Howard Linskey - The Dead

Palmer swore at Peter Kinane and I shouted at him, ‘shut the fuck up Palmer! You deserved that smack in the mouth, so take it like a man!’ and he gave me a sheepish look that seemed to acknowledge I might be right. Then I turned to the younger man, who was red in the face and panting, like he didn’t know how to even begin to quell his rage.

‘Calm down Peter,’ I told Kinane junior, ‘it’s just banter. Learn to dish it out and take it, if you want to stay up late with the grown-ups.’

‘Aye, aye, alright,’ he said, brushing away the arms that were restraining him. He took a moment to calm himself, ‘but he knows he was out of order. If he had said that about your lass, you’d have bloody punched him.’

Everybody went quiet then and Peter Kinane instantly realised he was out of order for daring to equate a lass he had been shagging for three months to my long-term partner, the daughter of the legendary Bobby Mahoney. I could see in his face he immediately recognised that fact and was worried.

‘No I wouldn’t,’ I assured him solemnly, ‘I’d just have him killed.’ And everybody fell about again.

My mobile rang then and someone said ‘saved by the bell’. The tension broke and everyone started to get their crap together and move away. I took the call.

‘I found him,’ said Sharp, ‘the man you’ve been looking for.’

‘Benwell’s not the smartest part of Newcastle,’ admitted Kinane, with something like under-statement, as he drove the car along one of its side streets with boarded-up shop fronts, ‘but it’s not as bad as they say.’

‘Bits of it I wouldn’t walk around on my own,’ I said, and he grunted a begrudging agreement to that, ‘loads of druggies and alkies who’d rob you and give you a serious kicking for the spite of it, there’s dog shit everywhere, the lasses are all pregnant by the time they’re thirteen and none of them ever know who the father is,’ he grunted at that too, ‘and then… there’s the rough part.’

‘Fuck off,’ but he was laughing when he said that.

‘And unfortunately for Jinky, that’s the bit he lives in.’

I remembered Jinky from the very early years of my involvement with Bobby’s crew, when I was just a nipper, long before I officially joined the firm. I was little more than an errand boy. I was handy for certain low-risk, low-consequence jobs and didn’t cost much. They were a source of pocket money and made me feel like I belonged somewhere when my ma was usually working at two, or even three, jobs at a time, some of them in Bobby Mahoney’s pubs, and my older brother didn’t want to look after me.

Unsupervised, I took to hanging round anywhere I reckoned I could make myself useful to Bobby or his main men. Some of them, as you might expect, were horrible to me. The last thing they wanted was a runty kid cramping their style. Others tolerated my presence and some were pretty decent. I knew that if I kept my mouth shut and did what was asked of me, I’d occasionally get some extra grub or some cash. Nobody in Bobby’s crew was ever broke. They were always flush with money and they liked to spend it, or even give it away, to show how minted they were. Some weeks I’d take home almost as much as my mum. I’d give most of it to her and when she asked how I’d got it I’d say, ‘running errands for Bobby’ and she’d snap, ‘make sure that’s all you’re doing’. But she never stopped me from going there and I think I knew why. My mother was honest all of her bloody life and look where it got her. She never had jack shit. The husband ran off and left her in the lurch, with two boys to bring up on her own and Our young’un was a bloody tearaway. He was uncontrollable at that age and she’d already credited me with having more sense than him, even then. I think, in the end, she didn’t have the energy left to argue with me about hanging around with Bobby Mahoney’s crew. Maybe she just thought I’d be safer if I was with them than on the streets on my own or as part of a gang. The older kids didn’t bother to pick a fight with me because they knew I was in with Bobby. He never tolerated drugs either, which was something my mother and he could agree upon.

‘Jinky’ Smith’s real name was Jimmy Smith and he shared the same name as a legendary footballer from the seventies. The real Jimmy Smith was a flair player with bags of style on the pitch who was called ‘Jinky’ off it. That sense of style seemed to sum our Jimmy Smith up, so he got landed with the same nickname and it stuck, long after the player had left St James’ Park.

Jinky was what members of our crew would nowadays call a ‘fanny rat’. He was a ladies man, who could charm the birds off the trees, though I remember my mother being less than impressed by him. ‘He’s all wind and piss,’ she said once and I was sufficiently shocked by her extremely infrequent use of a swear word to recall the cause of her scorn. ‘He thinks he’s God’s gift to women, does Jinky Smith. Well, if he is, I hope they remember to keep the receipt so they can take him back to the store.’ And I realised that whatever charms Jinky had in the eyes of other women, she could see right through him. He drove her home from the club a few times, after she finished her shifts behind the bar, but I suspect that was on Bobby’s orders and she never once let him in the house.

Then one day Jinky was arrested, charged and sent down for being part of an armed robbery Bobby had organised. He kept his gob shut and ended up doing nine years. When he came out it was obvious he was a changed man, by which I mean he had lost his nerve, along with his good looks, and it was clear he had no part to play in the firm any more. This was in the late eighties. His era was over before mine had even properly begun. Bobby paid him off. Knowing Bobby it would have been a generous settlement for his loyalty, knowing Jinky it wouldn’t have been enough. The proof of that was here in front of me now; the ground floor flat I wouldn’t have housed an Alsatian in.

Kinane waited outside. He made himself visible and stood by the car so nobody had any foolish notions about damaging his precious Lexus. He was one of the few people in the city who could stand calmly next to a posh car in Benwell without either the tyres or the owner being slashed. A gang of teenagers watched him from across the road, but they didn’t make a move and he wasn’t the slightest bit bothered by their presence.

I hadn’t seen Jinky in a long while and I knew he would have changed a hell of a lot, but even I was surprised to see the state he was in. The man who answered the door took a long time to reach it. I could hear him shuffling about inside the tiny one-bedroom, ground-floor flat, then he called out ‘just a minute’ in a weak and raspy voice. The effort required for that set him off on an exhausting, phlegmy coughing fit. He was still hacking it up when he pulled the chain back on the door and opened it to squint out at me. While he frowned, probably wondering if I was a council official, a policeman or a debt collector, I took in the stooped and prematurely aged former jack-the-lad. The famously luxuriant hair was long and straggly, the face lined and haggard and the eyes grey and watery. For a man still in his sixties, he didn’t look great.

‘Fuck me senseless,’ he finally muttered, ‘it’s only Davey Blake,’ and then he laughed like he couldn’t quite believe it. ‘Come in, man.’

I stepped inside. There was a smell of burnt onions and sour milk coming from a tiny galley kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a sliding door. There was a sofa, but it was covered in black bin bags, which I hoped were full of old clothes, rather than rubbish.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked me. ‘I must have something in here,’ and he headed for the kitchen.