Beast of Burden Read online

  On the plus side, I can say just about anything I want to people and they can't take offence, because their automatic response is that I'm just a mong. But it takes me so long to say anything, most of the time an insult isn't worth the effort of speaking it. So I'd rather not say anything these days, especially to strangers, unless I absolutely have to.

  Which means dealing with a minimum-wager isn't exactly an experience I relish.

  “Can I help you?”

  I don't look at the girl behind the counter. I already know what she looks like — blonde hair pulled back, weak chin, large blue eyes and a badly hidden spot just under one nostril. But even though it's been a good couple of months since the stroke, it's still difficult for me to see that initial reaction. So I stare up at the false chalk menu, thinking about the words, running them through my head.

  “Americano. Large with a shot. Of ex-press … Espresso.” I breathe out. Hear it in my head, then repeat slowly. Sound out the syllables. “Caramel … Macc-hiato. With soy milk. Please.”

  The girl's staring at me; I can feel it. I wipe my mouth — force of habit — and find my hand comes away wet with drool. Try not to show the embarrassment, instead show her the juice and point at the skinny lemon and poppy seed.

  “Okay,” she says. “You … staying in?”

  Those strangled pauses are infectious.

  I shake my head, concentrate. “No. There's a sign. In the window?”

  I have to look at her now. After a few moments, she realises that I'm waiting on an answer to go with my change. As she drops coins into my left hand, she glances across at the front windows. When she realises what I'm talking about, she swallows. Half expect her to start tugging at her collar.

  “The part-time barista vacancy?” she says.

  I nod.

  “You want an application form?”

  I blink. “Yes.”

  “Okay.” She starts nodding, as if she's waiting for me to realise what an insane request it is, just marking time until I change my mind. That, or she's mesmerised by my face. It's happened before.

  “Yes, please?”

  She glances over my shoulder at the queue. “Right, yeah, I'll see if we've got any.”

  Then she calls for one of the other baristas to take over as she pulls herself away from the counter with a smile. I move out of the way, shuffle off to wait for the coffees and application form.

  I didn't ask for the form to make the barista uncomfortable; this is a genuine career option for me.

  Thing is, on the most basic practical level, I can't really work as a PI — I can't speak properly to ask questions of anyone, and walking more than six feet in one go is a real endurance test. But this barista job — what would I do in here? Shuffle from one end of the counter to the other, which is what I'd be doing in physio anyway, and learn a few stock phrases to perfection, which is what I'd be doing in speech therapy. So I'd actually be rehabilitating myself, and getting paid for it. I know Paulo and Frank don't think the same way — they're entirely convinced that if I just went to the hospital every now and then, I'd be back working private cases in no time, but neither of those blokes is exactly known for their realistic world-view.

  So I've been collecting application forms, filled out a couple, ruined more than that. My right hand used to be dominant, but since the stroke I've tried and failed to get anything but basic movement out of it. I've been trying to teach myself to write with my left hand, but I'm still at the barely-legible scrawl stage. Which doesn't matter so much with application forms — a majority of them are happy to have everything printed in block capitals — but there's the added problem of an unreliable arm. Every now and then, especially when I'm channelling all my energy into controlling my left hand, something will spike up my arm, spasm a streak of ink across the paper. And then all I can do is pour another drink to steady my nerves, dump the application, and try to forget about it until I see another McJob that I think I could do.

  “Okay,” says the girl, a booklet in her hand, though it might as well be Bible-sized. She leans over the counter to hand it to me. “If you just want to fill this out and post it back to the head office, they'll take it from there.”

  I look at the application pack. “Post?”

  She keeps smiling at me. I don't try to return it, wouldn't want to upset her.

  “Or you could bring it back in here. That's not a problem. But, y'know, I don't actually think we hire from here? So we'd have to forward it on for you, but that's okay, we can do that.”

  “Right.” Nodding. “Thanks.”

  I move back up the counter to wait for the coffees. Scan through the application pack. Turns out that Starbucks are more than happy to employ someone like me — or at least they make a point of saying it on the application — but they're also keen to know every detail about my incarceration.

  Fuck it.

  I let out another breath, look up from the application pack to see Buddy Holly staring at me again. Lower the form, try to straighten up as best I can.

  “Problem?” I say, nice and loud.

  Buddy doesn't say anything. Pulls on his glasses, wets his bottom lip. He doesn't need to say a word — that look on his face is all too fucking familiar. He's giving me the rubberneck double-take in all its limited glory.

  The first look catches an image of me that isn't quite whole, but enough to jar.

  That first thought: Something the matter with that bloke, d'you think?

  Another look, and in a flash they connect the walking stick with the apparent slackness in my right cheek. If I happen to be moving or talking, it's clear as day.

  Then the second thought: Oh Jesus, he's had a fucking stroke or something.

  And then there's a choice that needs to be made. What do we go for here, disgust or pity?

  Sometimes it's an either-or, but most people tend to combine.

  Yeah, and thank the Cree-ay-tor you're not in the state I'm in.

  I make a move towards Buddy. The look on his face just switched from disgust into one I haven't seen before, not in this context.

  Fear.

  Good. “I said, problem?”

  “No, what?” He holds up one chair, shifting back on the pleather chair. “There's no problem here, mate.”

  “Fuck you … looking at, then?”

  “Sorry?”

  I take another awkward step towards him, make sure to bang the bottom of the stick against the wooden floor. Wanker wants to have a staring match, he can do it with someone else. Because he's still not looked away from me. Like it's impossible for him, he's frozen to the spot, and I'm a car crash coming right at him.

  “You get a good look. You get a good … fuckin' look, eh?”

  “Wait a second, mate. I didn't mean anything—”

  “The fuck you … didn't. Cunt.”

  Another step. Buddy gets out of his seat, showing his hands at the same time. This just got a little bit more interesting to everyone else in the shop. I already knew I was drawing stares, but even the ones who were desperately trying to look away are openly interested now. The noise of voices in here is now almost non-existent. They all want to know how far I'm going to go.

  I point at Buddy. “You're fuckin'—”

  “Sir?”

  It's the girl who gave me the application form. I don't say anything. Keep staring at Buddy.

  “Look, mate,” he says quietly, “I didn't mean anything by it, alright?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He takes off his glasses, a move that's supposed to make him more vulnerable, but which makes me think that he'd rather see me out of focus. “Didn't mean to stare at you. I'm sorry if I did.”

  Silence.

  “Uh, sir?” I can hear the girl move her feet, as if she doesn't know what to do with the homicidal special case in front of her. Like I'm her responsibility because she talked to me, her manager's going to take it out on her if she doesn't calm me down and get me the fuck out.

  I blink at Buddy. />
  “I really am sorry, man,” he says. And he sounds it.

  “Fuckin'—”

  “Sir, if you could—”

  “Fuck's sake, what?”

  I turn around, ready to kick off with her, too. In front of her are an Americano and a Caramel Macchiato with soy milk. The cups sit in a cardboard tray. Means I can carry the pair of them in one hand.

  The whole place is silent apart from the relentless bubble of the machines, everyone watching me. Lapping it up. I lower my head, grab the coffees and head for the exit, a path opening up as I hobble across the shop floor. I don't hear any conversation until the door's almost closed, and even then it's quieter than it was. I book it up the street, but stop before I get to my car to fling the application pack at the nearest bin. It bounces off the rim, hits the pavement.

  I make a move towards it, then realise I'd never be able to pick up the forms without doing myself damage and, worse than that, spilling Paulo's coffee.

  So I leave it, push on to where I parked the Micra. Someone parked their big black Hummer in front of my car. As I get closer, I see someone's taken a key to it, scraped the same word three times down the paintwork on the driver's door.

  WRONG.

  WRONG.

  WRONG.

  I get into the Micra, secure the coffees, muffin and juice. Sit and look at the Hummer as I start the engine. Catch a glimpse of my face in the rear view mirror.

  Wrong.

  Yeah, that about sums it up.

  3

  DONKIN

  Looking for Innes, and there was a good chance he was at the poof's place. But the problem with going round the poof's place was the poof himself.

  His name was Paulo Gray, and I knew him to look at, talked to him a couple times, but I wouldn't go so far as call us bosom buddies or owt like that. In fact, if anyone was going to refuse their membership to the Detective Sergant Donkin Fan Club (early days yet, only one member, but he was dedicated), it was him. His problem was that he was an uppity fucker, quick to protect his boyfriend Innes. Quick to deny he was his boyfriend, too, but the way I saw it, I didn't live in a world where an older poof took in a younger man and helped him out unless someone was getting his oil changed.

  Anyway, it didn't matter when I got to the club, because Paulo was nowhere to be seen. I made a point of pushing the doors hard so they bounced against the wall on either side. I was a sheriff pushing into a dusty saloon, even threw a little swagger into my walk so there wasn't any confusion. Got a few of the lads staring my way, but I didn't stare them back. Headed straight for the office at the back of the place, the one with the daft little sign by the door, like it was a proper business instead of a fuck-around tax dodge.

  In the office was the big bastard that worked with Innes. He got me itching, this lad, because I was positive I'd seen him before I caught him working here, supposedly legit. Definitely had the look about him that he'd done bird at some point in his life and he didn't like it one bit. Strangeways sharpened a couple of edges on Innes, but sometimes it worked the opposite way. Like with this bloke, looked as if the time he'd done had drained something important out of him, left him all squidgy and terrified.

  I pushed open the office door, parked myself in the doorway. He turned around, saw us there and looked like he soiled himself.

  “Y'alright?” I said, all nice and friendly, like.

  He kept schtum.

  “You seen your mate about?”

  He blinked.

  “Callum Innes,” I said, just to remind him. “You know him. You work with him.”

  “No,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Haven't seen him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He's out. Can I take a message for you or something?”

  I narrowed my eyes, positive I'd seen this bloke somewhere before. “What's your name again?”

  There was a pause before he said, “Frank.”

  “Both of them.”

  Shook his head a little bit, like he wasn't sure.

  “I ask where's Frank, people are going to say Frank who?”

  “Oh, right.” He attempted a smile, but it didn't stay long enough on his face for it to register properly. “Collier. Frank Collier.”

  “Right.” Name didn't mean anything to us. “I know you around, do I?”

  “You asked us that the last time you came round, Detective.”

  “So you remember who I am.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what did you say when I asked you?”

  “I said …” He trailed off, thinking about it. Wanting to get it right for us because I was a copper. Common enough reaction for a recidivist. “I said I didn't know.”

  “And you still don't know?”

  Frank Collier rubbed his nose. “I don't … Sorry, you're going to have to excuse us, but what did you want?”

  “Innes,” I said.

  Frank frowned. Frank Collier. That name flicking at something in my head, but not enough to flip the switch. Not yet. Give it time, though. I'd get him in the end.

  “I told you,” he said. “He's not here.”

  I pulled out my rollie tin. Dipped fingers for a paper and some baccy. “You done bird, Frank Collier?”

  When I looked at him, he was bricking it. I rolled a thinnish cigarette and put it in my mouth. When I replaced my tin, started patting around for my lighter, I swear to God I thought this bloke was going to have a heart attack or something.

  “Sorry, no,” he said. “No, you can't.”

  “What's that?”

  “You can't smoke in here.”

  “Like fuck I can't.”

  “It's a workplace. You can't smoke. It's against the law.”

  “I am the law, Frank Collier.” But I took the ciggie out of my mouth and used it to point at him. “You know something, you remind us of someone. You sure our paths haven't crossed at some point, eh?”

  “I'm sure,” he said. And he crossed his arms, which bumped up his biceps, made him look like a right bruiser.

  “You ever work the doors, Frank?” I said. “Maybe down Moss Side, the Buccaneer, somewhere like that?”

  “No.”

  “You have knocked a few heads in your time, though, haven't you, eh? I'm right in thinking that.”

  His face got tight. “I told you already that Mr Innes isn't here—”

  “Mr Innes, is it, son?”

  “—and if you don't have any other questions—”

  “He's your gaffer now, is he?”

  “—I've got work to be getting on with.”

  “I do have other questions, Frank-mate. I want to know about you.”

  Frank pushed back out of his chair with a sharp sigh. He got to his feet and I nudged myself off the doorway.

  “Going somewhere, are you?” I said. “Don't think I gave you permission.”

  “There a problem here, Frank?”

  A different voice, the poof finally making an appearance. Brought out of hiding by the possibility of his loose cannon mate here kicking off with the CID. I turned around and looked at him, this expression on his face like someone'd farted and he was pretty sure it was me.

  “I'm looking for Innes,” I said.

  “I know you are.” He was nodding. “Every time you come around here, you're looking for him.”

  “Because he's never here, is he?” I smiled, tried to keep it light. I heard about this bastard, used to be a bit of a fighter back in his day, and I might've had curiosity about Collier, but this one I knew had bird under his belt. Hard times an' all. Not that I was scared of him, mind — we were just two old hands playing an even older game.

  “You want to step into my office?” he said.

  “Nah.”

  He gave us a look, then he glanced at Frank. “Okay, then you want to give us a second there, Frank?”

  I didn't see Frank nod, but I guessed he did, because he was out of there sharpish. Paulo backed us into the office and closed the door behind him. Soon as that
door clicked shut, I have to say, I got a bit uneasy. I didn't like being in this close with a homosexual. Not that I had owt against them or anything, nothing fucking homophobic about it; I just didn't want my arse felt.

  So I put the ciggie in my mouth and sniffed at him like I didn't give a fuck.

  “You can't smoke in here, Detective,” he said.

  “You got a problem with it an' all, do you?”

  “You should know the law.”

  “Alright.” I put the ciggie back in the tin. “So what is it you wanted to say to us? Hopefully you're going to tell us where Innes is—”

  “Why do you need him?”

  “I don't have to tell you that.”

  “He done something?”

  I shrugged.

  “The reason I ask,” he said, “is because this is a place of business. You know what we do here?”

  I sat on the edge of the desk, folded my arms. I had a million cracks to dish out to him, but this wasn't the right time, so I said: “Boxing.”

  “Boxing,” said Paulo. “Yeah, you're close.”

  “It's a fuckin' gym, mate. I'm not blind.”

  “It's a special gym, Detective. We deal with kids who've been in trouble with the law. They've already served their time and they need a place to deal with whatever impulses put them into care in the first place.”

  “I know. I recognise some of the lads.”

  “And they know you.”

  “That right? My reputation precedes us, eh?”

  “Yeah,” he said, stretching it out. “You could say that.”

  “Marvellous.”

  “Something else you could say — they know you, they know what you're fuckin' like, and the ones that don't think you're a fuckin' joke reckon you're bent as a nine-bob note.”

  “Pot, kettle.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I took that in, let it settle, gazed out at the gym. There was a couple lads out there watching us. Joke or bent as fuck. I didn't know which one I preferred. Nah, scrub that, of course I did. I preferred bent. Because bent meant dangerous, bent meant I could fuck you up and I had the nous to get away with it.