Quid Pro Quo

Chapter Twenty Six

I had not had a balls-out, full-blown hangover for several years.

In truth, I didn't drink very regularly and I'm not the kind of guy who nips down the pub every night for a couple of pints after dinner. Consequently, when I do have a few too many, I tend to be well aware of it the following morning. This morning in particular was characterized by a conglomeration of a thumping head, churning stomach and that pervasive feeling of weakness throughout my limbs.

I lay in bed with my eyes screwed tight for several hours, offering the occasional whimper or groan up to the fresh morning air of the hayloft. Around ten, I heard the crunch and skid of Ty's Land Rover pulling up outside. I sat up a little too hastily and instantly regretted it as a wave of nausea swept over me.

Ty leaned on the Rover's horn and a resulting bolt of pain exploded in my head. I replied with a loud stream of invective, predominantly directed at his parentage.

Moments later, his dark mop of hair poked over the top of the hayloft, a broad grin on his face. "Morning!" he shouted unnecessarily cheerfully. "How are we feeling today?"

"Hunky-fucking-dory" I replied. Ask a stupid question, you know?

"Well, I guarantee that I can fix your hangover right up. Get your arse out of bed and let's go to work." Message delivered, his dark hair disappeared back down the ladder.

"Where's Martha?" I asked him.

"I ran her into town earlier. I just got back, now go get a shower," he replied from out of sight.

I crawled over to the edge of the hayloft and peered down at him. "Shoot me now!" I moaned just as Ty was leaving the barn.

He turned and flashed a smile at me. "I wouldn't waste the bullet mate, another night like that and your liver will be climbing up out of your throat and looking for a new home."

I was standing in the shower, letting the icy water sting the more painful parts of my naked body, when I heard my mobile ringing from the direction of my trousers that were hanging on a nail. At first, I was inclined to ignore it and let the answer phone do its thing, but then the thought occurred to me that it might be Martha.

I leaned out of the cow stall and fumbled with my pocket, trying not to get the material too wet in the process. Cold water and suds ran off my torso and pooled at my feet as I undertook a jerky little dance, trying in vain to keep my clothes dry. I finally managed to withdraw the device and hit the green button.

"Satchmo..." It was Walker Pelc, and the tone of his voice made me forget the pain in my head. It was something I had never heard before. He was scared.

"Walker? Is that you?" I asked, smoothing water and soap from my eyes.

"Listen to me, Turner. Whatever the fuck you have got into, I don't want any more phone calls from you. You don't exist, you're nobody to me, capiche?"

Normally I would have smirked at his use of film Mafioso language but listening to him now just made my blood run cold. Walker spent his working life dealing with scum, and I strongly suspect that a good deal of his private life was taken up in similar company. In short, he dealt with the dregs of society; drug dealers, child beaters, petty criminals, bail skippers, vandals and gang members. He received death threats on a weekly basis and shrugged it off with the slimy confidence of a man with the power of the law at his back and an unlicensed Second World War Polish service revolver in his desk drawer.

"Walker, what in God's name has got into you?" I asked, a little alarmed that something had rattled him so deeply that I could hear it so clearly in his voice.

"OK, Turner. I just received a visit from some very large and persuasive men. They were asking me a lot of questions, mostly about you. Let me just say that I was inclined to answer everything. In fact, I would have sucked them both off if they had asked me too, just to be rid of them," he said conjuring a mental image that I really didn't need.

"Did they look like they might enjoy it?" I replied, trying to make light of the situation.

"Satchmo, these were not the kind of men who ask. They take."

"Who were they? What did they want?" I asked, beginning to feel a little scared myself.

"Well, it wasn't your fucking birthday and shirt size, dickhead. They wanted your addresses, friends, where you drink and just about every other fucking thing I know about you," Walker coughed, hacked and spat.

"What did you tell them?" I bleated with a little panic in my voice.

"Everything I could think of and some stuff I couldn't. I'm not taking your shit-beating, motherfucker."