rattlin’ cages. It’s not news, Ian.’
I sat up. ‘When?’
‘Just now.’
I chewed that one over. I said, ‘Didn’t you think it was a bit strange?’
‘What, you askin’ about Pike, next thing he’s dead? Yeah, I thought it was strange.' He fixed me with a look, letting me know strange wasn’t quite the word. ‘You know what’s weirder?’ he said, tapping a fat finger on the table. ‘You bein’ here at the Gallon again.’ He stared at me, sad now and kind of accusing. ‘How many years?’
‘Tubs, I don’t need a trip down memory lane. I need some help.’
He pushed away from the table. ‘Orange juice, Coke or beer?’
While he was up at the bar I took a look around. The dark crimson wallpaper was peeling up near the ceiling, it had always been like that, and the new wall-lamps were just like the old ones, only without the fringe. At the other tables I vaguely recognized some of the faces; a couple of them even smiled and nodded in my direction. It gave me an odd feeling. Maybe it was just for my old man’s sake, but it seemed as if I was remembered. And how long was it since I’d last stepped in there? Ten years?
When I was a kid I couldn’t get enough of it. Back then the Gallon Club seemed like the centre of the world, the height of glamour. My old man counted for something down there, I guess that was part of it. Him, Freddie Day, Nev Logan and the rest, all the bookies, they’d gather down the club on Monday nights, the week’s big event, the settle-up for the previous seven days. When a bookie doesn’t want to hold some bet he’s taken, he lays it off with another bookie, and later in the day that other bookie might lay some off back the other way. It’s just like the syndicates in the Room really, and it can mean that everybody ends up owing everybody. Some bookies keep accounts with other bookies they trust, it avoids tying up too much cash. That’s what my old man did, him and half a dozen others, and on Monday nights they’d go to the Gallon and settle up. The door upstairs was bolted and down by the bar they’d drag two tables together and sit around having a drink and a laugh, passing on track gossip, then the week’s books would come out, and the money. I’d sit over in the corner, sipping my Coke. Back then I thought the whole business was great.
I was so busy remembering the old days that I didn’t notice Fielding now till he was standing right over me.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Not gonna offer me a seat?’ He’d put on weight, and the grog had left little purple veins on his cheeks, but it was him all right. Fielding. One of the world's total bastards.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not.’
It was odd seeing him suddenly ten years older, and out of uniform. Maybe he’d been kicked out of the force, I thought, that might figure. I glanced over to the bar, but Tubs appeared to be staying put.
‘What’s with the suit?’ Fielding said.
I told him to get lost.
‘Worse manners than your old man,’ he commented, and then he just looked at me.
For a moment I thought he was going to offer his condolences, I’m not sure I could have stomached that. Fielding was not a nice cop. From the time he first set foot in Walthamstow he was trouble. He didn’t seem to like many people, but he really hated my old man. It was Dad who heard from someone over at White City that Fielding’s old man was once banged up in Brixton for theft. Dad didn’t waste the good news. He lined up everyone he knew at the track one night, got them all standing there on the terraces. When Fielding did his usual walk past the terraces at the end of the night, Dad conducted everyone like a choir. A couple of hundred voices chanting,‘Brix—ton! Brix-ton!’ The look on Fielding’s face as he cottoned-on was something they still talked about.
Now he said, ‘What brings you back here?’
‘Until you arrived, the company.'
‘Sir,’ a young bloke called, and Fielding
I sat up. ‘When?’
‘Just now.’
I chewed that one over. I said, ‘Didn’t you think it was a bit strange?’
‘What, you askin’ about Pike, next thing he’s dead? Yeah, I thought it was strange.' He fixed me with a look, letting me know strange wasn’t quite the word. ‘You know what’s weirder?’ he said, tapping a fat finger on the table. ‘You bein’ here at the Gallon again.’ He stared at me, sad now and kind of accusing. ‘How many years?’
‘Tubs, I don’t need a trip down memory lane. I need some help.’
He pushed away from the table. ‘Orange juice, Coke or beer?’
While he was up at the bar I took a look around. The dark crimson wallpaper was peeling up near the ceiling, it had always been like that, and the new wall-lamps were just like the old ones, only without the fringe. At the other tables I vaguely recognized some of the faces; a couple of them even smiled and nodded in my direction. It gave me an odd feeling. Maybe it was just for my old man’s sake, but it seemed as if I was remembered. And how long was it since I’d last stepped in there? Ten years?
When I was a kid I couldn’t get enough of it. Back then the Gallon Club seemed like the centre of the world, the height of glamour. My old man counted for something down there, I guess that was part of it. Him, Freddie Day, Nev Logan and the rest, all the bookies, they’d gather down the club on Monday nights, the week’s big event, the settle-up for the previous seven days. When a bookie doesn’t want to hold some bet he’s taken, he lays it off with another bookie, and later in the day that other bookie might lay some off back the other way. It’s just like the syndicates in the Room really, and it can mean that everybody ends up owing everybody. Some bookies keep accounts with other bookies they trust, it avoids tying up too much cash. That’s what my old man did, him and half a dozen others, and on Monday nights they’d go to the Gallon and settle up. The door upstairs was bolted and down by the bar they’d drag two tables together and sit around having a drink and a laugh, passing on track gossip, then the week’s books would come out, and the money. I’d sit over in the corner, sipping my Coke. Back then I thought the whole business was great.
I was so busy remembering the old days that I didn’t notice Fielding now till he was standing right over me.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Not gonna offer me a seat?’ He’d put on weight, and the grog had left little purple veins on his cheeks, but it was him all right. Fielding. One of the world's total bastards.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not.’
It was odd seeing him suddenly ten years older, and out of uniform. Maybe he’d been kicked out of the force, I thought, that might figure. I glanced over to the bar, but Tubs appeared to be staying put.
‘What’s with the suit?’ Fielding said.
I told him to get lost.
‘Worse manners than your old man,’ he commented, and then he just looked at me.
For a moment I thought he was going to offer his condolences, I’m not sure I could have stomached that. Fielding was not a nice cop. From the time he first set foot in Walthamstow he was trouble. He didn’t seem to like many people, but he really hated my old man. It was Dad who heard from someone over at White City that Fielding’s old man was once banged up in Brixton for theft. Dad didn’t waste the good news. He lined up everyone he knew at the track one night, got them all standing there on the terraces. When Fielding did his usual walk past the terraces at the end of the night, Dad conducted everyone like a choir. A couple of hundred voices chanting,‘Brix—ton! Brix-ton!’ The look on Fielding’s face as he cottoned-on was something they still talked about.
Now he said, ‘What brings you back here?’
‘Until you arrived, the company.'
‘Sir,’ a young bloke called, and Fielding
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