by KERRY BARNES
Willie chuckled. ‘Sounds like a fucking plan, mate.’
Staffie’s face was loaded with disapproval. ‘I don’t know about this. It ain’t what we’re about, is it? And what do we really have that’ll guarantee we’ll stay outta jail?’
‘Fuck off, Staffie, you’re always unsure these bleedin’ days,’ spat Willie.
‘No, Willie, Staffie has as much say as any of us.’
Staffie’s narrowed eyes widened. ‘Are you sure you’re gonna be one step ahead of the law?’
Mike grinned. ‘Haven’t I always been – well, in the past, before I was banged up?’
Staffie chewed his top lip and sighed. ‘S’pose so.’
Mike grinned. ‘If we’re all in agreement, I’ll need to work out how to guarantee our continued liberty.’
Ricky watched the dynamics and how the men looked up to his father, hanging on his every word. He felt proud, but, also, he wanted to be a part of the firm and not just ‘Mikey’s son’. Although he and his dad had been apart for twelve years, it didn’t matter. He wanted to be by his side, no matter what that looked like.
‘Can I say something?’
Mike’s stern face lit up when he looked at his son. ‘Of course you can, my boy.’
Ricky nervously looked at the other men. ‘Um, your lawyer. Couldn’t he have a contract drawn up, or, better still, be present as a witness when the judge signs your release papers?’
Willie patted Ricky on the back. ‘Good idea, Ricky. See, up there for thinking, down there for dancing.’
Mike nodded, encouraging his son. ‘Yep, he may well be the brains of the outfit,’ he laughed, as he looked over at Willie.
Staffie jumped in. ‘And the fucking brawn. Ya should’ve seen him bash the fuck outta Tit and Tat.’
All four men laughed while Ricky blushed.
CHAPTER TWO
With Tatum and her son in prison, Jackie had to get off her arse and make her own money. She’d syphoned off a very healthy amount from Mike before she’d done a runner. The house near Ely was the first to be flogged off. Cash was king as far as she was concerned and what was the point in keeping the place on? She’d dwindled the proceeds away to the point that now she was nearly skint. And the regular poke she’d received from Tatum for using her son on the burglaries had now gone. Having pissed off half the site with her temper tantrums, she was down to no friends, with just herself and a bottle of Grey Goose for company. But even that had recently been replaced with a cheaper bottle of vodka.
She looked out of the window and watched as Cora, Tatum’s wife, stood gossiping with two other women. Holding bags of knocked-off T-shirts, Cora was now confident enough to have the women running around for her. It was once Jackie’s job: she had the contacts and the suppliers and could make a few bob. However, one supplier got a bit cheeky, so Jackie slapped her. Word spread what a bitch Jackie could be, and hence, slowly but surely, the suppliers and the runners backed away.
Cora turned her head to look right through Jackie’s window, allowing Jackie to see the smirk that slithered across Cora’s face.
Firmly under Tatum’s thumb, Cora had led a somewhat oppressed life. Even though they’d had six kids together, Tatum still had the energy to look elsewhere for sex, and he didn’t have to look very far. He and Jackie had compatible sexual appetites, and so whenever he could – which was often – he would find an excuse to see her and they would fuck ’til the cows came home.
Selling her arse to Tatum had been a good money earner for Jackie, but that all stopped too when he went inside.
Jackie had to admit that after a few trips to the beauticians and to a few high-end shops, where she could purchase some decent clobber, Cora did look pretty good. In fact, the woman scrubbed up better than she did. And because Cora’s kids were older now and mostly off her hands, giving Cora more time for herself, she had the means to have a life she wanted. It was an everyday insult to see Cora flashing the cash while she had zilch.
Slamming the glass tumbler down on the table, Jackie walked away from the window and stormed into her bedroom. Furious, she looked around. Her once brand-new caravan was, at one time, the best on the site. She’d bought it when she’d moved to Ireland, and it was still the best model when half the site, herself included, moved over to Essex.
But everything was changing around her, and Jackie felt angry and jealous. Not only were the younger travellers buying top-of-the-range caravans and four-by-fours, but even Cora – the bitch – was swanning around in a brand-new Land Rover, courtesy of her own business.
Jackie looked at her wardrobes and gritted her teeth. Two doors were leaning against the frame. She couldn’t exactly remember how that had happened, but she knew she’d probably pulled them off their hinges when she’d overdone it with the drink. Rifling through her now old-fashioned gear, her frustration increased.
It was time she sorted herself out – got out of her pyjamas, dyed her roots, and put on a bit of slap. She could always turn a pound into a tenner. With her looks and her cheek, it used to be a doddle, but that wasn’t the case now. She wasn’t getting any younger, and Botox was expensive. She’d already sold most of her jewellery and designer rig-outs.
After pulling every last item of clothing from the wardrobes and throwing them onto the bed, she stepped back and gazed, wondering if among them there was something decent enough to go out in. She noticed a wine-red coloured velour tracksuit, one that she’d never worn before. With her hair dyed black and curled, she could probably pull it off.
An hour later, she was showered, dressed, and had added the finishing touch of hairspray. As she opened the drawer in which she kept her tobacco, she noticed she was down to her last packet but then clocked the small drugs parcel. She’d forgotten all about that.
When Tatum had arrived at Maidstone Prison, he’d called her and set up a meeting for her with a man named Leon Khouri. He gave her the parcel to take into the prison, but the handover had never taken place. Her son Ricky had been expected to take the drugs on the visit, but he’d flatly refused, and she’d been left shitting herself. Luckily, she’d managed to get away from the visiting room with the parcel still concealed in her oversized hair bun.
Her mind went into overdrive: there was always money in drugs, she thought.
***
Before leaving her caravan, she had called Leon, in the hope that he would see her. To her surprise, he’d agreed. Heading over to South-East London, Jackie pondered what she would say when she met the man. She was aware that he was seriously dangerous because Tatum had already given her the heads-up when she’d picked up the parcel. His deep, intense glare had been concerning enough. Compared to her husband, Mike, though, he was probably only small fry, but she’d escaped that relationship twelve years ago and hoped that Mike had given up looking for her and Ricky. Little did she know that Ricky had met up with his father in prison.
The sun beaming down turned her car into an oven. Dressed in the velour tracksuit more suited to colder weather, Jackie was sweating buckets. She peered into the rear-view mirror and cursed; her eyeliner was embedded into the wrinkles around her eyes and her drawn-on eyebrows had smudged. Her hair had lost its lustre and gained a frizzy halo. As she looked away from the mirror and straight ahead, she suddenly had to slam on the brakes. A tall, slim woman, wearing a flowy dress, stepped onto the zebra crossing. Jackie gritted her teeth. She’d once looked like her, but the last twelve years had left her tired, and although she hated to admit it, she was looking old. Without the money to get her lip fillers and Botox, she was bordering on ugly.
Once the woman had crossed the road, Jackie set off again. Turning into the long, overgrown drive that eventually widened into a dusty track, Jackie could smell the dryness in the air. A few chickens ran out in front of her, making her slam on the brakes again. At that moment, she felt nervous. This place was miles away from anywhere, and no one knew where she was going or would even care for that matter. She hesitated. It would be sensible
just to turn around and head back. But behind her was another car, a large black BMW, and so she continued along the drive.
The farmhouse looked like an unsuspecting old cottage, with rambling roses and a wishing well by the front door – a typical pensioner’s palace. Then, as she parked the car, she noticed more vehicles behind the cottage. Her heart began to beat even faster. There was no way she could go back because the Beemer had blocked her in. She would have to hold her head up and not show she was nervous. Her whole body shook anyway, from all the drinking, but clutching her fake Chanel bag, she managed to steady her hands.
Jackie didn’t need to knock at the door because the man who had followed her in his car placed a thick, muscly arm over her shoulder and pushed the door open.
She turned enough to nod politely and was met with a cold stare. She didn’t recognize the tall, heavily built man and wondered if he was a business associate of Leon’s or someone higher up the chain. He certainly wasn’t a copper. The tattoo on his neck and across his chunky knuckles confirmed that little notion.
Stepping inside, she was surprised at the layout. What was probably once the main living room was now an office with just a few essentials. However, the room kept its rustic charm, with exposed oak floorboards and a beamed ceiling. To the right was a large wooden desk and directly in front of her were two brown velvet sofas. The random mismatch of dining room chairs and a coffee table with magazines on it reminded her of a dentist’s waiting room.
The previous meeting had been brief. All she’d done was to knock at the door and give her name and take the parcel. At the time, she just assumed it was the dealer’s house. She hadn’t realized that the cottage held any special significance. Judging by the hard-faced men in the room, though, she had clearly been mistaken.
Sitting behind the desk was Leon. He appeared to stiffen and looked uneasy when the tattooed man came in. ‘Everything kosher, Steph?’ he asked nervously.
The tattooed man snatched a briefcase from one of the seated men, gave a menacing sneer in Leon’s direction, and marched out the door. The tension suddenly lifted, and the men, who were gathered and poring over a large map of South-East London, went back to circling areas on it, using black felt-tip pens. Jackie didn’t know whether to say hello or ignore them and walk over to Leon. She suddenly remembered her make-up had run in the heat: she’d been distracted by the car behind, causing her to forget about the state of her appearance. Now, she was feeling uncomfortable and could have kicked herself.
Leon looked up and waved his hand for two of the men to leave. He grinned and leaned back in his chair.
‘Hello again, Jackie.’
She took two steps forward and nodded. ‘Hi,’ she said, feeling very awkward.
‘So, Jackie, what can I do for you?’ His sly grin widened. He was mocking her, and she knew it.
With her back now to the ominous men, a surge of gumption shot through her veins. ‘It’s more about what I can do for you.’
Leon raised an eyebrow and lost his grin. She noticed how his deep-set eyes were close together. They were dark, like his hair. His skin was olive. Maybe he’s Italian or an Arab, she thought, yet he spoke like a Londoner.
‘Is that so, Jackie? Only I didn’t come knocking at your door, you came knocking at mine.’
She smiled and hoped he was joking, but his eyes narrowed again. ‘So, what is it then that you can do for me?’
‘I know people and—’
He laughed. ‘We all know people, darling.’
‘Yeah, but I know people that I can sell to.’
No sooner had she got the words out of her mouth than Leon lunged across the desk and snatched her hair, pulling it an inch from his face. ‘Bad fucking move, tramp!’
She almost tasted the whisky on his breath, but it was mixed with the taste of her own fear. Wide-eyed and petrified, Jackie didn’t move.
Leon let her go and looked over at the men sitting on the sofa. ‘Leave us, gentlemen, please.’
He didn’t have to ask twice; they swiftly headed for the door, leaving him glaring at Jackie.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are, coming into my premises and announcing to everyone in the room that you can sell stuff? You don’t even know who those fucking men are, do ya? Who the hell do you take me for? I ain’t no small-time fucking street dealer. I gave you a parcel for an associate of mine, and now you’re presenting yourself like you’re some kinda gangster! The only thing you could sell, Jackie, is ya fucking fanny, a score at most. Now, get outta my house and never fucking come back!’
Shaking all over, Jackie was on the point of leaving, but she’d driven all this way, and she needed money. ‘Look, Leon, I’m sorry about that. I stupidly assumed . . . well, never mind. I just thought I could work for you. I’m a grown woman. The Filth won’t sniff around me, if ya know what I mean.’
Leon stretched his neck and rubbed his bristles. ‘So, then, you want to sell drugs?’
Jackie thought he was a bit blunt, but at the end of the day, he was right. Swallowing hard, she nodded. ‘I don’t take drugs myself and I’ve got no criminal record. I keep meself to meself, but I reckon—’
Leon interrupted. ‘You don’t take drugs? Really?’ His eyes regarded her ragged appearance.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve never touched hard gear.’
Slowly, and still keeping his eyes on her, he opened a drawer to the right of him and pulled out a packet. She watched as he pushed it under her nose. ‘Go on, then, open it and try some!’
‘Er . . . what? No, seriously, I don’t take drugs.’
A heavy sigh left Leon’s mouth. ‘Well, you’re no fucking good to me, then.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She tilted her head to the side. ‘I’m clean. I wouldn’t be taking the drugs meself, ya see. I just wanna make some money.’
‘You cannot sell that shit without telling the punters what it’s like, ’cos they will ask ya. In fact, the first words that will come outta their mouths will be “Is it good shit?” and you can’t fucking answer that, unless you’ve tried it yaself.’
‘But—’
Leon raised his hands. ‘No buts, darling. Either you wanna sell my gear, or you don’t. Now, try it, or fuck off!’
Jackie tried to suss out if it was some kind of test or if he really meant it. ‘Nah, it’s all right. I’ll leave it ’cos I don’t take shit.’
‘Bye-bye!’ He waved his hand, leaving Jackie flummoxed.
‘Hang on. Are ya serious? Ya really want me to try it?’
Leon shook his head. ‘For fuck’s sake, listen, will ya? I never joke, and I don’t have time for this bullshit, so go on, girl, fuck off!’
‘All right!’ she said, as she snatched the small packet. Carefully, she unwrapped it and stared at the white powder, and then, with wide eyes, she looked at him, hoping he would say he was joking.
Leon took a ten-pound note from a pen drawer, rolled it up, and passed it to her. His eyes were still firmly fixed on hers. ‘Snort it!’
She had smoked skunk before but had never touched powder. Her legs were like mushy peas, and her heart raced. Her mind went back to Tatum when he snorted cocaine. It didn’t turn him into a zombie. He just became more alert and a real chatterbox and, oh yes, very horny.
She shoved the rolled-up note up her nose and reluctantly sniffed some of the powder.
‘All of it, ya silly tart!’
She did as he said and immediately felt a burning in her nostrils followed by a heavenly feeling that slowly eased its way around her body. The anxious state left her, and she was on a high. The sensation was a thousand times better than any amount of Grey Goose could offer. Within a few minutes, her legs felt heavy, and she had the need to sit down, the room becoming blurred as a warm fuzziness engulfed her. As her head touched the arm of the sofa, she was floating on clouds in a world far away from her current miserable existence.
Leon got up from his chair and strolled over to Jackie. He stared at her gaping mou
th, and then, slowly, his eyes descended to her breasts. He grinned to himself, thinking they must be fake; no one her age had tits that pert. He could easily help himself, but then he wondered if he could even be bothered.
The bang as the door pushed open pulled him out of his thoughts. Standing there, at six foot five, with a face like thunder and eyes like saucers, stood the Governor.
‘Are you some kind of cunt?’ he bellowed, gripping a heavy-looking metal bar.
Leon stepped back in shock, his mind working overtime, trying to think why the Governor was in his cottage, and, more worryingly, why he was holding a weapon. The Governor only ever made phone calls. He worked from his car; no one ever really got to meet him face-to-face. Yet the firm knew that if you crossed him you would be dead within two days. There was no bartering or begging. The man was ruthless and took no prisoners. His punishments went far beyond what any rational person would dish out.
Leon locked eyes with him and felt his bowels move. Those grey eyes that stared back were the Devil’s – he was convinced of it. And there was no way he would argue with him because death would knock at his door – that was a dead cert. ‘What’s up, mate?’ he asked, as his hands began to shake and his legs felt heavy.
‘Mate? I ain’t your mate. You fucking call me the Governor.’ The Governor’s face was tightened by his bottom jaw protruding. He shot a glance over at Jackie who was slumped on the sofa. ‘What’s up? You prick. How the fucking hell does some random slapper’ – he pointed to Jackie – ‘know where you work from, and, more to the fucking point, how does she know you supply drugs?’
‘She’s as safe as houses, Governor, I swear. She took some gear into the nick for Dez.’ The confidence in him plummeted as his voice cracked in panic. ‘Look, Governor, I wouldn’t take stupid chances, I swear to ya. She’s straight up.’ Leon could only guess that one of the men had grassed him up for having a tart turn up. Probably Stephan.
