by Nicky Black
‘They’re well gone, boss. But your kid …’
Murphy was looking back at the warehouse and Peach followed his gaze, his face falling into a puzzled scowl. His daughter was at home, tucked up in bed like she always was at this time of night, and he turned to Murphy to tell him so.
But Murphy continued to look at him from under his hat, something in his droopy eyes halting Peach’s words.
Murphy swallowed. ‘You need come inside, sir.’
TOMMY
The granite eyes of George Stephenson followed Tommy and his friends as they passed the Central Railway Station on their way to Phutures, their night club of choice on account of the guaranteed free entry. Harold “Hadgy” Dodds, bouncer and provider of said free entry, stood at the top of the stairs, his jet-black hair standing on end as if he were plugged into a socket.
Frankie skipped up the stairs first.
‘Thought you had a do on tonight?’ said Hadgy.
Frankie gave him a warning look and walked into the club.
Jed followed, and Hadgy tried again. ‘You’re sharp back, no totty?’
Jed walked past without a word, and Tommy brought up the rear, his one remaining trainer in his hand, a toe sticking through a hole in his sock.
The bouncer raised the thick monobrow that sprouted on a face so big the eyes were all but slits. ‘Go all right?’ he asked Tommy.
‘Fuck off, Hadgy.’
The club was chocka, but only a handful of women danced self-consciously to Sonia on the kidney-shaped dance floor. The lads headed for their usual table where two women sat, sisters by the looks of it, one still in her teens, the other a good few years older, more Frankie’s age than Tommy and Jed’s.
‘Hiya, Tommy,’ said the younger one.
Tommy had never seen her before in his life, but his dented pride took some pleasure in the greeting. Her eyes soon left his to linger on Newcastle’s answer to Rob Lowe.
Jed, white teeth and T-shirt glowing in the neon light, bent down and whispered into her ear. The girl suppressed a smile, and, with a jerk of her head, she and her sister moved away from the table.
‘Cheers, lasses,’ said Tommy. Jed’s prowess came in handy at times.
Tommy plonked himself down, Jed flinging himself heavily on the stool opposite. Frankie was left standing, dressed head to foot in stone-washed denim, collar up and thick ginger hair poking out at the neck of his open shirt.
‘Get the drinks in, Shakey,’ ordered Jed, handing a fiver to Frankie.
Frankie was happy to head to the bar, his gait taking on a Travolta-like strut, much to the amusement of the two women who giggled and stuck their fingers down their throats.
Jed pouted. ‘That’s the end of that then.’ Jed’s huffs were legendary, his sarcasm even worse.
Tommy looked away; it wasn’t the end, they were barely getting started. They just needed to think smarter; be not one, but two steps ahead of the police. But Jed continued to gripe.
‘That’s us back to the grindstone.’
‘There’s only one grindstone you know,’ said Tommy.
Jed ignored the dig. ‘So, who can we not pay, then?’
Tommy blew out his cheeks. ‘Bouncers, riggers, DJs—’
‘Jesus.’
Tommy was running out of favours. His blagging and Jed’s film-star smile could only get them so far before people wanted hard cash. He leant forward, meaning business.
‘Look, if we’re gonna do this, we can’t piss about. We need to be professional.’
‘Let’s do something else,’ moaned Jed.
Tommy stared hard at his friend whose face perked up in a light bulb moment.
‘Hey, I’ve got the knock-off trainers!’
Tommy blinked at him, eyebrows raised, but Jed was on a roll.
‘Or Northern Soul nights, we were good at that.’
‘We’re good at this,’ Tommy argued. ‘This is the future, man. The youth of the nation coming together. Black, white, rich, poor, for the love of the music.’
Jed raised his eyes to the ceiling.
‘Howay, mate,’ said Tommy. ‘These people need us.’
‘It’s finished, Tommy,’ said Jed, firmly, ‘the police are all over us.’
‘Then we’ll do it legit. Get leases, licenses—’
‘What with? Fresh air?’
Tommy clasped his lips together. He couldn’t stop now; it was all he could do, all he was good at, his opportunity to have a life outside of fiddle jobs and youth training schemes. It was the one thing in his life that gave him any status.
‘Just needs some lateral thinking,’ he said, touching his temple.
‘Needs money, and that’s something we categorically don’t have,’ said Jed, the look in his eyes one of blame.
Tommy heaved a sigh and looked over Jed’s shoulder, watching Frankie weave his way through clubbers who were rushing to the dance floor to the sounds of S’Express.
Frankie placed a tray of two pints and a Coke carefully on the table, lining it up squarely before rubbing his hands together, ready for his pint. Tommy reached for the Coke. He’d never been much of a drinker, didn’t like the taste of the stuff aside from the odd cocktail he’d tried on his only ever holiday abroad. But it didn’t do to be seen supping lass’s drinks in Newcastle. And besides, this business needed a clear head at all times.
Jed grabbed his drink, taking a few long glugs and standing up, wiping the frothy lager from his lips. ‘See yez.’ He headed to the dance floor, casually turning back to Tommy and Frankie with a shrug as girls moved in on him like pins to a magnet and Frankie moved in on his empty stool.
***
The night wore on. Hands were shaken, backs slapped in appreciation and commiseration, another tremendous night thwarted by pigs put on this earth to stifle the freedom of ideas. Jed danced on without a care, white T-shirt sticking to his broad, solid chest, nipples visibly erect. Tommy accepted the praise and wisecracks from stragglers from his rave who’d found a second-rate solution to dancing off their energies. But the undertone of disappointment didn’t go unnoticed.
The return of chart music had Jed ambling back to the table, Frankie swaying and grinning, happy to be a member of such an eminent team. Tommy eyed Jed with a mixture of confusion and suspicion – he should have pulled by now, have his tongue down some poor cow’s throat on the promise of seeing her again. Not likely. Instead, Frankie was ordered back to the bar and more pints arrived.
It was after 1.00 a.m. when Tommy noticed Jed’s face fall into a frown. It was nothing unusual, but Tommy followed his friend’s gaze anyway and caught the back of a familiar head emerging from the gents’ toilets and approaching the bar: the sharp, blond flat-top of Paul Smart, Valley Park Estate’s very own high street bank - a loan shark with a fondness for breaking bones and slicing flesh. He was dressed in a black trench coat despite the raging heat, by his side, a sleek greyhound on a leash. Behind the bar, a door opened, and Paul’s side-kick and bodyguard of sorts beckoned to his boss. Tucker, a mixed-race, green-eyed thug with scars on his cheeks and the flattened nose of a bare-knuckled fighter, pierced the room with razor-like eyes as Paul made his way towards him, and they both disappeared through the door.
‘What’s that nutcase doing here?’ Jed asked, his frown lines deepening. This wasn’t the sort of place people like Paul Smart frequented. There were fancier, more elegant clubs in town that served people with money to burn. If he was here, he was here for a reason, and it wasn’t the dancing.
‘Set my hair on fire coz I owed him a fiver,’ said Frankie, stroking his pony tail fondly and muttering an apology when Tommy’s eyes rested on his. Frankie didn’t need to say sorry; there was no love lost, and there wasn’t much Tommy could do about the family connection. Young as he was, Tommy had a wife at home, and a damn lovely one at that – only Paul Smart was her uncle, the younger brother of a mother-in-law Tommy would happily see banished to Mars. Not that the aliens would have her, and not that anybody ever
spoke of Uncle Paul – he was as good as disowned on account of his reputation for being a psychotic twat.
‘Shit, look busy.’ Jed turned back to the table and took a cigarette from Tommy’s packet as Tommy looked over his friend’s shoulder towards the bar. Tucker was walking towards them, eventually stopping at their table and throwing a glance at Tommy before leaning down to Jed’s ear. The glint of a blade pressed against Jed’s side made Frankie freeze, pint halfway to his mouth.
‘Mr Smart wants to see Tommy,’ Tucker said.
Jed didn’t budge. ‘Do I look like Tommy?’
Tucker hesitated, not used to being challenged. ‘No.’
‘Well, fuck off, then.’
Tommy held his breath, trying to suppress the grin that threatened to expose his disrespect as Tucker straightened up, flicked the blade closed, and slid it into his bomber jacket pocket. After a long stare in Tommy’s direction, he grunted and walked back to the bar.
Jed lifted his pint with a ‘you’re welcome,’ and Tommy raised his Coke in return, feeling a ripple of apprehension run down his spine. Paul Smart’s hold on Valley Park and other estates in the west end of Newcastle had gone unchallenged for ten years or more. He bled people dry, frightened their children and their grannies half to death if they didn’t pay up what was owed, and if that didn’t work, you could say goodbye to your dole, your telly, and your legs. In that order. Tommy kept his distance. He liked his legs; they might be skinny, but they got him where he wanted to be.
Tommy glanced towards the bar where Tucker stood, staring over, his very presence a menace. Tucker Brown had materialised on Valley Park about five years earlier, the only black face around, no family, no friends, a twenty-year-old with cheeks full of scars that were cause for much speculation: were they acne welts, or were they tribal marks that some witch doctor had sliced into his face with the tooth of a tiger? Tucker had arrived with tales of Liverpool gangsters and the price on his head that saw him fleeing to Newcastle, his accent so thick that if you weren’t a fan of Brookside, you wouldn’t understand a word he said.
But the stories didn’t ring true; he’d been awkward, friendly to the point of needy, hanging around like a bad smell, always on their tails. But, at sixteen, Tommy and Jed had been too tight. They’d ignored him, lied to him about where they would be, crossed the street or turned on their heels to avoid him. An outsider was something they’d neither wanted nor needed, especially one with such an air of otherness about him; especially when Tommy was wading his way through the worst year of his life.
1984 was a year Tommy would never forget. It was the year Peach had handcuffed his father, driven him away, locked him up. Three months later his mother was dead, his grandfather had taken up residence in his house, and Tucker was roaming the streets of Valley Park on the hunt for friends who didn’t want him. Eventually, Tucker had left Tommy and Jed to it, but still he would hang around the estate and stare at them with glassy, emerald eyes, saying nothing – just as he was doing right now.
In 1984 Tommy had grown up, had his eyes reluctantly opened, and Valley Park and all its offensiveness had become his prison. In his mind, there was only one way out of the place: money.
And DCI Peach had just confiscated it.
PEACH
Sally’s swollen hand was limp in his. It felt cold to the touch even though her temperature still raged.
The nurse touched his shoulder. He knew it was meant to be kind but still he shrank from it. Every strand of her frizzy red hair, every smile meant to give him comfort put his frayed nerves on a knife edge.
He’d just been through two hours of hell.
By the time he was allowed into the cubicle, Sally had been stripped to her underwear. Soaking from head to foot, she’d squirmed on a metal-framed bed, her feet twisted behind her, and her spine bent backwards into the unnatural curve of a gymnast. Then the wailing began – a deep, animal sound which started as a low growl then climbed to the high-pitched cry of a newborn. Nurses and paramedics had swarmed the cubicle, throwing wet towels and sheets over Sally’s writhing body while she pulled her head back, eyes rolling, the wail unremitting and unnerving.
‘Mr Peach?’ A doctor entered the cubicle with a burst of authority, her fair hair tied back, her face freakishly void of eyebrows and eyelashes.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Peach demanded.
The doctor gave him a look that said she didn’t appreciate his belligerent tone. ‘We need blood,’ she ordered. ‘Is your daughter a drug user?’
‘She just finished her O Levels for Christ’s sake.’
‘Is she sporty?’ The doctor stood back as a nurse began drawing blood from Sally’s arm, four others holding her still.
Peach barged forward, but the doctor took his arm firmly and held him back.
‘Please, Mr Peach,’ she said.
He swallowed, thinking. ‘Plays netball – or used to, I don’t know.’ He tried to remember the last time he’d seen Sally’s PE kit in the wash or hanging on the line, but his head was full of sand.
‘Severe overheating on this scale is usually associated with high impact athletics in very hot conditions.’ The doctor stated her facts as if reading from a text book. ‘So, unless she’s been running a marathon—’
‘She doesn’t run bloody marathons!’ Peach spat. ‘Now, are you going to tell me what the hell’s happening here?’
A temperature of over forty-three degrees and a heart rate of two hundred and twenty, he was told. Unfamiliar with things medical, the words were meaningless to him, but the tone indicated their gravity.
‘You really need to stay back for now,’ the doctor said with a direct stare that rooted his feet to the floor. She turned to the nurse holding the vial of Sally’s blood and told her to get it to the poisons unit immediately.
‘Poison? Jesus.’ Peach ran his hand though his hair, clutching it at the crown and pulling it hard as if causing himself pain might ease some of Sally’s distress. It didn’t, and convulsions began to rattle her body, her eyes startled, bubbles of foam appearing at the sides of her mouth.
The doctor took a syringe, filled it with fluid from a glass vial and flicked it with her finger. She injected the fluid into Sally’s arm and the convulsions slowed until she stopped moving all together.
‘Temperature’s down to 42.9,’ said the nurse with the frizz.
The statement brought no sighs of relief, no victorious smiles between the medics who stood around with their hands over their mouths.
The doctor stood over Sally, the only sound the dripping of water onto the floor.
Then all hell broke loose.
‘She’s stopped breathing,’ he heard, and he was ushered out of the cubicle and into the corridor.
***
An hour later, he sat in a waiting room. It contained only a sink, four chairs, and a small table, upon which a box of tissues idled, waiting to be plucked. The room screamed bad news, the sort of place people were brought to grieve and cling to each other. Alone, he stared at a tall window which let in the yellow light of the hospital car park, willing Sally to be strong, to survive.
When the doctor finally walked in, Peach felt his breathing falter. She took a seat opposite him, her face the picture of concern.
‘She’s breathing,’ she said, ‘but she needs help, she can’t breathe on her own.’
His relief was short lived as he searched the doctor’s face for hope but saw none.
‘Your daughter is very sick, Mr Peach.’
‘I can see that,’ he replied, staring at her name badge: Doctor Lucy Flynn.
‘You’re a police officer?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector,’ he said, relieved his rank was known, and he wouldn’t be treated like a dimwit.
Doctor Flynn was unimpressed. ‘People suffering this sort of hyperthermia rarely recover. In fact, I’ve never known a case—’
‘I thought you said she was too hot,’ said Peach, unable to buck the instinct to jump on inco
nsistency.
‘Hyper,’ she said. ‘Not hypo.’
He felt himself flinch at the correction, and the knot in his stomach threatened to cut his breath short as he listened to her explanation of a body overheating to compensate for loss of fluid, the brain ceasing to regulate the body’s temperature, and the organs starting to fail. Normally, he would welcome a straight reporting of the facts, but this was brutal, the words winding him.
‘We’ll do everything we can,’ the doctor said, ‘but you might want to let the rest of the family know.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘It’s unlikely she’ll survive, Mr Peach,’ she said on the out-breath, ‘and if she does, well …’
She was lying. She was some sort of incompetent.
Peach leant forward, the way he would to the criminal filth he’d interviewed a thousand times.
‘If she dies,’ he said, ‘I will hold you wholly responsible.’
‘If she dies, you might want to find out who gave her the drugs.’
Peach’s face flamed, his counter-attack evaporating.
‘You can stay here for now,’ said Dr Flynn. ‘We’re just taking her up to intensive care.’ The doctor stood, but Peach kept his eyes on her vacated chair. He couldn’t look at her. He didn’t like what he saw in her face: defeat.
Her voice became gentler, a little sad. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and she left the room.
Peach stared at the imprint she’d left on the padded chair, fear and rage making it impossible to move.
The rest of the family. She was wondering where the mother was, no doubt.
His stomach rolled, his forehead prickling with a sickly sweat. He stumbled to the sink in the corner of the room and retched. There was nothing to come out, nothing but air and guilt.
His hands clasped the sides of the basin as his legs weakened and the acid throttled him. When the spasms had subsided, he shrank back and sat on the wide window sill, his head against the cool glass.
Sally. Sensible, kind, hard-working.
She would not touch drugs. And she would not die.
