Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12 Read online

  Weekend

  in

  Weighton

  Terry Murphy

  http://grinningbandit.webnode.com/

  © Terry Murphy 2012

  ‘Weekend in Weighton’

  is the copyright of Terry Murphy, 2012.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital or mechanical, without permission in writing from the copyright owner …

  … err, yeah, that’s me.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Weighton is fictional, but not too far from where I live!

  All characters are entirely fictional.

  Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

  Although I used to know a guy called ‘Diffy’ …

  … and he’s probably still alive.

  Dedication

  For my lovely mum – she’s much missed …

  and

  my dad for everything.

  “Song for Eddie”

  There’s things I remember and things I forget.

  I miss you, I guess that I should.

  Three thousand five hundred miles away,

  But what would you change if you could?

  I need a phone call. Maybe I should buy a new car.

  I can always hear a freight train, if I listen real hard.

  And I wish it was a small world,

  Because I’m lonely for the big towns.

  I’d like to hear a little guitar.

  Guess it’s time to put the top down …

  Counting Crows “Raining in Baltimore”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday afternoon – 14:10

  The phone call had been a mistake. On the upside it got me a date with the girl I thought I’d never see again, but it gave Tommy time to find me. Whether it was the distraction or the euphoria, I never saw the punch coming.

  Struggling for breath, I braced on one knee and blinked up at the stark outline of Weighton’s Town Hall. The building’s neo-gothic façade sparkled unnaturally, like Christmas come early, but it was only tiny stars in my eyes. The twinkling light shifted with my gaze and formed a faint halo around Tommy, the un-saintly presence towering over me. He drew back his fist, eager to get in another punch. It was the second time we’d met and we still hadn’t got to the small talk.

  As my head cleared, I weighed up the getaways. Bolton Street, to my left, was a dead end. To my right, the Old Bridge looked busy. A stairway stretched behind me, leading back to the rear of the Town Hall. Tommy had them all but blocked, and I couldn’t count on a town like Weighton for a diversion.

  I got to my feet, coughing and gingerly rubbing my ribs. Tommy grinned, clenching and unclenching his club-like fists. The joy of inflicting pain seemed evident on his beaming face.

  With one option remaining, I raised a hand like a white flag, placing hope and faith on a temporary ceasefire. I might have beaten the count, but by any account it was a technical K.O. Weighton’s leading thug was leading by a distance.

  I held out my hand. ‘A draw, yeah?’

  ‘What?’

  Tommy stared at my offering, his forehead creasing with a frown. Confused by short words and simple hand signals, he declined the shake and stood his ground.

  How to describe Tommy? Take big, then multiply. That was just his head. A grey-tinged, close-cropped head that dovetailed into a tank of a body. His Dead Sea eyes, narrowly set, huddled around a large claw of a nose. When he managed to form words, I could see the unhappy extent of his crooked teeth.

  ‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘Boss wants to see me?’

  Tommy looked impressed at my powers of deduction, then resumed his scowl. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Save wear and tear on your knuckles next time.’ I gave him a glimpse of my phone. ‘Just call me on the moby. Be over in a flash.’

  ‘Always a crack, eh, Eddie.’

  ‘They’s my trade.’

  A hitter not a joker, Tommy only grunted.

  I changed tack and sailed straight to the point. ‘Where to this time?’

  He jerked a thumb behind his shoulder, indicating a gleaming, silver Merc parked on Bolton Street’s opposite kerb. Jimmy “Kingpin” Cartwright leaned against its rear door, applauding our little show. Once a sadistic bastard, always a …

  Jimmy’s crew must have been watching when I’d gone into the Town Hall. And even though I’d come out a side exit and doubled-back, Tommy had caught up with me on the steps down to the Old Bridge. If I hadn’t stopped to make that phone call, I might have avoided him. The regrets didn’t stop there. I had a pretty good idea why the J-team was anxious to find me: the small matter of a bogus interview with Weighton’s Mayor, the esteemed and steaming – at least when I’d left him – Michael Clegg. How was I going to explain that to Jimmy?

  Tommy frog-marched me to see his boss, never slackening his grip. My ribs made a silent promise that one day they’d get even with Thomas “The Tank” Man. That’s if I made it through the upcoming joy-ride.

  ~

  The Merc reeked of expired cigars, expensive aftershave and a dab of fear from occupants past. I squeezed between Jimmy and Tommy on the back seat, and Jimmy told his driver to drive on. Not with any tell-tale directions I noticed. The car eased along Bolton Street, joined the steady traffic across the Old Bridge and then headed south away from town.

  Using the rear-view mirror, I scanned the backseat ensemble, looking for omens. My companions appeared jumpy. In contrast, I looked like I was pulling off a calm beyond my twenty-six years, a calm entirely absent on the inside.

  An inch short of six foot, I was taller than Jimmy but a good way short of laughing-boy Tommy. When I stared back at myself, it was hard to miss the hazy, grey-blue eyes that implored world peace and optional extras besides. A deliberately untidy mop of blond hair provided the setting for a straight nose and steadfast jaw. Dear God, but I was a handsome git, even if I said so myself – which I did.

  The sandstone suburbs started to fall away as we drove deeper into the Weighton countryside. Everyone seemed content with our destination, so I didn’t bother asking.

  I clued the Kingpin to my right. Jimmy was wearing his Italian suit du jour, a high-collared pink shirt and a rather tasteful – for him – turquoise tie. A tide of Old Spice came from the copious gel he had in his straight, slicked back hair. As I studied him in the mirror, I noticed how his eyes twitched and blinked with each thought, the way computer lights flicker on start-up.

  Not blessed with great height, Jimmy was imposing all the same. With a lit cigar wedged between his teeth – that he seemed to be chewing rather than inhaling – machismo projected from him in bales.

  We were a long way south of Weighton city boundaries before Jimmy spoke. Quietly, as it happened.

  ‘You deaf, Eddie?’ His voice was soft as he looked away.

  ‘Pardon, Jimmy?’

  The view I had of Jimmy’s face, minus a smile, was obliterated as Tommy elbowed me in the face. I felt my nose erupt in a mass of bright red plasma and tears streamed from my eyes. I bent my head and cupped a hand under my chin. The warm blood spilling into my palm didn’t feel like it was mine. So much for the straight nose.

  ‘Use this,’ said Jimmy, passing me a monogrammed handkerchief. ‘And for fuck’s sake, don’t get that stuff on the leather. It’s a bastard getting out.’

  I tried not to imagine how he knew this.

  ‘Thankth.’

  I tipped my head back and held the handkerchief tightly under my nose, wiping my other hand on my jacket. The thou
ght crossed my mind to use Tommy’s trousers, but surprisingly for a moron, he guessed. The look on his face encouraged me to think again. I did. Two ayes to the right, but the noes had it.

  With my head still tipped back, I squinted at Jimmy and made a pitch for the sympathy vote. ‘That wath my nothe for Crythe thake.’

  ‘Consider yourself a lucky boy. I would have crushed your bollocks. Less messy.’

  ‘Bleth you, Jimmy.’

  Tommy, presumably on autopilot, pulled his fist back in line with my crotch. Fortunately, he caught a restraining glare from his boss.

  ‘If you had a brain,’ Jimmy said, shaking his head slowly at Tommy, ‘you’d be a fucking sensation.’

  ‘Thanks, boss.’

  ‘QED,’ affirmed Jimmy. He stared back at me. ‘So, where were we?’

  ‘Bleeding prothfusely I think.’

  ‘You didn’t listen to me, did you, Eddie. I told you to stay out of this. I said, “Stay out of this, Eddie, or I’ll kill you.” Nothing ambiguous there. Well, I didn’t think so. "Yes, Jimmy," you said. "No problem, Jimmy," you said.’

  I swallowed, seeing where he was going with his rant and tasted copper from the blood in my throat.

  His voice rose. ‘Then I find out you’re blabbing to the Mayor. The fucking Mayor for Christ’s sake. Mayor Fucking Clegg. What the fuck’s going on?’

  To be honest, I could have done with more time on that. With difficulty and no little pain, I returned Jimmy’s stare. How much did he see? How much did he know? The same questions I’d wondered about God when I masturbated as a kid. In the end, I figured he couldn’t see anything through the sheets. God, that is, not Jimmy. Although as far as Weighton’s divine reverence went …

  Blood still trickled at the back of my throat and I tasted more metal. ‘Got one word for you, Jimmy. Starts with “S”, ends with “orry”.’

  He lifted a thick black eyebrow. ‘That’s all?’

  ‘How about very sorry?’

  His face lapsed into a pretend smile. ‘As long as you mean it.’

  ‘They say it’s the hardest word, but I know I could do it justice.’

  Jimmy’s eyes bulged. ‘“Sorry,” you tell me.’ His words spewed out, each one coated in thick, tobacco-infused saliva. ‘And everything’s supposed to be all right. Who the fuck do you take me for? Sir Elton Fucking John?’ He pushed stubby fingers through his hair slick and clacked his jaw.

  ‘What else can I say? I made a mistake.’ I lifted my shoulders and tried to sound repentant. ‘I shouldn’t have seen Clegg, I know that. But it was an impulse thing, Jimmy. I got my pride like anybody else. I wanted to get to the bottom of things, for the late Mrs Porson’s sake. She said she knew him. Met him at some charity bash. Said he was a good friend. Being the Mayor, I thought he might know something.’

  ‘An impulse?’ Jimmy twitched in his seat. ‘How come you kept changing buses? Couldn’t find one you liked?’

  I realised his goons must have been following me all day. It didn’t surprise me, but it was still a blow to my fabled sixth sense. Before I could answer, he pummelled on.

  ‘What’d he say?’

  ‘Cleggy wouldn’t talk to a low-life like me.’

  ‘Eddie, don’t do that!’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Fuck with me.’

  My nose hurt too much to look puzzled, so I chose blank. I’m known for my blank.

  Jimmy rocked a switch to let the window down and threw his cigar butt out. ‘It takes him less than a minute not to talk to you – what’d you do for the other twelve?’

  ‘It’s a well-timed point, Jimmy, but I only got in there because he thought I was a journo from the Post.’

  A staccato laugh from Jimmy. ‘A waiter, a gardener and now a journalist. You move fast.’

  ‘Essential in my game. Anyway I was doing the whole reporter bit, going through the Q&A routine. Figured I’d soften him up a little before getting onto the serious shit.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He dried up on me. Threw me out. Interview over, you know?’ My palms gave a hapless, upward turn.

  Jimmy nodded, absorbed, rubbing his chin. ‘How’d he look?’

  I wondered why Cartwright could care less. But rather than stray into the aforementioned, yet not-always-easy-to-discern “don’t fuck with me” territory, I obliged. ‘Like he’d been to four funerals in one day. Worse than shit.’

  ‘Really?’ Jimmy brightened at that.

  I ladled a little more gravy. ‘Yeah, one tense hombre.’

  My neck was aching from nodding and turning so I looked straight ahead. The wayside scenery was taking on that rural blend of green and brown. Farmyard scents permeated the car, threatening to overwhelm the hair gel. The kind of omen I had been right to worry about.

  Jimmy was silent for a few seconds and then his head swung round so he could look right at me. ‘What am I gonna do with you?’

  ‘Be merciful?’

  The evil git grabbed the tip of my throbbing nose and pulled my face round to meet his morgue-inspired stare. ‘I like you, Eddie. I like your style. All that patter, it’s good. Brings out the best in me. Someday we might even work together. Loads of openings on Team Jimmy for a guy like you. My campaign push ain’t that far away either.’ He increased the pinch pressure until my eyes blurred. ‘But, you see, it has to start with respect. And I ain’t getting it.’

  Jimmy maintained a hard eyeball stare for a few seconds and only then did he release my red-raw nose. I tried not to gasp in relief. To be fair to Jimmy, I was sure we’d covered that “respect” thing the day before: always the shit implementation with me.

  ‘I’m a fast learner, though, Jimmy, honest.’ Hot tears stung my cheeks as I spoke.

  ‘Really? Remind me. What did I tell you last time?’

  ‘Stay out of it.’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘You’d kill me.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘I didn’t. Not entirely.’

  ‘You see my point?’

  My voice weakened. ‘You’re saying there’s not much down for me?’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said agreeably. ‘You do learn fast.’ He looked over at Tommy. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘Kill him,’ said Tommy, brimming with enthusiasm.

  ‘Do I get a vote?’

  Jimmy smiled. ‘It’s hard not to like you, Eddie. That said, and I know I already mentioned this, but see, it bears repeating: it’s my town, people play by my rules. And rule number one? No fucker fucks me about. No one. I never compromise.’

  ‘I think that was two rules,’ I replied under my breath.

  But Jimmy was so deep into his shtick by now he was missing my pearls. He smiled on reflex and resumed his riff. ‘The nice thing about being boss is you get to break your own rules – if you want to.’ Jimmy tapped the driver’s seat. ‘Let’s pull up.’

  We were in Forley Forest on the green side of town, and the road was edged by huge, regal pines. The Merc pulled off the main road and headed onto a forest track. The sound of small stones pinging against the car’s underside tapped out a tin-pan beat. We rumbled on for about half a mile and then stopped.

  ‘Time for some fresh air,’ declared Jimmy. He opened his door and got out.

  I followed, getting an extra shove from Tommy.

  Without stopping, Jimmy set off down a narrow trail, dodging the foliage as he went with what looked like surprising familiarity. My new best friend stayed close behind his leader, dragging me with him. I counted fifty or so paces before we emerged into a bowl-shaped clearing. Beyond, I could see the water’s edge of a small mere.

  There I stood in Forley Forest on a sweet summer’s day, with Jimmy’s handkerchief still bunched under my nose and Tommy’s hand gripping my jacket collar. It reminded me of the scene in the Great Escape. The one before Dicky Att and Co got shot.

  For a moment the three of us stood in the clearing, saying nothing. If anyone else was around, they were keeping remar
kably quiet.

  ‘Any last requests?’ Jimmy’s voice sounded eerily distant.

  ‘You choose. Not that shitty Titanic song, though.’

  I wasn’t exactly scared; I knew he wouldn’t shoot me. He liked me too much. And all through his long, hall-of-shame career, he’d shown sufficient smarts to never be within a siren sound of any actual crime-doing. He wouldn’t make an exception. Would he?

  Tommy bundled past Jimmy and thumped me hard in the chest, thankfully slamming the other side this time. I fell to my knees. With my head bent, I saw a flash of brown laces just before he kicked me hard on the right side of the face. Green ferns met ocean-blue sky, and I found myself on my back, peering up at achingly tall trees. So many different pains competed from different body parts that they neutralised each other, leaving just a numb sensation. I rolled forward, grabbed a tree root and sat up.

  ‘Finish him,’ said Jimmy, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Thought you liked me?’

  ‘I lied,’ Jimmy said, beaming. He jerked his head at Tommy. ‘Hurry up, I’ve got an appointment.’

  Tommy pulled a gun from his jacket and placed it against the side of my head. The smoothness of the barrel pressed into my hairline. This was turning out to be an exceptional day.

  ‘Sweet dreams, big mouth,’ said Tommy.

  In keeping with B movie noir, a plump wood pigeon took flight, high in the branches just as Tommy pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Friday afternoon – 14:35

  In a forest at the edge of a distant universe, I gazed at celluloid images flickering and bouncing around the high tree canopy. A mini-series featuring the late, great Eddie G played on the forest’s big screen, flashing in 3D at neutrino speed. It was the best of times and the worst: Mum and Dad in nearly every scene, a guest appearance from Kate, and Jimmy hamming it up in the final scene, a showman to the end – my end anyway.