‘What you say, Bent.’
The sliding door squealed and he went out onto the balcony. From the keys hanging on hooks at Reception, Bent Horrocks had reckoned they had about 15 per cent occupancy, but it might have been less. It would have throbbed in high season – maybe half of Hamburg or the Ruhr would have been there. There was a ribbon road below them with shops and small businesses, nothing much that caught his eye, a few villas and some two-storey apartment blocks – the latter confused him, half built, floors, roof and supports but no walls – then the beach. Not pretty, like the Algarve or anywhere Trace would have liked. The sand was dun-coloured, like the biscuits his mother always had in the tin when he went to Margate. He had sharp eyes, and even at that distance, it was obvious that the rubbish had not been cleared from round the bins. Jack had joined him, cigarettes out. They lit up.
Side of mouth: ‘We likely to be bugged?’
‘My advice, Bent, say nothing except when you’re wanting a piss, unless Humphrey’s with us. He’ll know. If it’s you and me it’s down on the beach. It’s a serious place, Bent, with serious people, and big rewards for getting it right.’
‘I hear you. Why are all those blocks unfinished? Seems a waste to . . .’
‘What you say, Bent, a waste. Could have been a laundering job, but the law landed on them and confiscated the property. They do that, take the assets.’
‘We right to come here?’
‘It’s the big league, Bent. Where you should be.’
‘Where I want to be.’
‘And ought to be.’
‘I’ll not take shit from them. Never have and never will.’
‘It’ll be good, Bent. Big league.’
It looked a pretty ordinary place. Quiet. It looked as if not much happened at Brancaleone. He liked the thought of ‘big league’.
‘If he’s in difficulties, he’ll get no sympathy.’ Carlo had taken a train.
‘Too grand for us. We’re not up to his standards.’ He’d walked from the station.
‘Forgot about us and where he came from.’ There were little side roads off the main streets, and cul-de-sacs. The light was going and TV sets flickered. The kids were out on the corners, hoods up and forward, scarves looped across their faces. Too late for children to be playing outside. The fast-food outlets were slack. He’d been past the pub, had known of it from his days working in London, and Freemasons Road. He found the turning he wanted. The kids would have reckoned him a policeman because of his walk and posture. They’d have known about policemen, every last one of them.
‘Don’t they call it the throw-away society? If you’re last year’s big thing, you don’t take kindly to being trashed.’ He’d rung the bell. A girl had answered it, nice nails and hair. She’d have been the sister listed in the file. Behind her was the brother, different father. Carlo had introduced himself. He could do the look well when he needed help. He’d been gestured in, had wiped his shoes carefully, shown respect. It was a decent home, clean and warm. Comfortable, but the value of money counted. There were neat front doors and handkerchief gardens in the street, all filled with refuse bins. The mother was washing her hair but came down, with a towel as a turban. She sat on the sofa, her daughter and son behind her, as if she needed their protection.
‘We did all that we could for him, and got nothing back.’ She was slight, her face worn and tired. She might have been attractive once, a long time ago. Still, she had managed to attract three different blokes – nothing to do with Carlo. He had to build a profile and start to understand the man who had gone bare-arsed to Calabria, planning to start a commotion. He might get his head blown off or his face rearranged to the extent that he was unrecognisable when he lay in intensive care. Bizarre. Carlo had come to Canning Town expecting to hear about a good guy who helped old ladies across busy roads, did meals on wheels at weekends, but his own mother had bad-mouthed him.
‘He went to the best school round here. Uniform was dear. Billy and Georgina went short because of him. He had the chance to break free . . . I’m not saying we wanted to cling to his coat tails and have him pull us up, not saying that, but Jago hasn’t been to see us for two years, not even at Christmas. You want to know about him? He needs to win. Going to university was winning. Getting into a bank was winning. You say he’s on an exchange in Germany. He’d count that as winning. He’d see us as losers, wouldn’t want to know. Where he’s gone, what he’s going to do there – what’s brought you here on a Sunday afternoon – it’ll be about winning. You say it started with a girl getting her face slashed. It’ll be about excitement. Excitement is winning. From you being here, I suppose it’s a bad place to go for excitement and a hard place for winning. Don’t answer that. It was good of you to call, but you needn’t come back. A text will do if you’ve something to say.’