Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (10 page)

‘Champagne?’ he asked. They nodded and he called out to the barman to bring over a bottle. The two men at the bar looked over at him then got back to their discussion.

‘You look miserable, cock,’ said the bottle-blonde.

‘What, compared to laughing boy behind the bar? No, love, I’m just pensive.’

‘I do like a thoughtful man,’ said the blonde, running her hand up Harry’s right thigh. ‘Hidden depths.’

Her hand stopped just short of his groin. They’re brasses, thought Harry as Mr Horny’s helmet hardened.

The brunette spoke in a low, husky voice. ‘She’s Cindy and I’m Justine. Maybe we can have some fun.’

‘I dare say we can, gels. And to start with, let’s get blitzed.’

The barman approached with the champagne, a cheap Moët.

‘Forty pounds,’ he said morosely. ‘Shall I pour?’

‘Be my guest,’ said Harry.

‘Can I have Diet Coke too, luv?’ Justine asked the barman.

‘I’m parched.’

‘So what’s on your mind?’ asked Cindy, brushing against his hardness as she removed her hand from his leg.

‘Nothing much. Bit of personal grief.’

‘You and Cind are kindred spirits,’ said Justine. ‘Her life has all been personal grief. She’s been like it since she found out she can’t have kids.’ She lowered her voice even more. ‘Her ovaries are as hard as marble. I never wanted any meself.’

The barman brought over the Coke. Harry threw him a £2 coin.

‘You got rug-rats, Harry?’

‘Two. Two little belters.’

‘I said he looked potent, Justine.’

‘All man, you said, Cind. Just how we like ’em.’

Cindy’s mobile phone rang and she went up the stairs for a better reception. Justine put her hand on Harry’s other thigh.

‘This is going to sound very forward,’ she whispered. ‘But could I have a kiss? Only Cindy always gets first crack at the blokes ’cos she’s got Tesco legs – y’know, open twenty-four/seven. You like the brassy blondes, you men. Brassy blonde slappers. You’re so shallow.’

Harry leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. Justine’s tongue darted forward like an eel as her hand massaged his cock through his trousers. Even he was shocked.

‘You’re not shy, you Northern birds, are yer?’ he said.

‘Excuse me, lover, I’ve just got to freshen up.’

Justine left and made for the ladies. Harry shook his head and downed her Diet Coke. It looked like being a fun evening. He had better stop drinking. Harry’s attention was drawn back to the two men at the bar, who were now shaking hands. The stockier man got up and motioned to a third who brought over a green plastic bag. The taller man looked inside it and nodded. He produced a thick envelope from his back pocket, which the third man took quickly. At this point Harry spotted the outline of a blade in his sock. The newcomer headed for the gents with the envelope, the stocky man waited a beat and followed with the green plastic bag. Harry noticed an unusual lump under the back of his jacket. New boy had a chiv and Stocky had a tool of some sort gaffer-taped to his back. The deal was obvious: they would check the money and, if all was well, the bag of goodies would be deposited in a cistern for the tall man. But Harry caught a look in the third man’s eyes as he pushed into the gents ahead of Stocky. If the tall man entered that toilet, he was unlikely to come out alive, let alone with either the parcel or the cash.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He went straight to the man at the bar.

‘None of my business, friend, but those two gorillas are proper tooled up. Tell me to fuck off and I’ll understand but five will get you ten that we are in the same game and I’m telling you I wouldn’t go into that khazi with those jokers without a handgun.’

The tall man looked Harry square in the face and then nodded.

‘Turn the music up for me, wee man,’ he said to the barman. He slipped an ashtray under his jacket and strolled casually to the gents. Harry scooped a half-empty bottle of Bud from a table and stood by the juke-box just next to the gents. The girls returned to the bar, Harry motioned for them to sit at the table. Two minutes later the tall man emerged, panting. He had a green plastic bag in one hand and a thick envelope in the other, which he slipped into his back pocket. He shook Harry’s hand.

‘William Bell,’ he said in a broad East Belfast accent. ‘Dinger to my pals.’

‘Harry Tyler, Essex and proud.’

‘Harry, I don’t know how I can ever repay you, but I hope I can buy you a drink someplace else for starters.’

‘I’m a little tied up, mate,’ Harry said, motioning at the women. ‘Would you care to join us?’

‘Well, maybe this is one small favour I can do you. Don’t get too involved with these girls.’

‘But, mate, it’s on a plate. I’ve never met women so forward.’

‘That’s my point. They’re not like any other women you’ve ever met. They’re what we call funny girls. Trannies. They drink in a showbar down the road and get their kicks preying on unsuspecting men-folk. You go back with them and get yerself a blow job if that’s what gets you through the night but I would rather stick my dick in a beehive than have two fellas sucking it.’

Harry’s face drained of colour. ‘Fellas? The fucking …’

Dinger laughed. ‘You’d better get your coat,’ he said.

‘No, mate, I’m not having that. Both them cunts had their tongues down my throat and their hands round my dick.’

He stormed towards the trannies. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’

The barman hit a button behind the bar.

‘What’s wrong, Harry,’ said Justine coquettishly. ‘Don’t you like working girls?’

‘I don’t like being taken for a ride by a pair of fucking irons.’

The huge security man materialised from the upstairs door and laid a restraining hand on Harry’s shoulder.

‘Calm down, pal,’ he grunted.

‘I don’t remember taking him for a ride, Cind, do you?’

‘No, but he’s got a lovely cock.’

‘See you …’ Harry spluttered with rage.

‘He’s even prettier when he’s angry.’

Harry went to swing a left at Cindy. The bouncer blocked it. Incensed, Harry spun round and hit him with a straight right. It was his best punch. The man mountain shook his head as though a fly had landed on his chin.

‘Hit me like that again and I’m going to have to hit you back,’ he growled.

‘Hit him anyway,’ shrieked Cindy. ‘The homophobic cunt.’

Harry stepped back and weighed up his options. William made the decision for him, flooring the security man with a wooden chair. The big lump seemed to defy gravity for a moment, rocking back and forth, before collapsing face down like a pole-axed ox.

‘Come on, Harry, let’s go,’ said Dinger urgently. ‘The two in the bog will be coming round soon.’

‘OK,’ Harry said, turning to jab at finger at the trannies. ‘But you two slags have got some coming.’

They hit the stairs two at a time.

‘Someone’s upset him,’ sniffed Cindy.

‘Yeah,’ said Justine. ‘Drag. All that over a kiss. Imagine how cross he’d have been if we’d gargled with his goolies.’

Harry let Dinger drive his car. He stopped at the Flying Dutchman, where the Ulsterman was staying. ‘One for the road?’

‘Why not?’

‘Thanks for that, William.’

‘Make it Dinger. S’OK, mate. You saved my arse, it was only fair I saved yours.’

‘Very fucking funny.’

They walked in and sat at the crowded bar. A DJ was playing in the small front room of the hotel.

‘Scotch?’

‘Please, mate.’ Harry thought for a moment. ‘How did you know they were geezers?’

‘Oh, the usual, the big hands, the Adam’s apples, the five o’clock shadow, the pipes, the copy of the
Angling Times
… mind you, in the half-light and with the perfume, they did look half decent.’

‘Mate, I don’t even want to think about it. What about your bit of bother?’

‘You guessed right. They were trying to double-cross us over a parcel.’ Dinger hesitated. ‘You’re a trader, you say, Harry?’

‘That’s right, mate: snides, sniff, handguns, whatever’s going.’

‘Well, this is where we differ. I’m a soldier. I only trade to fund what we have to do; we trade to fund the fight.’

‘You UVF?’

‘UDA. Two Scotches here please, love, and a couple of Buds.’ Dinger hesitated. ‘I don’t know where you stand on Ulster, Harry.’

‘I’ve gotta be honest, politics is not my game. But I’ve never believed that your lot was as bad as the other lot, whatever the papers say.’

‘Did we plant bombs on the mainland, Harry? Did we target working-class English kids in Birmingham and Woolwich, like the Provos?’

‘You’re banging on an open door, Dinger. As I read it your lot came about to protect your community. You were working with our security forces to do the jobs that our spineless politicians wouldn’t let our own boys do. But you’ve gotta admit the Catholics did have a rough fucking time of it, historically.’

‘The misery was never one-sided, mate. Our people have been getting massacred by the Irish since man first walked the earth, and today’s Loyalist paramilitaries are only the latest in a long line of men who have had to take up arms throughout the centuries, just to protect what we have. Though to be honest, I still say we should have taken the war across the border. Just for once, instead of defending, we should have taken the train to Dublin and let Eire know exactly what they’ve been paying for all these years.’

‘I can see that. If I were you I’d feel the same, and I know the “Free State” was in league with Adolf and all that. But thousands of Irish Catholics fought and died for this country too. I don’t hate anyone for their religion, Billy. I’m an atheist, thank God. And I think it’s a crying shame that the Orange and the Green can’t get along, respect each other’s right to exist – separately if need be. The way I see it, you’re British, I’m British and we’ll stay British, right?’

‘No problem, mate, but just remember that’s easy for you to say. Things you take for granted, I’ve had to fight every day of my life for. And I’ve probably had more mates murdered just for wanting those simple rights than you’ve known. Because of them, I can still call myself British. So let’s drink to them, and while we are at it we might as well push the boat out and buy these two a drink as well.’

Two women in their twenties were alongside them at the bar.

‘Ladies, what are you having?’ Dinger asked.

‘Are you sure these are for real?’ said Harry in a stage whisper.

‘Oh, I’d lay money on it.’

Harry came to at 5.35am in bed at the Queen’s Hotel with a barmaid called Sandra from Southport whose name he had forgotten. Gently extricating himself, he washed, stepped over two used condoms – not bad for a drunk! – packed and settled his room bill. There was a note waiting for him at reception. It quoted Kipling, saying simply, ‘Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide the shame or mocking or laughter, but the Thousandth Man will stand by your side to the gallows-afoot – and after!’ Underneath was written, ‘H, I am your Thousandth Man. God speed. Q.S. – Dinger.’

Harry was on the M25 by 10.15am. He had no inclination to go home, so he missed the M11 turn and headed on back into London on the A13, cutting off for an early dinner. Harry plotted up at the Elm Park Tavern near Aveley, and drank beer there until 9.30pm, when he left and headed for the Circus Tavern in hope of a comic or at least the
Sunday Sport
table dancers. Instead he found a talent showcase night in progress, so Harry stood at the back bar and went round the top shelf until they threw him out.

When he awoke the next morning he had no idea where he was or how he’d got there. He was aware that he was face down on the floor, stinking of sick and facing a blue washing-up bowl. He was still fully dressed but minus his leather jacket. As he focused he saw two pink fluffy slippers just inches away. They faced him like the guns of a battleship. A wet sponge stinking of disinfectant hit him square on the head. He craned his neck up to see which enemy he was up against.

‘And you can clean that puke up yourself, Harry Dean,’ said a voice. It was a voice he knew but couldn’t immediately place. The voice went on: ‘I finished cleaning up your mess years ago.’

Harry closed his eyes in disbelief and lowered his head the eight inches back to the carpet. How the hell had he made his way in the state he was in to Fullarton Crescent in South Ockendon?

His ex-wife Dawn broke the silence. ‘To think you used to moan about me smoking. It’s just as well there’s no such thing as passive alcoholism or I’d be in line for a liver transplant having you under my roof. Do you remember much about last night, Harry? Or should I say this morning?’

Harry shook his head. ‘No, sorry mate. Was I out of order?’

‘Am I missing something here, Harry? Hello, excuse me, but we are DIVORCED. You remarried. You don’t live here. Is it all coming back now?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry? You’re sorry? I won’t ask how you found me here. What about me? What if I was still with my bloke? You’re lucky we broke up, he’d have given you a pasting.’

Harry stared at the ground, hoping it would open up and swallow him.

‘Sorry, Dawnie. I was out me nut.’

‘Do you remember leaning up against the front door, head against my flipping bell? Do you remember calling the minicab driver a ‘fucking asylum-seeking ponce’ and telling him to piss off back to Afghanistan? Do you remember sitting on my sofa crying your eyes out, smashed out of your head?’

‘Sorry, Dawn.’

‘Stop saying sorry. You have no idea how pathetic that sounds. If Bernard had been here you’d have got a kicking and I’d have got a slap. What was on your mind?’

‘Bernard? Bernard who?’

‘Bernard-none-of-your-sodding-business Bernard. So who is dead then? That’s all you kept on about.’

‘Long story. Where’s me jacket?’

‘On the floor, where you left it, next to your left sock, where you left that.’

‘Can I use the bog?’

‘I’d run you a bath, you smelly bastard, but you’d probably drown. Go up and have a shower. And gargle with some Domestos, can you? You stink like a Tilbury dosser.’

Harry stood under the shower for ten minutes, sponging himself down repeatedly. When he finally staggered from the unit, Dawn was there holding out a clean towel. She made no attempt to avert her eyes.