Meeting Digger. A delicate negotiation. Risky too.

The pub hunkered down against a backdrop of encircling tower blocks, blending almost imperceptibly into its surroundings like a shy maiden at her first formal dance.

It was warm inside, bodies tightly packed around the bar. I took my drink away from the seething scrum, went to find a quieter area. I looked at my fellow drinkers and thought how alike they were. Not in a physical way as they represented as diverse a cross-section of the species as it would be possible to assemble in one place.

At short notice anyway.

Mostly male, mostly white, a couple of West Indians, an Asian girl reading a paperback novel, three tall women with the distinctive high cheekbones of Eastern Europe. A fair old mixture, even allowing for the presence of the red-haired cross-dresser who rode his/her bike around the city centre wearing a very short skirt and a chiffon blouse in all weathers. No, it wasn’t any physical common denominator, but a kind of greyness that hung over everyone in the bar.

Like a cloud.

Not a physical greyness of complexion, although there were a fair few of that ilk in here, but rather a dismal acceptance of their fate. Hunched shoulders, frown lines, smokers’ coughs were the common currency. Add a distinct smell of damp clothing – on a day when it hadn’t rained – mingled with the aroma of greasy food and you had a very British acceptance that life was shit and there was nothing that could be done about that. May as well go down the pub for a drink.

This was the local of the man I’d come to meet. His choice of venue. Familiar ground, putting me on the defensive. Fair enough. He didn’t know me.

I sipped my pint, kept myself to myself, thought about the meeting with Digger. I was early, but even so my presence would have been noted. A stranger. I caught the odd glance, tried to ignore the hostility that was building. This wasn’t a pub for a casual passer-by. These people all knew each other. They didn’t know me, but they were content enough to bide their time for now.

In the toughest areas of a tough city, hard men are ten a penny. Machismo rules the roost and the strongest and meanest dominate their weaker fellow citizens. Grow up in these streets and you learn to stand up for yourself. People around here don’t frighten easily. From an early age Digger had all the necessary qualities to become a leader: a refusal to take a backward step and a fine line in violence. What marked him out for attention was the extra ingredient. A streak of madness. Violence, even exceptional violence, only took him so far. It was the irrational glint in his eye when the rage came to the surface that earned him a unique reputation. Digger was both feared and respected as a hard man, but it was his reputation for unpredictable behaviour that took him to the top of his profession.

I wanted to get close to an important man and Digger was my way in. If Digger vouched for me, that would help. I had a strategy in mind, but had an alternative plan in mind as well. Appealing to the venal nature of men who made a good living from the sale of hard drugs usually met with success. Representing myself to Digger as someone who could make him a lot of money could open doors, take me a step further towards the man at the top of the pyramid.

The wild card was the sheer unpredictability of the man I’d arranged to meet. He’d either go for it or not. The difference between this meeting and a traditional business venture was extreme. A pitch would be made. It would be accepted, or it wouldn’t. Just like deals that were taking place all over the city today. What made this proposed deal stand out was the penalty clause. Other deals, the salesman would shake his head, walk away, and try a different strategy next time.

My meeting today was very different. Failure to convince Digger would have serious repercussions. In the next hour I’d either be walking out of here with an agreement to meet the next man in the chain, or I’d be lying in the alley behind the pub getting my head kicked in. There’d be no shortage of volunteers and a complete absence of witnesses.

A stirring among the crowd told me I didn’t have to wait much longer. A stocky figure pushed his way through, not bothering to order a drink. He wasn’t here to be sociable. Deep grooves were etched into the skin of his face. In the Prussian army of long ago, the duelling scars they resembled would have been a badge of honour. This was a face that had found any excuse to frown and laughter had been an alien concept since early childhood.

I nodded, put the remains of my pint down on a table.

Showtime.