It hadn’t dawned on me that we’d come out near McDonald’s until Dave suddenly began to veer towards the arched entrance as if drawn by a huge, golden magnet.
“All right, then. Maybe a burger and fries will help me think.”
There are no tattooed waitresses in McDonald’s, so I thought Dave’s attention might be totally occupied by the food. This turned out to be almost true, but not quite.
We’d collected what seemed like a huge stack of containers oozing various appetising smells and we were winding our way to a convenient table. This takes a bit of doing, because Dave doesn’t fit too easily between tables in these places. He needs a stretch of clear water, like a cruise liner negotiating its way into harbour. While we were doing this, I half noticed four blokes come through the door. I paid a lot more attention when they gathered round us, as if desperately wanting to share our large fries.
“Are you McClure?” said the one in front.
First off, I had this lot pegged as a dissatisfied customer and his mates. It happens now and then. Ungrateful lot the punters, sometimes. They find out they’ve been ripped off, and some jerk tips them my name, so they come looking for a bit of compensation. It’s a sad old world. But you see why I need Doncaster Dave on the payroll.
Yes, these were definitely amateur talent. Local accents, cheap trainers. It’s pitiful, really. A few half-hearted bottle fights down the pub on a Saturday night and they all think they’re the Terminator. I could have told them they were wrong. The real Terminator was standing just behind me, waiting for a signal.
“We want a word with you, McClure.”
This bloke doing the talking, now. He was trying to look hard, but he was dressed in a leather jacket and chains. He had three days of stubble — and he was even wearing shades, for God’s sake, as if Medensworth had been transplanted to California suddenly. If you have to dress up to look hard, then you’re not hard at all really, just fashion conscious.
“You want a word? How about ‘piss off’,” I said, trying out the theory. “No, sorry — that’s two words, isn’t it?”
“Save the clever shit. Just put the stuff down and come outside where we can talk private, like.”
“Sorry, but I can’t talk on an empty stomach. So you might as well piss off anyway.”
He was starting to get annoyed, but I didn’t care. At least, not until I noticed that the bloke standing behind him had a noticeable bulge in his jacket pocket. Bulges make me nervous. Somebody can get hurt when there are bulges about, amateur or not. The other two lads had edged their way round so they were near Dave. They were watching him curiously as he dipped into one of the cartons with his fingers and started poking french fries into his mouth.
“I won’t say it again,” snarled the bloke with the shades, saying it again. “Outside.”
I turned to look at Dave. He looked pretty casual, as if the whole thing had nothing to do with him. He’d keep like that for as long as I stayed relaxed.
Dave picks things up like a dog does. I don’t mean sticks and slippers and things, but atmospheres and intentions. Just like a good dog can sense you’re upset, Donc knows when I’m worried, or I’m about to do something risky. Like an Alsatian or a Rottweiler, he recognises danger and reacts accordingly. I hoped his instincts were working properly right now. There are times when you need a Rottweiler instead of a dopey Labrador. In other words, I was about to do something risky.
“Oh shit,” I said. “Hold these a minute.”
I shoved the stack of polystyrene containers at the lad with the shades, and he held his hands out and took them automatically. Then he looked round, puzzled, to see what was happening. That was two mistakes at once, so he was definitely an amateur. I grabbed his jacket, swung him round and hoisted him halfway into the air, straight into his mate with the bulge in his pocket. Fries and burgers went flying everywhere. Shades got a face full of Chicken McNuggets, and a carton of coke exploded and soaked two teenage girls sitting with their mouths open. Meanwhile, Dave had come awake, both hands reaching out deceptively slowly to grab the collars of the other two lads. They stood frozen like rabbits in car headlights as his massive fists closed around their jackets and their heads jerked forward to meet each other with a horrible crack. They both fell face forward on the nearest table, which happened to be empty but for the salt. Trust Dave not to waste any food.
A moment later we’d got out of the door of McDonald’s without even being wished a nice day. Remind me to complain to Ronald some time about the standard of service.
“Stones?” said Dave as we legged it through the car park and over the back fence.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I should have shown them my trick shot again?”
I laughed for second or two, breathlessly, as I ran.
“What do you mean, again? Had you seen them before?”
“A couple.”
I was amazed at this. With Dave’s memory, it would have to be in the last twenty-four hours for him to remember a face.
“Where did you see them?”
“Last night, yeah?”
“Yeah? What, you mean in the Ferret? Mick Kelk’s mates?”
“Nah, not his mates. The other lot.”
I thought about this. I recollected my hasty exit, hidden behind Dave’s shoulder. I’d seen them coming, but my eye had been fixed on the one in front, Sledgehammer Stan, though there had been at least three others with him. Of course, Dave had seen them all right.
“With the broken-nosed bloke, Stones.”
“Shit, Donc. Were those Eddie Craig’s lads?”
“That’s them,” he said. “See, I remembered.”
Nuala did her best to take my mind of things later on. As it was her afternoon off, we were able to spend some time on foreplay, which means Nuala talking and me thinking about something else. She’d noticed I was a bit fed up, and she was trying really hard. She gave me a talk on the attractions of the Seychelles as an exclusive holiday destination that was first choice for the discerning travel customer. I guessed it was word for word from the seminar she’d been to that day, but with more body language. Eventually, she got herself into such a heated state that she had to start taking her clothes off. Now she was talking.
And then the mobile phone rang.
Well, you can’t ignore a ringing phone. It might be business. But when I put it to my ear there was nothing. I said ‘hello’ all the same. These digitals are supposed to be safe, so that no one can tap into your line and listen to your calls. If that wasn’t true, then I was going to sue somebody. Probably Bob Hoskins or Buzby. Somebody, anyway.
But there was a caller there, something like a heavy breather except the breathing sounded faint. Then a distant voice said ‘hello’ like it was talking to itself and knew the men in white coats were about to come and cart her away for it. It was a female voice, and that was about all I could tell you.
I mentally ran through the list of females that might have my mobile phone number and discovered that it was a pretty long list. I made myself a note to change my number soon.
I said ‘hello’ again, louder. I got a surprised ‘yes’ in reply. Then there was more silence. This didn’t seem to be getting us anywhere. I tried a ‘who’s that?’ and the breathing became more rapid, as if the mere sound of my voice had stirred up somebody at the other end. But then I always seem to have that effect on women. It didn’t narrow it down at all.
“Is that Stones?”
At least that was clear, but it was like a radio station fading in and out of reception.