To Fight For by Phillip Hunter Read Free Book Online Page B

you don’t know where he lives?’ the manager was saying.
    I didn’t want any bother here. I didn’t want someone doing anything like phoning the law. I didn’t think I had it in me to keep getting away from them.
    â€˜I came here a few weeks ago,’ I said. ‘One morning. He told me his wife was expecting so I thought I’d go see her, say hello.’
    The manager wasn’t buying it. He was one of those types.
    â€˜That’s right,’ the short bird said. ‘She’s got another coming.’
    â€˜Wonder who the father is,’ the taller one said.
    â€˜Why can’t you phone him up?’ the manager said to me.
    â€˜I did. He didn’t answer. I have to go away, so I thought I’d better do it now, in case she goes into hospital.’
    He was a stocky man with thick black hair and a moustache with flour on it. He wiped his hands on his apron. They had thick black hair on them too, and flour.
    â€˜Well …’ he said, still wiping his hands. ‘I’ll call him, see if it’s alright.’
    â€˜I told you, he’s not answering.’
    The manager called him anyway. He pocketed his phone.
    â€˜No answer,’ he said. ‘Sorry, mate.’
    The short girl looked up again then.
    â€˜I remember you,’ she said. ‘Yeah. Benny went out back and had a fag and when he come back he was … well, he looked a bit off, bit green around the gills.’
    â€˜I had some bad news,’ I told the girl.
    â€˜Well …’ the manager said again.
    A few more punters had come in by then, mostly women. They eyed me up and moved past me with as much space between us as possible. The girls were hard at it now. It was lunchtime and probably their busiest period. The manager noticed the trade building up.
    He went behind the counter and tore off a piece of the paper they were using to wrap stuff in. He scribbled an address and handed it to me. I don’t think he cared any more about Green’s privacy, he just wanted me out of his shop.
    Green’s place was a terraced house, just off Roman Road. It was a new-build place, one of those ones where the back garden is the size of the living room and the walls are made of cardboard. I knocked. I heard some kid shout, ‘Dad.’ There was some running about and then nothing. I knocked again and heard a woman cry out.
    â€˜Benny. Answer the fucking door.’
    There were heavy footsteps and finally the door opened and Green was standing looking at my stomach. He tilted his head.
    â€˜Joe,’ he said. ‘The fuck you doing here?’
    â€˜I wanted to talk to you.’
    â€˜Who is it?’ the woman called out.
    â€˜Mate of mine.’
    â€˜Well, get rid of him.’
    Green sighed.
    â€˜She’s pregnant,’ he said. ‘I told you that, right? Hormones all over the place. Let’s get outta here.’ He pulled the door shut behind him. ‘She’s driving me fucking nuts. Hormones. Fuck. I think she uses that as an excuse.’
    He started walking up the road before he remembered me. Then he stopped and turned.
    â€˜I ain’t eaten yet. Fancy some grub? There’s a curry house nearby.’
    So we went up the street, towards the Roman Square market.
    We passed a lot of boarded-up shops, pawn-brokers, pound shops. Teenagers were hanging around here and there, eyeing us up.
    â€˜Not much work for ’em,’ Green said. ‘There was up till 2012 and for a bit after. The Olympic stadium’s near here. Everyone thought it was the start of a whatsit, rejuvenation. Now, though …’ He shrugged. ‘Fine for some, but for the rest of us … The money’s gone and all them government tossers and big businesses are back to not giving a shit.’
    He took me to a small Indian place. There was a sign outside, dirty black writing on a dirty yellow background. ‘The Moghul’, the sign read.
    â€˜They do