Gone Bad — Excerpt from 'Watching'
Rob had allowed a good distance to open up between his car and David Green’s car. He didn’t need to sit on the man’s bumper, he knew where he was going. Same place he’d gone every Tuesday for the past three weeks. And Thursday. They’d all be back here again on Thursday.
By the time Rob had cruised to a halt kerbside opposite the trim, nineteen-thirties semi, Green was out of his car and up the path, finger on the bell. The door was opened promptly, the caller expected, and David Green was welcomed into the house. Rob killed the engine and slouched down in his seat.
‘Put Galaxy on.’
‘No.’
‘Aw, man! Helps pass the time.’
‘Galaxy’s shit.’
‘It’s good. I like dance and r ‘n’ b, me.’
‘It’s rubbish.’
‘It’s dead clever. You should listen, you.’
‘No chance. Rot your brains, that stuff.’
Vic grinned, an ugly troll in expensive trainers and a cheap leather jacket. ‘You’re mental, you.’ He rummaged in his pocket. ‘Chewy?’
Rob shook his head, his heart sinking. Bit of peace and quiet, that’s what he liked on a job like this. Bit of thinking time. He used to listen to music, but that distracted him from the job. He lost himself in it. Tried to work out the guitar parts so he could have a go himself. Reading was a distraction, too. If the book was good, he forgot to keep looking up. If the book was bad, he rewrote bits in his head.
He grimaced as Vic got to work on the stick of gum. ‘Do you have to?’
‘What do you mean?’
Rob mimed Vic chewing, mouth open, slurping and chomping.
‘Bog off, man!’
They watched and waited. Vic chomped. Rob tuned him out. Time passed.
‘What do you reckon a bloke like him sees in a woman like that, then?’
Rob closed his eyes; the silence had been too good to last. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last, looking over at Vic. ‘Maybe she does deep throat.’
‘Now I feel sick. She’s got a curly perm like me mam.’
‘And your mam’s the holy virgin, right?’
‘Why aye, man. She’s me mam.’
‘Never seen a cock in her life.’
‘Cock?’
‘So you and your Kev aren’t the result of your dad riding your mam bareback after they got hammered down the club on a Saturday night?’
‘What? You better stop that. That’s dirty talk, that is.’
‘The stork left you, right? All clean and nice in a basket under a gooseberry bush.’
Vic shut up. Rob watched the house, ducked down reflexively when he saw a curtain twitch. There was no need to worry. They couldn’t be seen through the car’s tinted windows, even close up and in bright sunlight.
‘No, but his wife. Blondie.’ Vic was off again. ‘She’s gorgeous. So why this bird?’
‘Why not?’
‘“Why not?” doesn’t work. “Why?” That’s the question you’ve got to ask yourself. What’s she got that the wife hasn’t got?’
‘Maybe the wife’s frigid.’
‘Who, Blondie? No chance! She’s red hot.’
‘What do you mean, “red hot”?’
‘You know, man. Gagging for it all the time.’
‘How would you know that?’
‘You just have to look at her.’
‘So you reckon you can tell by looking if a woman’s … you know …’
‘Horny, yeah.’ Vic was nodding. ‘Leastways, you can if the woman looks like her. Why’d she do all that dressing up and pouting if she wasn’t horny?’
‘She might be a tease.’
‘Frigid women don’t tease.’
‘Quite the expert, aren’t you?’
Vic shrugged. ‘Stands to reason, that’s all.’
The door opened and David Green spilled out into the night. As he and the woman said their goodbyes, Rob read their lips out of habit. Vic snapped away with the camera.
‘Maybe it’s not sex at all,’ mused Rob. ‘He doesn’t touch her, never says anything untoward. There’s nothing.’
‘A man and a woman? Alone in a house? Course it’s sex!’
‘You’ve got a dirty mind, Victor.’
‘Just stating the obvious.’
‘Whatever.’
Rob fired the engine, followed David Green’s car at a prudent distance.
‘Going home,’ observed Vic.
‘Looks like it.’
‘We’ll see him in and call it a night, eh?’
‘What if he goes out again?’
‘Blondie won’t let him. He gets home this time of night, he’s staying there.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’
‘Course I’m right.’ Vic leered, his mind on Green’s wife. ‘Lucky git. Come on, let’s go for a curry. I’m starving, me.’
By the time Rob had cruised to a halt kerbside opposite the trim, nineteen-thirties semi, Green was out of his car and up the path, finger on the bell. The door was opened promptly, the caller expected, and David Green was welcomed into the house. Rob killed the engine and slouched down in his seat.
‘Put Galaxy on.’
‘No.’
‘Aw, man! Helps pass the time.’
‘Galaxy’s shit.’
‘It’s good. I like dance and r ‘n’ b, me.’
‘It’s rubbish.’
‘It’s dead clever. You should listen, you.’
‘No chance. Rot your brains, that stuff.’
Vic grinned, an ugly troll in expensive trainers and a cheap leather jacket. ‘You’re mental, you.’ He rummaged in his pocket. ‘Chewy?’
Rob shook his head, his heart sinking. Bit of peace and quiet, that’s what he liked on a job like this. Bit of thinking time. He used to listen to music, but that distracted him from the job. He lost himself in it. Tried to work out the guitar parts so he could have a go himself. Reading was a distraction, too. If the book was good, he forgot to keep looking up. If the book was bad, he rewrote bits in his head.
He grimaced as Vic got to work on the stick of gum. ‘Do you have to?’
‘What do you mean?’
Rob mimed Vic chewing, mouth open, slurping and chomping.
‘Bog off, man!’
They watched and waited. Vic chomped. Rob tuned him out. Time passed.
‘What do you reckon a bloke like him sees in a woman like that, then?’
Rob closed his eyes; the silence had been too good to last. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last, looking over at Vic. ‘Maybe she does deep throat.’
‘Now I feel sick. She’s got a curly perm like me mam.’
‘And your mam’s the holy virgin, right?’
‘Why aye, man. She’s me mam.’
‘Never seen a cock in her life.’
‘Cock?’
‘So you and your Kev aren’t the result of your dad riding your mam bareback after they got hammered down the club on a Saturday night?’
‘What? You better stop that. That’s dirty talk, that is.’
‘The stork left you, right? All clean and nice in a basket under a gooseberry bush.’
Vic shut up. Rob watched the house, ducked down reflexively when he saw a curtain twitch. There was no need to worry. They couldn’t be seen through the car’s tinted windows, even close up and in bright sunlight.
‘No, but his wife. Blondie.’ Vic was off again. ‘She’s gorgeous. So why this bird?’
‘Why not?’
‘“Why not?” doesn’t work. “Why?” That’s the question you’ve got to ask yourself. What’s she got that the wife hasn’t got?’
‘Maybe the wife’s frigid.’
‘Who, Blondie? No chance! She’s red hot.’
‘What do you mean, “red hot”?’
‘You know, man. Gagging for it all the time.’
‘How would you know that?’
‘You just have to look at her.’
‘So you reckon you can tell by looking if a woman’s … you know …’
‘Horny, yeah.’ Vic was nodding. ‘Leastways, you can if the woman looks like her. Why’d she do all that dressing up and pouting if she wasn’t horny?’
‘She might be a tease.’
‘Frigid women don’t tease.’
‘Quite the expert, aren’t you?’
Vic shrugged. ‘Stands to reason, that’s all.’
The door opened and David Green spilled out into the night. As he and the woman said their goodbyes, Rob read their lips out of habit. Vic snapped away with the camera.
‘Maybe it’s not sex at all,’ mused Rob. ‘He doesn’t touch her, never says anything untoward. There’s nothing.’
‘A man and a woman? Alone in a house? Course it’s sex!’
‘You’ve got a dirty mind, Victor.’
‘Just stating the obvious.’
‘Whatever.’
Rob fired the engine, followed David Green’s car at a prudent distance.
‘Going home,’ observed Vic.
‘Looks like it.’
‘We’ll see him in and call it a night, eh?’
‘What if he goes out again?’
‘Blondie won’t let him. He gets home this time of night, he’s staying there.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’
‘Course I’m right.’ Vic leered, his mind on Green’s wife. ‘Lucky git. Come on, let’s go for a curry. I’m starving, me.’
***
Late on Saturday night Rob strolled into Tiffany’s, checking left, checking right, checking straight ahead. The club was full of aging apes with paunches and stringy orange women wearing teenagers’ clothes. A large man materialised at Rob’s side and ushered him through a discreet door, along a corridor and into Norman Cresswell’s office, the place he skulked with his men when he wasn’t holding court in the club itself.
Over the years Cresswell had swapped cheap beer for fine champagne, fast food for haute cuisine, and developed an appetite for designer clothes, expensive jewellery and good aftershave. No amount of window dressing, however, could conceal his inner charva.
Rob sat down and slid a fat file over the desk. Inside were shots of everyone David Green had met with over the four weeks Rob and Vic had been tailing him. Dates, times, addresses, the works.
Cresswell flicked through and his lips tightened when he looked at the pictures of Green with the woman from the nineteen-thirties semi. He ran his finger down the log, counting the number of visits.
‘I knew it!’ he spat. ‘I knew there’d be something if I bothered to look. That bag of Geordie shite’s shagging around.’ He stared at the photograph in his hand. ‘Cheating on my little princess with that …’ Words failed him. ‘With that!’ he spat, finally.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Rob reasonably. ‘We didn’t see anything other than him going in and leaving. She might be teaching him to play the piano for all we know.’
Cresswell snorted. ‘A man and a woman? Alone in a house? He’s giving her one, has to be.’
‘They don’t look like a couple.’
Cresswell ran his hand over his thinning hair, the large sovereign on his little finger catching the light. ‘Do you know, I never liked him. He’s not even a proper Geordie, he goes to the Stadium of Light with our Stephen.’ He shook his head. ‘No pride.’
The rivalry between Geordies from Newcastle and Mackems from Sunderland was legendary, especially when it came to football. David Green and Stephen Cresswell used the family box at Sunderland's Stadium of Light, it wasn’t like they were slumming it with the hoi polloi. But it would take more than a private box and a bit of hospitality to get Norman Cresswell to set foot in the Newcastle ground. Sid James’s Park: it was no place for a Mackem.
‘He was never good enough for my Tiffany, my princess. Too damned much like his father, the thieving scumbag.’ Cresswell reached into the desk drawer and fished out an envelope. ‘There you are, son, you’ve earned it. Good work.’
