by Julie Shaw
He could only hope that tonight he would be meeting Irish Pete. That Mo would have other, more important things to do. Pete was fine; just a big, friendly bear of an Irishman, with nice twinkly eyes and an equivalently twinkly smile. Far better to deal with than the intimidating Rastafarian, even if he knew deep down that Irish Pete, if crossed, would crush your balls between his hairy fists just as readily.
He needed a drink, he decided. One with a little more clout than the pint of lemonade he’d opted for as a nod to the time of day. He left it on the bench, all too aware of how everyone lowered their eyes as he passed them on his way to the bar.
He was just pushing the door open when, to his dismay, he saw Vicky making her way towards him. Even from a distance he could see what a state she was in. Eyes red and swollen, dressed in a pair of baggy trackies, she hurried up to him, looking on the verge of fresh tears. He bundled her inside, got them both a pint of lager, and, fearing the attention they’d attract given the Paddy situation, bundled her back outside, but this time through the side door.
They’d be okay here, he reckoned, given everyone was out enjoying the sunshine. The sun didn’t make it round this side till gone two so he was confident they’d have the area to themselves. No, there weren’t any chairs, let alone tables to sit at – just some grass and a couple of boulders. But what kept cars out could easily double up as seats.
He sat down on one and indicated for Vicky to follow suit. ‘Now,’ he said, passing her a brimming, slopping glass, ‘have a swig of that and tell me all about it. So, Paddy’s been arrested. And he’s still at the nick, is he?’
‘Oh, Gurdy,’ Vicky sobbed, after taking a large slurp of her lager. ‘I just don’t know what to do. It was awful. They said it was taking a vehicle without consent. Or something – so that’s, like, stealing cars, isn’t it? Is that what he was doing? I mean, I’m not stupid – I’m really not, Gurdy, but he’s a bloody car thief? Is that it? I mean, d’you think he has? I mean, is that what he does when he’s off up to fuck knows what? I mean, seriously? I mean, how would I even know? He just fucks off and leaves me out of everything. So I never know, do I? Where he goes, who he’s with, what he does … Tell me, Gurdy, what the fuck is he up to?’
Gurdy buried his nose in his own pint to give himself a moment to think. Vicky clearly knew nothing about anything very much, which left him in something of a quandary. It wasn’t as if she was naïve – well, not to the point of complete ignorance, anyway. But she clearly knew almost nothing of what Paddy did for Rasta Mo.
He lowered his pint. And she didn’t really need to know the half of it – didn’t need to know any of it. Yes, it might come out at some point – and possibly sooner rather than later now, but Paddy wouldn’t thank him for being the one to enlighten her that, yes, twocking – as in taking without consent – formed a substantial part of Mo’s and Paddy’s business.
Nicking cars, and then altering them beyond recognition – including removing all identifying numbers and markings – was precisely what they took vehicles without consent for. Not that Paddy was involved in the nicking part, as it happened. He was just the one who did the ‘redesigning’ part. Which thought caused a connection to be made in Gurdy’s brain. So how come the plod had nicked him for that, then?
He smiled at his friend in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. ‘Course he hasn’t done that. Pad, a car thief? Never.’ He shook his head with emphasis, happy that at least that part was true. ‘No, you know as well as I do,’ he went on, ‘that Jimmy’s dad’s got it in for him. Specially now, after that fight – after what he did to Jimmy’s face. Mate,’ he said, leaning across to place a reassuring hand on Vicky’s leg, ‘he hasn’t done fuck-all, I promise you. Listen, he was with me all last night. Up here on the Lane. So I’m his alibi if they try to suggest he did.’
Vicky sat back on her boulder. ‘What? He was with you last night? So why didn’t he tell me? Doing what, then? He told me he’d only be a couple of hours – and that was before seven. And he didn’t get in till three. What the hell were you doing?’ She began sobbing again.
It was too much of a stretch to put his arm round Vicky’s shoulder, so Gurdy stood up, then squatted down beside her rock, taking a slow draught of his drink to give himself a bit more thinking time. Three a.m.? What the fuck had Paddy been doing since he’d left him? Which had been nine or thereabouts – six whole hours earlier. His brain whirred. What would sound like a plausible explanation?
Scrabbling around desperately while Vicky sniffed, he eventually found one. ‘You know Irish Pete?’ he said.
Vicky shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, no matter,’ he said, flapping his free hand. ‘You don’t need to. Only that he’s got these pallets of video recorders from a factory that went bust. Top fucking notch, they are, and dirt cheap an’ all. So me and Paddy was gonna store them for him, up at the lock-up, yeah? But then we had this idea to make an offer for them instead. The lot of them. Worth a fair bit, we reckoned. Anyways, we met up with Irish Pete last night, and it took us a good few hours, but he eventually made us a deal, and,’ he paused to beam, ‘they’re ours now if we want them.’
‘But 3 a.m., Gurdy – you’re telling me you were out till 3 a.m.?’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘We were. You know what it’s like, Vic. We ended up in the Mayflower – you know, to discuss how to get the money. And, you know what it’s like. There’s a lock-in and next thing you know … honest, Vic, you’ve got nothing to worry about, mate. I put him in a taxi myself.’
‘Really?’ Vicky said, looking far from convinced. ‘He was in such a mood …’
‘That’s the drink,’ Gurdy said. ‘You know Paddy. Fight his shadow, he would, when he’s that tight. You know that.’
‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘But why didn’t he just say so, for God’s sake?’
‘Because that’s the way he is, Vic. You know that better than anyone.’
Gurdy took a breath then, ready to embellish his tale a little further – bring in some small altercation with the cab driver, or something, but Vicky was already nodding, and he saw she’d probably swallowed it. As could he, he thought, privately pleased with his invention. If only momentarily, because hard on the heels of his fiction came grim reality, thundering up like a herd of fucking wildebeest. He had work to do. Work he had to do pronto.
‘Oh, Gurdy!’ Vicky said, ‘I can’t tell you how sick I’ve been feeling all morning. I haven’t known what to do with myself! And I can’t tell my mam, and I don’t know what’s happening – Paddy’s mam and dad went down the station, and that’s been the last I’ve heard of anything. And it’s been going through my mind – what if they don’t let him out? But they’ll have to let him out now, won’t they?’ She smiled a thin smile. ‘Oh, Gurdy, no wonder he never said anything to me. He’s been saving … we both have …’
She looked dreamily into the middle distance. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she said again, draining her own pint, visibly happier. ‘I’m so glad I came and found you. They’ll have to let him go now. They will have to, won’t they? Will you go down?’
Gurdy frowned. Go down? What, him instead? ‘Go down where?’
‘Down to the station, to give him his alibi.’
‘Er, yes,’ Gurdy answered, re-grouping again. ‘Course. Heading there now as it happens.’
‘Shall I come?’
No! He shook his head. ‘No, no – you’ll only muddy the waters. And what would Paddy say? Seeing you down there?’
‘No, no, of course,’ Vicky said. ‘You’re right. I’ll head home then. Tell him, yeah? Tell him that’s where I’ll be?’
‘What, you’re going to walk?’ It was a long way from the Percy back to Vicky’s. ‘Don’t be daft. Let’s get you a cab, yeah? Get you back home.’
Thankfully, apart from a pithy rant about how home wasn’t fucking home anymore, she didn’t argue and he was soon able to wave her off. And, watching another car head round the corner, he fe
lt leaden. He had a garage to go and sort out and clean down, like, now. Which would take hours – possibly till late into the evening, he knew. Yet he was also supposed to be at bloody Arthur’s Bar at seven.
He set off up Manningham Lane under the unforgiving sun. If only it were as simple as knocked off fucking video recorders.
Chapter 8
Vicky thought she might burst. It was really that physical. A kind of pulsating presence, sat high in her stomach, a constant pressure which she couldn’t force down.
Heartburn, her mam had said. Which she knew all about, obviously. Vicky sometimes found her swigging milk of magnesia out of the bottle in the mornings, like she was some pisshead on the street and it was meths.
But it wasn’t that. It was nothing amenable to medicine. It was as if her body was protesting about the stress she was under, and constantly bitching at her to sort it. And work didn’t help. It just grated on her nerves. Not the work itself – she could do that on autopilot, mostly – as much as the need to be constantly smiling when all you really wanted to do was curl up and cry. Talking shit to the clients, and all the while smiling and smiling. Nice weather we’re having. Any plans for the weekend? So, where are you going on your holidays this year? How about Armley nick?
Paddy had been released on bail mid-morning on the Monday, just over twenty-four hours since he’d been taken from his bed. He’d been in front of a magistrate, told he’d have to report weekly to the police station, and be available for his court date a couple of weeks hence.
‘And you’re surprised?’ Vicky’s mam had said when she’d blurted it all out to her. ‘He’s a rogue, always has been. Always will be, come to that. This day’s been coming for a long time, as you well know.’
But that was the problem: Vicky hadn’t known. And, despite the increasing weight of ‘facts’, she still couldn’t quite accept it. She wasn’t stupid, she knew Paddy was no angel – who didn’t? That he had a long string of ‘previous’, as her mam liked to call it, to his name. Fighting, possession of weed, being carried in stolen vehicles – but that was no different from half the lads in their part of Bradford, was it? No, not really. And it wasn’t like he’d ever been to prison, or anything. He’d never be so stupid as to let that happen.
And what everyone else knew, and Paddy had been at pains to tell her now this had happened, was that Jimmy’s dad has always had it in for him. Had hounded him remorselessly, trying to pin something on him, however much Lucy might protest otherwise.
And that was another thing; when she sat down and put everything together, she felt sure Lucy knew something about what had gone on that Saturday. Why else had she been behaving so weirdly when they’d spoken? Why else had she been silent ever since?
And that was fine, because perhaps she didn’t want to know. So she’d stopped short of asking Paddy too much about it. He was innocent, Gurdy’d said so. And that would all come out eventually. And in the meantime, she needed to support her man as best she could, whatever lie they were peddling about him actually having been in Derby that night, trying to pass on a cut-and-shut car to some apparently unwitting punter.
It wasn’t true. Gurdy had said so. It wasn’t true.
But, two weeks on now, the supporting bit was taking its toll. She felt like shit. Like she was walking round with a cloud over her head and a stone in her stomach. Because who knew? If Jimmy’s dad really hated Paddy that much, who knew what other kinds of tricks he might get up to? What tricks he might have already got up to. She knew as well as anyone how bent the police could be when they wanted to. And, when it came to Paddy, they clearly wanted to very much.
Vicky looked miserably across to the other end of the salon. Then there was Lacey. The new girl. Who, despite having been nothing but friendly and helpful since she’d started, got right on her nerves. Yes, it was good to have another apprentice come and work there – God knew, since the schools went back, and the boss had buggered off on holiday for a fortnight, she and Leanne had been rushed off their feet. But did it have to be someone so relentlessly cheerful? So chirpy and giggly and little-miss-ray-of-sunshine? So Barbie-doll pretty and so nice?
Vicky could hear her now, while combing out one of their elderly regulars, Miss Read. ‘And holiday plans yet for next year?’ Christ, Vicky thought, as she folded the latest batch of washed towels. Miss Read had been coming in for, what – thirty years? She was at least pushing eighty, not at all steady on her feet, and even Vicky already knew how stupid a question that was, given that she was an agoraphobic who barely left Bradford.
The only small light in her dark mental tunnel was that Leanne had her reservations about Lacey as well.
‘Comes across as too nice,’ was her considered opinion when they found themselves together at the back of the salon. ‘You know what I mean? Trying too hard. Till it grates. Sucking up to everybody. Never has a bad word to say about anyone, you noticed that? Something unnatural in that if you ask me.’ She grinned. ‘Still, she’ll get worn down eventually, you’ll see.’
Vicky wasn’t sure that getting worn down was necessarily a good thing. She felt worn down, and it didn’t have much to recommend it. ‘You mean become a bit of a bitch, like we are?’ she asked Leanne.
‘Hey, speak for yourself!’ Leanne huffed. ‘Seriously, Vic. You really don’t seem yourself this past fortnight. Are you okay?’
Was she okay? Now that was a question and a half. A question she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer, not since Paddy had warned her how it was tongue wagging that had got him into trouble in the first place. He meant Jimmy, of course, but she wasn’t sure she could trust anyone. But this was Leanne. It wasn’t like they hung out together or anything. And since Lucy was off-radar and her mam was so full of bile, the urge to talk to someone, share her fears, was strong.
It wasn’t long to break time, so she followed Leanne into the back room, lifted the kettle and filled it, before switching it on. ‘I’m okay,’ she said, suddenly decided, and feeling better for it. ‘Look, shall I nip next door and get some sausage rolls or something? I’ll update you on my dramas over a coffee.’
Half an hour later, as Leanne slipped the bolt across and changed the sign in the door to ‘CLOSED’, Vicky set out some plates for the sausage rolls and strawberry tarts that she’d bought from the baker’s. No Lacey, though, which was a plus. She had some boyfriend, called Roger, who apparently worked at the Market Tavern, so most days she’d take herself off down there for her lunch.
‘So?’ Leanne said, once she’d taken a bite of sausage roll. ‘Spill then. What’s been going on? Let me guess. Judging from your face something to do with your Paddy.’
Vicky nodded. ‘Well, he’s definitely a part of it,’ she conceded, ‘but it’s just everything at the minute – one fucking thing after another. My best mate still barely speaks to me – too busy being loved up with fucking Jimmy.’ She sighed. ‘Who’s turning out to be a right frigging snake in the grass. Then there’s my mam, whose only fucking aim in life is to see how fast she can get to the bottom of a bottle of cider, and who expects me to hand over any spare cash I have to fund it. I’m sick of it all, Lee, I really am.’
Leanne wiped shards of flaky pastry from her lap. ‘And Paddy?’
Vicky considered her own sausage roll. Now it was in front of her she couldn’t face it. She could hardly be arsed eating lately. ‘And Paddy,’ she agreed. ‘My not-so-white knight in shining armour. Well, as you probably know – as everyone knows, thanks to the fucking Telegraph & Argos – he got pulled in for twocking – cutting and shutting and all that. Again, and we don’t know for sure it’s not a fit-up, but we think Jimmy had something to do with him getting grassed up. But anyway, even though they didn’t find anything up at the garage, they had all the evidence they needed to put him on trial for selling a stolen vehicle, then driving said vehicle down to Derby. And knowingly working on the car that had stolen number plates on it. As well as the obvious stuff – no insurance, no MOT and no fucking tax,’ Vic
ky sighed deeply. ‘So he’s definitely looking at a stretch.’
‘Has his solicitor actually said that?’ Leanne asked. ‘That he’ll go to prison?’
Vicky nodded, putting her sausage roll back down on its bag. John Cordingley, solicitor to every bad boy in Bradford, had told Paddy that although he’d do his best to get some of the charges dismissed, the magistrates would have no option on this occasion but to give him some time. Paddy had been let off too many times in the past, apparently, and was finally due his comeuppance. ‘He’ll plead guilty to whatever they tell him to,’ she told Leanne. ‘That way, it stays with the magistrates and he gets a lighter sentence.’
‘Really? How’s that?’
‘Because if he goes with a not guilty plea it’ll go to a proper court. And that Judge Pickles is a proper bastard apparently – if Paddy gets him, and there’s a good chance he would do, he’s cracking down and would make him an example.’
‘Fucking hell, mate,’ Leanne said as she slurped on her coffee, ‘that sounds serious. You poor thing,’ she soothed. Then her expression changed. ‘And I’ll bet he’s none too happy about it, either.’
‘Course he’s not.’
Leanne shook her head. ‘No, I mean about you.’
‘About me?’
Leanne sat back. ‘Cat’s away and all that.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, how’s he going to keep tabs on what you’re up to if he’s banged up in prison?’
‘Lee, don’t start. He knows I wouldn’t look at anyone else—’
‘More’s the pity. You know, mate, you could do a lot better than him.’
Vicky felt her hackles rise. Confiding in Leanne had been a mistake, clearly. For all that she simpered round Paddy when he came in (and ditto bloody Lacey now, too, Vicky had noted) she obviously had a pretty low opinion of him. Or did now. Now she knew he was in trouble.
Oh, she didn’t know what to frigging think. ‘Don’t say that, Lee. You don’t know him. He knows I’d never leave him.’
