Free The Norway Room by Mick Scully

chair.
    It was more than lust. Or there was an interceptor. A feeling that he wasn’t looking for. Not right now anyway. He’d had enough of feelings. But it was there. She played with his ear. ‘I’ll see you around,’ he said.
    It was inevitable that Carrow would come across some Birmingham faces here on the door at the Norway. They had their own pubs, places like the Little Moscow in Tyseley, the Last Morsel in Aston and the Earl in Newtown, but the younger guys liked a night out in the clubs as much as anyone. And there were the opportunities: watching; checking out what was what – something to take back to the boss; networking. Then, his third Saturday in, he sees Kieran and Pricey from Crawford’s mob lining up to come in – all nicely dressed and well behaved. They recognised him. A sort of nod from Kieran. Now he wasn’t the law it seemed he could at least be acknowledged.
    A little later Kieran came up to him. ‘Crawford heard you was back. Dutchland didn’t work out then?’ Carrow said nothing. He saw Pricey lurking in the background. ‘I suppose he thought you’d go back on the force. But it looks like you’ve decided against that?’
    â€˜That’s right.’ He didn’t add – for now.
    â€˜Well, Crawford would like a word. It’s no good asking me what about. I don’t know. He could be offering you door work at one of the clubs. But I doubt that, somehow.’ Kieran took a card for the Spotted Hippo from inside his jacket. On the back was written a mobile phone number in blue biro. ‘Give him a ring. Make an appointment.’
    The Spotted Hippo at eleven in the morning – dull and dingy. The scarlet stage curtains, rich and vivid in stage light, were just garish in the gloom of the standard overhead lighting that exposed stains on the carpets, cigarette burns on tables, brown plush seating the colour of dried blood. The glittering poles were pointless without their female pendants. The bars that edged the room were shuttered and locked. A strong smell of air freshener. Two heavy-eyed young women pushed Hoovers around.
    The guy who had let Carrow in – all bouncer gear, at this time in the morning – led him through the club to Crawford’s office.
    Stretton’s office at the Norway was a grubby, windowless little room. Crawford’s office was spacious and light; you could see the Rotunda from a tall window behind Crawford’s desk.
    Crawford had a reputation for being immaculately dressed, the price he paid for suits. Today it was a blue suit, white shirt, red silk tie. He rose beaming, arm outstretched. ‘Mr Carrow. Good morning. It is Mister now, isn’t it? You’re not working undercover for Dowd, or anything like that?’ He laughed, but it was only just a laugh. Sean Dowd had been Carrow’s boss on the force, another man known for being well dressed – and for his ruthless ambition. Quite similar, Dowd and Crawford; just on opposite sides of the line.
    â€˜It’s Mister. Carra to my friends.’ He’d see what he made of that.
    Crawford led Carrow to a pair of leather armchairs and a small table that held an open pack of cigarettes, a couple of lighters and a glass ashtray. ‘I was sorry to hear about your bad news. Your mom. Especially coming right on top of the Holland business.’ Carrow was taken aback. How the hell did he know all this about him? Holland, yes. It had been in the papers here. But his mother?
    Crawford lifted the cigarettes, selected one and put it in his mouth. He lifted the packet to Crawford, like a tennis player showing new balls. ‘Fag?’
    â€˜Thanks.’ Crawford lobbed the pack towards Carrow.
    When both men had lit their cigarettes Crawford started. ‘Why I’ve got you in here Carra is to offer you a little job. Nothing to worry about. It’s all legit. Just because you’re no longer in the force