Marco wasn’t happy, and he started giving Phil abuse, calling him a lazy bastard, and a useless bum noodle. Foolishly, Phil made the grave error of answering Marco back. It wasn’t much, just something like, “oh leave off Marco, I think I’ve slipped a disc. My back is fucking killing.” This had been a massive error of judgement on Phil’s part, and Marco seemed perversely delighted that he had an opportunity to teach Phil a lesson. He left Phil sitting on the stairs, and rounded up all of the workers, making them follow him to the stair-well of the former cotton mill.
“Guys, look at Phil, he’s twisted his back, he looks like he’s in real pain!” said Marco with a nasty, sly grin on his face. “But he answered me back, lads. Can you believe that?” The workers were all standing there, dreading the punishment routine which was about to start, and scared about what might happen to Phil, who was a decent lad.
“Don’t worry though Phil, I’ve got some Deep Heat spray here.” Marco held out the can, and the eight or nine lads standing on the cold, mouldy stairwell seemed shocked that Marco was apparently about to show some compassion. They were about to change their minds though, as they watched Marco spray the liquid all over Phil’s face, in his eyes, up his nose, into his ears. Phil started screaming, as the intense heat of the medication began burning his eyes, they were streaming with a heavy flow of tears, it was like water was pouring out of them. Phil was writhing in pain on the stairs, yelling out for help, pleading for somebody to do something.
But they all just stood, and watched. They did nothing, aware that it would be them next, if they stepped one foot forward.
Marco was laughing, and he started punching Phil in the face.
“You better shut up, you little pussy!” Marco was yelling in Phil’s face, as blow after blow connected with the blinded young man who was shrieking for help.
Once Marco had satisfied himself, he told the workers to get back into the factory. They did, feeling relieved to get away from this horrific situation, but also weak and cowardly for not having the courage to try and help their horrifically injured co-worker. It was a wretched, horrible feeling of helplessness. Phil was never seen again after that, and nobody ever dared to ask Marco what had happened to him.
*****
A few weeks after being allowed into the bunks, Curtis Kennedy was asked to go up and see Marco in the office. He’d never been up to the office before, though he’d heard lots of scary things about events that had happened in there. The request terrified him, and as he made his way onto the stairwell, and began climbing the cold, stone steps up to the top floor of the mill, his mind was racing with thoughts of what he had done wrong. He paused as he reached the door. It took him ten seconds to pluck up the courage to press the bell. The door opened, and Kennedy walked through, and was amazed by the sight which greeted him.
The top floor of the mill was Marco’s floor. This was where he lived, and worked. Most of the floor space made up Marco’s sumptuous living quarters. This was a stunning place, and it looked like something out of a film. The floor was carpeted in an expensive, thick grey shag, and the furniture all looked brand new. Kennedy had never been anywhere so posh, apart from Sofology, where he’d made a nuisance of himself one day, jumping up and down on all the new sofas and beds, before being escorted out of the shop by security guards.
“Ah, alright Curtis, come on over here to my office.” Marco was peering out around a door at the bottom end of the floor.
Kennedy gulped as he walked quickly in Marco’s direction. What the fuck is going on, he wondered as he reached the office.
“Come in, come in, take a seat.”
“Cheers,” said Kennedy. He looked terrified and Marco laughed.
“Don’t look so worried. You’re not in any trouble. How’s the harvest going?”
“Yeah, yeah, got loads done, about half already.”
Kennedy sat down on a high seated chair, it was one of ten that was arranged around a huge, oval table. It reminded him of the table that he’d often have to sit around in the office at school, after being sent out of class.
“I have an errand I want you to do.” Said Marco. “It’s a job that comes with great privileges.”
Kennedy was just sitting there, listening to Marco. He could hear his own heart-beat thundering away as well, and wondered if Marco could hear it across the huge table.
“I need you to do a bit of spying. Are you any good at spying?”
“Yeah, well, I bet I am.”
“Good. Well, there are a few people that I need to know more about. I need to know their habits, I need to know their movements. So, what do you think about the idea of me letting you out of here for an hour or two, so you can do this job for me?”
It was obvious that Kennedy’s mind was instantly filled with dozens of thoughts from this suggestion.
“Naturally, you’ll be being watched yourself, so any attempts to do a runner will be viewed very badly.”
This comment seemed to slow the young man’s excitement, and his eyes suddenly focused a little more sharply on Marco.
“But the good news would be that you could get yourself a donner kebab or a pizza or summat, and just go and sit on a wall, and watch a couple of addresses for me.”
“Yeah, yeah, definitely, sounds mint!”
“And you do understand that if you attempt to do a runner or anything, you’ll be put in a coffin, and thrown in the Rochdale canal?”
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t…”
“Imagine that. Being in a coffin, the lid screwed shut, and the water slowly leaking in, drip by drip, until you drown to death.”
The thought made Kennedy want to cry. He was scared.
“But obviously, it wouldn’t come to that, if you do exactly as you’re told.”
“Yeah, definitely. You can count on me!” Kennedy tried to smile, but he looked petrified.
Marco told Kennedy what he had to do. He gave him a phone, and asked him to log in to his Facebook account on it.
“You log in on that one, and I’ll log in on this one. What’s your e-mail and password?”
“Oh, er, DJ CK 95 at Hotmail dot com, password is on da sesh zero one.”
“DJCK? That looks like dick.” Marco started laughing loudly. “Dick 95! That’s going to be your new nickname mate!” He laughed again.
“Right, its logged in,” said Kennedy. He showed the phone to Marco. His hand was shaking with nerves.
“Cool, right, I’ve logged in on your account too, so I can see what you’re up to. So don’t try sending any messages or any of that shit to anyone. Remember why you’re here, it’s because you nicked my money and my cheeba.”
“I know.”
“You belong to me, until you’ve cleared your debts.”
Kennedy desperately wanted to know if anybody had ever left here, having finished paying off their debts. All he’d heard of was people being seriously battered and tortured, and then disappearing.
“I don’t send messages anyway. No one ever replies.”
Marco laughed again, this daft kid was funny, without even trying. Marco started looking through his Facebook page, and then his messages. He was surprised to see that nobody had sent him a message to ask him where he’d been for the last five weeks. Not even his mum.
“Right, in five minutes, a car is going to come for you. The lads in the car will explain what you’ve got to do. You’ll be messaging them, on this phone, and you won’t be using it for any other purpose. Or you’ll be going in that canal. Understand?”
“Yeah, I do.”
*****
As sinister as it all was, it was rather an adventure for Curtis Kennedy. He was picked up at the front door of the mill, when Marco handed him over to two scary-looking blokes who Marco referred to as the “Chuckle Brothers.”
“Listen Kennedy, these two are my best dealers. If you upset either of them, they have my permission to kill you. Got it?”
“Yeah, got it.” He looked frightened, but also eager t
o prove himself. Prove he could do this.
“Right lads, take him. Tell him what he needs to do. I think he’s a bit dim so talk slowly. And remember what we said, I want to know the habits of this guy you’re going to watch. I want to know what time he comes in from work, what time he takes a piss, what time he goes down the pub. Every move he makes, I want it sending on a message from his Facebook. Understand?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
Kennedy was led towards a Range Rover by the two men. They looked like serious gangster types, the kind who have been inside once or twice, but can handle themselves in there. One was much younger than the other, and Kennedy wondered if they were really brothers. They weren’t doing much chuckling, and he couldn’t understand the nickname.
The car pulled off, and Marco opened the first set of gates, allowing the car through. They were huge, steel gates, they were kept closed by a massive steel girder that Marco had had to lift off and place on the floor. As soon as the car was through, the huge gate closed, and Kennedy heard the banging of the steel girder being put back into the locking position. The car drove for about ten seconds before stopping. There was another set of gates, they were identical to the first set.
One of the gangsters rolled the window down and shouted. “Alright Dave, come and open it, you fucking clump.” Suddenly a security guard with a massive dog walked towards the car.
“Soz, I was having a piss.” He chained his dog to the fence, and then started removing the huge steel girder.
“What’s that for?” asked Kennedy from the back-seat.
“It’s the lock. No fucker is getting in here, unless they drive a fucking tank at it. Even then they’ll have a job on. The gate-posts go underground three times their height. They’re held in place by a piece of concrete the size of a house. This place is fucking impossible to get into, or out of, unless Marco says so.”
It took Dave a minute or so to unlock the gate, and let the car through.
“Be back in a bit so keep an ear out. Cheers.”
This excursion away from the factory where Kennedy now lived and worked, as he paid off his debts, was quite an education. It confirmed what the other workers had been saying. That there was no way out of this place. The universal advice against ever trying to make a run for it turned out to be very wise.
It didn’t take long until the car arrived at a Spar shop. The older guy, the one who was driving had said nothing so far, suddenly he started talking. He had a broad Manc accent, and all of his words that should have ended in er, actually ended in or.
This guy definitely came from Manchestor.
“Hee-ya, see that street there, yeah, at the end of it is a little avenue of bungalows. The guy you’re looking for lives at number sixteen. Where does he live?”
Kennedy looked surprised by the weird question.
“What?” he looked a bit scared, as the scary man stared him out. He looked like a total psycho.
“God, you’re not very sharp you. What’s the address you’re watching?”
“Number sixteen, of the bungalows.”
“Good lad. Right, it’s a quiet little avenue, full of Neighbourhood Watch types, so you need to make it very obvious that you’re there. Sit on a wall facing his house, and if anybody asks you what you’re doing there, just be nice and friendly, and tell them that you’re lost, and your mum’s coming to pick you up, and she’ll be here in a minute. Yeah?”
“Yeah, sorted.”
“The main thing we want to know is what time the guy gets home from work. We want to know if he drives, or if he’s on foot. We want to know if he goes out anywhere. Every move he makes, you send us a message on this.” He handed the phone to Kennedy. The Messenger app was open, and Marco had already set the conversation going. The contact that he was going to be communicating with was named “Irish Paddy.”
As soon as the guy comes home, you message us. You just write “home.” If he’s walking, you just write “on foot.” If he goes out, you just message us, saying “out.” That’s all you are doing, a complete moron could do this, so don’t fuck it up.”
“No worries, its safe mate.”
“I’m not your mate. Call me mate again and I’ll flush your head down the toilet.”
“Right.”
“What number house is it?”
“Sixteen.”
“Good lad. Right, go on, get out…”
“Wait, er… Marco said I could have a pizza.”
The two men laughed out loud. After a minute, they stopped.
“Listen, just get out, if you do a good job, we’ll sort you out with a pizza on the way back.”
Kennedy was disappointed. He’d eaten nothing but Pot Noodles and Farmfoods microwave meals for weeks, with the occasional cold McDonalds. He’d been salivating thinking about sinking his teeth into a red-hot pizza. He got out of the car, and walked across the road. He wished that he had the courage to just leg it. He could find a tram stop, get on the Metrolink, get to town and jump a train to Scotland. He could hide in the bogs. These lot would never find him in Scotland. His mind was fuzzing up with ideas of how to get out of this nightmare debt he owed. But he couldn’t do it. Marco’s words were still ringing in his ears, the stark warning about the coffin and the canal put his ideas on hold.
Soon, Kennedy was on the neat little avenue of bungalows. It was dark, and cars kept driving up the avenue, before reversing onto their driveways. Every single driver looked suspiciously at Kennedy, before locking up their cars and going into their homes. After about fifteen minutes of just sitting on the wall, looking down at the phone, the man from number sixteen arrived home. He was driving, and he reversed his vehicle onto his drive. As he did so, his headlights illuminated Kennedy as he sat there, directly opposite. But he didn’t look up, he just stayed still, staring down at the phone screen in his hands.
“Home. Car.”
The home-owner got out, grabbed a bag off the back seat, before locking his car and going into his bungalow.
“On his own?” Asked Irish Paddy via the messaging app.
“Yes.”
“What’s the reg.”
“GM16 LPA.”
“What sort is it?”
“Fiesta.”
“Colour?”
“Silver.”
The messages ended.
Ten minutes later, the man appeared at his front door, he had a little dog with him.
“Coming out. He’s with his dog. Walking towards yous.”
“Good. Stay where you are.”
The messages stopped again. Kennedy just stayed put, aware that several neighbours were appearing at windows and looking at him. But they soon got bored and sat down to watch telly. Ten minutes passed before the man came back with his dog.
“He’s coming back.”
“Right. Come back to the car.”
Kennedy put the phone into his pocket and started walking. The man with the dog smiled at him as their paths crossed. Kennedy smiled back, and felt relieved that he didn’t have to sit on that freezing wall any longer.
Once he got back to the car, the two men were talking about football as he got in and sat on the backseat.
“Pass us that phone.” The psycho guy took the phone and deleted all of the short messages that Kennedy had sent, before placing it in the glove-box.
“Can we get a pizza now? I’m starving.”
*****
Kennedy got his pizza, and was driven back to the mill as he ate. Marco was waiting by the gates when he got out of the car.
“See you later lads, cheers,” said Marco to the two gangsters. “Come here you, help me lock this gate.”
Kennedy did as he was told, and grabbed one end of the steel girder.
“Did you enjoy your pizza?” he asked.
“Yeah, cheers.”
“It’s alright. You did a good job they said. You’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow. You alright with that?”
Kennedy thought it was a strange question
. It wasn’t as though he had any choice.
“Yeah. Sound.”
“Good, right, get back inside.”
Kennedy went inside, and headed up the stairs to the bunks. As he walked, the taste of that delicious hot pizza still in his mouth, he had no idea that the following night’s activities would end in completely different circumstances.
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Saturday
It had been an exhausting, yet exhilarating night, and the DWP case was looking remarkably close to being closed. Miller had arrived home just after three am, and decided to crash on the sofa, rather than wake Clare. He’d fallen into a deep, heavy sleep as soon as his eyes had taken their last, heavy blink of that long, tiring, roller-coaster of a day.
“Andy, wake up love,” said Clare Miller gently, placing a brew on the table beside her husband.
“Eh? What… oh. What time is it?” he asked, pulling an ugly face as he realised his neck was hurting from the way that he’d slept on it.
“Its half-seven. What time did you get in?”
“Oh, about three. I could do with a bit longer.”
“Yes, I bet you could. You’re going to bloody collapse one of these days, and I’ll be left with nothing but memories of you not being here.”
“Aw come off it, you know I’m up to my nuts in this Clare. Don’t go all Mariah Carey on me.”
“I’m not doing, I just worry about these hours. I bet you ate nothing but crap yesterday!” Clare sat down beside her husband and started stroking his shoulder.
“I didn’t! I had about three salads, and I had quinoa for my breakfast.”
“You lie like Boris Johnson’s Brexit bus.”
“Anyway chillax, things will start to settle down now. We have a name for the attacker.”
The Final Cut Page 24
