Bad Music 4
playful
There were only a half-dozen houses still standing in the midst of a mostly demolished council estate. What remained was a flattened maze of empty roads, bare pavements, the neutered stumps of lampposts, and flocks of wind-blown litter that swirled and scattered and swirled again.
He parked the truck, turned off the engine, got out and walked to the front door of one of the few houses still standing. He knocked. After a wait, he knocked again. Eventually, a teenage girl answered, turned away without speaking to him, shouting, ‘A man at the door,’ in a tone of someone warning of an approaching biblical flood. She left him there, the door ajar. He waited. He knew the game. After a long wait he saw a shadow in the hall, then Faith was standing in front of him. She said nothing, just stared at him. She looked old, he thought, not even in her mid-twenties and already she had that cigarette scowl.
‘I’m looking for Angus.’
‘Why’re you asking me?’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘No.’
‘If you do, ask him to get in touch.’
There was the faintest look of disgust on her face, mostly around the mouth. He was tempted to count the lines. Instead, he just nodded, turned to walk away.
‘Give me your number,’ she said. ‘If he contacts me, I’ll pass it on.’
‘He’s got it,’ Dominic said, walking back along the path. He heard the door slam behind him. From inside the house he heard shouting. He climbed back into his truck and started the engine, marvelling again at poor life-choices people made when they were too young to know better. Angus, though, most likely he’d never know better.
A while later he parked outside a block of flats. Went to the door, rang a bell. A voice spoke. ‘Who is it?’
‘Elliott? It’s Dominic Kerr.’
‘Hey Mr. Kerr.’
’You seen Angus?’
‘Not in a few weeks. Want to come up?’
‘No, but if you see him, will you let him know I’m looking for him.’
‘Just a minute.’
A moment later, Elliott opened the apartment door, wearing only a t-shirt and boxer shorts, in defiance of the blustery weather. ‘How’re you, Mr. Kerr?’
‘Good. You?’
‘Yeah, good. Still playing music?’
Dominic tapped the hearing aid tucked behind his ear, ‘When I can.’
‘It must be a great thing to be able to do.’
‘I’ve got a bad back, got raging tinnitus…’
Elliott grinned, ‘You love it really.’
Dominic smiled in return. ‘I do. It’s the work I have to do in between that gets in the way of all the fun.’
‘Paying bills is a bastard,’ Elliott said. A thought occurred to him and it showed on his face. ‘Angus. Is he ok?’
‘The cops are looking for him.’
‘They’re always looking for him.’
‘There are other people looking for him too. Bad people.’
‘Fuck,’ Elliott said quietly. ‘That’s not good.’ He saw the dog in the truck and walked barefoot over to pet him through the open window. ‘Hey Chess,’ he said, and the dog nuzzled and licked his hand.
‘Think he’s up to something serious?’ Dominic asked, following him.
Elliott turned back, nodding thoughtfully. ‘He’s been headed that way for a while. Working the door in a casino doesn’t pay much, and I think he was tired of having no money.’
‘He doesn’t gamble?’ Dominic understood how debts could build up, and how a casino might encourage that.
‘Doesn’t gamble,’ Elliott said. ‘Barely drinks. Lives like a monk.’
‘I think the trouble might be to do with drugs,’ Dominic said.
Elliott nodded again, confirming it. ‘He’s gone a bit dark, Mr. Kerr. He’s usually a lot of fun, bit random, you know how he is, but always fun. Not lately though. He’s got some new friends and he’s more serious now.’
‘Names?’
‘Wullie Armstrong is the only one I know. He’s an evil little twat.’
‘Armstrong. From the coast?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I know the family.’
‘You do?’
‘Way back.’
‘Me and Angus been friends since we were at nursery but I won’t have Little Wull in the house. Angus got a bit upset, you know what he’s like, gets emotional. But if you know the family then you know what I’m saying.’
He nodded. ‘He’s got into dealing?’
Elliott paused for a moment. ‘Don’t quote me on this, I really don’t want my house firebombed while I’m asleep.’ He stroked his chin before speaking. ‘He was planning on going into wholesale.’
‘Wholesale? Angus?’ Dominic’s tone was incredulous.
Elliott nodded. ‘I know, I know, I’ve heard him called a lot of things, but El Chapo isn’t one of them.’
Dominic shook his head. ‘If you hear from him, ask him to get in touch.’
‘I’ll reach out, see if I can find him.’
‘Great.’ Dominic paused, ‘How’re you doing, anyway?’
‘All good. On shifts at the moment.’
‘I woke you. Sorry.’
‘It’s ok.’ Elliott rubbed his eyes, but he was smiling, ‘Hey, do you remember when Angus and me were little, when you’d get back on leave and I’d come over and you’d have funfights with us both at the same time?’ He threw a playful punch at Dominic’s arm.
Dominic grinned, put his hands up into a guard, ‘I remember he’d throw you in first then sniper me when I wasn’t looking.’
‘That’s Angus.’
‘It got to the point where you two were too much for me.’
‘Good times, Mr. Kerr,’ Elliott said, ‘You’ve reached out to him, properly? He’s on all the social media.’
‘He doesn’t answer.’
‘He never answers, unless there’s something he wants.’ Elliott shivered. The wind was picking up.
‘I’ll let you get back to bed, or dressed,’ Dominic said.
‘Back to bed for me. Ten pm start,’ Elliott said.
‘That’s why you earn the good money.’
‘That’s must be it.’
‘I’d better go’ Dominic said. ‘Got some other calls to make.’
‘He knows you care about him,’ Elliott said.
‘I know.’
‘Well, good to see you, Mr. K.’
‘You too,’ Dominic said, patting his arm.
Elliott waited and watched while Dominic climbed into his truck, waved when he pulled away, clicked his tongue at the dog, whose nose was pointing out of the open passenger window. He watched the truck drive off, waved once, then went back inside.
Four hours later, Dominic sat in his living room in the half-darkness of a February afternoon. He’d spoken to a half-dozen of Angus’ friends and everyone had told much the same story: he wasn’t there and they didn’t know where he was. He texted DI Khatter and told her: he had no intention of selling out his son to the police but he thought he’d keep her onside for the moment. He put down his phone and stared blankly at the wall, thinking. Then he picked up his phone. Dialled.
Matty answered almost immediately. ‘Whassup daddyo?’
‘Hey, you ok?’
‘Yeah. Busy. Work, two kids, house needs some repairs; the usual. You going to come over at the weekend?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Want to speak to Neil? He’s just back from nursery.’
Dominic waited until he could hear childish breathing. ‘Hello Neil,’ he said.
‘Hello Bear,’ the voice said, then he heard Neil telling his dad that Bear was on the phone. Matty came back on. ‘I don’t think he can get used to a voice without the picture.’
‘I like phone calls better than video calls.’
‘You like texts even better.’
‘Guilty. How are Meg and the little’un?’
‘Very healthy.’
‘Neil taking it well?’
‘Loves having his baby sister.’ There was a pause, then Matty said, ‘Is this about Angus?’
‘Not really, I was just checking in on what it’s like to have a happy family.’
‘You’re major part of that happy family, dad.’ Another pause. ‘I heard you were looking for him.’
‘You did?’
‘He’s my kid brother dad. I know most of his friends, and word got back to me. What’s he done now?’
‘I’m not sure. Drugs maybe. Cops are after him, plus some bad people.’
‘That sounds serious.’
‘It is. I’m trying to find him, get him to sort himself out. Or get out of town.’
Dominic heard Matty says something to Neil. Then he returned to the conversation. ‘Angus doesn’t follow advice. Not yours, not mine, not anyone’s. I love him, dad, you love him, everyone loves him. He’s loveable. But he’s not fixable. You do know that, right?’
‘I do.’
‘If he decides to fix himself, we’ll all rally round, but until he does, there’s no point in chasing around after him.’
Dominic took a deep breath, thinking, where’d I get you? So stable and thoughtful, and the other part of me so feckless and unreliable. ‘I know.’
‘But you’ll try, right?’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Do you know the best way to drown?’ Matty said.
‘Try to save a drowning man,’ Dominic said.
‘Right. Come over this weekend,’ Matty said. ‘We’ll talk it through.’
‘Saturday morning good?’
‘Great. See you then.’
‘Give everyone my love.’
‘Look, dad, if you need any help...’
‘No. You do what you do. Kids, wife, work. That’s your responsibility. Angus is mine.’
‘I’ll call Uncle Jack,’ Matty said.
‘Angus won’t be going up there til mid-March.’
‘I’ll call anyway.’ There was noise in the background. ‘Look, I have to go. Keep me posted, and see you at the weekend.’
‘Yes. See you then.’
The room felt a shade lighter, even though the sunlight was a few minutes lower in the sky. Matty was everything a son, a father, a husband, should be. He felt diminished by his own child’s capabilities. He welcomed the feeling.
He had work to do so he put down the 3310 and from his briefcase he took out the work iPhone. It needed charging. He took out the charger, plugged it in, checked his calls. From the briefcase he took out his laptop, sat down, opened it and began reading the emails, began noting the information in a spreadsheet, comparing it to the predictions, adjusting the numbers accordingly, sending our emails in reply, and finally, a couple of hours after the day had grown fully dark, he’d done enough to keep momentum going on the action plan he’d left with the company. He thought of the men he’d met at the company, the managers, the shop floor workers, the office staff, the site staff. He wondered what would become of them.
He put away the laptop, left the phone in the charger, stood, stretched, went into the kitchen and returned with a half-pint glass and an unopened bottle of Yellow Tail, took them into the living room. He put on an album: Bill Evans, Sunday at the Village Vanguard. He sat down on his favourite chair.
Evans was his hero. The most brilliant pianist he’d ever heard. No one played the notes and the spaces in between like Evans did, and with Paul Motion on drums and Scot LaFaro on bass it was by far one of the best Evans recorded. But LaFaro had died in a car crash shortly after this album was recorded, he was only twenty-four years old, and Bill Evans never quite recovered from his death. And Evans was a junky too. He died more slowly, but he died all the same.
He poured himself an almost full glass of wine, took a large gulp, then another, medicating himself. He didn’t always stock a lot of food, the job took him away too long for anything to remain fresh, but wine kept almost forever, so he always had a few bottles available. When Dominic was playing at his best, people thought it was jazz, but it wasn’t. He was playful, he had fun, but it wasn’t jazz. He could never be like his heroes. He didn’t mind, didn’t want to be like them; it was enough to know that there had once been giants in the world.
He closed his eyes, sat back, letting the tension evaporate. He wondered if he should have got a different job. He should he have stayed at home this last decade. Would Angus have turned out different? There was no telling. Matthew had got through it. Angus had struggled, had emerged wounded.
Chess leapt up onto the chair beside him, squeezing himself into a tiny gap. Dominic made space, stroked his wry fur, felt the heat of him. Took another drink. Felt himself relaxing some more. He considered the thing he loved, music, which was a highly creative endeavour, and the thing he did to earn a living, which was the opposite. A few years earlier, a woman he’d been dating had asked him what he did for a living and, for once, he’d been honest.
‘I euthanise companies,’ he said.
Chapter 3 of Bad Music is here.
Chapter 5 of Bad Music is here.
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