a minor rap. He only went inside because of his record. Most coppers and judges would have looked the other way.”
“And now he’s going straight?” I asked.
“Trying,” Gina sighed.
“And looking to cut a deal with the police?”
Gina turned away. She stared at the roof timbers, at a thermos flask, discarded amongst the rubble, at the dust that covered the windows, at a six-month-old magazine, which littered the floor. She said, “He told me nothing about that.”
“Any idea where he might be?” I asked.
Gina stretched her legs. She grimaced. She pressed her right hand to the small of her back then offered her spine a soothing rub.
“Frankie never talked to me about that,” she said. “He said it was best if he kept me in the dark. What I don’t know can’t hurt me, or something like that.”
“Does the midwife call on you?” Faye asked.
“What midwife?” Gina frowned.
“Do you attend antenatal classes?”
“What are them?”
“When are you due?” I asked.
Gina arched her back. Once again, she frowned, “Feels like any minute. If you see Frankie,” she said, “tell him Gina needs him; tell him his kid needs him; tell him we need cash.”
“When we catch up with him,” I said, “we will.”
“You had dinner?” Faye asked.
Gina smiled for the first time. She waved at the debris and detritus. “Can you see any dirty dishes?”
Faye shook her head, “No.” Then she asked, “Fancy a pizza?”
“You buying?” Gina narrowed her eyes; she stared at Faye with some suspicion.
“I’ll share one with you,” Faye said.
“Okay,” Gina shrugged, “as long as you don’t mind eating off the floor.”
“I’ll bring some plates. And some cups. Some coffee, or tea, which do you prefer?”
“I like cola,” Gina said.
“Me too,” Faye said. She grinned then glanced at me. To Gina, she added, “I’ll bring us a few cans.”
“Sure,” Gina shrugged. “But whatever you bring, I still can’t tell you about Frankie.”
“Never mind Frankie,” Faye said.
The earnest look on Faye’s face told me that she was genuinely concerned about Gina, worried about her surroundings, her well-being, touched by her isolation, her predicament. Although Faye tried to hide it at times, she did have a heart of gold.
“Forget Frankie and our questions,” Faye said, “we’ll return to them later; let’s get you sorted, first.”
Chapter Nine
Back at my flat, I tried to connect with Alan. Although nearly midnight, Faye was still talking with Gina. Hopefully, they’d strike up a rapport, build a bridge of trust that would lead to Frankie. Meanwhile, I adjusted the video screen on my phone and looked forward to the sight of Alan rolling out of bed.
“Hiya,” he said, offering a cheery wave. He was fully dressed in slacks and a casual sweater. Unlike me, Alan was a morning person, so I might have guessed that he’d be up and dressed, denying me a glimpse of his manly attributes. Never mind about absence making the heart grow fonder, I have to confess that the rest of me was missing him as well.
“Hiya,” I smiled at my phone and waved. Then, shit, we lost the connection.
All appeared well at my end, so I sat back and waited for Alan to make contact again. While I waited, I glanced around my flat and reflected; upon the good times, mainly spent with Alan and, latterly, with Faye; and the bad times, the occasion when Dan, my ex, paid me an unwelcome visit, and the occasion when someone tried to murder me, only for Mac to intervene. On balance, the good times outweighed the bad and I would leave the flat with happy memories.
“How are you?” Alan asked when his image appeared on my phone. The connection was poor and his image froze from time to time. However, the planets, or whatever controlled these things, aligned and we managed to communicate.
“I’m well,” I said. “And you?�
�
“Okay.”
“Where are you, in your hotel room?”
Alan nodded. He angled his phone to offer a view of his bedroom. “Neat, eh?”
The room was neat, not as neat as Faye’s, but neater than mine. “A double bed,” I noted.
“All the singles were fully booked,” he shrugged.
“Hmm,” I replied noncommittally.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alan asked, offering me a playful frown.
“Nothing,” I said airily.
He smiled then he laughed aloud.
“How’s the conference going?” I asked.
“The usual stuff. As per normal, Otto is hogging the limelight, stealing the show.”
“You should be more assertive,” I said.
“Why?” Alan shrugged. “It’s not a popularity contest. Besides,” he smiled, “I had a lovely dinner with Cheryl last night.”
“Who’s Cheryl?” I scowled.
“Didn’t I tell you about her?” Alan asked, his tone and features innocence personified.
“You did not,” I said.
“She’s an old friend.”
“Girlfriend?” I asked casually, as you do.
“Sort of,” he confessed.
“You’d better not get up to anything,” I warned.
Alan rocked his head back and laughed.
“I’ll chop bits off,” I said, scowling. “I’m serious.”
“I’m sure you are,” he said while struggling to keep a straight face, “and I’m sure you would. Cheryl’s married now,” he continued, “to a psychologist. Her husband’s with her, at the conference.”
I nodded, smiled, and we lapsed into silence. Eventually, I sighed, “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” he said. “What have you been up to?”
“Gawain Morgan hired me, to look for Frankie Quinn, an old mate.” I elaborated, offered background details.
“How’s the search going?”
I shrugged, “No luck, yet.”
“How do you feel about assisting your father?”
“I’m trying to view him as a client, but it’s hard. On the one hand, he’s my father, on the other hand, he’s a stranger. I’m still confused about him, about our relationship. I’m not really sure where we stand.”
