I refused to warm to his charm. Disconcerted, Dave ploughed on. “Well, then yesterday I was in the club sorting out some new material. I'm normally there on a Sunday. Anyway, when they came in – Len and Angelo – that is, they didn't know I was there.”
He eased his shoulders nervously, almost a twitch. I didn't interrupt him, waiting for him to carry on. After a pause, he did.
“Len was furious about something, really crazy with it. He was practically screaming at Angelo that he'd gone too far this time, and he – Len – didn't think he could cover up for him. Angelo was just really on edge, not far away from exploding. I thought they were going to start killing each other at any moment. It was scary stuff.”
“So what had Angelo done?”
“I don't know. Len was yelling like a madman, when the boss man walks in.”
“Marc?” I said, startled.
“Yeah,” Dave grinned again at my reaction, more slyly this time. “He broke them up and they all went into the office. They were only there about five minutes before there was all this crashing and shouting going on and they came bursting out of there. Of course, I stuck my head up to see what was happening.”
“And?” I prompted.
“Well, it looked like Mr Quinn had clouted Angelo good style, split his lip and everything. The boss was white with anger. You know how some people go kind of deadly quiet with it? He told Angelo he'd broken the rules and he wasn't going to stand for it, no way. Len looked like he didn't know whose side to go for. I mean, Angelo's his mate, right? But it's pretty obvious he thinks Mr Quinn's the dog's bollocks.”
“But why on earth did Marc hit Angelo?” I wondered.
Dave shrugged. “Search me. Old Angelo's obviously been up to something he shouldn't and got found out for it. Maybe Mr Quinn found out that the kids in the club are not just getting their kicks from the music, if you get my drift?”
He shivered suddenly and when he next looked up at me, there was fear in his eyes. “They saw that I was there, then, and Mr Quinn really lost his rag. He got me up against the wall and told me to keep my nose out of things that didn't concern me. Look.”
Dave unzipped the top of his nylon jacket. It crackled with static as the material folded. If he walked across a man-made fibre carpet and then went out in the rain, he'd probably electrocute himself. Underneath the jacket he wore a T-shirt. The round neck revealed a band of livid bruises circling his throat.
I eyed the yellow and bluish marks with a certain amount of sympathy. After all, I had more or less a matching set of my own. My body seemed to be covered with them. Big blotches like spilt ink on tissue paper. There were so many smaller dabs I'd lost count. “So why are you telling me all this?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
Dave tried another grin, but it didn't quite come off. “I'm scared, Charlie,” he admitted. He fastened the jacket right up to the top again and gave me a level stare.
“I need your help,” he said baldly. “I need to know how to look after myself because, I tell you, whatever's going on at the New Adelphi, it's starting to get real nasty.”
“What do you mean, Dave, it's getting nasty at the club?” I asked. I tried to shake off an uneasy sense of misgiving. If this was true, what was Marc's real part in it?
Dave looked indignant. “Isn't this enough?” he demanded, gesturing to his neck.
I gave him a pointed stare. “All that proves is they don't like eavesdroppers,” I told him.
“Oh come on, Charlie! Think about it!” Dave jumped up, agitated, and paced around. The floor was too cluttered in debris for him to make a proper job of it. After a few moments he sat down again, leaning forwards with his muscular forearms resting on his knees, intent. “Look, I've seen quite a few of the kiddies on the dance floor high as kites, even though Mr Quinn swears nobody brings anything into the club, right?”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
“So, they must be getting it from somewhere, yes?”
I nodded again.
“And if they're not bringing it in, they must be getting hold of it after they're inside. If Angelo's been indulging in a bit of private enterprise, and Mr Quinn's found out, he'll be for the chop – one way or another.” He shivered again. “If Mr Quinn’s going to get serious about it, well,” he swallowed, “he won’t want any witnesses, will he?”
“I suppose not,” I agreed slowly. Something wasn’t right with Dave’s argument. Something didn’t gel, but right now I couldn’t put my finger on just what it was.
I knew Marc worked by his own code. The lines he drew might not have matched legal ones very closely. If you stepped over them, his retribution would be swift and without mercy. I could almost feel sorry for Dave. His fear seemed genuine, even if I wasn’t sure about the cause.
“So what help do you want from me?”
“Well, like I said, I want you to teach me some self-defence.” He regarded me hopefully, looking anxious when I didn’t immediately respond. “That is what you do, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I agreed tiredly, “but it’s not as simple as that, Dave. You can’t just have a quick lesson and turn into Jackie Chan overnight.”
Without persistent training, knowledge was irrelevant. In fact, it was probably more dangerous than not knowing anything at all. Understanding the right moves for taking the knife away from the Scouser last night would have been useless without an instinctive reflex speed and sense of timing. That only came with constant practice. It seemed I’d been getting plenty of that lately.
“No, no, I want you to teach me regularly,” he said. “I’ll pay.”
I was about to refuse. When I glanced at him he was so tense you could have tuned a guitar by banging his head on a chair and listening to the resonance.
I sighed. “OK, Dave,” I said.
He jumped up again, unable to contain his bounce. He made me feel dog tired by comparison.
“That’s great!” he said. “When can we start?”
“Soon,” I promised. I got to my feet with an effort, my muscles protesting from the brief period of inactivity. The flexibility from Tris’s ministrations earlier seemed to have evaporated. I flicked him a pained look. “Just not right now, OK?”
***
After Dave had gone I made a half-hearted attempt at clearing up a little. At least I managed, with sweat and swear words in almost equal amounts, to turn my shredded mattress over so I had something solid to sleep on.
The locksmith turned up with commendable promptness, only shortly after four o'clock. He was a skinny old bloke with a sorrowful expression, and a foul-smelling cigarette permanently drooping from his bottom lip. For once I was too wearied to protest.
He came in, clucking at the state of the place, and barely concealing his disgust at the lack of security provided by my existing lock.
“Can't beat a good old five-lever mortice,” he said, wriggling his eyebrows. It was only when he asked if the police thought they'd catch the little buggers who'd done it that I realised I still hadn't called them.
It didn't take me long to work out that I wasn't going to.
When he was finished, I thanked the locksmith and secured the door behind him. A locked door might not have proved much of a barrier last time, but I admit it made me feel better.
I ate a thrown-together tea in silence. Mainly because everything I owned that made noise had been comprehensively destroyed. It was eerie and uncomfortable.
Then I dragged myself back out to teach my usual class at Shelseley, rearranging the curriculum so I did as little physical stuff as I could get away with. One or two of my pupils looked curiously at the more visible bruises, but they didn't ask too many questions. I was grateful for their reserve.