Highbridge Page 5

  ‘Nothing. Just history.’ Luke panned back on target. Noting again the array of domes clustered on the corner by the alley. All-round view. Way over the top for the average chippy. His mind went back to the consequences of the global tides of change that send manufacturing overseas. The local factories are closed, dismantled and shipped overseas too. More shipwreck than train wreck, but they still should have seen it coming. The companies sail away leaving their workforce behind. Marooned. Marooned on concrete islands once built as so-called new towns of opportunities and amenities. Sometimes referred to as overspill estates as they socially cleansed the inner cities to get rid of the Victorian slums or Second World War bomb damage. When the Council did more damage than Hitler, as his mum and dad often said.

  ‘Do you think politics is war by other means?’ he asked Matt.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Never mind.’ He went back inside his head. How many times had he heard that one about the Council doing more damage than anyone while he was growing and fighting for his life on the walkways and underpasses of Butcher’s Fields? He saw it coming. At thirteen. When he opted out and left school. Voluntarily excluded himself. They didn’t like that. But back then they didn’t really give a toss. Well, no one carved themselves a nice little earner and gold-plated pension pot by caring or siding with the people.

  It was also another reason why he joined the army. They liked that. Get him off their statistics on to someone else’s. Hopefully one of the casualties. But something the politicos always forget. People. Punters. Voters. They don’t just read the papers. They live, breathe and create the stories that go in them. Politicians read about life. Real people live it. They also do another very dangerous thing. Well, some of them do. They read books. No wonder the first thing any puffed-up dictator does when they try to grab power is stop people reading. These days it’s cutting off the Internet, but it’s the same trick. Stop people getting ideas.

  ‘You think too much, Luke. Always been your trouble, mate,’ Matt said, puncturing the thought bubble Luke, as Matt had often pointed out, always retreated into. ‘There’s nothing you can do about the shifts in global capitalism mate, so why bother yourself?’

  ‘What? Get pissed or get something from the likes of that fat bastard down there?’

  ‘No. But you could spend a bit more time trying to fill that bloody black hole left behind by losing Janey.’

  Luke turned ready to have another go, but saw Matt was waiting for an outburst. It had been a deliberate shot. Bang on target. You see. People. They get ideas. Uncomfortable ideas. Right ideas.

  ‘You should have stayed at that seminary, Father O’Connor. Priesthood lost out when you decided to join our band of homicidal maniacs.’

  ‘Better than ending up a kiddy fiddler.’

  ‘Welcome, Mr Joe. And Mrs Nolan. You well tonight?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you, Lin.’

  ‘Yes. Those Chinese people in London. Not real thing. Usual?’

  ‘Yep. You know me. No imagination.’

  ‘You just have excellent taste. Be right back.’

  Joey flopped into the seat. The adrenalin from the station now subsiding.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Natasha said as she picked up the menu.

  He didn’t need a reminder about which question. He knew when he changed the subject in the car, just as he knew she wouldn’t let it pass. But at least it had given him a bit more time to think. ‘They’re doing private security work.’

  ‘What? Group 4 or something?’

  ‘Don’t think they’re nursemaidin’ prisoners back and forth to court, or sitting as cocky watchmen outside some factory somewhere.’

  ‘They’re mercenaries?’

  ‘Close Quarter Operatives, they call it.’

  ‘Where?’ she asked, but Joey just stared back at her. Don’t ask.

  ‘What? You’d have to, or they’d have to shoot me if you tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I know is that they left the army, well, got their P45s in the last round of cuts. Apparently Matt was one of the ones who had to finish his medical rehab before they binned him. Bit like those old movies isn’t it, where they patch people up and get them fit so they can hang them.’

  It was Natasha’s turn to just sit and stare. And wait. She wasn’t going to let him drift off this time. ‘So what do you do when all you know how to do is kill people?’ Joey asked. Eventually.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Joe. Don’t be so dramatic.’

  ‘I’m not. That’s what Luke said to me. They had a look around at life outside the services and decided it wasn’t for them. So went back out and signed up with one of the security firms offering close quarter protection. Four times their army pay.’

  Natasha nodded now. She seemed to get it. ‘And I suppose with what happened to Janey …’

  ‘Exactly. What has he got to come back for? Not sure why Matt’s in it, though.’

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? He’s (a), a lazy sod so where and how’s he going to get a decent job. And (b), he’s a basket case.’

  Joey had to concede with a slight nod. Typical. She had always had them all sussed, which is why he’d been constantly walking on eggshells since agreeing to bankroll Luke. It was true that he had come back to see his mum. But he had carefully never said why they had stayed.

  ‘So, they would shoot people if necessary?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your mates. As, what did you call them, Close Quarter Operatives?’

  ‘Er, yeah, they provide close quarter protection as Private Security Operatives.’

  ‘Mercenary bodyguards, in other words.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘And they’d shoot people.’

  ‘If necessary.’

  ‘And who decides when it’s necessary?’

  ‘Er, whoever pays them, I suppose.’ Which was suddenly a very uncomfortable thought. He hadn’t reasoned it through before, but if he was bankrolling Luke, that probably meant it would be his call as to whether they killed the fat fella in the chip shop. Shit.

  2

  Catch-Up

  JOEY WAS AT the kitchen window with his thumb hovering over the send icon, watching the dog tripping the passive detectors on the garden lights as he went on his morning bladder patrol. Every week he meant to turn down the sensitivity, but every week something else took precedence. It was usually something like replacing the wattle fence panels, now just visible in the spill from the path lights, not whether he would be asked to pass a death sentence on some fat bloke in the chippy. The microwave pinged. He turned and as he did his thumb stroked send and the progress bar started to fill. U R NOT ACTUALLY DOING HIM R U? was on its way. Unstoppable. Damn.

  He walked across, took out his World’s Best Dad mug with the warmed milk and put it under the built-in coffee maker. Part of the Saturday morning routine. He’d get an hour or two to himself before taking the boys to swimming and football practice, while Natasha got those few hours in bed after a week of school runs. He was always still too wired and tired to lie in. Especially today. Especially now. He looked at the green text bubble on the screen. It was the one thing he hated about the iPhone. The send icon being too close to the keyboard layout for work-thickened thumbs like his.

  He’d had a fitful night pondering that text message. Even the sight of Natasha unclasping her stockings had done little to lift his sense of anxiety which, thankfully, she put down to Tanya’s counselling session with Becky getting in the way of their usual Friday night routine. He took his pre-brewed, pre-frothed coffee back to the window. He used to spend these quiet hours catching up on the local newspapers, until the kids bought him an iPad for his birthday, just like their Uncle Sean’s. It had been Lucy’s idea, mainly because she wanted to play Angry Birds but then became one herself when she realised he would take it to London every Monday. That’s how he now kept up to date with the local news and saved a fortune on newspapers. Sean was always going on
about how daft the newspapers were for giving away their stuff online. Like him offering free compost to everyone, and then chuckling when he said, as he always did, not much difference really. Then again, Sean had said those wattle panels would last about ten years when he and Joey had put them up. Had they had the house ten years already? Must have, he thought. Lucy’s nearly eleven and Nat was pregnant when we moved in.

  As the dog came back with a much more relaxed swagger, Joey opened the door and felt the sharp edge of the cold. He wondered if Luke was up on the hill now. I should have thought it through. What else would Luke and Matt do? He kept telling me. That’s what they were trained for. Was Fatchops already a dead man walking?

  ‘Hey up. Side alley.’ Matt was refocusing the spotter scope.

  Luke directed the Barrett’s scope on to the alley. Two young girls were being let out of the reinforced side door at the back. It was difficult to make out who was helping them in the gloomy morning light. Could be male or female. ‘What do you reckon?’ he asked Matt.

  ‘Someone up to something they shouldn’t be.’

  ‘That your professional opinion, Sherlock?’

  ‘Yep, but someone else’s mission.’ Luke responded and eased the Barrett back on to the chippy. Which was still in darkness. ‘No target.’

  ‘I’m only here, you know.’

  ‘Old habits.’

  Matt nodded. As he kept the spotting scope on the young girls. Just in case. He could already feel his heart rate increasing along with the pulse below his scar, indicating that his anxiety level was rising. Slow it down. Just another reminder. Stay on mission. Push it back, he told himself as he watched the girls until they reached the end of the alley, took a cautious look out and then scurried off away from the chippy. Away from the target. Old habits, indeed. But the anxiety diminished. The old memory dealt with. Controlled. As he put the scope back on the chippy, he grinned. ‘I’d never have hacked it as a priest.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Old habits. Monks. Priests. You rabbitin’ on before.’

  ‘Have you thought of donating your brain to science?’

  ‘Nope. Nor could I have dedicated my life to celibacy.’

  ‘You’d have found some young nun to look after your needs. Locked in a conspiracy of guilt and silence. But great sex every Saturday night.’

  Matt rolled on to his back again and grinned. ‘Sunday afternoon more like. State of grace after eleven o’clock Mass.’

  ‘See. You’ve got the mind for it,’ Luke replied, as he scanned the street outside the chippy. Just for something to do. Until he came to rest on the AMG Mercedes SL500 they’d seen arrive in the early hours. ‘What do you reckon that’s doing round here?’

  Matt immediately rolled back to his own scope. ‘Courier?’ he suggested. ‘But defo someone else up to something they shouldn’t be. Won’t get one of those on the Mobility Allowance. No wheelchair access.’

  Luke panned back to the chippy, just as Fatchops came from the back with another man, both just visible in the blue light from the bug zapper. They hovered in the doorway. ‘Door.’

  ‘Looks family.’ Luke was watching Fatchops unlock the shop door and then go into the now almost obligatory male gripped wrist and body hug parting. He then relocked the door and went back through the shop as his visitor headed down the street, head bowed in the typical religious pose of a serial texter. Towards the Mercedes. Opening it and starting up without fumbling for keys.

  ‘Keyless entry and quick getaway. Invented for the bad guys those things,’ Matt said, as he watched the car speed away. ‘What d’you reckon? Asian or East African?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Nah. That’s the beauty of globalisation. No one cares who kills who.’

  Sean tapped the code into the garden centre alarm system, then stood back to let Glynnis enter. She was always there before him. Often there after him. He watched her wander off towards the café, pulling her coat tighter against the cold. Within half an hour she would have the café open and ready to start serving the first breakfast of the day. His. One of the perks of owning the place was every day having a Full Welsh, as Glynnis insisted it be called, as he skimmed through the news headlines on his iPad before going through the previous day’s takings, or sorted out any changes to the coming day’s work patterns. Today it was the switch from Halloween to Christmas and he’d been pondering on where best to place the Singing Santa Gnomes.

  He knew they’d be a winner because Sandra hated them. She’d almost kicked the sample over the fence when it started singing ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ as she arrived home from her tennis lesson. Fortunately she was better at tennis than football so she’d sliced her shot, and Santa had only gone into the box hedging. Still singing. A testament to its build quality. He’d wondered about putting that on the display sign, ‘Will Keep Singing If Kicked’, but decided he’d probably end up with too many warranty claims.

  As he settled in to the corner table he used as his early morning office, Glynnis arrived with the Welsh. Fried egg, two Red Dragon sausages, bacon, beans, fried tomato, Welsh black pudding, one piece of brown toast, to show willing, a glass of orange juice and a pot of tea. ‘Where do you think I should put the Santa Gnomes, Glynnis?’

  ‘Anywhere except in here.’ She went back towards the kitchen with a just perceptible shake of her head. Then stopped. ‘But I’ll have the nodding polar bears.’

  ‘I was going to put them in the entrance as a come-on.’

  ‘That’s daft. If they’re at the door they’ve already come. You need to get them in here and spend some money. My mark-up’s better than out there.’ She straightened a chair, went a few more steps and stopped again. ‘You doing that Santa Shed thing again this year?’

  ‘You mean the Grotto?’

  Another slight shake of the head. ‘Well, if you are doing it, you should put a Christmas garden outside. It could be where he grows sprouts and cranberry and has free-range turkeys. All the Christmas food. Like where he has his allotment.’ She turned and left with a parting shot over her shoulder. ‘Everyone knows it’s a shed.’

  Sean watched her go. Late forties, single. Not unattractive even though she never seemed to be bothered about her appearance. She always looked like she ran her fingers through her hair every morning and seemed to have only seven different outfits. All a combination of black trousers with black tops. It was as though she was in a constant state of mourning. She lived alone. No family. And didn’t appear to have any other life except work. Sean suspected there had been some tragedy in her past and had tried several times over the years to tease it out of her, but she never responded, always changing the subject. He’d long since stopped being surprised by her. The only thing that still amazed him was why she was like she was. She was the best employee he had, yet she couldn’t read or write.

  He assumed that was why she didn’t mix. It was an avoidance strategy. The less she mixed with people, the less chance of being forced into a situation where she would be found out. She didn’t speak much, but whenever she did it meant something. Like the Santa Shed. She was right. And the garden idea was great. He switched to email and sent a note to himself. REMEMBER SANTA SHED + GARDEN + TURKEYS. He then turned back to dissecting the black pudding. He’d put the Singing Santas near the tools. Like the old Big Mouth Billy Bass singing fish, it’ll be the guys who will go for the laughs.

  Joey looked at his phone again. Nothing. Radio silence, he thought. He hoped. He raised his mug to drain the coffee, but nearly dropped it as a pair of arms came round his waist. Jesu. It was Natasha.

  ‘You OK?’

  He turned and put his arms round her, went to kiss her but she turned away. ‘You stink of coffee.’

  ‘You’re not usually up.’

  ‘You’re not usually so preoccupied. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything’s fine.’ He pulled away. Immediately confirming that it wasn’t. ‘Want a tea?’

  ‘Rather have an
answer.’

  He could already see the corner he was being boxed towards. ‘Just missed our weekly catch-up last night because, you know, Tanya and her counselling session.’

  She looked at him, now with his back to her, in only boxers and T-shirt, his strong legs and shaped back still trim enough to suit the fitted tee. He’d always been sensitive about sex with the kids in the house, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. ‘It’s something else, Joe.’

  It was. She saw the shoulders drop.

  ‘It’s not. Everything’s fine,’ he lied. But she was silent. Still. Waiting. He was already in the corner. He tried a feint. ‘Well, if it’s anything. It’s about Benno.’

  ‘Benno? Why? What’s wrong with him?’

  He sensed the slight gap he could spin through. ‘I can’t remember leaving his envelope.’ Joey raised his phone. ‘Been trying to get in touch.’

  It seemed to work. Benno was the guy he worked with down in London. ‘You shouldn’t be doing that, Joe,’ she said as she headed for the toaster. ‘If the tax catch up with him you’ll get it too.’

  Joey shook his head. ‘It’s a gift. On top of what he gets off the job. I’m just helping out a mate because he watches my back down there. But I must be getting old to forget leaving his envelope.’

  ‘Or too tired.’ She smiled, turning back for the expected riposte and defence of his hunter-gatherer virility, but instead caught the pensive look on his face. ‘What?’

  The look was quickly replaced with one of attempted reassurance. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘C’mon Nolan. How long we been together?’ She broadened her grin as she pulled him towards her, hooking a leg behind his. ‘You still in a state over last night?’

  Another opening. ‘Well … Mother Teresa and her gang do tend to dampen the mood.’ He nodded at the yellow roses as the toaster donged to tell them it was ejecting the toast. It always made Joey smile.

  ‘You sure it was just that? And not the money again?’

  Another of their recurring topics. Was travelling to London worth the money? It was good. Daft, even. Even after paying out for the train and digs, he was still pulling in three times what he could locally. Provided he didn’t get sucked into the card school and avoided the traditional and so-called swift one on the way back after work or any other overheads. He couldn’t believe how so many of them just blew what they were earning. Might as well stay at home on the crap jobs and go home to the missus every night. He looked across at Natasha. She was wearing the red silk dressing gown and matching strappy nightie he had bought for Valentine’s Night. As she buttered the toast every movement accentuated her shape. ‘Nobody butters the toast like you, do you know that?’