by Julie Shaw
Vicky huffed, because that was the required response, obviously. ‘What am I,’ she said, twisting to face him, ‘your frigging wife, or something?’
The thing that, increasingly, she most wanted to be.
‘Fuck, no,’ he retorted, smirking. ‘Thank God! Wife? Can’t think of a bigger turn-off.’
Lads always said that, of course. That was just the way they generally were. So Vicky’s mood, now so much brighter, wasn’t dimmed too much by this assertion, and though she wished he’d find some other time to do his bit of business (whatever that was, she’d never ask) one thing she did know was the best way to lure him quickly back.
They were at his house not long later and, as he put his key in the front door, she unzipped the holdall. Fishing around briefly, she then pulled on the white lace of the expensive French knickers. ‘I’ll only be wearing these until ten o’clock, Paddy Allen, so if you want to make use of them, you best not be home late.’
Paddy grinned as he pushed the door open, and stepped aside to let her in. ‘Very nice, but love, I couldn’t give two fucks really. I’ll have ’em off you in about ten seconds anyway.’ He kissed her. ‘And, no, I promise I won’t be back late. Two hours tops, okay? Keep it warm for me.’
Vicky knew full well that Paddy hadn’t been referring to the dinner, which was apparently going to be pizza. But as he’d taken a couple of frozen ones out of the freezer, she spent some time getting everything ready, enjoying the freedom of his parents’ posh fitted kitchen and pushing guilty thoughts – ever present – about her mother away.
She could see herself here, she decided. Somewhere like this, at any rate. A better life. A fuller life. A life Paddy could provide for her. She sliced a couple of tomatoes to put on top of the pizzas, added some extra cheese, spread some oven chips on a pristine baking sheet and lit the oven, and finally laid the little table for their romantic dinner for two.
But one hour very quickly became two, and then more, and, bored with the usual dire Saturday-night television offerings, Vicky decided, on a whim, to phone Lucy.
It had been two weeks to the day now since the fight at Vikram’s party, two weeks in which she’d several times considered phoning her friend to make things up. But the memory of their call before kept staying her hand. Surely it was Lucy who should be doing the apologising? After all, she’d been the one to start it, lashing out at Paddy the way she had.
But the later it got – two hours tops he’d said, hadn’t he? So where the hell was he? – the more Vicky wondered at the validity of her stubbornness. And perhaps Lucy was thinking the same. That it was Vicky who ought to be doing the apologising. After all, she’d been the one who’d slapped Lucy round the face.
Feeling increasingly agitated – not to mention slightly adrift now, in Paddy’s empty house, and thinking still of her bloody mother, which her friend would understand – Vicky picked up the receiver and punched the familiar numbers. Not that she was that hopeful that Lucy would be home. It was Saturday night, after all.
But it turned out she was. ‘Oh, yes, she’s in,’ said Lucy’s dad, sounding genuinely pleased that she’d called. ‘So nice to hear from you, love. I’ll go call her now for you.’
And then, not long later, came Lucy herself, sounding puffed-out, having hobbled down from her bedroom to take the call. She’d been in the middle of giving herself a pedicure, she explained breathlessly, then began chattering away, for the best part of a minute, about anything and everything but the one thing that mattered, almost as if she didn’t dare leave any silence in case Vicky used it to leap in and slap her again.
Which wasn’t like Lucy at all.
‘I’m sorry,’ Vicky said, seizing on a pause in her friend’s ramblings. What was the point of them speaking if they didn’t talk about why they hadn’t been? ‘That’s why I called you. To apologise. Luce, I really am sorry … I should have called you before. I just couldn’t …’ She hesitated, struggling to find the words now to finish. ‘I just … well, I was just being pig-headed and stupid. I’m really sorry. Can we let this all go?’
There was definitely a silence now, albeit a small one.
‘God, of course,’ Lucy gushed at her, brightly. Too brightly. ‘And me too. Honest, Vic, I’ve nearly called you that many times. You know what I’m like. Much too stubborn for my own good.’ She chuckled. ‘It’s history. Stupid blokes. Bloody boyfriends. We shouldn’t let them come between us, should we? It’s not like we don’t both have minds of our own, is it? Anyway, what you up to? Look at the pair of us, in of a Saturday, all on our lonesome …’
And it felt like that, suddenly. Despite talking to Lucy – no, no, in fact, almost because of – Vicky felt exactly that. Lonely. She glanced at the clock on the living-room wall. ‘Oh, Pad’s home soon,’ she said. ‘He’s just out—’ She faltered again. ‘Just out, for a bit, with a couple of his mates. And I’m knackered. Been on my feet all day. I need an office job like you’ve got …’ She chuckled too, politely, still confused by the exchange. ‘Anyway, what about your Jimmy?’ Christ, this was becoming such a weird conversation. ‘He out too?’
‘With some of his workmates,’ Lucy confirmed. ‘Someone’s stag night, so goodness only knows what time he’ll get home … so …’
‘So look,’ Vicky said, increasingly anxious to make some kind of proper connection, ‘how about you and I going out one night after work, in the week? You know …’
‘Oh, I’d love that,’ Lucy answered. And quickly. Too quickly. ‘Shall we talk tomorrow, maybe? Sort out which day works best for us both? You do a couple of lates in the week down there, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’ Vicky paused again, hearing the sound of a key in the front door. ‘Look, that’ll be Paddy,’ she said, anxious now. He was the last person who needed to hear her on the phone to Lucy. ‘I’d better go. Speak tomorrow then, mate, yes?’
‘Course,’ Lucy said.
It was only when she’d hung up that Vicky realised that Lucy hadn’t just said ‘course’. She’d actually said ‘course you had’, and her meaning was clear. Course you had, as in ‘course you had better go’.
Because of Paddy.
But it hadn’t been Paddy. It had been Paddy’s parents, home from the bakery. Home from the bakery a good hour or two earlier than Paddy had led her to believe they would be, sending her into a flat spin of embarrassment and self-consciousness, and cursing him inwardly for leaving her in such a way.
‘Oh, don’t you mind us,’ Paddy’s mum gushed as she came in, smelling of recently applied perfume and pastry. She smiled indulgently at the preparations that had been laid out in her kitchen. ‘We’ll be off in the living room, out of the way, don’t you worry, love. You know,’ she then told Vicky, as she stood at the sink, filling the kettle, ‘it never ceases to amaze me how that lad of ours has managed to hang on to a girl like you.’ She laughed then. ‘Or deserves one, for that matter. One of life’s enduring mysteries, eh?!’
Vicky knew full well that Mrs Allen thought no such thing. Quite the opposite. They might not be around much, but one thing was still true. They thought the sun shone out of Paddy’s backside. They positively doted on him, especially his mam. Still, she was grateful for her sweetness in saying so.
Though she was still quick to excuse herself and go and wait for him upstairs – there to sit up disconsolately in bed in her new underwear, variously wondering where the fuck Paddy had got to and chewing over her strange call to Lucy.
Vicky knew she must have dozed off but when Paddy flumped down onto the bed, she was shocked to see, by the light of his digital alarm clock, that it was 3.00 in the morning. He was pissed. Or, at least half-pissed. He was at least making a stab at extricating himself from his clothing.
‘What the fuck, Paddy?’ she hissed angrily as she tried to budge him across the bed. ‘Have you seen the fucking time? Where’ve you been?’
He said nothing. Too busy growling in exasperation at his belt buckle. Vicky lay and watched him,
growing increasingly irritated. Where the hell had he been? She then felt anxiety begin to crowd her mind. It was so late. Way beyond chucking-out time. And he’d not gone out dressed for clubbing. So more to the point, who had he been with?
She sat up straight. ‘Come on! Where’ve you been, and who’ve you been with? You’ve been hours!’
She’d been prepared for some narky response to this – he’d been drinking, so that was always a possibility – but not for the way he twisted round on the bed and grabbed her. Grabbed her none too gently, by the wrist, and yanked her towards him. ‘Just shut the fuck up, will you?’ he growled at her, nose to nose now. ‘Don’t push it, okay? Just don’t fucking push me!’
He let go of her then, and returned his attention back to getting undressed. She could smell the night air on him. See the tension in his shoulders. Perhaps she’d misread things. Perhaps his business, whatever it was, had been more complicated than he’d thought, and he was stressed. And the last thing he needed was a needy, jealous girlfriend.
Chastened, she reached out a hand and touched his back. ‘I’m sorry, babes,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve just been worried about you, that’s all. Wondering if you’re okay …’
‘Yes, I’m okay,’ he replied shortly, his back to her, a wall. Then he stood and stamped his feet out of his trousers.
‘Come to bed then,’ she said, pulling the covers back on his side. ‘I kept it warm for you, like you wanted …’ She let the sentence hang.
Paddy crossed arms and peeled his jumper over his head, his shoulder blades moving sinuously under his skin. Then he turned around and, for the first time, he smiled. Vicky felt the anxiety drain out of her in a welcome rush, all thought of where he’d been, and what the hell he’d been up to, gladly extinguished by the loving glint in his eyes.
‘Oh, go on, then,’ he said, slipping into bed beside her.
It felt as if she’d only just gone to sleep when she first heard the commotion. And, at first, it was simply a part of her dream; a logical extension of the jumble of images and sounds that, on waking, she clung onto, confused.
But it was real. It was coming from downstairs and getting louder. Shouting – Paddy’s mum? – followed by a sound she recognised; that of many boots, running heavily up the stairs.
And then a shard of white light, which quickly became a blaze, which made her eyes, barely open yet, shut again by themselves. So she was still squinting, shielding her eyes against the sudden glare, when the silhouettes in the doorway finally resolved themselves. Coppers. She counted them – one, two, three, four of them. Then she started. The first of them was Jimmy’s dad.
Mrs Allen was right behind them, in a short jersey nightie, attempting to push her way into the room. ‘I want to see the frigging warrant!’ she was yelling at them. Mr Allen was there too, trying to hold her back.
Paddy sat up then, naked and confused. Then rubbed his eyes, flung the covers off and leapt out of bed, seemingly not remotely bothered that his mum was in the room and he was showing all he’d got. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he demanded, now face to face with DI Daley. ‘Has that fucking pussy son of yours reported me for giving him a fucking slap?’
Of the three other coppers, Vicky belatedly noticed, one was a female. Mid-twenties, Vickie estimated, slim and smirking. ‘Patrick Allen, we’re arresting you for taking a vehicle without consent and related crimes,’ she monotoned at him. ‘You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say, can and will be …’
‘Save it, bitch,’ Paddy replied, cutting her off. He glanced across and grinned at Vicky, then started to swing his bits in the female officer’s direction as he made a show of bending down to pick up his trousers. ‘Mother,’ he said, still bent over, ‘you might want to go wait downstairs. Because the way this one is looking at my dick, I think she might want to do a body search.’
Vicky cringed. Why was he so intent on making everything bloody worse? ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’ she demanded of Jimmy’s dad. ‘Tell us! You can’t just barge in here like this!’
‘I’d shut it, love,’ the female officer warned. ‘Or you’ll be the next one to be arrested. I’m sure lover boy here will put you in the picture. If he ever makes bail,’ she added dryly.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, babe,’ Paddy reassured Vicky, as, dressed now, after a fashion, he allowed himself to be led roughly out of the room. She scrabbled to free herself of the covers, not even caring that she was wearing little more than nothing. Though thank God she’d at least put on Paddy’s T-shirt to nip out earlier and use the loo.
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, and he turned around, his eyes almost black in the shadow. ‘Don’t you worry about me, babe,’ he reassured her. ‘You just get yourself some kip while I give these tossers some grief down the nick.’
‘Shut it, Allen,’ Jimmy’s dad said. They were the first words he’d spoken. And the way he spoke them chilled Vicky to the bone.
It had taken less than five minutes. Couldn’t be more. Probably less. Vicky stood on the bright landing, her bare legs sprouting goosebumps. Listening to Paddy’s mam yelling at DI Daley’s retreating back all the way down the stairs.
Chapter 7
Gurdy had heard about Paddy being arrested. Who hadn’t? It had been all over – pretty much the only topic of conversation outside the Percy when he’d arrived there at just after twelve. News travelled fast in Bradford – and in this case at warp speed; it was Jimmy who’d told Gurdy first, perhaps unsurprisingly, phoning him to pass on the news almost as soon as he’d got up. Then, on his walk to the lock-up on Manningham Lane (where he’d planned to sell off some of the dope Paddy had given him) he must have been told by another half dozen others.
But it was at the Perseverance, or the Percy, as it was known to the locals, that the person who had most need to catch up with him found him. Namely, his boss and nemesis, Rasta Mo.
As always seemed to be the case, Mo had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, like a superhero in a blockbuster movie. Though hero he wasn’t. Unless you liked your heroes to be dreadlocked, and in cahoots with the devil.
Gurdy could smell how expensive Mo’s leather jacket was as he approached. ‘The boy Paddy,’ he said to Gurdy, having ambled up alongside him, ‘he’s been lifted,’ he said, ‘as you probably know.’
He poked Gurdy then, hard, in the shoulder, with his finger. ‘And you’re his boy, so now you have work to do, got it? You have a set of keys to my lock-up, yes?’
Gurdy nodded nervously. He was absolutely shitting himself, not to mention being painfully aware that the punters in the Percy, now milling outside with their drinks in the summer sunshine, were all witnessing his discomfort. He wasn’t daft. He knew everyone knew what the score was. In this pub, in Arthur’s Bar, and even the Mayflower – the curry shop on the corner – they all knew he’d become a running boy for Paddy, which ultimately meant he was owned by Mo.
Mo flashed his famous grin, displaying his set of immaculate white teeth, and shook the dreadlocks that framed his fearsome face. ‘Good boy,’ he said, clapping Gurdy on the back now, like they were mates. ‘The pigs will be sniffing around now, obviously, so you need to do a clean-up, you understand? A proper clean-up. The boy won’t squeal,’ he added, ‘but, you know, just in case.’
Gurdy didn’t think Paddy would ‘squeal’ either. Given a straight choice, between the rule of the law and the wrath of Mo, he imagined he wouldn’t squeal either. ‘The cars too?’ he asked, not yet sure what Paddy had been arrested for exactly. Drugs presumably. The precise details hadn’t yet filtered through; Jimmy had been that elated when he’d phoned earlier to share the news that he’d neglected to mention what the arrest had actually been for. He felt the weakness in his sphincter increase. Would he be next?
Rasta Mo looked at Gurdy like he was mad. ‘Yes, the cars, man! Of course the cars! That’s why he’s been lifted. You need to hide the plates, the obvious tools, all the papers, everything. Just leave it set up like
a tyre yard until they’ve done with us, okay?’ He flashed another smile, gazing around at his audience. ‘Don’t fret, boy, the other business will go on as usual.’ He lowered his voice, though for the life of him, Gurdy didn’t know why. Did anyone not know who Mo was? What he did? ‘But tonight you’ll meet with either me or Irish Pete to collect your gear. Outside Arthur’s, seven o’clock. Don’t be late.’
Mo then turned and walked away, without another word or even gesture, and, out of nowhere, a black BMW pulled up on the lane and he got into it without a backward glance.
The car out of sight, and the chatter outside the pub starting up again, Gurdy pulled at the collar of his T-shirt to stop it sticking to his back. It was more than the midday heat. He was out of his depth with all this, and for about the tenth time that day he contemplated, and only just shy of hysterically, the merits of blowing what little he’d saved up, getting a flight to Karachi and going in search of one of the many elderly relatives he had there; the ones that lived in the middle of nowhere, far from civilisation – and danger – and eked out the sort of living his parents had come to Bradford to escape from.
Oh, if only. Because it was all getting just a little bit too real. While he just dealt with Paddy, it was largely okay; he could easily convince himself he was just doing stuff for an old school mate. Yes, illegal, but still just doing a bit of what loads of other people did – earning a bit of cash to help him on his way. But the reality he was forced to face now was very different. Rasta Mo was a seriously dangerous man. Everyone knew that. He had literally got away with murder, and on more than one occasion. Two dealers in the last ten years had been bludgeoned to death for trying to rob him, and though the police had been convinced that Mo had been responsible – everyone knew that as well – they had never found any evidence to put him on trial for it, and never once been able to break any of his alibis.
