by Steven Dunne
Get a job, you fucking tramp.
You stink.
Why don’t you top yourself and do the world a favour?
And it wasn’t just verbal. He’d seen people sleeping in doorways, urinated on by drunken teenagers, kicked awake by shopkeepers and threatened with worse if they came back. And despite being a DI, Brook had not intervened. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to break cover, but a small part of him knew that it was more than that. In just three days of homelessness, Brook had become submissive and, in many ways, helpless. Now he actively avoided eye-contact with others, didn’t want to be noticed, to be the target of abuse or engage with people whose first reaction towards him would be contempt. Brook had assumed the position.
For a second he paused and pulled off a damp glove to scratch his beard again – something had bitten him, he was sure. Living without the basic freedoms and comforts bestowed by an income had quickly reordered his priorities. Food, warm shelter and clean clothes were no longer taken for granted but had become the fundamental pillars of his existence. Brook had never been the sort of person to spend more time than necessary over basic functions, but after the first twelve hours padding around Derby, in the oldest clothes he could muster, he not only longed for a hot bath but had a hunger gnawing at his belly that he’d never experienced before.
After one full day, Brook stank to high heaven and had spent the emergency £20 note in his back pocket on the Sub of the Day, his first packet of cigarettes in a month and a small bottle of whisky, being careful to get the cheapest brands of both to allay suspicion amongst his new acquaintances.
He plodded on, taking the walk of the damned – head sagging forward, shoulders rounded, feet barely clearing the ground, like a prisoner in the Gulag. He reached the top of Osmaston Road and crossed the new link road, Lara Croft Way, which, like most road improvements in the city, had reduced traffic-flow to a virtual standstill during rush-hour. At two in the morning, however, it was deserted and Brook ambled across the four lanes, past the boarded-up bar, long since closed after a stabbing, and turned on to Leopold Street.
Just before reaching Normanton Road, Brook stopped and pulled out a grubby piece of paper given to him by Mitch, his new friend from the Millstone House Shelter. It didn’t have an address on it; the homeless didn’t use addresses – the consequence of being homeless, Brook supposed. Instead they preferred more traditional methods of navigation – a vague description of the location, the description of the house and how to get in.
Brook looked around and was held for a moment. On the other side of the road was a funeral parlour – Duxbury & Duxbury. He made a mental note to check they’d been contacted.
He turned back to the darkened, boarded house. He checked Mitch’s note again and approached the steel security grille fastened over one of the windows. This was the place. He pulled aside the grille so he could see inside. It moved easily but it was far too dark to see anything. However, the smell of body odour hit his nostrils, as did a sickly-sweet smell which Brook associated with crack cocaine abuse. He listened for the scurrying of rats but heard nothing but the now familiar harsh rasp of sleeping vagrants mumbling and snoring in their fitful slumber.
Brook took a final breath of fresh air and lifted a leg through the window space, but his foot was suddenly held by a strong hand.
‘Fuck a ye doin’, pal?’ said a voice of pure Scottish tar. Despite the many things Brook had learned about sleeping rough, one thing remained a mystery. Why so many vagrants seemed to be Scottish.
‘Looking for Mitch and a place to kip,’ Brook replied in as gruff a voice as he could manage. He hadn’t yet slipped into the parlance as easily as he would’ve liked.
‘We’re full, pal. Fuck off.’ The hand holding Brook’s foot shoved it roughly back out of the window.
Brook didn’t move away. He knew from his days on the street that the only way to get a result now was to fructify his vocabulary and employ an unfamiliar aggression. ‘Who the fuck says?’ he snarled back.
‘You mouthin’ off, Jimmy? Jock says, so fuck off afore ye get a busted mouth.’
Brook tried not to smile, his default reaction to any form of verbal threat. He was a Detective Inspector and had been threatened many times. Almost always such belligerence was for show, an attempt to gain control over a situation that was overwhelming the aggressor. And when a DI smiled back at hostility, the violent facade often crumbled and Brook knew he had control. But not this time. He needed an alternative strategy.
‘I’ve got fags,’ he said, producing a pack and holding them up to Jock’s face.
Jock squinted at the pack and grinned. ‘Giz un.’ He reached for the pack but Brook lowered his hand.
‘When you let me in.’
Jock eyed Brook then nodded. ‘Aye. Well, one more won’t di any harm, Jimmy.’ He stood back from the window and Brook clambered in. ‘What’s yer name, Jimmy?’
‘It’s Jimmy,’ said Brook, standing upright and surveying the room. He could see clearer now by the light of an old guttering lantern in the middle of the bare room. Half a dozen uninterested, glazed expressions fixed on him briefly then returned to gape at the floor.
‘Straight up?’ Jock coughed, laughing.
As soon as Brook was in, Jock went to Brook’s hand and pulled the cigarettes from him. He yanked one out and held it to the barely alight lantern. He pulled the first drag deep into his lungs and coughed the smoke back up. ‘Lovely. Here, Jimmy. Warm yer cockles.’ Jock tossed a bottle towards him and gestured to the floor. ‘Take a pew and join the party.’
Brook examined the bottle and pulled off the stopper, taking a sniff. ‘What is it?’
Jock laughed and coughed at the same time. ‘What is it?’ he repeated, and looked round at the other bearded faces. ‘We got a conn’sir with us, gents.’ He cackled this time and took another huge pull on the cigarette.
A small man with a baseball cap flashed a gap-toothed smile back at Jock, and then narrowed his eyes at Brook. ‘What does it matter, friend?’ he said in a faint Yorkshire accent. ‘It’s barley wine, if you must know.’
‘We finished all the whisky for breakfast.’ Jock laughed again.
Baseball Cap continued to look at Brook as best he could. ‘Have a sip,’ he urged, looking over at Jock. ‘Maybe you can tell us what year it is.’ This time Baseball Cap laughed hard and wheezy and Jock joined in, shaking his head and muttering ‘What is it?’ to remind himself why he was laughing so hard.
‘Thanks.’ Brook stuck his tongue in the neck and faked a swig, as was his custom all those years ago in the Met when his old boss Charlie Rowlands passed over his flask at eleven in the morning.
‘Go on, finish it,’ said Baseball Cap. ‘Plenty more where that came from, Jimmy.’
Brook looked around at the floor and saw several empty whisky and barley wine bottles at the men’s feet. ‘You knock off an off-licence or something?’
Baseball Cap smiled thinly at him. He seemed to be the least inebriated of the group and Brook was becoming uncomfortable under his gaze. ‘Let’s just say we have a benefactor.’ Baseball Cap grinned across at Jock but fortunately his head had slumped forward into unconsciousness. ‘You know? A sugar daddy.’
‘I know what a benefactor is,’ said Brook. He scratched his itching beard again, eyes still locked on Baseball Cap. ‘You sound like you’ve had a decent education.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Baseball Cap said. ‘You think only stupid people end up on the skids?’ He flashed a quick look round to check his roommates were too befuddled to follow. ‘Education,’ he hissed. ‘That’s where I know you from. Damen, isn’t it?’
‘The name’s Jimmy,’ said Brook softly.
‘Fuck off, Damen. It’s me. Phil.’
Brook didn’t reply but squinted through the gloom at Baseball Cap. He obliged Brook by removing his cap and brushing the lank grey hair away from his face. From nowhere two jigsaw pieces of Brook’s memory clicked together. ‘Phil?
Phil Ward? My God.’
The newly anointed Phil nodded. ‘Cambridge Athletics. Alverstone’s against the Centipedes, remember? We ran against each other in the five thousand metres.’
‘Not for long,’ recalled Brook. ‘You were a lap in front of me at halfway, I remember.’
Phil looked away, pleasure tinged with sadness. He took a pull on his barley wine. ‘I was quick back then. And I didn’t smoke or . . .’ He held up his bottle to save further explanation. ‘I assume you’re new to the life.’
‘Why?’
‘You look like you could interview after a wash and brush up.’
‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ Brook lied. Without his cap he could see the ravages of vagrancy on Phil’s face – pockmarked ruddy cheeks which sank in towards his jaw, missing teeth, greasy thinning hair and the telltale jaundiced eyes which spoke of a liver failing under the assault of drink and drugs. ‘What happened? You were going to be a dentist, I seem to remember.’
‘Pharmacist,’ Phil grinned. ‘And I kinda still am.’ The black grin faded. ‘You haven’t got any rock to spare, have you, buddy? I’ll pay you back.’
‘No,’ answered Brook. ‘Fresh out. And you haven’t answered my question. What happened to you?’
Jock stirred at that moment and lifted his head at the same time as the bottle went to his mouth. ‘Nuttin’ happened,’ he mumbled after a long draught.
Phil’s eyes flicked at the door and he disentangled himself from the scrum of semi-conscious men as delicately as possible. Brook followed him quietly out. Fortunately Jock’s head had begun to loll again. Up the bare stairs and into a room that looked out over the heavily overgrown back yard. There was just a mattress in the room but the floorboards were scattered with drug paraphernalia – torn-up Rizla packets, scorched wire gauze, needles, blackened empty bottles for the crack smokers.
Brook turned back from the window as Phil closed the door behind him and stooped to pick up a needle. He held it like an axe above his head. ‘What’s happening, Brook? Is this a fucking raid? I know you’re not in the life, man. You’re fucking famous. You’re The Reaper detective. I’ve read the newspapers. I’ve wiped my arse on you. You’re still a copper, aren’t you? ’Cos if you were on the street for real, you’d know the golden rule.’
‘Golden rule?’
‘What we did no longer exists. We don’t have pasts any more. We don’t have futures neither. We live in the present. The next score, the next high. That’s all we think about in here. Dead men walking.’ He moved towards Brook raising the needle higher. ‘That answer your question, Detective Inspector?’
Brook tried not to look at the needle and held up his hands. ‘This is not a raid, Phil. And that needle’s empty.’
‘Course it’s empty, you sanctimonious cunt,’ hissed Phil, now eyeball to eyeball with Brook. Brook could smell his breath, the sweat pouring off him, the stench of death. ‘I emptied it into my veins. But what else is on there? AIDS? Hepatitis? You won’t know until the first bout of flu, baby.’
Brook urgently tried to make eye-contact. ‘Phil, you’re not going to get busted. Listen to me, Phil. You’re not in any trouble. I’m not here about the drugs. Put down the needle and let me help you.’
Phil couldn’t hold the pose; tears filled his eyes and he crumpled to the ground, dropping the needle on to the mattress. ‘I beat you by a lap and a half,’ he wailed.
Brook stooped and picked him up by both arms and forced his way into his face. ‘You probably still can, Phil. Why don’t you let me help you? I could put in a word, get you on a programme.’
‘I’ve been on programmes. They don’t help.’
‘So you just give up and stick a needle in your arm?’
‘D’uh.’
The two men looked at each other in the gloom then simultaneously broke into silent laughter which lasted more than a minute.
Phil took a deep breath and wiped the tears away. ‘’The fuck are you doing here, Brook?’
‘Looking for someone,’ said Brook after a moment. ‘I spoke to Mitch. He sent me. He was here last night.’
‘I know Mitch. He went to Millstone for a bath and a bed.’
‘He told me about Tommy McTiernan. He was here in this house.’
‘Tiny Tom.’ Phil nodded. ‘He left a while ago.’
‘When?’
Phil shrugged. ‘A week? Two?’
‘Left, how?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Think. I need to find out where he went from here.’
‘He left with Oz.’
‘Who’s Oz?’
‘Ozzy looks after us, brings us gear.’
‘He’s your benefactor?’ Phil nodded. ‘Is he Australian?’
‘No. English, I think.’
‘Describe him.’
‘I’ve only seen him clearly once and I was rammed.’
‘Try and remember, Phil.’
Phil took a deep breath. ‘He’s younger than us. Forty, forty-five maybe. Short hair, well built, that’s all I can remember. It’s always at night see, after we’ve had a few.’
‘How does he get here?’
‘He has transport. A big van, I think.’
‘A big van, are you sure?’
Phil fixed Brook with a glare. ‘Damen, I can’t be sure of anything. Maybe it was a car. All I think about is the . . .’
‘. . . next fix. I get it,’ said Brook, ‘but did the next fix arrive at the same time as Tommy left?’
Phil thought for a minute then slowly nodded. ‘You’re right. Ozzy gave us a few bottles of whisky then Tommy left with him. Bath and bed, Tommy said.’
‘And you don’t know where.’ Phil shook his head. ‘Okay. Phil, promise me if he comes again, you won’t go with him.’
‘What?’
‘Promise me, Phil.’
‘Why? What’s going on, Damen?’
‘Tommy’s dead. We found him in the river. We think another . . . vagrant has died as well. That we know about. Does the name Barry Kirk ring a bell?’
‘Bazza? He was here. Is he dead too?’
Brook nodded in the dark. Phil’s expression didn’t waver. Instead he shrugged. ‘Lucky him, I say. That’s the life. We all know what’s coming. If it ain’t me, maybe I’ll read about it in the crapper,’ he sniggered.
‘Phil, things were done to Tommy. His organs were removed.’
‘Lot of use they’d be.’ Phil sniggered again.
‘Don’t you get it yet, Phil? You’re living in a body farm. Barry and Tommy were here, now they’re dead. I think this guy Ozzy takes them somewhere and when they’re dead he guts them like a fish.’
‘So what? He brings us drink, sometimes some rock. Tommy wasn’t my friend, Damen. We don’t have friends in the life. Just rivals for the last smoke, the last drop. We’re on borrowed time, man. Like I said. Lucky Tommy, lucky Bazza.’ He grinned with pleasure. ‘Now I’ve got a bottle of theirs with my name on it.’
Brook searched in his pockets and found a pencil. He wrote on the grubby wallpaper. ‘I’m your friend, Phil. I can help you.’
‘Is that right? Give me money then. I’ve got the rattles something rotten.’
Brook looked him in the eyes. ‘I can help you if you’ll let me. You’re sick.’
‘Don’t fucking patronise me,’ snarled Phil. ‘I’m not sick. This isn’t an illness. I’m weak, no moral fibre, no character. Geddit?’
‘Okay, calm down.’
‘I made my choices and I got it wrong. I fucked up so don’t tell me I’m sick unless you’re got a pill for failure.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ Brook tore off the flap of wallpaper and scrunched it into Phil’s top pocket. ‘If this Ozzy comes back or if you want my help, money, a bed for the night, anything – that’s my mobile number. Call me.’
‘From a payphone? Just give me your mobile and I’ll ring your landline, it’ll be quicker.’ Phil’s face shone with sincerity.
; ‘I’m a copper, remember. We both know you’ll have sold the phone before I get to the end of the street. Just get to a payphone and use it.’
Phil grinned and Brook could see his rotting mouth. ‘Is there a retainer for this service?’ he asked sheepishly.
Brook fished around for the meagre change from his twenty pounds and poured it into Phil’s hand. A noise caught his attention. ‘Was that a car door?’ He flung the flimsy door open and hurtled down the stairs to the main room in time to hear a vehicle pulling away. ‘Out of the way,’ Brook shouted at the throng of men swarming around the window, picking full bottles out of a crate. ‘Move.’
By the time Brook had jostled his way past the sluggish scrum of men and vaulted out of the window, the lights had disappeared. He turned back to the silhouette of his fellow Oxbridge graduate, stooping to pluck his own precious bottle from the crate.
After a second, Phil came to the gaping window, spinning the top from his whisky and downing a huge swallow. Eventually he lowered the bottle and leaned on the sill. ‘Where’s Jock?’ he asked.
Brook finally scuffed his feet across the forecourt of St Mary’s Wharf station at a quarter to four in the morning having walked across the centre of town. He was annoyed that he’d surrendered all his change to Phil Ward, not that he could have enticed a taxi to pick him up at any time of day given the condition he was in. He’d tried phoning for a squad car but all units were tied up and even Noble had turned off his mobile.
He plodded wearily up the steps to the glass doors, dismayed to see Sergeant Hendrickson on duty at the front counter and wishing he hadn’t left his smartcard in his desk. As he approached the intercom, Brook saw the uniformed officer muttering something under his breath which even a novice lipreader like Brook took to be, ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’
Brook pressed the intercom, monitoring Hendrickson for further evidence of abuse. ‘It’s DI Brook. Let me in, Sergeant.’ Hendrickson unveiled his most obsequious smile and pressed his own button. ‘DI Brook isn’t on duty at this time, sir. Please call back later.’ He released the button and affected a return to pressing paperwork on his counter.
