by Nicky Black
‘Here, Micky!’ Micky looked tentatively over his shoulder at Mooney who was smoking the tiny remnants of a cigarette between his finger and thumb, two enormous, yellow welts crusting on his lips. ‘Tania won’t give us owt. What’s the matter like?’
‘You’re off the team.’ Micky turned back to face the queue.
‘Eh? You’re joking!’ Not getting any response, Mooney stood in front of Micky, hopping anxiously as if the temperature had plummeted to twenty below zero.
‘You’re too careless,’ said Micky.
‘Me? What you on about?’
‘My bairn, you stupid twat.’ Micky turned to him, gritting his teeth. ‘You’re lucky I haven’t taken your legs off.’
‘Aaah, haway, that was nowt to do with me....’
‘Nah, it was the fairies, was it? You’ve been replaced.’
Mooney’s voice shook with alarm, it became high-pitched and urgent. ‘What do you mean replaced?’
‘I’ve brought on a substitute.’
‘You can’t, there’s nowt the matter with me!’
‘Nah, nowt brain surgery wouldn’t put right.’ Micky pushed him out of the way to let a couple of suited young men in high white collars through the red VIP rope. Mooney was cramping his style, getting on his tits.
Mooney danced, agitated, compulsively wiping his hands down his hips. ‘Where am I supposed to get gear? I’m gonna see Tiger about this. Yer gonna be sorry, Micky.’
Micky bent down, took him by the collar and put his forehead on his. ‘Fuck off and die.’ He let him go roughly and turned away from him.
‘I’m telling you,’ cried Mooney, straightening his jacket and pointing at Micky. Micky turned, and with one threatening step towards Mooney, off he ran like a frightened cat.
Micky sneered at him, the creeping coward. Nobody, but nobody, hurt his kids.
SEVEN
The sun beat down as Nicola stood at the graveside. At least it wasn’t raining, was all she could think. The weather she could fathom, but this she just couldn’t. Micky stood to her left, head bowed, leaving an acceptable distance between them as she’d requested. Margy had brought her the message. He was running out of patience. He’d given her the space she wanted for two weeks, but now he was at Margy’s door every five minutes asking where she was. He was at the school, the community centre, demanding, demanding. Eventually, the note landed on Margy’s doormat. He’d be at the funeral, whether Nicola liked it or not. Tell her. He knew the date, wasn’t hard to get it out of the priest.
As the day of the funeral grew closer, waves of emotion swelled and tumbled inside Nicola, threatening to take her under as they receded and she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t have the energy to fight him. She’d given Margy a note to put through Micky’s door. He could come to the funeral, but he could stand well back from her so she could grieve without being smothered.
She listened now to the monotone lament of the priest as he swung the censer of incense over the coffin. She didn’t take in what he was saying, just stared at the top of the wooden box being lowered into the ground, the gold plaque reading simply ‘Mark Anthony Redmond. 1974-1999. RIP’. His body was in that coffin. Mark’s body, once alive, getting his life back on track, now gone forever. Kim, pale and thin, clung to Nicola’s elbow, shivering despite the heat. They stepped forward together at the gentle nod of the priest, feeling every pitying eye on them as Nicola picked up some earth and threw it onto the coffin. It made a hollow sound, like the coffin was empty. ‘Tara, Mark,’ she said, quietly. Kim, too unsteady on her feet, fell to her knees on the fake grass that protected their shoes from the soil. Nicola bent down and held her under her arm, but her strength had deserted her. A hand took Kim under her other armpit, and Nicola looked up into the freckled face of Tyrone Woods. She gasped and held her breath, panicking, looking behind her and extending her hand to Margy in alarm, but Micky was there first. Tyrone stepped back, repelled by Micky’s stare, and he watched through shamed eyes as Kim was pulled back to her feet, only to slump back to the ground, groaning, her arms wrapped around her tiny waist. Micky bent down and gently picked Kim up, holding her in his arms like a sleeping child. Kim turned her crumpled face to his chest as he returned to his allocated spot. Nicola tried to catch his eye, but he kept them on the priest. Sorrow tore at her throat and she felt Margy’s hand grasp hers when the priest said his final Amen.
It was over. She raised her head to look around her. As well as friends from the estate, about half a dozen young lads surrounded the grave, lads Mark had worked with down at the youth project. They stood in borrowed suits, gelled heads bowed, hands clasped in front of them. Tyrone stood back, a few yards behind her, and she wondered how long he’d been there. She had no time for anger, not today, but she couldn’t help but question the audacity. As people crossed themselves and started to walk away, she glanced into the distance, and, beyond the big oak tree, she saw Lee with a woman beside him. His colleague, his girlfriend. She didn’t care.
Nicola felt in her pocket and closed her hand around a set of keys. The keys to her own house, secured within just a matter of weeks with the help of the refuge manager. She couldn’t bear to live in that loveless place any longer than she had to. A few bin bags of her things lay upstairs in the empty front bedroom of the new house. So desperate were the Council to let out properties on Valley Park, she’d had her pick of the crop. The refuge manager had wanted to send her to County Durham or North Tyneside, but Nicola was adamant. She needed to be near Kim and that was that. Micky would just have to live with it, she’d have to be strong and he’d have to get the message. If the only empty houses near Valley Park were in Valley Park, then Valley Park it was. But this was her house now, her life, and she would call the shots.
Waiting for the coroner to complete their inquest and allow the funeral to go ahead had been torture. Time had stood still as she tried to live her life without her brother and her husband in a place that had ‘temporary’ written all over it. The refuge made her nerves scream. The kids ran wild, the refuge workers trying their best to keep them occupied with paints and Lego, but there weren’t enough naughty steps and the mothers seemed happy enough for others to be dealing with the spillages and the fights while they gossiped, cooked, washed up, drank tea and smoked countless fags. Nicola had found herself joining them out of boredom and the need to clear her head of the worry that dogged her mind. But on Monday, she’d got the good news. The house she’d wanted, just a few doors from Margy, was ready for her to move into. The refuge manager had held the envelope out to her with a wan smile that asked questions Nicola didn’t want to be asked. Margy had worked relentlessly with the housing office, bugged them several times a day to the point where they nearly threw the keys at her to be rid of the constant harassment. Nicola had stared at the envelope for twenty minutes or more – a set of keys and a rehousing furniture package from the Council. The Holy Grail for homeless, battered wives.
Brenda had joined her at the table, stirring sugar into her tea with a critical spoon. ‘Valley Park?! Worse than mad,’ she’d said. ‘You’ll be back here before the month’s out, you watch.’ Of course, Brenda had done it already. She’d made the break, got away. But Nicola could see through the bullshit. Brenda was boastful enough now that the husband was safely behind bars and she had no choice in the matter. Nicola had changed the subject, wondering instead how she could get her belongings out of the house that Micky now occupied alone. She’d been wearing borrowed clothes for weeks. She missed her make-up, bras that fit, her fluffy white dressing gown and slippers, her CDs and photographs, her handbag containing her keys to the front door that was no longer hers.
‘Well, just break in, man, Tracey did,’ Brenda said, munching her way through a packet of Bourbons. ‘Then run like the fucking clappers if he catches you. HA HA HA!!’ She belted out her signature laugh and Nicola had to smile at this grotesque woman who filled her simultaneously with both fear and hope. Break in? She might just have to. The house wa
sn’t exactly secure – who would break into Micky Kelly’s house?
Nicola turned away from the grave, her arm linked through Margy’s. She sensed Micky behind her, watching, waiting for an opportunity to get near her and offer her some false comfort. She had, indeed, taken Brenda’s advice the day before, only it hadn’t quite worked out as planned.
Lee stood watching Mark’s funeral from the big oak tree, observing Nicola from a safe distance. Despite her obvious grief, she looked poised and composed in black jeans and the same black top she’d been wearing the night he first saw her. DC Thompson stood next to him. She’d done a sterling job getting information out of the pregnant housing director and her fabulous staff, badgering her for weeks to get details on current tenancies – who was moving in and who was moving out of the estate. He knew they couldn’t guarantee they were all who they said they were, but it was a good start. The list had arrived by fax that morning.
‘Think the kids must be from the youth club,’ observed Lee.
‘How sick is that?’ mused Thompson, shaking her head. ‘A drug-dealing youth worker.’
‘There was no evidence other than possession.’
‘You could hardly say that a kilo of coke was for personal use.’
Lee didn’t answer. He was staring at the familiar face of a spotty teenager, the red hair parted at the side in deference of the situation. The face from the pub, and the photograph in Mark’s file. The kid looked haunted, his bent shoulders added fifty years to him. His eyes darted warily around him.
Lee saw Nicola bend down to pick up some soil.
‘There’s his sister,’ said Thompson. ‘Housing says she’s just taken up a tenancy of her own. Must’ve left her husband.’
Lee nodded. ‘Got anything on him?’
‘Pretends to be a bouncer. More likely he runs a protection racket.’
‘Where?’
‘Pubs and clubs in town. I’ve heard it’s carved up between a handful of hard cases.’
Lee huffed and smiled knowingly. Landlords and club owners paying local hard men to keep the worky tickets and the drugs out, but letting their own dealers in.
‘That’s him there,’ said Thompson. Lee watched Micky pick up Mark’s crumpled wife and carry her back into the small group of mourners.
‘D’you think he’s supplying on Valley Park?’ he asked.
‘Don’t think he’d be stupid enough to do it on his own turf.’
‘If his wife’s left him, she might grass.’
Thompson snorted. ‘Doubt it. Who to?’
Lee looked at her and raised his eyebrows. ‘Me.’
Thompson laughed quietly behind her hand. ‘No way.’
‘You never know, she might want to turn over a new leaf.’
Thompson shook her head. ‘She’d be lynched.’
Lee watched the mourners file away one by one, nodding at the funeral director and shaking hands with the priest. He saw Nicola look at him for a moment before throwing her hair over her shoulders and walking away.
She’d left her husband. He’d known that yesterday when he’d got the heads-up from DC Gallagher who’d sighed in boredom at the report of a domestic at 10 Elm Street. Lee had walked into the living room to find a couple of uniformed officers standing between Micky and Nicola. Mrs Kelly had broken into the house to get some things, one of them said. There’d been a bit of a row. A few things broken.
Lee turned to Nicola. ‘You got what you came for?’
‘She’s taking nothing,’ Micky said, narrowing his eyes at Lee. He never forgot a face.
Nicola stood guarding a couple of black bin bags. ‘Are these your property?’ Lee asked her. She nodded. ‘Take them and go,’ he’d said.
‘She’s going NOWHERE.’ Micky was held back by the outstretched arm of one of the officers. He wasn’t daft. With Tiger’s deal on the party boat coming up, the last thing he needed was to be in trouble with the law. He stood back.
‘Would you like to press charges?’ Lee asked him calmly.
The sarcastic ‘No thank you’ was the end of the conversation, and as Micky slumped onto the sofa, Lee picked up the black bags and left the house, Nicola following behind.
Outside and away from the house he’d put the bags on the pavement and shook out his hands. ‘You alright?’ Nicola nodded. ‘No blood this time?’ She shook her head. He’d smiled and she’d half-smiled back, declining his offer of a lift, but gracefully and with a hint of gratitude.
Lee and DC Thompson watched the cemetery empty of the last few mourners.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. They walked towards the north entrance. His grandfather’s burnt-out house greeted them on their exit, and Lee remembered the quiet, monosyllabic old man, tiny, frail and bossed about relentlessly by his mother for his inclination to live in squalor and his love of all things feline. More than once he’d witnessed his mother kicking one of the squawking animals up the arse and into the backyard ‘where they belonged’. The poor man must have been more than thankful when they’d left him in peace with his mounds of Evening Chronicles and his friends swirling happily around his ankles.
They headed for Lee’s car, a brand new police-issue, in exactly the colour he’d ordered – electric blue. He winked at Thompson over the roof of the car as the central locking chirped open. She grinned. Men and their toys.
The station was buzzing when they arrived back, uniforms everywhere. The weather forecast was for several days of scorching heat, and that could only spell trouble as people threw pints of sunshine down their throats in double quantities at double speed. They were all ready for a couple of evenings of cracked heads and overtime.
Lee headed straight for DI Meadows’s office and knocked on the door. He heard a Yyyeeeessss and entered. He walked up to her, taking a document out of his work bag. He put it on her empty desk, and, when she didn’t acknowledge it, bent forward and moved it under her nose. She put her pen down and looked at the document entitled Feel the Force.
‘New strategy,’ said Lee.
Meadows laughed. ‘Just like that? Who said I wanted one?’
‘The other one doesn’t work.’
Meadows removed her glasses. ‘You can’t just sit down and write a strategy for an area command.’
‘Why not?’
‘Firstly – it’s not your job.’
‘I don’t mind if you want to take the credit.’
‘And secondly – there’s been absolutely no consultation. It took two years to set up the Community Strategy for Valley Park.’
‘With all due respect, ma’am, it’s shite.’ DI Meadows stared, speechless at the arrogance of the man. He sensed his advantage and continued. ‘I mean literally, people sit around in meetings talking about dog shit – social workers, housing officers, pensioners, just yapping on and on. That’s not what it’s about. The criminals must be pissing themselves.’
‘I don’t think the Chief Constable would appreciate you rubbishing –’
‘– I’m not rubbishing it, I’m sure there’s a place.... but it’s as much use as a chocolate teapot when it comes to crime. That estate is ruined –’
‘– You’ve only been here five minutes.’ Meadows’s eyes flashed with vexation.
‘I grew up there. I know what it’s supposed to be like.’
‘This is not your personal crusade.’ She pushed the strategy towards him.
‘But you’re getting nowhere!’ Lee’s patience was running thin, too.
‘Well, that depends on what criteria you measure it by.’ Lee rubbed his eyes with frustration. ‘The community beat officer –’
‘– is useless,’ he said. ‘Let me go to the meetings.’
‘No.’ Meadows picked up her pen once more. The air vibrated with her displeasure. Lee swallowed his pride, picked up his strategy and marched out of her office.
Sitting at his desk, Lee drilled the front page of the document with his fingers. DC Gallagher sat staring at his computer screen, then down at a piece of p
aper next to him, then back up to his screen, his face scrunched up in confusion. He punched the keys slowly with one finger, grimacing at the screen and shaking his head. Thompson brought Lee a cup of tea and he smiled up at her in thanks.
‘I thought it was good, Sarge. You should go for it,’ she said, indicating the strategy on his desk.
‘No point,’ he replied. ‘Got to stick to pussyfooting around.’ He sighed and threw the strategy resentfully into the bin. Fuck ’em, he thought. He had more important things to think about. The social services case conference for one, scheduled for nine o’clock the next morning. He’d got his facts straight. There was no evidence that the children were in any danger, neither Nicola nor Micky had any convictions for drug offences, but Kevin Moone had a record as long as his arm. He had a witness who would testify that Mr Moone was in the house that day. Nicola had her own place now: the husband and his cronies were out of the picture. She’d done the right thing. They needed to back off. He could almost see their suspicious glances already: they would challenge him about Micky having access to the children, what with him living so close. Visits would have to be supervised if she were to avoid a longer-term care order. The process would be long and drawn out, but he could help them with an injunction. He just needed Kevin Moone to admit to dropping the wrap into Nicola’s bag.
‘Here, I’ve got sommat for you,’ said Margy as they stood outside the gate, looking at the grey, pebble-dashed walls. She opened the boot of the car and took out a small, portable TV. Nicola smiled widely.
‘You should get a dog,’ said Margy.
‘It’d have to be a bloody big one to frighten off Micky.’
Margy tutted. ‘I meant for company.’
‘God, you make me sound like a pensioner.’ Nicola smiled and gave Margy a hug.
‘Watch it! Top of the range, this, you know.’ Margy hoisted the telly up and followed Nicola into the house.
Inside, Margy tried to hide her distaste at the sad state of the place. An armchair, a beanbag and a small coffee table furnished the sparse living room. Margy put the TV on top of the built-in cupboard in one of the alcoves. The gas fire was covered in splashes of paint, the middle heat panel black and almost burned out. It was dark and gloomy and the bare bulb made little difference to the presence of light when Margy switched it on. At least there’s curtains, she thought, purple yes, but they would have some privacy.
