Although Pat was running out of conversation he wasn’t quite done. ‘How are you finding Bradford?’ he wondered.
‘It’s the pits,’ Mike McGuire said, joining in for the first time. ‘Full of Muslims, Proddies and shite Guinness.’
‘It’s not that bad when you get used to it,’ Pat objected mildly. ‘There’s history everywhere you look. And you can be out in open countryside in ten minutes. I think that’s amazing.’
‘I think it’s shite,’ Mike growled.
‘I agree.’ Sean’s grin was one hundred per cent. Pat always wanted to defend the crappy old wool city; this was yet another chance to rattle his cage. ‘Did you hear about the damage in the Manningham Riots? Some estimates got the cost of repairs as high as fifteen quid.’
‘Fifteen quid!’ Mike lightened up ever so slightly. ‘If they paid more than a tenner they were fucking robbed.’
‘Too true,’ said Sean. ‘And they never bothered with the repairs. The tenner got used for other things, like it does round these parts.’
Even Pat laughed at that, probably relieved to see his younger cousin thaw out a bit.
‘What’s the Guinness like in your pub?’ Joey asked.
‘We shift plenty of it,’ Sean said, ‘and nobody ever complains. My landlord keeps a good cellar.’
‘The Guinness in The Kings is very fair,’ Pat added. ‘Last time I brought Padraig down for a pint he ended up having six, and he’s as good a judge as any.’
‘We’ll come on and try it sometime,’ said Joey, who’d obviously been born with all Mike’s charm and blarney as well as oodles of his own. ‘Now then, I understand you have a list for us?’
Sean passed a slip of paper across the table and Joey studied it.
‘What is it with you lot down the Aire Valley? Planning a war or something?’
An involuntary chill went through Sean. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘This is for a deal I made over the Pennines.’
‘A deal to do what, invade Moss Side?’ Joey chuckled to himself. ‘I saw almost exactly the same list on Tuesday.’
‘You must have been dealing with someone from Keighley, then. There’s always a war on in Keighley.’
‘Not Keighley, Shipley.’
The chill became a full-blown freeze. ‘You mean Harry Williamson?’
Joey looked up from the list. ‘Sorry, can’t say. Client confidentiality and all that.’
‘Fuck confidentiality,’ Mike put in. ‘Is that gobshite a mate of yours?’
‘No mate of mine,’ said Sean. ‘He’s my noisy neighbour. We co-exist and that’s about it.’
‘Is he noisy enough to try it on?’
‘Possibly. He had a go a while back. We came to an understanding.’
‘So did Joey,’ Mike snarled. ‘I couldn’t do with the little bastard. I left them to it before I snapped his scrawny neck.’
Fully frozen or not, Sean was amused. He doubted anyone had ever called Harry Williamson “little” or “scrawny” before; “bastard” yes, thousands of times . . .
Mike took the list off his older brother and skimmed down it. ‘Is all this off over the hill? If it is you’d better be placing a repeat order quick. Your noisy neighbour looks like he’s torn up his copy of the Good Friday Agreement.’
‘Okay,’ Joey said. ‘We can do it. You’ll have to wait for the Widowmakers, but you can take the rest today, if you don’t mind hanging about for an hour.’
‘How long will I be waiting for the . . . the Widowmakers?’
‘They’ll be here next week.’ Joey grinned. ‘Well, not here. We’ll have to agree a time and place, if you get my drift.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Sean, ‘how much?’
Joey took the piece of paper from Mike and worked on it a moment. When he passed it back to Sean numbers had been jotted beside each item. The numbers had been totalled but the total had been crossed out and a lower figure written below.
‘Paddy Discount for your first order,’ said Joey. ‘Don’t expect to see it again. Just count yourself lucky. And make sure that repeat order comes my way.’
* * *
Moggs didn’t know who’d snatched them. He hadn’t recognized any faces and they weren’t for saying much apart from “Shut the fuck up” and “Get in the back”. He’d taken a slap without resisting while Swanny cursed and howled as he got some of the same. Then Moggs had allowed himself to be marched from the house and bundled into a dark-coloured people carrier, obediently lying beside the sobbing loan shark. There’d been no point in objecting when one of the gunmen started to tie his hands together and tape his mouth. Swanny still hadn’t grasped the situation and got another slap for trying to abstain.
Silly twat!
It hadn’t been possible to see out of the windows, not from flat on the floor, but Moggs had sensed their movements fairly well. At least he had to start with. They’d gone downhill from The Mucky Duck then left onto Canal Road for a stretch, eventually taking a right into Shipley. Then there’d been a series of rights and lefts that lost him altogether, followed by a long uphill drag and a final left.
Shipley, he’d thought. That means Williamson.
And, before he could stop himself: Maybe we’re off to join Pongo.
When Moggs got out of the people carrier he’d found they were outside what seemed to be the only building for miles around . . . a boarded-up pub. It wasn’t one he’d recognized but looked like another decent boozer, simply unlucky to be in the wrong place for modern times. Taxed to death by Gordon Brown, as Sean would have said. Surrounded by a large car park, it was a few hundred yards from what might have been Leeds Road. There were enough road-works for it to be Leeds Road, anyway. Between the road and the car park was nothing but tree-dotted fields. The customers would have all had to drive, so it was a fair bet the Filth used to get millions of bonus points, just by lurking outside with their breath kits.
Boarded-up or not, the place appeared to be clean and unscathed. One of the gunmen had produced keys that unlocked a solid-looking back door and they went in by torchlight. Moggs’s brief impression had been of a barroom sleeping, waiting for new drinkers to kiss it back to life. Then they’d arrived at another door, heavily bolted this time as well as locked. The second door was swiftly opened and he and Swanny had been pushed through. Then they’d been made to lie on a damp cement floor while the gunmen tied their legs and rechecked the ropes binding their wrists.
And then they’d been left.
And left . . .
Moggs guessed they were in a beer cellar that was for some reason above ground, on the same level as the pub’s main lounge. He also guessed that by now it was night-time again. At one stage a line of daylight had appeared ten yards away, presumably under the door the draymen used to use to bring in barrels. The light had disappeared again hours ago.
Leaving them alone and helpless in the dark once more.
From the outset Moggs had supposed that a beer cellar wouldn’t be the easiest place to break out of, particularly when bound hand and foot. Not that suspicion had stopped him trying. The first step had obviously been to get loose. He’d put himself through all sorts of contortions without the slightest success. After a while, remembering old films, it occurred to him they might be able to untie each other if they sat back to back. He’d been sure Douglas Fairbanks used to escape that way all the time. The tape stopped him talking so he’d tried to establish a grunting sort of dialogue, but it hadn’t worked. Swanny hadn’t responded.
That was when Moggs realized he hadn’t heard from Swanny in ages.
Ages and ages.
Worried, he’d scrabbled about in the pitch blackness until he found him. From what he could tell the loan shark was in some sort of trance. He was warm and still breathing but just lying there, not moving, as if he had given up the ghost. Moggs kept checking at intervals; nothing ever changed.
It must be getting on twenty-four hours since they’d been taken. Moggs was cold, hungry and above all else, as t
hirsty as he’d ever been. Even though he was sure he was going to die, probably messily and soon, thirst had become his biggest concern. He knew there would always be at least one tap in a beer cellar, to flush the gutters. If only he could unfasten himself and get to that tap. Even stale water out of the pipes would taste like nectar. Perhaps there would be some overlooked bottles of lemonade . . .
Or own-brand cola . . .
Fuck! Someone was coming.
He tensed, hoping the approaching footsteps would pass on, leaving them in peace. Right now being alone in the dark didn’t seem so bad after all.
No such luck.
The bolts on the internal door were drawn back and a key turned in the lock.
* * *
Heather waited for a valued WYB account-holder to finish at the cash point before checking her balance. Quite healthy she noted, without any sense of relief. She was used to seeing healthy balances and had never used the overdraft that had moved with her from NatWest. After preparing a request for a hundred pounds she hesitated, then altered it to two hundred. The money came out as nine twenties and two tens. She folded one of the twenties and tucked it in her breast pocket, put the rest and her card safely into her designer wallet and, heart suddenly pounding, turned back to the main entrance.
Good grief, I’m excited. Must be Joanna’s dire warnings! I do hope she doesn’t find out!
Then, forgetting all about Joanna: Oops, I just failed another knickers inspection!
It was six twenty-seven on a cool autumn evening. Not too many people or vehicles around. The floods of homebound bank workers had ebbed an hour ago and, thanks to the Relief Road, rush hour traffic was virtually done. Beyond the entrance, up the hill, a handful of miserable-looking people stood waiting for the Keighley bus. Across Main Street the lights in Wetherspoons were warm and inviting.
Six thirty. The automatic doors slid open and Victoria came out, followed by a man in an expensive overcoat. Victoria was dressed as before, with the addition of the top half of her mannish suit. She was carrying a small travel bag in her left hand and had already turned her blinding smile in Heather’s direction.
‘Hi,’ she cried. ‘Where’s the carnation?’
‘I’ve only just left the office. And all the flower shops are shut. You’ll have to use your imagination.’
The man in the overcoat had stopped behind Victoria, watching their exchange. He looked vaguely familiar. Heather realized why when Victoria, following her gaze, turned and addressed him.
‘Good evening, Mr Carmichael. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were there.’
‘Good evening, Victoria. I just wanted to congratulate you on your presentation. It went down very well.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Don’t thank me, I’m thanking you. You covered points we hadn’t considered, as is usually the case with your presentations. Ah, are you two together?’
Caught, Heather thought.
By a director!
Without even a kiss!!
How unfair is that!!!
‘Yes,’ Victoria said calmly. ‘We’re on our way to evening service. In fact we’d better hurry or we’ll be late.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Mr Carmichael said. ‘I was going to ask you to step across for a drink in The Myrtle Grove.’
‘I’m sorry. We would love to, but we really must fly.’
‘Can’t keep God waiting,’ said the director. ‘Off you fly, and goodnight to you both.’
He set off down the steps, leaving Heather to say in mock horror, ‘Victoria! You just turned down a board member . . . and fibbed to him!’
‘The Bank’s already had eleven hours of my heart and soul today,’ Victoria countered. ‘And I did not fib.’
‘What about evening service?’
‘Look around. It’s obviously evening. We’re off for the service bit in The Ferrands. Unless you fancy trying somewhere else.’
‘No,’ Heather chuckled. ‘You lead the way.’
Keeping her bag in her left hand, Victoria linked her free arm with Heather’s and they descended the steps, reaching street level just in time to see Mr Carmichael complete his trip across the pelican crossing and into Wetherspoons.
‘So, you worked through,’ Victoria said as the enticing smell of Shama curry wafted around them. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘I was late eating my lunch. A packet of crisps will do for me. What about you?’
‘I’m okay. I had something during the presentations.’
‘After being the star turn, by the sound of things.’
Victoria pulled a face. ‘Let’s make a deal. No mention of work while we’re in the pub. And no mobiles, come to that.’
‘Has Bingley got something against mobiles? There’s another pub down the street with a big sign banning them.’
‘That’s The Kings Head,’ said Victoria. ‘The NO MOBILES sign’s been there since Jack the Hat took over.’
‘Jack the Hat? I thought he got murdered.’
‘The London one did. I’m talking about the local version. I’d better not name him for professional reasons. Meaning I signed off his mortgage.’
Heather laughed. ‘Rascals, scoundrels and gangsters. What sort of a place is this?’
‘You should know, coming from Micklethwaite.’
‘We left Micklethwaite when I was thirteen. Since then I’ve mostly been getting educated and travelling the world. I can give you all sorts of gossip about Cheshire and Australia, but not much about Bingley.’
‘Only retired gangsters in Cheshire,’ Victoria said understandingly. ‘And none of the rascals and scoundrels. What’s that all about, anyway?’
‘Just something Hot Lips was saying.’
They arrived in front of The Ferrands and paused by the few worn steps to the door.
‘I didn’t mean to say “Hot Lips”,’ Heather confessed. ‘I meant . . .’
‘Joanna Jones,’ Victoria said. ‘Now promise, nothing more about work.’
‘I promise.’
‘And are you going to turn your mobile off? Just so you know, that’s not the pub’s request, it’s mine. I don’t want to be interrupted every five minutes.’
‘All right by me. Nobody ever rings anyway.’
‘Poor Heather,’ Victoria smiled, looking sexier than ever. ‘Surely there are significant others who call you?’
‘I haven’t been doing significant others for quite a while.’
The smile intensified as Miss Efficiency raised a perfect eyebrow. Heather expected another, more-leading question but it didn’t happen.
‘Come on then,’ Victoria said. ‘Let’s exchange numbers. I can set mine to send messages at random intervals.’
‘As long as the messages are nice and rude,’ Heather replied, fishing her phone out of her bag.
They swapped numbers then switched telephones off together, as if synchronizing watches, before going inside.
* * *
Pat wasn’t too happy to be travelling in a Rover full of illegal weapons but Sean didn’t seem bothered. There again, Sean was the world’s safest, most legally compliant driver nowadays, completely reformed from his joy-riding, boy racer youth. The chances of him being stopped for a traffic offence were just about zero.
Although compliant or not, thank Christ they weren’t in the Aston Martin. To cops that was like wearing a sign saying PLEASE KICK ME. And the old tenner-in-the-driving-licence trick didn’t work so well with those new-fangled cards.
‘When do you expect to hear from Williamson?’ Pat wondered as they waited at lights by Jacob’s Well.
‘Soon,’ said Sean. ‘I’m amazed our truce has lasted as long as it has. I’ve been expecting him to try something for ages.’
‘Are you sure it’s us he’s after?’
‘It’s us, no doubt about it. Fuck knows why, but he’s always had it in for me. He was bad-mouthing me before I’d even met him.’
‘Yeah,’ Pat said. ‘I know. And you’re such a nice
guy. Not fair, is it?’
‘Piss off, Paddy.’
They’d cleared the city centre and were passing John Street Market when Pat spoke again. ‘I saw you, you know; sizing the place up. It’s a good job Mike doesn’t know what you’re like.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sean laughed.
‘Always looking for a rip off.’
‘You know I wouldn’t rip off relatives of yours. Especially not ones giving Paddy Discount.’
‘Yeah, well you can forget the dear-old-Padraig shite. If those two think you’re out to rob them I’ll get blamed for introducing you. And forget they’re my cousins, they’ll kill me, you and anyone else who happens to be about at the time.’
‘I know, I know. They were both in the IRA. Much too tough to fuck about with.’
Pat bit back an angry retort. Thirty-odd years and Sean could still get to him without particularly trying.
‘They were tough enough before the IRA,’ he said evenly. ‘Their dad, my Uncle Martin, was killed when Joey was seven. Mike must have been four or five back then. Loyalists it was, not soldiers or RUC. He became a martyr. My cousins wanted to join up but they were too young. So Joey got himself noticed. He was always out gobbing off in the street, always the first kid to throw a stone, that sort of thing. Then he started riding sandbag for older kids. Do you know what I mean?’
Sean nodded. They were at more lights now. They changed to green and he drove on, crossing the junction after Manningham Park, not paying the road down to The Mucky Duck any attention at all.
‘Joey graduated to nicking cars,’ said Pat, ‘got younger kids to be his sandbags. Eventually he swapped stones for petrol bombs. It’s a miracle he never got himself shot. But he didn’t. Instead he got what he wanted. Recognized and blooded by the Provos while still barely a lad.’
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