Graft (33 page)

Irish circles the thing, clearly proud of his work. When he comes back, Sol can't help but drape an arm round his shoulder.

“Been a week,” Sol says.

Irish wriggles away. “Get on with yourself. You drag me out here to this whorehouse and now you want a cuddle as well?”

“I mean I appreciate it, Pete. It's…”

“Who's
Pete?
You keep doing that! What's with all the small talk?”

Sol laughs nervously. Perhaps their appreciation of the Ferrari is all that's left to bind them – or distract them from a glaring rift. The pair of them stand there, stomachs unsettled, half admiring the car. No mistake: it looks battle-ready. Sol knows the average drone system wouldn't tell it's been modded, and it excites him to know its hidden features are designed with his whims in mind. A bloodlusty vision, then: the car colliding with Roy's murderers –

“Is it heavy?” Sol asks, grasping.

Irish nods. “Course. More than a few horses got away, but it still goes like shit off a shovel. Inch-thick box for your legs. All the doors are lined. The chassis is dripping with it. Radiator's drilled out and replaced. Blast film for all the windows. Steel-sheeted the rear. It's a tank. It'll drink a lot of juice, mind…”

Sol steps forward, runs a finger over the paintwork, then under the arches. He stands up and sniffs his fingers. “It's rusty.”

Irish rolls his eyes. “It came out of a canal, Solomon. It'll be damp as ballbags for a long while yet. But mechanically, it's sound – and you wouldn't wanna get in its way.”

Sol smiles.

“Well? You telling me what the bejesus you're playing at?”

“I wouldn't know where to start.”

“It's not you and her, is it? You running away again?”

“No, not really.”

“Ach, your cryptic bollocks. How long's it gonna be?”

“Not much longer.”

“And work?”

Sol suppresses a wince. Do the ends justify the means? He knows the workshop is unsafe, even without the bikers, or Jeff. Mel's contact Jase, the card on the Reverend's mat, the boxes and Leila's mob at Knutsford Services – all these stack up to a bigger threat, something monstrous, larger than he can comprehend. But at the same time he knows Irish can't stay away forever. He has little choice but to assume Irish's absence gives him an alibi. A perverse sense it's only
him
being hunted. “Do what you can,” he says, with the feeling of a cold finger stretching up his throat.
Because Yasmin's my priority
. “Any cash is yours. Whatever comes in till I'm back – and I mean all of it, plus what we're owed. Pay some bagheads to graft if you need to. That bastard Transit's still up on the ramp…”

Irish gazes at him, mystified. It's rare for Sol to see him this way: expectant, stricken by concern.

“You'll find a note from me there,” Sol tells him. “Just ignore it. And if anyone comes asking for me – anyone at all, asking for my name, where I am, or about the project, you tell them they're knocking on the wrong door. The handler didn't cough up, so they should take their shit to him, this Reverend. Out in Stalybridge.”

“The Reverend? That guy in Emerald City?”

“You know him?”

“Half the fucken city knows him, Solomon. He's an animal. How've you got us involved with him? Is this her as well?” He points to the front door. “I swear she's bad news.”

Sol bites his lip. He wants to say,
I think the Reverend buys trafficked women
. Instead he follows the Ferrari's lines to vanishing point; its paintwork catching the light in such unpredictable ways.

“I'll get off then, should I?”

“I didn't mean–”

“You've gone weird,” Irish says. “Cold. It's fucken sketchy, all this.”

Sol turns and scoops his partner's hand. He pulls it, pulls Irish into his peacoat. He says, breathy in the man's ear, “Thank you, brother.”

Irish pulls back, confused. He shakes his head and steps away, angled as if to sprint off.

Sol doesn't say anything else. He knows it'll be the longest walk.

T
he departing Ferrari
skates a near-lagoon of black standing water, appearing to carve out a bow wave from the tarmac itself. Mel watches the water resettle and the car's circular sidelights defocus to cooling hob-rings, its outline bleeding into the night.

For some reason, caught alone there at this hour, she prays for an inversion: for Manchester to run hot, tropical – its fine rain turned to steam. In this humid republic, lampposts swinging with dead bulbs become verdant palm trees; pigeons become parrots; and the sharpline thickets and bird-spikes morph into exotic plants. And then from pothole puddles rise fresh mosquitoes like vapour, fluid under Mel's command. These she'd send after Sol and Yasmin, away across old Albion's leylines, the city's hidden tracks and tunnels and channels, to surround their car and shield it from harm.

Mel shivers. In with a cigarette and out from the heart. The Ferrari indicates and dips off towards the motorway. Mel drops her cigarette, listens to its hissing death. She pulls away the strands of hair that have blown across her socket. She'd better find her spare.

Back inside, though, Mel is preoccupied by change. Her idea is simple: she sits in the reception cage, flattens the menu and scratches every price from it. She'll make the Cat Flap a collective – let the girls decide their rates. She loads a new film tape into the monitor bank with a heavy gut. She switches on the front door cameras. Smiles at herself. Jase there in the cupboard can bang the doors and walls all he wants, because she's got things to do.

She watches the camera feed for a time. Adjusts the focus. She'd made a mistake with Jeff, pushed into a decision that didn't bear scrutiny, and put imagined profit before their safety. It was a misjudgment, and it wouldn't happen again. She and the women would make this work – will make their living how they like, serving the punters they know, many they trust – because that's their choice, and this their space. She's come too far to compromise. The alternative – stolen people, Jase's half-people, the girls going back on the streets – is intolerable. And why should she run from the only city she knows?

O
n the Princess Road
, damp overalls hugged by the bucket seat, Sol tweaks the Ferrari's throttle. The Mondial is undeterred, unscarred, by its near-drowning, even if filthy water still sloshes around in the instrument binnacles. The road's poor surface is forgiving at least: normally you'd expect a harsher ride owing to low-profile tyres, especially with the weighted suspension, but Irish has even thought to mod the bushes so there's a more generous wallow in the arches. Enough roll for decent feedback, if you don't take the corners too fast. This he learns as they leave a roundabout: Yasmin tipping against him with all her shoulder mass.

More than straight, Princess Road is long – running all the way out to the M60. Their journey there is soundtracked by the sweetness of fourth gear, the hiss and whine of the engine bulk, rear-mid, right by their legs. A sense of velocity enhanced by their closeness to the ground, and the low slung seats that have them almost reclining.

Traffic lights. Bleak terraces ranged left. Naked football pitches right. Sol downshifts, the gearknob a cold ball in his fist. A chance to doublecheck Miss Wales' directions scrawled on the back of it. From here they pass under the Hulme Arch, headlights picking out the cables fanning out from its bowed beams. Unseen debris rattles the undercarriage – all the road markings are missing here, and the potholes are more like craters.

Cabin-wise, the Mondial has subverted Sol's expectations. He expected sharper edges, rough welds, but Irish has been fastidious, and the extra steel is perfectly applied. It looks like a Ferrari. It feels and sounds like a Ferrari. It just about drives like one.

Finally Sol speaks. “Was it out or in?” he asks. “I keep forgetting what he said. Roy – about the crates.”

Yasmin points out of the window. “Out?” She points at Sol. “No, in,” she says. She giggles gently.

“In,” Sol says.

Yasmin nods.

“You know your left and your right, don't you?”

Yasmin holds up three hands to him. “Left, median, right,” she says, and laughs fully.

“We're stopping for petrol in a minute,” he tells her. “And we're going to meet someone.”

Yasmin stills.

“Fluids,” Yasmin says, then looks frustrated with herself. “No. Buy bottled water.”

The petrol station is more a bank of graffitied shutters, spilled oil, scarred with overuse. The attendant-cum-guard lets on – plainly can't believe what he's seeing. He lowers his shotgun as the Mondial pulls across the forecourt, and doesn't say a word when Sol pays at the grate – forty pounds and a penny. An extra fiver as a warning: keep your mouth shut. A few pieces of shrapnel dropped in a charity pot for some unknown war, some other lost cause.

“You hiding from?” Sol asks Yasmin as he gets back in the Ferrari. She's got a sleeve over her mouth, nibbling loose thread off it. After a few seconds, he realizes why – petrol fumes.

“Old cars,” he says. “I quite like it.” He rolls down his window, then leans across to do hers. “Let's sling it over there, shall we. And here – shove these bottles in the bag.”

They park up. They wait. Just enough time to ponder what could've been if he and Irish had taken the cheap hatchback instead of the Lexus. Had he chosen to stay legit, honour his father's work ethic.

A car pulls across the forecourt at almost exactly the time Miss Wales said it would. A nondescript saloon. Navy or purple, Sol can't tell. It turns and reverses up to the Ferrari so both drivers' windows sit adjacent.

Sol wipes his forehead. He says to Yasmin: “Keep your extras hidden.”

Committed now –

The saloon's driver opens their window. An older man, late-fifties-ish, on first glance reminiscent to Sol of a stereotypical farmer: lank hair scraped over a balding pate, crusty with an obvious skin complaint. Ruddy nose, heavy brow, a weary expression. He's wearing a tightly wound scarf that appears more practical than fashion conscious, and Sol can't be sure it doesn't stick damply to the man's neck when he inhales.

“Brian?”

Beside him Yasmin has crushed herself into the seat.

“Don't bloody say it out loud,” the man says. Sol can detect something on his breath – a marine scent, a seafront. It pervades the Ferrari. “They're listening,” the man adds.

Sol might be in Roy's world now, but there's plenty left to learn.

“Right,” Sol says. “So do we follow you from here?”

“Follow? No. You got the stuff, have you?”

Sol tries to pass the bung through the window. The wad of cash from Sandy's Audi.

Brian glares at him. “For God's sakes,” he says. “Not here you numpty – put it away. Just answer. Have you. Got. The stuff?”

“Stuff? Cash? That's… it's all here.”

Brian doesn't immediately react, and Sol notices the lingering smell has turned to rotten fish.

“We were raided this morning,” Brian tells him. “We're waiting for the all-clear.”

Fear pools in Sol's legs. Something nagging. “I'm lost. What do you mean?”

“I mean the council raided one of our tenants.”

“Tenants,” Sol says. “And what… what do you want me to do?”

“Wait. That's what I'm saying. Just hold your bloody horses – I have to take care.”

“But–”

“Shh will you! You not clocked him over there?”

Sol hadn't, no. A burly man leaning against the petrol pump, staring at the Ferrari in partial disbelief. Sol bows his head: again his lack of awareness has undermined the act.

“And they told me you were an old hand,” Brian snorts.

“I'm not used to–”

Brian puts a finger to his lips.

All paid up, the burly man gets back in his car, and no sooner than he's navigated the off-ramp, Brian opens his door. The gap reveals to Sol a blanket covering both of Brian's legs, which seem clumsily positioned, too close together, and a steering wheel adapted with driving aids. He's taller than Sol assumed, with a tattoo of dappled scales running in spirals from his stringy bicep to the back of his hand. From the passenger seat he retrieves two walking sticks and manoeuvres himself to get out of the car. Sol watches, fascinated, as Brian extends like a tripod onto his sticks and bundled feet. Then he goes like this to the boot of his car.

“Take this,” Brian says, passing a carrier bag through Sol's window. Sol recognizes what's inside as a tablet of some sort – weighty, wrapped in a matt case. “It's disposable,” Brian goes on, “so when you're done, stick it under your front wheel. No hard drive, no signature, and the case is fingerprint-resistant. Crypto-keys are automatic, so you'll connect by proxy the second you switch on. It'll be slow, unfortunately.”

“Connect to what, though?”

“The frigging satellite,” Brian says, throwing his head back.

“Satellite?”

“An old Soviet weather sat. How can you not even… Never mind. It does the job. We bounce info up… the sat bounces info down. All runs off our remote servers.”

“OK,” Sol says. “Great.”

“Great?
Great?
Do I need to show you how to turn it on as well?”

“It's fine.”

“Good,” Brian says, and snatches the bung from Sol's resting hand. “You never met me, alright? Never seen me, spoke to me, nowt. And I'm talking about you
and
her in there. Bunch of fucking luddites.”

“Wait,” Sol says.

“What's up with you now?”

“You're from Emerald City.”

Brian's face remains clear, but the smell of fish intensifies.