“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, walking away towards Fat Steph’s car.
“I’m sorry.”
Kathryn Taylor kept walking.
“Can I phone you tonight?”
Stephanie opened the passenger door and Kathryn bent down and picked up something from the seat.
She turned round and hurled a book at me, screaming, “Here, you forgot this the last time you fucked me!”
“Fuck,” I spat, scrambling to pick up the photos.
Fat Steph’s small white car reversed out of the crematorium car park.
“Plenty more fish in the sea.”
I looked up from the ground. Sergeant Fraser handed me a picture of a smiling blonde ten-year-old.
“Fuck off,” I said.
“There’s no need for that.”
I snatched the photo from him. “No need for what?”
Hadden, Jack Whitehead, Gilman, Gaz, and Tom were all milling about up by the doorway, watching us.
Fraser said, “I’m sorry about your hand.”
“You’re sorry? You fucking set me up.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Bet you fucking don’t.”
“Listen,” said Fraser. “We need to talk.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
He pushed a scrap of paper into my top pocket. “Call me tonight.”
I walked away towards my car.
“I’m sorry,” shouted Fraser against the wind.
“Piss off,” I said, taking my keys out.
Next to the Viva, two big men were stood talking by a deep red Jaguar. I unlocked my door, took the keys out, then opened it, all with my left hand. I leant inside the car, dumped the fucking book and the photos on the back seat, and put the keys in the ignition.
“Mr Dunford?” said the fat man in the brown cashmere coat, across the roof of the Viva.
“Yeah?”
“Fancy a spot of lunch?”
“What?”
The fat man smiled, rubbing his leather-gloved hands together. “I’ll treat you to lunch.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Let’s just say, you won’t regret it.”
I looked back up the hill to the crematorium doorway.
Bill Hadden and Jack Whitehead were talking to Sergeant Fraser.
“All right,” I said, thinking fuck a Press Club wake.
“Do you know Karachi Social Club on Bradford Road?”
“No.”
“It’s next to Variety Club, just before you come into Batley.”
“Right.”
“Ten minutes?” said the fat man.
“I’ll just follow you.”
“Champion.”
Paki Town, the only colour left.
Black bricks and saris, brown boys playing cricket in the cold.
The Mosque and the Mill, make it Yorkshire 1974:
The Curry and the Cap.
Having lost the Jag at the last set of traffic lights, I pulled into the unsurfaced car park next to the Batley Variety Club and parked beside the deep red car.
Shirley Bassey was playing the Christmas Show next door and I could hear her band rehearsing as I picked my way through the dirty puddles, full of cigarette ends and crisp packets, to the strains of
The Karachi Social Club was a detached three-storey building that had once been something to do with the rag trade.
I walked up the three stone steps to the restaurant, switched on the Philips Pocket Memo, and opened the door.
Inside, the Karachi Social Club was a cavernous red room with heavy floral wallpaper and the piped sounds of the East.
A tall Pakistani in a spotless white tunic showed me to the only table with customers.
The two fat men were sitting side by side, facing the door, two pairs of leather gloves before them.
The older man, the one who had invited me to lunch, stood up with an outstretched hand and said, “Derek Box.”
I shook hands across the table with my left hand and sat down looking at the younger man with the well-boxed face.
“This is Paul. He helps me,” said Derek Box.
Paul nodded but said nowt.
The waiter brought over a silver tray with thin popadums and pickles.
“We’ll all have the special, Sammy,” said Derek Box, breaking a popadum.
“Very good, Mr Box.”
Box smiled at me. “Hope you like your curry hot.”
“I’ve only had it once before,” I said.
“Well, you’re in for a right bloody treat then.”
I stared around the huge dim room with its heavy white tablecloths and thick silver cutlery.
“Here,” said Derek Box, spooning some pickles and yoghurt on to a popadum. “Pile a load of this on.”
I did as I was told.
“You know why I like this place?”
“No?” I said, wishing I hadn’t.
“Because it’s private. Just wogs and
I picked up my sagging popadum in my left hand and shoved it into my mouth.
“That’s the way I like things,” said Box. “Private.”
The waiter returned with three pints of bitter.
“And the fucking grub’s not bad either, eh Sammy?” laughed Box.
“Thank you very much Mr Box,” said the waiter.
Paul smiled.
Derek Box raised his pint glass and said, “Cheers.”
Paul and I joined him and then drank.
I took out my cigarettes. Paul held out a heavy Ronson lighter for me.
“This is nice, eh?” said Derek Box.
I smiled. “Very civilised.”
“Aye. Not like that kind of shit there,” said Box, pointing at my grey bandaged hand on the white tablecloth.
I looked down at my hand and then back at Box.
