I looked at him.
‘It’s big. Only ’andful of us are in on it, Chas is bein’ real careful. I can’t say nowt else, but I reckon I can get y’in – Chas used to think y’were all right.’
‘So you can double-cross me again? Got a couple of meatheads waiting outside for round two?’ My voice dried, the final word but a whisper – I coughed away the bad memories.
‘I mean it Ginger – this is big. I know y’re still full of beef, but maybe this could be kind of a “mates” thing, like a clean slate. If I can trust ye?’
‘Fucking trust!’
He glanced away. ‘Well, if y’change yer mind – it’s the marina Frid’y night, Lady of the Humber, ’alf eleven. But y’can’t say nowt to nobody.’
A knock at the door interrupted my concentrated look of disgust, wild conjecture then making the imaginary meatheads seem plausible – I reckoned it time to escape.
Dad bawled from the bedroom. ‘About bloody time – he’s half an hour late. Tell your mate if he wants the full whack he can kiss my arse.’
Syd opened the door. ‘Look Jim, I thought I said be ’ere for twelve…’
‘Hello,’ said a voice, ‘David Owen and Carla Penny from the Department of Social Security, here to see Mr Jones.’
Syd slammed the door. ‘Shit.’
‘What’s the bloody racket?’ said Dad.
‘Social!’
‘Shit.’ Dad was out of the bedroom as quick as his load-bearing legs could manage. ‘Move the baccy. Move the bloody baccy.’
They both scrambled to get the stash back into the bedroom, the sound of frustrated bangs on the door. It was like watching two ants scurrying from a boiling kettle. Bundles of baccy seemed to fly in all directions, as did many swear words. Some minutes’ chaos saw most of the stuff thrown out of sight, Dad left Syd and wobbled into the living room. I followed, strangely entertained, and watched him collapse into his chair.
‘Is it clear Syd?’ he said, interspersed with several panting episodes.
‘’ang on…’ The bedroom door slammed. ‘Clear!’
Dad practised his ‘ridden with arthritic pain’ face. Satisfied, he then bawled to Syd. ‘OK. Let ’em in.’
The front door was opened to disgruntled mumbles.
‘Soz,’ said Syd. ‘I was just, er, cleanin’ up a bit for Mr Jones.’
They stepped into the living room, which was as clean as a bin.
‘Mr Jones?’ A man with a side parting strode forward. ‘Department of Social Security. You’ll have had a letter about our visit.’ There was a badge on his white shirt which advanced the information ‘Home Liaison Co-ordinator’.
Dad grunted.
‘My name is David Owen and this is Carla Penny – who I believe you’ve met before. We’re here to talk about your disability benefit.’
I looked at the pretty lady, her poise demur, perhaps trying to find a foothold in her first job.
And another low cut top! Now I remember…
‘Sit down,’ said Dad.
The settee was sufficiently dirty for them to remain standing.
‘So Mr Jones,’ said David Owen, ‘How is the arthritis?’
Dad shrugged. ‘So so. Good days and bad days.’
‘Yes, I believe it was a bad day on Carla’s last visit.’
The pretty lady remained a step behind her colleague, yet stood firm.
Dad looked at her. ‘Yeh, that was a bad day.’
‘I’ll cut to the chase Mr Jones – as you’ll be aware, there’s been a very serious allegation made against you.’
‘All lies.’
‘Well, that’s what we’re trying to determine.’
‘Determine what you like – it’s still bullshit.’
David Owen cleared his throat and a probing finger itched beneath his collar. ‘OK Mr Jones,’ he said, ‘let me just ask you outright. Have you ever, whilst claiming disability allowance, systematically targeted each residential home within the West Hull area offering bootlegged tobacco as, quote: “shit that makes you better”?’
Dad grunted.
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s an insult.’
‘I’m not here to play games Mr Jones. I suggest you answer me.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Is that “no”?’
‘Yeh.’
‘With regards to your benefit claim Mr Jones, without sufficient help you are house bound?’
‘Yeh.’
‘And that’s how the situation remains?’
‘Yeh.’
‘I see. Is there anything you’d like to add?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, Mr Jones. I’m afraid we have compelling evidence to the contrary.’
Dad looked away. ‘You’re just full of bollocks kid.’
David Owen placed a briefcase neatly on the floor and removed a file. A smile tickled his lips as he handed it to Dad. ‘Please look carefully Mr Jones. The photograph is dated a week ago.’
I moved to peer over Dad’s shoulder, as did Syd.
Inside the file, there was a photo that showed Dad leaving the Parkview residential home with a holdall over his shoulder – the only thing missing was for him to have a fistful of banknotes.
Get out of that one, you fat bastard.
‘It’s a fake,’ Syd blurted, ‘’e was w’me last week.’
‘Impossible, sir.’
‘No way – we’ve been shiftin’ it down the market since last Wednesd’y.’
Nice one Syd.
‘In actual fact sir, the photograph was taken last Monday.’ David Owen sniffed and removed a notepad from his briefcase. ‘Would that have been the Walton Street Market, sir?’
Syd was quiet.
Dad’s face reminded me of when I caught him licking the frying pan clean. ‘Bollocks. It’s all bollocks.’
‘Mr Jones, your questionable disability and extra income are serious matters indeed.’
We all knew Dad was done for, I was probably glad. David Owen moved closer, as if for the kill. The pretty lady stood firm.
‘Mr Jones, I must now caution you…’
Dad screamed and grasped his leg.
‘Mr Jones?’
‘It’s flaring up.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘My arthritis!’
‘I see,’ said David Owen, scribbling something on his notepad.
Dad wailed like a sprog, though no-one seemed particularly bothered. He waved his arms at me. ‘Get my pills, son. Quick!’
The room waited for my reaction.
After a while, I said: ‘You having Mum back then?’
‘What? What you on about? Pills!’
‘Answer the question.’
‘I’m in agony.’
‘Say you’ll talk to her.’
‘Did I bring you up to be such a tosspot? Eh? If you’ve got one ounce of sense in that bonehead of yours, go and get my bleeding pills.’
‘And Mum?’
‘She can whistle.’
Why the hell did I ever put up with you?
Dad continued to rant. ‘Do you speak English? Get my pills.’
I followed his command and left in search.
A moment later, I returned to the party. At the centre of the room and the centre of attention, I dropped an armful of baccy on the floor. ‘The bedroom’s full of it,’ I said.
It was quiet, so quiet I could hear next door’s telly.
‘Bastard!’ Dad bawled. ‘I’ll have you for this. I’ll have you…’
I set off home.
‘Don’t forget, Ginger,’ Syd called after me, ‘Frid’y night, the marina. It’s gonna be big – if y’ve got the bollocks for it.’
Bollocks? I’ve got plenty,
you cunt.
I kept walking.
There was a phone box at the top of my street. Inside, I rummaged through my pockets and pulled out a small card, dialling the number with strong prods.
I heard three rings before someone answered. ‘Can I speak to Inspector Briggs please?’ I said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said a woman, ‘Inspector Briggs is unavailable. Can I take a message.’
‘The marina, half eleven Friday night – Lady of the Humber. It’s gonna be big.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Just tell him that.’
‘Can I ask who it is calling?’
I hung up.
PART THREE
Nine days later
Sixteen
I am a fool,
that much is true.
Before long, the commotion of the robbery had eased and I dared think I could relax a little. As such, the days began to drag, and I took leave of one averagely miserable Monday morning, headed for The Pork Café. Mooching along Hessle Road, I negotiated Boyes department store and a throng of harshly faced, potbellied fishwives. By the Criterion pub, jaundiced veterans of the Cod Wars queued for eleven o’clock opening. I remembered seeing an old photo of Hessle Road, the scene peeled back by a hundred years. Then, aproned shopkeepers posed outside their establishments, proudly presenting their wares. Now, every façade drew attention to a particular discount, bargain, or saving – tat peddlers catering to the poverty line. Indeed, everyone was skint; beg, borrow and steal were mantras. But rather like the post Thatcher wastelands of South Yorkshire, the neighbourhood was congealed by defiance-in-defeat. The fishing industry may have been comprehensively fucked over, but ’Ull folk could still embellish benefit claims; bypass the electricity meter; and wipe their arses on council tax bills.
Anyway, passing the lepers emerging from the Marmaduke Health Centre, I hit a home straight to The Pork Café. In the window, grey nets sat behind the moniker of the place, stencilled in a semicircle and underlined by a string of sausages. Inside, Brian sat perusing the day’s black pudding themed specials, his bronzed skin somewhat obvious amongst the pallor of the other patrons. I joined him.
‘It is all very exciting, don’t you think?’ said Brian, a few minutes later. ‘Somewhere the real robber is sprawled on a gorgeous beach, speedos, body glistening in the heat – and he’s living licentiously on the money we and the company have worked hard for.’
I grinned. ‘Worked hard?’
Brian gave a tut, producing a small padded envelope from somewhere beneath the table – though I was sure his trousers were far too tight to have concealed it. ‘Before I forget, this arrived for you this morning.’
Distracted by the fresh highlights to his hair, I pulled a face. ‘It came to the factory?’
‘No chuck, I collected it from Narnia.’ Brian delivered the envelope across the table and continued with a fresh voice. ‘So, line dancing tonight?’
‘Thanks, but I’m tweezing my nasal hair.’
The writing across the envelope was scraggly and appeared hurried, it taking a hard look to be readable. Inside was a matchbox – nothing else. So, I opened the matchbox, and beneath some grubby cotton wool, I found something hidden.
A ring.
‘Ginger? What is it?’
Brian’s voice faded into irrelevance. I could but stare at the ring, my guts feeling putrid. Reasonable comprehension left the building, my head a montage of excruciating memories.
A manicured hand snatched the matchbox. Across the table, Brian observed the contents. He jiggled about like a jester. ‘Oh Ginger. For me? Such a big red stone and just my colour.’
I steadied a hand tremble. ‘Listen—’
‘I think we’ll have a summer wedding…’
I stood.
‘And we’ll honeymoon somewhere liberal.’
I punched Brian in the face.
He yelped, flinging his arms, the chair toppled, sending an express delivery of melodrama to the floor. As he clambered back, our eyes caught – he covered his face, like a game of hide and seek. My throat was dry, words sticking like a chunk of carrot.
So, I took the ring and left.
Chas’s ring spent the rest of the day buried in my pocket. I could hardly bring myself to look at it, and as I tried to grasp some logic, a plausible reason for why it had returned to haunt me, I found only cloudiness, of which a ring twinkled through, proud to be the instigator of torment.
Back home, Mum had news from the chip shop, news she felt had to be pelted towards me upon entrance. Chas, she said, had been arrested. Not only arrested, but arrested and charged on numerous class A drugs offences. But not only Chas, she said, his whole inner circle, including the elusive The Slap.
Then Mum said: ‘Apparently there was a tip off, there was a raid on the marina late Friday night. Looks like someone’s been a grass.’
My heart plummeted so deep I could have excreted it – I realised I was that grass.
Seventeen
You never look, so
you’ll never know.
‘Is the line dancing on tonight?’
A Kosovan Barman offered me a questioning stare.
‘Line dancing?’ I said.
He stared. ‘Ah?’
‘Oh for God’s sake…’
I knew of no other pub like The Lion Hotel – the sticky carpet was almost like walking through water, the same water thinning the colour of the spirits, like the water absent from the plumbing of the urinals – my God the place reeked. Such an establishment had secured a loyal clientele by way of a liberal attitude to – shall we say – herbal cigarettes, corner of the lounge facilitating this. That and the fact it was the only place within miles to allow the lunacy of line dancing.
Lunacy that, looking around, appeared distinctly absent.
‘Upstairs!’ said a toothless crone, staring at me from the bar. ‘Line dancing is upstairs my duckling.’
Pulling a face, I followed her directions, as I imagined her cackling and disappearing into a puff of smoke.
Up on the first floor, I could hear music. It was strange music, spilling through the floor above – not at all your average cowboy noise. A curling staircase took me closer, like that of a lighthouse, and then stopped abruptly. I was before a single door, from behind of which the music seemed to penetrate my chest with an electronic pulse. I stood still, then fidgeted, then banged on the door.
After a while, a hairy man in a leotard answered.
‘Who are you?’ he shouted over the music.
I looked at him, he intensified his frown. It was preposterous – black Lycra over gorilla-like hair, complemented by full beard. ‘I’m Ginger,’ I shouted back. ‘Line dancing? Is this the place?’
‘What’s the magic word?’ he said, scratching his left nipple.
I shrugged. ‘Brian asked me to come.’
‘Brian, eh?’ He took a good eyeful of my existence, sniffed and then disappeared into the music.
Tentatively, I stepped inside.
Judging by the booming music and artillery fire pyrotechnics, I found myself inside some sort of party – though an insatiable taint to the atmosphere made me nervous.
Hang on, that man’s wearing a tool belt… And he’s kissing a man dressed as a woman. Jesus! Doesn’t that create a wormhole or something?
As I glanced around, I was really quite staggered – behind the bar, a man wore nothing but a collar and a thong, two ladies – are they ladies? – danced, probing one another intimately – and I was sure the dimly lit corners disguised misdemeanours I was grateful for not seeing.
A man in a leather mask approached, the pace too brisk for comfort – his mouth unzipped:
‘Ginger?’
I froze. ‘Look, I’m just here for…’
‘Ginger, it’s me.’ The mask
pulled up from his face, resting upon his head like a baby bottle teat.
‘Brian!’
Frowning, his manicured finger brought to my attention a bugger of a black eye. ‘How else should I cover up this?’
I glanced away.
‘Why are you here?’
I wanted to tell him ‘sorry’, but I didn’t.
‘You want to go somewhere quieter?’
‘Yeh,’ I mumbled.
So Brian led the way. I followed him across the room, head down, pushing my way through the sexual equivalent of liquorice all-sorts.
‘What’s your problem?’ he said, closing us in a small room. He perched upon a grotty sofa and peered across the room to me. ‘Have you got something to say?’
The floorboards creaked as I fidgeted.
‘Well?’
‘I’m sorry – about your eye. I’m sorry.’
‘Do I get an explanation?’
Seeing Brian sat there, leather pants and topless – it was just so unsettling. I grasped for something to say. ‘Line dancing? It’s not what I thought.’
His voice warmed a little. ‘After hours – just a small group of us. We’ve got to the regional finals.’
There was a pause.
‘Brian…’ I said, sounding kind of coy. ‘That ring… Well it’s that ring.’
‘You mean “The Ginger-Jones-gripe-with-life-poor-me-never-ending-moan” ring?’
‘Yeh,’ I mumbled – but can’t we just call it a ring? I dug into my pocket and passed it over to him.
‘Hmm.’ His eyes appeared keen, almost greedy. ‘Not cheap I’ll bet. Do you know who sent it?’
‘Chas… Maybe…’
‘Well who else?’
‘Did you see anyone? Anything unusual at the factory?’
‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘So just give it back – again.’
‘I can’t,’ I snapped. ‘Chas is banged-up. He’s been done for drugs and it’s my fault – I grassed him.’
‘You?’
‘I found out, by accident really – I wasn’t thinking… Look, Brian, will you take it, hide it.’
Strange Affairs, Ginger Hairs Page 9
