Death Of A Nobody

by Derek Farrell

  And Falzone had a deal for me: I could run the pub any way I wanted, so long as he got 50% of the take, all the slot machine money and a guaranteed place to entertain his cronies if they ever got tired of The American Bar at The Ritz.

  I had little option, so I’d taken the job.

  And that was how I’d met “Lainey,” as Chopper referred to his granddaughter.

  If her Nannu was attempting to clean his act up somewhat, he was doing so at the same time as his granddaughter came of age and decided to position herself somewhere between Bonnie Langford and Bonnie Parker.

  Cue Chopper – in his guise as concerned Grandfather – lumbering me with the job of keeping an eye on the nascent juvenile delinquent for the term of the summer holidays.

  “She’ll be alright once she gets back to school. They keep ‘em under control at Saint Ethel’s,” he said, making me wonder if Saint Ethel’s was a school or an institution for crazed delinquents, “But till then, I’m worried, Daniel. This city’s not a place for a young girl like Lainey. Full of scumbags, it is; an’ it’s getting worse every day. Paedos, perverts and ponces all over the fuckin’ place. No offence.”

  Uncertain which of the trinity I’d been lumped in with, I had simply nodded, and awaited the dreadful request I’d already sensed coming (though request was something of a misnomer. Chopper didn’t do requests. He did instructions, which were to be obeyed without question, hesitation consideration, deviation or repetition. Sort of like an episode of Just a Minute, only with added menace.)

  “Make sure she works,” he’d ordered. “I want her to get a sense of the value of a good days work.”

  Since – rumour had it – a good days work for Chopper consisted of having at his enemies with a meat cleaver, before handing the remains over to his goons for distribution to the dodgy burger kebab and pizza places he owned, I was somewhat unsure what skills, exactly, he was hoping I would pass on to the younger generation.

  Still, we were here, Elaine was – in her own words – “Trapped in this Fucking Dump for the whole Fucking Summer,” and Ali, who had taken an immediate dislike to the young lady and her attitude, had made it clear that no shirking would be allowed.

  I was, to be honest, a little worried that she’d push the apprentice superbitch too far. Elaine was the classic teenager – all resentment, frustration, selfishness and hormones. Add to that recipe a good dash of the sort of family life she must lead, the constant knowledge of just how some of her family were viewed, and it was little wonder she was turning into what my mum would refer to as a proper little madam.

  I made a mental note to tell Ali to ease off a little, and got back to cooking.

  Next up was endive cups with bacon and Roquefort, so I put a heavy pan on to the hob, turned the gas on underneath it, lifted a couple of pounds of bacon out of the fridge and started to dice the meat.

  Dave Walker, a tray of canapes held at arm’s length, stormed into the kitchen. “Unbelievable!” he exclaimed, crossing to the bin and dumping the entire contents of the tray into the bin.

  I paused. “Something wrong with the guacamole puffs?”

  He turned to me, his face running through a range of emotions from fury to despair. At one point, I was sure he was about to burst into tears.

  “Mr Bird,”

  “Danny. Please,” I said.

  He took a deep breath, obviously struggling with the concept of allowing himself to slide into informality, “I’ve worked many of this city’s great restaurants, including the Michelin Starred Duomo,” he announced, and I nodded as though I had a clue what the Michelin Starred Duomo was, “And I’m used to dealing with difficult colleagues, but never in my life have I come across such outright nastiness.”

  Oh God, I thought, what have the three evil queens done now?

  “Look, I know the others are a bit bitchy,” I began, before he waved my comment aside.

  “Those three? Oh,” he laughed dismissively, “They’re amateurs. In every way.”

  “Then who,” I asked, but got no further.

  “That little blonde…” he struggled for the words “Saboteur. She flicked fag ash over the whole tray.”

  “Elaine?” I put the knife down, wiping my hands on my apron.

  “The very same. I put the plate down, was just heading back here to get the next one, and I saw her, out of the corner of my eye, take a handful of something from an ashtray on the bar and throw it over the food. How can someone be so… so… disrespectful?”

  I sighed. “She’s a special one, alright,” I admitted.

  Ali came into the kitchen, the other waiters trailing behind her. “What’s going on here?” She asked, spotting Dave, empty plate in hand, standing over the bin.

  Walker, with the same degree of emotion, told her.

  I’d already filled a replacement platter, and was about to head into the bar. Ali gently, but firmly removed the platter from my hands, and nodded at the pan on the hob.

  “Lots to do,” she said, “I suggest you get on and do it, and leave our problem to me.”

  The Himbos watched Ali , her face set in a mask of determination, leave the kitchen, and turned to each other, their mouths open in shock.

  “Well,” Darryl sighed, “there’s drama.”

  Walker, regaining his composure, crossed to the table as I turned my back on the foursome, and slid the diced bacon into the pan.

  The sizzle when the meat hit the heat drowned out the next few words, but as the spitting died down, I heard Fillip mutter something about “Professionalism. You deal with it amongst the team, don’t you?”

  This last seemed to have been aimed at Dave Walker, who shot back, almost immediately, with “Professionalism? You three wouldn’t know professionalism if it smacked you in the face and introduced itself.”

  “Still,” the voice of Troy noted, “You could have just told her off and got rid of the damage.”

  “And what? Leave our employer in the dark as to her character?”

  “Character? When did you become a Grand Duchess?” Fillip snarked. “She’s alright, Elaine is.”

  I wondered how on earth she had managed to ingratiate herself with him in the short period of time he’d been here.

  “Listen,” Walker spat back, and it was at that point I realised that they’d all clearly forgotten I was even present, “I don’t know what shambolic little lives you three live, but in my day,”

  “Oh Gawd,” Troy moaned,” ’ere we go again.”

  “What?” Fillip enquired “Penny farthings and top hat times?”

  “Sneer all you want, but in my day we had a thing called Standards. A thing called Pride.”

  “I’ve been to Pride,” Darryl piped up archly. “Off me face, I was.”

  “What?” Fillip goaded, “Pride in snitchin’ on a little girl who was having a laugh?”

  “Pride in a job well done, you moron,” Dave fired back. “I’ve done Michelin service, and let me tell you: You three wouldn’t even get across the threshold.”

  “Yea?” Filip snorted, “Well, I’ve done him off Corrie in the back of a taxi, but I hope to Christ I’m not still going on about it when I’m ninety.”

  The trio tittered evilly, and at that moment, the air was rent by the sound of an airhorn going off as a set of tribal drums hammered away in the background.

  I dropped my ladle, turning to see where the sound had come from, and was in time to see Dave Walker – all composure gone – drop a platter back on to the table, his face blushing furiously, and fumble desperately in his jacket pocket.

  “Hello,” he called, pulling a mobile phone from his pocket and holding it to his ear.

  The three queens tittered, nudging each other. The source of their continued amusement soon became obvious when the phone continued to ring, the next blast of Techno Rave blaring itself right into Dave Walker’s eardrum.

  “Jesus Christ,” he winced, pulling the device away from his ear and stabbing at the screen with his forefinger.
<
br />   The phone continued to ring, and his frustration levels built with every blast of the bloody airhorn.

  Fillip, Darryl and Troy were, by now, in hysterics.

  “New phone, dear?” Fillip asked.

  “Maybe you should’ve kept the old one,” Darryl added. “Size of a house brick, but at least you could answer it.”

  At that moment, the phone stopped ringing, and Dave looked around the room, his gaze resting finally on me. “My apologies for that,” he said, before excusing himself and leaving the room.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ali eventually returned, advised me that she had “Dealt with the issue,” and asked, pointedly, when the waiters were likely to finish laying out the buffet spread.

  “Only the funeral party’ll be here soon,” she finished, checking her watch and staring from the platter covered table to me in a way that made it clear she was also questioning my ability to be ready in time.

  Fillip, Darryl and Troy busied themselves, Dave Walker returned to the kitchen, silently hefted a couple of platters, and was gone.

  Left alone, I began to assemble the endive cups, and had almost finished, when I heard a man’s voice.

  “Hello,” it said, with a trace of a northern accent, “Sorry to bother you.”

  I turned, and staggered slightly.

  Standing in the doorway, as though awaiting an invitation to enter, was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. He was tall – about six foot three, I’d say – and had dark hair, shaved to a zero grade around the back and sides, but spiked on top in a way that suggested he might be a bit punky, but liked to take care of himself.

  The vision’s shoulders were broad, his hips slim, and his skin tone the sort of golden brown smoothness that I’d only ever seen in magazines.

  I steadied myself against the table, and smiled, thinking, as I did so, that I probably looked a bit simple – this silent salad savant leaning against a table and grinning like a loon.

  “Hello,” I finally blurted, and he seemed to accept that as an invitation to enter the room.

  “I’m Mike,” he said, holding his hand out, as he advanced on me. “Mike Green. From number fifty-three?”

  Number fifty-three? I mentally walked down the street. Two doors away was a derelict shop. Most of the market around here was empty or – like the Marq – had seen better years.

  I introduced myself. “You’re reopening one of the shops?” I asked, as we shook hands (he had, I noted, a firm grip, and a tendency to maintain eye contact, but unlike Troy, none of this appeared, at any point, to approach creepy. At least, not from my perspective).

  He nodded, extricating his hand from mine, and smiled dazzlingly. “Well, that’s the plan. Just in the process of refitting it.” His eyes strayed over my shoulder. “God, are those endive cups?”

  I smiled, pleased that he’d recognised my work. “We have a large party this afternoon, so I’m pulling out the stops, to be honest. If this succeeds, we might get some more buzz and more buzz means more business.”

  “But you’re the local pub, right?”

  “Well,” I felt oddly irritated that we were being dismissed as the local pub. “We’ve been building a bit of a reputation for our food. Nothing fancy – pies and stews and stuff like that. Good, honest food, but all cooked here, and all by mine own fair hands.”

  Oh God, I thought, why do you always do fake Chaucer when you’re trying not to flirt? It’s worse than the actual flirting…

  Aloud, I said, “So what sort of shop are you opening?”

  Mike Green smiled, tearing his eyes away from the remains of the spread on the table behind me. “It all looks delicious. I’ll have to pop in here for lunch someday.”

  “Daniel!” Caz entered, her tone the one she only ever uses when she’s either about to announce momentous news, or tell me off horribly, and stopped dead. “Well hello,” she purred, spotting Green.

  “Hi,” he smiled again, turning away from me, thus allowing me free range to rake my gaze across those shoulders, down that back – so straight, so firm looking – and on to those buttocks. And I knew, at that moment, that God not only exists, but that he’s a bum man.

  “Caroline,” Caz announced, stalking across the room, her arm held straight in front of her, the hand hanging loosely on the end, as though she were attending a Viennese waltz party and just naturally knew that Mike Green would wish to press his lips to the back of her hand. “Lady Caroline De Montfort.”

  Green took her hand, hesitated a moment, and – perfectly on cue – pressed his lips to it.

  “Charmed,” Caroline murmured, in tones that would have made it impossible for Mike – or anyone else, for that matter – to know that only last week she’d been forced to hock the last of her grandmothers jewels to pay the electric bill.

  “Really?” Green stared, awestruck, from Caz to me and back. “You’re a real lady?”

  “Sometimes,” I muttered, gaining, for my trouble, a flicker of annoyance from the female in question.

  “Minor aristocracy, Mister Green. We have the title, the contacts, some lands, and none of the money any more.”

  “Wow.” Green seemed a little too impressed to be true, if I’m being honest. I mean: the only people who are ever that impressed are the Americans, for whom anyone with a family tree that goes back beyond the eighteenth century is a wonder equivalent to a unicorn.

  “I mean… Wow. You don’t really expect to meet royalty in a place like this.”

  That got my hackles up. “Aristocracy,” I corrected, “Not royalty.”

  “Potato, potahto,” Caz responded, bestowing the smile that once got her either a grin or a grimace from the Queen mother (“I still can’t tell which it was,” Caz had once confided to me. “She was either fond of me, or had gas. And now, we’ll never know...”)

  “Speaking of which,” I said, gesturing to the bowl of warm potato salad on the table, “This needs shifting.”

  Caz smiled beatifically at me, and there was no question as to the meaning behind this one: Back off, buster, or I’ll brain you with the spuds.

  “And how did you come to be in this bar, Mr Green?” she simpered.

  “Oh,” Green was pulled back to now. “I’m reopening the store at number fifty-three. And I’ve got the builders in right now, remodelling the shop. Only problem is we’ve run out of milk, and you know how it is if you’ve no milk for builders tea: They seriously consider demolishing the whole place. I noticed your back door was open, so I thought I’d pop in here and see if you had any I could borrow.”

  “Caz,” I prompted, “You had something you were going to tell me?”

  “Hmmm?” Caz tore her gaze away from the deliciousness that was Mike Green, and seemed completely disorientated for a moment. “Oh, yes. “That was The Guardian. I think they might be coming in next week to review the place. Angie Lang – you know, the one I met at that Feminist Marxist thing – said she might pop over and do a bit on the food.”

  “Well,” Green smiled at me, “It sounds like you’re getting that Buzz.”

  I forgave Caz for all her recent attempts to appropriate young Mr Green for herself, reminded myself that I still had a boyfriend – even if he had recently been largely absent– and that I should let Caz have full reign with the neighbours.

  “Yes,” I said, bestowing a huge smile on Caz and popping over to the fridge to grab a carton of milk from it.

  “What sort of shop are you going to open?” Caz asked.

  “Menswear,” Green responded, gratefully accepting the carton of milk. “Somewhere funky and cool, selling classics and the latest looks. I haven’t thought up a name yet.”

  “Where is he?” Elaine stormed into the room, her eyes blazing. “Where’s that fucking lying old poof?”

  “Problem, Elaine?” I asked, jerking my head at Mike Green as if to say don’t embarrass us in front of the cute guest, but to no avail.

  “That lanky bastard. He’s lying about me, Danny. I never touched the
m vol au vents.”

  Dave Walker stepped into the kitchen behind Elaine, a look of concern on his face.

  “I’m told,” he said to Elaine’s back, “That you’re looking for me.”

  Elaine spun on him. “I never touched them vol au vents, and you fucking know it!” she stormed.

  “I know no such thing. In fact, I saw you with my own eyes sprinkling something all over them.”

  “It was fucking parsley!”

  “And since when did herbs smell like Lambert and Butler?” Dave asked.

  “You’re a liar; he’s a liar!” she protested to me.

  “I don’t really care either way,” I slid another tray over to her. “Take these in, put them on the bar, and keep away from them. Understood?”

  “If he tells another lie about me, he’ll be sorry!” She snarled.

  “Elaine!” I barked, shoving the tray into her hands. “Go! Now!”

  She left, still grumbling, leaving Mike Green, his jaw hanging in amazement at her fury, Caz simpering still at Green’s beauty, and me shaking my head.

  “Why is nothing ever easy?” I asked nobody in particular.

  Dave Walker coughed discretely. “If I may, Mr Bird: The funeral party is arriving. Mizz Carter asked me to come let you know.”

  “Right!” I turned back to the table. “Action stations, please. And, Dave: Please. No more drama.”

  “Drama?” Walker stared into the middle distance as though trying to translate a term he was unfamiliar with, nodded his head, and left the kitchen.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I dropped my whites on a kitchen chair, and, leaving the bemused looking Mike Green standing in the kitchen, followed Caz and Dave Walker out to the public bar, where a small group of people had just arrived and were helping themselves to glasses of Champagne and Pimms held aloft on serving trays by the trio of Filip Darryl and Troy.