1980
Rufus had been up to Chingford on a little job, chasing a late payer for one of the Pozo boys. The Pozos were Italian immigrants, avaricious loan sharks. Rufus had to wonder at people allowing themselves to become embroiled in the webs the Pozos spun. Did being poor make you stupid?
No – but he guessed it made you desperate enough to deal with scum like the Pozos. Borrow a thousand quid off them, and soon you owed fifteen hundred as the interest racked up. Six months down the line, after a few late payments, you could be looking at three thousand.
Which of course you couldn’t pay back.
Then the threats started.
Big men turning up at your door with dogs snarling and straining at their leashes, taking your telly, your fridge, anything saleable. Object and you’d get a slap. Default after that, and you’d be in for much worse. Somehow, you had to get the money. So you stole it off family, or employers, or any fucker, you were that desperate, there were heavies after you, nowhere was safe any more.
Whatever it took, you paid up.
And, hopefully, you were wiser next time.
As always, Rufus did the job dispassionately, collected the cash, and departed. Ignored the spitting, the anguish, the tears, the occasional kick or inexpertly thrown punch from the punter under pressure. It was all in a day’s work. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
Soon as he was back in London, he headed for the pub.
‘Heard a word on the street,’ said Gabby, setting the drinks on the table.
‘Oh yeah?’ Rufus took his first mouthful of Guinness. Nectar.
‘Someone’s been asking around about you.’
His interest sharpened. ‘Who?’
‘It’s been passed along to me by a mate or two. Some Irish called Callaghan was interested in finding you, they said.’
Rufus’s stomach clenched sickly as the cold Guinness hit it. He went very still, sitting there at the table, ‘Sultans of Swing’ playing on the jukebox. The telly over the bar, sound turned down, was tuned into the Moscow Olympics coverage. Everyone was going crazy because Seb Coe had won the fifteen hundred metres.
‘Feck,’ he said.
Rufus looked at his pal. He’d got quite matey with Gabby over the last few years, but trust him? No. He didn’t trust anyone much any more. Not since Rory’s missus had dobbed him in. He’d been living on his own in London, giving out nothing about his background. It was obvious he was Irish. He only had to open his mouth to reveal that. Fear of discovery, of Big Don Callaghan tracking him down, had made him cautious.