Cleaning Up
Paul Connor-Kearns
Copyright 2011 Paul Connor-Kearns
Smashwords Edition
WINTER
Chapter 1
PC Bobby May was out riding a lone patrol, driving North on the Orbital. It was the quiet time of the day, a bit of commercial traffic and some solo Mums who’d dropped the kiddies off and were up for a bit of shopping. He took the next turn off the motorway and ran down towards the High Street with no particular intention in mind, just happy to be a presence. He did a slow lap of the outdoor market but there were still more traders there than shoppers out and about on this bright, cold day. It was too early for any action. The shoplifters would still be at home warming up their sticky fingers.
He cut up to the Barrington Estate- and it was the same thing there, single Mums and a couple of teenage boys self sconsciously draped over their low-slung bicycles. He pulled over and scoped the kids just to keep in practice, nothing doing. They were a little too old for school and he couldn’t nick them for malingering. He stayed parked up for ten minutes or so and then made a leisurely loop back towards the newish Shopping Centre all was quiet on the pedestrian mall too.
He was hungry, it was just shading past eleven and it was time for a pit stop. He left the Centre turned into Dangar Street and parked in front of Mr Aziz’s shop.
Mr Aziz was nowhere to be seen, his youngest girl, Shaista, was serving behind the counter. She had to be, what, late teens now, maybe twenty at tops. Drop dead gorgeous in her traditional clobber. It would be a short visit then, if the old man had been in there it would have been a twenty minute job at least. Mr Aziz was the font of all Leeside knowledge- some of it worth keeping the rest of it just filling in the time. Still, clocking Shaisata was always a bonus, that caramel skin and shy smile.
He grabbed a Somoza and a big bar of chocolate. As he handed over the dosh Trish crackled out something over the radio about the Community Centre that he didn’t quite catch. He had been distracted by the lightest of touches between them as Shaista had handed him the change. He knew that it was all play though, she was a good Muslim girl and he was smart enough not to try and start something that wouldn’t be finished.
He quickly ate the food in the car and then asked Trish to repeat the message. She told him that they’d had a tip off about the incident that he’d attended over the weekend, Barnesy and big Chev were following it up. Nice one, he thought, a possible collar.
It had been nothing really, just low-level grit in the ointment stuff. A group of lads had left a burning wheelie bin pushed up against the car park fence of the Centre. He and Travers had pulled the bin away and then radioed in the fireys. Calling them in was procedure but, given the scale of the fire, a complete waste of time and resources. He and Travers could have sorted it with a couple of buckets but, rules were rules, and Travers, the rigid fucker, ate them up with a fork and spoon.
A couple of minutes later Trish contacted him again, a little archly this time. What time was he coming in for lunch? It was an innocuous sounding query but one that was loaded with meaning. Trish was one of the lads and, as he had recently discovered, definitely one of the girls. They’d had a leery fumble towards the fag end of a heavy session just before the Xmas holidays. It was nothing, just an itch that they had both wanted to scratch. She still played with him though, that arch tone, the purse of her lips and the cocked eyebrow, pleasant embers of that night together. They both knew that it could happen again. The right time, the right place and the right amount of Stella and whiskey chasers.
He whistled as he arced down towards the bypass, an old tune that his Mum sometimes sang to his somewhat reticent, always slightly embarrassed old man. His fingers lightly drummed the wheel as he sung out the melody, ‘sweet, sweet, the memories you gave to me.’
He thought of Shaista’s smile and the taste of Trish’s heavy breasts- sweet indeed.
The cold wind whipped across Tommy’s face, it was a Northerly for sure, all self respecting brass monkeys would be tucked up inside, nice and warm. He’d been later than he planned in getting away from the Centre, a few of the lads reluctant to let the evening wind down to its conclusion. It was a compliment of sorts but a bleeding nuisance too.
He turned the corner and went into his old man’s street- a hunkering row of uniform terraces, most of the houses had the lights on, probably telly and a couple of cans with the missus.
A soft glow came from inside his old man’s place, Mick in the lounge room with his newspaper and fags. He turned into the short pathway and gave his usual rap on the front door, one slow, two quick, done with plenty of heft to it. He heard the radio dim and then a mutter, probably Mick’s back giving him a bit of grief as he stood up from the chair. A shadow moved across the lamplight and Mick came straight to the door. Tommy registered again the now noticeable angle between their eyelines there had to be a good three or four inches in difference. Mick gave him a brief salutation and, with an impatient jerk of the head, hastened for them to get back inside to the warmth of the gas fire.
‘Bloody perishing out there lad- get that bloody door shut.’
He’s in a good mood, Tommy thought, there’s that hint of mischief in his baby blues.
After a day alone the old man was up for a chat. For the next hour they trotted out the usual gallery of rogues; the rapacious bankers, the multinationals, the old right, the new left who are actually the new right and, of course, the nanny state. All lacerated, skewered and kebabed from the comfort of their chairs. Catharsis and company for the old man and, for him, the pleasure of shared time.
He had to ration his visits though, the old man’s world had become substantially smaller in the years since his retirement but age had not made Mick any less intense and the old fucker could be wearing. Tommy preferred to walk on the sunny side of the street- life was too short.
Eventually the conversation wound down, the old man ragging his scalp through his thinning thatch and yawning. He too was feeling the day and it was an early one again tomorrow.
‘Time for the feather eh son- what you got on then?’
‘I’m doing the literacy stuff in the morning.’
Mick tutted at that, still a bit of petrol left in the tank then.
‘Literacy, literacy, what happened to the bloody schools eh? God help us, a nation of bloody ignoramuses we are.’
He let then one peter out- no more coal to be put on the fire.
His Dad had a slurp of his cold tea and a couple of puffs on his fag.
‘I bumped into Douggy May on the Hill yesterday, down near the butchers there. He told me there’d been some shit down your place last week. His lad attended it, he said.’
‘Yeah- wasn’t much really. A couple of lads burned a wheelie bin round the back there.’
His Dad tutted again, ‘not that much that, yer reckon?’
He breathed deeply- pressing down the irritation.
‘They were gone by the time the cops arrived- it would be some of the local lads.’
‘Mum and Dad eh, what are they bloody well doing?’
Tommy slapped his thighs and stood up quickly, feeling a hint of a sharp pain in his left knee as he did so. He’d pushed the skipping a bit in his last session.
He smiled down at his Father. ‘I don’t know Dad- modern times eh?
His Dad nodded.
‘Aye yer right son, modern bloody times.’
Tommy turned towards the door.
‘Alright Dad, I’m gone- you down watching the band tomorra?’
‘Aye I’m having it- just for a couple mind.’
‘Might see you in there then.’
‘Alright son- later.’
‘You too- have a good kip.’
He saw himself out and retraced his steps back to the centre to grab his car. The wind was at his back this time, still fucking cold but at least it was giving him a push.
He grabbed the Corolla and drove on back to his gaff, which was down near the heart of the city. There were a few late nighters meandering through the streets not that many though- it was still too early in the week.
He parked in the back alley behind his flat noting that next door’s four-wheeler was partially blocking his gate. He’d have to have a word with that tosser. He opened the gate, walked through the small back yard and on up the steep wooden steps to the flat.
He thought about firing up the computer but he was too tired to get into being horny. He undressed and went straight to his pit. Seven hours kip, he thought, just enough.
Pasquale’s Mum had left as he was eating his breakfast, bustling her way out, eager to get to work. She’d watched him sort out his back pack for school and she’d reminded him to take what was left of last night’s tea for lunch. He gazed out of the kitchen at a small square of blue sky- what to do, what to do, he thought. She’d be pissed off with him if he didn’t go, that was a given, but he could ride that out, she always caved in in the end.
So, first decision of the day to be made. Who was he kidding? He’d already made his mind up. Stay home for a while and chill then he’d catch up with Em and Junior some time before lunch. Round to Em’s place for a smoke and a laugh and then they’d probably have a wander down the precinct, see who else was knocking around. Anyway, he had time to kill. A bit of Xbox to kick the day off, that would do. He had no hard core at his place, she’d put the mockers on that. He’d have to wait till he got down to Em’s for the good stuff.
He pulled off his trainers and dragged a cushion onto the floor. He sat down in front of the sofa and kicked the game up. His hands working quickly, his bottom lip pushed out to form a little inner tube of concentration as he made his way through the maze. Pasquale was working hard, collecting up the ammunition and taking out the enemy one by one.
Chapter 2
He was down at the Centre nice and early, much nearer eight than nine. Old Alf had beaten him in but by no more than a couple of minutes and he was busy flicking the lights on in the kindy room. Alf turned at the noise as Tommy walked in through the Centre doors. He gave Tommy a cheery wave then turned to continue finishing off the room, systematically tidying up the desks and chairs. The old bloke loved being of use and being seen to be of use.
He made his way to the back of the Centre, on out to the little office that he shared with Corrine. He made a pot of strong coffee and then sat down at his desk. He fired up the computer and read through the emails.
Literacy class would be kicking off in half an hour so. The class was aimed at local 18-25 year olds who had tumbled through the cracks in their passage through the education system. They’d started off with eight enlisted students but had lost three of those within the first month. The remaining five were doggedly hanging on in there. Joyce, Rasheed and Wes were the hard core, in every week and always ready to go. Both Joyce and Rasheed had job interviews coming up and Wes was looking at doing a Graphic Design course at the local college- he had talent too our Wes, and a fair bit of grit. He was on the up for sure.
Toni and Bones made up the rest of the group. Toni was a good looking young woman whose flirting skills were light years ahead of her literacy skills. Good old Bones was the class joker, a cheeky little red headed fucker who lived on the Coleshaw estate with his Gran. Bones had plans, a lot of them. He was blessed with enough energy to light up a small town but he had a lot of difficulty with focus and concentration. Tommy gave him leeway as long as he didn’t pull too much of his energy and time away from the others. As the weeks had passed by he and the class had established a rhythm, one that worked for them as individuals and for the class as a whole. A light handed steer and words of encouragement for Joyce, Wes and Rasheed, mild indulgence of Toni’s coquettish preening, which was usually focussed on Wes and himself, and plenty of one-on-one and banter with Bones. He tried to work to a plan with Bones but usually had to tear up the script and just think on his feet- the little fucker made him earn his money.
Today there were no real dramas and a minimum of fuss and that was enough to call it a win. At the end of the session the class broke up quickly. With the exception of Bones, they all had places to go and things to do. For them the centre was a means to an end and nothing more.
Bones always hung around for a while after the class finished, sharing scally tales with him of life on the Coleshaw, pumping plenty of technicolour into the drab monochrome reality. Tommy knew a few of the boys that Bones was hanging with, some of them already into the drug dealing and thieving, the usual shit, all of it worryingly underpinned by the feckless rejection of aspiration. Bones was only a beat away from diving right in. His Mum had been a user for decades and had OD’ed when Bones was still at primary school. Only a naturally sunny disposition and an iron willed matriarch for a gran sustained a thin membrane of protection between him and a slide into the worst of the bullshit.
They went through the same old, same old macho bollocks. Bones telling him about some scrape he’d got in with one of the kids from Barrington at the weekend. It was tedious but Tommy saw it as a half arsed attempt by the kid at a scrabble towards common ground and an exploration of his yet to be fully formed sense of what it was to be a man.
‘Don’t try to be a tough guy Bones,’ he had told him, again, ‘try and be a decent one.’
Bones would take the advice with an almost laughable seriousness a couple of beats of faux introspection and the grin was back.
‘Yeah, yeah, I see it Tommy, but, Tommy. He was asking for it man. I mean, what would you have done like?’
Hunger and restlessness finally saw Bones bugger off. He had half an hour before the start of staff meeting and he used the time to walk up to the corner shop for a paper. The paper was the price of walking into the shop that and ten minutes listening to Mr Aziz give it to the council, national politicians and some of the local kids. He was as predictable as old Mick in his tup thumping. Luckily, a couple of minutes into the circumlocutory diatribe Jamal, Mr. Aziz’s eldest son, came into the shop and that helped change the focus. Jamal was a light breeze compared to the old man.
Walking into the shop would always trigger an indulgent memory of Noora. He and Noora had had a very discreet thing a long, long time ago. Fear of discovery and its reprecusssions had heightened and coloured the already considerable erotic charge between them. He was pretty sure that Jamal had been aware of it and Sohail, the other son, too. But, a little surprisingly, they’d kept their counsel probably due to the force of personality of both their older sister and their Father.
Before they had found the resolve to make a serious commitment, he’d made his choice to leave home. They hadn’t stayed in touch and by the time he’d got back she’d gone. She was now living in Newcastle with her done-well Asian solicitor husband, everything that they had had belonged in the past.
On his return to the Centre he went straight to the meeting room, most of the staff where already in there. Pauline, the Centre manger, was up on her feet, busy circling the tables divvying up the minutes and what looked like a short agenda. She was emitting her usual energy, egalitarian good cheer offset by a barely hidden, tight-eyed worry. Her tension was a product of the ongoing struggle to ensure the financial health and viability of the Centre and, a consequence of her unyielding, unconditional love and practical support of a son who battled with a combination of mental health problems and an unhelpful fondness for Class A drugs. Tommy was staggered at her tolerance of the foibles of both her son and of humanity in general. In his opinion, Pauline Hughes was a minor league urban saint.
Sonny the youth team street worker had popped in for this staff meeting. Sonny was well…sunny, an always welcome source of respite from the meetings’ frequent bursts of weighty worthiness. Sonny took the empty seat next to his. His missus was expecting their first, so they chatted briefly about that and then they moved on quickly to a spate of muggings that had flared up on the Barrington Estate. The Barrington was a peripherally located mini town with the ambience and crumbling infrastructure of a Dystopian, sweat-soaked nightmare.
Pauline called the meeting to order as Geoff the Centre’s coach driver ambled into the room mumbling slightly red faced apologies for his tardiness.
They did the round the table thing and the talkers took the opportunity to talk and the rest did a quick pass the parcel. He spoke a little about the literacy group and the need for some new sports’ equipment which brought a slight frown of worry from Pauline. He thought about mentioning next week’s ‘safe rave’ at the Centre but he didn’t want to open that particular can of worms. Too many people were prepared to share an opinion on it and he craved brevity not a talk-a- thon.
His mind drifted as they continued round the table. He’d get down the Crown later on. Catch up with the old man for a couple then maybe pop into Piccolos to round the night off. He corralled Sonny after the meeting to see if he was up for it but Sonny declined the invitation
‘Like to bro, but Estelle. She likes having me home, now it’s getting close.’
Tommy had been back for well over a year now and he was still struggling to find regular playmates. Years spent away had seen all the old gang inevitably paired up and settled down. A couple of them had moved away though nobody had gone as far as he had. Twenty years was a long, long time.
These, he knew, had been predictable drifts in a place that was still a rough facsimile of what he had gladly left behind. Now here he was, back again; older, single, still jumping the hoops, trying to stay solid and rolling on. Still ambivalently set apart from his birthplace. Sometimes, he could taste the loneliness in his throat. That was a feeling that a few beers could never quite wash away.
Bobby had hung around the station for a little more time than was his usual inclination. Nursing a hangover that had left every cell of his body feeling dried out, frazzled and frayed. He got away with it for a while up until Thommo, the old Welsh sergeant, had flicked a querulous eyebrow his way that followed by a pointed glance in the direction of the reception’s wall clock.
He had a couple of follow ups to do, a young Mum who had her letter box vandalised and an old lady who had had her purse snatched in one of the supermarket carparks. The old ladies description of her assailants didn’t bode well for an early collar; hoodies, low-rise denim jeans, one black youth, one white. She was shaken though, she’d held onto the bag making them work for it and she had taken a tumble and banged up her knee. Turned out she wasn’t one of the ‘flog em and hang em’ brigade and she had displayed a degree of compassion for the perpetrators that had made him feel like throttling the little fuckers. If he got the collar he would put a little bit of hurt on them.
The Mum was quite a tidy piece, she had a good idea who the culprits were and the kids’ families were known to him. He’d go up and have a word later although he knew that it would probably be as effective as platting sea mist. Still, it was good to tell them, let the pricks know that they didn’t have carte-blanche.
He got back to the station to do the paperwork and to engage is some routinely unsubtle banter with Trish and Toby about last night’s shenanigans in the Ship. His hangover was just about on the ebb and and the next blow out was already being planned. They’d start at the Ship, have a few in the Moor Hen then end up in Piccolos, the late night place just off the High Street that was owned by a pair of shirt lifters.
The crew had to cherry pick the pubs they frequented, if there was enough of them it didn’t matter but any small groups had to plan ahead and use a bit of common sense, they were known after all. He pencilled himself in with the caveat that he’d get down the old man’s gym for a work out first. Boozy benders had put the start of a belly on him over the Christmas and New Year and his Dad hadn’t let that go without comment. There were plenty of examples of the Ghost of Christmas Future knocking around the station and, besides, what self respecting bird didn’t like the look and feel of a well toned six-pack.
He had been teamed up with one of the Detectives’s to do some door knocking about the muggings on the Barrington. A couple of them had been nasty- much more assault and battery than anything else. They had pulled up at the estate’s dingy looking row of shops and their arrival was sullenly scoped by a group of Barra’ boys who were hanging out near the entrance of the launderette.
By the time they had climbed out of the car most of the kids had turned their backs to them, the lads slightly raising their voices in order to share their limited command of the English language. The D was an old lag with a rep for business like toughness and he didn’t even bother looking over in their direction. Bobby made a point of eyeballing a couple of them and his challenge had elicited laughter from the group. He felt his face colour and the tension rise in his back and shoulders but he didn’t push it. He caught up with the D in a few long legged strides. Later, he thought, later.
Pasquale had got into school today- no problem. He’d got there because his Mum had dropped him off at the fuckin’gates.
He’d landed back home at around eleven last night. He’d sent her a text about seven but had ignored her subsequent responses and had eventually turned the mobile off just to get her out of his head. He’d been smoking with Em and Junior pretty much all of the afternoon and for most of the evening too. They had headed out for a kebab, too skint to score any more weed and then had gone back to Em’s for some more Grand Theft Auto. Em only had the number 3 but he was talking up buying the new one.
She’d gone ballistic when he made it home, coming out of the lounge room like a bat out of a hell, catching up with him as he had placed his foot on the first of the stairs. She must have been sat there in the dark and silence just waiting for him- fucking mad.
At first he thought she was going to hit him, that was something she hadn’t done for years and he was surprised at his reaction to her anger. He’d instinctively pulled back from her with a jolt of fear. But, as usual, her concern had outweighed her anger and, after a lengthy bollocking, she’d made them both toast before insisting that he go up to bed.
Now here he was, stuck in this fucking dump of a school. Apart from the history lesson with O’Donnell he was bored absolutely shitless. He’d always liked Donno, a big bluff Glaswegian who effortlessly handled the class whilst bringing the subject alive. Last year, he’d done a project for Donno on Scott’s South Pole expedition and he had been given the best marks in the class. He’d really pulled that out of the bag- writing the assignment as a diary illuminated with sketches. O’Donnell had been that impressed that he’d had taken it off to show the other teachers.
At least the fit girls in the class were a distraction and there were more than a few of them to perv at.
Anway, he’d be out of here next year right enough. He, Em and Junior had a plan to make some readies- the three of them were putting down some rhymes. They were always up for it but they often ended up too blasted to really get it together and whatever they tried was usually lost in a fit of giggles and piss taking. They nailed it sometimes though- for real.
He’d keep it low key for the next few days at least until she cooled down. She’d come round, she always did. After all, she was his Mum.
Chapter 3
His old man was at the bar when he walked into the Crown, holding court with a small gaggle of his cronies in attendance. Mick may have been physically diminished but, in his cups, he was as verbally robust as he’d ever been. A break in the juke box roar gave him the gist of the conversation.
‘Free trade, free trade, what’s so fucking free about it. Bending over for t’ rich and powerful they mean…fucking wankers.’
Yep he’d heard that one before- plenty of times. He agreed with it too but he wasn’t in the mood for the splenetics, not yet.
Mick’s Think Tank nodded along; Nev, an easy going beta male was an old mate of his Dad’s from the Union days, Teddy Black, a ruddy faced scowler who only smiled on public holidays and Danny ‘Drink’ Gorman who looked plastered enough to nod along in agreement to Pol Pot.
He stuck his name up on the board and fed some coins into the jukebox, wryly noting that none of his selections were penned after the turn of the millennium.
There was bit of a commotion behind him at the entry doors of the pub. A few youngish scallies had rolled in, travelling abroad by the look of them. They’d be down from either the Coleshaw or the Barrington. They were loud with plenty of piss and vinegar to them but they were aware enough to tread a little lightly. The Crown had plenty of old school in it, ever ready to defend its shopworn honour.
There was a middle-aged guy with them, incongruous compared to his mates; nice clobber, a nifty pork pie hat, untrimmed sidies worn a little long and sharp, shrewd eyes that gave the pub the once over with a look that was as light and unobtrusive as a zephyr. He gave one of the lads, a slightly mad-eyed fucker with full feminine lips a twenty and nodded him towards the bar. Tommy briefly locked eyes with the stranger and the guy smiled at him, a pleasant no sweat grin that set off a dim distant echo of memory.