Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

I look up and see Clive is racking up at the pool table a couple of yards away. “What’s what?”

“What you got in your hand, twatface.”

I’m not trying to be funny, I don’t mind Clive, I’m just surprised he’s noticed it from over there.

I hold it up. “Dunno,” I said. “What do you think?”

He comes over, chalking up his cue, takes a look. “Dunno,” he agrees. “Hold on though, tell you what it looks a bit like.”

“What’s that?”

“My sister-in-law went on holiday last year. Bali. Over, you know, in Polynesia.”

“Polynesia? Where the fuck’s that?”

“Dunno,” he admitted. “Fucking long flight though, by all accounts. Think they said it was in the South Seas or something. Dunno where that is either. Anyway, she brought our mum back something looked a bit like that. Said it was coral, I think.”

“You reckon?”

He leaned forward, looked at it more closely. “Yeah. Could be. Polished up, or something. Tell you what, though. It weren’t half as nice as your one. Where’d you get it?”

“Ah,” I said. “That would be telling.”

He nodded. “You nicked it. Well, I reckon that’s worth something, I do.”

And he wanders off to the table, where some bloke’s waiting for him to break.

“Nice one,” I said, and took another look at the thing.

Even though I’m sitting right in the back of the pub, snug into the wood panelling there, this little piece of coral or stone or glass or whatever seems to have a glow about it. Suppose it’s catching a glint from the long light over the pool table, but the light coming off it seems like it’s almost green. Could be the baize, I suppose, but... I dunno. Probably had a Stella too many.

I slipped it back in my pocket. I reckoned Clive was probably right, and it most likely was worth something.

Funny thing, though. I didn’t like the idea of getting rid of it.

* * *

Next few days just sort of go by. Nothing much going on. Baz had to head East to visit some mate in the London Hospital, so he goes over and does the business with Mr. Pzlowsky. Usually I’d do it because people have been known to take advantage of Bazza, but me and the Pole had words over it a year ago and he plays fair with him now. Fair as he plays with anyone, that is. The handful of jewellery we got from the house with the empty drawers gets us a few hundred quid, which is better than either of us expected. Old silver, apparently. American.

We play pool, we play darts, we watch television. You know how it is. Had a row with me bird, Jackie: she caught sight of the little coral thing (I’d just put it down next to the sink for a minute while I changed trousers) and seemed to think it was for her. Usually I do come back with a little something for the old trout, granted, but on this occasion I hadn’t. Pissed me off a bit, to be honest. She just sits at home all evening on her fat arse, doing nothing, and then when I come home she expects I’ll have some little present for her. Anyway, whatever. It got sorted out.

Couple days later Baz and I go out on the game again. Nothing mega, just out for a walk, trying back doors, side doors, garden gates, usual kind of stuff. What the coppers call “opportunistic” crime. Actually, we call it that too.

“Fancy a bit of opportunistic, Baz?” I’ll say.

He’ll neck the last of his pint. “Go on, then. Run out of cash anyway.”

We were only out an hour or so, and came back to the pub with maybe three, four hundred quid worth of stuff. Usual bits of jewellery, plus a Palm V, two external hard drives, three phones, wallet full of cash and even a pot of spare change (might as well, plenty of quid coins in there). That’s the thing about this business: you’ve got to know what you’re doing. Got to be able to have a quick look at rings and necklaces, and know whether they’re worth the nicking. Glance at a small plastic case, realise there’s a pricey little personal organiser inside. See things like those portable hard drives, which don’t look like anything, and know that if you wipe them clean you can get forty apiece for them in City pubs, more for the ones with more megs or gigs or whatever (it’s written on the back). Understand which phones are hard to clone or shift and so not worth the bother. Know that a big old pot of change can be well worth it, and also that if you tip it into a plastic bag it makes a bloody good cosh in case you meet someone on the way out.

The other thing is the mental attitude. I remember having a barney with an old boyfriend of Baz’s sister, couple years ago. Shed met him in some wine bar up West and he was a right smartarse, well up himself, fucking student or something it was.

He comes right out and asks me: “How can you do it?”