Having locked the fish and chip
shop up for the night, and carrying two parcels of cod and chips, Craig Thomas
slid into the back seat of the taxi.
‘Working
men’s club?’ the driver asked.
‘Right,’
said Craig. ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’
‘Started
last night.’
Craig
had a sinking feeling deep inside him that tonight was going to be one of those
nights. The end of another lousy day.
‘Did
they tell you my method of payment?’ he asked the driver when they were almost
at the club.
The
driver replied with more hostility than was necessary.
‘Did
who tell me what?’
‘Your
firm. I always pay in kind.
A large cod ‘n’ chips for the fare.’
‘No,
they didn’t tell me.’
The
taxi stopped at the traffic lights. Rain
began to drum heavily on the roof of the car and the driver switched the wipers
on, which squeaked irritatingly as they waited for the lights to change.
‘So
how about it?’ said Craig. ‘D’you want
the cod ‘n’ chips or not?’
‘Nah.
Stick your fish ‘n’ chips. ’A sneer in
the driver’s voice. ‘I work for cash.
An’ if you ain’t got it, I’m round the corner to the cop shop an’ you
can sort it out with them.’
Craig
felt like punching him in the back of the head, and would have done if the
lights hadn’t changed.
‘Don’t
remember me, do yuh? The driver said as they pulled away – Craig saw him
grinning as he adjusted his driving mirror – ‘We were in the same cell
block. I recognised you right away, even
without the pony tail.’
‘I’m
sorry,’ Craig began.
‘Name’s
Rice. Tony Rice.’
‘Oh
yeah,’ said Craig, his tone indicating he had no intention of discussing his
recent sentence with this fellow inmate he couldn’t remember from Adam.
He fiddled nervously with his earring and was
relieved when they pulled up outside the Working Men’s Club.
The driver turned round.
‘Haven’t
you got any dosh then?’
‘I’ve
got enough to pay the fare, if that’s what you mean.’
The
driver grinned and waved away the offer to pay. ‘Nah, go on.
It’s on the house.
I wouldn’t like to deprive a man of his
pint.’
‘Cheers,
mate!’
‘An’
if you can trade the greasy leftovers for an extra pint, you’re laughing.’
‘Nothing
wrong with these fish and chips,’ said Craig as he opened the cab door.
The driver put a restraining hand on his arm.
‘If
you hear of anything that’s going, I wouldn’t mind a piece of the action.’
Craig
shook his head firmly. ‘I’m going
straight.’
‘That’s
what they all say. You can’t be earning
that much at the chippie.’
‘I
get by,’ Craig replied. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
As
he hurried towards the club entrance, the taxi driver let the window down and
called out: ‘You know where to find me if you hear of anything.
Just give the cab firm a ring.’
Craig
had no intention of contacting him. Ever.
It was a past he wanted to remain buried.
He was determined to keep out of trouble this
time. But when he got inside the club,
there was a disappointment awaiting him: the regular bar steward was off sick,
and the misery-guts replacing him wasn’t interested in swopping a pint for a
portion of fish and chips, and as no one else wanted the food, Craig ended up
binning it.
He
stood quietly at the bar, sipping the one pint he could afford, his mood
growing darker by the minute as he thought bitterly about life’s cruel blows
and the pittance he was being paid to work in his brother-in-law’s
chippie. He knew he was being
tested. He also knew he would eventually
give in to the temptation of improving his financial status the easy way.
*
Gary Branston rubbed a liberal amount
of Giorgio Armani into his neck and shoulders.
In the bathroom mirror he could see his wife eyeing him
suspiciously. He picked up a pair of
cosmetic scissors and snipped a hair that had grown too long on his
neatly-trimmed beard.
‘You’re
going to a lot of trouble over your appearance,’ said Maggie.
‘Especially at half-ten at night.’
‘I
had my hair cut earlier,’ he explained, somewhat testily.
‘And you know I can’t stand feeling itchy.’
‘Where
is it you said you were going?’
‘To
see this bloke at his club, to discuss the possibility of forming a
partnership.’
‘Doing
what, exactly?’
‘Oh
– this and that.’
‘And
what time will you be back?’
He
shook his head and avoided her eyes. ‘’I’ve no idea.
The meeting’ll be as long as it takes.
Maybe you’d better not wait up for me.’
He
went into the bedroom, removed his bathrobe and began dressing hurriedly.
She followed him.
‘You’re
hardly ever at the chip shops these days, and now you’re starting to talk about
starting another business.’
‘I
own the chip shops. Other people can
work them for me.’
‘Yeah.
People like my brother.’
‘Don’t
start that again. He’s lucky to get a
job so soon after he came out.’
‘Oh
yeah – very lucky,’ she said, sarcastically.
He
ignored it and continued dressing.
‘Daryl
and Hannah are all tucked up,’ she said after a while.
‘Why don’t you go in and see them.
They look really sweet.’
He
knew it was a form of moral blackmail, trying to make him feel guilty, so he
glanced at his watch ‘Not now,’ he
said.
She
followed him downstairs to the front door.
Gary,’ she began, ‘I get
worried...about the way you live...the money you spend...’
‘You
didn’t complain about that on St Valentine’s Night.
I spent a wad that evening, I can tell you.’
‘That
was different. It was special..’
‘Look,
don’t worry about this business venture.
It might not even come to anything.’
She
knew then that he was lying. He had no
intention of attending a potential business meeting.
‘If
I find out who she is,’ she hissed, ‘there’ll be hell to pay, Gary
That I can promise you.’
‘What
are you talking about?’ he said innocently.
‘I’ve told you it’s a business meeting.’
He’d
learnt that much from his brother-in-law: if they’ve got no evidence, and you
deny it, they can’t prove a thing.
IN EPISODE SEVEN ON THURSDAY
Mike is irritated by his client’s religious fervour and Ted comes up with
a devious plan for Friday night.
