by V E Rooney
“Come on, we’re going,” says Sean to me as he heads to the door. I just shake my head at no one in particular and follow him. But I can’t leave it like this. I need to lay down a few ground rules for Jimmy. Before I leave the room, I pause and turn to face him. He’s got this pissy little lip-curling sneer on his gob.
“One more thing, Jimmy,” I say. “I know you’re just a sad, saggy-bollocked arsehole who spends your spare time tugging yourself off. I mean, let’s be honest. Look at the fucking state of you. No wonder you have to pay for it.”
“Now hang on a minute, you…”
I cut him off. “I’m still speaking so shut the fuck up. Just so we’re clear…I’m not here for decoration, or to be anyone’s dolly bird. The next time you and I are forced to spend time together for the sake of business, do me a favour, eh? Leave your fucking pornos and your sleazy comments at home, yeah? When you’re with me on business? You engage your brain and not your bollocks, and you remember your fucking manners, sunshine. Got that?”
I turn and leave before he can pop his eyes back into his skull and get his brain in gear to make a response.
Judging by the look on Sean’s face when I meet him at the Albert Dock, just moments after him returning from his meeting with Mr Chips, it appears that Jimmy is something of a stumbling block. I didn’t go to this meeting – had business to attend to elsewhere in the shape of one of our dealers who is behind on what he owes. Time to send Paul and Lee around to remind him of his obligations. A split kneecap should jog his memory back into life.
“Fucking cunts. Fucking bastarding cunts,” Sean spits as he opens the door to his pad. I say nothing. At times like these, when Sean has that expression on his face, it’s best to just let him vent. He throws himself down on the sofa, kicks his shoes off and then throws them at the wall. They clatter to the floor and land at an awkward angle, looking like an invisible man has just done the splits. Sean sits back on the sofa, shaking his head.
“I don’t understand it, girl. I just don’t. Everyone knows Jimmy fucking Powell is bad news. He’s got the reverse King Midas touch. Everything he touches turns to shit. It’s fucked up.”
“What did the big fella say?” I ask, trying to get Sean’s thoughts in a coherent direction.
“Exactly like that prick said. Big fella’s all for it. 40% for Jimmy in return for him giving us the docks. That’s what he promised Jimmy and that’s what he wants me to give up. You know what? It’s hardly worth our while doing this fucking deal at all. Soon enough, Jimmy’ll be demanding 60%, 70%. Where does it stop, Ali? He’s fucking taking the piss out of us.”
“And our options are?”
“Fuck all, girl.”
“What? There’s no chance of cutting Jimmy out? Or cutting the big fella out?”
“Behave! No fucking chance!” Sean laughs. “And if I was to turn around to the Mendez lot and say fuck this for a game of ollies? What do you think they’ll do?”
“Why is the big fella pushing Jimmy forward like this? It’s not like you don’t make him enough money?”
“Use your fucking brain, will you?” Sean snaps. “We’ve been out of action for so long it’s left the way open for pricks like him to take our place. With all this fucking surveillance in place there’s no way we can move stuff round like we used to. And that’s why the big fella wants Jimmy in on this. That cunt has backed us into a corner.”
Everything Sean is saying is true. But I’m detecting something else, an undercurrent of uncertainty. I don’t know the ins and outs of Sean’s relationship with Mr Chips but I do know that Mr Chips, as Sean’s long-time benefactor, doesn’t think his boy is such a safe bet any more. And that hurts Sean. It cuts him to the bone. Loyalty is his watchword. And all of a sudden, loyalty seems to be waning for both of them. If Mr Chips is undertaking a gradual process of turning his back on Sean in favour of Jimmy, where does that leave us? At the mercy of every jumped-up crim who thinks we’re a prime target for takeover. Or destruction. That’s without mentioning how we’ll be left exposed in the open for the authorities to pick scraps off us like vultures.
What’s that old Chinese proverb? May you live in interesting times…
How does one moment signify a shift in the balance of power? What turns a moment into a catalyst, a watershed, the pivotal point at which the future direction is determined? I can give you the date – Saturday, 22rd of April, 1995. The pivotal moment? Take your pick.
It’s Paul and Vanessa’s wedding day. Over 200 guests crammed into Our Lady of Mount Carmel church in Toxteth to witness the happy couple seal their own deal. We cheer like mad when the priest gives them the OK to lock lips and we almost pulverise them with the amount of rice we throw over them as they skip out of the church. On the steps, I peel away from the gaggle of near-hysterical bridesmaids who are elbowing each other out of the way to catch Vanessa’s bouquet so I can watch the ensuing mass rugby tackle as she flings it in the air.
Get out my fucking way, bitch.
Vanessa! Over here, love!
Throw me them fucking flowers if you know what’s good for you.
The reception is held in a large function room up the road. No expense has been spared in decking the place out, including posh catering, string quartets and fancy table settings.
My old mate Ian has been roped in to be the DJ and after Paul and Vanessa have had their first dance to Hey Love by The Delfonics, I join him on the decks to spin a few choons to get the dancefloor buzzing. As I expect, as soon as I put on Show Me Love by Robin S, the female contingent in the room erupts into shouts and screams and they stampede onto the dancefloor. Girls in this town love that song. In every club I’ve been in, as soon as it comes on, girls are practically booting the lads off the dancefloor and it’s no different here. The lads all stand around the edge of the dancefloor, utterly mystified as to how this song incites such an instantaneous display of female bonding and accusatory sneers and fingers pointed at the hapless male bystanders. It’s all in the lyrics, lads.
I weave my way onto the dancefloor and am bopping with the girls when there’s a tap on my shoulder. It’s Paul’s younger brother Samuel, who by all accounts has a bit of a crush on me. “Ali? Can I have a dance with you please?” he asks shyly.
“Of course you can, mate! Come on. You gonna show me a few moves, yeah?” I say, smiling at him. So Samuel and I have a couple of dances and even though having Down’s Syndrome restricts him a little bit, he’s a smooth mover.
While we’re dancing, I see Sean on the other side of the dancefloor with his latest squeeze, some model called Jasmine. Jasmine hates my guts even though we’ve only spoken briefly once before. Apparently she can’t get her head round Sean and I working together. She’s convinced herself that something happened between us and we’re treating her like a stupid cunt. Sean has mentioned a few times that she’s been doing his head in over it, she won’t listen when he gives her the platonic we’re-just-mates spiel. He’s thinking of binning her but she doesn’t know that yet. So needless to say, she’s not best pleased when I smile at Sean and he nods back. All I see is Sean beginning to make his way over to me on the dancefloor while she stands with her mates, her face like a smacked arse.
Sean and I shimmy around a little bit while we talk business.
“Days like this make it all worthwhile,” he says as he tries to avoid standing on my toes.
“Oh aye?”
“You know how it is. Sometimes you get so busy you forget to stop and look around, don’t you? Look how happy everyone is,” he says, nodding around the rest of the partygoers. He’s right. It’s a wonderful atmosphere.
“You’re not thinking of tying the knot yourself, are you?”
“Behave, girl!” he says, being careful to hide his expression of disgust from Jasmine, who is watching us like a hawk. “You know I can’t restrict myself to one woman. Can’t deprive the birds a chance to get with this,” he says, smirking as he admires his own physique.
“Oh, S
ean. Aren’t you selfless? You’re such a martyr for womankind, you really are. It’s such a shame that the position of Christ on the cross has already been taken.”
“Shut it, you sarky cunt,” he says, laughing. “So when you seeing the Birdman?”
“Next week. I’ve filled him on the kind of surveillance we need to be looking out for, we’ve got new locations set up to meet in. Everything’s under control.”
“Sound, sound. If only we could find a way to get rid of Jimmy fucking Powell.”
“I’ll hold him down, you shoot him,” I offer up wanly.
“Don’t fucking tempt me,” he says, shaking his head. “If only it was that simple. Nah, girl. If anyone goes after him, they’ll have the big fella chasing them. And his crew. And those Turks. Trust me, girl, nobody wants that kind of hassle. For the time being at least, he’s untouchable.”
“Nobody’s immortal, Sean. Not even a brass-necked bastard like him.”
“Patience, girl. Patience.”
With that, Sean goes to do that dance thing where the lad spins the lady under his arm but we’re interrupted by Jasmine who has stormed onto the dancefloor.
“Do you two take me for a fucking cunt? Do you?” she hisses.
“Jasmine? You’re pissed,” Sean says wearily.
“Too fucking right I’m pissed. Are you trying to make a fucking show of me, Sean? Are you? You’re just rubbing my fucking gob in it now, aren’t you?” she shouts. People are starting to look. Then she turns her fire onto me.
“And you,” she says as she wobbles in my direction, “you fucking slut. What’s wrong with you? Hanging round with fellas all the time. Doing men’s work. What are you, a fucking dyke or what?”
“I’m either a slut or a dyke, Jasmine, I can’t be both, can I?”
“You fucking smart arsed cunt. Get your own fucking man, do you hear me?”
“Right, you. Enough,” says Sean as he drags her off the dancefloor with her still giving him shit. People who witness this are polite enough to wait until they’re out of earshot before they piss themselves laughing.
“Fucking hell,” says Paul as he and Vanessa glide up to me. “Who pissed on her chips?”
“Oh, me. Just through my existence, you know,” I shrug.
“Oh, take no notice of the stupid bitch,” says Vanessa. “She should be more worried about those twins he picked up the other night.”
“Oh aye? He pulled twins? Jammy bastard,” says Paul. Vanessa gives him her death stare. “Oh, love,” he says in a soothing tone. “You know you’re the only one for me. Although two for the price of one…”
“Carry on talking like that, soft lad, and you’ll be divorced and castrated before this reception’s over,” Vanessa chides him as she pulls him back into the centre of the dancefloor.
I’m busy chinwagging with the other guests and batting away questions about Sean and Jasmine’s little head-to-head when he reappears, his face flushed and sweaty. Ah, Sean. You’ve placated Jasmine by letting her play hide-the-sausage with the little fella, haven’t you? He saunters up to me.
“Well, that was better than any fucking soap opera, wasn’t it?” he says, looking slightly sheepish. “Thought she was gonna string me up by my bollocks.”
“Where is she now?”
“Getting some fresh air,” he says. “I’ll have to get off in a minute anyway, got that thingy with the big fella,” he says conspiratorially. Sean has been trying to get some face-time with Mr Chips, in an effort to persuade him to rein in Jimmy. I’m not hopeful about his chances, to be honest. Something tells me he’ll need all his powers of persuasion to convince Mr Chips to take a step back from this one.
“You’re coming back for the evening bit though, aren’t you?” I say, mindful that the party is moving on to Sean’s house in Woolton, where we can all really let our hair down without the authorities nosing about.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Sean confirms. “I should be done and dusted in a couple of hours. But in the meantime, make sure this lot keep an eye out for nosy parkers, yeah?”
“You got it, boss,” I say, saluting him.
He gives my arm a gentle squeeze, winks at me and saunters off again. As much as he annoys the tits off me sometimes, I can’t help loving the fucker.
4.21pm. Was that the moment?
Sean ducks out of the reception with Gary and Baz as his bodyguards, seeing as Paul and Lee are on annual leave for today. They get into Sean’s motor and set off out of the reception car park. They cruise up the A561 on the way into the city centre for the meeting with Mr Chips. Sean’s got the CD player on. Turns out he’s listening to one of my Grace Jones albums, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and humming along to My Jamaican Guy as he casts glances over his surroundings in-between chatting shit with Gary and Baz. Looking left and right, backwards and forwards, up and down, because you don’t get complacent when you’re important as he is and as sought after as he is. People wanting to do business with him, people wanting to take his business away from him. People who want him locked away under their 24/7 watch, people who want him to disappear and never be seen again. Always got to keep your eyes open, always got to be mindful as to who’s got their eyes on you.
4.24 pm. Was that the moment?
Sean’s driving at a safe speed because he’s got plenty of time before the meeting. He’s slowing down as he approaches the traffic lights at the junction of the A561 and Upper Warwick Street. Traffic is fairly light and there are two cars in front of him waiting at the lights. He puts the handbrake on and continues humming along to Grace, glancing left and right, here and there, backwards and forwards.
4.25pm.
If he hadn’t been listening to Grace, maybe Sean would have heard the motorbike roaring out of the side street on his right, which screeched to a halt beside his window. Maybe if Gary and Baz weren’t half-pissed from the free booze at the wedding, maybe they would have seen the sawn-off shotgun being pulled out of the pillion passenger’s jacket and drawn level with the car windows, aimed straight at Sean’s face. Maybe Sean would’ve had a few brief moments to duck, reverse the car or ram the bike before the first shot was fired. Maybe it all happened so quickly, not giving anyone a chance to defend themselves, because this was a professional hit.
The first shot rings out, the bullet shatters the driver’s window and obliterates the right side of Sean’s face. The second shot takes off half his skull. Meanwhile, the motorbike driver has unloaded his pistol into Gary and Baz.
Before what’s left of Sean’s head flops over onto his left shoulder, the motorbike spins its back wheel and roars away back into the side street, the guttural throb of its exhaust fading into a low growl before vanishing.
4.25pm. That’s the moment that changes everything.
4.26pm.
Bloodcurdling screams from pedestrians who have just witnessed the whole thing. The cars in front of Sean’s aren’t moving even though the lights have been on green for the past minute. The terrified drivers are shrinking into their seats but twisting their heads round, their eyes bulging in terror, transfixed by the bloody pulp spattered all over Sean’s windscreen. Even the most clean-living, law-abiding citizen of Liverpool knows that it’s probably not a good idea to get caught up in a shooting in this part of town.
Yep, 4.25pm. That’s the moment which irrevocably changes Liverpool’s criminal underworld forever. For all the deaths of the numerous crims who have gone before him, and those after him, not one of those deaths has anything like the impact of Sean’s death, nor do any of those lower-tier crims generate anything like the rampant gossip, conspiracy theories or outright bollocks spouted in bars, pubs, gambling dens, gyms and clubs of the city even to this day.
4.26pm. The first phone calls start coming through to members of the crew whilst we are still at the reception. Some of the young bucks of Toxteth, familiar with Sean and his car, and who witness his slaying, are frantically trying to reach his acquaintances to get on the trail of the sho
oters before the busies turn up.
I’m at the bar, talking with Vanessa and a few of the girls, when I notice Paul and the other members of the crew fishing out their phones and pagers from their pockets, frowning as they do so. Then my mobile starts ringing. I know before I pick up that something awful has happened. I just have no idea that the shock of what I hear will bring me to my knees, incoherent with grief and blind rage.
“Al? It’s Tommo. It’s Sean…” says Tommo, his voice cracking and stuttering down the line, almost breathless. Before he utters the words, I know that Sean is dead.
I slump to the floor, unable to form words. Normal service has been temporarily suspended.
“Two shooters on a motorbike up by the junction of Park Road and North Hill. They’ve killed him,” says Tommo as any semblance of composure he has dissolves into heartbroken tears. “They’ve got Gary and Baz too. Al…”
Down the crackling phone line, I can hear distant sirens wailing, getting closer. Shouts as well.
“Al? Al? You there?”
I drop the mobile on the floor.
All around me, reverberating around the reception, are screams, cries, more screams, screams of grief, agony and fury, screams of vengeance. Men and women, young and old, are holding onto each other, holding their heads in the hands, punching the walls, kicking the fuck out of whatever is near enough to unleash their unadulterated rage upon.
Paul and Lee and the other members of the crew are by turns, crying uncontrollably, roaring and already swearing the worst kind of revenge on whoever’s done this.
From the depths of whatever inner will is left within me, I haul myself up off the floor. I have to take control of the situation. Grieving is for later. Right now, I have to stop this lot from going out onto the streets of Liverpool and presenting themselves as even more targets for Sean’s killers to take a pop at. Already, I see that some of the reception attendees are sprinting out of the reception and up the road.
