Serve Cool (14 page)

The buyers walked back up the hill. We ran to the door. They stopped, waiting for Jack’s splurge to continue. Barrel man scribbled notes furiously in a blue legal notepad. His trainee hopped from one foot to the other, unsure of his role.

‘This is one of the fastest developing areas in the North-East, gentlemen. My clients have received significant interest from other parties but are willing to give your corporation first refusal.’

‘What a load of canny shite, man.’ Maz was like a horse chomping at the bit. I look expectantly up the road for any sign of Dave.

The fattest of the dodgy-tie men finally spoke. ‘The scrap yard opposite, is that fully functional?’

‘Er yes.’ Jack paused momentarily. ‘You will notice, however, it is almost completely shielded by the fencing and tree cover.’

‘Ooh, cunning,’ I whispered. ‘You’d hardly notice the enormity of it all.’

‘We estimate, gentlemen, that the scrap yard will cease to
operate within the next five years as the area becomes more upmarket.’

‘Bloody cheek, snobby git,’ Maz growled.

‘And the local people,’ the fat man continued, ‘are they largely impoverished?’

‘Jesus!’ Maz’s voice was rising dramatically. ‘Who the bleedin’ hell are these people?’

I put my arm through hers and raised one finger to my lips. We had missed Jack’s response but it wouldn’t take a genius to hazard a guess at his words. Fat dodgy-tie man leaned to one side as barrel man whispered something in his ear.

‘Hmmm … the land,’ he continued. ‘We assume you are offering us good quality building land.’

‘The finest,’ Jack replied. ‘It is on a steep incline from the river as you will appreciate. There are, therefore, no drainage problems. After demolition’ – Maz shuddered at the utterance of this word – ‘the land would be immediately available for development.’

The buyers nodded.

Come on Dave,
I pleaded silently. Jack ruffled his feathers proudly.

‘I must point out the generous offer being made by my clients,’ he continued boldly. ‘Gentlemen, you are looking at a gold mine.’

‘Aye, gis a second and I’ll blow you all up,’ Maz whispered.

I was starting to fret. I had almost forgotten how convincing Jack could be. After all, I had totally fallen for his charm and incessant lies. Perhaps we were kidding
ourselves. How could we, a group of barmaids, punters and ex-cons foil the plans of a powerful law firm? It was hopeless.

‘Shall we take a look inside?’ the buyers asked in unison.

Jack looked startled.

‘Lead the way, Jack,’ barrel man said in a deep, Shakespearean voice.

The party moved towards the door. Maz and I sprinted for the bar and gestured to the gathered crowd of customers to start talking.

‘Remember, we don’t know anything,’ I said. ‘Act natural.’

Almost immediately, my order had the same effect as shoving a video camera in someone’s face and shouting, ‘Just pretend I’m not here.’ It seemed to turn our punters into amateur dramatists. Those at the bar stood bolt upright, stiffly sipping on their pints. The crowd at the tables sat in unnatural poses, some laughing loudly, others muttering ‘rhubarb, rhubarb’. I felt like the barmaid wench in a low-budget Hollywood Western, only with a less impressive cleavage. The door swung open, the six suits entered and the pub fell silent. All eyes were on the strange new cowboys in town.

‘Six pints of your best,’ said the happiest looking of the men in the dodgy ties.

‘Five and a lemonade for the young man,’ barrel man insisted, nodding his head at the trainee. Trainee blushed then glowered at the back of his boss’ head.

Those were the days,
I thought to myself, and instantly felt a sense of liberation.
I may only be a lowly barmaid to you people but I’m in charge of my life,
I thought.

I put my head down, avoiding Jack’s intense stare, and helped Maz to pull the pints.

‘This place is surprisingly charming inside, James,’ said fat buyer to happy buyer.

‘Yes, Richard, it’s very … um … very
northern.
’

Maz slammed a pint on the bar, spilling half of the contents.

‘The service leaves a lot to be desired,’ Jack growled. ‘Whatever happened to service with a smile?’

Another pint slammed on the bar.

‘If you want a cheesy smile, gan to Burger King,’ Maz said through gritted teeth. ‘If it’s a pint you want, shut yer gob and “you got it”.’

Our customers took their less than full pints uneasily and glanced nervously at their fellow drinkers.

‘Nuts?’ I said loudly.

The men all whipped round to look at me.

‘Do you want
nuts
?’ I asked.

‘Er … no, thank you.’

‘Shame, you could all do with some,’ Maz muttered loudly.

We giggled and looked sarcastically at the gathered troupe of businessmen.

‘H … how old is the pub?’ fat buyer, Richard, enquired eventually.

‘Ninety-five years,’ Maz replied.

‘Gosh, that long?’

‘Aye. Shite loads of history here, mate, but ye kna, easy come, easy go, eh?’

Fat buyer shifted uncomfortably.

‘Aye … the locals love it,’ Maz continued. ‘Best pub in Byker.’

‘
Really?
I thought it wasn’t doing too well.’

‘Bollocks man, look at that lot.’ Maz gestured to our conspirators around the pub. ‘Here al’ the time, man. Aye, there’d be a bloody riot if it ever closed, like, it’s an institution.’

Our customers nodded in unison. The buyers looked at each other quickly. Their lawyer frowned and Jack shook his head.

‘Let’s find a table shall we, gentlemen?’ he said, looking for an escape route.

The buyers, however, were not to be fobbed off.

‘A riot … Is this a rough area, then?’ asked happy buyer James.

‘Oh aye, terrible,’ Maz nodded enthusiastically and looked at me.

‘Oh … oh, yes,’ I lied, wracking my brain. ‘Riots, burglaries, drugs. You know, the
usual.
’

Happy buyer didn’t look quite so happy. Jack glowered at me but I continued.

‘There’s trouble
all
the time, nobody’s safe. We’re safe, of course, because all the thugs drink in here. If they didn’t behave, they wouldn’t get a pint so we can control them, see?’

Jack’s five colleagues looked cautiously over their shoulders at the locals. As if on cue, Auld Vinny lifted a tattooed hand and raised his middle finger at them. They looked away quickly. Maz and I smiled. Fat buyer looked puzzled.

‘S … s … so, what do you think would happen, theoretically speaking of course …’

‘Of course.’

‘… if … if someone built nice flats in this area?’

‘Hmmm,’ I said, touching my cheek and trying to look thoughtful. ‘
Nice
flats?’

‘Yes,
really
nice flats.’

‘Well, with nice flats come nice people, Richard. Can I call you Richard? With nice people come nice cars. With nice cars come radio thieves and twok-ers. It would be a war zone. It all comes with the territory, Richard.’

Jack huffed like an irritated horse. ‘This is nonsense!’ he said strongly. ‘This is a perfectly good area. I’ve parked my Beemer here before and nothing happened.’

‘Aye, but have you checked it in the last five minutes?’ Maz said slyly.

‘Maybe we should leave,’ dodgiest-tie buyer whispered nervously to James and Richard.

‘Gentlemen, please,’ Jack said.

Barrel man coughed and straightened his bow tie. ‘If I may speak, Richard.’ His voice was far too dramatic for this century. ‘One must consider that one could use such matters to drastically reduce the asking price and one could iron out those small matters afterwards. This could be of great financial benefit to your corporation, Richard.’

Richard nodded approvingly.

Damn. What did he have to go and open his big fat mouth for? And why did people always believe everything their lawyers said? Most of the ones I knew, myself excluded of course, were either dodgy, opinionated, self-obsessed or spoke through their rapidly expanding backsides. They would happily argue black was white one week, and white
was black the next, if they thought it would make them a buck or two.

I fiddled with the pump handle and prayed for salvation. Dave was our only hope. I would have been happier relying on someone a little less … well, dim … but it was a crisis at short notice. What a predicament.

Somewhere between fantasising about removing Jack’s finely tailored suit piece by piece and picturing him astride me on the bar – so I was a sucker for bastards – I heard a loud rumble coming from outside. Maz and I glanced nervously at each other as the rumble grew louder. The creaks and blackboard-scratching noises of working machinery filled the air and built to a crescendo amid a choir of gruff male voices.
The A-Team
plan, it seemed, was fully operational. Our very own equivalent of BA Baracas had arrived.

‘What in God’s name is going on here?’ Jack yelled, as countless sacks of household rubbish cascaded from the bin lorry, spilling their contents onto the parking spaces directly adjacent to the Scrap Inn.

‘Just doin’ wur job, mate.’

The rubbish continued to accumulate. Soggy loo rolls, Tampax applicators and three-week-old leftovers cascaded onto the concrete. Denise spotted a curry-stained lampshade in one pile and grabbed it with a proud grin.

Jack ran after the binman in charge, tripping over decaying fruit and empty beer cans in a desperate attempt to ‘stop this bloody nonsense now’.

‘I represent the owners of this pub and I
demand
you stop right now! Do you hear?’

‘Howay man, get lost will yuz and let wur dae wuz jobs.’ The binman-in-chief I recognised as Dave’s mate, Jez, a regular lunchtime drinker.

‘I swear I will have you arrested if you carry on with this … this joke.’

‘This is nae joke, mate. This is a designated dumpin’ site. I’ve got papers ta prove it.’ Jez handed over a sheet of coffee-stained paper. Jack hurriedly tried to decipher the barely legible contents. I caught Maz’s eye and winked.

‘This can’t be!’ Jack shrieked, losing his cool surprisingly quickly.

‘Aye well it is,’ Jez continued boldly, ‘so move yer bleedin’ Armani arse, man, before we cover it in shite!’

Jack reddened and looked helplessly at the buyers. Their disbelieving eyes had been diverted, however, towards a white van that had pulled up at the front door of the pub.

The van doors opened and three men in white overalls climbed out. Their heads were completely covered with hats and visors and in their heavily gloved hands they held either clipboards or equipment befitting a chemistry lab. My ever-straying mind flashed back to GCSE chemistry. Mr Jones, wearing his immaculate Daz Ultra white coat. Mmm, what I would have given for a steamy rendezvous with that man by the light of a Bunsen burner. Straight and nerdally scientific he may have looked, but I could have brought out his wild side given half a chance. Miss Bennett, the man-eating music teacher, had just happened to get there first.

The three men ignored the chaos brewing in the car park and made their way to the grassland attached to the left side of the Scrap Inn. Jez and crew were momentarily forgotten as
the bemused buyers went to check out the new development, with an agitated Jack hot on their heels.

Maz and I allowed ourselves a conspiratorial smile before joining the party.

‘What the devil are you doing?’ shouted my usually cool ex.

The three men looked up briefly. One raised a gloved finger and held it to his visor-covered mouth to request silence.

‘No, I will NOT be quiet! I demand an explanation.’

Jack’s shrieks fell on deaf ears as two of the mystery men prodded the ground with their Geiger counters and the third unravelled a roll of black and yellow tape. When Jack attempted to cross the newly erected perimeter, he was held back by a brisk shove from the third man.

‘Get off me you idiot,’ Jack yelled. ‘I’ll have you know this is a five-hundred-pound tailored suit.’

To no avail. The circus continued. The buyers stood, rooted to the ground in amazement, and the negotiating techniques of Jack, the hotshot lawyer, deteriorated rapidly. No amount of intense legal training, bravado or financial puissance could help Jack now. These men were not to be deterred from completing their mission.

‘If someone would just tell me what is going on here.’ Jack was beginning to sound uncharacteristically despondent.

‘That’ll be the waste, man,’ a voice piped up from the assembled onlookers.

We turned to see Auld Vinny leaning casually against the nearest lamp post. As our highest-ranking regular, Vinny merited an important role in our master plan.

Jack shook his head uncontrollably. ‘Waste! What waste?’

‘Waste, contamination, shite, like,’ Auld Vinny replied. ‘There’s been rumours of it fer bloody ages.’

‘Of what?’

‘
Contamination,
man. Not bloody surprisin’ mind, in a bleedin’ dumpin’ ground. Aye, thuz reckon the land is contaminated with waste, man. ’Bout time the chuffin’ council sorted it oot like. Bloody shockin’ man, I tell’t ya.’ He was amazingly believable. Probably due to a lifetime of yarn-spinning over a pint.

Jack looked as if he was about to scream, cry, collapse or a combination of all three. His bright red face oscillated between Vinny’s direction and the men in white overalls. Maz and I stifled the laughter that was threatening to erupt from our feet upwards. Dave’s friends were giving a fine performance.

‘Aye man. I remember when this hill was just fields,’ Auld Vinny continued. ‘Fields and this pub. I tell’t yuz it was stylin’. Nowt but fresh air an’ broon ale. They reckon the contamination is eatin’ into the bloody land, man. I reckon thur’l be naebody livin’ here soon if these lads find what they’re lookin’ for. I reckon —’

‘Yes, yes … we don’t CARE what you “reckon”, you stupid doddery old fool!’

The crowd gasped dramatically at Jack’s outburst. His companions frowned and shook their heads.

Further down the hill we heard the bin lorry pull away, its load discarded in the car park.

‘I don’t believe this is happening,’ Jack wailed. ‘Richard, there must be some mistake.’