‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ Brook lied. Without his cap he could see the ravages of vagrancy on Phil’s face — pockmarked ruddy cheeks which sank in towards his jaw, missing teeth, greasy thinning hair and the telltale jaundiced eyes which spoke of a liver failing under the assault of drink and drugs. ‘What happened? You were going to be a dentist, I seem to remember.’
‘Pharmacist,’ Phil grinned. ‘And I kinda still am.’ The black grin faded. ‘You haven’t got any rock to spare, have you, buddy? I’ll pay you back.’
‘No,’ answered Brook. ‘Fresh out. And you haven’t answered my question. What happened to you?’
Jock stirred at that moment and lifted his head at the same time as the bottle went to his mouth. ‘Nuttin’ happened,’ he mumbled after a long draught.
Phil’s eyes flicked at the door and he disentangled himself from the scrum of semi-conscious men as delicately as possible. Brook followed him quietly out. Fortunately Jock’s head had begun to loll again. Up the bare stairs and into a room that looked out over the heavily overgrown back yard. There was just a mattress in the room but the floorboards were scattered with drug paraphernalia — torn-up Rizla packets, scorched wire gauze, needles, blackened empty bottles for the crack smokers.
Brook turned back from the window as Phil closed the door behind him and stooped to pick up a needle. He held it like an axe above his head. ‘What’s happening, Brook? Is this a fucking raid? I know you’re not in the life, man. You’re fucking famous. You’re The Reaper detective. I’ve read the newspapers. I’ve wiped my arse on you. You’re still a copper, aren’t you? ’Cos if you were on the street for real, you’d know the golden rule.’
‘Golden rule?’
‘What we did no longer exists. We don’t have pasts any more. We don’t have futures neither. We live in the present. The next score, the next high. That’s all we think about in here. Dead men walking.’ He moved towards Brook raising the needle higher. ‘That answer your question, Detective Inspector?’
Brook tried not to look at the needle and held up his hands. ‘This is not a raid, Phil. And that needle’s empty.’
‘Course it’s empty, you sanctimonious cunt,’ hissed Phil, now eyeball to eyeball with Brook. Brook could smell his breath, the sweat pouring off him, the stench of death. ‘I emptied it into my veins. But what else is on there? AIDS? Hepatitis? You won’t know until the first bout of flu, baby.’
Brook urgently tried to make eye-contact. ‘Phil, you’re not going to get busted. Listen to me, Phil. You’re not in any trouble. I’m not here about the drugs. Put down the needle and let me help you.’
Phil couldn’t hold the pose; tears filled his eyes and he crumpled to the ground, dropping the needle on to the mattress. ‘I beat you by a lap and a half,’ he wailed.
Brook stooped and picked him up by both arms and forced his way into his face. ‘You probably still can, Phil. Why don’t you let me help you? I could put in a word, get you on a programme.’
‘I’ve been on programmes. They don’t help.’
‘So you just give up and stick a needle in your arm?’
‘D’uh.’
The two men looked at each other in the gloom then simultaneously broke into silent laughter which lasted more than a minute.
Phil took a deep breath and wiped the tears away. ‘’The fuck are you doing here, Brook?’
‘Looking for someone,’ said Brook after a moment. ‘I spoke to Mitch. He sent me. He was here last night.’
‘I know Mitch. He went to Millstone for a bath and a bed.’
‘He told me about Tommy McTiernan. He was here in this house.’
‘Tiny Tom.’ Phil nodded. ‘He left a while ago.’
‘When?’
Phil shrugged. ‘A week? Two?’
‘Left, how?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Think. I need to find out where he went from here.’
‘He left with Oz.’
‘Who’s Oz?’
‘Ozzy looks after us, brings us gear.’
‘He’s your benefactor?’ Phil nodded. ‘Is he Australian?’
‘No. English, I think.’
‘Describe him.’
‘I’ve only seen him clearly once and I was rammed.’
‘Try and remember, Phil.’
Phil took a deep breath. ‘He’s younger than us. Forty, forty-five maybe. Short hair, well built, that’s all I can remember. It’s always at night see, after we’ve had a few.’
‘How does he get here?’
‘He has transport. A big van, I think.’
‘A big van, are you sure?’
Phil fixed Brook with a glare. ‘Damen, I can’t be sure of anything. Maybe it was a car. All I think about is the. .’
‘. . next fix. I get it,’ said Brook, ‘but did the next fix arrive at the same time as Tommy left?’
Phil thought for a minute then slowly nodded. ‘You’re right. Ozzy gave us a few bottles of whisky then Tommy left with him. Bath and bed, Tommy said.’
‘And you don’t know where.’ Phil shook his head. ‘Okay. Phil, promise me if he comes again, you won’t go with him.’
‘What?’
‘Promise me, Phil.’
‘Why? What’s going on, Damen?’
‘Tommy’s dead. We found him in the river. We think another. . vagrant has died as well. That we know about. Does the name Barry Kirk ring a bell?’
‘Bazza? He was here. Is he dead too?’
Brook nodded in the dark. Phil’s expression didn’t waver. Instead he shrugged. ‘Lucky him, I say. That’s the life. We all know what’s coming. If it ain’t me, maybe I’ll read about it in the crapper,’ he sniggered.
‘Phil, things were done to Tommy. His organs were removed.’
‘Lot of use they’d be.’ Phil sniggered again.
‘Don’t you get it yet, Phil? You’re living in a body farm. Barry and Tommy were here, now they’re dead. I think this guy Ozzy takes them somewhere and when they’re dead he guts them like a fish.’
‘So what? He brings us drink, sometimes some rock. Tommy wasn’t my friend, Damen. We don’t have friends in the life. Just rivals for the last smoke, the last drop. We’re on borrowed time, man. Like I said. Lucky Tommy, lucky Bazza.’ He grinned with pleasure. ‘Now I’ve got a bottle of theirs with my name on it.’
Brook searched in his pockets and found a pencil. He wrote on the grubby wallpaper. ‘I’m your friend, Phil. I can help you.’
‘Is that right? Give me money then. I’ve got the rattles something rotten.’
Brook looked him in the eyes. ‘I can help you if you’ll let me. You’re sick.’
‘Don’t fucking patronise me,’ snarled Phil. ‘I’m not sick. This isn’t an illness. I’m weak, no moral fibre, no character. Geddit?’
‘Okay, calm down.’
‘I made my choices and I got it wrong. I fucked up so don’t tell me I’m sick unless you’re got a pill for failure.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ Brook tore off the flap of wallpaper and scrunched it into Phil’s top pocket. ‘If this Ozzy comes back or if you want my help, money, a bed for the night, anything — that’s my mobile number. Call me.’
‘From a payphone? Just give me your mobile and I’ll ring your landline, it’ll be quicker.’ Phil’s face shone with sincerity.
‘I’m a copper, remember. We both know you’ll have sold the phone before I get to the end of the street. Just
