now. Not for ages.’ Weenink had spilled some beer on his leather jacket, and his sleeve stuck to the table when he moved his arm. Cooper was struggling to keep up with his
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consumption. He hadn’t seen Weenink drink quite so hard since his marriage had broken up after less than two years. Weenink’s wife had said she hadn’t realized what she was tying herself to. And she hadn’t just meant Todd. She had meant the police service. ‘Ram-raiding has pretty well been designed out in the town centre,’ said Cooper. ‘Well, it’s a shame. They were a bit more exciting than the other crap. All you get now is shoplifting. Where’s the fun in that, Ben?’ They moved on to the Red Lion, a comfortable pub with somebody’s choice of seventies pop music piped discreetly into the bar, and a row of computer games. The landlord knew them both, and they got the first round on the house. It disappeared too quickly for Cooper’s peace of mind. ‘The CCTV cameras have cut out a lot of the other stuff, too,’ he said. ‘Bloody cameras. It’s a bit too much like Big Brother, if you ask me.’ Cooper was impressed by Weenink’s literary knowledge. He wouldn’t have put him down as a George Orwell fan. 1984 was one of Cooper’s favourite novels, along with Lord of the Flies. Then he frowned. ‘We are talking about George Orwell, aren’t we?’ ‘Never heard of either of him,’ said Weenink, and belched. ‘Is he from another division? I suppose you’ve met him at Police Federation meetings, or something.’ Cooper took another sip of beer. So Todd Weenink
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only read the TV pages in the Eden Valley Times, after all. The third pub was the Station Hotel. They were heading downmarket now. There was no piped music here, no TV screens or bar meals - only a pool table and saltandvinegar crisps, and a jukebox full of heavy metal CDs. The customers all seemed to be wearing old Iron Maiden Tshirts. A woman walked past towards the bar in a pair of leather trousers. ‘Eat my pants, look at the arse on that,’ said Weenink. ‘Don’t say that. It’s disgusting.’ Over the next beer, Weenink studied Cooper with exaggerated care. ‘You’re a fucking poofter, you are, Ben. Do you know that? A fucking poofter. But I love you. You’re my mate.’ They nodded at each other, bleary-eyed. There was no need for words, really. The beer fumes drew them together in a warm, sentimental embrace. Weenink took out a packet of cigarettes and offered Cooper one. Cooper took it. He hadn’t smoked since he was sixteen years old. He looked at it for a minute. Weenink tried to give him a light, but Cooper shook his head and laid the cigarette carefully on his beer mat, lining it up alongside his glass. This particular mat had a picture of a female pop singer on it. Cooper laughed and laughed. It looked as though she had a cigarette up her nose. ‘You know, Ben,’ said Weenink after sufficient silence. ‘You and me, we won’t take any shit from anybody.’ ‘Right.’
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‘Am I right?’ ‘You’re right, Todd.’
Weenink watched the woman with the leather trousers walk back across the room and took a drag of his cigarette. ‘What was I saying?’
‘Let’s go somewhere else, shall we?’
Cooper and Weenink walked out of the pub, across the street and through Market Square, staggering slightly as their feet slithered on the cobbles.
‘Here, we can play leapfrog on these,’ said Weenink, swinging on the black cast-iron street furniture, not noticing when he banged his shin on the metal. His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the square. A middleaged couple getting into their car turned to look at them. Cooper could almost hear them tutting. For once, there were no noisy groups of youths in the square to distract attention.
‘Come on,’ he said.
Weenink allowed himself to be led away from the square, down the passage by the Somerfield supermarket. They came out on the riverside walk under the nineteenth-century bridge across the River Eden.
‘Not much life down here,’ said Weenink. ‘Isn’t there a night club open or something?’
‘Night club? On a Thursday?’ ‘I need another drink.’
‘It’s closing time.’
‘But we’ve missed some pubs out.’
Weenink slowed down and stared at the river. Dark shadows lurked just below the surface of the slowmoving water. They were only stones, though. The
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water was too shallow here for them to be anything else. You could walk across and barely get your feet wet.
‘Those ducks are asleep,’ said Weenink. ‘Let’s wake them up.’
‘What for?’ ‘It’s too quiet.’
Weenink picked up a handful of gravel and began to throw it at the mallards resting in the reeds with their beaks under their wings. His actions were totally uncoordinated, and the stones fell harmlessly into the water with small plops.
‘I need something bigger.’
Cooper looked round, a vague anxiety creeping through the haze of alcohol. There was little traffic passing over the bridge. The only lights were those that burned in the supermarket. There were probably staff on the night shift in there, stacking shelves and taking deliveries. At any moment, one of them might come outside for a fag break.
‘Let’s move on a bit,’ he said. ‘What for?’
‘We have to get home.’
‘I thought we were going to a night club.’ ‘No.’
‘That’s what we want. Have another drink, a bit of dancing. Let’s go to Sheffield. We could go to a casino.’ ‘You can go on your own.’
‘Oh, Ben.’
Cooper wasn’t impressed by the sudden wheedling tone. But he knew that he wouldn’t be able to leave
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Todd to go anywhere on his own, all the same. Weenink sat down suddenly on a bench. The wooden slats creaked under his weight.
‘God, I’m knackered,’ he said. ‘Totally knackered. I could just go to sleep right here, Ben.’
‘Come on, Todd. We’ve got to keep going.’ ‘Sit down, Ben.’
