I need pointing the right way.”
Tim sighed and pointed his pool cue towards a scabby-faced loner nursing half a mild in the corner. “Terence the Ference we call him. Don’t get me involved, pal. I’m on licence.”
“So am I,” said Jim, walking towards Terence. “So am I.”
Jim pulled a barstool from under Terence’s table and sat opposite. Closer up, his face was clearer; like a weasel sucking a sour sweet. “Can I get you a drink, pal?”
“Maybe.” He swirled the dregs of his mild round, staring at the bar.
“You’re Terence? We might be able to help each other.”
Terence turned and stared at Jim. He felt his gaze hovering over his face, shoulders and stomach. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spoke with too much pleasure and the dregs of an Irish accent.
“I’m a mate of Tim By Four.” Jim knew he was sounding desperate.
Terence looked behind him over at the pool table. Jim guessed Tim must have nodded because he turned back. “First things first,” he said, planting the nearly empty glass in front of Jim.
Jim nodded and stood up. A path cleared amongst the youths to allow him to the bar. Jim guessed they’d seen him talk to Tim and Mick. There was something between the lads and Tim. Buying four pints, he took two to Tim and Mick before returning to Terence with his mild.
He took a huge glug as if Jim might change his mind and want it back. “What you got?”
“Seven cards, driving licence and a couple of smart phones.”
“Same person?” Terence asked.
Jim shook his head. “Three different ones. The driving licence matches three of the cards.”
A smile crossed Terence’s thin lips which quickly faded as his brain appeared to hatch a plan. “Not worth a fortune, my friend, but I should be able to do something.” Terence took another huge mouthful of mild, leaving a third left in the bottom. “Wait a minute then knock on cubicle three.” Standing, he hobbled to the toilets. Flicking a glance back to the pool table, Jim nodded at Tim who smiled briefly then nodded back. After counting to one hundred, he stood up and went to the toilet.
Walking into the damp chill of the toilet block, Jim breathed through his mouth to negate the powerful aroma. Knocking on cubicle three, Jim wasn’t surprised when the door opened and Terence ushered him in.
The cramped and smelly office wasn’t needed for long. Jim handed over the cards to a muttering Terence and was handed fifty quid in grubby tenners.
“Is that all?”
“Not worth much more, pal. Driving licence is the best. Cloners like them, see. Got name, address and date of birth.” His faint drawl made birth sound like both.
Jim nodded. The tube fare and the drinks he’d bought hardly made it worthwhile. “Oh nearly forgot.” Jim pulled the Blackberry and iPhone from his pocket, the batteries and cases detached. “How much for these?”
“Yeah. Quite high demand for them. You’ve thrown the Sims away?”
Jim nodded.
Terence nodded back and pulled five more tenners from his pocket. Jim snaffled them from his hand still wondering what a Blackberry actually did.
“Do you get rid of bigger stuff too?”
“What you got in mind, son?”
“TV’s, DVD’s, stereos? Maybe bit of furniture?”
Terence did his wily head shake again. “To be sure, but you no going to get rich.”
Jim nodded again. “Know where I can get a small lock-up? Just a garage would do.”
Terence eyed the tenners still in Jim’s hand and stroked his chin. “Oh, I don’t really know.”
“There’s a drink in it.”
“Try “Filthy Alan”. He’s got a tat shop on the High Street.”
Jim walked back to the bar, now almost empty, and ordered another pint of mild. More than half the youngsters had disappeared. One of the remaining ones was playing pool with Mick. Dropping the mild off to the smiling Terence, Jim joined Tim and Mick. The lad, Danny Boy was a good player, giving Mick a run for his money, though he kept
Tim sighed and pointed his pool cue towards a scabby-faced loner nursing half a mild in the corner. “Terence the Ference we call him. Don’t get me involved, pal. I’m on licence.”
“So am I,” said Jim, walking towards Terence. “So am I.”
Jim pulled a barstool from under Terence’s table and sat opposite. Closer up, his face was clearer; like a weasel sucking a sour sweet. “Can I get you a drink, pal?”
“Maybe.” He swirled the dregs of his mild round, staring at the bar.
“You’re Terence? We might be able to help each other.”
Terence turned and stared at Jim. He felt his gaze hovering over his face, shoulders and stomach. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spoke with too much pleasure and the dregs of an Irish accent.
“I’m a mate of Tim By Four.” Jim knew he was sounding desperate.
Terence looked behind him over at the pool table. Jim guessed Tim must have nodded because he turned back. “First things first,” he said, planting the nearly empty glass in front of Jim.
Jim nodded and stood up. A path cleared amongst the youths to allow him to the bar. Jim guessed they’d seen him talk to Tim and Mick. There was something between the lads and Tim. Buying four pints, he took two to Tim and Mick before returning to Terence with his mild.
He took a huge glug as if Jim might change his mind and want it back. “What you got?”
“Seven cards, driving licence and a couple of smart phones.”
“Same person?” Terence asked.
Jim shook his head. “Three different ones. The driving licence matches three of the cards.”
A smile crossed Terence’s thin lips which quickly faded as his brain appeared to hatch a plan. “Not worth a fortune, my friend, but I should be able to do something.” Terence took another huge mouthful of mild, leaving a third left in the bottom. “Wait a minute then knock on cubicle three.” Standing, he hobbled to the toilets. Flicking a glance back to the pool table, Jim nodded at Tim who smiled briefly then nodded back. After counting to one hundred, he stood up and went to the toilet.
Walking into the damp chill of the toilet block, Jim breathed through his mouth to negate the powerful aroma. Knocking on cubicle three, Jim wasn’t surprised when the door opened and Terence ushered him in.
The cramped and smelly office wasn’t needed for long. Jim handed over the cards to a muttering Terence and was handed fifty quid in grubby tenners.
“Is that all?”
“Not worth much more, pal. Driving licence is the best. Cloners like them, see. Got name, address and date of birth.” His faint drawl made birth sound like both.
Jim nodded. The tube fare and the drinks he’d bought hardly made it worthwhile. “Oh nearly forgot.” Jim pulled the Blackberry and iPhone from his pocket, the batteries and cases detached. “How much for these?”
“Yeah. Quite high demand for them. You’ve thrown the Sims away?”
Jim nodded.
Terence nodded back and pulled five more tenners from his pocket. Jim snaffled them from his hand still wondering what a Blackberry actually did.
“Do you get rid of bigger stuff too?”
“What you got in mind, son?”
“TV’s, DVD’s, stereos? Maybe bit of furniture?”
Terence did his wily head shake again. “To be sure, but you no going to get rich.”
Jim nodded again. “Know where I can get a small lock-up? Just a garage would do.”
Terence eyed the tenners still in Jim’s hand and stroked his chin. “Oh, I don’t really know.”
“There’s a drink in it.”
“Try “Filthy Alan”. He’s got a tat shop on the High Street.”
Jim walked back to the bar, now almost empty, and ordered another pint of mild. More than half the youngsters had disappeared. One of the remaining ones was playing pool with Mick. Dropping the mild off to the smiling Terence, Jim joined Tim and Mick. The lad, Danny Boy was a good player, giving Mick a run for his money, though he kept
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