The black night rain had made Wythenshawe lonely and sick. Across the estate, the houses were shaken and thrown; they stood where they landed.
The drunk couldn’t find the door catch. Amjad had to get out of his seat and help him. Pressed against the edge of the wind, he opened the rear doors and looked down at the sodden body. Amjad forced his voice, hoping to overcome the drift of the wind. The price of the ride was a fiver. The drunk pushed his hand flat into a tight hip pocket. The well-seasoned, screwed note he pulled out had an excremental sheen. Amjad took it and hauled the drunk out. He was glad to shut the door on the back of this damned pissed twat. People talked about dirty money, but what did they mean? The lifeless notes collected in the tills of the cornershops that sold cigarettes in singles and baked beans by the drip? The money taken in curry houses at the business end of the night, overprinted by skid marks after a circuit through the city? Let the Pakis face the embarrassment of paying these soiled tissues into the bank.
When the BMW passed Amjad on the central lines, he didn’t decide to follow it. It was taking the road he would have chosen anyway. But when he saw it take a corner, Amjad sped up. He caught sight of it again on the far side of an Escort and allowed another two cars to slip between its tail lights and his Nissan. He could swear to it, this was the same car used in the attack on Jabhar’s restaurant. Never mind that he was losing work, Amjad was going to follow the motherfucker. If for no better reason, he might learn something about the monster who had destroyed his friend’s dreams. He should know what kind of people didn’t care if they started a war between the Blacks and the Pakistanis.
In the language of the holy Koran, Jabhar meant Mighty. In plain English, Jabhar jabbered in shock when he saw the trashed remnants of his restaurant. He had refitted the place himself. Losing the flock wallpaper and the plaster reliefs of Mecca, Jabhar styled his restaurant as a cool blue diner where the light was sharp enough for anyone to see that the modern Moghul food was served on spotless tables. It had been beautiful.
The wiper blades pushed sheets of rainwater across the edge of his bonnet. Beneath the car, the rubber on his retreads created smooth space wherever they failed to grip the road. The BMW was pushing the pace. Perhaps its anti-lock brakes could spin a little friction into the tarmac blacktop – if Amjad ever had to stop, he might slide for miles. On to Princess Park Way, the road lights gave an orange tint to the night but failed against the dense sheets of rain. Amjad had to jump a series of amber lights to keep parity with the BMW, which rode on a lucky green wave through four junctions. Amjad drew square at the fifth set of lights and in that pause, looked over. It was better to look directly. Wiser than being caught stealing a discreet glance.
There was only one man in the BMW. He was, at most, thirty years old and had distinctive tramlines cut into his short hair. Amjad would never have known his name, if his little brother hadn’t pointed him out as the Tasmanian.
Amjad put his eyes back on to the road. It was enough. Without better proof, he knew that he’d got the right man. The motherfucker lived in Wythenshaw but drove a BMW. One day he might be rich enough to afford a house as well as a car. Better, he might end up dead.
The BMW took a right turn. Amjad followed him to the Passenger Club and, when he was sure that was the final stop, Amjad pulled over and turned off his lights. He wasn’t sure why he had decided to stay on the tail a little longer. Still, he turned off his radio. At the other end of the wireless link, his uncle would wonder why he had dropped out of the circuit. It would not matter, though.
The No-Smoking sign that did not apply to Amjad was framed by beads. Some of those beads brought good luck – if Amjad knew which ones, he would throw the rest away. He opened a pack of Embassy Filters and lit up. Why would he need luck, if he was only going to sit and watch? All he had to decide was whether he wanted to listen to Bhangra or to a tape of Sufi chants. That did not call for luck.
Over towards the Passenger Club, the Tasmanian got out of his BMW and pointed his key ring at his car.
Amjad mouthed the electronic ‘beep’ that he could not actually hear. In the halogen spotlight above the club door, Amjad saw a flat, squat face and dead eyes. The tramlines in his hair ran all the way around his head, razored into a lightning flash above the nape of his neck. No question, it was the one his little brother had identified as an evil motherfucker. (‘Watch your fucking language,’ Amjad said when he slapped his brother down. ‘Don’t let your mum hear you talking that way.’)
Although he was not going to do it, Amjad could walk over to the car and look around. He could open it up inside a few minutes. But he could only silence the alarm after he had broken into the car and he did not fancy doing that, not right outside the Passenger Club.
The bouncers, dressed uniformly in black shellsuits, greeted the Tasmanian with hand-slaps. He Yo’ed them back. no smile. He lifted his arms to shoulder height and made a half-turn, forwards and back – but no one actually patted him down. He might be armed now. He might still have the machine guns in his car. Why not? The police had gun-carrying cars travelling endlessly around Manchester, circling the town as aimlessly as lost spirits until they were called to respond. Why wouldn’t a gangster do the same? Amjad pulled on his cigarette and sank a little lower in his seat. Driving a Nissan was like carrying a taxi sign on the top of your car, but these streets were worked by unlicensed cabs, driven by black lads who couldn’t afford wheels any other way.
Many other people entered the Passenger Club, but at this time the flow was so unhurried that Amjad could look each one over individually and read whatever he could read in their faces. Many were similar to the BMW driver. Most were younger, both males and females but all of them black.
He had been parked for over three-quarters of an hour when be recognised Michael Cross. Striding out from a gallery of concrete pillars under the Moss Side tower blocks, Michael Cross did not shorten his steps for the woman beside him. If he was deliberately forcing the pace, the woman showed no sign of trouble as she kept up with him – despite her heels. It was the same one, the half-caste woman from this afternoon. The one whose mother came from Surinam. What would they do together in the Club? Were they about to dance? Amjad had no idea of the connection between this partly foreign woman and Michael Cross.
When they reached the door, Michael shook hands with the doormen – there was no slapping. When Michael lifted his arms for the security search, they shook their heads as if it was a joke. But one still crunched up the pockets of the jacket he was wearing. As one of the bouncers stood to the side to let Michael pass, Amjad saw him surreptitiously lift the back of Michael’s jacket. If he was expecting to find a handgun tucked into the waistband, he didn’t find one.
Estela caught the bouncer’s clandestine manoeuvre at Michael’s back. Did he want a quick sight of Michael’s still pert backside? She gave the bouncer a wink, embarrassing him. When it was her turn to be searched, what she did, apart from open her bag, was shrug out of her coat and twirl for the security team. Ain’t nothing under this tight dress that should not be there. One of them took her coat for a second and felt down to its pockets. She told them: ‘It doesn’t matter – it’s going in the checkroom anyway.’
All the way down the dark corridor, Michael tried to behave like he didn’t know Estela. He was still mad at her. She could cope; she walked ahead of him, smiling freely at anyone who gasped or whistled as she swung past. After she’d checked her coat, she stood waiting for Michael to catch her up. Michael took his time, greeting everyone who greeted him and making it clear he wasn’t going to introduce Estela to anyone.
When he reached her at the cloakroom, she tilted her elbow out for him to catch. He slapped it down, he wasn’t even going to touch her after what she’d done to him. She followed him through the pair of swing fire-doors and into the club.
Ragga boomed out of a monster sound-system, the walls were sweating in time to the music. Down on the floor, the dancers leant back at impossible angles, thrusting out their hips, hard and low. Their crotches throbbing inside ultra-wide trousers or super-tight skirts. The dancers up-stage led the revolution, their dancing wilder, their clothes more improbable.
She took a few steps, winked at Michael and asked if he wanted anything from the bar.
‘Not with you, I’m going club class – upstairs.’
He moved off. She wondered how long he was going to be like this. She had told him, he was the one who first hooked her on martial arts: if he thought about it, it was almost a compliment that she had put him down on his ass.
Like the corridor into the club, the stairs were lined with bodies. It seemed that if anyone wanted to just hang, they chose the main trade routes around the club. The way Michael moved up the stairs, sending out nods rather than full handshakes to anyone who called out to him, it was clear that there was a hierarchy to hanging. Estela frosted her smile. She barely turned her head as the yo-baby-baby brigade tried to distract her. At the head of the stairs, Michael never paused to see if she was still behind him.
She walked into the glare of full light, a smoky bar with airport lounge furniture and pine panelling straight out of the 1970s. Every chair was already taken in the half of the room that Estela could see. Beyond a pine and glass screen, the more secluded half looked as though it might still have sitting room.
Michael said, ‘I’ll get my own drink. If you’re sticking around, don’t let on that you’re a tranny.’
‘I’m not. But if you want to buy – get a gin and French for the lady, Michael.’
The spread of ages in this upstairs bar surprised Estela. Mostly men, some of the older ones could have been sitting in a West Indian social club and not a ragga dance hall. She recognised quite a few, men who weren’t so grey the last time she had seen them. Some that she guessed wore grey dreads, underneath the crochet of their caps. The atmosphere was mellow, humming with good-natured laughter, fragrant with grass and rum. Michael returned from the bar with a pint of Guinness held between his finger and thumb, a shot of rum with the remaining fingers. He had nothing at all for her.
When he sank the rum down, he made an mm-mm sound. Delicious. That would show her.
She took short steps between the low-slung, crowded tables, keeping up with Michael as he moved on towards the next set of men he had to greet. A new warmth had soaked into his voice, that could not be pinned on the rum chaser. His handshakes grew longer as he worked his way through the tables. Estela draped a hand across his shoulder, looking round the table she said, ‘I’m Estela.’
Everyone turned towards her with interest, and to Michael with approval. Only one of them asked: ‘I know you, girl?’ Estela told him that he didn’t and let him kiss her hand, thinking: you never did that before, Carlton Smith.
She said, ‘Can I buy everyone drinks? If someone could help me carry them?’
She got her volunteer. Michael was scowling but all she gave him was a sweet grin. Let him work out if there was a smug edge to it. She passed a fifty over to the man who’d stood to help her. ‘The atmosphere’s gone straight to my head. Would you mind getting them, honey?’
Michael’s friends made room for her around the table. She squeezed in, rolling her eyes and fanning her face; Heavens, I’m such a cissy.
Her eyes were already drifting to the darker half of the bar. She could see that’s where the gangstas held court. She was marking them, watching their moves. And she could see the Taz-Man, furthest back in the shadows. He half-turned to accept the hand of his lieutenant. She recognised the gesture – a Hollywood handshake customised for Manchester.