by Paul A. Rice
The cold alcohol cleared his head slightly – a hangover from the previous night’s excesses was still banging against his temples, the leaden taste of whiskey and marijuana still coating his mouth with their slimy fur. He coughed and then expelled a mouthful of brownish spittle into the sink, leaving the phlegm to run down the side of a greasy plate. It slithered like a slug, dangled for a moment and then glooped into the dirty water of the overflowing washing-up bowl. ‘This fucking place sucks!’ he thought, reaching for a roll-up.
Pulling a chair out from under the kitchen table’s scarred surface, Stevo brushed Jeanie’s make-up paraphernalia to one side with a curse. ‘I see the slut didn’t come home again last night, slack bitch!’ He caught a glimpse of himself in the small makeup mirror that sat propped against the wall. Shocking blonde hair lay dankly across his pale, acne-ruined forehead. Three day stubble spiked out from his thin cheeks and his dull blue eyes were outlined by red, almost raw, eyelids.
He grinned at himself through a haze of tobacco smoke; crooked yellow teeth only relieved by the singular gold cap on the front left incisor, the tooth had cost a fortune and matched the heavy chains dangling from his scrawny neck and wrists. He turned away from the mirror and reached up to drag his left hand across an unshaven face – he felt like shit, but knew that after another two beers he would be back on track.
‘Nine-thirty may be a bit early for a spliff,’ he thought, ‘but definitely not for some more piss!’ Stevo definitely liked that idea; with a grin he gulped back the rest of his beer. Lobbing the can towards an overflowing bin, he laughed as it missed by a mile and went clattering under one of the lopsided kitchen units.
After retrieving another two cans from the fridge, and grabbing a slice of stale bread, in which he wrapped a thick piece of cheddar cheese covered in brown sauce, he sat back down and contemplated his day’s activities. ‘I’ll get a few beers down, have a quick spliff and then hit the bookies,’ he thought. It sounded just fine, especially since his benefit payment would be in the bank by twelve o’clock. ‘This is gonna be a good day, Stevo, lad, a very good day!’ he whispered.
Just as he was cracking open a second can, the TV in the sitting room boomed into life again, the unexpected noise made him jump – he coughed as a lump of cheese caught in his throat. Cursing, he walked into the sitting room and bent forward to hit the off switch, pausing momentarily to stare at the dusty, fingerprint-covered screen as he did so. The report dealing with Gazzer’s case was still on air. Stevo stood and watched, unable to help himself.
He had been part of it… lived it for years… he’d been to court, suffered the jeers and the cheers, pushed through the endless packs of reporters as they jostled him, screaming for his attention. ‘Stevo, look this way, Stevo – are you guilty? Stevo, look over here, Stevo!’ He’d stood there, blinking proudly in his moment of flash-bulb glory. When he’d ultimately escaped justice they’d all gone crazy. But Stevo had revelled in it. Yes, he knew every word of the tale, he’d seen almost all of the countless hours of media coverage, and yet it still fascinated him.
The blonde woman was talking again and he watched the faces of the gang flash onto the screen, his amongst them, as she regurgitated their heinous crimes. She reiterated the sentences of those who had been convicted, and once more told the tale of how Stevo and the two others had been found not guilty. The kid’s parents were on again, talking of justice and of their hope that he and his ‘Not Guilty’ friends would suffer their shame and guilt forever. The couple were still pleading with the Police and the Government to put an end to gangs and crime on the streets, begging for someone to come forward with the rest of their names.
Stevo scowled at the TV, sneering: ‘Blah-fucking-blah! Shit happens, nobody meant for him to be hit, he was a civilian who just happened to be in the wrong place, it wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last, just look at a real warzone, lady, look at Afghanistan or sommat, that’s what you call casualties, you stupid bloody cow!’ He stuck his middle finger up at the screen. ‘Shaddup whining,’ he said. ‘You’ve had your friggin compensation, what more do you want, for Christ’s sake?’
The child had been waiting outside the chip shop for his Dad when Stevo’s gang, who were loitering outside the off-licence, had seen the members of another outfit trying to sell some weed on their turf. That was a big ‘No-No’, and without hesitation, Stevo and his friends had opened-up on them. The gunfire had crackled down the litter strewn street and the rival mob had taken off like their arses were on fire.
The kid hadn’t taken off, though. No, not that stupid little kid, the idiot had just turned in amazement and looked at them, standing there like some china doll, blinking as the sound of gunfire echoed down the street where only fifteen minutes before he’d been happily playing football with his friends. He’d taken one of Gazzer’s wayward 9mm slugs straight through the heart – the devastating impact of the bullet had killed him instantly. Then the world had gone crazy.
Stevo remembered it like yesterday, and he still didn’t get it. ‘The kid had nine years of good life, didn’t he?’ he whispered, ‘like I said, shit happens!’
Their griping pissed him off. ‘Get over it, you losers!’
This was a war for the streets, a war to control the drugs and the smack-heads who used them, if people were hurt then that’s just the way it was. It was the business Stevo was in and he’d been smart enough to cover his tracks sufficiently well so as not to get caught. Oh sure, they knew he was involved, people had said he was and many of them had grassed him up to the Filth. But those idiots couldn’t prove anything, and anyway, Jacko had made sure the lawyer was a good one.
You didn’t mess with Jacko, no way! Stevo knew that for sure. He and the two others had told Jacko that it was all good, the evidence was gone and they would keep their mouths shut. The big Londoner had simply looked at them and said, ‘It facking better be all good, boys, or you’ll be shut up permanently. One bit of this comes back to me and you’ll be in the Thames without your thieving little hands. Do you understand me, you facking stupid monkeys?’
They understood all right, understood really well. Stevo had seen Jacko carry out his promises before. The four who had been nicked understood, too. One hint of any grassing going on would mean prison hospital meals for a long time, that’s if they were lucky. Jacko meant what he said and Stevo admired that, it’s what he wanted from life. ‘Fuck everyone else, get what you want and do whatever it takes to get it!’ It was his ethos.
Well, that had been two years ago and no shit had come back to any of them, they had been pulled by the Filth a couple of times but those pricks had nothing on them, it was all just a scare tactic and Stevo had blagged his way through it.
He knew he was safe. ‘Teflon Stevo’ is what the gang had taken to calling him. ‘Fuck all sticks to you, eh, Stevo?’ Secretly, many of them despised him. Some even thought he was coward for not standing up to the charge, but they also knew that Stevo had become one of Jacko’s boys. Fuck with him and you were fucking with the Man himself.
Stevo flicked the finger at the TV once more, pulled the plug out of the wall and made his way back to the kitchen. Once there, he cracked another can and took out his makings, sitting at the dirty table to roll himself a fat one. His yellow fingers shook a little and he guessed all that he needed was some more beer and a little puff of weed. ‘Yeah, that’ll fix me right up!’ he thought. But, just to be on the safe side, he popped a couple of pills as well. ‘Might as well do the job properly…’ He grinned and took another slurp of his beer to wash the pills down.
One hour later, and feeling somewhat wasted, he made his way down to the betting shop. His walk was the typical, overconfident bounce that all his type use, hood up and arms swinging, almost walking on his toes, safe in the knowledge that the average person saw him as threatening.
***
The one person who didn’t see him as threatening was seven year old Phillip John Rogers, or ‘PJ’, to his f
riends. Phillip lived in a mid-terrace house opposite the blonde-haired man. He had seen Stevo with his sweets and when he’d asked for some, Stevo had told him that when he was older he would let him have them.
‘Ah, wait ‘til you’re ten, mate! They’re good stuff, but once you’ve had one then you’ll want more, and you need money for sweets, lad. I can’t give you them for free all the time.’ Stevo had laughed at the spoilt face the kid had pulled. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d be able to fix the boy up with some gear. The kid’s mother wasn’t shy when it came to spending money. Stevo had seen all the computer stuff when it was being delivered to their house.
He wasn’t the only one who saw things. PJ had seen the sweets in their tinfoil wrappers and plastic bags. He had seen Stevo put them in his pockets, seen the dozens of people who came and took some of them from him. Yeah, he was gonna get some of those sweets when he was older.
Hoping some of them were liquorice-flavoured, PJ turned back to his computer. His Mum had bought it for him after the IT teacher told her that Phillip had something special.
‘He’s unbelievable!’ PJ heard the whispered remark that Mr White had made to her at the last parents’ evening. PJ didn’t get what the fuss was all about.
‘It was only numbers, you put the numbers in and the machine did what you wanted it to, easy-peasy.’ He had said as much to his Mum as she’d stood smiling proudly at her only son.
Forgetting about sweets, he turned back to the assignment. It was supposed to take him two weeks to finish, but PJ reckoned that if he gave football a miss tonight, then he would be done by tomorrow. His fingers flashed across the keypad as he hummed his favourite pop tune, the inputted data poured in arithmetical reams across the flat-screened monitor in reaction to his commands.
If that particular model of computer had been graced with a voice, then it probably would have said something like: ‘Hey there, kid – slow down a bit, will you?’ Most probably it would have. Phillip was good, really good.
***
Further down the street, Stevo had his swagger off to a tee. ‘Yeah, life’s good, oh yeah!’ he thought. His head swam with alcohol and barbiturates, a good blast of weed always made him horny, and at this precise moment, Stevo felt as though he would be able to shag the crack of dawn, if it had some hairs on it… He was twenty-eight years of age and had never had a job, he didn’t need one. He was ‘The Man’. Floating within his own drug-induced reality, he made his way down to the betting shop on Bakerson Street.
Stepping over the crap that had been blown into the doorway, Stevo pushed the bell, looked up at the security camera and then waited for the slight buzzing noise, which the electric lock made as it was released.
‘Good-bloody-morning, Malky!’ he said, confidently striding into the brightly lit interior of the betting shop. The words came out slurred as he issued his standard greeting to the morbidly obese owner of the bookies.
‘Howdo, Stevo, big win today is it, lad?’ The thick lenses of Malky’s spectacles glinted in the fluorescent light as he peered at Stevo from behind the steel mesh covering the payment counter. He hated the skinny, blonde-haired little prick who had just swaggered into his business. ‘The little bastard thinks he’s a big man, walking about like he owns the friggin’ place…’ He masked his silent thoughts, plastering a false smile across his fat jowls instead.
Stevo looked pleased. ‘Yeah, you know me,’ he said, ‘just a little bit here and a little bit there. I don’t need a Lottery win, Malky – just a decent wedge from time-to-time does for me, my old son!’ He checked the monitor mounted above the far wall. Grabbing the betting slips and a pen, he sauntered across the shop to take a seat by the Coke machine.
Malky’s fat faced smile hid his distaste. O’Hara was a loser and was usually too stoned or pissed to really know what he was doing; it suited Malky just fine as the kid’s dosh was the same colour as everyone else’s. He turned away and reached for his mug of tea, it was going to be another long day.
After about an hour, Stevo placed a pair of thirty-pound bets on the two-o’clock race. The second nag had been at more than a hundred-to-one and was worth the gamble. Sliding the cash and the slips under the grill, he waited for his receipt and then said, ‘See ya later, big boy, I’ll be back for my winnings this evening!’
Malky smiled sickly at him and entered the bets in his register. ‘Yeah, see you later, Stevo,’ he murmured. The door was already swinging shut behind the departing figure as Malky allowed himself a loud, ‘Little prick!’ comment, before turning back to his paper.
Stepping out onto the street, Stevo looked at the fake Rolex and seeing that it was gone twelve, guessed that his benefits should be in the bank by now. He crossed the street and hit the cash-point machine; sure enough, the payment was in. ‘Thank you, Mr tax-paying sucker!’ he said, pocketing the sheaf of crisp bank notes. Just as he was turning towards the pub, the shrill tone of his mobile rang out. Reaching into his pocket, Stevo dragged out the phone and glanced down at the flashing screen. The caller’s ID - ‘Jacko’ - caused his bloodshot eyes to widen. ‘What the fuck does he want?’ The thought alarmed him. His pulse quickened as he answered the call.
‘Yeah, it’s me, what’s up, boss?’
Jacko sounded pissed off. ‘Meet me at the Jones’ warehouse, Stevo, and bring all the gear that you ‘ave,’ he said. ‘All of it. Get those two cretins of yours to come too, oh yeah, and bring that facking gun!’ His voice seemed to crack with anger.
If Stevo didn’t know better he would have sworn that Jacko sounded worried, scared almost. Without thinking, he said, ‘What gun, you mean the nine-milly pistol, Jacko?’ His mind raced.
‘Don’t facking piss me about, you little shite! The MAC-10 is wot I am on about… the bleeding one which you told me was taken care of, you facking little scrote!’ Jacko paused; a soft hiss filled the silence in Stevo’s ear. The next words were filled with menace. ‘Just get all the gear wot you and your little mates have. Get the gun, all the guns, and then get your arse down to the warehouse, right now, and bring my facking money with you!’ With that the line went dead.
Stevo stared at the black mobile and tried to get his head together. ‘Oh shit!’ he thought, legs shaking with the sudden release of adrenaline. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ The weight of the little pistol, which nestled in his pocket, became a lot heavier.
He hit the speed dial and rang the other two – both of them were still in bed, but his screaming soon awakened them, Stevo spat the instructions into the mouthpiece. ‘You know where, just be there, bring all the guns and the rest of my gear, all of it, right!’ he screamed. ‘I’m going to my place to get the Maccy, don’t be fucking late, Jacko sounds weird – he’s right pissed off, he is. So just be there!’ He hung up and headed for home. His legs were still shaking but he felt better after having taken some of his fear out on the other two.
Once back in the house, he went straight to the hiding place for the weapons and other gear he kept stashed away. He had a panic-filled rummage under the floor boards and also in the secret hole he’d cut into the partition wall downstairs. His labours saw him with a small black holdall, whose contents amounted to the sum total of his life’s work. The bag contained: one pile of cash, mostly belonging to Jacko, one MAC-10 machine-pistol complete with two fully-loaded magazines, and one bag of Cocaine, which also belonged to Jacko. Stevo jammed a magazine into the machine-pistol and stuffed it back into the bag.
He took out his .22 pistol, cocking it before slipping the gun back into the pocket of his tracksuit top. Placing another joint in between his dry lips, he headed for the door with butterflies filling his chest. He was going to take the long way round, just to calm down a bit, but the hands on his watch forbade him. He was already late. Deciding on the short cut, he turned right, crossed the verge and made his way down to the old underpass. Although it had been closed after the new flyover made it redundant, Stevo knew that going through the old tunnel would be quicker to someone o
n foot. Even though it was still possible to get a car through the underpass, nobody seemed to bother and these days it was more a place where junkies, winos, and other losers hung out.
Stevo did a lot of business down there and they all knew who he was. ‘Yeah, I’m the main man in this neck of the woods!’ The thought made him feel slightly better as he leapt over the railings and onto the tarmac below.
Hitting the road at the wrong angle made his legs buckle, causing him to stagger forward – the curse was just about to cross his lips when he saw the woman. Stevo was going to ignore her, he should have because he was in a hurry and Jacko was really pissed, but a sort of madness entered him, maybe it was the weed, he didn’t know, but either way the thought still popped into his head – almost as though someone had put it there.
Standing upright, he stood and watched her. Heat rose behind his eyes and he allowed the thoughts to fill his mind. ‘Fuck Jacko, look at the arse on her!’ He flicked his smoke away and stood staring at the woman for a moment.
She was bending over and looking at a map, which was spread across the floor in the back of her van, twiddling a can of deodorant in her hands as she concentrated. The sliding side door of the VW was partially open, Stevo saw her bend forward and he took a long hard stare at that arse again.
She appeared to be in her thirties, tight blue jeans, brown cowboy boots, white blouse and dark hair tumbling down over her shoulders. ‘Nice arse, very nice!’ He couldn’t see the woman’s face. ‘Don’t need to see the face…’ Stevo thought, smiling to himself as he began to walk the thirty yards that lay between them. He managed to get right up to the woman without a sound.
