by V E Rooney
“Too fucking right, girl,” replies Paul.
We pull up the driveway of one of those grand-looking houses lining the streets of Birkdale. I see that there are four cars already in the driveway and two of Jimmy’s boys are standing guard by his wanker wagon. Paul and Lee remain in the car while Mitch and Colin escort me inside the house. One of Jimmy’s lads lets me in. I hear male voices coming from one of the reception rooms and follow the sound.
As I enter the ornate room, Jimmy and Mr Chips stop talking and turn their heads to me. Mr Chips stands up to greet me but Jimmy remains seated, preferring to ogle me as he slugs down some Scotch in a tumbler. I try not to think of Sean’s fondness for the amber stuff and how it should be him here instead of me.
Mr Chips clasps my hands in his and looks me in the eye.
“Love? How are you holding up?” he says as he beckons for me to sit down on the plush sofa.
“I’ve been better,” I say truthfully. He just nods at me slowly as he resumes his place in one of the two armchairs, with Jimmy in the other one.
“Terrible…terrible business,” Mr Chips sighs. “I know you’ve got your lot on the trail, same with my lot. Whoever did this will be found, and they will be punished. Make no bones about that, love. I looked upon Sean as one of my own. And I won’t stop until I find whoever killed him. And I know you’re the same.”
“It’s a fucking shame, love,” crows Jimmy, dripping with insincerity. “Tell you what, whoever did this must have fucking brass elephant bollocks. Killing Sean Kerrigan. Fucking hell.”
“I suppose it saves you the job, doesn’t it?” I snap. That gets his attention. “It’s not like you and him didn’t have your run-ins over the years, right? Whoever’s done this has done you a big fucking favour, haven’t they?”
“Now hang on a minute, love,” Jimmy says angrily. “You think I’m happy about this? Get real, will you? Yeah, yeah, me and Sean hated each other’s guts, everyone knows that. But this has fucked up my business big time.”
“Your business?” I say, snorting with laughter. “Whose business, Jimmy?”
He just scowls at me. But Mr Chips is here to restore order.
“In the meantime,” Mr Chips says, trying to swerve the conversation away to the matters at hand, “we need to discuss how this affects us and the Venezuelans.”
“I’ve spoken to Nunes and I’m arranging to meet him,” I say.
“How did he sound? Any indications as to what they’re gonna do?” enquires Mr Chips.
“Not yet, that’s why I need to meet him.”
“As far as I’m concerned, love, it’s business as usual,” Mr Chips says as he sits back in his chair. “I don’t mean that to sound heartless but business has to go on.”
“And how do you propose we do that? Without Sean?” I ask, genuinely curious as to how the fuck we’re supposed to keep these deals going without our kingpin in place.
Mr Chips pauses for a long time. Just looks at me. Then he sits forward again.
“From what I gather, it was you who sealed this deal with the Venezuelans in the first place.”
“Me?” I say, wondering whether he’s winding me up. Seems a strange time to be joking around though.
“Oh yeah, love. Listen. What I’m saying to you now is not meant to be disrespectful to Sean, and I’m not trying to diminish what he achieved. I deal in reality, love. And the reality right now is this. The Venezuelans? Mightily impressed with you. Sean may have put the runs together but only on the back of your hard work. Sean may have been the main man but it was you they wanted to meet. Oh yeah. Sean told me,” says Mr Chips. “It was you who put together the Ecstasy runs from the continent. And they were highly impressed with how tightly organised and efficient the whole operation was. That got their attention for when they were ready for new partners. They specifically asked to meet you. When you went over to Amsterdam for the first time? It was you they wanted to meet. Not Sean. When you went over to South America to meet the Mendez lot? It was you they wanted to meet. You. As far as they’re concerned, you’re the brains behind all this. And you’re still here. So, from their perspective, and mine, it’s business as usual, minus a few delays here and there until all this furore over Sean has settled down, yeah?”
“Wait. Hang on a minute,” I say, slightly reeling. “You’re saying that with Sean gone, I’m to take his place? I just step into his shoes just like that? Are you joking?”
“I’m deadly serious, love,” says Mr Chips as he eyeballs me. “You’ve got the respect of his crew. You’ve got the respect of the Venezuelans. You’ve got my respect. Respect for the way you’ve handled everything that’s ever been thrown at you. For the way you took Sean’s business – our business – to the next level. That was down to you, love. Don’t be in doubt about that. It’s a harsh reality that you’re about to learn, love. The game stays the same. It’s the players that keep changing.”
“He’s right, you know, love,” Jimmy pipes up. “Without you, Sean wouldn’t have gotten nowhere near as far as he did. All the money you’ve brought in? Fucking hell, love, I wish I had you on my team, that’s all I’m saying,” he says with his hands up in that trust-me placatory gesture he likes to do.
I don’t say anything. I’m still trying to get my head around the fact that Sean’s death was just three days ago and I’m being pushed forward to replace him. Sensing my internal hesitancy, Mr Chips leans forward in his chair.
“You have my backing, 100%,” he says earnestly. “Whatever you need, it’s yours. I’m putting the word out to all concerned parties that you are untouchable as of now. Anyone who tries to take a pop at you will have me to deal with. Trust me on that, love,” he says, nodding at me.
Trust is in very short supply right now.
The morning of Sean’s funeral.
The whole of Toxteth has come out in force to pay their respects. Crowds, young and old, black and white, are lining the streets, with the Police keeping a respectful distance. Nobody wants any trouble right now, not today of all days.
At Sean’s parents’ house, it’s standing room only with a crowd outside the front door. His parents are being comforted by the crew lads while I attempt to make small talk with the other attendees, in-between making and taking calls every five minutes. There’s a buzz of activity by the front door.
Sean’s funeral cortege is here. A horse-drawn open flatbed carriage carries his coffin, adorned with floral tributes.
SON. BROTHER. UNCLE. KING.
The funeral hearses line up behind him, at least eight of them from what I can count. My stomach drops and my throat dries up as we make our way to the waiting cars. I’m not ready to say goodbye. I still can’t believe he’s gone.
The journey through the streets of Toxteth to the church – Saint Aloysius, the place where Sean was baptised 36 years ago – is eerily silent. Only muffled coughs and cries from the other occupants of the car. The crowds lining the streets are silent and morose, like they can’t believe that Sean’s dead until they see the coffin. Some of them break down in tears as his coffin slowly makes its way towards the church. Old men are taking their caps off and bowing their heads. Some people even throw their own flowers onto the carriage. Others make the sign of the cross on their heads and chests as the coffin goes by. Silent salutes and fists in the air from some of Toxteth’s younger inhabitants.
The church service itself passes by in a blur. There are speeches from members of Sean’s family. His sister regales the congregation with tales of how Sean always stood up for her when she was being picked on by kids at school. How he would give her his pocket money when the other kids robbed her. How he got her pocket money back upon dishing out instant justice to the robbers. “He was never afraid to stand up for what was right,” she weeps as she looks at his coffin. “He was never afraid to stand up for his family and friends and fight for them. You only have to look at all the people here today, and outside, to see how much people looked up to him. We’ll never see
his like again.”
Then it’s Paul’s turn to speak. The poor lad is in bits, he can barely keep it together. He starts off with the tale of how he and Sean became mates at infant school, how they became known as the terrible twosome, how they became men together. “As long as Sean was by your side, you knew nothing bad would happen to you. He was one of those people who commanded instant respect and loyalty. He was a leader in every sense of the word. To me, he was my mate, my brother. Sean?” Paul cries, looking at the coffin and then to the heavens. “I love you, mate. I’ll always love you and miss you, mate.” The priest has to help him down from the podium and back into the pew, where he breaks down completely.
At the crematorium, there is a long procession of people queuing up to kiss or pat Sean’s coffin. A few people throw themselves over his coffin, sobbing their hearts out and clutching onto the coffin, unable to let him go.
As I approach the coffin, everything goes into slow motion. I don’t hear or see anyone else. It’s just me and Sean. The way it was so many times. Me and him hanging out at my flat or one of his places, shouting at the footie on the telly. Sorting out the finer details of our next run. Him moaning about whichever woman was giving him grief that week. Me giving him advice on how to keep the ladies happy.
There’s only so much the little fella can do, mate. If you can do the old figure of eight with your tongue, she’ll love you forever.
Shut up, girl. That’s fucking rank, that is.
Sean taking the piss out of my scruffy clothes.
How do you expect to get a fella when you dress like a docker?
I don’t need to polish up, mate. If I want dick, all I have to do is walk into the nearest pub and shout: who wants fanny tonight?
I stand by the coffin. I place my right hand on top of it and let the tears roll down my cheeks.
Sean? Mate…I love you. From the depths of my heart, with every spark in my soul, I love you. I love you so much. Don’t get me wrong. You could be a fucking bastard at times. There were times when I hated you. I could’ve happily wrung your neck when I first met you. And a few times after that. But love and hate are so often the same thing. You and I are bound together in so many ways and I didn’t even realise it at the time. Our own choices, made independently of each other, before we even knew each other, led us to the same place at the same time. And from then on, our lives would be inextricably intertwined. You were bound to me, just as much as I was bound to you. If I’m being truthful with myself? Really, uncompromisingly truthful to the point that it hurts me to think it? You’re the only man who was a constant presence in my life. Everything that I’ve become is because of you. Because of us. I don’t want to think of my life without you. I don’t want to live in a world that doesn’t have you in it. But now I have to learn to live without you.
Sean? Wherever you are, floating around in the cosmos somewhere, or on some intangible spiritual plane somewhere in the ether…watch out for me, mate. Keep an eye on me and keep me safe if you can. Because I need you now more than ever.
I bend down to the coffin and kiss it.
As the furnace curtains are opened, as his coffin begins the slow journey into immolation, as the cries, the shrieks and the wails echo around the crematorium, I look at Sean for the last time. The curtains close as the coffin disappears from view.
Outside, as we all gather outside the front of the crematorium, I shake hands and make pathetic small talk with some of the mourners. Then a hush descends over us. Eyes look skywards as the first tendrils of smoke rise up into the air from the crematorium chimney.
Sean is gone forever. I am truly alone.
Sean’s wake is held in the Faulkner’s Arms. Our own security teams are keeping interlopers at bay outside and the busies are clocking everyone in the vicinity. Paul is still in pieces, as are a few of the other lads. Everyone has their own monologue about Sean, what he meant to them, what he did for them. He was truly loved, that much is clear.
I need to speak to the crew before they all get too pissed and despondent. I call them into the back room, away from the other mourners. We’re all gathered round a long table.
I stand up and address the crew.
“Lads…I just want to say a few words about Sean.”
All eyes are on me, unblinking.
“Every one of us is only here because of Sean. Everything that we are is because of Sean. Each one of us should count ourselves lucky that we came to know him,” I say to nods and murmurs of agreement.
“I know that you lot knew him a lot longer than I did. Most of you grew up together. I’m jealous of that, you know. And I know that you would’ve been cursing him when he took me under his wing, same way I did when I first met him, isn’t that right?” I say, looking at Paul and Lee, who both chuckle at the memory. “But that was what was so special about Sean. He saw the best in people. He saw the best in us. He guided us, taught us, protected us. He was a brother to you,” I say, choking on my words, “and a father to me.” Paul breaks down again.
“The time for retribution is not now,” I carry on. “What’s most important right now is that we honour him. We honour him with our words and our actions. We live up to the promise he saw in us. We carry on in his name and we do him proud.”
There are a few cries of hear hear round the table.
“Lads…raise your glasses in a toast to the greatest man each of us will ever know. To Sean.” As I hold my orange juice aloft, the lads stand up, lift up their pints and their spirit glasses and as one, they emit a load, gruff, defiant chant.
SEAN.
I take a pathetic sip of juice and I’m just about to sit down when Paul raises his pint in the air. He’s standing up but because he’s already half-cut he’s swaying and Lee has to help him stay upright. Paul, tears streaking his face, looks at me, still holding his pint in the air. His voice, although shaky, is resolute.
“The King is dead…long live the Queen.”
One by one, all the lads lift up their glasses.
Queen…
Boss…
The tears begin to roll down my cheeks again.
“Thank you, lads…thank you.”
No rest for the wicked. It’s time to get back to work. The lads are itching to get out there and crack some skulls, which is necessary but also acts as a way for them to let out their anger. The crew’s various informers have given us some names for us to get acquainted with. Names which were heard crowing about Sean’s murder, names which have been puffing up their chests and bragging about how he had it coming to him. So it’s time to see which of these names is bragging or blagging.
Our first visit is to a smarmy little prick who lives off Lodge Lane. Jeff “Jizzer” Noonan is a small-time street corner dealer who wouldn’t know the meaning of the word loyalty if it came up and kicked him in the bollocks. And if he gives us static, he’ll be lucky if that’s all that will happen to him today. Jizzer has been heard telling his mates about this stolen motorbike that was taken from outside a block of flats in Speke, how Jizzer reckons this was the bike used in Sean’s murder. So now we’re about to find out just how good Jizzer’s powers of recall are.
Paul, Lee, Mitch, Colin, Tyson, Floyd and myself park up round the corner from his flat. Leaving the dogs in the car, I ruffle their heads and lock them in as the lads get out and approach Jizzer’s front door. I keep a little way behind. It’s just after 6am – the Police witching hour – so when the lads boot his door down and burst into his flat, they find Jizzer already standing in the lounge with his hands already above his head.
Before I walk into the lounge, as I hang back in the hallway, I can hear the lads taking the piss out of him.
“Fucking hell, Jizzer. You assumed that fucking position straight away, didn’t you?” laughs Paul. “Wouldn’t take much to turn you into a fucking grass, would it?”
Jizzer, a stringy streak of piss who, judging by the pong in the flat, is clearly still monged from his own supply, is still standing there with
his arms above his head.
“Drop your arms, you fucking stupid twat,” shouts Lee. Then it’s Jizzer’s turn to speak.
“Aw eh, lads, what the fuck is this? I fucking shit myself just then,” he wails.
“Little birdie told us you’ve got some goss about a stolen motorbike, is that right?” says Paul.
“Where did you hear that?” says Jizzer.
I hear Paul and Lee get hold of Jizzer and pin him up against the wall. Another plaintive cry of, “Aw eh, lads, there’s no need for this!”
“Never mind where we heard it. Where did you hear it, soft lad?” says Lee.
“Lads! Come on, lads!”
“You’d best fucking start talking, you slimy piece of shit,” says Paul.
“Alright, alright! Fucking hell, can you just let me down, eh?”
I hear a thud.
“Ow! Alright! I was in The Grapes the other night, right? There were some lads at the bar, I heard them talking about Sean.”
“Which lads?” asks Lee.
“I dunno!”
Another thud. Jizzer again. “Ow! I swear down, right! I dunno!”
“And what were these lads saying?” asks Lee.
“I heard them talking, right? They were going on about this Suzuki bike, right? It belongs to this lad who lives in Speke. They were saying how this lad was doing his nut over it because he only had it a few weeks before it got pinched, yeah? He saw two young lads nicking it from outside his flats, said they looked about 14 or 15, yeah? So he went to the busies and reported it stolen but he never heard anything else about it. And this bike still hasn’t been found, right? That’s all I know, lads, I swear down, yeah?”
“Yeah?” says Lee. “So these two little scrotes who nicked the bike. Any idea who they are?”
“No! Ow! Alright, alright! Look…there’s a few lads who nick bikes and cars to order, yeah? Vinny’s lads know them. I dunno if it’s the same lads, like, but that’s all I know, I swear!”
The mention of Vinny’s name doesn’t automatically make me suspicious. Vinny and Sean were mates, they did a few jobs together in the past. Things were always friendly between them. As for these teenage thieves, it’s commonplace for rival gangs to call upon their services if they need a specific car or bike for a job. These thieves could’ve stolen to order for someone else.
