Top Hard

by Stephen Booth

  But you'd need a heck of an imagination to picture this theme park now. The buildings have been demolished, and the fences are a futile gesture. There's just the black slag everywhere and a few churned up roadways where they came to cart away the debris.

  The Frenchman stared at the lagoons, then turned and looked across the black wasteland behind him. It would be suicide to try walking through that lot. He shrugged his shoulders and waited, his eyebrows lifted like a supercilious customs man at Calais. Suddenly, his complacency was starting to annoy me.

  "Take a look at this then, mate. What do you think? Pretty, isn't it? This is what's left of our mining industry. Coal mining, yeah? It may not mean much to you. You grow grapes and make cheese in France, right? But coal was our livelihood here in Nottinghamshire, once. Blokes went down into a bloody great black hole every day and got their lungs full of coal dust just so that we could buy food after the war. You remember the war, do you? When we kicked the krauts out of your country?"

  Of course he didn't remember the war. He wasn't old enough. Nor am I, but I've read a history book or two. I know we bankrupted ourselves fighting the Germans, and it was the miners like my granddad who worked their bollocks off to get this country out of the mess afterwards. Their sons and grandsons carried on going down those holes day after day to dig out the coal. Decades and decades of it, with blokes getting crushed in roof falls and burnt to death in fires, and coughing their guts out with lung disease for the rest of their lives.

  And this is the thanks they got, places like this and a score of other derelict sites around Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Yorkshire. Maggie Thatcher betrayed us, the whole country let us down. Workmates stabbed each other in the back. That was 1984. Write it on my gravestone.

  Somewhere north of Newark, the French truck would be picking up speed on the flat right now. In a few minutes it should it hit the bypass and turn off on the A46. Within the hour it would be in a warehouse on an industrial estate outside town, and that would be nothing to do with me at all. All thanks to Slow Kid Thompson.

  Oh, I forget to mention Slow Kid, didn't I? He's one of my best boys. He has a lot of talents, but his number one skill is driving. If Slow can't drive it, it hasn't got wheels. Today, he'd just delivered our first big load, a job worth quite a few grand to me and my mates. After years of doing small-scale business, shifting dodgy goods and re-plating nicked motors, we were finally moving into the big time. That Iveco represented the start of a new life of a crime, and goodbye to a past I wanted to forget.

  "You're lucky, monsieur. I'm feeling in a good mood today."

  By now the Frenchman had gone as quiet as Doncaster Dave. I guess it had finally dawned on him that we weren't going to help him catch his stolen lorry after all. Maybe he'd realised there would be no nice British bobbies rushing up to arrest the villains who'd ruined his day. No high-speed pursuit, no rolling road blocks, no one to pull him out of the brown stuff.

  Oh yeah, that's the main thing I forgot to mention - you can't trust anyone these days. I call it the Stones McClure Top Hard Rule.

  2

  It would take the trucker a while to find his way out through these woods. There was a farm half a mile away, but I happened to know that the bloke there was a sheep farmer who exported lamb. He was more likely to welcome a French lorry driver with a shotgun than with an invitation to step in and use his phone.

  I spun the Escort round and headed away again. But after a few yards I jammed on the brakes and reversed back to the Frenchman. I wound down the window and handed him out a Mega Mac Meal. Then we drove off. In my mirror, I saw the trucker stare at the bag for a second before dropping it on the floor and jumping on it. What a waste. I know it was probably a statement of his national culinary superiority, but that Mega Mac Meal cost me £3.89.

  Heading south now on the A1, I put my foot down for a few miles. Just before Newark we caught up with the French truck. It was going well and picking up speed on the flat. We tailed it as it hit the Newark bypass and turned off westwards on the A46. After a few minutes it disappeared into a lorry park at the back of the cattle market.

  Dave and I sat in the car by the junction for a bit, checking out the traffic. Then we turned round, eased our way back onto the bypass and pulled straight into the forecourt of one of the fast food places, where we sat and ate our Mega Macs. Dave was ready for another snack after all that effort.

  I checked my boots and scraped off a bit of mud from the pit site. It wouldn't make much difference to the floor of the Escort. I'm not exactly a snappy dresser, as anyone will tell you who's ever seen me coming. A pair of old Levis and a leather jacket suit me fine. But I've got a soft spot for these boots. They're Dan Post tan Gamblers, with snip toes and cowboy heels, and a nice bit of fancy stitching in the leather on the sides. I reckon they must have cost a few hundred dollars, these things. I got them as a present years ago from some American bird with too much money. You don't see many of those round these parts, so she's worth remembering, if only for the boots.

  A few minutes later, a young bloke walked out of the bushes near the back of the cattle market and dodged and jinked his way across the road to the cafe. He was medium height, with hair cropped so short he looked bald from a distance. He was wearing a grubby t-shirt and carrying a red ski jacket, and a woollen hat was shoved into the pocket of his jeans. I eyed him in the mirror as he slipped into the back seat of the Escort.

  "All right, Slow?"

  He pulled out a fag before he answered, adding to the stink in the Escort. Then his eyes met mine in the mirror, bright with excitement, and he grinned suddenly, looking like a little kid who's just come down from a ride on the Corkscrew Rollercoaster at Alton Towers. He gestured at me with a sharp jab of his index finger.

  "All right, Stones. All right."

  I left Dave to finish off the extra large fries while I went outside with Slow Kid. There was another bit of business to see to that Slow had set up, but we had a few minutes to wait. The roar of engines and the screech of air brakes from the heavy traffic approaching the roundabout didn't help conversation, but you don't expect the car park of a microwave mecca to be scenic.

  "Good job that, Stones, don't you reckon?"

  "Sure, Slow. Let's hope there'll be lots more of them. What are you going to spend your share on?"

  "Dunno really. My mum's talking about moving. Maybe it'll help. She wants to get out of Beech Street. Move into one of the Crescents maybe."

  "A Crescent? Going upmarket?"

  "Well, Mum's not happy. She's says they're all drug addicts in our street now."

  "Yeah, probably."

  The Thompsons are a big family - there are several households of them on our estate alone. Slow Kid has lots of brothers and sisters and cousins, and they're so close they form a separate clan. Although they argue all the time, they also protect each other. Very few of them have jobs.

  Slow Kid nudged me as a blue Renault Master high-roof van nosed into the car park. It picked out the quietest corner and backed into a spot where its rear doors were facing towards the shrubbery.

  "That's the bloke, Stones."

  "Right. Let's see what he's got. Rawlings, is it?"

  "Yeah."

  The owner of the Renault was a heavily built bloke in a check shirt with receding hair pulled back in greasy strands over his ears. He was sweating, though the weather wasn't all that warm, and his manner was a bit too slimy for my liking.

  "Hey up," I said.

  "Hey up. McClure, is it? I'm Rawlings."

  "Nobody ever calls me anything but Stones."

  "Right, right."

  His hand felt clammy when we shook, even though he wiped his palm on his jeans first. He had the back doors of the van open, glancing slyly around him like some Russian spy from a Cold War thriller. I was already getting a bad feeling about him. I only stay free and in good health by keeping clear of blokes like this. But I decided to take a look at his stuff since we were here, and Slow Kid had set it up
himself.

  The back of the van was half full of cardboard boxes.

  "Trainers, that right?"

  "Right. Reeboks." He winked at me, and I had to fight a shudder. This jerk was putting me right off crime.

  "And there's some sweatshirts and tracksuits too. Umbro. All top-notch gear, you know, Stones. Reeboks, now, they go like mad with the youngsters these days, eh?"

  "Let's have a look then."

  "Sure thing." Rawlings leaned round the side of the van and bellowed towards the driver's seat. "Josh! Open a couple of these boxes."

  A lad with a streaked flat-top slid out of the cab and slouched towards us, pulling a nasty-looking combat knife from his pocket. Slow Kid, who was standing behind me, took a couple of steps backwards as if to give himself room for action. Without looking round, I could feel him stiffen.

  But Flat Top took no notice of us. He hoisted himself into the van and hacked away at the tape sealing one of the nearest cases. I could see it was packed with plain white shoe boxes stuffed with tissue paper. The lad watched me as I lifted a couple out and unwrapped the tissue.

  The trainers were real top-class stuff. They were well made, with solid stitching and thick soles that flexed like something alive in my fingers. They smelled new and expensive, and the gold and black labels on the heels looked genuine. They looked really good. Too good.

  Flat Top had another box open by now, and was dragging out a tracksuit top. But I didn't want to see any more. I shoved the trainers back in under the tissue paper and turned to Rawlings.

  "No thanks. I'm not interested."

  "What?" His eyebrows shot up towards his freckly bald head. "You must be joking. Look at them! That's good stuff, that is. You won't see any better."

  "Maybe. But I'm not interested. Sorry."

  "Stones, look. You don't know what you're saying. I'm offering you the best here."

  "Sure. But offer it somewhere else, okay?"

  Rawlings was sweating even more now. He took a revolting rag from his pocket to wipe his head. "If it's the price that's worrying you, I'll drop it, okay? Just make me an offer. I need to unload the stuff. It'll make you a bomb."

  "No."

  I turned to go and caught sight of Slow Kid's expression. He looked as though he'd come face to face with a rattlesnake on the living room carpet and was just waiting for it to blink before he stamped on its head. He bared his teeth as I felt a sweaty hand grab my arm and pull me back towards the van. It was Rawlings, and his mood had suddenly changed.

  "McClure, I don't appreciate being messed around. I came here because I heard you'd be interested. I was told you were straight up, a bloke who knew a good deal when he saw when. So don't muck me about. Take this deal or tell me why not."

  I don't like being grabbed very much, especially by jerks like Rawlings. But Flat Top was poised by the back doors of the van, the knife held in his hand almost casually, as if he was waiting for someone to ask him to slit open another cardboard box or something. His eyes were fixed on me, and I hadn't noticed them until now. They were blue, but dead, like the eyes of a stuffed cat.

  The knife was too near me for comfort, and Rawlings had a good grip on my best arm. I knew Slow Kid was probably carrying his own blade, but he was behind me. An accident can happen at a time like this - and the thought that I might be the one it happens to makes me unhappy.

  I don't reckon to be a coward, but self-preservation is my middle name. In fact, I'm thinking of changing it by deed poll to 'alive'. Stones Alive McClure. It doesn't sound too bad, does it? It'll give someone a good laugh when they chisel it on my memorial. But it's sussing out situations like this that has kept me on two feet all this time. Well, that and the good money I pay Doncaster Dave to be my minder, anyway.

  I don't know whether Rawlings and his mate could see me weighing up the odds with my lightning-fast brain, or whether it was the sight of Dave himself leaning on the side of the van and crumpling the door that made Rawlings let go of my arm. The odds had shifted, and retreat had become a sensible option for him. That's the way I like it.

  Rawlings gave a jerk of his head to Flat Top, who followed him back to the cab, looking frustrated. Rawlings put his boot down and the van shot off across the car park, leaving us with just a few lungfuls of exhaust fumes to remember them by. When they turned to go past us to the exit, I thought Rawlings looked worried. Scared even. Maybe I ought to give Dave a pay rise.

  The three of us walked back in silence to the Little Chef, and Dave happily went back to his place at a table by the window.

  "Something go wrong then, Stones?"

  That's Dave all right. Nothing much gets past him.

  "Well, you were watching, weren't you, Donc? That's what I pay you for, ain't it? To watch me? You must have seen what went off, right?"

  "Course, Stones."

  I was irritated with him because it had nearly gone very badly wrong, and I didn't like the fact he'd turned up at the last minute, even though it was probably my fault. I hadn't been cautious enough for once. Just then I didn't realise quite how badly everything had nearly gone wrong.

  Dave was looking shifty at my tone of voice, and his eyes slid sideways. I followed his glance and saw a muscly waitress with a dyed blonde crop. She grinned back at him, and I sighed. Why does my minder have this effect on some women? I can't understand it. He frightens the life out of me.

  Then the mobile phone rang. When I say 'rang', the Motorola can be set to vibrate instead of ring if you don't want it going off noisily somewhere where it might not be very discreet. This vibration can be an interesting experience if it's in your pocket. Luckily, on this occasion it was on the table, and began to rattle quietly on the plastic surface until I picked it up.

  "Yeah?"

  "Delivery on the way," said an unidentified voice.

  "Okay."

  And that was all I needed to know.

  * * * *

  Half an hour later we were back on the road. But a mile or two down the A614, traffic slowed and gradually came to a crawl.

  "Oh shit, what's this? More roadworks?"

  Slow Kid is always impatient with delays. But me, I look for the positive side, watch for the opportunities.

  "If there's some new roadworks, keep your eyes peeled. Some of these contractors are very careless with their equipment."

  "Right."

  But as we got nearer to the hold-up, we could see there was no chance of any mobile generators or JCBs going spare. Instead, there were flashing lights, police cars slewed across one carriageway, an ambulance, a fire engine and a cloud of steam and black smoke.

  We crawled by the scene as traffic was filtered into one lane past the accident. Like all the other drivers, we craned our necks to see what had happened. The blackened and smouldering remains of a van stood at the side of the road, and fire had scorched a patch of grass and tarmac around it. The van was a Renault Master high roof. It might once have been blue.

  "Hey, isn't that - ?" began Slow, his eyes popping as he stared out of the window. He began to brake for a closer look.

  "Don't make us noticeable - drive on," I said.

  "But Stones - "

  "Yeah, I know," I said. "Rawlings and his mate."

  This wasn't good. The smile had frozen on my face. It was as if a blast of icy air had suddenly blown in through the window, straight from the smoking wreck of that van.

  3

  The village I live in is Medensworth. It's in an area called the Dukeries, on account of all the dukes. Medensworth is in the Domesday Book, according to our county's tourist office, which seems to think it's a mark of historical importance. Back then, some bloke by the name of Roger de Busli held eight bovates of land here, and a fishing yielding one hundred eels. It seems de Busli was one of William the Conqueror's minions. His reward for backing up his gaffer in 1066 was getting his hands on about half a million acres of Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire that had belonged up till then to some poor bloody Saxons. The Saxons happened to h
ave been on the wrong side in the Battle of Hastings. So it goes.

  Whenever I happen to read that bit about the bovates and eels, I can just picture some fat Norman landowners living it up in their manor houses on venison and French wine while Saxon carls slaved away in the fields and ate mouldy potatoes in their dingy hovels, knowing that they weren't worth mentioning, not even in the bloody Domesday Book.

  A few centuries later on, a load of dukes divided Nottinghamshire up between them, like greedy kids with a big cake. They built these vast monstrosities of houses for themselves, surrounded by acres and acres of parkland, outdoing each other to spend their cash. Worksop Manor once had five hundred rooms. How could anyone actually live in a place like that? It can't have been a home, just a huge stone box to contain someone's ego. And this was Worksop, for God's sake - it ain't exactly Florence.

  Meanwhile, these peasants were still pissing about in the fields, eating the same rotten potatoes - at least, those of them that weren't already being sent into the pits and factories, or shipped off to die in a war somewhere. They weren't worth mentioning either. The area's called the Dukeries, not the Peasanteries.

  The rich gits may change a bit over the centuries, but it's always the same bloody peasants. These days we don't slave in the fields so much. In fact, we don't slave anywhere much since the pits closed. Instead, we stand in a dole queue for our pittance. And instead of rotten potatoes we eat packets of Fry Dry frozen chips, which I don't think are even made from anything as exciting as potatoes. Have things changed since Monsieur de Busli? I think not.

  Well, we all know it's going to be like that for ever and ever, unless someone breaks a few rules here and there. That's where I come in. I help to share out a bit of wealth. That means breaking more than the odd rule. But they're other people's rules, not mine. If a load of stuck-up magistrates don't like the way I do it, then tough shit. Maybe now and then I re-distribute more of it than strictly necessary towards the Stones McClure Benevolent Fund. So? Double tough shit.