The Killing of the Tinkers Read Free

word.”
    I looked round the pub, not a haven of privacy. I got my smile in gear, said,
    “Let’s step outside.”
    A tiny pull at the corner of his mouth, the only indication he appreciated the joke. One glance at his hands, you knew he’d travelled the route. The fresh air hit me like a hurley. I staggered, felt a steadying hand. He said,
    “Fresh air can be a whore.”
    I pulled out my smokes, shook one free, cranked the lighter. Nothing doing. I said,
    “Fuck.”
    He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, knotted tie. He reached inside his jacket, produced a Zippo, handed it over. It was solid silver. I fired up, offered it back. He said,
    “Hang on to it; I quit.”
    “It’s solid silver.”
    “Let’s call it a loan.”
    “OK.”
    I sat on the window ledge, asked,
    “What’s on your mind?”
    “You know me?”
    “Nope.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “I don’t forget faces.”
    “I’m Sweeper.”
    I checked his face. He wasn’t kidding.
    “No offence, pal, but it doesn’t mean shit to me.”
    “The tinkers?”
    “Is this some kind of joke?”
    “I’m a man of little humour, Mr Taylor.”
    “Call me Jack. So…what do you want?”
    “Help.”
    “I don’t know how I could do that.”
    “You helped Ann Henderson.”
    Her name caught me blindside, like a screech across my soul. Must have shown in my face. He said,
    “I regret causing you sorrow, Mr Taylor.”
    “Jack, it’s Jack.”
    I flicked the cigarette, watched it arch high, then fall. I said,
    “Look, Sweep…Jesus…what a name. I don’t do that any more.”
    “She said you’d help.”
    “She was wrong.”
    I began to move. He put out his hands, said,
    “They’re killing our people.”
    It’s a show-stopper. No question. It stopped me. Turned to face him. He said,
    “You’ve been away. I know that. In the past six months, four travellers have been killed.”
    He paused, contempt in his eyes, continued,
    “The guards, they’ve done nothing. I went to the superintendent, a man named Clancy. Do you know of him?”
    I nodded and he said,
    “For them, it’s only tinkers…and everybody knows, they’re always killing each other.”
    “What do you think I can do?”
    “You can find out.”
    “Find out what?”
    “Who’s killing them and why.”

Children of the Dead End
    Patrick McGill
    I ended up staying in Nestor’s for a few more days. Mainly because I couldn’t get it together to move. It was round noon, I was levelling out. Shouted Jeff for a pint. He asked,
    “Bit early for it?”
    “Jeez, I’m up since eight.”
    He glanced at my eyes, said,
    “You’re up all right.”
    I was sliding on a downer, snapped,
    “Forget it.”
    Jeff doesn’t do retaliation, began to pour a pint, said,
    “What’s your hurry?”
    I eased, said,
    “Time I checked into Bailey’s.”
    “Take a few more days. Cathy is glad of the company.”
    I watched him cream the pint before I ventured,
    “And you, Jeff, what’s your take?”
    “I’m your friend, I don’t have a take.”
    Is there a reply to this? I don’t know it. The door opened and Sweeper came in. A blue suit and a bluer shirt, wool tie. Except for a gold earring, he could have passed for a guard. The temptation to pun was ferocious.
    Like,
    “Look what the car swept in.”
    Instead I said,
    “Join me.”
    “A mineral, please.”
    Jeff checked.
    “Club Orange?”
    “Yes, please.”
    We studied each other for a moment, then Sweeper took a swallow of the drink. Crunched the ice, revealing strong white teeth. I said,
    “What’s on your mind?”
    “You are in need of digs?”
    “No…no, I’m not. I’m up to my eyes in accommodation.”
    He gave the brief smile, said,
    “You have the sharp tongue.”
    “I like to cut to the chase.”
    He produced a set of keys, placed them on the table, said,
    “You’ll know Hidden Valley.”
    “Of course…John Arden lives there.”
    “Who?”
    “Booker Prize nominee, highly respected dramatist…”
    He put up his