Blood Sisters

by Julie Shaw

  Paddy didn’t imagine Mo would be laughing this evening, and was relieved when he located him where common sense had already told him he would be – tucked away in one of his ‘offices’. In fact, a secluded corner of the main lounge/public bar, where he was sitting smoking, and sipping a glass of the dark rum he favoured, the rings on his hand winking a hello.

  He was alone. Paddy wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. ‘Mo, mate,’ he said, by way of greeting, keeping his limbs loose, his demeanour light. ‘Don’t worry, it’s okay. All sorted. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Oh, is that so?’ Mo asked, putting both glass and cig down and blowing out a thin stream of smoke. He got up and then he grinned. But then, Mo always grinned. It meant nothing. He grinned when he was yanking your arm up your back, or stubbing out a cigarette on your knee.

  Paddy spread his arms. ‘I’m here, aren’t I? Course it’s okay.’

  Mo’s teeth were so white that they almost seemed to illuminate the dark space he’d been sitting in. He raised a hand, languidly, but with intention and precision, clamping it firmly around the stubble on Paddy’s chin. ‘So, tell me,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing to worry about then, boy, no?’

  Paddy clocked the emphasis he’d placed on the word ‘boy’. Not to mention that his jaw was now gripped in what felt like a vice. The kind they often used down the garage. He had seen this side of Mo more than once and it wasn’t pretty. He also spotted the familiar coked-up glint in his boss’s eyes. He obviously already knew about Paddy getting the tug.

  ‘It was just a little fuck-up that’s all, Mo,’ he said, as lightly as he could, given the physical constraints. He didn’t try to pull away though. That was not what you did. But at least they were relatively hidden, away from prying eyes. This wasn’t the sort of thing that was a good look for him, after all. He was supposed to be Mo’s right-hand man – well, at least one of them. Not one of his joeys. ‘If you’ve heard the full story, you’ll already know,’ he went on, trotting out even though he knew it wasn’t true. ‘That fuck-up of a copper really messed everything up. He never read me my rights, for one thing – and it was him that approached me for the blow. He’s had a right doing for it, and it’ll have done us a favour, won’t it?’

  ‘Will it?’ Mo asked, the hand still firmly in place.

  ‘Course it will,’ Paddy said, trying to appear confident while the grip of Mo’s fingers told him he should feel anything but. But if he stuck to his line, everything would be cool. ‘Because now they’ll have to back off from me for a bit, won’t they? I’ve told them, too. I’ll have them done for fucking harassment if there’s any more of it. Told them good. I swear down, Mo. No worries.’

  Mo released Paddy’s chin and gave him a friendly slap on the arm before sitting back down on the wooden chair he’d just vacated.

  ‘This had better be all it is,’ Mo said. He pointed his finger at Paddy. ‘And if any bizzies come sniffing my way, boy, I know where to come looking, you get me?’

  Paddy nodded, relieved that his grilling was apparently over. He felt shaky, almost, and realised he’d eaten nothing since early that morning. And only then some shit cereal before he’d taken Vicky to work. He shouldn’t have let her persuade him to stay over there, bottom line. Should have gone the fuck home – the baby’d kept him awake half the night anyway – then he wouldn’t have dropped Vicky, and probably wouldn’t have told Gurdy he’d meet him in the Crown to pass on the bent ten pound notes that needed delivering to a house up Holme Wood. He’d have more likely gone straight to the lock-up and met Gurdy there, and none of this weird shit would have happened.

  Cause and effect. Funny how it sometimes worked out. Funny and baffling. ‘I promise you, Mo,’ he said. ‘There’s more chance of them cunts catching fucking Lord Lucan than they’ve got of nabbing me.’

  He hesitated a moment, as Mo picked up his drink again. Dare he even suggest it? Why not, he decided. Ride his luck for a bit. Where was the harm? And a show of balls could only help his current situation, couldn’t it? ‘Now then,’ he said, affecting a cockiness he didn’t feel. ‘I know I’ve got a bit of coke and the pills and that up at the lock-up’ – and, boy, did he need some – ‘but have you got any more gear you want me to shift? I thought I might as well get a good bit of work done while them lot down the nick are still licking their wounds.’

  Mo nodded. ‘Some Charlie and some brown coming in about ten minutes, if you want to have a go at that,’ he said. He flicked his head slightly, his dreadlocks swaying either side of his head, like a pair of curtains. Or one of those bead blinds people hung off their kitchen doors. ‘You can meet Pete round the back if you’re up for it,’ he finished.

  Paddy nodded, both shocked and relieved. ‘I’m definitely up for it.’

  ‘Then on your way, and get it out of here.’

  Paddy smiled as he shook Mo’s big hand. It was over. And fucking heroin! He was definitely back in the good books, then. He’d never been involved in the movement of heroin before, but now it looked like Mo was trusting him to go up a peg in the pecking order. God, from worrying he’d get a pasting to promotion in a matter of minutes. What the fuck did that mean? He wasn’t sure. You never knew where you really were with Mo. But right now, he chose to take it at face value, and make the most of it. It meant he was back in the fold, and was sure of a big earn if he played his cards right. What a peculiar day this was turning out to be. From a spell down at Bridewell to being entrusted with a consignment of the brown stuff. Unbelievable.

  An hour later, having cut the cocaine and bagged what he needed, Paddy was walking down Manningham Lane towards town, feeling high. He’d buried the precious heroin, and had sampled sufficient of the coke stock to be able to chase most of the anxiety away. The malt whiskey was doing its job too, courtesy of Irish Pete, and while the question about what had happened and how it had happened was ever-present, Paddy once again felt strong enough to deal with it.

  But how the fuck had it happened? That was the main thing that concerned him. How come a random cop would just walk up and try and score off him? It was almost as if he’d been watching him, trailing him, waiting to be at the right place at the right time for his moment. How else would he have known where he was going to be?

  Chance. That was possible. But it didn’t stack up. It had been nagging at him from the moment the sergeant had told him he was free to go, just as he was preparing himself for being slung in the cells, and expecting all kinds of shit to rain down on him come Monday.

  And it was nagging at him because the arrest had been conducted to the letter. He did have his rights read and he’d been caught bang to rights. Every box ticked, right down to the gleeful expression the plod couldn’t wipe from his greasy, self-satisfied face. Yet they’d let him go. Let him off with a fucking caution! It had all happened so quickly that he couldn’t quite remember exactly what he had on him, but no way was it little enough that they’d let him off with a fucking caution. Not even with the bollocks the sergeant had told him about ‘initiatives’ and amnesties and all the rest of that shit.

  No, now he could think straight – now the coke was sharpening his mind as well as his reflexes – he couldn’t help but think that it had all been a little too simple. Who the fuck got arrested, bang to rights, cuffed and dragged off to the nick, only to be released a few hours later with a full apology?

  Not the likes of Paddy Allen, he decided. The Paddy Allens of this world didn’t get so lucky. And certainly not when they’d already made the acquaintance of Armley nick. Something was amiss, and the more Paddy thought about it, the more he was sure it was part of some bigger plan. To spook him, or maybe frame him – but then why let him off again? Or, and the thought sent a chill down his spine, perhaps they’d let him off, let him out, because they were using him, to get their hands on Mo.

  He entered the Boy and Barrel – down to its last dregs and, conversely, plenty of likely business – and ordered a pint and a whisky. Then he bro
oded on events, speaking to no one. And no one approached him either. But then why fucking arrest him in the first place? What was all that about? He kept running it round and round his brain but it didn’t make sense. Why fit him up just to let him go?

  But the biggest question – the one that was really beginning to make him angry – was who’d helped them? What had led that copper to be in that place at exactly that time? Because someone had to have helped him. Jimmy Daley?

  And who was the hotline to Jimmy fucking Daley? That bitch, Lucy Briggs. But he thought that unlikely. Vicky wouldn’t dare cross him on that score. So who else? His little Paki lapdog, Gurdip Banerjee? He drained his whisky, feeling the heat trace a path down his gullet. Gurdip, whom he’d fixed up to meet at the Crown. Gurdip, who’d changed since he’d come out of prison.

  And who’d been around the pair of them, no doubt, in his absence. Thick as thieves with fucking Daley, no doubt. Gurdip, who’d changed. What the fuck was going on with him? Creeping. Obsequious. Irritating. Weird. What the fuck might be going on there?

  He drained his pint in another swallow, and, the coke sales temporarily forgotten, banged it back down on the bar and stalked out.

  Chapter 22

  Gurdy was in a jovial mood. No, he wasn’t the biggest football fan in the world – in fact, he wasn’t a football fan at all, truth be known – but there was something about the atmosphere on a match day in Bradford that made you forget your cares, feel magical, feel reckless.

  He was feeling reckless now.

  It was getting on for ten and he’d returned to the Old Crown – scene of Paddy’s being pulled by the plain clothes copper. Not that Gurdy had witnessed it. By this time he’d been off in his Mini to Holme Wood, feeling scared – this was dealing with a whole other breed of people – but at the same time euphoric to be entrusted with moving Mo’s cash around, and being deemed ready to be moved up in the pecking order.

  It made no difference. Gurdy was still busy plotting his escape. He’d even made the trip to Leeds to visit the curry shop for himself. And though his cousin wasn’t a favourite (he was a few years older than him and had an ‘all work and no party’ ethic reminiscent of his mother and father) Gurdy’s excitement at the prospect of going into business hadn’t abated. A partner. An equal. No more being at anyone’s beck and call. And everyone said how Leeds was a place where a gay man could live his life unmolested.

  Gurdy wasn’t sure that properly applied when the gay man in question was a naïve Hindu lad with a pair of overbearing parents, but the physical distance would make all the difference in the world. In Leeds he could be free to be himself.

  He felt free tonight. He didn’t want to think disloyal thoughts, but knowing Paddy was banged up in Bridewell relaxed him. Yes, there might be all sorts of trouble down the line – definitely would, in fact – but from what he’d heard, and what he knew, Mo would remain out of the picture, and if Paddy had been pulled with just a bit of gear on him, then he might not even get a custodial sentence.

  But he’d rant and he’d rage and think the world was out to get him, because that was the way Paddy was, mostly, these days – which was why Gurdy would never so much as snort a single pinch of the coke that was always so available. Dangerous drug, coke. They called it the party drug, didn’t they? He’d have called it the fight drug himself.

  But right now, he was in the mood to party; not least because one of the big draws of returning to the Old Crown was human – in the shape of a local DJ he’d met a couple of weeks back, and who’d provided him with his first ever opportunity to find out what being gay was about, in the men’s bogs in a place called Mr B’s.

  He was called DJ Steve, which was hardly imaginative, but behind the name was an imagination that had made Gurdy’s eyes pop – not to mention a passing pang at the thought of going to Leeds. Still, he’d make hay while the sun shone, as one of his teachers used to say.

  Steve was just setting up when Gurdy slipped through the doors, and as their eyes met, Gurdy knew that, whatever else was true, he was going to be partying tonight. Well, in theory. He’d just left the bar, clutching a whisky and coke, when his eyes met a pair he was altogether less pleased to meet – Paddy, large as life, was walking towards him.

  What the fuck was Paddy doing here? He’d been nicked, hadn’t he? In possession. No question about it. His brother had confirmed it. So how the fuck did he get out again so quickly, when there’d be no magistrate for him to go before till Monday?

  Feeling an uncomfortable lurch in his stomach, Gurdy managed a smile, all thoughts of DJ Steve spirited away. And as Paddy got closer, Gurdy could see that he was smashed out of his skull. Great, trust him to be in the wrong place at completely the wrong time – Paddy would no doubt expect him to stand there and listen to one of his interminable ravings about how Jimmy Daley and his dad were stitching him up. Again.

  Paddy banged a fist down on the bar. ‘Is anyone serving here or what?’ he barked, even though the barmaid, an older lady who was known for taking no shit off anyone, was so obviously already coming to do just that.

  ‘Let me,’ Gurdy said, reaching into his jeans pocket for money. ‘What d’you want, mate? A whisky?’

  ‘A slap round the chops, you keep up that caveman act,’ the barmaid said.

  ‘Promises, promises,’ Paddy answered, winking, his demeanour changing completely. And to Gurdy’s irritation, the woman winked back at him. Women really were their own worst enemies when it came to men, Gurdy decided. Surely the correct response would have been to put Paddy in his place. Give him the slap around the chops she’d both promised and he deserved. Yet, time and again, Gurdy had noticed it didn’t usually work like that. The woman was standing there simpering at him now. He pulled a fiver out and placed it on the bar while Paddy sent her off to get him a double. Hey ho. They got what they deserved.

  ‘So,’ he said, since Paddy was too busy watching her backside to speak to him as she shoved a glass under the optic. ‘They let you out, did they?’

  ‘No,’ Paddy said, turning to face him. ‘They locked me up and threw away the fucking key. What’s it look like?’

  ‘Alright, mate,’ Gurdy said, surprised by the vitriol in Paddy’s voice. ‘Keep your hair on. So what happened? I heard you were going to be stuck there till Monday. For possession, like. Though I assume you weren’t carrying much of Mo’s stuff—’

  ‘Will you shut the fuck up?’ Paddy hissed, his gaze shifting, darting here and there. ‘No, I fucking wasn’t,’ he said, once the barmaid had set his drink down, picked the fiver up, opened the till and provided the change. ‘But I was carrying. You knew I was carrying, Gurdip. But they let me go anyway. Strange that, don’t you think?’

  Gurdy did think it was strange, specially if Jimmy’s dad had anything to do with it. Stranger still that he was no longer ‘me little Paki mate’. Just Gurdip. Not Gurdy even, but Gurdip.

  He nodded nervously, wondering why Paddy was being so strange with him. It wasn’t like it was his fault, after all. ‘Why go to the bother of pulling you in just to let you go again?’ he agreed.

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Paddy said. ‘And also strange, don’t you think, that he should be there, in this very pub, where I hadn’t even planned on being?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Gurdy said to him. ‘You’d planned to meet me in here, hadn’t you?’ God, the morning seemed a lifetime ago now.

  ‘Not initially,’ Paddy told him. ‘I wanted to meet you up the lock-up, remember?’

  Gurdy wasn’t sure he did remember. In his memory they’d always agreed to meet here. Because it made more sense. Going to the lock-up would have meant an unnecessary journey for both of them, wouldn’t it?

  Gurdy was just about to ask again what that had to do with anything, when Paddy said, ‘Forget it. More to the point, why the fuck did they let me go?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Gurdy said. Paddy’s glare was beginning to get to him. He wished he’d go and find someone else to drone on
at. ‘I don’t work for the police, do I? Maybe they decided you didn’t have enough on you.’

  ‘Fuck-up, so they say,’ Paddy said, taking a big gulp of his drink and watching Gurdy over the glass rim. He lowered it. ‘They fucked up down the nick. The cretin didn’t read my rights to me. Paperwork error. Illegal arrest. Clowns, the fucking lot of them,’ he finished.

  He hadn’t taken his eyes from Gurdy as he’d said this. He still didn’t.

  ‘So your lucky day then,’ said Gurdy, as Paddy finally let his gaze drop and drained his whisky. He banged his glass down on the bar just as he had his fist minutes earlier. Gurdy wished he’d just go away. ‘Let me buy you another one,’ he said. Perhaps if he did, Paddy would go. All he seemed to want to do, despite being released, was drown his sorrows. His brother would have called that reverse logic.

  But then he did something weird. He clapped Gurdy on the back. ‘My treat,’ he said expansively. ‘I’ve had a right touch from Mo today,’ he added, his mouth now close to Gurdy’s ear. ‘Bigger than anything we’ve had in the past. This is the big one, pal, I’m telling you. The brown stuff. Pure heroin.’ He touched his nose. ‘After this you’ll be able to fucking retire, mate – we’ll both be able to retire. And you know the best news? Mo wants you in.’

  ‘Me? He really said that to you?’ Gurdy was stunned.

  ‘If you want in, that is,’ Paddy said, his eyes suddenly narrowing. Gurdy didn’t want in. Not at all. Not a bit of it. Coke was one thing, but heroin was quite another. All he wanted to do was get away. And with this news, even more so.