Double Cross (19 page)

'Naturally I deeply regret that my granddaughter was shot.
I will of course be praying for her,' said Kamal Hadley.

'But will you be visiting her?' asked one of the forest of
journalists standing around him.

'I would sincerely hope that this current government
keeps its promise and tackles the growing problem of gun
and knife crime on our streets. If my granddaughter can
get caught up in this, then anyone's child could find
themselves in a similar situation. This government lacks
the will, the expertise and, quite frankly, the guts to do
anything about this situation. The people of this country
need to rise up and reclaim the streets from the scum
blighting all our live . . .'

'Yes, but will you be visiting Callie Rose in hospital?'
The same reporter repeated his question.

'I have nothing further to say at this time.' Kamal smiled
apologetically. 'I need to be with my family. Thank you.'

Kamal Hadley slipped back into his house, leaving the
journalists outside barking more questions at him. I turned
off the TV, my expression set like concrete. What a
scumbag. There was no way he was going to set foot in
Mercy Community Hospital, but he was so slick he'd
implied otherwise. No doubt he saw this as his way of
getting back into the political arena, in spite of the fact that
it was mainly thanks to him that his party had crashed so
humiliatingly in the general election a few months before.
Callie had told me all about her grandfather. About the
way he threw Sephy out of his house when she was
pregnant with Callie. And how he'd slammed the door
in Callie's face the one and only time she had tried to
see him.

But I must admit, watching Kamal Hadley had been
instructive. The way he held himself, the way he met the
gaze of everyone who spoke to him like he had nothing to
hide, the way he lowered his tone when asked a difficult
question to indicate the depth of his sincerity. Callie's
granddad was a true master of fake sincerity and subtle
manipulation. I could learn a lot, just by watching him.

'OK, Tobey, why should this establishment hire you?' Mr
Thomas, the deputy manager, glanced down at his watch
as he waited for my reply.

This establishment . . . Godsake! What was wrong with
calling it TFTM like everyone else?

Mr Thomas was a slight man, bald as an egg and shorter
than me by at least a head, neck and shoulders. He wasn't
exactly skinny, more like wiry. His dark-brown dome
glistened like it'd been rubbed with oil or something. And
in the space of fifteen minutes, the man must've glanced
at me twice – if that.

After what had happened with McAuley and Dan a few
days ago, I'd spent every spare moment during the rest of
the week on the Internet and at the library. I'd barely been
at home – hardly even noticed Mum going to work and
back, or Jess heading off to take her exams. I needed information
– as much of it as I could get. And from what I
could tell from my research (which included frying my
brain by reading celebrity and gossip magazines), the best
way to get close to the Dowds was via TFTM, one of the
top three restaurants in the city.

So on Saturday, I'd headed into town and filled in an
application form for a job at TFTM. On the same day,
they'd asked me to take what they called 'proficiency'
tests, which consisted of English, maths and general
knowledge. The tests were multiple choice and each was
supposed to take thirty minutes. I finished them in half
that time, but I wasn't stupid enough to broadcast the fact.
TFTM, or Thanks For The Memories, as those with time
on their tongues called it, struck me as the kind of place
which wanted its employees to be only just smart enough.
Too smart would not be welcomed. That was two days
ago. This morning, overcast and early, I'd been invited in
for a final interview.

Mr Thomas glanced up to glare at me with impatience.
What was his question again? Oh, yeah!

'Well, sir, I'm a fast learner, I'm reliable and I'm a hard
worker. And I worked in a restaurant during the summer
holidays last year so I do have some experience.'

Which was the truth, just not the whole truth. But he
didn't need to know that all I did for that job was clear
tables and mop floors.

Mr Thomas flicked through the papers on his desk and
didn't even bother to look at me. He must've heard the
same reply a thousand times before. Of course he had.
This was TFTM, one of the most exclusive restaurants in
town. It consisted of a restaurant on the ground floor and
a club called The Club (very ingenious – someone put a
lot of thought into that one) on the first floor, accessible
via a separate entrance and rumoured to have its own
secret exit, to ensure that its famous clientele didn't have
to deal with hangers-on or the paparazzi. The only way to
get to the Club from the restaurant was via the kitchens at
the back of the building. What it boiled down to was that
no one was getting into the Club without an invitation.
TFTM actively promoted the feeling of not needing
anyone's patronage, no matter how famous – which of
course made it
the
place to be. Not that anyone had
shown me around yet. What I knew, I'd learned from
reading local authority planning permission requests and
building reports, reviews, celebrity gossip and basically
anything and everything I could find about the place.

TFTM definitely needed no one.

I definitely needed TFTM.

I needed a job in this place like I needed to breathe.

Mr Thomas still wasn't looking at me. I needed to do
something, say something to get this man to remember my
name. I continued, 'Mr Thomas, I'd be perfect for TFTM
because I do my homework and I know how to keep my
mouth shut.'

Mr Thomas's head snapped up at that, his expression
speculative. For the first time since this whole excruciating
interview began, I had his full attention. First McAuley,
now him. They were all interested in workers who knew
how to keep their lips glued together.

'What d'you mean – you do your homework?' asked
Mr Thomas.

'I looked up TFTM on the Internet before I came for
this interview.'

Mr Thomas sat back in his chair, looking distinctly
unimpressed. 'And what was the most remarkable thing
you found out about us on the Internet?'

'I knew your restaurant was one of the best – that's why
I really want to work here – but I didn't realize that the
restaurant had achieved its third Michelin star earlier this
year. Only five restaurants in the entire country can boast
three Michelin stars.' I cranked up the enthusiasm and the
wide-eyed admiration, wondering if I was overdoing it.

Mr Thomas's expression visibly relaxed. 'Oh, I see. You
have ambitions in that area yourself?'

I nodded vigorously. 'I'd like to own my own place one
day. Oh, nothing as fancy as this, but maybe a little bistro
or a bed and breakfast on the coast somewhere. Who
knows?'

'Indeed. Who knows?' Mr Thomas couldn't hide his
condescending smirk.

'So I reckon a number of years at TFTM will teach me
everything I need to know about starting my own . . .
establishment. Just give me a chance, Mr Thomas. I won't
let you down.'

'Hmm . . .' Mr Thomas glanced down again at my
application form and my test results. 'OK, Tobey, you've
got the job. When can you start?'

A smile of pure relief split my face – and most of it was
genuine. 'Is tomorrow night too soon?'

'Tomorrow will be fine. You will work from Tuesday
to Saturday and have Sundays and Mondays off. Your
hours will be from six p.m. till one in the morning with
two breaks to be negotiated with your supervisor,
Michelle. You'll need to wear black trousers and a longs-sleeved
white shirt which you'll have to provide yourself.
They are to be neat and clean at all times. We will provide
you with a bow tie and two waistcoats. You will be
responsible for keeping your waistcoats clean. If you lose
them, the cost of any replacements will be taken from
your salary. Your pay will be minimum wage, but what
you make in tips you get to keep. And if you do well, the
tips are excellent. Any questions?'

Tons of them. Like where was Ross Resnick, the
manager of TFTM? Nothing had been seen of him in over
two weeks, or rather only his little finger had put in an
appearance. The rest of Ross Resnick had disappeared
into what was generally suspected to be a McAuleymanufactured
black hole. And how about the Dowds? How
did they feel about the disappearance of their manager?
After all, it was common knowledge that the Dowds
owned TFTM. What were they doing about ensuring
Ross Resnick's safe return? Any questions? What a joke.

I shook my head.

'Arrive at five-thirty tomorrow for orientation. Ask for
Michelle – she'll tell you everything you need to know.'
Mr Thomas stood up, indicating that the interview was
over. He stretched out his hand which I shook with zeal.
All this for a frickin' job as a waiter. Still, it was worth it.
I'd got the job. I was in – and one step closer to my goal.

I started at TFTM on Tuesday night, after assuring Mum
that it was only a holiday job and certainly not permanent.
By the end of my Saturday shift, I ached in places I didn't
know I had places. Ankles, calves, thighs, bum, the soles of
my feet, even between my fingers – they were all
screaming with fatigue and pain. I spent my evenings
whizzing round like I had a rocket up my backside, as did
all the serving staff, but some of the punters still
complained that the service wasn't fast enough. My mouth
more than ached from smiling when some jackass or other
threw a casual insult my way, or complained that their food
was cold when they were the ones who sat talking and
ignoring their food for twenty minutes before picking up
their bloody cutlery to eat. Zara, a Nought waitress in her
mid-twenties who'd taken me under her wing, had been at
TFTM for almost three years. And she swore each day
would be her last. But it never was, for one simple reason.

'The money is too good. So I bite my lip and dodge and
weave every time some git makes a grab for my arse or my
tits,' Zara told me during one of our fifteen-minute
breaks. I watched as she took off her shoes and massaged
the balls of her feet. And I listened. When I was in the
restaurant serving, as well as during the breaks, I did more
of that than anything else. I listened.

'Some of the regular punters think that T&A comes free
with their dessert,' Zara had continued with disgust.
'That's why we girls call this place Thanks For The
Mammaries. On my last day here, an awful lot of
customers are going to get the face slapping they deserve.'

Mr Thomas had been right. The tips were excellent. I
made about three times more at TFTM each night than I
ever did selling phones. Not that that was the reason I was
so keen to work there, but it certainly didn't hurt.

There were two sets of changing rooms, male and
female, and all levels of staff shared the same changing
areas, but the staff who worked in the club upstairs rarely
deigned to speak to us lowly serving staff from the restaurant.
And I couldn't help noticing that most of the serving
staff downstairs were Noughts, whereas most of the Club
staff were Crosses.

I pulled off my bow tie and rainbow-coloured waistcoat
and was just hanging up the latter in my locker when
Michelle the supervisor entered the men's changing rooms
unannounced. A couple of guys had to grab for their
towels to cover their jewels, but they never said a word.
Not one person protested. It was obviously a regular
occurrence.

'Angelo, we're short-staffed in the Club tomorrow so
you'll be upstairs along with . . .' Michelle had a quick
look around. 'Keith, and you as well, Tobey.'

'But I don't work on Sundays,' I said.

'You do now,' said Michelle.

TFTM was closed on Sundays. What was going on?

'We have a private party going on in the club from ten
tomorrow till late,' Michelle explained.

'But Sunday is—' I began my protest.

'You'll get triple time, if that's what you're worried
about,' Michelle interrupted with irritation. 'Now is there
still a problem?'

'Whose party is it?' I asked.

'Rebecca Dowd.'

My stomach tightened, like a hand was squeezing my
insides. Rebecca Dowd . . . Wiping all expression off my
face, I asked, 'Who's she?'

Michelle's eyes widened. And she wasn't the only one.
I was getting significant looks from everyone who'd heard
the question.

'Vanessa Dowd's daughter? The sister of Gideon and
Owen Dowd? Do those names ring any bells?'

The blank look on my face was obviously convincing.
Michelle's expression morphed into one of pity. 'Damn it,
Tobey, don't you know anything?'

'I'm here to learn.' I shrugged.

'Just be here at nine-thirty tomorrow night,' Michelle
ordered.

'How will I get home?' I asked.

'Not my problem.' Michelle headed out as Angelo
shook his head and Keith looked particularly hacked off.

Me? I was ecstatic. A late-night party on Sunday night
running into the early hours of Monday morning meant
I'd have one hell of a job getting back home. If I couldn't
catch a night bus back to Meadowview I was in for a twoand-
a-half-hour walk. But I didn't care.

I was going to meet the Dowds.