Big City Jacks

by Nick Oldham

  Once more the engine turned reluctantly. And died.

  The man at the gate was peering with more interest towards him.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Keith muttered.

  There was a shout. The man at the gate took a few strides in Keith’s direction.

  He twisted the screwdriver desperately. This time the car started with a backfire and a plume of blue smoke. Ahead, the man stepped into the road and shouted again. He was joined by a second man who vaulted Colin’s garden wall. Both then began to hurry towards the car.

  Keith rammed it into gear and the old banger lurched.

  In the glow of the fluorescent street light, Keith saw both men reach underneath their jackets. At first, his intention had been to mow them down, but as their hands came out with guns, he had an immediate change of heart and courage. He literally stood on the brake and found reverse gear. Within a second the Escort was slewing backwards, picking up speed, the engine and the gearbox screaming in unison as speed increased.

  Keith’s head swivelled backwards and forwards as he tried to keep an eye on his own rearwards progress and that of the two armed men who were now on their toes.

  He saw one raise his gun. There was a crack and a hole appeared in the windscreen, then a whizz as the bullet almost creased his arm and embedded itself somewhere in the back of the car. They were firing at him!

  Keith yanked the wheel down and the front of the car spun, tyres squealing. The back tyres smacked on the kerb. He heaved on the steering wheel, wishing he had stolen a car with power steering.

  They were closing on him and he was presenting them with a nice wide target. Ducking low again, he forced the gear stick down into first and revved the nuts off the engine as the clutch connected it to the gearbox and, once more, the car did a good impression of a marsupial – bouncing like mad – until he regained control and, then – miraculously without stalling the beast – he raced away.

  Behind him, both men came to a standstill, watching him disappear, their guns held down by their sides.

  Keith watched them in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Bastards,’ he said. He punched the air victoriously. Then he saw the bullet hole in the windscreen and his guts churned with a loud, slurping noise.

  ‘What do we do?’

  The men were panting, but not breathless. They slid their guns back into their waistband holsters and stood side by side in the middle of the road, watching their prey escape.

  It was the older of the two who had asked the question.

  The younger man glanced furtively up and down the street, noticing they were quickly becoming the centre of attention as one or two people emerged from their houses, drawn by the sound of gunfire and the screaming engine.

  ‘We get out of here and we find him and we sort him – that’s what we do.’

  He was called Lynch. He was young and out to make an impression. He spun on his heels in the street, muttering, ‘Even some of these low lifes might call the cops,’ referring to the nosy householders, ‘so we’d better get gone.’

  Followed by the older man, whose name was Bignall, the two disappeared into the night like spectres.

  ‘We nearly had him,’ Bignall said as they got into their car parked three streets away. It was a dull-looking Rover 214, nothing special or memorable, just the right kind of transport for the city. The sort of vehicle that fitted in with any background and could be left anywhere and probably not get stolen because it was such a boring car.

  ‘Yeah, nearly,’ agreed Lynch. He sat in the front passenger seat, next to Bignall who would be driving. His mind was working fast, going over the few snippets of gen that Colin the Commando had divulged in their very short, but fruitful and violent meeting. Lynch looked at his fist and winced at the grazed knuckles, where he had slightly mis-punched and caught Colin’s tin hat instead of his face. It had hurt . . . but it had hurt Colin more.

  Lynch sucked his knuckles thoughtfully. Bignall started the car and began to drive.

  ‘Where to?’

  Lynch checked his watch. ‘You’re due to start work soon, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yep – but I could call in sick.’

  Lynch shook his head. ‘No need for that. You drive round to your place and I’ll keep the car. It’s always better to go to work.’

  Bignall squinted cautiously at Lynch. ‘How about some dosh? I’ve been doing this most of the day with you.’

  Lynch nodded and pulled out a fat roll of banknotes. He peeled five twenties off and dropped them into Bignall’s greedy paw. As an afterthought he dropped him an extra twenty. ‘Bonus for being so helpful.’

  ‘Cheers . . . you’re a real mate.’ Bignall grinned widely at the unexpected windfall. This game was pretty worthwhile after all.

  Lynch ran his hands over his short-cropped hair and smoothed down his sharp jacket, breathing out, getting comfortable, whilst he thought about the problem of Keith Snell. In some ways he was responsible for letting Snell off the hook in the first place and now he was charged with the responsibility of dealing with the issue. It was a task that meant a lot to Lynch, his make-or-break time. If he was successful it would do him no end of good, but if he ballsed it up he could say bye-bye to a lot of wealth and status. Dealing with Snell and retrieving the money was a route to the inner sanctum, to the lucrative lifestyle offered by the invincibles. But only if he got the money back.

  They arrived at Bignall’s flat. Lynch slid awkwardly across into the driving seat as Bignall got out. Bignall leaned back into the car.

  ‘Want me to deal with the shooters?’

  Lynch considered the question for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. It was unlikely he would need a gun again that evening, so it would be better not to have it with him. He handed the weapon over to Bignall and said, ‘You know what to do?’

  ‘I know.’ Bignall slid the gun into his jacket pocket and slammed shut the car door, turned to walk away to his house.

  Lynch wound his window down. ‘Did you get the car number?’ he called to Bignall’s retreating back.

  ‘Yeah . . . I’ll sort it and let you know what the score is.’

  Lynch drove away and headed towards Manchester city centre, his grazed knuckles throbbing painfully. ‘Not good,’ he said to himself, ‘not good at all.’

  Keith drove the old car hard, clouds of black and blue fumes pouring from the exhaust as he gunned the engine against its natural desire to rest. His watery eyes kept returning to the bullet hole in the windscreen. Shit, he thought, as it dawned on him for the first time that he had made a very serious error of judgement. He shivered involuntarily at what might have been had the bullet smacked him in the head. But never once did he consider returning the money. Now it was his and he refused to sacrifice the prospect of the new life he had set his heart on.

  He drove recklessly across the city, constantly checking his mirrors to see if he was being tailed, finding himself descending the slip road on to the M60 Manchester ring road at Prestwich. How he had arrived there, he did not know. He was beginning to sweat and shake slightly . . . the first signs of a requirement for what he knew would be a heavy hit.

  Only when he was on the motorway proper did his brain clear slightly and he realized where he was. He had been navigating on autopilot, no particular plan in mind, but as he gathered his senses he had an idea. He veered off the M60 and joined the M61, heading west.

  ‘Blackpool!’ he thought with a blinding flash of clarity, ‘is the place for me.’ It was the resort to which all runaways went and hid. He knew people there who might hide him, would give him some protection; it was a place he could catch his breath and make some real plans.

  Cheered by the thought of the bright lights – he could have some fun there, too, and definitely score – he pushed the accelerator to the floor, noting for the first time he could actually see the road surface through a hole in the footwell.

  ‘Bleedin’ kids, joyridin’ bastards,’ snarled the owner of the car. ‘I’ve had it
nicked a few times, but it always turns up eventually. No doubt it’ll get torched sometime.’ His anger turned to resignation, the sad attitude of a repeat crime victim past caring. He was a big, unshaven man with a massive beer gut hanging over the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, wearing a grubby vest and zip-up slippers. ‘Bloody thing’s droppin’ t’ pieces anyway.’

  ‘How much is it worth?’ the police officer taking the report inquired.

  ‘Coupla ’undred, maybe less,’ the man pouted thoughtfully. ‘No great loss, just means I’m walkin’ t’ work tomorrow.’

  ‘OK,’ the officer said, ‘let’s get this right . . .’ He checked his notes. ‘Blue Ford Escort Fresco, registered number . . .’ He reeled off the details to verify them, then said, ‘OK, I’ll get it circulated right away.’

  ‘Whatever,’ the owner shrugged.

  The officer returned to his patrol car and settled in next to his shift partner who had not bothered to get out for such a mundane job. He radioed the details in and a communications operator took them down, circulated them locally, then forcewide across Manchester, then entered them on the Police National Computer. Having done this, the operator stood up, stretched and mouthed, ‘Going for a pee,’ to his colleague on the adjacent console.

  He made his way to an empty office and picked up a phone.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘The car has just been reported stolen.’

  ‘It is a legit report?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you sort out the you-know-whats?’

  ‘I did – they’re safe and sound.’

  ‘Good . . . keep me informed of any developments.’

  * * *

  By the time Keith Snell drove into Blackpool ninety minutes later, he was shivering and sweating and beginning to hallucinate. He needed something desperately – and he knew where he was going to get it. He came off the M55 at Marton Circle and drove down Blackpool’s back roads on to Shoreside Estate.

  After a couple of fruitless drive-arounds, he found the house he was searching for and pulled up outside. He heaved the money bag on to his shoulder and stumbled down the short pathway to the front door, smacking it loudly with the palm of his hand.

  Inside he could hear the TV blaring out loudly, and voices.

  Eventually the door opened. A teenage girl stood there in a skimpy T-shirt exposing a diamond-studded belly button and tight shorts. She was chewing and sneered at Keith. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Troy? Is Troy here?’ he gasped.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I’m Keith Snell . . . he’s a mate. I need to speak to him . . .’

  A figure appeared behind the girl and barked, ‘Fuck off out the way!’

  ‘Troy . . . mate,’ Keith wheezed as the man shouldered the young girl out of the way.

  ‘What the hell are you doin’ here?’ There was suspicion in the voice.

  ‘Man . . .’ Keith extended his arms, palms outward. ‘I need somewhere to doss, man, somewhere I can get my head together . . . and I really, really, need some shit.’ The sports bag rolled off his shoulder and crashed to the ground, the zip bursting and revealing the shotgun resting on wads of cash.

  It hit the spot with alacrity and immediately Keith started to feel mellow and warm, like he was sitting in front of a gas fire. It also pleased him he had not had to break into his own stash. He exhaled and relaxed for the first time in hours. His head lolled back and his mouth opened. ‘Jesus . . . fuck . . .’ he said slowly, then, ‘Ahhh . . . this is good shit, man, real good.’ Gently he extracted the hypodermic needle from the well-accessed vein at his elbow.

  Troy Costain stood at the end of the bed and watched Keith shoot up, then experience the drug which Troy knew to be – as Keith had indeed verified – very good quality indeed.

  ‘Nice one, man,’ Keith said coolly, rolling back on to the bed and closing his eyes dreamily.

  Troy had bundled Keith away from his house and into his own car after instructing one of his cousins to dump the stolen car in which his friend had turned up. Troy had driven the increasingly nervous, almost delirious man down to North Shore in Blackpool where he knew he could find some accommodation. Troy knew exactly where to go and within twenty minutes had escorted his friend into a very dubious bed-and-breakfast establishment not far from the back of the Imperial Hotel on the promenade.

  He had provided Keith with another free sample, remaining with him whilst he mainlined it.

  Troy knew this would loosen Keith’s tongue. He was intrigued by the contents of the sports bag, particularly the money. It looked a substantial amount and his antenna had extended with interest.

  He perched on the end of the bed as Keith continued to make orgasmic sounds whilst the drug permeated all points of his system. He watched with a sneer of disgust on his face. Troy dealt drugs, having recently gravitated from ecstasy to much more potent substances, but he did not use them himself. He was in the trade for profit, not for pain.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good . . . yeah,’ breathed Keith. ‘Like it.’

  ‘Do you want to talk?’ Costain suggested slyly.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Why you’re in sin city, why you called on me, and why I’m helping you.’

  ‘No, no, it’s right.’

  ‘No it’s not, Keith. You need to be speaking to me because I think you’re going to need me, aren’t you? I can put two and two together.’ Troy’s voice was soothing and cajoling at the same time.

  The Costain family lived and operated from a large semi-detached council house on the Shoreside Estate in Blackpool. They were numerous and claimed descendency from the Romanies and also had a stranglehold on the estate via their intimidatory tactics, burglary, thieving and now, through Troy, drug dealing. The youngsters in the family ran wild on the estate and two of them, Roy and Renata Costain, sixteen-year-old twin cousins of Troy, were being hounded by the cops, desperate to make the two little rascals subjects of Antisocial Behaviour Orders. It was to Roy that Troy had entrusted the dumping of the stolen Ford Escort.

  Troy had given him specific instructions. ‘Just get it off the estate, dump it, fire it, and nothing else, OK? Do not fuck around, just do what I say, OK?’

  Roy could hardly keep a smile off his face. ‘How much?’

  ‘Tenner.’

  ‘Oh – OK.’ Roy extended his greedy, grubby paw.

  When Troy disappeared with his spaced-out junkie friend, Keith, Roy got into the car and twisted the screwdriver. He drove away with glee and cruised the estate until he found Renata hanging out with a group of like-minded girls on a street corner. ‘Get in,’ he shouted. Without a moment’s hesitation or one question, she was in the front passenger seat. Renata was the girl who had answered the door to Keith earlier.

  ‘Spin time,’ he said.

  ‘Yes!’ she responded, clenching her fists.

  He stepped on the accelerator and skidded away from the kerb. ‘Bit of a shit heap,’ he observed, ‘but it’ll do.’ He veered back across the kerb, mounted the footpath and gunned the decrepit vehicle half-on/half-off the footpath.

  Renata screamed with hysterical laughter.

  When Troy Costain left Keith, his friend had slipped into a deep slumber. Troy had waited until he was certain Keith was well gone before peeking into the sports bag and inspecting the contents. His heart skipped a beat or two at the sight of all that money and the deadly looking firearm.

  Troy, however, touched nothing – despite his urge to gather all the dosh into his hands and disappear with it.

  Instead, troubled by what he had seen and what Keith had told him, he backed quietly out of the room, wondering if he could profit in any way from the knowledge he possessed. He walked slowly down the dingy, mouldy corridor of the guest house, his mind in turmoil, his loyalties being tested to the limit.

  At four minutes past midnight Blackpool was buzzing with crowds of punters moving from pub to club, a
ll watched over by the cynical eyes of a few pairs of patrolling police officers. One such pair found themselves parked on the promenade in the wide open space between the colourful entrance to Central pier and the tram tracks which ran north–south down the promenade.

  For Blackpool it had been a fairly quiet evening, even though at the last count there were forty-two jobs outstanding on the log in the communications room. Most could wait, some needed attention, but even so, this duo of officers had told comms a lie (that they were busy) and had decided to chill out for a few minutes (by watching the ladies of the night tootle by).

  Neither officer had been particularly motivated by their work that evening. Most of it had been boringly mundane and they were hoping that something interesting – and fun – might happen. A good fight, maybe; perhaps a sudden death or a good car crash. What they didn’t realize was that they were about to get a combination of the latter two.

  They had sat in silence watching the crazy world called Blackpool speed past their windscreen as they faced the traffic lights at the junction of the prom and New Bonny Street, quite close to the central police station.

  Then both officers shot bolt upright in their seats as they simultaneously clocked the blue Ford Escort which had stopped at the red lights, then kangarooed through, heading north, when they changed to green.

  Even from a distance of twenty-five metres and with the road lit only by street lights and the windows of the car reflecting the bright glare of Blackpool’s myriad coloured lights, both men recognized the driver and passenger.

  ‘The cocky little shits!’ one said.

  Their blue lights flicked on and the police car slotted in behind the Escort which, as expected, accelerated.

  That ‘something interesting’ they had wished and hoped for was about to happen.

  ‘Yes!’ Triumphantly Roy Costain punched the air, looking over his shoulder, his eyes a-gleam with excitement. ‘The plods are with us . . . hold on,’ he warned Renata, who had a grim smile on her face, heart pounding with the rush of adrenaline. The chase was on and both of them loved it to bits.