Urgh).
He flexed his toes and stood up. His phone vibrated inside his pocket. He took it out and inspected it, stepping back. As he stepped, he kicked into a tray of damp cat litter. The grey granules peppered the surrounding carpet.
Shit, he looked down, scowling, lifting his feet, gingerly.
Now what?
He shoved his phone away, squatted down and scooped a few of the granules on to his hand, wincing, fastidiously, as he dropped them back into the tray again. As they fell he noticed that the base of the tray had been lined with
Not newspaper, but
a letterHandwritten. He tipped the tray up slightly to enable him to read it more easily. At the top of the page was the heading: Ryan Monkeith Road Crossing Initiative.
Ryan Monkeith? The name rang a bell, for some reason. He frowned for a moment, struggling to remember
AhYes!
But of course!
Ryan Monkeith son of Laura Laura with the dodgy tranquilliser habit Blonde Laura Scatty Laura
Itd been all over the local news the previous year
But Laura never
after hed been killed crossing a road close to one of the new developments a pedestrian blackspot
The A292?
The Hythe Road?
The A251?
They were trying to build a bridge or install a crossing or something
Werent they?
In his honour?
to be funded by his grandad or uncle or godfather. Some powerful local contractor
Kane inspected the letter. It was the second page.
people like yourself, it said, in a feminine hand, with your background in local politics, fundraising skills and the confidence of the local community
Kane snorted, dryly. The next section was smudged. But further down
different sides of the fence, but after a tragedy of this magnitude we hope a certain amount of more smudging and thats why we feel your involvement would be especially
Blah blah
His eye was caught, briefly, by something at the bottom of the page
Isidore has been amazing youll be more than familiar with his energy and enthusiasm. He recommended you very highly
Gaffar popped his head around the door.
Is fix, he announced, smiling broadly.
What? You fixed it already? Kane slammed down the tray. You fixed the rug? Seriously?
Gaffar threw out his arms in a shrug of pseudo-modest self-aggrandisement.
Kane followed him back through to the living-room. He located the precise spot where the burn had been (just next to the side-table), squatted down and tried to find any sign of it. Nothing. Not a damn thing.
Jesus, he muttered, youve eventhe burn went right through to the rough fibre underneath. Howd you get rid of that?
I just turned it around, you imbecile, Gaffar explained, smiling, and hid the burn under the sofa.
Kane glanced up. So youre from Turkey? You really know about this stuff, huh?
Gaffar nodded. Turk.
Then he paused. Kurd, he modified.
Did you train in this kind of shit?
Are you kidding me? Gaffar snorted, haughtily. Do I look like one of those rough-thumbed, short-sighted, carpet-weaving cunts?
Kane peered down again, feeling the spot with his hands. He was in love with the job Gaffar had done.
Youre a genius, man, he murmured, gazing up through his lank fringe again. Whats your name? Gaffar? I owe you big-time, Gaffar. You are an unbelievable fucking God-send. Youve saved my fucking life here.
Gaffar tipped his head, bashfully (although he found himself a perfectly fitting receptacle for Kanes panegyric). Uhan look he clumsily stuttered, in his makeshift English, pushing his hand into his suit pocket and deftly withdrawing a small, neat disc of semi-transparent plastic Under sofa, lid, eh?
Mrs Dina Broad had a wonderful facility for getting total strangers to do exactly as she wanted. It was something to do with her size, the tone of her voice (at once wheedling yet strident), her filthy tongue, and the considerable force of what a quality horse-breeder might call her character.
Dinas manipulative genius was a happy coincidence, because she simply adored to be waited upon (to be bolstered and escorted, indulged and cosseted). In fact she absolutely demanded it. The cornerstone of her ideology was: if you dont fuckin ask, you dont fuckin get a maxim which she used so often when her kids were young that during a fit of high-spiritedness while working Saturdays in a print shop her eldest son had designed her a t-shirt with this, her favourite slogan, emblazoned across the chest.
If Dinas life was a carousel (which it was anything but), then there was only enough room on the rotating podium (midst the high-painted roses, the mirror-tiles, the lovely organ) for a single pony; and Dinas was it (there was her name, in exquisite calligraphy, on a beautifully embossed tag around the neckAnd just look at the mane: real silk. And see how straight the brow! How flared the nostril! How long the tail!).
Dina flew up and down (as her moods and her blood-sugar levels dictated), and the carousel just kept on spinning, with the music (Ah, the lilting music) never seeming to stop. It was Dinas show, entirely paying customers could cheerfully go hang (Dina would supply the rope; would even although it was a great deal of effort, and she hated effort tie the noose herself. She was good like that).
The Dina Broad Show (like Celine Dion in Las Vegas) was a show that never ended (it just went on and on and on); but this low-budget extravaganza (in perfect Technicolor) by no means ran itself.
Nuh-uh.
There was the buffing and the oiling (to be regularly undertaken); the electrics (the wiring, the lighting, the amplification), not to mention the construction, the deconstruction, the reconstruction (this was a mobile well, semi-mobile proposition, after all), the ground-rent, the barkers, the cashiers, the crowd controlA whole batteryin other words of tedious, time-consuming rigmarole.
Taken in total, The Dina Broad Experience had a technical staff numbering well over a dozen (the doctor, the social worker, the neighbour, the policeman), and Kelly Broad (poor, skinny, weak-boned Kelly) enjoyed the unique distinction of being at the very heart (or depending on your take on things deep in the colon) of this hard-working, poorly rewarded, long-suffering division. Dina would not perform without her: Fin.
By a series of complex, Machiavellian ruses (there were two people in Casualty aside from her own daughter who were currently sharing a single crutch between them) Dina had somehow managed to commandeer a spare wheelchair in the foyer, and a rather bemused-looking member of the general public (a willowy and slightly effete man in his sixties called Larry who was meant to be visiting his ninety-year-old aunt in an adjacent ward) was making a brave attempt at pushing her around in it.
Aw shit, man! Kelly gasped, grabbing a tight hold of Beedes arm. What the fucks she doin here?
Shes your mother, Beede explained patiently. Shes visiting. Its part of her function.
Kelly gave him a quizzical look. But shes never troubled herself visitin me in hospital before
He stared down at her for a moment, almost with tenderness. It was difficult to decipher from the inflexible set of her gaunt features, but wasnt there a sudden, tiny gleam of childish delight (mixed in with an overwhelming air of bemusement) at the prospect of this most basic of demonstrations of maternal care? His heart promptly went out to her.
I should probably get on, he muttered (not wishing to involve his emotional self any further).
Dont go!
She tightened her grip on his arm.
Im working, Kelly, Beede explained, trying to disengage her claw-like fingers.
But you dont know what shes like Kelly started off (almost pleading with him now), or how ticked-off shes gonna be with me
Its not real anger, Beede counselled, sagely, its just worry
Kelly rapidly changed tack. Either you stay, she threatened, or Ill tell Kane all about the drugs, she reached for her broken phone with her free hand, Ill ring him. Ill text him. I swear
This was a foolish manoeuvre.
Do exactly as you wish. Beede coldly shook his arm free.
If you go her eyes scanned the surrounding area, frantically, then IllIll leg it. She threw back her blanket and revealed her injury. He winced at the sight of it. She sat up and shifted her weight, as though fully preparing to hop off.
Okay, okay, he snapped, flipping the blanket back over again, I suppose I do need to have a quick chat with her about the dogs
Kellys eyes flew wide. Are you crazy?
Pardon?
Shell flip.
Shell go spare.
What?
Just Kelly put her hand over her mouth and spoke through a pretend-cough trust me.
Dina (now perilously close), had already espied her daughter and was waving her walking stick at her (like a Dr Who Dalek, intending to exterminate).
DYOU HAVE ANY FUCKIN IDEA, she bellowed, from a distance of 12 or more feet, WHAT ITS TAKEN TO GET ME HERE?! (Her prodigious rage came as a complete surprise to Larry, whod been chatting with her, perfectly amiably, only moments before.) Several people turned and stared. The less-busy porter glanced up, grimaced, and then quietly sidled off.
You shouldntve bothered, Mum, Kelly murmured, all the stiffness disappearing from her backbone (rendering it floppy as a stick of soft liquorice). Alls I did was break my stupid leg (she cuffed the leg, weakly, as if it was the limbs fault entirely), and I smashed my stupid phone, so I couldnt even
SCREW YOUR STUPID LEG! Dina yelled (indignant tears already brimming in her curiously mesmerising pipe-tobacco eyes). IVE BROKE MY FUCKIN ARSE GETTIN HERE TODAY, KELL. SO WHAT EXACTLY DYOU PLAN TO DO ABOUT THAT, EH?!
The whole party was quiet for a moment, as if jointly considering the most feasible solution to this perplexing dilemma (I mean what could Kelly do?). No suggestions were forthcoming, although Beede (for one) appeared to be deriving a measure of laconic amusement from Dinas proximity. The woman was a legend, after all; she was Jabba the Hut with a womb, chronic asthma and a council flat. She was an old-fashioned bully that much was clear but her fury was swaddled by her considerable upholstery; her rage hijacked by blubber and then rapidly redirected into teary vulnerability.
Dinas laser-guided eyes (she could detect independent thinking at 200 paces) quickly alighted upon Beedes smirking visage. Pay a good price for that front-row ticket, Mister? she enquired icily. Not nearly enough, I fear, Beede answered smoothly.