“Mick Kelk.”
“Playing pool.”
“Cheers.”
I suppose he thought we might be less trouble if we did what we had to do and got out. It’s an attitude that’s probably let him keep his licence this long.
The lads round the pool table weren’t really lads at all. They were wearing jeans and t-shirts cut high at the sleeves to show their muscles, and some of them had hair that was a bit too long. But their beer guts were straining their t-shirts more than their pectorals were, and their faces were lined from years of absorbing ale and smoke in places just like the Ferret. Also their tattoos were out of date. Black Sabbath are definitely not the current thing this year.
One of the lads was Mick Kelk. I had a moment of curiosity about the others. I had no idea who they were, which meant they were from outside Medensworth. But I didn’t really want to know just now. There was a general shuffling of position as they all took a pace backwards or sideways, arranging themselves into a defensive group with Kelk in the middle. Some of them took their hands out of their pockets, put down fags, picked up beer bottles.
“Kelky. I want a word with you.”
Dave strolled up and stood over the pool table. Mick was about to play a shot. He had the blue ball in a good position, but he wouldn’t get the white back to where he could pot the pink. Not the way his hand was shaking.
“I’m busy.”
“You look it. It’s just a friendly chat, like, but it’s got to be now. So drop out of the game for a bit then, Kelky.”
“I’m still busy.”
“Tell you what — I’ll just let you miss this shot, then we’ll talk.”
“I don’t miss shots like this, pal.”
“Yeah?”
He looked at me and then glanced sideways at Dave, who was watching Mick’s cue as if it was the first time he’d ever seen one. Mick couldn’t look soft in front of his mates. If it came to real trouble, he wanted them to back him up, not throw him to the wolves, which they would if he ruined his cred now. Act tough and you get accepted. Show you’re scared and the pack disowns you. Mick knew that all right.
He certainly took his time lining up the shot, considering how easy it was. The tip of his cue seemed to be wavering all round the white ball, until eventually he whacked it down the table. It hit the blue all right, bouncing it hard off the cushion and away over the table beyond a clutch of reds. The white hovered uncertainly as if sensing the atmosphere, then nipped into the pocket like a mouse going for its hole when the cat appears.
“Well, if that ain’t missing, my tadger’s a pot plant.”
Mick straightened up, his cue gripped firmly in his right hand, ready to shift it to make use of the heavy end if necessary. The other three lads shuffled their feet, not quite sure what was going on. Everybody seemed to be watching Doncaster Dave, except me. I’ve seen him before, so he’s no novelty. But I knew he’d be getting hungry thinking about the Shah Naz. And when he’s hungry he loses patience.
Helpfully, Dave leaned forward to retrieve the ball from the pocket where Mick had potted it. He placed the ball on the table, right on the D. He was moving slow, as if he’d lost interest in what was going and had decided to keep himself amused with a game. He reached out a large hand towards the nearest of the lads, and a cue was automatically placed into it. It looked like a toothpick when he gripped it like that.
“I really need to talk to you, Mick,” I said. “I’ll be upset if you don’t co-operate.”
“I told you, I’m busy.”
“Well, personally I can wait, but it’ll mean Dave here going past his supper time.”
Mick’s eyes followed Dave, fascinated, as he handled the pool cue. He had a funny grip on it, as if he’d never held one before. For a moment, I thought Mick was going to put him right. It wouldn’t have been wise.
He turned back towards me instead. “I’ve got nothing to say, McClure.”
Suddenly, Dave had hold of the narrow end of the cue in both fists. It whistled through the air and the blunt end came down on the cue ball with tremendous force, smacking it with a great thud that sent the ball flying off the table at two thousand miles an hour and accelerating. Its trajectory took it skidding past Mick Kelk’s right ear to shatter a beer glass standing behind him on a head-high shelf.
There was a pause in the conversation. I could hear the drip of the beer running down the wall and even the trickle of Mick’s blood as it drained from his face. He was working out that if the ball had been an inch or two to the right, he’d have been able to go to the next fancy dress party as Admiral Nelson. One of his mates bravely hefted his own cue, a reflex action only. It accidentally snapped on Dave’s hand and the bloke had to sit down on the floor suddenly out of surprise. Dave was being quite restrained. I hoped he wasn’t getting too weak from hunger or something.
“Okay, what do you want to know?” said Mick shakily.
Conversation started up again. The landlord came and cleared up the broken glass with a resigned expression. We sat in the corner while Mick’s mates pretended to carry on with the game under Dave’s critical eye. He grunted with disapproval every time a wavering shot went wide of the pocket.
“I’m interested in any driving jobs you’ve had recently, Mick, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”
“I drive all the time. That’s my business. I’m a driver.”
“I know that, Mick. That’s why I’m talking to you. If I want to know who’s been doing driving jobs recently, then that’s who I ask — a driver. Right?”
He licked his lips. He looked as though he wanted his beer, but it was soaking into the floor, and I wasn’t about to buy him another. Two free drinks in one day was beyond the call of duty. He was nervous, and I thought it might not be entirely because of Doncaster Dave.
“So. What have you been driving recently, Mick?”
“I took a load of pallets down to Derby on Monday.”
“Pallets? Are you kidding me?”
“There’s a bloke pays cash for ’em.”
“And where did these pallets come from?”
“You know, here and there. Surplus stuff.”
I shouldn’t have asked really. Well, you don’t. Of course they were surplus stuff. That means they were nicked from factories, warehouses, transport depots. Pits too, if he’d been able to find one that hadn’t been cleared out already. Anything that’s left lying about is ‘surplus’.
“Pay well?”
“Next to nowt.”
“So what did you bring back?”
“A bit of scrap, that’s all. For one of the yards in Mansfield.”
“And then?”
“Eh?”
“That was Monday, Mick. Today’s Friday. What have you been doing since? I can see you haven’t been practising your pool all that time.”
He sighed. “I can’t tell you, Stones. It’s not worth it.”
I had a sneaky sympathy for him, but I needed to know.
“Is it a new firm? A fresh bit of business?”
“Maybe.”
“Who, Mick?”
He said nothing. This was worrying. “If I have to tell Doncaster Dave that his supper will be late because you don’t want to talk, he won’t be happy.”
“Look.” He was starting to plead. “They’re not people to cross, Stones. I’ll be right in the shit as it is.”
“Are you working for a bloke called Rawlings? How about Josh Lee?”
“I know ’em. All right?”
“What’s their game? Is Rawlings the boss, or is there someone else?”
But then the pub really did go quiet. Silent as the grave. Suddenly I could see right across the room, as if the Red Sea had parted for Moses and the Israelites. But this was no Moses. This was a hefty bloke with a broken nose, a badly fitting suit, and teeth like Stonehenge. I recognised him straightaway. He used to do a lot of boxing round the local amateur circuit until his last brain cell died. His nose is a particularly distinctive shape, like one of those novelty potatoes that people keep because they look like Mickey Mouse or General de Gaulle. Only this one was shaped more like Dumbo the Elephant.