Breaking Bones_A Dark and Disturbing Crime Thriller

by Robert White

“Hey you two! You should’ve sheeted up if you was gonna make a fuckin’ mess.”

  Tony may not have been too sharp when it came to social skills or the written word, but he knew his way around a building site. He was approaching twenty-two years old, and cut a formidable figure. His lanky frame had filled out and his naturally muscular arms and shoulders were close to bursting from his sweat-soaked T-shirt. The two middle-aged electricians fitting the last of the spotlights above his head, had no desire to argue with him.

  The Three Dogs had worked tirelessly for over two years. Their “ice cream” business had flourished. The four vans had become six and were now manned by trusted employees rather than the Dogs themselves. That said, the three still kept a close eye on proceedings with regular visits and checks. It was always one of the Dogs that delivered the drugs to the vans and later in the day, collected the cash and balance of the goods. Anyone considering rolling one of the vehicles would feel the wrath of the crew, and several beatings had been dished out to remind the locals just who was in charge.

  In early 1981 they had moved into the east side of the town and had encountered some issues. The Jamaicans had taken exception to their cannabis dealing business being eroded by The Three Dogs and a turf war had ensued.

  One of the 3D Ice vans had been attacked and robbed. The driver, Fat Les’ cousin Freddie suffered a broken arm.

  Frankie returned the favour by tying one of the Yardie players to a lamp post outside the Red Lion and smashing his kneecaps with a lump hammer.

  Eventually, a truce was called. The Dogs kept their vans away from Callon and Avenham, but in return, supplied the Jamaicans with speed and prescription drugs.

  Peace was restored and even more money was made.

  On the 8th of July 1982, Frankie brought Tony and Eddie to an eight thousand square feet derelict building just off Church Street.

  In just twenty-four weeks Tony had transformed it, on time and in budget, into “Toast”, Preston’s newest and most exclusive disco.

  It boasted three bars, two dance floors, ten thousand watts of state-of-the-art PA, and a lighting rig to make Wembley proud. Just as importantly, Frankie had insisted on one more special touch. It was the only club in the north of England to possess a VIP area.

  And tonight was opening night.

  The total cost of the building and refurb was twenty-nine thousand pounds. The three had put in equal amounts, but Tony, not wanting to use his saved cash, had sold his flat in Ingol, and used that money for his share.

  He knew he wasn’t as bright as the other two, but there was method in this madness. He had built smart, modern living quarters at the rear of the club and intended to live on the premises for a while.

  The money he’d saved was earmarked for a piece of building land in Fulwood. Tony’s dream was to build houses, lots of houses.

  In addition to 3D Ice, all three now had their own businesses, Tony’s building firm, Eddie’s sports car sales, and since the death of his father Mario, Frankie had inherited the family restaurant and opened a second. The club would be another piece in the jigsaw. All of it paid for by violence and people’s need to get high.

  The two electricians were done and started to fold away their ladders. Tony counted out a hundred in twenties and pushed them into the top pocket of the eldest man.

  “Good work Sid,” he said. “Frankie will be very happy.”

  Sid Kershaw would like to have said, he never wanted to see any of The Three Dogs ever again. He wanted to point out that the “favour” to wire the club had just about bankrupted his family business, but he didn’t. Instead he kept quiet and, like a frightened child, looked at the pathetic bunch of crushed notes in his pocket, picked up his toolbox and carried it to the exit.

  Tony locked the door behind the men and walked through the main bar to a private office at the rear of the club.

  Inside was a working space, safe, desk and the club’s CCTV system. Everywhere, barring the toilets and the VIP area were covered.

  At the back of the office was another door, which led to his living quarters. He strode to his small bathroom, stripped, stepped inside the shower and let the hot water cleanse and revive him. He dried himself and changed into Levi jeans and a plain white T-shirt. As he pulled on a pair of Reeboks, he checked his watch.

  One o’clock.

  Just nine hours to go before opening the doors. Laurie had been pivotal in the interior design of the club. She had a great eye for detail and had picked all the furniture, along with the interior fixtures and fittings. Probably more importantly, she was the figurehead of the business and would control the front of house. The Three Dogs all had serious criminal records and were unable to obtain the necessary paperwork for the club. It was her name that was over the door. It was her liquor licence.

  Tony’s role in the club was security. He had used a local firm, headed by Frankie’s cousin Paulo, but it would be nine o’clock before his team of seven bouncers arrived.

  With Eddie away in Liverpool on some mystery business, it was down to Frankie and Laurie to organise the rest.

  He switched on the TV and listened to his stomach rumble.

  Rooting in the kitchen revealed nothing of interest. Fitting the cupboards had been one thing, but Tony had neglected to fill them.

  Chastising himself, he strode toward to front door, dreaming of a burger.

  The moment his hand reached the lock, he heard knuckles rap from the other side. It was a sharp insistent knock, but not one from someone with great strength.

  He stood there in silence, considering whether to open the door, or ignore whoever was standing in the rain outside. He wanted food, not a conversation with some irate joiner searching for a payout.

  The knocking continued. Whoever it was wasn’t going away. Tony muttered a few expletives under his breath and pulled the heavy door open.

  “We’re closed!” he shouted, poking his head into what could only be described as a deluge.

  Tony had to look down to see the source of the knocking. He didn’t recognise Cheryl Greenwood at first. After all, the last time he had seen her, had been over two years earlier in the Red Lion. The night Frankie had got with Laurie.

  She had been blonde then.

  The girl looked up at Tony, her now natural, mid-brown hair, plastered against her wet face. The unrelenting rain had soaked her flimsy coat through at the shoulders and she shivered. He couldn’t tell if tears or raindrops ran down her cheeks. The girl was holding the handles of a buggy. A clear plastic cover protected a small child of indeterminate age.

  Tony screwed up his face and attempted to work out what to say.

  “Cheryl?”

  The girl nodded fiercely. Rain dripped from her nose.

  Tony leaned out of the doorway to inspect the child and was immediately drenched.

  “Yours?”

  More nodding, “Mine and Eddie’s,” she said.

  Tony’s voice raised an octave. “Eddie’s! Bloody hell Cheryl… does he know?”

  Cheryl was losing patience.

  “Of course he doesn’t fuckin’ know! Now are you going to let me in before we both fuckin’ drown!”

  Tony looked up into the black January squall and suddenly seemed to realise it was raining.

  “Oh, yeah… err… I suppose so.”

  He grabbed the bottom of the buggy and lifted it up the steps. Cheryl followed, holding on tightly to the handles.

  Standing in the entrance of the club for a moment she tried to take in the opulence that greeted her. Rainwater puddled around her feet. Her jeans were soaked from the pavement upward and the only pair of shoes she owned had let in water. They made squelching noises with each embarrassing step. The tot stirred, and she shushed it.

  “Is this all yours then Tone?” she said quietly.

  Tony shook his head. “Mine, Frankie
’s and Eddie’s.”

  Cheryl gave a wry smile.

  “I should’ve known that eh? None of you do anything without each other, do you?”

  Tony shrugged; it was the most natural thing in the world to be in business with his lifelong partners. He couldn’t consider an existence without the other two.

  Cheryl rolled the buggy forward and back to comfort her toddler. She was wet, cold and shivering as she looked at the furniture.

  “Very nice indeed. This must have cost Eddie a fortune.”

  “Not just Eddie, we all put our cash in; we all work bloody hard love.”

  She stopped rocking the stroller and turned to face him. Her almond eyes were close to tears, yet she managed to jut her chin defiantly.

  “Where is he?” she asked. “Where’s Eddie?”

  Tony Thompson was perfectly capable of dealing with an angry violent man, but a female, close to tears, pushing a child in a buggy, was a completely different ball game.

  He studied his Reeboks and scratched his curls. “He’s erm… he’s away on business.”

  Cheryl stepped closer and craned her neck to look into Tony’s eyes.

  “Give us a break Tone eh? We had some laughs, didn’t we? Me, you and Frankie? Got pissed together in the Lion back in the day eh?”

  Thompson managed a half smile and nodded. “I suppose we did girl yeah.”

  Cheryl placed her small hand on his chest. “Where is he then? I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate Tone… I managed as long as I could without him. I’m on me own; I’m nineteen for fuck’s sake!”

  She pulled the plastic cover from the stroller and revealed her blonde, blue-eyed boy.

  “Look at him Tony… look at him… William… I called him William… but he needs stuff mate, stuff I can’t give him… I just can’t manage… there’s the fuckin’ gas bill an’ the electric… he needs a coat… an’… an’…”

  Her voice fell, and with it silent tears. Her quiet weeping became uncontrolled hacking sobs. Finally, her legs gave way, buckling beneath her. There was no fight left and she sat on the deep pile carpet gripping the stroller, with the last of her strength, for support.

  Tony was at a loss. He stared for a moment.

  Finally, he used his huge strength to help Cheryl back on her feet.

  “Come on love. Let’s get you in the warm and get you dried off. I got a flat in the back here. You bring the little one inside; I’ll put the fire on.”

  Cheryl wiped her tears away with an already wet sleeve.

  “Thanks Tone… thank you.”

  Thompson came from a large Catholic family. He was the only boy, but had five younger sisters. Babies were not alien to him and he’d changed more nappies than he could care to mention. He sat Cheryl on his small sofa, lit the gas fire and comforted the child in front of the warmth.

  “You got any grub for the little one?” he asked.

  Cheryl nodded. “I got a jar for him in me bag under the buggy.”

  “Well,” he said. “Why don’t I give it him? You can jump in the shower; I got a dressing gown behind the door, and we’ll get your wet clothes on the maiden.”

  Cheryl was in no place to argue, she was frozen and exhausted.

  “Okay Tone… thanks mate… I’m sorry about before… it’s just that everything has come on top, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  Tony found a kind smile. “Look, just get yourself sorted, I’ll give Billy here his bottle, then I’ll nip and get us both a burger.”

  Cheryl raised a pink finger. “William,” she said. “His name’s William, not Billy.”

  Forty minutes later, William was fed and asleep in front of the fire. Tony and Cheryl had wolfed down double cheeseburgers, fries and Cokes. The television played quietly in the corner.

  “Where you living then?” asked Tony as he wiped the dishes.

  Cheryl sat on the sofa, feet tucked under her, drowned by Tony’s huge towelling gown.

  “I got a flat in the high rise off North Road… Westmorland House.”

  “Oh yeah, I know it.”

  “It’s no good for a kid. The bloody lift only works half the time, and I’m twelve floors up.”

  “Keep yer fit,” joked Tony.

  Cheryl ignored the quip. “When I first got the place, I left William’s buggy at the bottom of the stairs and carried him up. I’d still got my stitches in from havin’ him and couldn’t manage a baby and the pram. When I went back down, some fucker had nicked it.”

  “Bastards!”

  “Yeah, never got it back… bet they wouldn’t have nicked it if they’d known William was Eddie’s kid.”

  Tony finished drying the last plate and joined Cheryl on the sofa.

  “Why’d you not tell him about the baby love?”

  Cheryl crossed her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits. What should she say?

  I didn’t tell him because he raped me? I didn’t tell him because I think he’s gay? I didn’t tell him because he’s a violent psychopath?

  “I thought I could manage on my own,” she managed. “Let’s face it… it was a one-off eh? We were both pissed and on the whizz; it was a fumble in the back of his car.”

  Tony nodded. “Suppose… but I reckon I’d want to know.”

  Cheryl looked him in the eye. “You ain’t Eddie Williams, though are you?”

  He considered that information, and let it sink in.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “And I’ve decided, if you can keep a secret from him, I ain’t gonna tell him either. I made a mistake, I shouldn’t have come.”

  Cheryl stood and checked her clothes were dry. “I’d better get dressed; time’s gettin’ on.”

  She took her jeans and top from the maiden and stepped into the bathroom.

  Within minutes she was back, her hair brushed, looking human again.

  Tony thought she looked very pretty.

  He pushed his hand in his pocket, pulled out two hundred pounds and held it outstretched.

  “Keep you going for a week or two I reckon,” he gestured toward the buggy. “Get him a coat as well.”

  He thought Cheryl was about to cry, but she did not. She took the money and slipped it in her jeans.

  “You’re a good bloke Tone,” she managed.

  “I’ll drive you,” he said with a smile. “Make sure that lift is working.”

  Tony took hold of the stroller and pushed it toward the door.

  As he reached it he stopped and turned. He seemed troubled, as if struggling with a major dilemma in his head. Eventually he blurted out what was his quandary.

  “I won’t tell Eddie. I mean, I’ll keep your secret if you like.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Harry Strange poured strong tea into large mugs and stirred two spoons of sugar into each. He checked the bacon and sausages under the grill, before cracking half a dozen eggs into a large frying pan. Baked beans and tinned tomatoes were simmering on the hob.

  The lads had slept the clock around. Harry decided they needed it. There were only two possible reasons Jamie and Dick were home in the middle of a tour; they were in the shit, or they’d had a kill. Worse-case scenario, both.

  Harry hadn’t asked questions when the two knocked him out of bed around three a.m. They both looked all in, and there was no rush. Harry knew all about taking a life for the first time. And if that was the reason Jamie was home, he knew, from experience, it would stay with his son forever.

  At a time like that, the last thing he would need was an old hand giving him grief.

  At forty-seven, Harry was still a very fit man and he vaulted the top three stairs on the landing before pounding on Jamie’s bedroom door.

  “Come on lads, breakfast is ready… if you can call it th
at at this time of day!”

  There were groans and the sounds of stretching before Jamie managed, “Smells bloody marvellous Dad… two minutes.”

  Harry set the small kitchen table. Jamie’s mother, Rose had always insisted they eat at the table together and he had kept up that routine. Even in the long and lonely periods when Harry was now alone, he still sat at the table to eat; old habits and all that.

  The two marines sauntered into the kitchen, yawning and scratching as young men do.

  “Morning Mr S,” said Bird. “You’ve cooked up a serious breakfast there sir, enough to choke a horse.”

  “Sit down lads,” said Harry. “I know how shit the food is in the NAAFI.”

  Jamie picked up a slice of bread and butter from a mound in the centre of the table, tore off a corner and dipped it in an egg. “The rations are the worst Dad, it’s a wonder we don’t starve to death on a patrol.”

  Harry gave both lads the once-over. They were both built like houses. “You don’t seem to be going short of anything lads. In my day…”

  “Oh, here we go,” laughed Jamie. “We ain’t been up ten minutes and the old war stories are coming out.”

  Harry smiled and pointed a sausage-filled fork at his son. He was full of pride and delighted to have his boy home.

  “You are not too big to be pulled down a peg,” he joked.

  The table erupted into a mixture of Rocky Balboa and Bruce Lee impressions.

  There was laughter, tea was spilled and a mountain of food consumed.

  Finally, the three men sat back satisfied.

  “I’ll get the pots,” offered Dick.

  Jamie gave his friend a knowing look. “Cheers Birdman, me and my old fella got a few things to talk about in the parlour, give us ten eh?”

  Bird gave the briefest acknowledgement and began clearing.

  Harry sat in his favourite chair with the remnants of his tea for company. Jamie found the sofa, perched himself on the edge of his seat, clasped his hands in front of him, and began the story of how he had killed another human being.

  When Jamie had finished, Harry moved from his seat and sat next to his son, the way he had done all his life when he needed him.