The Rave: A gritty crime drama you won't want to put down (Valley Park Series Book 2)

by Nicky Black

He turned abruptly at the sound of a whistle and dogs barking, followed by the scraping of claws on wood. He threw himself back against the bar, eyes wide, arms raised as if a gun was pointed right at him. The stumpy, bandy-legged dogs stopped just short of him, staring up with the eyes of Satan. He whimpered, knowing for a fact dogs could smell fear.

  ‘Terry! June!’ Paul had re-appeared at the living room door, holding two tins of baked beans. The dogs ran to him, sitting at his heels, tongues lolling. Paul unscrewed the bottom of the tins and extracted four tubes of Smarties. He threw them to Tommy who caught them clumsily one by one. ‘There’s about eight hundred quid’s worth in each of them. I’m told they go down well around the schools.’

  Tommy removed the plastic top from one of the Smarties tubes and poured the contents into the palm of his hand: small, blue pills displaying an imprint of the Playboy Bunny. His heart just about stopped. ‘Howay, man, I can’t—’

  ‘Or you could flog them to Tucker and he’ll give you five hundred.’

  ‘That’s not enough,’ said Tommy. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t deal drugs; what would that make him? His mind turned foggy. He’d have to give up; his dream of the big rave and the profit it would bring him disappearing fast.

  ‘Some advice, though,’ said Paul. ‘Be careful of the competition. Some people will have your legs off if they catch you selling on their patch.’

  Exactly.

  ‘Or,’ said Paul, ‘you can give me my two-grand back plus interest by Friday. And if you don’t, then Tucker will see to you. Sound reasonable?’ Paul tightened the belt of his kimono and folded his arms across his chest, his white, downy legs splayed wide.

  The two hundred per cent interest on two-grand. That was probably a lot, and Friday would be impossible.

  The drugs in Tommy’s hands were like hot pokers. His father’s face flashed before him, then Sam’s, Jed’s, his mother’s, the astronaut’s, like some weird slide show of cinematic proportions. Their eyes warned and judged, and he heard the gavel smash down on the block, heard the snapping of his femur.

  Guilty.

  He let the cardboard tubes fall to the floor, some of the contents scattering across the bare, wooden boards. He wouldn’t go down that path. He wouldn’t be taken for some sort of Laurel to Paul Smart’s Hardy. He had his principles, and he had his dignity.

  Drawing the confidence he needed into his lungs, he walked past Paul, one eye on the dogs that guarded the door and one on Paul’s gaping chest, fearing any eye contact would drain him of his new-found brawn. He found himself in the hall, then at the front door. He pulled on the handle, but the door wouldn’t open. Heart thumping, he headed towards the back of the house, not another peep from Terry, June, or Paul Smart as he walked through more pristine white gloss, across the kitchen and towards French doors that opened onto an immaculate garden. Outside, Tucker stood to one side of the doors like a sentry, green eyes, sharp as blades, following Tommy’s every step.

  Tommy looked around him for a gate, but there was none. There seemed to be no other way out but over the tall, mesh fence that kept Paul Smart safe. Hearing growls and the sound of claws once more, he ran towards the fence and leapt onto it, his jacket catching on the green wire that bit into his hands as he struggled to grasp it with his fingers and the tips of his trainers. He summoned every ounce of strength he could muster and swore painfully as he pulled himself up. Then, as if invisible hands were under his feet, he was at the top and falling into the overrun garden of the empty house that backed onto Paul’s.

  Winded and gasping, he drew himself up onto his knees, taking a moment to get his breath before staggering to his feet. On the other side of the fence stood Tucker, dangerously silent.

  Looking around him, and knowing he was safe from Tucker’s teeth, Tommy gave him a fierce glare and ran.

  PEACH

  ‘My God, you’re serious.’

  Superintendent McNally was looking at him as if he’d lost the plot. But Peach stood his ground. Murphy had been on the phone to police forces across the south of England: London, Kent, Essex. Turned out his mother was, indeed, someone of clout, as was his father, his grandfather, and his great grandfather. Three generations of senior officers completely undetectable in Murphy’s sluggish character.

  Peach knew now what resources he needed, and he needed authorisation for them now – today: a dozen staff, a few computers, phone taps, monitoring equipment, helicopters …

  Bewildered laughter silenced him mid-sentence, and McNally rummaged in the pile of paper on his desk, found what he was looking for and held it aloft.

  ‘See this?’ Peach cocked his head to read the print. ‘Police priorities,’ McNally said. ‘And I quote: “Burglary, car crime, organised crime, armed robbery, and football related violence.” Nothing here about house parties. I won’t even go into the arrest and conviction rates.’

  Peach’s grasp tightened around the envelope of photographs in his hand, developed that morning at Happy Snaps who would produce your prints in an hour – quicker if you held up your police ID. The photographs from Sally’s camera were worthless; most were blurred, and those that weren’t showed the faces of silly young men in silly hats he’d never laid eyes on before. He’d scoured each and every one for a glimpse of Collins. Nothing. The final four photographs of Sally’s inert face were so horrifying he could barely look at them.

  ‘Give me one night,’ he said, ‘and I’ll have half a dozen dealers behind bars, not to mention breaches of fire regulations, health and safety, trespass, you name it.’

  ‘Have you listened to a word I’ve said? You’re stepping over a line, here. The Drug Squad would have to assess it.’

  Peach bit back his vexed response. The last people he wanted involved was the Drug Squad. They were only interested in nailing the big-time gangsters, the ones who would generate the kind of veneration the Drug Squad detectives’ egos required. They weren’t interested in the likes of Collins, and Peach would rather keep the long-haired, ear-ringed louts at arms-length. What he needed was a team and equipment.

  ‘Larry,’ he said, ignoring McNally’s warning eyes. ‘We are going to look like fools when this all kicks off and we’re not ready. You are going to look like a bloody fool!’

  McNally stared evenly at Peach. ‘A bunch of halfwits without an O level between them are going to humiliate an entire police force?’

  ‘Yes!’ exploded Peach. ‘My point, exactly!’ He began to pace, anything to keep himself from going off like a mortar.

  ‘My hands are tied, Mike, here’s what we need to work to.’ The superintendent lifted the document again then dropped it onto his desk. ‘What’s happening with the building society?’

  Peach halted his patrol of the room and pursed his lips. He’d already sent two officers out to find Collins to persuade him to come in and “help with their enquiries.” Once he was here, they would coerce him into a line-up, bring in the witnesses and, once Collins was picked out, he’d arrest him, search his house, find what he was looking for and chuck him in a cell.

  Peach considered his response, knowing McNally would warn him off before he could even get a sniff of a result. He scoured McNally’s walls: photographs of a career spanning forty years; handshakes, awards, and accolades, pictures of his son’s graduation and his daughter’s wedding. The beam of the bride’s smile plunged into Peach’s chest like a jagged blade. ‘It’s progressing,’ he said.

  McNally’s eyes lingered on his before he picked up his pen again. ‘Without substantial evidence, I can’t give you extra resources, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’ll speak to the Area Commander—’

  ‘You’ll do no such bloody thing!’

  The rebuke hit Peach like a slap in the face, and he froze for a moment before opening the envelope of photographs, taking out the picture of Sally in her hospital bed and handing it to McNally.

  ‘That could be someone else’s bairn next week,’ he said.

  ‘Mike …’

&nb
sp; ‘I know,’ said Peach, taking the photograph from McNally’s fingers. ‘It’s not a priority.’ He backed away, taking hold of the door handle. If it wasn’t a priority for the top brass, he’d have to make it one, and he thought he knew how. ‘I’ll have an update on the building society by the end of the day.’

  He opened the door and left McNally’s office.

  ***

  Within the hour, major news desks in the United Kingdom had been sent photographs of an innocent, middle-class white girl, lifeless if it weren’t for the machines that kept her body’s essentials working. A personal statement was included, an abstract of a happy, healthy girl, near death due to the ingestion of some “love drug” – a drug freely available at parties, cheap as chips and spreading through a whole generation like cancer. It called for vigilance, for the outright banning of illegal all-night parties, criminal charges for those involved in organising them, and, most of all, a subliminal message to all law-abiding parents:

  She could be yours. You could be next.

  TOMMY

  The cash and carry car park was littered with trolleys and plastic bags which stuck to the bushes lining its borders. The store was vast, a mammoth structure on the outskirts of the city. Tommy was the last to climb down the steps of the yellow minibus, its doors emblazoned with the words “Sunshine Society,” the logo of a teddy bear peeling from its sides. The bear’s eyes were all but gone, giving the logo an air of the macabre. Tommy could see why Frankie had named it Chucky.

  He’d spent the morning weighing up new options. They were sorely limited. But one thing was for sure: Paul Smart needed him if he wanted his forty-grand profit, and profit was what drove Paul Smart. He'd settled on this option: he’d carry on until the money ran out, catch Smartie in a better mood and have his reasoning straight. He’d prove himself to be a good investment and Paul would be too impressed to say no.

  But then there was Jed, who was proving as much of a challenge. Tommy had spent the journey to the cash and carry bouncing around on Chucky’s bad suspension and trying to convince Jed that he hadn’t seen the name Peach Surprise before.

  ‘Sounds familiar, that’s all,’ Jed had pondered, looking out the window.

  Tommy had tried to change the subject, but Jed continued to wrack his brains, never satisfied until he was proven right about everything.

  ‘Sounds like one of your ma’s cakes,’ Frankie had offered, with a glance at Tommy.

  Jed had nodded his agreement, but the jury was still out, and Jed was standing in the cash and carry car park now with his hands on his hips, staring at the minibus with distaste, swearing that Frankie was humiliating him on purpose.

  ‘Saves us doing a few trips,’ said Frankie, patting the minibus’s bonnet.

  ‘Sound, Frankie, you’re a star,’ said Tommy, staring up at the huge store entrance.

  ‘Hey, where’s my kiss for getting the card?’ Jed held up the store card, lips puckered.

  ‘Right, ladies,’ Tommy grinned, ‘let’s go shopping.’

  Inside the store, Tommy led the way up and down the aisles, each of them in charge of loading their trolleys with chewing gum, cans of pop, Pot Noodles, and luminous toys. They’d pick up the pre-ordered water at the back entrance once they’d paid at the till. Tinny music played over the store’s sound system, and MC Hammer had Jed dancing the Running Man in the confection aisle, his mouth spread into a comedian’s look-what-I-can-do smile while the women stacking the shelves giggled behind their hands.

  An hour had passed, and the trolleys were brimming when Tommy drew his team together at the back of the checkout queue, clipboard and pen at the ready as if about to badger passers-by into buying double glazing.

  He started his countdown: the generators were booked, the cash needed by Friday; rigging, lighting, screen, and projector. Tick. Security, coaches, directions, pirate radio content. Tick. The dancers were on board. ‘Like Legs and Co on speed!’ laughed Frankie. Walkie-talkies, phone lines, and recorded messages; all were sorted or on order, hardly any of it paid for. The flyers were ready to go, but Tommy would have to sweet talk Macca at the printers. Again.

  ‘Good work, lads.’ Tommy hugged the clipboard to his chest, hoping that when Smartie saw the progress he was making, he’d hand over the cash, no bother.

  The hefty woman at the till eyed their piled-high trolleys with dismay. She blinked a you’ve got to be kidding me from behind thick glasses, and even Jed’s roguish smile did nothing to release the cheek flesh she bit between her molars.

  Forty minutes later, looking like she could kill each one of them with her bare hands, she sat back. ‘That’ll be six hundred and eight-four pounds and twenty-three pence all together please.’

  There was silence while they took in the total, then Jed held out a hand to Tommy and demanded the cash.

  ‘Eh?’ Tommy frowned at him.

  ‘You said you’d have cash.’

  ‘You’ve got a card, haven’t you?’

  Jed turned away from the cashier. ‘It’s fucking membership, not plastic!’ he hissed. ‘How we going to pay for this?’

  Tommy felt his Adam’s apple rise and fall.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Jed. ‘Shift.’

  Tommy sidled up to Frankie’s side as Jed turned back to the cashier, leaning one arm on the edge of the conveyor belt, employing the charm of James Bond himself. After a brief chat, Jed waved a hand to Tommy and piped up in his poshest accent.

  ‘Darren!? Do you want this putting on the youth club account or what?’

  Tommy matched Jed posh for posh. ‘Yes, super, if that’s okay! I’ve gone and left the cheque book in the office!’

  The checkout woman snatched the membership card from Jed, turned it over in her hands then pressed the button on a small microphone beside the till.

  ‘Store manager to checkout ten.’

  Jed mouthed fuck, turning to Tommy as if he were about to throttle him.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  Tommy felt his scalp shrivel as he recognised Paul Smart’s voice, and the lads’ faces turned towards the long queue of people who were starting to grumble and move away to other checkouts. Paul stepped out, a shopping basket hanging over his arm, and Tommy shrugged at his friends, an I don’t know what’s happening look on his face while his heart battered his ribs.

  Paul reached the till and pushed Jed aside, dumping the basket at his feet and leaning into the cashier. Her head strained backwards, her eyes crossing as Paul’s face closed in on hers.

  ‘Something I can help with?’ he asked.

  She stammered – something about this man reeked of criminal. ‘I’m just getting verification,’ she swallowed.

  Paul held out his hand for the card and she passed it over, snapping her hand away as Paul took it. He smiled at her, digging into his pocket, and bringing out a roll of cash, only half the size of the wad he’d had at the greyhound track, Tommy noticed. Paul looked at the till display, licked a finger and started counting. There was just enough, and he sniffed as he handed the cash over.

  ‘Keep the change,’ he said, pleasantly, ‘for being such a canny lass.’

  She swallowed again, eyes massive behind scratched lenses, the thank you stuck behind frightened lips.

  Paul's smile was gone a split second later, and he walked to Tommy’s side. ‘You changed your mind yet?’ The voice was low and sinister. ‘Eight hundred per cent for that little lot.’ He looked at Jed and raised his voice. ‘The gardening isle’s that way,’ he said.

  Jed’s eyes emptied, his face falling into a suspicious scowl which he directed at Tommy once the automatic doors had slid closed behind Paul’s back.

  Tommy dropped his head, eyes falling on the basket at his feet and the jumbo-sized packet of double-edged razor blades that lay in it. He kicked the basket under the counter and took hold of his trolley, avoiding Jed’s eyes as he attempted to manoeuvre it forward. Frankie took hold of the side of the trolley to help get it going, and when Tommy lo
oked into his face, there was a warning there.

  You have to tell him.

  ***

  Outside the back of the store, Jed’s bare chest was drawing attention from a crowd of women who had gathered at one of the upstairs windows. They pointed and leered, enjoying their tea break with a bit of extra eye candy. The lads hauled their purchases chain-gang style onto the minibus where Frankie stacked trays and boxes into every available space.

  ‘I’ve got to go back to that youth club,’ grumbled Jed.

  ‘I’ll handle it,’ said Tommy. Eight hundred per cent on six hundred quid. Maths wasn’t exactly his forte, and he could hardly ask Jed to tot it up on the calculator.

  ‘That’s Darren in the shit now.’ Jed wasn’t letting it lie, and judging by the piercing look he gave Tommy, Tommy had a feeling he’d already put two and two together. He braced himself as Jed took the trays of Pot Noodles from him, turning to hand them to Frankie. But Frankie’s sullen glance at Tommy seemed to tell Jed everything he needed to know. It was the last straw, and Jed rounded on Tommy.

  ‘You better tell me who this backer is.’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said Tommy. It was pitiful, he could hear it in his own voice, but he was holding on to that one per cent chance that Jed hadn’t clicked.

  ‘You’ve told me shite.’ Jed’s mouth pursed in fury. ‘Do you think I’m thick?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Tommy, attempting a grin, hoping for rescue.

  ‘Who’s the backer, Tommy?’

  Tommy could see in Jed’s eyes that he knew; just wanted to hear it from his best mate’s mouth. But Tommy swallowed, coloured, and looked away.

  ‘Peach Fucking Surprise, Paul Fucking Smart, my mother’s fucking garden.’ Jed dropped the Pot Noodles to the ground, kicked them away.

  ‘Jed, man!’ Tommy brought up his arms in a beseeching gesture, but Jed pointed at him, face spitting.

  ‘Fuck you, liar,’ he said.

  Pushing Tommy backwards, Jed stormed away, tripping over as the sole fell off one of his knock-off trainers. He bent down and tore the trainers from his feet, turning and hurling them at Tommy.