The City Trap (2 page)

‘He’ll p-probably g-go on till he’s grizzled and grey, like us t-too, half dead and t-toothless, still grooving to the same old riffs.’

‘You speak for yourself. I’m never growing old . . . I’m going to leave the power on and burn out way before then.’

‘I c-could drink to that.’

‘Yeh, so could I, cept I haven’t got one.’ Mary began to ease off her stool. ‘You want another?’

‘Nah. I’m holding on for V-Vin.’

Thursday nights, the Lime Tree was the place to be. Representatives of all the tribes of the inner city came down. All ages too, groovers and straights, hustlers and tarts. You even got some of
the big-time bad guys to shake a finger to good old Stevie, and the odd few cops too, no doubt giving Eileen the landlady the protection to carry on the scene. It was needed. The spliffs were
discreet but there to be spotted. The after-hours drinking was regular. It was one of those situations where everything seemed to work without controls. There were no fights or other fuckery. For a
few boozy hours, that pub was the melting pot in love. Camaraderie and good vibes transcending the myriad schisms that would normally splinter such a grouping apart. The navvy could boogie with a
junkie; the Sikh could spar with Rastafari. Even God made it with the pros, and cops and car thief both agreed Marvin Gaye was supreme. Jerry never wanted such nights to end. Instead of the sour
morning-after, he wanted the melting pot to be a magic pot where the party never stopped but grew and grew, bursting out of the walls of the Lime Tree and flooding down every road until the city
itself became one huge wild party. He was, of course, well on the way to being stoned.

Outside the pub, you’d have been hard pressed to enjoy yourself. It was bucketing down with rain. Vin St James was locking up his car and cursing the weather, the rain
already funnelling down his trilby and onto cold brown hands. He made a dash for the Lime Tree, his last port of call, hoping he’d do good business and make the efforts of the night
worthwhile. His foot sloshed into a puddle as he staggered through the doors and into the hall. Vin cursed loudly.

‘Don’t take it so personal, man. The puddle wasn’t put there just for a sucker like you.’

Vin found himself face to face with Scobie Brent. He was leaning against the green tiles in the hall, combing his wet hair. Vin felt a momentary sense of panic at this sudden confrontation and
he could only cover his confusion with a lame smile. Then he took off his trilby and tried to coolly flick it down.

‘Long time, Scobie,’ he said. ‘Your kinda weather, huh?’

‘You know me, Vin. I take whatever comes, right there.’ A smirking Scobie pointed to his chin.

The next move for Vin was to get past Scobie and into the bar without being drawn into some awkward scene. Scobie was a feared heavy and, according to whim, liked to throw his heaviness around.
Vin put on one of his best smiles.

‘You is one hard case, Scobie,’ he said, trying to keep the sarcasm as subtle as possible. ‘Didn’ me a see you las winter out in the snow wid jus you vest on?’

‘The fuck, I was bleedin starkers in the snow!’

Vin laughed over loudly and went to push open the bar door.

‘So how’s your woman doin then, Vin?’

‘Eh? Jus fine.’ Vin stalled. ‘Why you ask? What Claudette to you?’

‘Nothin, man, but,’ Scobie’s smile was mocking, ‘you know, I’ve always kind of fancied her.’

‘Oh yeh . . .’

Vin pushed quickly through the bar doors and heaved a sigh of relief. One fuckin mountain a turd! he thought. Inside, the crowd was starting to thin out. Vin ambled through and searched for
clients. The half-caste peach with the dishy eyes shook her head. Then he saw nervous Jerry and old grey Frederick. Vin waved. They knew where he’d be.

‘D-Didn’t think you were g-going to turn up, Vin.’

‘Well, Jerry, it a shitty night, me nearly didn’ come at all. Me ain’t no milkman.’

‘More important, man. A weekend smoke is e-ssential.’

‘Huh, you shoulda be tuck up in bed, ole man.’

Frederick was somewhere around sixty years old and he never missed a Thursday night. He had a chubby black face that gleamed with sweat, and white frizzed hair. A sharp suit rippled with shine
and chunky cufflinks winked gold from his sleeves. Frederick was a groover. Well into ganja, he could score with the girls too. A fine role model, Jerry would think, maybe there’s hope after
all.

They all sheltered in the entrance to the men’s loos as Vin doled out his deals. He was quite a small guy set against the lanky Jerry and Frederick’s broad girth. But Vin, though
silent, didn’t get much aggravation. For first-time customers, he would give off the hard eye, then pull out a slim shiv and groom his nails. That demonstration given, Vin would grin and
soothe his clients with the winning sparkle of his eyes. Vin St Charm. It was one way to survive.

‘You stayin on feh late drinks, Vin?’ Frederick asked.

‘Nah man, the ole lady a call.’

‘Dem always do but some time you don’t have to hear em.’

‘Come on, man, it neva pay to be deaf to a woman . . .’

Another latecomer poked his head around the bar door. Des McGinlay, feeling desperate, panic lights in his eyes. He’d been stuck in his house –
loneliness
crawling down the walls like so many spiders out to get me
. Des needed company but the boozy energy of the bar made him stall. Smoke and din, sweat on garrulous faces – it seemed to mock
him and where he’d fled from. Des groaned, wavered and stared in mild shock at the scene, a scene he should really be part of.

‘You gonna kick Winston out? You must be mad!’

‘Trust, Bev, it’s all about trust, an one thing me do know – only me I trust.’

‘Dis horse, it won fuckin hell. Me had fifty soddin quid almost in me hand an den the bastards mek it disqualify!’

‘That is cruel . . .’

‘You truly are a sweet-looking woman, you know. Why don’t we go driving, up to the airport, have a slick supper and watch the planes come in?’

‘Promise to take me on one and I just might go . . .’

There wasn’t anyone Des could see that he knew. Familiar faces, yes, but no one he could latch onto amid the strident scene. Des knew he shouldn’t have come. He’d missed the
momentum of the night. The boozy groovers were well off into pleasures shared and Des was just a wet rag, a rain-sodden piece of reality that no one would give two fucks for at that point in time.
Des groaned again and then slunk away from the door.

Jerry was still there in the crowd, a smug smile on his face and thoughts of spliffs soon to drift him onto dawn. There was only one thing more he needed that would make it perfect. Jerry
scanned the crowd and finally saw her. He began to squeeze his way towards Mary. Yes, it was a bit of a gamble. They were supposed to be just friends but Jerry couldn’t help himself, it was
the extra buzz he craved. He’d almost reached the bar when he suddenly stopped. Mary was talking to another bloke, a suited geezer with receding black hair and a ponytail, and she was talking
in ‘that’ kind of way, almost drooling over the creep. Jerry’s spirits sank. He began to stare vindictively at the git in the suit, seeing there was a finger missing from his left
hand. But as he stared, he became conscious of someone else watching him. Jerry turned and found himself looking into a pair of dark, malicious eyes. He shivered like he’d just had a
premonition of pain. The eyes narrowed. He saw a deep frown above them and sneering lips below. The tough guy’s head nodded towards the door. Jerry was expected to leave. He didn’t
hesitate. Frustrated and fearful, Jerry walked off and out into the unconsoling rain.

* * *

It seemed to be raining everywhere that night. Well beyond the city limits, among the leafy lanes, farmworker Bob Grainger drove home from his local. Fit to burst, he had to stop
and take a leak. He pulled in at a lay-by and stumbled over to the bushes. Just as he was about to let go with huge relief, he looked down. The naked corpse of a woman – white skin dripping,
eyes puddled with rain – lay right where he was about to piss.

3

Des McGinlay was back in his kitchen and looking out at the rain. A poplar tree shimmered in the breeze; its twisted leaves caught city light and sparkled. Des scowled angrily.
He turned on his own light, ignored his gaunt reflection and went to the table to write.

‘I can’t bleedin well take this!’

Grabbing a raincoat, Des again escaped the claustrophobia of his house and hit the streets. He ducked his head into sheets of rain and walked. Up Argent Street, past the Lime Tree and onwards.
He trudged twelve miles that night, through the pelting rain, the nameless streets, alone but for half a bottle of whisky. The onslaught of the weather, the pounding his legs received helped to
keep at bay those awful questions, that writhing feeling that he was zero and out of control. But the booze was a mistake. The whisky numbed the pain but it sent his mind reeling with unwanted
thoughts. Miranda, Miranda, Miranda . . .

The pictures in his mind: smiling eyes, intimate laughter, breasts like speckled pears. He wanted them, wanted to ravish – but someone else would be there. Des groaned up at the
streetlights, stashed his empty bottle in a hedge, crawled on through the rain-drenched night.

* * *

‘Where is he then?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘It’s gone twelve o’clock.’

‘I know, he ain’t been himself lately.’

‘What, he’s still moping over that bird of his?’

‘Yeh, like a lost dog looking for its master.’

‘A wanker if you ask me.’

‘The cops want to speak to him now.’

‘Jesus, what’s that about, Wayne?’

‘Fuck knows.’

The Fedora used to be called the Black Boy. No one was quite sure what the old name referred to. Some swarthy king from the past? The times when aristocrats paraded their houseboy Negroes
around? Or a reference to those Victorian urchins shoved up chimneys or pushed down mines? Whatever, in modern times, Black Boy was no name a brewery would wish to be saddled with. But Fedora, that
had glamour; it was Hollywood stars and cool dudes in the gleaming city.

Midday, Des McGinlay looked through the pub window and saw the grainy black and white blow-ups of famous faces. But no one sat by the parlour palms. No smoke drifted to the ceiling fans. There
were no heavy-drinking role-players on the New Orleans scene. Des sighed as he pushed through the doors.

Wayne was slotting pint mugs on a rack above the bar. He didn’t look at Des when he entered. Dick O’Malley sat on a bar stool and grinned. The ever-present, ever-grinning Dick nodded
at Des and then gormlessly stared into his beer.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

There was no immediate response. Wayne carried on stacking glasses and his grizzled chin gave nothing away. Finally, however, the words came.

‘You look really bad, Des. Terminal. You look like you got TB, cancer and Aids all in one go.’

‘There’s a hangover for you.’

‘You’ve got to pull yourself together, mate.’ Wayne brought his hairy forearms down to the bar and gave Des a sad look. ‘You know I don’t mind a bit of slack, but
this ain’t no sheltered home for the fucked up.’

‘I know.’

‘I mean, there’s gotta be some point to me being boss, like I can put my feet up and give you the run around.’

Des had been working at the Fedora for six months. It was temporary, of course, until his other job picked up. But the whole set-up there was a temporary affair. The Fedora was the kind of city
centre pub which had a different clientele every day (grinning Dick was an exception). It went through bar staff on a monthly basis and even Wayne had no inclinations to stay around. The Fedora was
a kind of floating world, an on-the-off-chance place that meant nothing to no one.

‘Maybe you should take the rest of the week off?’ Wayne was now picking his teeth with a match. ‘That new bird Kim was asking for a few extra hours.’

‘I don’t know, Wayne. It might be better if I came in.’

‘Come on, you ain’t that desperate. A break’d probably do you good.’

Wayne had a thing about matches. He cleaned his nails, teeth and even his ears with them. He scraped them on his bristled chin, passed them through his fingers and made pretty patterns on the
bar.

‘I don’t know what I’d do, though. You know, things are still slack.’

‘Anyways, you’re wanted. The police are asking for you.’

‘Oh no . . .’

‘Don’t ask me why. You do anything stupid lately?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Better to keep yourself scarce.’ Wayne proceeded to slot some matches into his fist. ‘And that client of yours, posh Rebecca, she rang up, wants to know how you’re
getting on.’

Des found it hard to focus on the idea that he was wanted, even if by the police. A world-weary sigh hissed out of him.

‘Come on, Des, the whole boring load of crap will still be here when you get back.’ Wayne raised his fist. Suddenly he scraped the match heads against his stubble. There was laughter
all round when his hand became fire.

* * *

Lunchtime was a gaping hole, an empty stomach, a great white craving for a fag. Jerry Coton, having spent hours climbing out of sleep, finally climbed out of bed. He threw on his
dressing gown and shuffled to the fire-escape door. ‘Shit,’ he moaned, ‘save me from oblivion.’ Pushing the door open, he saw red roofs and rain-washed leaves. His bleary
eyes tried to focus and his whole body wavered, almost shrank from the painful glare. Jerry lit a cigarette and waited for the view to sink in, for the world to stop being upside down. Once
adjusted, he moved onto the top step and looked out. ‘Another aimless d-day in the sprawl, another stroll on the streets of d-deferred opportunity,’ he muttered, half smiling to
himself. But it wasn’t a comfortable smile. Dope smugness worked up to a point, but anxiety always lurked somewhere. Jerry thought then that he saw the houses shift as though they were
floating on water and he was relieved when he heard noises coming from the kitchen below. Gripping the shaky banister hard, Jerry sighed and went on down. Mary was there, starting to wash up. She
offered to make him toast. Jerry gave the door some support and tried not to leer.