Inside Straight (6 page)

Maybe Clive was right. Maybe I was being set up.

I glanced in the rear view again, as another prickle of paranoia marched up the back of my neck.

The question was, what was I going to do about it?

It wouldn't have been the first time that Dapper Dave Randall had sacrificed someone else's career in order to further his own. His path to management was littered with the bodies of those naive enough to trust him or weak enough to find him intimidating. Of course I hoped that Clive wasn't right, that I wasn't just another in a long line of disposable staff, but current evidence yelled to the contrary – Dave was letting all his calls go straight to voicemail and wasn't returning mine. I began to suspect that he'd talked to Jacqui, too – whenever I mentioned the shifts, I met a glacial reception. And all the while, there was Barry Pollard watching me from the blackjack table, waiting to see what I'd do. He didn't accost me after hours anymore, but that didn't mean he wasn't building up to something.

So I did the only thing I could; I knuckled down, kept quiet and did my job until it was time to knock off. Then I tried to forget about the grind of the days by scouting eBay for things I'd never watch, read or play, hoping to quell my anxiety with clutter. And when my lower back hurt too much for me to stay slumped over the computer, I went looking for something to eat. The fridge and cupboards threw up all sorts of possibilities, as long as every ingredient was a condiment of some sort, so I ended up grabbing my coat and heading out.

It was wet and cold, the ground slick and the sky black. The air tasted clean for once and the brisk walk got me thinking. There wasn't much I could do about work other than take the path of least resistance. Dave wasn't going to have me back at the Palace – I could wave goodbye to that club for good. Jacqui didn't seem to want me on the nights, either. So the only logical thing to do was explore Clive's offer of the ships. I knew most people would have jumped at the chance. There were tips and trips and regular meals cooked by chefs instead of pockmarked, oil-burned kitchen porters. There was a chance to see the world beyond the M60 and feel the sun on my skin for once, which might do my itchy palm some good. Then again, there were the horror stories of choppy seas and being stranded in townships where the men wore bullet belts instead of shirts. Not fun.

I pushed into the supermarket, grabbed a basket.

It was dangerous, that was the problem. Not
very
dangerous, not
appreciably
dangerous, even, but dangerous enough to put second thoughts into my head. It would be uncomfortable, too. I'd have to meet new people, learn new things. I might even get sea sick, I didn't know. I couldn't think of the last time I'd been on a boat. I tried to remember my trip to San Diego for the convention, but that was a plane, and I'd taken sleeping tablets for the flight so it didn't really count. And hey, now that I came to think of it, that was another consideration: what if the ship sunk? What if the captain was like that Costa Concordia bloke? People
died
there. Not many people. but enough that I could've been one of them. Bottom line, I could say what I wanted about the Riverside, but at least while I was stuck on day shifts I wasn't in any physical danger and I certainly wasn't likely to drown.

"Fuckin' hell, fancy seeing you here."

I turned at the voice, saw Barry Pollard behind me. I opened my mouth, but I didn't know what to say, so I swallowed instead. I looked at my basket: a pack of Rolo pots, a jar of hot chocolate and a large multipack of Wotsits. I didn't remember picking up any of it, and when I saw it all there like a kid's birthday lunch, my face felt warm. "Mr Pollard."

"That's right."

I cleared my throat. "What a coincidence."

A laugh rumbled out of him. "I wouldn't say that, like."

"Sorry?" I shook my head. "I don't understand."

"No, I've been looking for you." He grinned. "Thought you'd been in here sooner or later. It's your days off, isn't it?"

"I don't …" I couldn't stop blinking. "Have you been
following
me?"

"I wouldn't put it like that. Not really."

"How would you put it?"

He looked around the aisle. "I just thought this might be a nice, neutral place to have a chat."

"About what?"

"Aw, come on, Graham." The grin hardened at the edges. "You don't have to do that. You're a bright lad."

It clicked. "The Palace."

"Attaboy."

"Well, I don't think I have anything to say about that."

"Really?"

"Really. It's none of my business." I looked at the shelves, grabbed a tin of beans that I didn't want and wouldn't eat and dropped it into my basket just so I'd have some vegetables in there. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr Pollard—"

"Hang on." He put a hand on my shoulder. He squeezed. It hurt.

I stopped. Tried not to show the pain. My chest felt tight. I breathed out once through my nose. "Mr Pollard—"

"Sorry, son." He let go, showed me his open hand. "Don't know my own strength."

"It's okay. I'm just not used to people—"

"You don't like being touched."

It felt like a confession of weakness. "That's right."

"I know, I saw a programme about it." He wiped his hands with a flourish. "All that business."

"No. That's not ... It's not an
illness
."
All that business
was meant to show the camera that you weren't palming chips. It was the same reasoning that meant dealers couldn't wear watches and their uniforms weren't allowed to have pockets. Bottom line – the organisation didn't trust its employees. Having worked with those employees, I didn't blame the organisation one bit. But still ... "That's procedure."

"Not in Sainsbury's, it isn't."

"Alright, a force of habit, then."

"Hey, I'm not judging, son. I'm saying I understand. I know what's going on with you. I've been watching." He pointed at me. "And I know you're not happy at work."

"If people were happy at work, Mr Pollard, it wouldn't be called work, would it?" I turned and continued back down the aisle, pausing instinctively by the spaghetti hoops before I carried on.

He followed. "Nah, it's not that kind of unhappy. It's not normal. I've seen you, son. You look like you're this fuckin' close." He snapped his fingers.

"I'm fine, Mr Pollard."

"Call us Barry."

"I'd rather not." We stopped in front of the bakery section. The smell of the doughnuts was the only thing keeping me sane. I grabbed a loaf of Mighty White and dropped it into the basket. "I can't afford to get too familiar, Mr Pollard. It's called fraternisation, and I could lose my job."

"I've got six of your dealers coming to mine. Been regular since the place opened."

"That's ... it doesn't matter. I don't care." I cared; I wished he hadn't told me. Now I'd be looking for them. "If somebody asks—"

"You won't tell 'em."

"If I have to, I will."

"You never told no one about the Palace."

I looked at him, rolled my shoulders. "How do you know?"

"Because I've still got a front door. And I'm not down the fuckin' nick."

"Why did you tell me?"

He smiled. The gold tooth made an appearance. "Because I needed to see if I could trust you."

"Well, you can't." I went back the way I came and turned into the first available aisle. It was full of kitchen roll and toilet roll, stacked high and imposing.

He was right next to me every step of the way. "Come on, Graham, don't mug yourself, eh? You're a good lad. Believe you me, I know a good lad when I see one. Hang around with scallies and fuckin' chancers your whole professional life, you can spot a level fella a mile away. And you, Graham, I could put up fuckin' shelves with you, son."

I squinted at him. "Is that a compliment?"

"How long you been doing this now?"

"The clubs?" I looked at toilet rolls. A litter of puppies looked back. "Sixteen years."

Sixteen years of dealing and inspecting and running pits. When I said it like that, it sounded like a long time.

It
was
a long time.

"You know what I think, Graham? I think that they're never going to make you management. Your man, Dave Randall, I know him from when he used to run the pit himself. He was a prize cunt then and he's a prize cunt now. He's not going to let you anywhere near management because he knows what you're like. He knows you're too fuckin' good for the job. He knows you're going to show him up. So what happens then, eh? What happens to you?"

"I'll be fine."

"You'll retire a pit boss or else you'll flip your fuckin' lid again."

"What're you talking about?"

"Your breakdown."

"I didn't have a breakdown." I shook my head, laughed a little, and moved back towards the bakery. "I think you're mistaken about that." I had a mental shopping list at one point, things to get, an order to get them in, but now I didn't know where I was or what I'd picked up already. All I wanted to do was jettison the lot and get out of there, but every step I took, Pollard took one with me. He weaved like a boxer, anticipated every move. I had to stop and hold up a hand. "Please, Mr Pollard, I can't—"

"I know." His hands were up now, too. He showed gold. "Fraternisation."

"I'm not about to jeopardise my job for no good reason."

"What if I gave you one?"

"Sorry?"

"A good reason."

I laughed. Something hurt my throat. The laughter became a cough.

Pollard took a step towards me, his voice lowering. "I'm going to rob the place, Graham, and I want you to be a part of it."

We were in the frozen section now. Blind panic had brought me here and utter incomprehension kept me rooted to the spot. I looked at Pollard. Behind him were rows of Ben and Jerrys; their jaunty flavour names were like a dozen badly-timed and poorly-written jokes. My basket was heavy. I wanted to swap it to my other hand, but I didn't have the strength or the force of will.

I tried to say something like "Excuse me?" but my throat kept closing like a panicked sphincter and all that came out were a series of quiet, choking squeaks.

"It's okay."

I moved my mouth. I started to shake my head. "Wuh-we—"

"Don't think about it too hard, Graham. I'm not asking you to tool up. Only thing I need off you is a bit of information."

"I don't know anything." I put my basket down on top of the freezers.

"Nah, you know more than you think, son."

A middle-aged woman pushed a trolley between us. She looked appalled at the price of ice cream. I was glad of the interruption, watching her shopping glide past us as I tried to work some saliva back into my mouth. My wrist itched and burned at the same time.

When she turned at the top of the aisle, I moved back against the freezers, pressed my wrist against the cool glass. "I can't. I mean, I don't know what you want to know but I can't give you that information. Even if I knew it. Which I don't. I mean, I just
arrived
, I can't—"

Pollard held up a hand. I hated myself for shutting up. "Don't start talking bollocks just yet, alright? I know it's a bit of a leap for you, goody-fuckin'-two-shoes that you are. I know you'll probably need a bit of time to get your head round it an' that. So here's what I'm willing to do—"

"
No
." I blurted it out, too loud and too high.

"You what?"

"I can't do it. You can't make me."

Pollard frowned. He dug one hand into the pocket of his coat. I opened my mouth. He put a finger to his lips.

My first thought – Jesus, he has a gun.

My second thought – wait, people don't get murdered in a Sainsbury's. An Aldi or a Lidl or a Tesco Metro attached to a petrol station, yes. But not a Sainsbury's. It'd be like getting raped in Waitrose – it just didn't
happen
.

"Wait." I moved up against the freezers, nudged my basket. I felt it move, saw it slip from the glass and drop to the floor. The hot chocolate smashed open, coughing 70% cocoa into the air. I blinked at it. Everything was going wrong. "Mr Pollard—"

"Easy, son." Pollard showed me a mobile phone. It was small, cheap and disposable.

And now, apparently, mine.

"I don't want it."

He grabbed my left hand. I wanted to scream. He forced my fingers open and slapped the phone into my raw palm. "Just give us a call when you've had a proper think about it."

I shook my head. I couldn't look at him. My wrist hurt. I wanted to cry.

I stared at the floor, making my mouth tight so my lip wouldn't tremble.

"Graham." Pollard's voice was hard.

I shook my head. Focused on the hot chocolate that dusted the floor.

"We're going to do this. It's going to happen, with or without you. But it's going to be a lot quicker and a lot cleaner if you help us out." He leaned down so I couldn't avoid him. "Someone on the inside means less people get hurt. Do you understand what I'm saying, Graham?"