“Oh, do I? Sorry Stan. Well I’ll cheer up from now on.”
“Aye, well a lovely face like yours deserves a nice big smile on it. Alright, see you tomorrow pet.” Stan shuffled out of the shop and Joanna wondered how the regular customer had seen that she wasn’t very happy. She wasn’t very good with lies and deceit and all that and wondered if it was showing. Joanna took her phone out of her handbag again, and deleted her banking app. Now she would be alright, there was no way of Tony finding out. Joanna made a very conscious decision to put her usual smiling, charming face together and stop bloody worrying. Everything was going to be fine.
*****
Lee got back to his van dripping in sweat, despite his hands and face feeling frozen from the crisp autumn air. He opened the side door of the van and found a spare top. He pulled his sweaty top off and began drying himself off, before putting the fresh sweatshirt on. He looked at his watch, it was nearly one o’clock. He felt a fresh surge of excitement, knowing that he was only twenty minutes away from the race, and thirty minutes away from ending his short but stressful love affair with gambling, for good.
Lee drove the short distance to Todmorden town centre, parked his van and found the nearest bookies, surprised to feel absolutely no pull towards the roulette machine. He had no money on him anyway, and his bank was empty, so it was a good thing really, he considered. He checked that the race was all set to go ahead, and that his horse, Gerald’s Girl was ready for the race, before sitting down on one of the stools.
The mood in the bookies was not dissimilar to that of the bookies in Hebden Bridge. It was full of sad looking old blokes, or “Gammons” to use the modern name for bitter looking middle-aged white men with high blood pressure. The name comes from their resemblance to, well, gammon. One old drunk was swearing loudly at another bloke, his voice broken from a life-time of cigarette smoking and drinking strong spirits. The two young ladies behind the counter looked completely disinterested in everything that was going on across the opposite side of their counter as one chatted away incessantly and the other one stared disaffectedly at her mobile phone.
Lee was tapping his fingers on the wooden shelf, desperate to hear the race gun, and desperate to see Gerald’s Girl sort out all his problems once and for all. He felt brilliant.
“Have you got a runner?” asked an old bloke who sat down beside Lee.
“Yeah. Gerald’s Girl.”
“Oh, good choice. Strong horse that.”
“Have you backed her?”
“No. I’ve gone for Nuts in May.”
“How much?”
“Twenty quid. Six to one, so I’ll be right if she comes in.”
Both men stopped talking as the starting gun fired. The race had begun. Gerald’s Girl was a dark brown horse, wearing yellow, the jockey was in yellow and white and Lee’s eyes were trained on her as the horses set off.
“Come on!” shouted Lee, as Gerald’s Girl gracefully moved to the front of the pack.
“Come on Gerald’s Girl!” he shouted again. This was looking very good and Lee was feeling the full rush of the gambling buzz as his horse continued to romp away, focused, strong and powerful.
“Come on!” he shouted loudly at the screen, receiving vacant looks from the two girls behind the counter. Another horse was just behind, matching Lee’s horse step for step.
“Is that yours?” he asked the old man who’d sat beside him.
“Yes, Nuts In May. Strong horse that.”
The two horses were leading the way, as twenty other horses and their riders battled to stay in the race. But suddenly, Nuts In May seemed to find a bit more speed from somewhere, yard by yard, and was gradually pulling ahead of Lee’s horse.
“What… come on! COME ON!” Shouted Lee at the screen, louder than ever. “COME ON!!”
Gerald’s Girl was putting up a strong fight, her jockey was whipping her furiously. But she just couldn’t match the speed and power of Nuts In May.
“COME ON!”
The commentator on the TV was yelling as the horses battled it out along the final straight. Nuts In May was still pulling away, as Gerald’s Girl continued the battle with everything she had. But she just wasn’t strong enough. Nuts In May crossed the finishing line a full width ahead of the nearest rival.
Lee just stared up at the screen. That was not supposed to happen.
“Can’t win them all, mate.” Said the old guy sitting next to him, as he climbed off the stool and headed over to the counter to pick up his winnings.
Lee just stayed rooted to the stool, staring up at the screen as the winning jockey stood up in his stirrups and cheered his victory in front of the TV cameras and press photographers.
Lee’s adrenaline rush was slowing, the feverish excitement was rapidly turning to panic. He stared up at the screen, feeling a familiar dose of black emptiness replacing the euphoria that he’d been feeling only minutes earlier.
He’d just lost Joanna’s money. Every fucking penny.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Throughout the night of November 19th into the early hours of the 20th, the 999 police emergency number had been called almost nonstop in practically every county in the UK, to make reports of burglaries, looting and vandalism at betting shops. Police response units were sent out to investigate these calls, which were coming in from neighbours or passers-by who were witnessing the shocking incidents.
Gangs of people carrying heavy tools, dressed in hoodies and balaclavas were roaming the streets, smashing up bookies shops, in some cases two or three in one road. Police call handlers in every emergency call centre in Britain were being told that there were lots of people involved, and that they were armed with heavy tools and that they looked like they were drunk as they sang and shouted at the tops of their voices, waking up the entire community.
Police officers were mobilised to attend these calls. In the majority of cases, police officers were met with smashed up betting shops with burglar alarms blaring, the damage to each property ranged massively. From simply having all the windows smashed in, to having the entire shop pulled apart and smashed up, item-by-item.
The calls kept coming into the nation’s emergency services throughout the early hours, the Manchester City police force alone ran out of officers to attend calls, as they were already en-route or engaged with a previous call. It was quite clear to the call handlers, the duty sergeants and inspectors, as well as the officers on the ground, that something quite extraordinary, and very well organised, was taking place.
Cities all across the country were seeing the same incidents, in some areas, just a few shops had been targeted. In others, such as Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle and Birmingham, there had been more than a dozen. The common theme of the night was that each incident involved “a gang” of men making a lot of noise as they went about their business of trashing the shops, seemingly without a care in the world. These gangs, as police officers discovered, ranged in numbers from 6 or 7 to as many as 15 and more. Another common theme was that each incident was extremely loud and intimidating, but only lasted for a couple of minutes. The people taking part in this were certainly not sneaking around, it was quite the opposite.
For every police force in the country, this was a remarkably challenging evening. Logistically, it was a nightmare. Understandably, incidents involving multiple males with weapons cannot be responded to by a single patrol unit for health and safety reasons. Each report had mentioned pick-axes, sledge-hammers and steel bars. This meant that each incident which was being reported required a tactical response from all of the police officers in that division and the timings of arrival and deployment had to be co-ordinated by the divisional inspector. What this meant, in many cases, was that a police patrol vehicle might well have been close to the site of the disturbance but was unable to engage until there was sufficient back-up available.
In several cases, officers had to sit in their vehicles and watch the offenders as they finished their attacks and then observe the
m as they made their getaways. This was unbelievable for the local residents who had made the 999 calls, witnessing the police staying put several hundred yards away from the scene of the crime and literally doing nothing about it. The residents were so incensed by this extraordinary scene, they made videos on their phones, which showed the gang smashing up the betting shop, and panned their camera up the street to show that police officers were sitting in their car, watching on. These types of videos were starting to trend amongst the late-nighters on Facebook and would later be shown on Sky News and BBC News channels.
The same situation had occurred at each incident. By the time that an adequate amount of police officers arrived at a job, the culprits had disappeared, in most cases ten, fifteen, or twenty minutes earlier. The same scenario was unfolding all around the country, police officers were being called by concerned, scared and angry residents near to the shops which were being trashed, but police officers had been instructed to stay back and could only attend long after the incident had concluded.
It had been a memorable night for every police officer on duty in the UK that night. They knew that they’d been caught up in the most audacious game of “cat and mouse” ever.
It was the early hours of Thursday morning before any kind of sense was being made of the unbelievable night of sudden pandemonium and disarray on the dark, normally silent streets of the United Kingdom. As ever, it was the media who had sussed out what was going on long before the authorities had. Over-night news editors began to link the activities of the nation’s police forces and started their day of news reporting with some unforgettably sensational headlines.
They were to be assisted in their work by a Tweet from the now infamous Twitter account, Odds on Revenge which was sent at 6.07am.
“Awesome night! The nation’s bookmakers will have a rude awakening this A.M. Their days of emptying bank accounts and forcing people to the edge of their sanity are coming to an end. This is just the beginning. We will strike again and we will strike again after that.”
Chapter Thirty
“Good Morning, it’s just after seven-thirty and this is BBC Radio Manchester. Our top story this morning. Hundreds of bookmaker’s shops throughout Great Britain have been put out of business during a night of organised carnage which police inspectors have described as an unprecedented event. Here in Greater Manchester, it is reported that as many as twenty betting shops were targeted, but at this early hour we are as yet unsure of the accurate figure and we expect that we will have a lot more information as the day goes on and the full picture emerges. Naturally, we are linking this incredible news to the betting shops attacks that we have already seen here in the region over the past few weeks, and which were of course in the news just yesterday when the Odds On Revenge group claimed responsibility for four of the five attacks. I’m joined on the line by Denise Bailey who lives close to one of the shops targeted last night, in Stretford. Hello Denise.”
“Good morning Alan.”
“Well, I’m sure that came as a big shock last night?”
“You can say that again!”
“Talk us through what happened Denise.”
“Well, it was horrible. It was really, really scary. I was in bed, with my husband, he was fast asleep, but I was still reading.”
“What time was this at?”
“It was after midnight, about half-twelve I guess. I was just reading my book and I heard all this noise, it sounded like a load of yobs were coming back from the pub at first, so I didn’t think much of it, you know, I just thought they’ll soon be gone. Anyway, next thing I knew, I could hear all the windows being smashed at the BetSure over the road. I jumped out of bed, knocked the light off and went to the window to see what was going on. The alarm on the shop started going off and then this big cheer went up as though it was a football match and the home team had just scored. They were all laughing and joking and shouting as though it was a big joke.”
“What were they shouting?”
“Don’t know. I couldn’t make it out with all the noise and the burglar alarm going off. Anyway, after bashing the windows in, they all climbed in and all you could hear was things getting smashed up, everything, you name it, the TVs, the counter, the glass on all the betting machines, the lights, all the panels on the walls and the ceiling. Honestly, it looks like a bomb has gone off over there. It’s unrecognisable.”
“You’ve been and had a look?”
“Yes, well, when the police arrived I went over to tell them. But, I must admit Alan, the police came about twenty minutes after these yobs had cleared off.”
“It must have been a very scary experience, Denise.”
“Oh, it was. Honestly, it’s a dead quiet area this, normally. You wouldn’t think something like this would happen round here.”
“No, well, it was certainly a strange night. There are reports of these incidents happening all over the country throughout the night Denise, and the circumstances sound very similar, big groups of lads seemingly fearless of the law as they trashed these businesses. Tell me, what did the offenders look like?”
“Oh, I don’t know Alan, they were all dressed the same, you know, hoodies, scarves over their faces, a few had ski-masks on. They were all carrying big tools like crow bars and sledge-hammers and stuff like that. The strangest thing is how quick it all happened, I bet it was all over within a couple of minutes.”
“And what happened when they left?”
“Well, they were still laughing and joking and they just walked off up the street as though nothing had happened. It was really surreal Alan.”
“Yes, surreal sounds like a great word to describe that. You’re better with words than me Denise, because I keep saying that it’s just unbelievable. Stay there anyway, because we’ve got Pamela Langton on the line, owner of Pammies Poodles, calling us from Worthington Road in Haughton Green. Pamela, I hear that you also witnessed one of these attacks last night?”
“Yes, good morning Alan. Yes, it’s weird listening to Denise because it sounds exactly the same as what happened here.”
“Talk us through it, Pamela.”
“Well, it was about two o’clock in the morning. I was fast asleep when I heard all hell breaking loose outside. These thugs weren’t scared about making a racket, it was as though they were trying to attract as much attention as possible. They’ve absolutely destroyed the shop, all the counters are smashed in, every window has gone through, the games machines thrown over and bashed in with big sledge-hammers. It was terrifying Alan, it really was.”
“How many people did you see, Pamela?”
“Oh, it was a good ten of them. Easily.”
“And tell us about what they did afterwards.”
“Well, they weren’t in there long, two or three minutes tops. They just wandered out of there, laughing and joking. They walked off towards town, bold as brass. Somebody has said they went and did the same thing to another shop further up the road.”
*****
“Welcome to Good Morning Britain. Our major story this morning is still unfolding, and as each hour passes we are learning more about last night’s extraordinary, co-ordinated attack against the nation’s book-makers shops. The full story as we understand it will be covered in depth during the eight o’clock bulletin. But before that, we are joined by Gareth Barker from the charity Gamblers Support Network. Good morning Gareth.”
“Good morning Piers.”
“Well, I’d like to start by thanking you for coming along to our studios at such short notice. Before we start talking about last night’s incredible crime-wave, I’d like to ask you first about your charity. Just what is Gamblers Support Network?”
“Sure, well, we started officially in 2007, but the seeds were sown a few years earlier, when myself and several ex-gamblers came together after realising that there wasn’t really any help out there for people who were fighting battles against their gambling addiction.”
“And so, you were a problem gambler
yourself?”
“Yes, and I still am. There’s no magic cure for this devastating addiction, so although I haven’t actually gambled for over eleven years, I’m still very aware of the fact that I still have the overwhelming compulsion to gamble within me. And that’s never going to go away, I just have to deal with it as best I can.”
“It all sounds a bit, I don’t know how to put it without causing you any offence Gareth. But it sounds a little bit daft. If you are a problem gambler, surely what that means is that basically, you’re an idiot who doesn’t know when to stop throwing your money away. Doesn’t it?”
Good Morning Britain’s host was forever trying to make headlines with his controversial and often provocative remarks. But Gareth Barker wasn’t in the slightest bit phased as he smiled at Piers’ typically idiotic comment.
“Well, I’m smiling because it’s precisely that kind of suggestion which makes problem gambling so hard to talk about, particularly for those people who are going through the hell that this addiction brings. In so many cases that I’m aware of, people, quite often young men in their late teens or early twenties, have suffered this in silence, felt like they have nowhere to turn, nobody to talk to about their problems and their feelings. In many cases, these young people have found that the only answer is suicide, tragically.”
Piers didn’t seem at all sympathetic or phased as he ploughed on with his questioning. “But, there will be viewers at home watching this with their fingers covering their faces. Listen, if you have been gambling too much, and it’s having a negative effect on your life, just stop. Okay? There, done. What’s wrong with that?”
Gareth was an extremely calm and well-mannered guest. He smiled warmly at the TV host before talking very calmly. “That’s an interesting point of view Piers, but I don’t think you are quite ready to come along and volunteer on our help-lines just yet.”
Nothing To Lose Page 20
