Caramarin’s cell phone rang. Pompiliu Stanga. He took the call.
"You still need my help? Do us a little favour first then. I need some people collecting and bringing back. Mihai Pojer will pick you up if you're interested." Caramarin was surprised. He had no idea Pojer was up and about again.
Caramarin agreed. He had no choice really so he hung about the girls' lounge listening to the radio until Pojer's BMW pulled up outside. Dodging the rain, he let himself into the shotgun seat. The two men shook hands warily.
"All right?" asked Caramarin. He noticed that Pojer's arm seemed to be working fine.
"Fine. We'll have a rematch sometime," said Pojer with a grin.
That was one appointment Caramarin was in no hurry to keep. "Looking forward to it."
"Where we going?" asked Caramarin.
"Liverpool Docks. We're picking up a few girls for Stanga's nightclub."
"Why does he need me, then?"
"You'll find out," grinned Pojer. That didn’t sound good.
Pojer drove west out of Manchester along the M62 motorway. Traffic was busy but not too heavy at that time of day. Caramarin was glad he wasn't driving. Like everything in this messed up this country, even the cars were wrong here. The steering wheel was on the right, not the left where it should be; where it was in every other country. The traffic drove on the wrong side of the road and it was hard to keep track of where the other cars were coming from. Even the signs were in some other measurement than the European standard kilometres. Didn't this country know it was in the European Union? Did it want to be some isolated rain swept island on the edge of the Atlantic?
And it was still raining. The windscreen wipers worked overtime coping with the rain streaming down in oblique lines onto the glass. Spray splashed up from the other traffic.
"It's been on my mind since I saw you the other week. Don't I know you from somewhere?" asked Pojer, glancing over at Caramarin.
"I don't think so," said Caramarin. "I've not been in England that long."
"No, not from here. Didn't you used to run that knock off vodka scam from out of Constanta?"
Caramarin turned in his seat, surprised. "Might have done. But that was years ago. Why?"
"I used to be one of your drivers, boss," said Pojer. "Whatever happened to that scam?"
"It sort of blew up in my face so I had to give it up," Caramarin didn't elaborate further. That had been a good time in his life. Much better than now. Easy money, drugs, beautiful women all for the taking. And loads of sunshine, too.
"I got picked up by the cops," said Pojer. "But I never grassed. If it went tits up it wasn't down to me."
Caramarin thought. He couldn't place Pojer at all. But as he said, it was years ago. A lot of water under lots of bridges since then. And none of it clean water.
"You still know your moves, boss," said Pojer after a period of silence. "I thought I had you beat but you won. Well done." Mihai Pojer still looked battered but unbowed. The man seemed to actually be looking forward to a second bout.
Pojer drove west into the setting sun. As they left Manchester, the rain eased off into a fine drizzle and then a light mist. At the Liverpool end of the motorway Pojer turned north at a complicated junction at the end of the motorway and then along a ring road.
Stopping at a set of lights by a junction, Caramarin saw an older, bearded man delivering leaflets. The man wore a similar combat jacket to his own. A large hi-viz bag slung over his shoulder weighed the man down. Just for a moment, Caramarin envied that man's life.
Simple job, no pressures, no stress, no beaten up face. All he had to do was post his leaflets through the letter boxes then get paid. Didn't have to worry none about recovering stolen Picassos or having Odessa crime lords after him. Then Pojer's BMW pulled away from the lights and Caramarin forgot about that man.
Eventually, the BMW pulled up in a windswept car park near a river mouth. Seagulls wheeled and screamed overhead against the iron grey sky. Caramarin got out and shivered. The wind cut through his jacket like a knife.
"Stay here," said Pojer. "I'll go get the girls."
Caramarin leaned against the BMW and looked around the desolate scenery. It looked like a place which had once been busy with activity and shipping but would never be again. Behind him, a big brick warehouse had been converted into luxury apartments. Expensive cars stood nearby. To his north, a stack of containers stretched away towards another huge unconverted Victorian brick and stone warehouse. A unique octagonal tower with a clock stood sentry over the river.
His focus was drawn back across the car park wasteland to Mihai Pojer returning with three young women. All three looked dead tired. They wore jeans or leggings and thick, shapeless jackets that hid their figures. One was dyed blonde; the other two had dark hair. One had an arm across her belly like she had bad cramps. The girls said a brief hello, but one of the girls looked like she was asleep on her feet.
Caramarin opened the rear doors for them as Pojer threw their passports into the glove locker. He noticed they were burgundian red Romanian passports, but from their accents he guessed one at least was Moldovan.
Mihai Pojer tossed him the keys. "Time you learned." With more confidence than he felt Caramarin snatched them out of the air one handed. Caramarin slid behind the wheel, adjusted the mirrors and radio and then drove back towards the motorway. After he got used to the controls, it felt good to be behind the wheel again. Almost like he was in control of events.
"We'll stop at a pharmacy on the way back," Pojer said. "Keep an eye on the girls while I pick up a couple of things." Caramarin nodded and parked on a small suburban lot. A few minutes later, Pojer returned with a small paper bag.
"Piles playing you up?" joked Caramarin.
"It's not for me – it's for the girls," Mihai Pojer told him.
Caramarin drove back to Manchester under the darkening eastern sky. Driving was easier along the motorway. Too soon, he had to switch on both the headlights and windscreen wipers. On the outskirts of the city; Pojer gave him directions to a terraced house, one in a long road of terraced houses.
In the sodium orange dark the street seemed to stretch out to infinity in both directions. It was as deserted as the dark side of the moon. The only movement was windblown litter scudding along the sidewalk. Caramarin pulled up on the street outside the house, then Pojer opened up and showed the three girls inside.
"What are we doin' here?" said Caramarin, looking around. The house was being redeveloped and was cold as the grave.
"One of Stanga's newest properties. He does them up and either sells 'em on or rents them out. Nice little sideline," explained Pojer. "Good way to wash the money from his other businesses."
Builders' tools were scattered around, ladders and planks blocked up half the stairs. Bags of cement and plaster were stacked in the front lounge next to several orange buckets. A decorator's trestle table was covered in old newspapers, flasks, filthy mugs and polystyrene cartons. Newspapers covered the bay window, hiding the interior from sight. The house smelt of cold, damp and plaster dust.
The girls looked around as confused as Caramarin.
"We can't stay here," one said, her accent straight from the north Moldovan countryside.
"You're not going to," said Pojer. "But you need to get rid of the drugs you're carrying."
"What here?" one protested.
"Yes. Here and now," said Pojer.
Caramarin clenched his fists. He was annoyed. "You never said they were carrying drugs," he said. "I could get fuckin’ years for this."
"Well," said Pojer, ignoring this outburst. "Stanga's bringing them to England for a better life. Least they can do is help pay their way a little." Pojer told Caramarin to rinse out some mugs. Left with no choice, Caramarin walked into what had once been the kitchen. Dust and grit crunched underfoot. All that was left was an old double drainer stainless steel sink hanging off the wall, propped up with a timber baulk. A cold tap hung off the end of an ancient copper pipe. He rinsed and filled the mugs, then brought them back.
Pojer was puzzling over a box, the word Dulcolax printed on its side, the pharmacy paper bag discarded on the floor. The three women were holding an orange bucket each. The one with the cramps looked frightened now.
"Hurry up," she said, "Before they burst."
"I can't read English all that well," said Pojer. "I don't know how many suppositories to give them?"
"You mean they're Kinder eggs... the drugs are inside them?" said Caramarin.
"Sure, best way to get them through customs. No-one checks the Ireland to England routes anyway. Safe as houses."
"C'mon, hurry up. I'm desperate," said the girl again.
"Well, don't look at me," said Caramarin. "Just give them two each and see what happens."
"Works for me," said Pojer.
"As long as it works on them," Caramarin said. "You don't want them bursting inside."
Pojer handed out the suppositories. The girls held them in one hand like they were live bullets that might go off at any moment.
"Where's the toilet then?" asked the blonde.
"There isn't one, it's been ripped out. Use the buckets," said Pojer. "I were you, I'd hurry. And don't try stealing none. I know how much you've swallowed."
The women looked at each other then edged upstairs, past the ladders and planks. At the top, they ran into the empty bedrooms.
"You should've told me first," said Caramarin, unclenching his fists. "What're they carrying?"
"Heroin," said Pojer. "Fifty condoms each, except the fat one who swallowed sixty. You can test it if you want."
"Not me, comrade! Coke's my choice not a junkie loser's drug like horse. Anyway it's been up their arses."
"You want something to eat while we wait for nature to take its course? You'll probably want to eat now than later," Pojer said.
Caramarin couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He nodded, and waited while Pojer went to the takeaway at the end of the street. He looked but couldn't find a radio to mask the grunts and terrible abdominal sounds from upstairs. Nature was now taking its course with a fury.
The two men sat on paint tins and ate chicken fried rice. They talked about the old days, people they both knew back in Romania.
"Go and see how they're getting on," said Pojer. Caramarin made a lot of noise going up the stairs. Half way up he was met with shouts of protest.
"Bit longer yet, comrade," he called down.
Eventually, the girls came down. They all looked pale, exhausted, totally washed out.
"I'm weak as a kitten, me," said the blonde.
"I'm not going to shit for a month now. My ring's agony," said the plumpest of the three. But underneath their hard bravado, Caramarin knew they felt ashamed and humiliated. The third said nothing, just looked down at her feet.
"Right, boss," said Pojer. "I'm taking the girls over to Stanga's now. You go through the buckets and recover the H."