by V E Rooney
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.
“Lads! Lads!” I roar at Paul and Lee. They are both in shock.
“Ali? What the fuck? What the fuck?” Paul says, both of his hands clamped to the top of his head, like he doesn’t trust himself not to punch the nearest thing.
“No…no…no, mate…no…it can’t…” Lee says before he breaks down completely.
I grab both of them by their jacket lapels.
“Lads! Lads! Get the crew together, get them to the safehouse in Allerton. Now.”
“Ali? Fuck! Fuck!” screams Paul.
“Paul? Listen to me. Listen to me. Do not, do not go out there. Don’t. Get the lads, get them out of here to the safehouse. Lee? Lee!” I shout at him. “Lee. You too. Get everyone out of here, take them to the safehouse. Now. Do it now before the busies get here.”
This seems to jolt the pair of them back into life. They both go to get on their phones and start barking orders at people, but I stop them. “Nobody does anything without my say-so. We do not react. We do not make ourselves targets. Make sure everyone understands that. Wait for me to call you,” I impress upon Lee before he gets on his phone. He nods his head rapidly at me. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m on it.”
“Where are you going?” says Paul.
“I’m going to my safehouse,” I shout at him as I make my way out of the back of the reception hall. “I’ll call you later.”
40 minutes later. I’m back at the Kirkby farm, flying at 70 mph down the motorway with Mitch at the wheel and Colin by my side. Oh, I almost forgot about that. The Kirkby farm is still operational and kept guarded by our erstwhile smackhead friend Tony but today he’s not in attendance, which is just as well.
I leave the lads in the car and enter the unit. I lock the front door behind me, I look around the premises, the place where Sean and I first met nearly five years ago. I slump to the floor. I can still smell that mixture of tobacco and aftershave, combined with the scent of my plants. The sound of his voice for the first time. The moment when we came face to face for the first time.
Sean’s gone and yet he’s everywhere. Sean’s dead but right now, he’s never been more alive to me.
I sob hysterically, for Sean, for Ste, for my Mum, for everyone who has ever had the misfortune of knowing me. I sob for fuck knows how long before my mobile starts ringing.
No time for tears now. It’s time to stay the fuck alive, find out who killed Sean, and obliterate every trace of them from the planet. Anyone who so much as murmured in agreement to taking Sean out will pay for that with their own blood. Anyone who assisted in killing Sean will lose their lives as penance for taking his. Anyone who wants to take me out? Try it. I fucking dare you to try and kill me. Because it’s nothing compared to what I’ll do to you. I will fucking rip you to shreds with my bare teeth and hands. I will tear the flesh from your body and make you choke on it. I will rip your dicks off and shove them down your fucking throats. I will set you alight and then pour even more petrol on you. I will look into your tortured, agonised eyes and laugh as your burning skin shrivels to a blackened crisp. I will personally deliver you straight into the hands of Satan and cheer him on as he rapes you up the arse. If I’m going to hell? I’ll be dragging you down with me. You can bet the fucking bank on that.
The circumstances of Sean’s murder are fairly straightforward, thanks to the diligent efforts of multiple eyes and ears on the ground, the collection of eyewitnesses, and let’s not forget the sterling work of the busies themselves, whose own investigation is running in tandem to the unofficial one conducted by Sean’s crew.
Paul and Lee round up most of the crew and get them to the safehouses. Some of them sprinted to the scene of Sean’s murder to see for themselves how it went down but disappeared once they saw that the whole area was being blockaded by the busies. What we do know is that Gary and Baz, although seriously injured, are in the Royal Liverpool Hospital under armed Police guard. Sean’s body has been removed from the scene and is taken to the mortuary at the same hospital. The crew are under strict orders from myself not to go to the hospital. It’s just too risky and dangerous right now. Once their initial shock and anger subsides, most of them realise that it’s too dangerous to be running around the streets. We need to stay hidden for the time being so we can formulate a plan of action. It’s only a matter of hours before the busies start roping us in one by one to get our alibis and question us as to who could have done this to Sean.
While all this is going on? Toxteth, in fact the whole of south Liverpool, is in uproar. Word gets around fast on the Toccy grapevine and the streets are crowded with residents and visitors, who cannot believe that their unofficial King is dead. Nobody can believe it. Sean was invincible, untouchable. You would have to be a suicidal lunatic to even think of taking him out.
It seems like half of Merseyside Police are now out in force in Toxteth, purposefully making a show of patrolling the scene of the murder, mindful of any reprisals or escalations of the situation. Escalation is exactly what we don’t need right now. That is what I tell the crew in the safehouse. Shock has subsided and settled into a numb, subdued place between and disbelief and acceptance of Sean’s death. Some of the lads are still steaming, they’re wanting to get out there with their guns and shoot the fuck out of anyone or anything, just to feel like they’re doing something to avenge their boss. I can’t risk any hot tempers and uncontrollable instincts right now. We’ll be rounding up some likely suspects in due course. Right now? Calm, composure and cunning is what we need.
I’ve already dispatched some of the lads to Sean’s various properties to retrieve his belongings and bundle up any cash and product he left lying around so I turn my attention to establishing the facts.
“Gary got shot through his right upper arm and on his right hip but it’s not life-threatening,” I say to the hushed room. “Baz got hit in the lower left abdomen. They’ve had to take his spleen out but he should be OK.” When I relay this to those assembled, there are a few sighs of relief and mutters of thank fuck for that.
“We can’t get hold of them right now because of the busies at the hospital,” I add. “As soon as Gary and Baz are able to have visitors, I want a couple of you to go and get the details off them.” There are a few nods.
“So…what do we know about what happened?” I ask the room.
“It was a Suzuki motorbike. Black one, 750 cc, 94 reg plate,” Paul says to everyone. “It came out the side street and stopped just in front of Sean’s car. Two shooters. Some of the lads on the street said the pair of them were similar height. Both had the same clothes on, black pants and jackets, they both had balaclavas and helmets on.”
“Did they say anything to Sean before they shot him? Did anyone hear them speak?” I ask.
“Nah,” Lee pipes up. “They didn’t say a word. Just pulled up alongside his car and opened fire. They hit Sean first, then Gary and Baz and then they fucked off. It was all over in five, six seconds.”
“Which direction did they go?”
“They took off up Park Road, heading into town but nobody’s sure. They could’ve taken a side road to throw off the scent,” adds Paul.
“How…” I pause before carrying on with my question because right now we need details and not emotions. “How many times did they shoot Sean?”
“Twice. In the head.” At this, Paul falls silent and bows his head. Double-tap to the head, eh? The mark of a professional hit. Although it’s unusual to do it with a sawn-off shotgun.
“Can’t even give him an open casket,” Lee says before he dissolves into tears.
“Lee? I need you to be focused right n
ow,” I say to him before addressing the rest of the room. “I need all of you to be focused. Believe me, I know how much you want to get out there and take revenge. But whoever did this? That’s exactly what they want. They want to flush us out. Hit us when we’re at our most vulnerable and when we’re more likely to deliver ourselves straight into their hands. We do not, do not play into their hands. Is that understood?”
A chorus of yeah goes around the room.
“Do we have any names yet? Any idea who these shooters are and who gave the order?” I ask.
The crew look around the room at each other. The truth is, although I can think of a few likely suspects myself, we have nothing firm to go on. There could be any number of possible suspects out there.
“I’ve asked my lads to keep tabs on any motorbikes that have been pinched or any that turn up burned out,” Lee says. It’s a safe bet that the motorbike was stolen and is now on fire on some wasteground somewhere, but finding it will help us track down the perpetrators. The slightest clue could be the breakthrough we need.
“I’ve got my lot crawling over the city centre, asking around on the quiet if any of the rival crews are being twitchy. Already put a call in to Vinny’s lot. They’re on it as well,” pipes up Mitch.
Other members of the crew jump in with what they’re doing, calls they’ve made and people to speak to. Obviously the busies will be doing pretty much the same thing, trying to get the same information we are, but we have one massive advantage over the busies. People are willing to speak to us because nobody talks to the busies unless they’re a fucking grass. And because of that, we’ve got a much better chance of finding the killers a fuckload quicker than the busies will.
As expected, a few hours after Sean is killed, the busies start rounding us up to help them with their enquiries. It’s all perfectly civil and straightforward down at the various Police stations, although they’re chomping at the bit to try and trip us up, get us to incriminate ourselves in some way, or inadvertently give up details about our other activities. Obviously we all have solid alibis what with everyone at the reception when Sean was shot, but seems to me the busies are insinuating that maybe someone could’ve slipped out, shot Sean and then come back and party like nothing had happened. My brief Robert soon puts them in their place and tells them they should be more worried that someone was gunned down in broad daylight on their patch so maybe they can start looking for these shooters instead of trying to tickle us.
Once I’m done with my grilling, I head back to Sean’s Albert Dock pad with Mitch and Colin. I don’t even notice them, truth be told. My head is splitting into a million fragments in all directions. There’s so much to keep track of, so much cleaning up to do, so many loose ends to tie up, so many lines of enquiry to follow. I could give you a rundown of all the people that the lads have called in for their own style of questioning, how many people are getting bundled into the backs of cars, how many people are becoming acquainted with Tyson and Floyd right now, how many people are getting in touch with us to pass on any info they think might be helpful to us, but these are mere logistical details. My state of mind is anything but rational and ordered. I feel like a grieving widow only without the actual marriage bit.
In-between constant calls, face-to-face meets and scurrying around the city to keep tabs on what’s going on, I feel like I’m being dragged under by a murky, dangerous current. Drowning under the weight of responsibility, that’s what it feels like. I don’t even register the fact that in the immediate aftermath of Sean’s murder, I’m being treated like his de facto replacement. It’s me that the crew are looking to for instructions, for guidance. For a sympathetic female listener who will let them cry unabashed in front of me away from the others. They’re doing what I tell them to do, when I tell them to do it. Anything to take their minds off Sean being taken from us. And we’re still no closer to finding his killers, despite several leads.
In the immediate aftermath, various words on the various streets speculate that Sean’s death is attributable to a few names, lower-tier crims with bad attitudes who are trying to make a name for themselves. But I can’t take those names seriously. There’s no way those eejits would put themselves in the firing line of our retribution. Already, whispers are circulating that reprisal attacks against some street scallies affiliated with these crims are stirring up enmity. We haven’t even ordered these attacks – it’s just some twats being opportunistic and using Sean’s death as an excuse to settle some scores of their own.
The morbid thought enters my mind that Sean could well have been a victim of his own success. Only he could forge the relationship with the IRA lads in Manchester, which meant that he could procure low-cost weaponry for his own endeavours. With all of the guns and weapons that Sean brought into Liverpool over the years, any fucking scrote with half a brain can pick up a cheap pistol or shotgun for pennies in the right kind of pubs. Fucking hell. He could even have been killed by one of his own fucking guns.
The fragile tension that is permeating the streets of the city could explode into all-out war at any second. It will only take one case of mistaken identity, one insult, one accusation to destroy any semblance of calm and control. I have to do something.
I put the word out to Jimmy Powell. I want a meet-up with him and Mr Chips.
4.25pm. That was the moment when everything changed.
In the early hours of the morning, I dial the Dutch number from memory.
“Birdman,” I say quietly. There is an audible intake of breath at the other end of the phone.
“Alison? Are you alright? Are you hurt?”
“No, I wasn’t anywhere near where it happened.”
“Alison. I am so very sorry to hear this. I considered Sean a friend. I cannot imagine how you must be feeling right now. Do you have any idea as to who did this?”
“We’re pulling together everything we know of but we don’t have any firm leads yet. But we’ll find whoever did this.”
“Alison, if you require any assistance from us…”
“I appreciate that but it’s best if you and your friends keep a safe distance for the time being. Let us take care of this.”
“Alison, I do not wish to appear insensitive but we must consider the implications for our relationship.”
“I’m well aware of that. Right now, I need to focus on making sure we’re safe. Once things have settled down, then you and I need to meet to decide our next steps.”
“I understand that. Please keep me informed.”
“I will do. Bye.”
Are the Mendez lot preparing to pull the plug on us? Without Sean, what incentive is there to keep our partnership in place? It’s not the money. It’s about the trust. If their partners in Europe are now being targeted by rivals, the Mendez cartel may decide to cut us loose and find new partners. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about right now.
Over the next few days, I’m demented with all the stuff I have to be doing. Helping to arrange Sean’s funeral. Keeping the busies at bay. Keeping the crew organised. Keeping my head together. Just got to keep going, Ali. Just keep breathing, just keep putting one foot in front of the other. One day this will all make sense. Just keep going.
Sean’s death has left a gaping hole in the underworld. And already, some fuckers are attempting to fill that hole. Rival crims are on the prowl, sniffing around our periphery, waiting to strike when we’re at our weakest. And this isn’t my paranoia talking. Some of the crew have been getting calls from our street corner scouts and spotters, telling us that cars full of young bucks have been cruising around Toxteth, drinking in the pubs, letting their mouths run loose about how they’re going to take over Sean’s empire and establish themselves as the new main men. There have been a couple of minor ructions already – these young bucks forget that the residents of Toxteth regard Sean as their king and they’ll be fucked if they’ll let these disrespectful little twats dishonour his memory in such a blatant way. A few low-level punch-ups, a littl
e knife in the side here and there is enough to shut them up…but I know it’s only a matter of time before a serious confrontation takes place.
I’m fending off requests for meet-ups with various people, including rival crims and some of the more persistent busies. Some are coming with offers of help, some are coming to size up just how weak I am. Some cheeky cunts have even come right out and asked whether any of Sean’s business premises – like Taylor’s and some other pubs and clubs – will be offloaded. Fuck them all, the parasites. The only people I want to meet in person are Jimmy and Mr Chips.
Then I get the call from Jimmy to confirm the meet.
“Alright, Queen?”
“Jimmy.”
I hear his slow whistle down the phone.
“Jesus, love. Listen, I’m sorry and everything, OK? Who did Sean piss off this time?”
“Jimmy, do me a favour?” I snap. “Shut the fuck up and just tell me when and where?”
“Alright, alright. Fucking hell. You know the golf house in Birkdale? 3pm, alright?”
He’s referring to one of Mr Chips’ properties near the Birkdale golf course backing onto the beach at Southport. I already have the address.
“Right. See you then.”
“Ali?”
“What?”
“Mind yourself, love. It’s getting dangerous out there. If someone like Sean can get taken out of action, what do you think they’ll do to you, eh?”
“That’s really reassuring, Jimmy. You should work for the fucking Samaritans, do you know that?”
I hang up on him before I say something I’ll regret.
I’ve got Paul, Lee, Mitch and Colin as my bodyguards accompanying me to the meet-up. As we get nearer to Southport, I drill them on the drill.
“I don’t want any smart arse remarks from you lot towards Jimmy or his lads. Keep your guns tucked out of sight. You two?” I say to Paul and Lee. “If we’re not out in 30 minutes, you know what to do. Yeah?”
