Authors: Ray Banks
“Nah,” he said, wiping his feet like he had an itch on the soles. “I wouldn't run, Sergeant.”
“
Detective
.”
“Right. Detective. Not daft enough to run, am I?”
“Used to be a fuckin' rabbit, as I recall.” I looked around the street, but the place was dead apart from a slow rain that'd started as soon as I left the poof's club. Right enough, most people who lived out here, they'd still be in their kip, sleeping it off. “Didn't know you lived round here.”
“I don't,” said Paddy.
Stuck the cigarette in my mouth, lit it. “Thought you did.”
“No, I never lived round here.”
“Then what you doing?”
“I was just walking, like.”
He couldn't get his eyes on me. I blew the first lungful of smoke his way and got a bit closer. “Where from?”
“Just walking, Detective. No law—”
“You must've come from somewhere, though. Y'know, if you don't live round here. So where was it? You still getting your piss test at the clinic up the road, are you?”
“Nah.”
“You don't do 'em anymore, is that it?”
“I do 'em.”
“But not today, right?”
He pulled a De Niro. Just for a second.
“Whoa, the fuck was that, Paddy?”
“Nowt.”
“That face you just pulled at us.”
“Nowt,” he said. “I dunno what you mean.”
I got right in there, stared at him. Caught a sniff of some nasty Superdrug aftershave he was wearing. “Oof, Jesus, what you wearing that for?”
He shook his head.
“Fuckin' humming, that. You got a fuckin' gash round here or what?”
He looked around him, didn't say anything. Probably searching for an escape route.
“I asked you a question. Last thing I knew, you were a bloke with a fuckin' tongue in his head, could answer questions when someone asked them at you, am I right?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Fuckin' hell, it speaks. So you got a lady friend round here? Hope for your sake she's done her GCSEs.”
“A mate,” he said, his lips dead thin. Looking at us now, almost had this defiant glint in his eyes. And a glint of
any
kind in Paddy's eyes was a weird sight. “Up the road.”
“This mate a bloke?”
“Yeah.”
“And you went to see him with aftershave on?”
“Yeah.”
“You turn poof in the nick, Pads?”
“Nah.”
“You did something,” I said, pointing at him. Gave him a wink. “I know you did something.”
His voice got big. “I was just seeing a mate, wasn't I?”
Paddy was lying to us. He was the same as all the rest, got shouty when they knew they were caught, played indignant to get out of the cuffs. And I would've let it go, except Paddy got mouthier than usual, moved his face back into mine.
“You can't stop us like this,” he said. “It's not legal. You want to watch I don't put in a complaint about you.”
“For what?” I said.
“For fuckin' harassment, that's what.”
“Right y'are.” I stared at the bastard for a good long time. He knew the moment he made a move to run, I'd be on him, and it'd be the worst kicking he ever got. So he shifted his weight, one leg to the other, and he tried to keep his gaze anywhere but at me. When he finally found a spot on the wall next to him to look at, I spoke. Kept my voice low as I said, “How's about you and me, we go up that alley over there? I think we need to have a quiet word.”
I pointed up behind him. An alley, long and narrow, boxed in high on both sides, led to the other estate. Looked like the kind of corridor Paddy used to squat down when he was committed fully to the smack and fuck knows what else. He obviously didn't like the idea, pulled another De Niro face.
“You still on the gear?” I said.
“No.”
“Right then.” I pointed the way. “Up you go.”
“The fuck?”
I put a hand on him, pushed him in his hollow chest towards the alley. He was a streak of piss, nearly buckled under my shove, and when I pushed him again, he flinched like he was set to come back at us.
“What?” I said. “You want something, Paddy?”
Yeah, he wanted to get fucking bolshy, push us back. But he knew, he put a finger on us, I'd have him back in a piss-soaked cell, the kind with that thick stink that got right in your clothes. See how he fancied going back to his “mate” with that smell on him.
Paddy trudged into the alley. I checked behind us, made sure there was nobody with a nose on them, or about to do one with my car. Then I followed him, rubbing my hands to get them warm. I saw the puke and broken glass on the ground, reckoned this'd be perfect. It was even slightly sheltered against the rain.
“Up against the wall,” I said.
“Eh?”
“Don't waste my fuckin' time, Paddy. Get your back scraping that wall, son.”
He did what I told him, but he still had a face on.
“You testing?” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Showing clean?”
“Wouldn't be here if I wasn't, would I?” Big grin on his face now of the fuck-you variety. He rolled up the sleeves of his jumper and slapped his arms to show them unmarked. “Kind of daft fuckin' question's that?”
I scratched my cheek. “Alright, it's time to listen to us now, Paddy. This is important an' all so do us a favour and pay very close attention. You can slap your arms all you fuckin' want, son, but that doesn't mean you're not a smackhead, so don't treat us like your fuckin' PO. You're sharp as a baby's fingernails, Paddy, I'll give you that, but you're not as sharp as me. Not even close.”
Paddy didn't say anything.
“So I'll ask you again, and this time you'll stow the attitude. Are you clean?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“You're clean.” I could taste blood coming from somewhere in my mouth. I looked at Paddy's feet. Pumas, box-white. Someone was getting paid these days.
“So is that it?” he said.
“You're definitely clean.”
“I told you.”
“Okay.”
“Right.” He made a move off the wall.
I put a hand on his chest, pushed him back. “So if I got you to turn out your pockets, I'm not going to find anything?”
Paddy's face pinched up. “You're not—”
“I'm not going to find smack, anything like that? You haven't shifted onto coke or nowt?”
“Fuck off, you can't—”
I slapped him, open hand. Once. Hard. Paddy didn't see it, didn't roll, caught it all. His face flared where I hit him, and he clamped a hand over the mark, his mouth open.
“Don't interrupt us, Paddy. From now on you speak when you're fuckin' well spoken to. Now, is there anything on your person that you think I should know about, given our current situation?”
“I don't—”
“I know, none of the gear. I know it, I'm aware. But you wouldn't happen to have any pills, resin, owt like that? Doesn't have to be intent to sell. Even if it's a smidge, I need to know.”
“Fuckin'
shite
.” His eyes were red and shiny.
I pulled the cigarette from my mouth and chucked it down the alley. Looked around to make sure we were still alone. “Turn 'em out, son.”
Paddy sucked his teeth.
“Here or down the nick, whichever way you want to play it. If it's down the nick, mind, you know I'll have to charge you.” I sniffed. “So chop-chop, eh?”
Paddy paused, then dug his hands into his pockets, started to turn them out, and what a stash it was. Got what looked like about an eighth of resin in foil, scraped down from what was probably a quarter at one point. Meant he was selling, because there wasn't a testing smackhead in the world would risk pissing dirty because he'd been smoking resin. Other stuff: Clipper lighter, flint rod sticking out, Zig Zags pack with the front flap all ripped up. Ten pack of Bensons. Flipped that open, found four and a half cigarettes left. I took one of the full ciggies, lit it and blinked against the smoke.
“Other one,” I said.
The other pocket wasn't half as exciting, but I still scored a wrap of speed in amongst the fluff and change. When I looked up at Paddy, he was pale as fuck. Sweating despite the chill. I stuffed the haul into my leather jacket, craned to see the lip of the alley. My car was still up there. Untouched, as far as I could see, but I didn't want to push my luck much more.
“Well?” he said.
I sniffed, then blew smoke. “Shoes.”
“You what?”
“I'm not joking, and I don't have all day. Take 'em off.”
“Why?”
“Need to make sure you're not a terrorist. What the fuck difference does it make? I tell you to do something, you fuckin' well do it.”
Paddy leaned back against the wall, scooched down a bit and grabbed his left trainer. Undid the laces, handed me the shoe with his sock foot against the wall. I looked inside the trainer. Nothing. I didn't think there would be, like, but I thought I'd pretend to be interested anyway.
“And the other one.”
He pulled a face at us, but I didn't bite this time. Then he rocked on his heels, leaned on the ball of his sock foot and yanked the other trainer off.
“Jesus, the stink doesn't really hit you until you've got the pair, does it?”
That must've hit a nerve, because Paddy turned on the charm. “The fuck is this about, Donkey?”
And as soon as the word spilled out of his mouth, he knew he'd fucked up big-style.
Not that I didn't know that people called us Donkey. It was a nickname that'd stuck to me like shit to a quilt. It was just that most people had the common decency not to call us it to my face. And Paddy Reece was the kind of bloke who was never above getting a solid beating at the best of times, so I didn't know where the fuck he got the idea he could up the ante by calling me that.
“What's that, Pads?”
“Nothing.”
“Didn't quite catch it. Say it again.”
He mumbled something, shook his head, already the colour back in his face.
I held up one shoe, squinted down the alley. Then I pulled back and flung his Puma as far as I could. It flew for a good distance, then bounced off a bin and landed hole-down in a puddle. Paddy groaned loud.
“What'd you do that for?” he said.
“There was nothing in it.”
He made a move to get up. I kicked him in the middle of his chest. Paddy hit the wall, scuffed down a bit further, his face twisted and the breath torn from his lungs. I leaned over, held the other trainer up so he could see it.
“You want to fuck about your whole life,” I said, “that's fine by me. But if you choose to fuck about with the men in charge, they're liable to make that life seriously fuckin' uncomfortable.”
I hefted the weight of his other trainer in my hand, then started back to my car.
“Wait a minute,” he said.
I looked back at him. He stared up the alley at the thrown trainer, then back at me. Struggled upright, put one of his feet on the ground and withdrew it sharply.
“Mind yourself walking,” I said. “Think some dirty fuckin' smackhead's been using it as a shooting gallery.”
“Detective Donkin, come on—”
“I just taught you an important lesson, Patrick, and I didn't have to kick shite out of you to do it. You should be grateful.”
I turned to the street, spotted a variety of targets, and finally picked a cat that was stretching on a wheely bin across the road. I chucked Paddy's trainer as hard as I could. It bounced off the bottom of the wheely bin, scared the shit out of the cat. Behind us, Paddy let out this long sigh.
“You got off light, son,” I told him, getting into the car. “Next time you see fit to mess us around, I'll put you in the fuckin' hospital. Think on.”
INNES
The sign outside the Lads Club reads IC INVESTIGATIONS.
The I stands for Innes, the C for Collier. It was a long, draining and argumentative night when we finally agreed on a name. Look at it now, and it still seems a little naff, but it's too late to change and besides, the eyeball logo doesn't look too bad. One of the lads who used to come to the club was on his art foundation course, and he needed a stuffed portfolio more than cash. Managed to get some mileage out of that eye — not only does it grace the sign outside, but it's a metallic fixture of our new posh business cards. The silvery finish was Paulo's idea, and to hell with the cost, we'll make the money back. But while he's optimistic about this little venture, I still think the idea of Frank and me as trustworthy professional private investigators seems, well,
sarcastic
.
I nudge open the doors with my stick and push into the Lads Club. Slowly, my fingers white around the cardboard tray that holds the coffees, I manage to slip through into the gym. In the large championship ring at the back of the place, two of Paulo's top lads are slapping gloves. The blonde kid who's about to batter hell out of the other lad is Jason Kelly. He's this year's Liam Woolley, without so many priors. Jason's not the aggro type, but it was drug trouble that put him in the institution. Now he works as a plasterer's apprentice, but he's obviously better with his fists than he is with a trowel and paddle, because Paulo's taken a keen interest.
Other than that, I don't know much about him. As soon as Paulo registered a stake in the lad's career, I backed off, barely spoke to him. I might be superstitious about it, but after the Los Angeles thing, I've found it's best to separate myself from a majority of what happens in the Lads Club. And the continued success of Paulo's boxers leaves me feeling that I was definitely the jinx that fucked Liam Woolley's career.
The two lads are still circling. Paulo watches them from the ropes. He has a foul look on his face. When the doors scream closed behind me, he glances over, but doesn't acknowledge me. I'm halfway across the gym when I see Frank emerge from the back office. And my stomach turns. The way he's coming at me, his face all creased, it looks as if he's had a full-blown panic attack and I'm the cause.
He stops in front of me, and the expression doesn't change. “Where've you been?”
I hold up the coffees.
“All this time?” Looking at his watch as if he can't believe it, and it would be comical if it weren't so annoying. “Really?”
“What is it?”
He looks over at Paulo, who leans forward to clang the bell. The two lads break and head to their respective corners. Paulo swings under the rope, starts telling them both what they were doing wrong in a loud voice that seems aimed at me. Frank grabs my arm, jostling the coffees. “Jesus, Frank.”