by Nicky Black
‘Nar.’
Without Jed there would be no pirate radio on Friday night from Frankie’s family’s high-rise flat in Cruddas Park, the roof home to the vast transmitter that pulled in listeners as far away as Dunston.
‘I can,’ he heard from behind him. He turned, surprised at the girl’s voice, and more surprised at her posh accent and clear skin. She wasn’t from around here.
‘What’s your top tunes?’ he asked, cautiously.
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Armando, Mr Fingers, 808 State.’
Tommy smiled in surprise. ‘You’re in. Friday night.’
She gave him a nod of accord, and she walked away while Tommy held out his fist to Mobz who pushed his own into it before donning his mask and heading back to his squad. Tommy watched with aching envy as Mobz climbed a ladder and drew out his spray can – doing what he loved and fuck the consequences.
He trudged away, ready for another sleepless night before he faced Paul Smart the next morning. He’d just stepped through the gates of the youth centre when the Range Rover flew onto the pavement and blocked his path. He turned and ran, but vice-like arms were around his waist before he could manage a few yards, his arms pinned down, his feet lifted from the ground before he was bundled into the back seat where Paul Smart sat, straight-backed, sunglasses on.
‘You and me need a little chat,’ he said.
***
The empty warehouse was familiar. It was within spitting distance of Valley Park, and the location of Tommy’s first rave six months earlier. What had started out as a hedonistic enterprise was quickly turning into a nightmare.
Tommy had been pulled from the car by Tucker, thrown up against a skip piled high with abandoned furniture and carpets. The stench of rot was overpowering, the heat putrefying the mounds of discarded rubbish, the sound of seagulls caterwauling overhead like vultures adding to the sense of remoteness.
‘I’ve got things to do, Smartie,’ said Tommy nervously, wondering how he could protect himself, wondering who would hear him scream.
‘Shut your fucking mouth,’ said Paul, striding back and forth, dressed in a shiny silver suit and crisp white shirt. ‘I really didn’t want to have to do this, Tommy, but you’ve left me no choice.’
Tommy felt his legs go numb as if readying themselves for the blows. He could beg, he could plead, but he doubted it would make any difference. ‘I just need a bit more cash,’ he said, ‘and it’ll all be tickety-boo, I swear.’
‘What did you tell them?’ Paul asked.
Tommy glanced around him, even looking to Tucker for help.
‘Peach,’ said Paul, squaring up to him. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Nowt,’ Tommy said, hearing the pitch of his voice rise.
Paul leant into him and Tommy felt his eyelids stretch to their limits, his heart throbbing, his throat dry. ‘He let you go?’
Tommy nodded, unable to speak.
‘You’ve got me to thank for that, and don’t you forget it,’ said Paul. ‘It was my sister that shopped you, but I’ve taken care of it. Can’t be having you locked up, know what I mean?’ He stood back, lifted his finger and pointed into Tommy’s face. ‘And let me make this clear. There is no more cash, so stop fucking asking.’
‘Just a couple of grand—’
The back of Paul’s hand hit his face with a thwacking clout so hard Tommy felt his teeth move in their gums.
‘I don’t think you’re listening to me, laddie,’ growled Paul. ‘There’s no more fucking cash.’
Tommy, shocked and slumped to his side with his palm to his face, held his breath as the pain radiated into his head and neck. He’d never been hit before in his life. Even his parents had never lifted a hand to him.
He straightened up, looked into Paul’s serious face, a fact dawning on him.
Was Paul Smart skint?
‘We can call it off,’ he stammered. ‘I’ll pay you back, a few quid a week. I’ll get some of the deposits back and we’ll be sorted in no time.’
Paul’s face was like stone. He grabbed Tommy’s T-shirt, rolled it in his hand until it started to throttle him. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘You’re going to take those drugs. You’re going to sell them. You’re going to put on this rave and make me some money. And if you don’t, I’ll sort out your mate and his window-licking brother first, then your bonny wife’s face.’ He leant in. ‘Then you.’
‘She … she’s your niece!’ Tommy said.
‘I don’t give a flying fuck who she is.’ The chill in Paul’s eyes confirmed that he didn’t, and Tommy uttered a small cry, tears threatening to spill from his eyes if he wasn’t careful.
‘Please, Smartie,’ Tommy breathed, ‘I can’t—’
‘Tucker?!’ Paul called over his shoulder, and Tucker was by his side in an instant. ‘Hit him until he says yes.’
The tears were brimming now, hot and untethered. ‘No,’ Tommy said. ‘Howay, we can sort something out.’
‘Hit him.’
Tucker stood in front of Tommy, drew back his fist, and Tommy closed his eyes, his bladder threatening to empty its contents down his legs. But the pain didn’t come.
Daring to open his eyes just a slither, he saw Paul’s hand wrapped around Tucker’s fist, holding it back. He felt a brief sense of relief until Paul released Tucker’s hand, removed the silver jacket, and roll up his sleeves.
Oh, Jesus.
Tommy closed his eyes again tightly.
‘Black bastard!’ he heard Paul bellow.
He opened his eyes just in time to see Paul’s fist collide with Tucker’s face, snapping his head back like a bent spoon. Tucker staggered backwards, the next punch sending him spinning to the ground.
‘Why didn’t you hit him?’ Paul yelled.
‘I didn’t—’
‘You need to be quicker than that, laddie! Have you learnt nowt?’
Spitting blood from his mouth, Tucker stumbled to his feet. ‘I’ll be quicker next time—’
Another blow to Tucker’s face had him reeling backwards, then another, and another, on and on to the ribs, the face, the kidneys. Tommy heard the crack of bones - Smartie's fists, or Tucker's ribs, he wasn't sure. Tucker offered no defence, eventually falling to the ground, unconscious.
Paul, breathing heavily, wiped sweat from his forehead, leaving a streak of blood across his brow. He kicked out at Tucker’s legs, grunting with each blow, but Tucker remained still, the blood from his smashed nose dripping onto the hot tarmac.
Paul turned to Tommy. ‘See what happens when you don’t do what you’re told?’
Tommy’s stomach contracted, and he gagged, trying to swallow the vomit that was forcing its way up his gullet. His head began to swim as he watched Paul wipe his hands down his shirt, then heard the unmistakable sound of a blade leaving its casing. Paul bent over Tucker, pulled the blade down one of his cheeks, then the other, the blood oozing out and joining the drops beneath Tucker’s ears.
Two Paul Smarts stood up and approached him. He was seeing double, the world around him disappearing, a high-pitched ringing in his ears blotting out all other sound. He saw the fuzzy shape of the tubes of Smarties, felt them being shoved into his jeans pockets as he tried to focus on the bloody blade Paul held up in front of his face.
‘You’ve ruined my best fucking shirt,’ Paul said.
The world spun out of view, and Tommy hit the deck like a raggedy doll.
DENISE
Denise turned her head away from Sam’s ancient television that didn’t even have a remote control; Boys from the Blackstuff, a depressing excuse for a programme if ever she’d seen one. Yosser Hughes had nothing on this oaf though. At least he’d had a job to lose in the first place.
Her son-in-law had just walked in the door, his skin pasty white, making the bruise on his cheekbone appear all the more garish. Sam was on her feet immediately, all over him, touching his face, her mother entirely forgotten after she’d given up her evening to keep her daug
hter company while her so-called husband was out all day and all night getting up to God knows what.
Something dodgy was going on; she could smell it. You didn’t grow up with a father like hers and not know trouble when you saw it – the drunken brawls, the no-questions-asked return after long stretches of absence, the sudden appearance of money then months and months of want. The never-ending violence. But she had to confess to rather liking the odour of deceit that was coming off her son-in-law. If Tommy was getting into trouble, she wanted to be the first to know about it.
Tommy was pushing Sam’s hands away, telling her to leave him alone, and her daughter’s expression was changing.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Sam asked. ‘We’ve not seen you all day.’
‘Not now.’
He looked wasted, probably on drugs. That’s what they were all doing, these youngsters; couldn’t face up to their hard lives so they drowned it out with opiates. Hard lives, she thought resentfully. They didn’t know the half of it.
‘And what’s she doing here?’ Tommy was looking at Denise with downright hatred.
‘Tommy!’ Sam berated.
‘It’s all right, love,’ said Denise. ‘Let him go to bed, he’s had a long day.’
He’d obviously been let go by the inspector. She wasn’t surprised, especially when she herself hadn’t shown up to the ID parade. Mary Bailey had called her, and she’d promised to be there, so Mary wouldn’t be alone, but it had been a lie. They seemed to come so easily to her these days, so easily that sometimes she forgot what was true and what wasn’t. But Paul had made it clear to her that she was to stay well away; that getting involved as a witness could have terrible consequences. He was just looking out for her, he’d said, didn’t want her getting into any bother, not now that they were reconnecting. He’d said the word with a touch of his hand to her arm, and she’d felt the warmth of it through her blouse, felt tears prick her eyes. She wasn’t going to turn up anyway, but she thanked him for his advice, regardless. She wanted him to feel useful, and she was pleased to see his smile when she touched his cheek and said, ‘What would I do without you?’
After that, they’d had a smashing afternoon together. They’d sat in her lovely new garden, just the rose bushes left to go in, and chatted for hours. By the end of the afternoon, he’d told her of his plans. He’d had enough of Valley Park, enough of being surrounded by poverty. He was about to make some serious money from an investment and he was planning on moving away – a villa in Spain, maybe.
‘What, all by yourself?’ she asked.
‘I’ll take the dogs,’ he replied, and she’d quickly masked the fleeting pain that surely showed on her face.
She knew loneliness when she saw it. Her brother had no real friends to speak of, no talk of a girlfriend. He had his associates, and he spoke of a Tucker Brown once or twice, but he kept his cards close to his chest when it came to personal affairs. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t enquired about him over the years they were apart. She knew people who knew him or knew of him. She knew his reputation, his business. She’d even heard the word “evil” once. But no one was born evil. Everyone had some good in them, and she saw good in Paul; and more than that, she understood him. Living through what they had, she understood his need to keep his distance, to not get too close to people. But she could help him come out of his shell. She’d seen it on the TV: Oprah and Montel, programmes she watched with the intensity of any serial drama. She watched the way they broke down emotional barriers with an expression, a touch, or a few words, chosen at just the right moment, tearing the wall down with a simple, “that must be so hard for you.” She would make him a better man – he was already a better man, and it warmed her to think she might have had a part to play in it.
And so, she let him think it was his idea that she didn’t turn up to the police station. It was better that way. It would bring them closer, and one day, they’d all be together; she’d just have to bide her time a little longer. And not too long, she thought now, because Tommy was up to no good and she was going to find out what it was.
He was upstairs now supposedly washing his face, but she could hear no clunking of pipes. Sam had disappeared into the kitchen, probably crying as she washed up the tea dishes. She wished her daughter was stronger like her. Crying over men was pointless.
Turning down the volume of the television, she strained her ears. She could hear footsteps from above, the wardrobe door opening and closing, drawers banging shut, then footsteps on the landing. A pause, then the creaking of the airing cupboard door. She’d seen the way he’d stood when he came home, his hands tight over the pockets of his jeans. There was something in there he didn’t want Sam to see, and, when she heard the airing cupboard door creak closed, she knew exactly where to look for whatever it was he was hiding.
His feet came thudding down the stairs again, and she turned up the volume on the television, sitting back on the sofa just in time.
‘You’ll be starting the decorating soon, will you?’ she said, breezily, as Tommy walked in.
The miserable programme had finished, and the news was on. Two hundred and fifty people had been arrested at Stonehenge, an attempt to avoid a repeat of last year’s riots. She tutted and shook her head as she watched a handful of muddy hippies being rounded up by hundreds of uniforms in riot gear while Druids in white robes hugged the stones.
‘Acid-house parties,’ the reporter said as the scene switched to the towering chimney of an old cotton mill. Tommy had stopped behind the sofa, and she glanced behind her to see his eyes trained on the TV.
The reporter went on: a growing fear for public safety, drugs, and noise levels; city centres besieged by thousands of cars, traffic jams worse than during the rush hour, scenes of mayhem; disasters waiting to happen. Denise took in the images of youths in baggy clothes, silhouetted against smoky white light, dancing anonymously as if only their own worlds existed.
Hundreds of officers were being drafted in at weekends, the reporter said, to prevent the parties even starting. Thousands were being sent home disappointed – just like the hippies at Stonehenge.
‘Not only that,’ the reporter’s face had turned stern, ‘but there are growing concerns over the involvement of organised criminal gangs cashing in on this new craze that seems to have taken the country by storm. Shootings have been reported in Blackpool and Bolton. “The Summer of Love,” some are calling it. Others fear it could be The Summer of Death.’
Tommy’s feet scuttled towards the kitchen, its door closing with a crash, and Denise was up the stairs and in the airing cupboard in ten seconds flat.
THURSDAY
PEACH
His mind had been on this “father” all night, a man who remained faceless in his dreams and his reality. He lifted his shattered eyes to Murphy who stood with a satisfied grin on his face, looking down at the photographs he’d thrown onto Peach’s desk.
Peach picked one up and stared down into two familiar faces. ‘When was this?’ he asked.
‘Eight o’clock yesterday morning, boss, set me alarm and everything,' Murphy said, looking pleased with himself.
‘Why didn’t I see these yesterday?’
Murphy had wanted to check out who it was, he said. ‘Half a story and all that.’
Peach looked down at the image, blurred from the enlargement, a railing blocking a good chunk of the photograph. But it was unmistakable: Paul Smart and Tommy Collins, all pally-pally on Paul Smart’s door step.
‘Loan shark,’ said Murphy.
And the rest, thought Peach. Smart was well known in the west end. The police had their eye on him, but like most people of his standing, there would be no grassing.
‘Anyone could have told you who he is,’ he said.
‘They did,’ said Murphy, taking a seat, ‘but I wanted to check summat else.’ He leant forward and put another image in front of Peach: Paul Smart entering Phutures night club on Saturday night. Murphy had been through the CCTV again; he never
forgot a face, he said, and when he saw who Tommy was visiting, something clicked. ‘It’s like a special talent,’ he said. ‘God given, me mam says.’
Peach wasn’t listening to his vanity. ‘You think Collins is dealing for Smart?’
Murphy shrugged.
‘Nahh,’ said Peach. ‘Smart would have his legs taken off getting into that game.’ Everybody knew the big dealers, the organised criminals who ran the protection rackets, and Paul Smart was way down in the pecking order.
‘Worth a look,’ said Murphy.
Maybe Murphy was right. Perhaps they were all in it together. Perhaps Paul Smart could shed some light on Tommy’s activities.
Murphy leant forward, face serious. ‘Got a feeling in me waters, boss.’
Peach glanced up at his sergeant, his own waters stirring. ‘Bring him in,’ he said. ‘Today.’
***
Sally’s cheeks glowed pink as she walked towards him, dragging her feet like the octogenarians that occupied the other beds on the ward. She was supported by Pamela on one side and assisted on the other by a male nurse who hailed from Nigeria. Peach eyed this new nurse in his crisp white tunic with suspicion. He detected a hint of flirtation on Pamela’s part; what she didn’t realise was that the man would have three wives back in Africa and was unlikely to want much to do with a pasty Geordie a bit past her sell-by date.
‘There you go,’ said Pamela, holding Sally around the waist as she sat her on the bed. ‘You’ll be doing the Great North Run next.’
‘I’ll take it from here,’ said Peach, placing a hand on Pamela’s arm as she bent to lift Sally’s legs.
Pamela straightened up and exchanged a look with the African which led Peach to believe he’d been the topic of conversation over their morning tea break.
‘Make sure you wash your hands,’ the African said with an accent laden with the sort of authority Peach didn’t much care for. He gave Pamela a grim look which she seemed to find amusing.
