Blood Tracks (10 page)

Declan approached the table in the dingiest corner of the stale-smelling pub.

“Nice choice of venue,” he said, peeling his feet off the sticky carpet.

“Sorry, lad. The Ritz was fully booked,” the man scoffed. “Anyway, you’re half an hour late. I don’t like being kept waiting.”

“You try catching two buses out to the back of beyond at this time of night.”

The man leaned forward, the yellow light illuminating his weather-beaten face. Declan couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed as they were concealed between unruly eyebrows and bags the size of water wings. “This is for your benefit. Do you want people to see us together?”

“Suppose not,” Declan mumbled, sweeping his eyes around the scruffy room in a sudden fit of paranoia. “Do I get a drink?”

“Thanks for offering. Mine’s a pint.” His battered leather jacket creaked as he held out his empty glass.

Declan huffed and walked to the bar, waiting for the barmaid to finish her game on the fruit machine. He returned to the table with two foaming beers.

“You’re still only seventeen. I shouldn’t let you drink that,” the man mocked.

“You’re driving, aren’t you? I shouldn’t let
you
drink
that
!” Declan retorted.

The man raised his bushy eyebrows, revealing small, bloodshot eyes. He chuckled darkly. “Worried about me, are you, Declan?”

“No, I’m worried about the people you might crash into.”

He ignored the boy and took a gulp of beer, the foam forming a white moustache on his stubbly top lip. “So, you’ve got a job in the warehouse already. How did you wangle that?”

Declan shrugged.

“Was it advertised or did you just go in and show them your incredible CV?” he sneered.

Declan glared at him. “Gina Wilson put in a word for me, I had a quick interview with Mr. Cotter and I started the next day. He didn’t even bother asking for references.”

“Why not?”

“Because Gina recommended me and he’ll do anything to try to keep in with her. She can’t stand him. Her dad died a while back. The inquest said it was suicide but Gina won’t believe it. She’s got it into her head that Cotter knows something about his death.”

“Okay,” the man nodded slowly, “I’ll ask around. You must have made quite an impression on the girl if she’s willing to get you a job.”

Declan seemed flustered. “Well, not really. She’s just nice…
really
nice.”

The man let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, for God’s sake, soft lad. This isn’t a dating agency. You’re not going all Romeo over her, are you?”

Declan stared into his beer. “What d’you think I am, stupid?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” The man laughed. “Anyway, what do you make of Cotter?”

“I don’t know. I’ve only been working there a week. He seems fine to me. Introduced me to everyone, made sure the other men showed me the ropes, went through all the health and safety stuff. He’s training me on the forklift trucks next week,” Declan said, trying to hide his enthusiastic smile.

“I’m happy for you,” came the deadpan reply.

Declan ignored his sarcasm. “To be honest, I haven’t seen much of Mr. Cotter. He doesn’t get his hands dirty, which is fair enough – he’s the boss. He’s in and out. All the lads seem to like him and Kylie in the office seems happy working for him.”

“And what about the warehouse: anything there that’s struck you as unusual?”

“Everything seems fine. I know you think it’s a job you could train a monkey to do, but really there’s a lot of skill involved. Watching as those massive containers are hoisted off the ships and transferred to the lorries is pretty awesome. And when they roll up to the warehouse, well, that’s when the work really starts. Did you know we have to manhandle every single one of those sacks onto the pallet boards? It’s knackering! And then stacking them onto the shelves! If we don’t get it
just
right, they’d come crashing down and kill someone. It’s actually quite a dangerous job.” Declan nodded gravely.

The man rolled his eyes. “Dangerous, my arse. Listen, lad, I’ve done things that would cripple you with fear. Walk in my shoes for a day, then you’d know what dangerous is.”

“No thanks. I bet your shoes stink,” Declan retorted.

The man ferreted out an A5 envelope from a plastic bag and handed it to Declan.

Declan looked at him, unsure what to do.

“Well, open it. It’s for you to keep hold of. Have a good look.”

Declan pulled out a photograph of a tall, bulky, middle-aged black man with a shiny bald head. He was standing on a pavement outside what could have been a hotel or an office block. Declan noted his pinstriped suit and the clashing accessories: a thick gold chain hung across his double-breasted jacket, several chunky rings adorned his sausage fingers and he had a stud in one ear.

“Have you seen this man?”

“No, but he looks like a fella you wouldn’t want to mess with. Who is he?” Declan asked.

“You don’t need names. He’s from the Ivory Coast and he’s a person of great interest to me. You just need to keep your eyes open and your ears to the ground and if you come across him, get in touch.”

“What’s he got to do with Tom Cotter ”

“That’s one of the things I’m paying you to find out,” he said, taking another, thicker brown envelope from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “This should cover your bus fare home.” He slung it at Declan, who opened it and peered inside. The contents made his mouth suddenly dry with guilt and pleasure.

“Put it away,” the man ordered. “And don’t go flashing it around, or people will start asking questions. You keep your head down and don’t draw attention to yourself. And I’m warning you, if you mess me around – try to take the money and just sit back and do nothing – then you haven’t quite grasped how easily I could ruin your life.”

Declan stuffed the envelope in his back pocket, scowling at his drinking partner.

“Hey, don’t look like that.” The man stood up to leave and slapped Declan on the back, sending him jerking forward. “You’re my number one boy. I’m relying on you. Just remember to keep your mind on the job and don’t get distracted by girls. Keep Gina Wilson sweet, keep
all
of them sweet; you need people to trust you, but my advice to you is, trust no one!”

“Especially not you,” Declan muttered into his glass.

Danny, Gina and their mum were crouched in front of the fish tank, surveying the carnage. Half-eaten carcasses floated on the surface of the water. Danny was trying to identify the dead.

“They got all the guppies,” he said, chewing his lip. “Can’t see the pufferfish. And my clownfish, oh no!” His lip started to quiver as he saw the orange-and-white body floating among the debris. “He wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Danny scowled at the sleek offenders, who were now imprisoned in a water-filled plastic bag in a corner of the tank. “I should have taken them out earlier. I thought they were going to settle in.”

Gina and her mum exchanged anxious looks.

Gina put her arm around Danny’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll sort it out. You’ve still got plenty of others left. Look, on the stones right in front of you – Gina’s survived.” She pointed to the catfish with its mouth clamped around one of the blue stones. “And look in the corner, by the air pump – there are three minnows.”

“They always hang out in the bubbles. It’s like their personal Jacuzzi.” Danny gave a feeble smile.

“And the angelfish, look here.” She pointed to the fish emerging from the cannon hole of the pirate ship. “She doesn’t look too bad.”

“They’ve taken a chunk out of her dorsal fin.” Danny winced.

“Yeah, but she’s still swimming okay, isn’t she?” Gina replied like a spin doctor.

A
rat-a-tat-tat
made them all jump.

They turned to see Tom’s cheerful face at the bay window.

“Don’t let Tom in here. Don’t mention it to him. No need to upset him,” her mum said.

“No need to upset him?” Gina echoed. “This is his fault! He needs to see what he’s done.”

“For God’s sake, Gina, it’s not a crime scene,” her mum replied.

Mum scurried to open the door. Gina could hear her whispering to Tom in the hallway.

She watched him as he walked solemnly into the room, like he was entering a wake. He crouched down next to Danny and ruffled the boy’s hair.

“Who’d have known that they’d do this?” Tom said, shaking his head.

Gina flashed him an incredulous look. “Danny tried to tell you, but you made him put those stupid fish in anyway.”

“Sorry, Danny,” Tom said. “I just thought they’d look good in the tank.”

“Don’t take any notice of her.” Danny cringed. “You didn’t force me to put them in, Uncle Tom, it’s okay. But what should I do with the tigerfish now?

“No problem. I’ll take them back to the shop, donate them. Explain my mistake,” Tom said, taking his wallet from his jacket. “Take this and when you get a chance, why don’t you go to the shop and restock the tank. I promise not to interfere. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Danny looked at the twenty-pound notes and then over to his mother to see what he should do.

“Well, that’s very kind of you, Tom, but that’s far too much money,” Clare said.

“No. Please take it,” Tom replied.

“You can’t buy your way out of everything, you know,” Gina snapped at him.

“Gina, don’t be so rude,” her mum scolded.

“Yeah, Gina, leave Uncle Tom alone!” Danny said.

“I’m only trying to help. Like I did when I gave your mate Declan a job,” he said pointedly.

Gina fell silent.

“Cup of tea, Tom?” her mum said, trying to diffuse the tension.

Tom followed Clare into the kitchen. The radio was playing softly in the background and the smell of freshly-washed clothes on the radiator mingled with the scent of the shepherd’s pie cooking in the oven.

“You’ll have to excuse Gina. It’s not been a good day; she’s upset for Danny and then we’ve had this come from the council.”

She handed Tom a letter.

“It’s upset us all, but especially Gina. You know how she is about her dad.”

Tom read the correspondence.

Dear Mrs. Wilson,

We are writing to bring to your attention the fact that Plot 64 on the Canalside Allotments has not been tended for many months and has fallen into an unacceptable state. We are aware of the sad passing of your husband and so have delayed taking any action regarding the plot until now. However, as you will appreciate, the council has a lengthy waiting list for these allotments and we are therefore at a stage where we require a renewed commitment from you to retain this plot. We look forward to your reply within two weeks. If we do not hear from you within this time period we will automatically assume that you are terminating your tenancy and will reallocate the plot.

Yours sincerely,

Mr. Michael Blake (Parks and Gardens)

“They shouldn’t be allowed to do this,” Tom said angrily.

“Of course they should. I can see the council’s point. But it doesn’t make it any easier. I haven’t been able to face going to the allotment since Martin died and Gina’s only been back once. It must look a right mess. It needs someone to work on it and I haven’t got the time. But then, of course, Gina’s up in arms. Says there’s no way we should give it up. I know she sees it as losing another part of her dad.”

“Well, why don’t you let her look after it?”

“She’s saying she will, but I can’t let her. She’s meant to be studying and it’s far too much work for her.”

“Well then, it sounds like you’ve got no choice. You’ll have to give it up. Don’t worry about Gina; she’ll get over it,” he said harshly.

Clare’s face fell. “I know you’re right, but Martin loved that plot. He was convinced we could be self-sufficient, never have to buy fruit and veg again.” Clare gave a hollow laugh. “He was fighting a losing battle of course, the soil is terrible. We never got anything out of it.”

“Why did he keep at it then?”

“You know Martin, he wasn’t a quitter, and to be honest he liked to have his own space sometimes; a place to think about things.” She handed Tom a mug of tea. “You know he went there the day he died, don’t you?”

Tom’s eyes widened. “No! Are you sure?”

“Yes, Gina found out. Martin was there that afternoon, digging. Sometimes I picture him standing in his allotment, looking out over the docks with all his terrible thoughts; contemplating killing himself.”

Tom listened, intently.

“And what I do is” – Clare’s voice started to crack – “I rewrite that day in my mind. I’m not sitting at the stupid checkout, making small talk with the customers. No, I imagine that I know instinctively that he’s in trouble and I march out of work, still in my uniform, and I go straight to the allotment and find him there and I go up to him and hug him so tightly and whisper in his ear that whatever it is that’s wrong, however bad he’s feeling, I can make it better. And then he kisses me and says to me, ‘Thank God you found me, Clare.’ And I take him home and keep him safe until all those terrible thoughts have passed.”

Clare’s shoulders started to shake, the sobs building up in her chest. Tom pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head, stroked her dark hair, holding her tight as she buried her head in his chest. Tom tilted her chin up. The anguish on Clare’s tear-stained face mirrored his own.

“Don’t worry, Clare,” he whispered. “I’m going to look after you. All of you.” He bent his head down, cupped Clare’s soft, round face between his hands and kissed her on the mouth; a kiss full of such intensity that it shocked and thrilled her in equal measure.

The sound of footsteps approaching sent Clare into a panic. She tussled out of Tom’s embrace.

“Don’t say anything,” she said to Tom, opening the oven door and practically sticking her head in it.

“Are you okay?” Gina eyed her mother, noting how flustered and flushed she seemed.

“Yes,” Clare said blithely. “Just getting the pie out of the oven.”

“Won’t you need the oven gloves for that?” Gina said suspiciously.

“Oops, silly me,” Clare said.

Gina turned her gaze to Tom. His blue eyes were shining. He looked slightly ruffled – not his usual immaculate self.

“What’s going on?” Gina asked.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Tom announced. Clare looked at him in alarm. “Your mother’s told me about the council and the allotment and I’d like to help. I know how much that allotment meant to Marty so, if you’ll let me, Gina, I’m going to maintain it so that the council can’t take it off you.”

“Really!” said Gina and her mum in unison.

“I didn’t know that you were into that kind of thing. Don’t you have a gardener to do your
own
garden?” Gina asked.

“Yeah, but this would be different. I’d like to do it…in memory of your dad.”

“But me and Danny would want to help,” Gina said.

“Of course! You don’t think I’m going to do it all on my own, do you? Just give me a bit of time to do all the back-breaking stuff and then you and Danny can do the planting and get all the glory.” He broke into a dazzling smile and Gina, for once, found herself returning it.

“Danny,” she called out. Her brother ran into the kitchen.

“Danny, Tom’s going to help us with Dad’s allotment so the council won’t be able to take it off us.”

Danny’s face lit up. “Brilliant. Hey, Uncle Tom can we play cards in the shed, like I used to do with Dad?”

“Sure.” Tom shrugged.

“And can we raise the stake? Cos Dad only let us play for pennies.”

“Pennies? It’ll have to be twenty pence a game, or I’m not playing,” Tom teased.

Tom’s ears pricked up as a familiar song filtered through from the radio.

“Hey, Danny, turn up the radio, will you?”

Danny kept his finger on the volume button until the song blasted out.

“It’s old people’s music,” Danny protested.

“It is not!” his mum said defensively. “It’s Abba! Everyone loves Abba.”

“Come on, Clare.” Tom circled an arm around her waist. “Let’s show these boring youngsters how it’s done.”

He barrelled her out of the kitchen and into the hallway and started to serenade her.

“I’m diggin’
my
dancing queen!” He winked.

Danny put his hands over his ears. “Embarrassing! Embarrassing!” he chanted, secretly revelling in the fun.

Gina and Danny followed them into the living room as Tom swirled their mother around, the floorboards creaking beneath them. Clare shrieked as he bent her backwards so her hair swept the floor and then pulled her up sharply, nose to nose, his eyebrows raised in mock seduction.

Clare’s eyes shut as the room spun around her, her mouth plastered with a smile, breathless and giddy. Gina watched her mother’s glowing face and, despite herself, she couldn’t help feeling happy for her, even if it was Uncle Tom she was dancing with. But none of them noticed the marble urn, jumping closer to the edge of the shelf with each footstep that thumped in front of it. The next circuit of the room sent the urn leaping off the shelf and crashing to the floor. The lid flew off it and the grey, gritty contents spewed out. Some landed on the cracks between the floorboards and instantly seeped down them, disappearing for ever.

Gina scrabbled on the floor, trying to brush the ashes away from the cracks. “No, no, don’t, please don’t,” she jabbered to them. Gathering up what remained, she returned the ashes to the cracked urn as if they were gold dust.

Her mum, Danny and Tom stood still, their mouths open in horror like they were playing some terrifying version of musical statues.

Gina turned her distraught face to Tom. “That was all I had left of my dad,” she whimpered.

Tom shook himself out of his paralysis, replying nervously, “It’ll be okay. I’ll make everything all right again, you’ll see.”