‘Chemo,’ I tell him. ‘No gain without pain.’
‘Shit happens.’ He extends a hand. ‘Danny Flannery.’
I’m not sure where this conversation is going, but word of my largesse has spread along the bar and pretty quickly I suspect I’m going to be buying the entire pub a drink. I beckon Danny closer and ask him if there’s somewhere quieter we could talk. He says there’s another pub down the road that caters for human beings. Better beer, too.
The rain has got heavier. Danny uses his leather jacket to shelter both of us as we half-walk, half-run down the potholed street. The lining of the jacket smells of roll-ups. Only when we’re stepping in from the rain and I check in my back pocket for H’s roll of notes do I realize they’ve gone.
‘Shit.’ I’m checking the other pockets, just in case. What on earth do I tell H?
Danny has one hand on the door. He watches me a moment, a half-smile on his face, then produces the notes.
‘Better me than someone else,’ he says. ‘Carrying that kind of wad in the Fall? You have to be crazy.’
I’m deeply grateful and I say so. I feel about twelve. First drink on me.
‘No need.’ Danny’s smile is wider. ‘But since you’re offering …’
The Baker’s Arms is a sanctuary after the Landfall. No music. No crush of sweaty bodies around the bar. Just a sprinkle of lone drinkers, one of whom is bent over The Times crossword.
Danny seats me at a table in the corner. I try to insist on buying him a drink but he won’t hear of it. He really enjoyed the movie last weekend. A class act deserves something better than rubbish Tempranillo.
‘No one’s touched that bottle for months,’ he says. ‘I’d get yourself checked over if I were you.’
He returns from the bar with a large glass of the Shiraz I’d asked for. I taste a drop. Delicious. Danny is drinking beer of some kind. I want to know more about the Landfall.
‘Why?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Not at the moment. Call it a favour. Call it what you like. You go there a lot?’
‘Only to score. There’s a bloke called Jimmy. You wouldn’t know him. Best weed in the county. Always delivers.’
‘And he sells other stuff?’
‘No, just weed, but the place is a souk. Anything you want and probably stuff that you don’t. Andy and I do a couple of lines at weekends if we fancy it. Dial-a-toot gets a delivery to your doorstep but if you’re up for a pint or two before you get started, the Fall does nicely.’
‘You call it the Fall? The Landfall?’
‘Yeah. On really bad nights it’s the Landfill but mostly it’s the Fall. It used to be a builders’ pub back in the day. Go in on a Friday night and you could get a whole house built. Every trade would be drinking there. Plasterers. Brickies. Plumbers. Clap your hands, buy them a drink and you’d have a new address by the end of the month.’
‘And you?’
‘Carpenter.’ He shows me his hands. ‘Can’t you tell?’
I look at the palms of his hands. I know he wants me to touch them, to admire the ridge of callous where he’s sawn timber all his life, but I’ll do no such thing.
‘So what happened? To the Fall?’
‘Business got tough. It’s the same wherever you go. Rip-off leases from the brewers. Business rates through the roof. Then Sky wanted silly prices for the live footie licence and people started drinking cheap supermarket booze at home and the game was over. The Fall was never going to be a gastro pub, not with Karl in charge, so he had to find another way. He’s been trying re-runs of old footie matches he’s recorded but the DVD player’s on the blink so he needs something else to pull the punters in.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Yeah. It attracts the kids, which is a bummer, but it also brings in people like me. We’re punters. We buy drinks. On a good night we buy lots of drinks. Karl likes that. We’re the only way he survives.’
‘And the police?’
‘They leave him alone. You’re gonna ask me why, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Karl scored a deal with the drugs squad. It’s all on a handshake. He’s got hidden cameras in there and the cops help themselves to the footage. That way they can put faces to names, get a handle on who’s doing what, keep everything under control, nice and neat and tidy. In a town like this that matters. Everyone knows everyone. Nothing ever gets out of hand. I thought the cops were bent at first. I thought some of them were on the take. But I’m wrong. They’re just sensible.’
‘You mean it works?’
‘Yeah. Until recently.’
‘And?’
He studies me a moment and then takes a pull from his glass. ‘You never told me what you were doing in the Fall in the first place.’
‘I know. I’ve got a couple of names for you.’ I hold his gaze. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Kid called Bradley?’
‘And?’
‘Girl called Evie? I don’t think that’s her real name but that’s all I’ve got.’
He nods, says nothing for a moment, then he reaches for a beer mat and does that trick when you balance it on the edge of the table. Flip and catch.
‘Well?’ I ask. He’s dropped the mat twice now.
‘I know Bradley. I know the family. His dad used to be on the tools with the water people but he did a runner years back. His stepdad’s a nasty bastard, brick shithouse, likes a drink, once put the kid in hospital though no one’ll say it to his face. You’ve got to feel sorry for the boy. Everyone calls him Noodle.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s nothing to him.’
‘And he goes to the Fall?’
‘Of course.’
‘To buy drugs?’
‘To sell them. That kid is what happens when the scene starts getting out of control. Jimmy’s old-school. Jimmy’s from a different era. What you get now are kids like Noodle. He’s out of his head most of the time. One day we’ll find him dead on the beach.’
‘You mean some kind of overdose? Helping himself to the merchandise?’
‘Yeah, if he’s lucky.’
‘And if he’s not?’
He shakes his head. At last, he catches the beer mat. He says he’s heard of Evie but he doesn’t know much about her. Only her other street name.
‘Which is?’
‘Ridgeback. It’s a bike. That’s the only clue you get.’
‘She’s on the game?’
‘She is. On a bad night fifteen quid buys you a ride. This is all bloke-talk. I’ve no idea whether it’s true but three rides and I’m guessing she’ll be knocking on Noodle’s door again.’
‘For?’
‘Crack cocaine. Or maybe smack. Girls like her are going to give this town a bad name. Even Karl admits that.’
‘He lets her in the pub?’
‘He’s barred her twice. Makes no difference. Five pints of IPA and a couple of toots and most blokes get silly. Five minutes round the back of the Methodist Hall. Max.’
‘You know that?’
‘I’ve heard about it. From blokes I trust.’
‘So where do I find her? And where do I find the other kid? Noodle?’
Danny shakes his head. He’s said far too much already. He needs to be off. I should talk to Andy, he says. He drains his glass and gets to his feet, slightly unsteady. He’s drunk far more than I’d thought.
‘I have a son called Malo,’ I say.
‘I know. Andy talks about him sometimes.’
‘He’s in trouble. That’s why I’m here.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Trouble that takes me to the Landfall.’ I nod at his empty glass. ‘Another?’
SEVENTEEN
In the end I take Danny for a Thai. I was planning for us to get a table in the restaurant but he insists on a takeaway we can eat in his van. The passenger seat is a nest of paperwork, jotted notes, empty KFC boxes and sundry tools. Neither of the interior spots see
m to work and in the spill of light from the street I make a space for myself while he unpacks the food. This is the kind of meal that Pavel adores. With a pang of guilt, I realize I haven’t thought about him once since arriving in Bridport.
‘Stella?’
Danny has a four-pack stored in the darkness behind his seat. When I tell him I’ll split one, he just laughs.
‘Not in this town, you won’t.’ He passes me a tinnie.
The moment I start digging into the Thai green curry, I realize I’m famished. Neither of us say anything for minutes on end. The van is parked up on waste ground beside what seems to be a row of industrial units. A peaceable drunk who looks far too old to be out this late weaves past and then stops to relieve himself against the wall.
‘Harry McGuire.’ Danny laughs softly. ‘My dad went to school with him. Dodgy prostate these days.’
The old man moves on, stained trousers and a limp. Danny has finished his pad Thai rice noodles. He produces a pouch and a couple of skins and rolls a doobie, crumbling the dark resin on to the tobacco. He does this one-handed while taking the odd pull of Stella from what’s left in his can. This, in semi-darkness, is impressive.
‘You mind?’ He moistens the paper with the tip of his tongue.
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘I do. It’s the same with cigarettes. I hate the smoke.’
He shoots me a look and then puts the doobie away for later. For a moment or two we both stare out at the row of units. The old man has disappeared.
‘What’s it like?’ he says at last. ‘All those movies? Being famous?’
‘That was a while ago. I think I was probably a different person then.’
‘Wilder? Less uptight?’
‘Younger. It’s probably the same thing. Uptight’s wrong, by the way. If you really want to smoke just open the window.’
He smiles. He says I haven’t answered his question.
‘You’re talking about getting myself noticed? Becoming a bit of a celeb?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s odd. Weird. You push your luck, or other people push it for you, and at the start it feels like a game but then you realize it’s for real and that’s when it can get a bit of a pain.’
‘You’re kidding. You’re rich. You’re in the papers, in the magazines. People can’t get enough of you. You’re telling me that’s a pain?’
‘I am. Try it sometime. That kind of fame’s supposed to liberate you but it turns out it’s not like that at all. You can’t buy freedom. In fact, it’s quite the reverse. Celebrity’s the place they bang you up in. Remember Garbo? The dark glasses? She ended up wanting to be someone else but by that time it was too late.’
‘And that happened to you?’
‘I got sick, very sick. In fact, I nearly died. That changes everything and, believe it or not, I’m glad it happened.’
‘But you’re better now? Cured?’
‘Probably not. And that’s a good thing, too. I know it’s a cliché but you’ve no idea how wonderful it is to wake up in the morning.’
Danny nods. He says that makes me lucky. He wants to know about Malo. Andy says he came from a one-nighter with Prentice.
‘You know Hayden?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. I met him a couple of times round Andy’s place.’
‘And?’
‘Gangster. Definitely. Much nicer bloke than he seems at first sight, but credit to the guy. He made his money and now he’s home safe. How many people these days can say that?’
Much nicer bloke than he seems at first sight. Perfect.
Danny says I haven’t answered his question. He still wants to know about Malo. A one-nighter or something different?
‘A one-nighter, definitely. I was on a shoot in Antibes. He was with a bunch of mates on one of those huge motor yachts. Far too much money and absolutely no taste.’
‘So how did it happen?’
‘He poured margaritas down my throat. He also made me laugh. The next day I went down the coast to Cannes and met the guy who became my husband. He was a lunatic, too, but it took me the best part of seventeen years to find out. Malo happened nine months after we met. The DNA test was another surprise.’
‘And now?’
‘Now Malo has a proper dad and we’re all glad about that.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m Malo’s mum. Not an easy gig.’
‘And Prentice?’
‘We’re friends. We get along. In some situations he’s a godsend. In others a total nightmare. What he wants is Antibes again, but he knows that will never happen.’
‘You’ve remarried?’
‘No.’
‘But there’s someone there?’
‘Yes.’
I’ve always found something lightly erotic in straying into territory like this with a virtual stranger. It was the same with Berndt, all those years ago, and with Pavel, more recently. In a sense you’ve nothing to lose because these people don’t know you and what they take away from the conversation, what you’ve lightly scribbled on their blank sheets of paper, doesn’t really matter. Unless, of course, they become your husband or your lover. There’s also a wistfulness about Danny I find both attractive and intriguing. Like most men, he’s a bit lost, but unusually he doesn’t mind showing it. Is this candour or a negotiating tactic? Probably the latter but I live in hope.
‘How old are you?’ I ask him.
‘Forty-one.’
‘My age. More or less. What do you most regret?’
The question seems to pain him. He tells me he’s got a generally shit life but no worse than most blokes he knows. He’s good at his job, and that brings the money in. He does the best cut roofs in the town but you’re out in all weathers on the building sites, up and down the ladder with the timber, and he’s starting to feel it. Until a couple of years back, he says, he was a decent footballer, semi-pro in his youth, but the knees are going and once you start worrying about hospital tackles you know it’s time to jack it in.
I’ve no idea about cut roofs but I can picture a hospital tackle.
‘So you miss the football?’
‘I do. I watch the Bees most weekends when they’re playing at home but it’s not the same.’
‘The Bees?’
‘The local team. Down St Mary’s. Western Premier League.’
‘So why go along? If it makes you unhappy?’
‘For my lad, Scott. He’s like me at that age. Football crazy. Totally off the planet. If it wasn’t for the Bees I probably wouldn’t see him at all.’
‘You’re married?’
‘Used to be.’
‘And now?’
‘I’m seeing someone but she’s got three kids of her own and even getting her out for a drink is a joke.’ He glances across. ‘Don’t fancy a spot of babysitting, do you?’
‘How old are they?’
‘Nine, eleven and twelve, all girls. She’s mother hen. Worried sick about them. Even at that age.’
‘Why?’
I get another look, part disbelief, and then he shakes his head. ‘You never told me why you were in the Fall tonight.’
‘You’re right. I didn’t.’
‘It’s the lad, isn’t it? Your Malo?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s got a problem?’
‘Yes.’
‘The marching powder? Something heavy? Crack cocaine? Smack?’
‘I don’t know. Not for sure. There’s something else that’s happened, too.’
‘Like?’
I shake my head. I won’t tell him. Not yet.
‘I don’t get it,’ he says at last. ‘The kid’s got everything. He couldn’t have it more cushty. He lives out on that huge country estate. According to Andy he drives a brand-new Audi. He’s money on legs. So what’s he doing in that shithole of a pub?’
‘I’m assuming he went to score. H won’t have drugs in the house. Ironic, n’est-ce pas?’
‘H?’
‘Hayden. Hayden Prentice
. HP. His mates used to call him Saucy. When he finally grew up he shortened it to H. It suits him perfectly. You get what you see. H. No messing.’ I want to get back to Danny’s private life. ‘Your girlfriend’s got three daughters. What’s her worst fear? Noodle? Evie?’
‘Of course. You won’t believe what goes down now.’
‘Here?’
‘Everywhere. This last year or two everything’s changed. Gear used to come in from Bristol, sometimes Manchester or Liverpool. You had to go to Dorchester to score, maybe even Bournemouth. The dealers would train it down. Deliveries on a Thursday, round the back of the station, ready for the weekend. Mates would pay and collect and we’d all have a toot on the Friday night. I was never into anything heavier, and neither were most blokes I know, but you could get that too if you were really desperate, though it would cost. Now it’s all London and you don’t have to drive anywhere because they come to you.’
‘They?’
‘Kids. Kids so young you’d never believe it. Kids even younger than Noodle. They’re animals, these kids, and they’re clever. They pick people off. You’ve got some kind of problem. You’re on the sick or you’re handicapped or you’re a loony and the council have given you somewhere to live and one day there’s a knock at your door and there are three kids you’ve never seen in your life and they come barging in and they take the place over and they’ll chin you if you even raise an eyebrow. They’re out there day and night, taster giveaways, good gear, really cheap. They’re on the phones. They’ve got a client list. They’re banging out the special offers. They want to sell to you, and your best mate, and your mate’s best mate, and pretty soon they’ve got most of the estate on their books, and the likes of Suze has chained her kids to the sofa because these kids don’t know where to stop. They’ve got a business model and it’s really simple. Great gear. Great prices. But never do me on the money.’
This has to be county lines. I try the phrase on Danny.
‘You know about that stuff? County lines?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘H told me. He said it was the new hard sell, kids on phones all the time, oblivion made easy.’
‘Is that what he called it? Oblivion made easy?’
‘No, that’s my phrase.’
Sight Unseen Page 9
