Chapters (67)
- Cover
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
‘Shocking cold, coughed as if I was a two-pack-a-day man, retched my guts up.’ He held up the kettle.
‘I’m all right for now thanks.’
He read a page of sport, boxing, darts, turned over from cricket in Australia. Looked up. Odd was back in his chair, legs splayed.
‘Missus all right?’
Odd snorted.
‘She still working the market?’
‘It’s an addiction, man.’
‘Selling knickers is an addiction?’
‘Has to be, she and her mother.’
‘Brings in the pennies.’
‘Not in this weather.’
‘You know a few about the place, Odd. I’m trying to get hold of a bloke.’
‘Sort of a bloke?’ Odd was still crashed back, but he was listening.
‘Don’t know much else. Goes by his stupid nickname.’
‘Sort of stupid nickname?’
A door blew open and a blast as loud as a bomb exploded into the room from the club. Died again. In the inner room the bank of small screens flickered, watching the dancers, the standers, the drinkers, watching, watching, never blinking. Cooper, the deputy manager, was on the screens tonight. Any minute, he’d put his arm up for black coffee, three sugars.
‘You ever heard of someone called Fats?’
Vince kept his eyes on Odd’s face but there was nothing.
‘Fats what?’
Vince shrugged.
‘Don’t ring no bells. What’s it about anyway?’
‘Something and nothing, to do with one of the lads. Don’t suppose it’s much.’
‘Fats. Nope. Still, if I do . . . not a name you hear every afternoon.’
‘Like Odd.’
‘Summat like that.’
The arm requesting black coffee three sugars came up at the window.
Saturday nights were not often as full-on as Friday and on this one there had been heavy rain all day, turning to sleet later, and the pavements were awash. By peak time, around eleven to half past, there were probably half the punters of the previous night and they moved them off the street and into the club fast. It was Odd’s turn on the screens and when Vince took in his coffee – white, no sugar, no biscuits because of his diabetes – Odd took it, drank it even though it was scalding hot, set it down, all with one eye still on the heaving mass of dancers.
‘Got something for you.’
‘What’s that?’ Vince pulled over a tatty plastic-covered stool. There was no one else in the office and somebody had already nicked the paper.
‘Funny how things come up again, once they’re in your head. That bloke – Fats.’
‘You do know him?’