Cleaning Up Page 4

  They moved the conversation on to some of the ‘at risk’ kids that Sonny worked with. In Sonny’s role as a street youth worker, containment and damage control was the order of the day. Sonny was well aware that some of the younger boys on the town’s estates were getting into the periphery of the harder drugs scene. He told Tommy a couple of names that were now on his furrowed brow list; a kid called Matthew Marshall whose mum had been on the skid for years and a Floyd Alexander, a tall, skinny, wide shouldered black kid whose brother had once been a noise on the local scene before he’d predictably tripped over his pecker through a combination of greed and reaching beyond his grasp. The pair had been implicated in a couple of assaults down at the precinct and they were heading quickly down the slippery slope to Shitville.

  Sonny shrugged his shoulders, with a show of resignation that Tommy knew Sonny did not really feel.

  ‘You know what the problem with these kids is Tommy?’ He did, they had said it to each other many times before. ‘They have no bugger to look up to, right Sonny?’

  ‘We are as that little boy with his finger in the dyke Tom.’

  ‘Ah well Sonny, as long as the dyke don’t mind.’

  Sonny always laughed at his shitty jokes; big guffaws and a finger wagging mock reproach.

  So, Matthew and his mate, Floyd, were out there, two baleful, restless clouds drifting away from the succour of any kind of safety net. The silly little pricks.

  Sonny left him with a promise that he would be down at the Centre early tonight to help him move the tables for the rave. Thank fuck, the extra hands were always more than welcome. That evening, Sonny’s concerns with the two boys had quickly manifested themselves in a tawdry example of universal synchronicity. The evening’s ‘safe rave’ had gone well, as it usually did, plenty of local and not so local kids taking advantage to chill out and have some fun. The mood was lively but relatively relaxed given the amount of hormones bouncing off the walls. He and Sonny played the avuncular muscle, Corrine and Pauline gave that presence some female balance and a couple of local worthies bolstered the adult ranks by giving up their time as volunteers. MC Lipz, aka Terry Lipscombe, a good natured, fresh faced middle class kid who preferred the less salubrious side of town, was up there on the dismountable stage spinning the tunes.

  At about half ten Tommy went outside for some fresh air and to get away from the mind numbing music for a while. There was a few kids out there, some paired off couples who were chewing hungrily on each others faces and a small group of the lads that he regularly took to the gym on a Wednesday. He had a bit of banter with them for a while until he was distracted by a trio of boys wheeling their low slung bikes across the car park. They were slowly meandering towards the pool of light and the open double doors of the basketball court that housed the rave, loudly calling out to each other as they did so. Tommy was pretty sure that he didn’t know them and he unthinkingly edged away from the gym lads a yard or two, just to give himself a bit of separation and room. The musketeers pulled up a few yards in front of him, the carrot top in the trio called out to the group that he’d been talking to. The boys nodded back and a couple of them greeted two of the boys by their names - Junior and M.

  The couples had taken a break from their snogging and were now looking over in the newcomers’ direction. Tommy felt a bit of tension creep into his shoulders.

  Only kids, he reassured himself - chill. He knew the black kid, Floyd. He used to come down to play basketball a while back - damn fine player too, as quick and evasive as an eel. The other two he didn’t know; a good looking shrimp who was hanging back slightly and the red head who, he assumed, would be Matthew Marshall.

  They’d been smoking, no doubt about it, red-eyed and movements that were slightly dulled. There was that tell tale tic of delay in their reactions, body and mind not quite in sync. The red head looked a little wired too, ants in his pants, lots of energy and a restless jaw.

  ‘Can we cum in then?’ The red head said to him, his eyes not quite meeting his own - still a lad after all.

  Tommy appraised the request for all of two seconds.

  He shook his head at them.

  ‘No lads, sorry. We’re wrapping it up in half an hour.’

  The red head half turned and spat on the floor and the other two looked everywhere but at Tommy. Tommy now sensed the restlessness of the group of gym boys, their unease probably laced with some feral anticipation of a possible confrontation.

  ‘Go on eh,’ the kid said, ‘you don’t finish till eleven.’ The little fucker even made a show of looking at his over-sized watch.

  He gave them the bottom line this time, leaving no room for any debate.

  ‘The answer is still no, you’re all ripped. That’s not part of the deal here.’

  The other two looked at him, he met both their stares, there was no real challenge in either one of them.

  Ginger wasn’t ready to let it go though.

  ‘Go on, you’re community aren’t yer - a youth service and we’re fucking youth, aren’t we?’

  The kid was revving up, both literally and metaphorically, his pale hands gripping and ungripping the handles of his bike.

  Tommy caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, a shadow that broke up the light which pooled out from the gym doors.

  Sonny spoke up from behind him - his voice firm and steady, no chuckles in it at all. ‘Evening lads, venturing further afield tonight, are we?’ Sonny had stepped around him standing slightly to the front of his right shoulder. M ran the spiel by Sonny. It was more a request than a demand though.

  ‘Sorry lads, Tommy is the main man here, he’s just told you the rules, as I am telling you them now. You’re all welcome here when you’re straight, that’s if you’re still interested when you’re straight.’

  ‘But Sonny, we are straight, honest mate we are!’ Young Matthew was on the slide now - any belligerence was gone.

  ‘Bullshit Matt - next time eh?’ Sonny good-natured, still friendly.

  M let it go with a slump of the shoulders and the other two turned their bikes away with a couple of ‘see yers’ to Sonny and the lads. M broke away last and gave Tommy one more bristled look followed by a hawk and spit.

  ‘See yer Sonny.’

  With that M took off too, calling out after his mates as he rode away.

  ‘Wait up yer fuckers - let’s ride then, get out of this gay, manky shithole.’

  M cackled at his own humour the other two looking back at him, grinning appreciatively at their rapidly approaching comrade.

  Sonny placed his left hand on his shoulder, ‘you coming back in then Tommy?’

  ‘Yeah Son, in a couple of minutes like.’

  Tommy took a deep breath and looked up at what few of the stars the urban lights allowed in. The couples resumed their famished courtships and a couple of the gym boys looked at him, but made no comment. He felt his anger start to recede and gazed up again at the night sky. He realised he could just about make out Orion, now flipped over in the night sky compared to the last time that he’d made a point of looking at it. It was only a fleeting glimpse, as a large band of cloud cut across the constellation’s attenuated glistening. He turned and went back inside, greeted by the bump and grind of Rihanna. Pauline and Corrine enthusiastically leading a few of the girls and a couple of the braver lads in a raunchy line dance. He had to laugh.

  M was as good as his word. Up, out of bed and off down the precinct early in the afternoon. Junior and Matt were standing patiently in the queue, lined up for the brand new GTA. M had handed over the eighty quid to Junior who had the necessary fake ID, and made for a convincing eighteen. Besides, not many shop assistants were up to taking on Junior’s dead eyed stare.

  The store was well packed, buzzing with noise and fidgety anticipation - all the gamers with their itchy trigger fingers. He left the boys to get on with it whilst he chilled out checking out the display of second-hand and new mobiles. He was trying to swing a Blackberry from his mum bu
t she kept on stonewalling him. His birthday was coming up soon and he’d work on it again - she’d fold. Ten minutes of browsing and Junior and M had been served, the pair of them sauntering away from the counter, shit eating grins plastered over their faces; GTA and Red Dead Redemption - fuckin’ ace.

  No hanging around the precinct today, straight back to M’s and into it. He kicked their arses as per usual - he was the Xbox king. He’d got a pass for the day from his mum, a trade off for his school attendance and he stayed at M’s till midnight. Eight hours straight, rotating the game between the three of them with the vanquished booted off to take his place on the grubby, battered sofa. He was on for most of the duration, only a stand down to get a bite to eat. He was the fucking champion alright.

  Pasquale was quiet, up on his on tippy toes when he got back home to the flat. His nose twitched at the familiar weekend smells. She’d been cleaning; carpet shampoo and furniture polish in the lounge, and that lemon scented stuff that he liked the smell of in the bathroom. She’d heard the door and called out to him from her bedroom. He let her know that it was just him.

  The next day he was up before midday. She asked him if he fancied a trip to Aunty Bet’s but he binned it as politely as he could. It was boring as fuck, all that catching up with family shit. He wolfed down his cereal and toast and as soon as he could he headed off back to M’s. Junior had beaten him to it by just a few minutes and he and M were already into the game. Pasquale gave out advice and abuse from the sofa, his upper body playing the moves, his fingers tensing and relaxing as M and Junior let loose at both their wins and their losses. By the time they’d wrapped it up they had played for nearly twelve hours and she was back in bed when he returned home. She’d left some of his auntie’s trifle in the fridge for him. This time she didn’t even wake up.

  Sarge Thomas had asked him if he fancied some plain clothes duty working on the muggings for the rest of the week and he was on it in a flash. Up on the Barrington paired up with good old Steve Morris, sitting out the shift in Mozzer’s cramped, battered and slightly humming Honda. He always enjoyed Mozzer’s company, Moz knew the game and he could be a laugh too. He had to be kicking 50 and, despite his rep as a dogged and capable investigator, had somehow avoided promotion over the duration of his twenty plus years in the service.

  They shared plenty of silence for the first half an hour of the watch and then, with a grunt of anticipation and a couple of warm up swallows, Moz had whipped out some foul smelling cheese and pickle butties and smilingly offered him one. Darrin took it because he was just about ready to chew off his arm. They tasted OK and ingesting it made the smell in the car a little more bearable.

  ‘So, you what do you reckon then Moz, all this shit goin on?’ He nodded down towards the flats.

  ‘Definitely be locals Dazzler - take your pick. We have a cast of fucking hundreds living round here.’

  ‘Arseholes eh, doing that kind of damage - for next to fuck all too.’

  ‘Aye, there’s no excuse right enough, living in a dump never makes it right. You know son I wasn’t always a leafy suburb man meself. Got brought up on the Coleshaw and it was never that easy down there, even back in the supposed good old days.’

  ‘True, I hear it was always a bit rum like.’

  ‘Yeah too right, fuckin’ rum indeed, all the great unwashed dumped together. Plenty of hard cases and a few drop kick families, even back then. Not this kind of stuff though. Most people worked and the community kept an eye out for its own and didn’t bother calling on the plod that much either.’

  ‘Old school eh Moz?’

  ‘Yeah young un, old school alright. Gone now though, voices in the fucking wilderness all that stuff.’

  They chewed on another round of his redoubtable butties for a few more minutes then Moz produced a flask and poured them each a cup of dark brown tea. Drinking it felt like somebody had dropped a concrete slab into his guts.

  After necking his brew and letting go a couple of farts a clearly satisfied Moz did a little shimmy with his belly and then opened up the driver’s door.

  ‘Come on then young fella, let’s get some sunshine under our belts, have a chat with the fucking peasants.’

  Darrin glanced up at the sky that the morning cloud was starting to break up a little. True enough, he thought, the sun makes no exception even with a dump like the Barrington.

  Tommy had had a couple of drinks with Jimbo on the Monday night, they’d shared a bit of nostalgia that was peppered with updates on Jim’s colourful love life. Tommy had alluded to his internet trawlings but had played it down - not ready to share it with Jim, despite his friend’s relaxed, open attitude around all things sexual.

  He’d been on the laptop last night till nearly two in the morning, engaging in a feverish ‘chat’ with some Tex Mex bird in Houston, pretending that he was about to hit the States for his holidays. Two o’clock in the fucking morning, all for a glorified wank. He must be fucking mad.

  A friend had once told him that any, ‘out of balance’ behaviour emanated from a need that was not being met. He could see that there was an obvious truth to that but he still hadn’t got to grips with what now felt like a compulsion. What was driving it? Mid life crisis, vicarious thrills, a biological imperative, a sop to boredom and loneliness, all of the above and probably more. He vowed, again, to pull the plug on it and immediately, again, doubted his will to do so. Anyway, the bottom line was that the night had left him tired and slightly irritable and he hadn’t engaged with either the literacy group or the afternoon’s post-school gym class with his usual enthusiasm.

  Sonny had given him a buzz in the afternoon to talk about one of the three lads that had turned up on the previous Friday night. That morning the kid’s mum had called Sonny to express her concerns about, well, everything really. She’d asked Sonny about getting her boy some extra tuition for the basics as the kid was now rarely in school and was starting to fall well behind. Sonny had told her about the Centre’s literacy programme. It was all one-on-one, relatively intense but designed to meet the kids’ specific needs and abilities. She’d booked in to see him tomorrow lunch-time.

  ‘Don’t know if you remember her Tom, the mum - Donna Edwards?’

  He didn’t.

  ‘Yeah, probably not. Bit younger than you, then again eh, who isn’t.’

  Tommy told him to fuck off and Sonny laughed loud enough for him to take the phone an inch or two away from his ear.

  ‘She’s a looker Tom - single as well.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, thanks Sonny, just what I need like, a single mum with a son sliding off the rails.’

  ‘Ah well you like a challenge don’t yer Tommy?’

  ‘OK Cupid, I’ll give her the once over, if you’re that concerned about me.’

  ‘Do that Tommy - if nowt else you can look at the menu can’t yer?’

  After the conversation, his mind wandered back to the three boys last Friday. He was still slightly annoyed with his own anger bubbling up like that but, that was offset by the disrespect in that little fucker M’s behaviour. The quiet boy, Pasquale, had, at first glance, looked bright enough. No doubt there would be a story for her to tell tomorrow, the usual vale of tears stuff. He sighed and threw his pencil down on his desk. His mind strayed back to Jessica, the hot little Mexican chick that he had dallied with last night. He looked at his computer and for a few moments his dark passenger was there, tapping on the window and asking if he could come out to play. Instead, he quickly stood up from his chair. Pauline he thought, funding, get on with your fucking job. Some green tea would partially deflect that particular thirst.

  His mum had told him about her plan for him to do some school stuff down at the Community Centre when she had got home from work on Tuesday. He’d felt a surge of pulsating anger at her, the fucking interfering cow! She’d been busy in the kitchen, talking at him through the kitchen door as he was parked on the sofa half watching some dull arse, stupid quiz show on the telly. When she’d given him the
bottom line he’d jumped quickly up to his feet and he’d had the urge to boot the glass topped coffee table straight through the fucking box. He’d stopped himself but she’d clocked his anger and an uneasy silence had settled between them for more than a little while.

  He’d taken his time thinking through all the permutations, then he’d laid the usual dance on her; why? What’s the point? He could find a job, school was boring, the teachers were toss, he’d heard from the other kids that the Centre sucked and the programme was rubbish, a waste of time. There was half an hour or so of back and forth, but she wasn’t budging. She even laid a new trip on him this time, if he wanted to stay here with her he would have to go to the lessons - non negotiable.

  He’d feigned the pain but smiled inwardly - that might even work for him somehow. He’d waited a few beats and then he let her have his big smile. ‘OK Mum I’ll do it for you.’ She’d looked at him through the doorway, the reflex of a half-smile that dropped quickly away, followed by an exasperated prolonged rasping stiff fingered comb of her wavy hair. She was well pissed off with him.

  ‘It’s not for me Pasquale, is it? I’ve got my qualifications, it’s for you son, for you.’ Her face had sagged just a little and she had turned slowly back towards the food that was cooking on the gas stove.

  Pasquale felt something gnaw deep inside - she’d looked so…old.

  FEBRUARY

  Donna Edwards came in to see him right on the dot at one o’clock, obviously taking the time to do so on her lunch break. Sonny had not been overstating it, she was a peach alright, only a couple of inches shorter than him in her respectable but stylish heels. She had mid-brown skin with a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, a full mouth and nice cheekbones. She was kitted out in a tailored suit that still showed enough legs for his mind to keep heading north. Damn, she was fine.