by Limey Lady
‘Not him. And not dealing . . . I mean using. Half the coke in Bingley goes up McGuire's nose.’
‘Pat McGuire? You’re joking. He was always a fitness freak.’
‘He's a coke-head now. And him living with the boss's sister! You wouldn't think Dwyer would stand by and let it happen, would you?’
It was a good opening but Jonjo was too canny to jump in. There was just a faint chance Kyle wasn't as thick as he looked. And he’d already got his result. No point in pushing his luck.
‘You brought the money?’
Still grinning, Kyle handed over a bundle of twenties. Jonjo ruffled through before stuffing the wad into his inside jacket pocket.
‘Aren't you going to count up?’
‘You're too smart to short-change me, Kyle. We're both screwing where we shouldn't be. But you've more to lose. If Harry catches me out, I’ll be able to get him to laugh about it. If Dwyer catches you, he'll go up the fucking wall.’
‘Dwyer doesn't scare me,’ said Kyle. ‘And he isn't going to be around forever. If he doesn't go legit, he'll get topped sooner or later. There’s enough queuing up to do it, isn’t there?’
Again Jonjo fought away the temptation. Kyle wasn’t done yet though.
‘I’m surprised Harry’s not moved on him.’
‘Harry’s got bigger fish to fry.’
‘Maybe, but surely he wants to get even?’
‘What do you mean; even for what?’
Kyle’s laugh was as unpleasant as the man himself. ‘Surely he wants to get even for that business the other year; for what happened in The Black Horse.’
There was one good thing about losing a leg, although Jonjo didn’t rate it too highly. He used to get gout . . . badly. And as every sufferer knows, bad gout is the worst pain you can get. Never mind broken bones or bullet wounds, gout is king when it comes to hurt.
Jonjo’s gout had gone with the bottom half of his left leg. He’d only ever suffered in that particular foot and he didn’t have it anymore, therefore no gout, either . . . even if he was almost always conscious of the phantom limb.
The gout was back now though, in one killer wave.
‘Dwyer wasn’t there,’ he said, forcing himself to ignore the bolt of sheer agony.
‘I know that. But he fixed it, didn’t he?’
Kyle was trying to look sincere. Maybe he was sincere, but he looked uglier than ever. Jonjo would have dearly liked to have punched him . . . or to kick his fucking head in with his artificial foot, thoroughly testing the bastard thing’s sensitivity while he did so.
‘Are you trying to tell me Dwyer set that up?’
‘Yeah, course he did.’
‘How did he get the McGuires to kick off like that?’
‘I dunno. I wasn’t too well in with him then. But everyone says he did.’
‘Tell me how,’ Jonjo said, more forcefully now.
‘Somehow; that’s all I know so far. Nobody’s saying. I don’t think many know all the ins and outs.’
‘So it’s just rumour.’
‘It’s fact, not rumour. Tinner and Angel did it . . . whatever “it” was.’
‘But they aren’t saying.’
‘No. Not to me. Not to anyone else either.’
The pain in Jonjo’s missing foot was massive. Even so, he knew when to press and when to ease off.
‘Harry would be interested to find out,’ he said dismissively. ‘But it’s history. It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is the here and now.’
‘Don’t you want to know?’
‘Me? Not really. It’s water under the bridge.’
‘What if I tell you the safecracker wasn’t Arthur Laing. It was Eric from Burnley: Eric Burnley from over the Moss in Burnley.’
Jonjo scowled. “Eric Burnley” meant nothing to him. Not yet.
‘What else have you got?’
‘So you are interested after all.’ Kyle laughed harshly. ‘It’s still early days; that’s all I’ve got so far.’
‘But Dwyer set it up?’
‘Yes, he definitely did. When I find out anything more, I’ll let you know.’
‘Please do. But like I said, what matters is the here and now.’
‘Agreed,’ said Kyle. ‘Where is it?’
Jonjo pointed at the glove compartment. ‘In there.’
Kyle took out the package, had a quick inspection and nodded. ‘I'll be in touch in two or three weeks, then.’
‘Right,’ Jonjo said. He watched Kyle walk back to his own car and drive away before ringing out on his hands-free. ‘Barney? Follow him. Make sure he's on his own.’
‘Consider it done.’
Jonjo rang off then immediately dialled out again.
‘Did he go through with it?’ Harry demanded without preamble.
‘Yeah, we’ve handed over, no worries. But we need to talk face to face. That twat's even dumber than we thought.’
*****
Halfway into the summer holidays, as the global Credit Crunch bit deeper and whole economies started to judder, Jamie was lucky enough to land a job on a building site. Although maybe it wasn’t entirely luck; he had been tipped the wink by Pat McGuire, and the “interview” had been no more than a formality.
Not that he was running the show or anything. Not by any means. Being a youngster without any work skills he got all the most basic, menial tasks: cleaning out the cement mixer, brewing the tea and carrying everything everywhere, that sort of thing. Which was okay by him; he was getting paid hourly, in cash and heaving sacks of Blue Circle and hods filled of bricks and breeze-blocks was doing his muscles the world of good. He’d suffered with blisters for the first few days, but they’d soon burst and hardened over. Since then he'd learnt the ropes and the only complaint his fellow-workers had was that he didn't know when to slow down.
Like when the gaffer wasn't around, for instance.
Oh, and he was absolutely hopeless at the art of sweeping up. He kept briskly brushing all the crud into neat piles instead of idly pushing it backwards and forwards.
Didn’t they teach kids anything at school nowadays?
Today Jamie was brewing yet more tea when he heard the roar of motorbike engines. He could guess what was coming even before Andrew, the foreman, yelled his name.
‘Jamie! There’s someone to see you.’
There were four of them, lined up on their bikes like the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Simone's ex (known in biking circles as Chain) was on the near right. Jamie wasn't sure if that made him Conquest or Death; all he did know was that none of them scared him individually. The full quartet might be a bit of a handful though.
Strutting in front of his mates, Chain left his bike on its stand and approached him.
‘Are you the little twat who's screwing my old woman?’
Jamie couldn't stop himself laughing. Chain might be pushing twenty, but he was short and looked scrawny under his thick leather jacket. Jamie towered over him; his own bare chest must seem a mile wide in comparison to this weed’s.
‘You must be Simone's ex,’ he said. ‘If you've something to, say get on with it. I'm supposed to be at work.’
‘No-one screws my old woman behind my back,’ Chain snarled. ‘We've come to put out your lights.’
‘What's this “we” shit?’ Andrew put in.
Jamie tried not to show his gratitude as Andrew placed himself in front of the three still-seated bikers. Andrew had been a builder all his life and had the body to prove it. He also had the reputation of being a very hard man in a fairly hard town. Even Jamie did his best to keep on Andrew's good side.
‘There's no fucking “we” on this site,’ Andrew said to Chain. ‘It's one against one.’
The rest of the builders and labourers had gathered round now. In the unlikely event of Andrew ever needing support, he obviously had it.
‘Right enough,’ Chain spat. ‘I've come to put the little twat's lights out.’
‘That's better,’ said Andrew. ‘But
like the lad says, he's supposed to be at work. Get on with it.’
Chain turned back to Jamie, glowered at him, and then charged. Jamie had been expecting more but wasn't complaining. He waited until the last instant before sidestepping and slamming his left fist into the side of Chain's head. This changed Chain's charge into a stumbling fall over a neat pile of building site crap.
Drat, Jamie thought. I only just swept that up.
‘Fucking twat,’ Chain grunted as he got up and charged again.
That second time Jamie didn’t bother sidestepping; he stood and met the charge with a jabbing left followed immediately with a straight right. Chain's head snapped back and his rush stopped with almost comic abruptness. He went down as though he’d been pole-axed. There was no need to count to ten to confirm he wouldn't be up again anytime soon.
Chain's mates took his humiliation in total silence. They sat there on their bikes, mutely watching while the builders took turns to pat Jamie on the back.
‘You lot,’ Andrew said. ‘You've got two minutes to get him off my site. Understand? Any longer and I’m going to lose my temper.’
He looked at Jamie as they walked away from the bikers: ‘That gives you time to finish making the brew before sweeping that pile of crap back up. Then you can take orders for the chip shop. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ Jamie said. ‘And thank you.’
*****
Sean sat at the bar and brooded over the small pile of papers before him. Taken at face value, the deal was what any yuppie bastard would call a no brainer. Taken at face value, he couldn't possibly lose.
So why did it stink like one of Williamson's whores?
No . . . worse than one of Williamson's whores.
He shook his head and sighed. There was a chance he was being too picky, not least because it looked like a good way to get Swanny out of the shit . . . again.
And this really had to be the last bit of slack he cut Swanny, come to think about it. Since his more-or-less recovery, Swanny had gone from reasonably responsible lender to . . .
Well, to being ready to lend any fucker anything he fucking-well wanted.
The fucker currently in question was a guy called Trevor Lockwood. And Lockwood wasn't a run-of-the-mill debtor like most of the others. Oh no, Lockwood did it in style. He already owed nearly ten grand (ten fucking big ones!) and now wanted to borrow yet another fifteen. Swanny insisted that Lockwood had prospects. The twat was earning fifty grand a year; his cash flow problems were temporary, while he freed capital from a couple of properties he owned. In fact they were so temporary he was prepared to let Sean have the properties as security, until the capital was free. He might even sell Sean the properties cheap, if he was up for a quick sale.
He could complete next week. If Sean wanted it as much as he did.
‘What do you know about buy-to-let?’ he asked as Andy passed him a fresh pint.
‘Not a lot. You want to be asking Pat.’
‘I would do, if he wasn't down in Cornwall, screwing my sister.’
‘Ask Snow White then. That's her sort of thing.’
‘Snow White; who the fuck is Snow White?’
‘Over there, in the red dress.’
Andy was indicating a group of about a dozen women, crowded around two big tables. The women were aged everywhere upwards from about twenty. They were also drinking wine like it was going out of fashion. Sean hadn't noticed them arrive but, now he came to look, he certainly noticed the one in red.
‘That’s Heather,’ he said. ‘Not Snow White.’
‘She’s Snow White at WYB,’ Andy countered. ‘And she’s risen through the ranks since she blew you out.’
‘She did not blow me out. I had other things on my mind.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘I’ll do you a tenner.’
‘Your tenner says what?’
‘It says I can get a private chat with her.’
‘Is that all; a private chat!’
‘I’m saying a private chat and at least the sniff of a promise.’
‘Call that a bet?’
‘All right, I’ll get a date out of her.’
‘Better get a move on then. Marco's expecting them in half an hour.’
‘Are they all from the bank?’
‘Yeah, it's Joanna's fiftieth. That's her with the badges. I know some of the others, but not all of ‘em.’
‘Get me four bottles of the hooky Moet,’ said Sean, ‘and bring over some glasses.’
*****
Only a month ago Penny had thought Geoff couldn't possibly get any worse. Since then he had lost the ability to swallow and a chesty cough had turned into a nasty infection. The doctors (not just Dr Strohl but a whole host of doctors) were worried the infection might move to his lungs; they kept muttering together about his “already impaired breathing”.
They didn't seem quite so concerned about his weight, which had now reached four stones less than it had been. Seeing as his swallow had gone, he had been fitted with a nasogastric tube and was getting his food and drink through that. Once they’d sorted the infection they planned to put him on a controlled diet to build him back up. In the meantime a sign had appeared, warning everyone he was strictly NIL BY MOUTH.
Thank Goodness that was more noticeable than the terrible, terrible bag by his bed proclaiming the fact he’d been catheterized.
And the even more terrible, if invisible knowledge that he’d been put on the Stoke Mandeville Regime to cater for his worsening incontinence.
It wasn’t just his breathing that was impaired. Oh no, just about everything had been impaired to the nth degree.
He was a pitiful sight. When Becky last visited she'd burst into tears and even Jamie had gone as pale as the bed sheets. Penny was doing her best to be positive, but couldn't help fearing the worst.
‘C . . . I . . . D . . . P,’ she said slowly. ‘I thought you said it was Guillain-Barré Syndrome?’
‘CIDP is believed to be the chronic version,’ Dr Strohl explained. ‘The full name of the condition is Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy. Most of that should be self-explanatory. Myelin is an insulating substance in the body. Mr Rodgers' autoimmune reaction is directly attacking the myelin . . . demyelinating the nerves, so they don't efficiently conduct signals to and from the brain.’
‘And that’s why his arms and legs are paralyzed?’
‘Correct. A nerve is five hundred times more conductive when properly insulated by myelin. It is also infinitely better protected against damage.’
‘I see,’ said Penny, not quite sure if she did.
‘Think of the nerves as household wires. Start stripping off the PVC and your lamp will start getting dimmer and dimmer, until it does not work at all.’
‘This is CIDP, right? Not Guillain-Barré.’
‘It is a similar effect with both.’
‘So CIDP is the same? Except chronic?’
‘Essentially, yes. Even though there are academic arguments, the end results are very similar. And GBS is more properly known as AIDP. That is, Acute Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy. CIDP is however much harder to predict. It is also much more likely to return if we do manage to reverse it. Or so it is believed. CIDP is maybe ten times less common than GBS, which is uncommon enough in the first place. Not much is known.’
‘So what do we do? Sit back and hope it goes away?’
‘Mrs Rodgers, I will be honest. This is a rare condition that is very difficult to treat. One of the options is indeed to sit back and hope it goes away. As with GBS, this sometimes happens. In this instance I do not intend to do that. I intend to hit the condition with everything known to man. We will start by repeating the full course of immunoglobulin and follow that with high steroids; then plasmapheresis; we will have six separate courses of complete plasma exchange. The machines that do this are hard to come by, but I did manage to track one down. We are borrowing it from Cookridge, along with one of their most experienced operators
.’
‘And what does that do?’
‘Put primitively, it takes away the body’s impurities. The autoimmune system then has nothing left to attack.’
‘So it stops?’
‘That is the hope. Yes.’
‘How would you rate the chances?’
