Backtracking

Paul Denton scowled as his boss stumbled through the farewell speech. Exasperated, he shifted slightly and gazed through the grime coated window to the yard below. The place had originally been a Victorian soap factory where bones had been rendered to fat, traces of which still clung to many of the soot stained walls. His gaze wandered to a stunted Buddleia which was waiting for spring in order to resume its precarious existence rooted in crumbling brick corbelling on the boundary wall. Wintry afternoon sunlight filtered through the clouds, glancing off the stainless-steel cupolas of The Thames Barrier before dying in the haze of exhaust fumes over Woolwich Church Street. He sighed, turned and gazed round the boardroom.

A dozen or so people, in roughly two groups, were gathered either side of the long, highly polished table. The speaker, flanked by two acolytes, stood at its head. He was a small pink person, slight in build with thinning sandy hair. His most remarkable features were a huge Zapata moustache of gingery tint that was totally out of proportion to the rest of his face below which was a receding chin and an abnormally large Adam’s apple. Denton had long held the view that the excessive length of shirt cuff the man habitually displayed was a direct result of him buying shirts of a collar sized to accommodate this abnormality. It was obvious, from the frequent sidelong glances towards Paul and the hurried references to his notes, that the man was nervous. Apart from one or two sycophantic giggles most of his jokes had fallen flat. So much so that Paul suspected that Henfield had decided to then play it straight and in so doing had lost his place in the script.

It was difficult to see what was worrying the man. He was the Boss, although, only God knew how or why. And Paul was leaving. The speaker should have been reassured by the terms of the agreement: Denton was going quietly in return for a reasonable settlement. The fact that Henfield was so nervous was either a comment on his lack of bottle or a measure of the effect that Paul knew he sometimes had on people. Probably, a bit of both. Part of the problem, he knew, had been the fact that he was prone to speaking his mind without considering the consequences for himself or others. Strange really, he mused, many people were fond of saying that they took a pride in speaking their minds. They normally said it with a northern accent and what they meant was that they enjoyed being bloody rude. With him it just happened and more often than not he had wished it hadn’t. Still, it had been a good job for most of the fifteen years and with his fifty-third birthday looming he supposed he should be grateful that there were now only Stella and he to keep. God knows how they would have coped if they had still had a mortgage or if both kids had been at University.

He glanced over in Stella’s direction. The days when his heart stopped when she entered a room had long gone. But still, on a rare occasion, and this was one, she could take his breath away. He knew she was beautiful. She didn’t. He’d watched heads turn. She hadn’t. In many ways, they were opposites. Her calm, his furies, her neatness and her 5’4” to his shambling proportions. She looked up and smiled uncertainly at him then looked away, quietly brushing her blonde hair away from her eyes as she lowered her head.

Stella Denton knew it was going to be a difficult day. Her husband’s redundancy was not the problem. That had been a dot on the card for at least the last two years, since Paul’s Company had been bought out by a Northern group looking to expand down South and became part of the NMG; Northern Mouldings Group. She had become used to the idea that their lifestyle would have to change and that there was a chance they would have to move to a smaller house. No! The immediate problem was the embarrassment she felt sure she would feel the minute Paul started his reply. She knew how angry and bitter the last two years had made him and she knew that he would find it very hard not to speak his mind.

Glancing across to where he was now half sitting against the edge of the boardroom table she noted his arms tightly folded across his chest and his head down, seemingly oblivious to the proceedings. He was staring rigidly at his shoes. Like many big men, he had large feet. For years, their size had been a source of family fun. And they’d had fun. Later years had been fraught but the early days with the kids had been good. In those days, his energy, strength and drive had made him seem invincible. There had seemed to be nothing at which he failed. He’d had presence. A big man who made friends easily and enjoyed life. He was still big. Too big. Three stone too big. Still driven but no longer in control. Now he was vulnerable. But he didn’t know it. An overweight, unfit alcoholic frightened of what he’d become and terrified of how it might end. As she watched he unfolded his arms, flexed his shoulders, ran his fingers through his mane of grey hair and then put both hands to his face to massage his eyes with the tips of his fingers. As he took his hands away from his face she noticed the deep dark rings under his eyes. She wondered if he was listening and, if so, what he thought of the compliments and thanks that littered the speech. With his sense of humour, she suspected that part of him would be comparing the glowing tributes with the harsh fact of his sacking and finding the irony amusing. She saw him stiffen, perhaps sensing the end of the speech and suddenly rock himself off the table.

Denton swivelled towards Henfield, and with a glare forced a stuttering and abrupt end to the litany of meaningless and pointless drivel. Enough was enough and he was damned if he was going to sit still any longer while this smart arsed little accountant rambled on, searching for appropriate things to say because he was too frightened to stop. He lumbered towards the end of the boardroom where Henfield was trying to lift a poorly wrapped and thinly disguised set of golf clubs. Looming over the struggling man, he gripped the bag with one hand and seized Henfield’s elbow with the other. Dropping the bag carelessly onto the polished yew table, he propelled Henfield back towards his colleagues and then swung round to address the small group of Managers that had been with him for years.

‘Stella is worried what I’m going to say. But then you all know Stella. She worries a lot.’ He threw a glance and a grin her way and then turned back to the group. ‘I wasn’t going to come today but then I thought,’ he paused and smiled, ‘why not? Have a drink with the old crew, perhaps a bit of a laugh, few memories and a couple of jokes. A chance to thank you all and wish you well. I was goin’ to be cheerful. Then I saw you lot looking about as happy as the boiler room crew on the Titanic and I drifted off into one of me deep desponds. For Christ’s sake cheer up! You’ve all got jobs, you’re earning well and you won’t have me crashing around and nicking your fags after today.’

This raised brief smiles on the faces of some of the managers and more than one smug grin from Henfield’s cohorts. Denton turned his attention to them catching Stella’s warning glance on the way. ‘Well! You’ve got what you want and in a strange sort of way,’ he mused, ‘so have I. I ran this company well. People earned a good living and customers got good service. You lot are going to struggle and I doubt you’ll make it. But we’ll see. Won’t we?’ This last barked in the direction of Henfield who took one step back straight onto the instep of one of his more sycophantic subordinates.

In the brief confusion, Denton grabbed the golf bag, swung it onto his shoulder and walked straight at Henfield’s crowd, forcing them back against the wall as he strode down the corridor between them and the boardroom table. As he neared Stella he slowed, transferred the bag to his other shoulder, noted the satisfying thump of the bag smacking into somebody and took greater satisfaction from the muttered protest. He placed his free arm round Stella’s shoulders and moved her towards the door. Reaching for the handle the door swung open before he could grab it.

Standing four square in, and filling a lot of the opening was a casually but designer dressed man in his mid-thirties. A solidly built man with a face that demanded a second look. It was hard, angular and weathered. The lips were fixed in a thin humourless smile and the eyes had a pale intensity that held the attention. The skin had the lined, yellowing and parched appearance of a forty a day habit and a voice that rasped from a smoke cured larynx, ‘hello Paul, you off then?’

Denton glanced at him before moving towards the door, as always noticing the peculiar way that one side of George Webber’s face remained strangely immobile. He had long ago assumed that Webber had Bell’s Palsy, had suffered a stroke or that the injury resulting in the thin scar that ran down his left cheek had severed a nerve. ‘I will be if you get out of the bloody way Webber,’ Denton barked.

There was an appreciable, challenging, moment while Webber remained motionless. Then with a slow, knowing smile to Stella and a curt nod to Denton he ushered them both through the door with a mocking sweep of his hand, moving to one side to allow them to pass.

‘Come on Stella let’s go. We’ve things to do and its Friday afternoon.’

They walked in silence across the yard towards the Directors’ car park. Denton paused and briefly looked back at the place that had, almost, been his home in recent years. He remembered the day he had signed the contract for this Victorian warehouse with its brick elevations and trussed roof structure so typical of that period. The facilities had not been great but he’d fallen in love with the high brick arches to the storey height windows. The acres of storage space with a small but adequate manufacturing area and the fact that it was within a mile or so of the Blackwall Tunnel had seemed to answer all the storage and distribution needs that he’d had at the time. He’d even toyed with the idea of barge deliveries from the Thames which was close enough to smell.

For February, it was a warm afternoon and Denton took off his coat. Stella hit the button in the key fob as he reached for the door. Slinging the golf clubs into the back of her car, he squeezed himself into the passenger seat and reached for the belt. He knew immediately, from the way that she yanked her seat belt from the door pillar, that she was angry with him.

‘Was that absolutely necessary?’

‘Was what necessary?’

‘That bloody performance.’

‘What bloody performance?’

‘Oh! Paul for God’s sake. You know what I mean. You were just plain bloody rude. What was all that business with Webber on the way out?’

‘Don’t like him. Never have. I’ve never managed to work out what we paid him for. He came just after Henfield and all he seems to do is travel and run up expenses. I used to think that he was a sort of minder, and then I thought he was there to do the legwork for Henfield. Now I don’t know and I don’t have to care anymore.’

‘He’s the Export Manager.’

He turned to her, surprised, ‘he is?’

‘So I was told,’ she added quickly before repeating, ‘the Export Manager.’

‘Exactly.’

’What do you mean ‘exactly’?’

‘Stella, we don’t export. We import unassembled, prefabricated, modular service units for student accommodation, the Services, Hospitals and anybody else who will buy them. We assemble them, deliver, build and connect them on sites: Ready-made glass fibre bathroom and toilet pods in any colour providing you want no less than twenty at a time and don’t mind if they are identical.’

‘Import export, what’s the difference?’

‘The difference is that we import from Holland. Webber spends most of his time in Holland! What’s an Export Manager doing in the country from which we import?’

‘Well! You never made any effort to get to know any of them really. If only you had made some sort of effort. He doesn’t seem so bad.’ She shrugged, ‘he’s always been very courteous to me.’

Denton looked at her in disbelief, ‘Webber?’

‘Paul, forget about Webber, it’s us,’

He interrupted, ‘Stella, not now, not today,’ he sighed heavily, ‘please!’

‘Yes, now Paul. For the last two years, it’s been like living with a madman. You’re either asleep, at work or drunk. You don’t talk, you don’t seem interested in anything that the kids or I have to say and if you do happen to listen you disagree and argue just for the sake of it. What is the matter with you?’

‘It’s my midlife crisis. Not that you seem to have noticed.’

‘Bollocks!’

Denton attempted to stretch his legs in the confined space, sufficient to ease a small cramp in his leg and then resigned himself to the fact that in this car his knees would be jammed under the dash however he arranged his long limbs. He let his mind drift as he gazed at passing scenery he’d ignored for fifteen years. Stella drove through the Ferrier Estate, Lee Green, Verdant Lane and then a short cut through the Downham estate where he had grown up.

He had been born and raised in a small enclave of prefabs on the northern edge of the estate. Recently he had experienced increasing nostalgia for the security and certainty that he had enjoyed there as a boy in the fifties. This prompted a particular poignancy at the lunacy of a two-year-old boy having been abducted the previous day by two children in Liverpool. Life hadn’t been easy on the Estate and was sometimes rough but there had been rules. The place had seemed to have a solidity about it, a pattern of chain link fences, narrow alleyways, neat gardens, neighbours and the ‘palaces for the people’ in which they lived. Shortly after the end of the second world war the estate had filled up with a mix of ex-servicemen and families cleared from the bomb damaged east end of London. Many of the east-enders were market traders or Dockers with access to a still necessary and flourishing black market. The ex-servicemen were a quieter, more responsible group determined not to have their hard-won peace and chance at prosperity undermined by a bunch of spivs. There was an uneasy period of settling down which saw several confrontations culminating in the battle of the Christmas trees.

One of the traders in the week leading up to Christmas had denuded swathes of Kent and West Sussex of fledgling fir trees. These had been cleared at the dead of night on an ex-army lorry and residents of the prefab estate had woken on successive mornings to find their alleyways and sometimes their gardens full of conifers. No amount of asking, demanding or threatening had any effect on the trader. Denton could remember his dad gently explaining to his mother that, despite her fears, something had to be done. Two days before Christmas, when at least half the stock remained unsold and littered through the estate, and knowing that the balance was intended for the last market in Lewisham before the holiday, Denton’s dad had made his move. He; ex Para, and two neighbours, Irish Guards and Durham Light Infantry, stole the trader’s lorry. Throughout the next day, deprived of his means of transport and desperate to shift the stock, the trader ranted around the estate and surrounding areas. Returning home later that day he found that all the Christmas trees had also gone and a wife with a message to call on Harry Denton. Denton’s dad had opened his front door to be confronted by a very angry man.

‘Harry, you know where my stuff is don’t you?’

‘I do Charlie.’

‘Well you better tell me before I beat the shit out of you.’

‘I’ve got the lorry and the trees Charlie,’ Harry advised insouciantly.

’Harry, so help me, get ‘em now or take me to them before I beat you to a pulp.’

Denton’s dad, a small man, with an air of natural authority and a disposition honed by five years of shot and shell didn’t flinch. Charlie King just couldn’t understand how and why this small man didn’t seem to be the slightest bit concerned at the prospect of a beating but what had puzzled him more was the gradual realisation that he’d underestimated this man and was now feeling fear tinged with respect.

‘Charlie that would be a mistake. You’ve annoyed a lot of people and you’re going to stop doing it. Understand?’

Denton was hiding in the hall behind his dad terrified what this boozy bully might do and was relieved to see the DLI and IG open the little picket gate, stroll down the short path towards the front door and stand a few steps behind Charlie.

‘Lads!’ Harry greeted them.

’Alright ‘Aitch?’

‘Yes. Just explaining to Charlie why we took his lorry and trees.’

‘How’s he taking it?’

‘I’ll tell you how I’m taking it you thievin’ bastards,’ Charlie had shouted as he wound himself up to take action.

With parade ground precision, the Irish Guards, 2 Para and the Durham Light Infantry had each taken one pace forward and boxed Charlie into place.

‘Charlie’ said ’Aitch; ‘we’ve had a year of you. We’ve had rotten cauliflowers stinking the place out, we’ve had potatoes you couldn’t give away dumped all-round the estate and two lorry loads of nutty slack dumped across the pavement and into the road. The trees are the last straw’.

Charlie began to splutter a protest.

‘Quiet and listen’ ’Aitch said, suddenly jabbing his extended forefinger to within an inch of Charlie’s nose. ‘You are going to behave. You can have the lorry back after Christmas.’

‘What about me soddin’ trees? Just how long do you think I’m goin’ to ‘ang around waiting for them? I’ve got to get them to Lewisham for Christmas.’

‘That’s all taken care of. We’ve sold the trees. We pick up the money tomorrow which is when you’ll get your half.’

‘Half,’ King spluttered, ‘fuckin’ half! God help me Harry I’ll have you for this! It won’t end here ‘arry boy. If I have to do you one at a time, I’ll do it.’

‘Who shall separate us?’ said ’Aitch with a smile.

’You’ve lost it ’arry. What the fuck are you on about, ‘who shall separate us?’

’It’s the motto of the Irish Guards you pikey little arsewipe and it means that you’ve got more trouble than you can ‘andle. Would you like a taster now?’ Without waiting for an answer DLI pinned Charlie to the wall of the prefab with an elbow to the throat.

’I’ll fucking ‘ave you’, gargled Charlie.

‘Language Charlie and no you won’t.’

‘I bloody well will if it’s the last thing I ever do.’ This, gamely, while rubbing his throat as DLI released him.

There was a long moment of silence during which ’Aitch, again, had moved his forefinger, this time, until it had touched Charlie’s nose and he quietly said, ’so, you do understand the risk you’d be taking? ‘Cos it would be the last thing you ever did.’

‘You threatening me Harry?’

‘No, I’ve never seen the point of giving warnings. I’ve asked you to think a bit about the other people who live around here and now you know I’m serious. I think we’re all going to get on fine in the future. Don’t you? Now get off home to your wife, she’ll be worried.’

As Charlie, had stumbled up the steps and into the alley Denton, peering over his Dad’s shoulder and caught sight of the slight figure of Charlie’s son Roy. Fairisle pullover, grey worsted short trousers, National Health wire framed specs and a pinched and frightened little face on a big but undernourished body. As Charlie passed his son he rewarded him with a cuff for his muttered enquiry of concern.

‘Spiteful bastard!’ Muttered ’Aitch.

Denton noticed that they’d passed the Malaya garage in Bromley Road. He’d never had as much nerve as his dad and was uncomfortably aware that his character had, on occasions been closer to Charlie King and his bluster. He chuckled to himself as he sought comfort in the thought that at least he had brought more in the brains and good humour side to his operations than poor old Charlie could have mustered.

He half turned towards Stella, changed his mind and watched the shops and the crowds going home as Bromley Road drifted past and wondered how he was going to get a serious drink into him without attracting further approbation from his wife. The thing was, she was right. The last two years had been a vicious circle of rows, work, bad news and finally failure. That was the bit that hurt, the failure. Losing, to a pompous little prick like Henfield. Losing the business that had taken so long to build up. It had seemed an ideal solution at the time. His undercapitalized business, joining forces with a capital rich but market poor firm. At the beginning, it had worked well. OK he’d had to meet targets, was limited in the decisions that he could make without consultation and there were strategic decisions made that he sometimes found difficult to accept. But at least he hadn’t had the worries about cash flow. Then that little shit Henfield had arrived. Paul knew that he had been his own worst enemy. If the agenda had been to get him out, then Henfield had played his hand brilliantly while Denton had dealt him the cards he needed. Every decision quietly questioned, every error publicly discussed, while the successful contracts never received a mention or if they did the mention was at the end of a report to the Holding Company signed by Henfield. Each move designed to provoke a response and those responses had become more irrational the angrier Denton had become. To the point where he knew that no reasonable organisation could tolerate his continued employment. What had really hurt was that in his quieter and more sober moments Denton had realised that Henfield’s way was actually making a difference and the company was better organised and becoming more profitable. That realisation had come one Friday morning and had resulted in a protracted lunch that finished in the Duke’s Head on Sunday evening with Stella having to be called to get him home. Back to the old circle: No fit state on the Monday morning to match the unsullied grey cells and gym toned fitness of Henfield and Co.

Denton heaved a sigh. ‘Can you drop me off in the square? I promised a few of the boys that I would meet them in the Duke’s and buy them a drink away from the office.’

‘Paul if you want to go and get drunk again then do it just don’t give me any more crappy excuses.’

‘Stella, I’ve just been kicked out of the company that I founded, I’m fifty-three, I haven’t got a clue what to do next and I’m getting pretty pissed off with you carrying on as though it is all my fault.’

She snorted, ‘stop feeling sorry for yourself. A lot of it is your fault. OK! Go and have your drink, get smashed into oblivion with that bloody crowd of wasters. You seem to prefer their company to mine anyway. But, when you’ve sobered up, you and I are going to talk, whether you like it or not. There are things I need to tell you. You getting drunk again isn’t going to prevent that. And if I have to get drunk myself to get you to talk, I will.’ She turned away from him before adding, quietly, ‘I think we’re nearly at the end of the line.’

Denton studied her resolute profile and wondered why she had averted her eyes as she’d uttered that last thought. His Stells, looked you straight in the eye, spoke the truth and shamed the Devil. Something had happened. He kept silent. He’d long ago accepted that whenever he was convinced he was right he often behaved badly, particularly when in drink. He lost his temper, swore, said hurtful things and was tactless and intolerant. Stella always managed to reinforce her position and win any argument by remaining doggedly silent in the face of any onslaught. The silence continued while she drove through the outskirts of Bromley. He was wondering whether now was a good time to tell her of his decision to go on the wagon. This was, perhaps, the last working day of his life and was certainly the last day of a hard-worked career. Why shouldn’t he finish it in style? He had already acknowledged to himself that his life would change and one of those changes would need to be some serious attention to his drinking problem. On balance, it was probably not the time to mention his plans, such as they were. Stella had heard similar promises before and announcing a programme of future abstinence just before going into a pub was a marketing exercise beyond his skills. The start of every recent year including that of just a few weeks back had seen him resolved to stop drinking. A resolve that the hung-over eyes of that New Year’s Day, nineteen ninety-three, had viewed in a different light.

Stella stopped the car at the start of the one-way system and sat motionless staring ahead. Denton took his cue, got out of the car and shut the door. The temperature had dropped during the journey and he put his jacket back on and felt for his chequebook. He didn’t like cashing cheques in pubs but Margaret; The Landlady, had long since accepted this as the most efficient way to manage his account. He walked round the square towards the pub. He still liked Bromley, although he was convinced that the recent addition of a shopping mall had been the ruination of the old market town. He had grown up around here. The place had been a building site for the past couple of years and Denton felt that much of its character had been sacrificed to provide more offices and shops. He crossed the road and walked towards the mock Tudor frontage of the little pub briefly reflecting on the difference in values represented by it and the newly opened McDonalds opposite. Inside, he quickly glanced around the circular bar that filled the centre of the pub. Seeing nobody he knew he moved towards the far end of the bar noticing that the banquettes that ran around the outside were only sparsely filled.

‘Evening Margaret, how’s it going?’

‘Hello Paul. Not bad. Busy at lunchtime. Usual thing, no bloody staff.’

Margaret was partly obscured by a cloud of smoke and cigarette ash. She was a short woman in her early sixties. She ruled the pub from a position in one corner of the bar where she perched on her stool surrounded by newspapers carefully folded to the crossword page. Beneath the counter, she kept a small library of dictionaries and reference books. It was rare that she moved far from the stool during a session which, given her steady consumption of lager with brandy chasers, had given rise to the rumour that her enormous girth was all bladder or that she was piped directly to the drain in the cellar. In the absence of any staff, Margaret levered herself to the ground, stuck her biro into her tightly gathered bun, retrieved her glasses from the vast shelf of her bosom by snatching at the cord round her neck, parked the cigarette in an ancient Craven A ash tray and wheezed over to Denton. ‘Usual?’

‘Yes please. You O.K.? Is Johnny about? Oh! And have one yourself.’

Margaret paused briefly in her attempt to jam the glass under the cross tree of the optic, sighed and theatrically returned to the task in hand with a slow shaking of her head and another sigh as she thumped the glass back under the dispenser for the double that Denton had ordered. She took his money and gave him his change. A cursory glance at the coins in his hand told Denton that he had treated her to a brandy. Margaret returned to the bar hoisted her bosom over the counter, pursed her crimsoned lips, paused a full ten seconds for effect and then unburdened herself. ‘I’m OK dear. You do your best dear, don’t you? Mind you, it’s not easy with Johnny and his problem. He’s really not been right since that last turn.’

Denton nodded as sympathetically as he could. Johnny’s problems were a lifetime addiction to alcohol that required a daily intake at least equal to any potential profit that the pub could produce together with a passionate dislike of Margaret. Denton had often thought that Johnny only stayed because nowhere else could he live so comfortably in a twenty-four-hour haze while Margaret worked efficiently enough to keep the show on the road, the customers happy and the brewery at bay. Margaret stayed because she had nowhere else to go.

The “turn” had taken place at a Licensed Victuallers Association dinner and dance, when, after consuming several pints before the meal, at least two bottles of wine during and the best part of a bottle of Courvoisier with his coffee, Johnny had collapsed over the table. For some this had enlivened an otherwise dull round of speeches but for Margaret the shame and humiliation were only partly assuaged by the later discovery that Johnny had suffered a stroke. Weeks of hospitalisation and abstinence had gone some way to mending their relationship but the full return of all Johnnie’s faculties, seen as an opportunity for a fresh start by Margaret, was greeted by Johnny as a sure indication that he was fit enough to return to his old ways. Things had gone steadily downhill since. Denton had often thought that there but for the grace of God, and the need to earn a living, went he and a good many of the other habitués of The Dukes Head. Certainly, the discipline of work and the demands of a family had often been all that had prevented him from sliding towards Johnnie’s level of oblivion. He wondered if the demands of his shrinking family would be enough now that he had no job. Since his daughter, Julie, had gone to Uni his relationship with Stella had deteriorated and he wasn’t sure that it was all down to his boozing. He’d been a little surprised at her intensity in the car given the strained nature of their relationship. He’d begun to think recently, so distant had she become, that she had become reconciled to his behaviour. He’d even, very much from his cups, once wondered whether there might have been someone else until his alcohol fuelled ego dismissed the thought.

‘He’s changing a barrel dear, or at least that’s what he went to do an hour ago. Hello! The Rush Hour has begun,’ she announced as she moved up the bar to greet her “Gentlemen from Town”.

Denton nodded to one or two of the new arrivals but, realising that he was earlier than usual, settled down to wait for the mid-session crowd he met most evenings. He glanced briefly up at the small television bracketed into the farthest corner of the bar and quickly away from the disturbing and blurred security camera pictures of the two-year-old Bulger baby being led off. His thoughts returned to Stella and her threats of a showdown. He knew that he was the type of man who was uncomfortable with any sort of emotional scene. Inevitably in these arguments he found himself floundering and losing his temper. He also knew Stella was far too intelligent to allow any argument to degenerate to that sort of level. He half smiled at the mental image of himself being subjected to the sort of quietly reasoned lecture he was sure Stella would deliver. She would be pleased that he had seen his redundancy as an opportunity for change but he suspected she was as worried as he about their future and the different stresses that it would impose on them both. He had recently decided that what was needed was a change that was sufficiently radical and challenging to force them back to the sort of teamwork they had enjoyed in their early days, together against the world! A new house or even a new business had crossed his mind although he liked the existing house and wasn’t particularly anxious to risk it, and what remained of his sanity, to solve a problem that might have a simpler solution. A hearty thump between the shoulder blades stopped his introspection and he swivelled on his stool with a smile already forming.

‘What’s the craic? And how’s life on the dole you aul shister?’

‘Different, about sums it up Mickey, how’s it going?’

‘Busy, busy. But then I’m in a growth market.’

Denton turned away from the newcomer and waved a fiver at Margaret to attract some service. Satisfied that help was on the way he faced Detective Sergeant Michael Joseph McCarthy and grinned. ‘Mickey, you have got to be the only detective in the Met that wears a buttonhole.’

‘Ah! But then isn’t it just the best form of undercover that you could get? Nowadays most of the bad lads are into drugs and they know from the TV that the cops wear baggy jackets, turned up sleeves, very white trainers and loose tee shirts.’

‘No trousers?’

‘Ever the merry quip Paul. I’ve told you before, unless you want to work for Special Branch, a soft Irish lilt and the clothes and poise of the horse breeding fraternity are an asset in my line of work.’

‘Mickey, and I’ve told you before. The one thing you’re short of is a sense of humour.’

McCarthy stiffened, looked away and then sharply back. ’Paul what I do isn’t a joke. There are serious Players out there prepared to go to any length to get more than they have and to keep what they’ve got. Nowadays that means drugs. Importing and selling. Criminals don’t walk across the pavements waving sawn offs these days Paul. They can make more money from the ‘loads a money’ mob. Some blazered fool of a city broker will pay thousands a week for Crystal, coke and crumpet and these guys will supply his every need for a fraction of the risk they used to take knocking over a wages van and ten times the profit. The demand’s everywhere and what’s more so’s the money to pay for it.’

McCarthy looked away for appreciable moments. Denton, a little surprised at his vehemence nudged him with the glass in his hand and offered the drink as he turned back and for the umpteenth time, marvelled at his turn out. The suit was a four-buttoned high three piece made from the sort of tweed that used to give Denton prickly heat in the crutch when he had been forced to wear similar as a child. The shirt was crisp enough to have just been removed from the box and the tie could only be described as a statement. Not the sort of statement that Denton would have wished to make but one that Mickey obviously felt appropriate. The suit, like all Mickey’s suits, had been measured to the stitch. Mickey looked elegant for every inch of his seventy-two. Again, not for the first time, Denton also marvelled that a man older than him could look as young and as fit. This despite incredibly long hours, a thirst of health threatening proportions and contempt for any form of exercise.

‘Anything exciting happened since I last saw you?’

‘Not a lot boyo. Bit of fun the other night in here though.’

‘What was that?’

‘Ronnie Allen finally caught up with little Jimmy Waddicker and I had to separate them. Calmed down in the end. After they’d had a few drinks they seemed to have forgotten it.’

Denton laughed. Allen was a well-known local jobbing builder. Part time alcoholic, full time racist, and homophobe and a regular but useless bar brawler. Waddicker was a self-employed car mechanic, slight, sneaky and fleet of foot with a massive eyesight problem that required him to wear glasses with lenses as thick as the bottoms of beer bottles giving him more than a passing resemblance to a captured Japanese general. Allen had acquired a Land Rover that needed work including a re-spray. Waddicker had taken on the job. A few weeks previously the pair of them had been in the pub discussing the work and Waddicker had asked what colour Allen wanted the paint job. Waddicker had explained that the Army seemed to have them in all sorts of camouflage colours from jungle greens, through arctic greys to desert blush. Allen was quite taken with the idea of desert blush perhaps picturing himself in army surplus desert fatigues. Waddicker had duly completed the work and delivered the Land Rover one evening to the pub. Money changed hands and a small crowd had gone out to inspect the work in the late evening light and Allen had driven home pleased with the job. The next morning however, drawing his bedroom window curtains and viewing the vehicle in the harsh dawn light he had seen not the militarily recognisable combat ready hues of the British Army in full desert blush but the feminine hues of the boudoir akin to the gentle flesh tones of Liberace’s face powder. Thus, it was that the biggest homophobe in Bromley had been reduced to cruising the streets in a pink Land Rover looking for a short-sighted car sprayer who was either colour blind or had more of a sense of humour than had been previously suspected.

‘So! Did the last day go with a bang?’

‘I listened to a bloody stupid speech, made a bloody stupid reply, had a row with Stella and wished to Christ that it had gone with a bang. I should have slotted that bastard.’

‘Who, Webber?’

‘No! Henfield.’ Denton looked quizzically at McCarthy. ‘How do you know Webber?’

‘And didn’t you mention him yourself once or twice.’

‘Did I? I don’t remember.’ Denton said thoughtfully.

‘Mickey, I didn’t mean to upset you earlier you know.’

McCarthy smiled. Gripped Denton’s arm just above the elbow and squeezed.

‘Sure, and I know that. Been a bad day. It doesn’t matter. Look I have a ticket for the match. Will you come? You need some distraction. Kick off in an hour, half hour to get to Selhurst Park so we’ve got time for one for the road.’

‘I don’t think so Mickey. I thought I’d see the evening out here, get home in reasonable time and start my life tomorrow without Stella banging on about me being an irresponsible drunk.’

‘You’ve got no chance. The Bulimia Brothers have just walked in.’

Denton glanced behind him as two huge grins appeared around the corner of the bar. Forty-seven stone of muscled good living advanced with playful menace.

‘Evening Ron. Evening Don.’

‘Denton, you little scamp.’

This, from Ron as he locked Paul’s head to his chest with a forearm the size of the hindquarters of a small horse.

‘I’ve been bellin’ ya all day. Where ya bin?’

Before Denton could answer, Don had pinched his cheek between the knuckles of two fingers that were the size of Cumberland sausages.

‘Allo mate! You bin avoidin’ us?’

Denton prised himself free, straightened his tie, shook his jacket back into position and waved another fiver at Margaret. ‘I’ve been expecting you boys. I miss you. I do Don Ron. I do,’ he chorused.

The two roared their appreciation.

‘Oh! Bon mot, bon mot and mine’s a spritzer and Don will have a pint of the tarts juice.’

‘A spritzer and a pint of lager please Margaret. Oh! And after this can you cash a cheque?’

‘So! How’s things in Surrey Street then?’

‘Why? You thinkin’ of getting’ a stall and joinin’ us then?’

‘Might do. Ideal business. All cash, low overheads and very little intelligence required.’

’Ark at ‘er,’ exclaimed Don as he took the lager from Margaret, ’and ‘im an out of work entrepreneur.’

Denton chuckled to himself. They weren’t brothers; they just looked as though they should be. As far as he knew they had grown up together, been in the Navy together, married within weeks of each other and produced children with wives that grew to look more like each other and the ‘brothers’ as the years passed. He had first met them when his business was thriving and had occasionally helped them out with the loan of trucks or storage in the face of a breakdown or a shortage of space when a bulk bargain buy was in the offing. He had never asked for anything in return and was always surprised, a few weeks later, to have a fold of bank fresh notes slipped quietly into his top pocket.

‘Did you slot any of them bastards before you left?’

Denton grinned. The carriage and storage arrangements had ended abruptly after he had sold the Company. Henfield had stumbled into their Aladdin’s cave during his first duty tour of the premises and had decided to call the Police in the face of what he obviously considered to be contraband. This had proved to be one of the few occasions when Paul and George Webber had agreed. The Police had not been called. The Bulimias had been told to clear the shed immediately. It had been Ron, long after, who had advised Paul never to trust or cross Webber. He had refused to elaborate but his words had worried Paul at the time.

‘I’ll be off to the match then,’ said Mickey draining his glass.

Denton smiled and nodded and noticed that the Bulimias were staring fixedly ahead with glasses raised and tilted to the tightly clamped lips of un-smiling mouths.

‘Yeah! Ok Mickey. Sorry about that. See you during the week.’

McCarthy nodded curtly at the Bulimias and moved away from the bar and through the rapidly filling pub towards the door, chatting with Regulars on the way.

‘What’s up with you two? Unsociable sods!’

‘He’s Filth inny. You can’t relax with the Law hangin’ on every word. Can ya?’ Explained Don.

‘For Christ’s sake, he’s a local Copper. He comes in here for the company and the crack. What’s the problem with that?’

‘Paul, are you thick or what?’ Don turned to face Paul, put his drink on the bar and began to tick off his points using the index finger of his right hand to fold back successive Cumberlands on the left as he made each point. ’One, ’e’s bin coming in ’ere for months and ‘e’s everybody’s friend.’

‘Well, he’s Irish.’

‘Never mind Irish. Two, coppers drink with coppers, unless of course, they’re workin’. Three, ’e don’t drink. Oh! There’s always a drink in front of ’im but it’s like the magic porridge pot: It’s never empty. Four, ’e’s got ears on elastic, ‘e can hold one conversation and listen to three others at the same time.’

‘So! Are you saying he’s not a copper then?’

’Oh! ’e’s a copper all right but ’e’s not local, ’e’s not friendly and somebody who uses this boozer has got or knows something that ‘e wants.’

Denton turned away and looked across the bar towards the entrance where McCarthy was opening the door. He watched him step back to let somebody pass into the pub. Don’s shout coincided with the side of McCarthy’s face and part of his jaw disappearing in a red misty cloud with ropes of blood looping into the air from his neck. As Paul was pulled to the floor he heard the second barrel cut short screams and shouts and the silence was only broken again by the sound of doors slamming, the high revving of an engine and the squeal of tyres. He became aware that Ron was pulling himself up the bar and peering across the counter towards the door. Paul stood up cautiously as others rose from prone or crouching positions and gently moved through the shocked customers towards the body of Detective Sergeant Michael Joseph McCarthy with the man’s words ringing in his ears; “Criminals don’t walk across the pavements waving sawn offs these days Paul.”