Cleaning Up

  This contemporary, urban drama unfolds throughout a year as we share the thoughts of its protagonists; a teenage boy adrift on the city’s drug raddled estates, a young ambitious policeman and a youth worker who is involved with them both. Through the fragile yet implacable logic of these characters, we see how lives can be lost to drugs, sons lost to mothers and inner city riots triggered.

  PAUL CONNOR-KEARNS

  cleaning up

  MUSWELL PRESS LTD

  For my Dad, Dennis, see you further on down the road.

  To my wife, Juliet, keep walking by my side.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  WINTER

  JANUARY

  FEBRUARY

  SPRING

  MARCH

  APRIL

  MAY

  SUMMER

  JUNE

  JULY

  AUGUST

  AUTUMN

  SEPTEMBER

  OCTOBER

  NOVEMBER

  WINTER

  DECEMBER

  About the Author

  Copyright

  WINTER

  JANUARY

  PC Darrin 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 ‘get it out of the way’ 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 in the centre of the town. 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 way 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 more of the same thing there, single mums and a couple of teenage boys self-consciously draped over their low-slung bicycles. He pulled over and scoped the kids just to keep in practice, nothing doing though. They were a little too old for school and he couldn’t nick them for just 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 centre’s pedestrian mall too.

  Darrin 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, the ever demure Shaista, was serving behind the counter. She had to be, what, in her 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 Shaista was always a bonus, that caramel skin and shy smile.

  He grabbed a samosa 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 mind 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, the chance of a collar.

  It had been nothing much 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 Community Centre. He and Travers had pulled the bin away and then radioed in the fireys. Calling them in was standard procedure but, given the scale of the fire, a complete waste of time and resources. They 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 Christmas 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 reminders 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. Darrin 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’d planned in getting away from the Centre, as a few of the lads had been reluctant to let the evening wind down to its natural conclusion. It was a compliment of sorts but a bleeding nuisance too.

  He turned the corner and went into his old man’s street which was 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 that led to the front door and gave his usual rap, one slow, two quick, done with plenty of heft to it. He heard the radio dim followed by 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 and smoothly opened first the vestibule then the front door. Tommy registered again the now noticeable angle between their eye lines, there had to be a good three or four inches 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 was that familiar hint of mischief in his baby blues.

  After a day completely alone the old man was more than 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 armchairs. Catharsis and company for the old man and, for him, the pleasure of shared time.

  Tommy 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 the less intense and the old fucker could be wearing. Tommy preferred to walk on the sunny side of the street - life was too short to be permanently pissed off with it all.

  Eventually the conversation wound down, the old man ragging his scalp through his thinning thatch and yawning. Tommy too was starting to feel the length of 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 and flicked his chin up at the ceiling, there was 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.’

  Tommy let the fire peter out - no more coal. His Dad had a slurp of his cold tea and took a couple of leisurely
puffs on his fag.

  ‘I bumped into Dougy 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 son?’

  Tommy breathed deeply, pressing down the irritation.

  ‘They were gone by the time the cops arrived - it would be some of the local lads, no doubt.’

  ‘Mum and Dad eh, I ask yer, 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 training 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 for the party people.

  Tommy 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, sooner rather than later. He squeezed through the gap and roughly opened the gate then walked on 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 horny. He undressed and went straight to his pit. He glanced at the illuminated alarm clock next to his single bed, seven hours kip, he thought, just enough.

  Pasquale’s Mum had left as he was eating his breakfast, bustling her way on out with her familiar smooth fast efficiency, eager to get to work. She’d done her usual thing of watching 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 window 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 in, that was a given, but he could ride that out, she always caved in in the end.

  So, the first decision of the day had to be made - stay or go? Who was he kidding? He’d already made his mind up. Stay home for a while and chill, then on out to catch up with Matty and Junior some time before lunch. He’d get round to M’s place for a smoke and a laugh and then they’d probably have a wander down the shopping centre, see who else was knocking around. Anyway, first up, he had time to kill. A bit of Xbox to kick the day off, that would do. He had none of the hard core at his place, she’d put the mockers on that, no fucking chance, were there. He’d have to wait till he got down to M’s for the proper 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 worked 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.

  Tommy 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 still busy flicking the lights on in the kindergarten room. Alf turned at the noise as Tommy walked in through the Centre’s double swing doors. He gave Tommy a cheery wave then immediately 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 building, on to the little office that he shared with Corrine, which was the home of the Centre’s youth service. He made a pot of strong coffee and then sat down at his desk. He fired up the computer and systematically read through the emails answering what he needed to and consigning the rest to the virtual bin.

  The literacy class would be kicking off in half an hour. The class was aimed at local 18-25 year olds who’d 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. To their ever lasting credit the remaining five were doggedly hanging on. 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. Tommy reckoned Wes was on the up.

  Toni and Bones were the two somewhat looser cannons that made up the rest of the group. Toni was a good looking young woman whose flirting skills were light years ahead of her literacy ones. 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 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 alright.

  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 and headed off to their different points on the compass. 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 techni-colour 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 pedigree was chequered at best. Dad, nobody knew who and where the fuck he was and the lad’s mum had been a user for decades, she’d OD’d 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 all 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 the Barrington at the weekend. It was tedious, but it was his job and 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 laughable cod seriousness; a couple of beats of faux introspection and then the grin was back on.

  ‘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 home. He now had half an hour to kill before the start of the 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 gi
ve it to the council, national politicians and some of the local kids. He was as predictable as old Mick in his tub thumping. Luckily, just a couple of minutes into the old fella’s circumlocutory diatribe, Jamal - Mr. Aziz’s eldest son, came into the shop and that quickly helped to change the focus. Jamal was a light breeze compared to his old man.

  For Tommy, 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 repercussions had heightened and coloured the already considerable erotic charge between them. He was pretty sure that Jamal had been aware of it and probably Sohail, the other son, too. But, a little surprisingly, they’d kept their counsel, which was probably due to the force of personality of both their older sister and their father.

  Before they’d found the resolve to make a serious commitment, he’d made his choice to leave his home town. They hadn’t stayed in touch. There had not even been the pretence of it - she was pissed off and hurt by his decision and had made no bones about what she wanted and by the time he’d got back she’d gone. She was now living in Newcastle with her done-well Asian solicitor husband and everything that they once had now belonged up stream in the past.

  On his return to the Centre he went straight to the meeting room. Even though he was a little early most of the staff were 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 pleasingly short agenda. She was emitting her usual vibe, an egalitarian good cheer offset by a barely hidden, tight-eyed worry. Tommy knew that her tension was a product of her 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 stamina and 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.