“Dunno really. My mum’s talking about moving. Maybe it’ll help. She wants to get out of Beech Street. Move into one of the Crescents maybe.”
“A Crescent? Going upmarket?”
“Well, Mum’s not happy. She’s says they’re all drug addicts in our street now.”
“Yeah, probably.”
The Thompsons are a big family — there are several households of them on our estate alone. Slow Kid has lots of brothers and sisters and cousins, and they’re so close they form a separate clan. Although they argue all the time, they also protect each other. Very few of them have jobs.
Slow Kid nudged me as a blue Renault Master high-roof van nosed into the car park. It picked out the quietest corner and backed into a spot where its rear doors were facing towards the shrubbery.
“That’s the bloke, Stones.”
“Right. Let’s see what he’s got. Rawlings, is it?”
“Yeah.”
The owner of the Renault was a heavily built bloke in a check shirt with receding hair pulled back in greasy strands over his ears. He was sweating, though the weather wasn’t all that warm, and his manner was a bit too slimy for my liking.
“Hey up,” I said.
“Hey up. McClure, is it? I’m Rawlings.”
“Nobody ever calls me anything but Stones.”
“Right, right.”
His hand felt clammy when we shook, even though he wiped his palm on his jeans first. He had the back doors of the van open, glancing slyly around him like some Russian spy from a Cold War thriller. I was already getting a bad feeling about him. I only stay free and in good health by keeping clear of blokes like this. But I decided to take a look at his stuff since we were here, and Slow Kid had set it up himself.
The back of the van was half full of cardboard boxes.
“Trainers, that right?”
“Right. Reeboks.” He winked at me, and I had to fight a shudder. This jerk was putting me right off crime.
“And there’s some sweatshirts and tracksuits too. Umbro. All top-notch gear, you know, Stones. Reeboks, now, they go like mad with the youngsters these days, eh?”
“Let’s have a look then.”
“Sure thing.” Rawlings leaned round the side of the van and bellowed towards the driver’s seat. “Josh! Open a couple of these boxes.”
A lad with a streaked flat-top slid out of the cab and slouched towards us, pulling a nasty-looking combat knife from his pocket. Slow Kid, who was standing behind me, took a couple of steps backwards as if to give himself room for action. Without looking round, I could feel him stiffen.
But Flat Top took no notice of us. He hoisted himself into the van and hacked away at the tape sealing one of the nearest cases. I could see it was packed with plain white shoe boxes stuffed with tissue paper. The lad watched me as I lifted a couple out and unwrapped the tissue.
The trainers were real top-class stuff. They were well made, with solid stitching and thick soles that flexed like something alive in my fingers. They smelled new and expensive, and the gold and black labels on the heels looked genuine. They looked really good. Too good.
Flat Top had another box open by now, and was dragging out a tracksuit top. But I didn’t want to see any more. I shoved the trainers back in under the tissue paper and turned to Rawlings.
“No thanks. I’m not interested.”
“What?” His eyebrows shot up towards his freckly bald head. “You must be joking. Look at them! That’s good stuff, that is. You won’t see any better.”
“Maybe. But I’m not interested. Sorry.”
“Stones, look. You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m offering you the best here.”
“Sure. But offer it somewhere else, okay?”
Rawlings was sweating even more now. He took a revolting rag from his pocket to wipe his head. “If it’s the price that’s worrying you, I’ll drop it, okay? Just make me an offer. I need to unload the stuff. It’ll make you a bomb.”
“No.”
I turned to go and caught sight of Slow Kid’s expression. He looked as though he’d come face to face with a rattlesnake on the living room carpet and was just waiting for it to blink before he stamped on its head. He bared his teeth as I felt a sweaty hand grab my arm and pull me back towards the van. It was Rawlings, and his mood had suddenly changed.
“McClure, I don’t appreciate being messed around. I came here because I heard you’d be interested. I was told you were straight up, a bloke who knew a good deal when he saw when. So don’t muck me about. Take this deal or tell me why not.”
I don’t like being grabbed very much, especially by jerks like Rawlings. But Flat Top was poised by the back doors of the van, the knife held in his hand almost casually, as if he was waiting for someone to ask him to slit open another cardboard box or something. His eyes were fixed on me, and I hadn’t noticed them until now. They were blue, but dead, like the eyes of a stuffed cat.
The knife was too near me for comfort, and Rawlings had a good grip on my best arm. I knew Slow Kid was probably carrying his own blade, but he was behind me. An accident can happen at a time like this — and the thought that I might be the one it happens to makes me unhappy.
I don’t reckon to be a coward, but self-preservation is my middle name. In fact, I’m thinking of changing it by deed poll to ‘alive’. Stones Alive McClure. It doesn’t sound too bad, does it? It’ll give someone a good laugh when they chisel it on my memorial. But it’s sussing out situations like this that has kept me on two feet all this time. Well, that and the good money I pay Doncaster Dave to be my minder, anyway.
I don’t know whether Rawlings and his mate could see me weighing up the odds with my lightning-fast brain, or whether it was the sight of Dave himself leaning on the side of the van and crumpling the door that made Rawlings let go of my arm. The odds had shifted, and retreat had become a sensible option for him. That’s the way I like it.
Rawlings gave a jerk of his head to Flat Top, who followed him back to the cab, looking frustrated. Rawlings put his boot down and the van shot off across the car park, leaving us with just a few lungfuls of exhaust fumes to remember them by. When they turned to go past us to the exit, I thought Rawlings looked worried. Scared even. Maybe I ought to give Dave a pay rise.
The three of us walked back in silence to the Little Chef, and Dave happily went back to his place at a table by the window.
“Something go wrong then, Stones?”
That’s Dave all right. Nothing much gets past him.
“Well, you were watching, weren’t you, Donc? That’s what I pay you for, ain’t it? To watch me? You must have seen what went off, right?”
“Course, Stones.”
I was irritated with him because it had nearly gone very badly wrong, and I didn’t like the fact he’d turned up at the last minute, even though it was probably my fault. I hadn’t been cautious enough for once. Just then I didn’t realise quite how badly everything had nearly gone wrong.
Dave was looking shifty at my tone of voice, and his eyes slid sideways. I followed his glance and saw a muscly waitress with a dyed blonde crop. She grinned back at him, and I sighed. Why does my minder have this effect on some women? I can’t understand it. He frightens the life out of me.
Then the mobile phone rang. When I say ‘rang’, the Motorola can be set to vibrate instead of ring if you don’t want it going off noisily somewhere where it might not be very discreet. This vibration can be an interesting experience if it’s in your pocket. Luckily, on this occasion it was on the table, and began to rattle quietly on the plastic surface until I picked it up.
“Yeah?”
“Delivery on the way,” said an unidentified voice.