by Nicky Black
‘Must be nice, all them Japs in blue suits,’ Tommy chirped.
‘Fuck off.’
Vanilla Ice began to blare from the stereo behind the bar. Hadgy turned it up, dancing and rapping as he put paper umbrellas into glasses of white mush.
‘Pile of shite,’ griped Jed.
‘Could play anything you wanted if you were here.’
Jed’s family had been rehoused up in Wooler in Northumberland, Betty working her dream job in the school kitchen, feeding the hungry mouths of babes five days per week. Davie was the local postman, his pride returned, a working man again, Barry his trusty, if unofficial, apprentice.
‘Jed! Jed!’ One of Shona’s girls was at Jed’s side, a dripping-wet bundle of six-year-old energy. ‘Watch this!’ She did a handstand and Jed reached out to steady her feet as she balanced.
‘Anything I want?’ Jed took another gulp of his cocktail.
‘Anything.’
Jed thought for a while. ‘Them blue trousers don’t half crush my balls.’
Tommy grinned, squinting at his friend, sucking at his straw, and emptying the glass with a gurgle.
Jed released the girl’s feet; and she sprang up onto her toes, screeching as she ran towards the pool once more and threw herself in. ‘I’ll have to talk to Wifey, like,’ he said, ‘she might take some persuading.’
Tommy sat up on his lounger and looked towards the pool where Sam and Shona whispered to each other as if in cahoots, looking his way and laughing behind their hands. Shona had already been primed by Sam, the school places as good as booked for September, the deposit on an apartment already paid, her spot as the resident hypnotist in the local hotels sorted.
‘Aye,’ said Tommy, sitting back. ‘Best to check first.’
The voluminous cocktails on Hadgy’s tray glinted blood-red when he placed them on the table between the loungers.
‘Ah, man,’ moaned Jed. ‘Can I just have a pint?’
‘Shut it, mardy arse.’ Tommy took the glasses from the table and handed one to Jed, nodding his thanks at Hadgy, who waddled back to the bar.
‘To Frankie,’ said Tommy, raising his drink.
‘The biggest pain in the arse to ever walk the planet,’ said Jed, clinking his glass against Tommy’s.
Tommy felt pain sting his chest. But he smiled nonetheless.
‘Hundred per center,’ he said.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It’s hard to know where to start when it comes to thanking people. This book has been a rollercoaster, and a massive learning curve, only made possible by the support I’ve had from friends, family and professionals alike. So, I’ll have a go…
Firstly, to Julie Blackie – the Black in Nicky Black – for allowing me to take a fantastic movie script she wrote many years ago and transforming it into this story. I’ve always loved it, and many of these characters are hers. I hope I’ve done them justice.
To Louise Ross, fellow North-East author who has been more than generous with her support and advice. (If you haven’t read the DCI Ryan series yet, why not?!). The next coffee and muffin is on me, lass.
I’d like to say a big thank you to Pauline Murray, retired CID detective, whose recollection of the eighties is second to none. All the little nuances in here that relate to the way the police operated back then is mostly down to her. I look forward to more scampi and chips in the future.
Where would we be without book bloggers? They are the rock upon which writers like me and many others build their audience. I've met many of you, and you're great company, too. Thank you to you all – too many to mention here and I’m terrified I’ll miss someone out. But you know who you are. Special mention to Noelle 'Crimebook Junkie' Holten, though, for her "Eeeeeks! and cover reveal.
A special thanks to all the people involved in running social media platforms that make it possible to share readers’ thoughts and reviews: to Helen Dillon-Boyce, Tracy Fenton and all the team at The Book Club on Facebook, Shell Baker from Crime Book Club, Anne Cater from Book Connectors, David Gilchrist, UK Crime Book Club, Deryl Easton, a sweary NotRighter, and Betsy Freeman-Reavley and her team at Crime Fiction Addict. I’m truly grateful for your support (and the gin).
Having been through many, many rewrites, this book has had several professional editors involved. Thanks to Sheila McIlwraith at The Literary Consultancy, Emily Ruston, and Emma Mitchell for her meticulous copy edit. Your honesty has been much appreciated (and acted upon – mostly…).
Shout out to Daz Effect from Ultimatebuzz.net and Jason Busby, two guys who shared their experiences of their love of raves and house music with an old woman who has never been to a rave in her life. Your stories are instrumental in some of the scenes in this book. Thank you.
Sarah Bidder. What can I say? Not only is she the best friend a woman can have, but she is also an unsung hero when it comes to editing. She has read several incarnations of this book, and always given me honest, helpful feedback. This book wouldn’t be what it is without our Thursday night chats. I owe you big time, you fabulous woman.
To my family: my sisters and brothers, my mam and my dad (now sadly no longer with us) just for being my family – we rarely express it, but we love each other dearly.
In 2016, I left London and moved back up north, so I’m saying a special thank you to my sister, Clare, and her husband Robb, who put a roof over my head, and gave me the time I needed to recover from the trauma of turning my life on its head. It also gave me a few months to write non-stop. I couldn’t have made that change without you.
Finally, of course, to all the thousands of readers who enjoyed The Prodigal, and hopefully will enjoy The Rave too, thank you for the #booklove.
Rave on x
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Criminal Justice and Public Order Act of 1994 as good as ended the illegal rave scene in the UK. Many will remember the second Summer of Love and the years that followed fondly, others will have been affected by it differently. But whatever our experience was, it can’t be denied that the Acid-House movement had a powerful and lasting impact on youth culture and Electronic Dance Music in all its forms. It gave rise to the Super Club and gave DJs a platform to climb to the status of celebrity.
There was a small but thriving rave scene in the north-east back in the day, nothing like the size of the rave Tommy and his friends pull off in this novel, and I hope I’ll be forgiven for dreaming up locations and events that simply never existed or happened. This is, after all, fiction, and I reckon I can take some artistic license…
I was only in my early twenties back in 1989, and I was aware of the scene but didn’t participate in it (aside from a few memorable nights at the Hacienda in Manchester). It is pure nostalgia that has inspired me to write this book, alongside Julie’s funny and poignant script. Now, having listened to rave music for the best part of two years, I’m not sure if I regret it or not. But one is for sure – it doesn’t half create the backdrop for some pure, unadulterated drama.
I hope you have enjoyed this story. If you would like to know more about Nicky Black, visit the website at www.nickyblack.co.uk
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nicky Black is a collaboration between two friends, Nicky and Julie. Julie originally wrote The Rave as a movie script called "Heads" back in the late nineties, and Julie kindly allowed Nicky to turn the story into their second novel.
Julie has written for TV in the past, notably Hollyoaks and Casualty, and this is Nicky’s second novel. Both met when they worked in the urban regeneration industry twenty years ago.
Nicky was brought up in Northumberland and worked in Newcastle upon Tyne for twelve years before moving to London in 2002, then back home in 2
016. Julie is a born and bred Geordie, and still lives in the Toon.
CONNECT WITH ME
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www.nickyblack.co.uk
THE PRODIGAL
Nicky Black
(Sample)
Published by Nicky Black Ltd.
Copyright © 2015 Nicky Black
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, by any process or technique,without the express written consent of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction inspired by the author's experiences. Any similarity of these names to the names of any living person is purely coincidental.
The publisher can be contacted at [email protected]
PROLOGUE
Newcastle upon Tyne
October 1977
There was an angry wind that day. It whipped the rain around his head, his freezing hands struggling to fix the transformer into place. He shook the rain from his face and felt the harness loosen a notch. Gasping, he grabbed at the slippery wood as the transformer fell from his hand.
Then he, too, was falling.
Frank Jamieson hit the sodden ground with a thud that reverberated through every bone in his body. He lay on his back and blinked up at the telegraph pole, the harness swaying in the wind. Broken. Perhaps he hadn’t fastened it properly. Perhaps those birthday pints at lunch time had been a mistake.
He knew at that moment that his journeyman days were over. But never could he have imagined the cost to his family – Jackie and Lee, his wife and son.
With bowed heads, the groundsmen confirmed at the inquest that they’d all taken a drink that lunch time. No compensation due. Gross negligence: next case please.
That day changed everything. It was the day Frank Jamieson changed from the strong, silent type to the sullen, bitter type, his back and his spirit broken. The day his wife changed from liking a drink in Turners on a Friday night with her pals, to liking a drink any time of the day, and often alone.
And Lee. Only nine years old and homeless, the mortgage on the cosy, terraced house in Kenton no longer affordable, the boy subjected to the stench of his grandad’s tiny flat while his mother stubbornly rejected house after house offered by the Council. She was way too good for some sink estate riddled with roaming dogs and shopping trolleys. She’d hang on, she said. She’d wait for an empty house on a nice new estate that would never come.
The reek of five cats and old man incontinence permeated their clothes and hair, clinging to Lee’s school uniform so that bullying and tears became a daily occurrence.
Eventually, they were left with no choice, and they moved onto Valley Park Estate within the year.
There were plenty empty houses on Valley Park.
ONE
Lee dragged himself out of a deep sleep as the train steward announced that the next station stop would be Newcastle. He peered through a misty window that had the word twat etched deeply into it. There was a knot in his throat. Fear, nerves or anticipation: he couldn’t tell.
He dug into his pocket to check how much cash he had for a taxi. As he opened his wallet his eyes fell on the small, creased picture of a dimple-cheeked child of about seven. Grinning. Toothless. Gorgeous.
The child he’d been denied.
It was the only picture Debbie had sent him – must be eight years ago now. He didn’t blame Debbie, not really, but she could have told him. She could have found a way to tell him she’d had the baby and not got rid of it like everyone wanted. Instead, he had to find out years later from Hoots, his old drinking pal, so-named because of his Scottishness and love of battered haggis.
‘What, she never telt ye? Aboot the bairn and that?’ Hoots had come to London to look for labouring work, but one nip on the arse from a skinny rent boy at King’s Cross and he was in a cell awaiting assault charges. Lee, a beat officer fresh out of training, had brought him a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. Christ, they’d laughed. The things they’d got up to: Jesus. Lee had laughed long and loud until he’d learned of the baby – seven years after the fact. Louise she’d called her. She would be fifteen now, a young woman. A young woman he’d been denied.
As the train slowly crossed the water approaching Newcastle, he looked with aching nostalgia at the Tyne Bridge. It frowned at him, green and resplendent. He searched beyond the bridge, not at the derelict warehouses and breakers’ yards he was expecting, but at a gleaming river, light bouncing off the water from the windows of smart offices and flats which now hugged the Tyne. Couples strolled hand in hand down the quayside; people tied their bicycles to elegant lampposts.
Twisting awkwardly in his seat, he rested his forehead on the window to get a last glimpse of the scene before it disappeared from view. He looked around him expectantly, wanting to share the spectacle, but people were on their feet, retrieving their bags and putting on their coats. They’d seen it a hundred times, watched the change happening slowly. Like growing old, they just didn’t notice it.
Whatever the feeling was in his throat, he could now put a name to it. Excitement. He felt like a child about to arrive at Butlins. Only this was going to be no holiday.
***
Nicola Kelly checked herself in the full-length mirror at the bottom of the stairs, admiring her shapely figure in her new clobber. Leaning into the mirror she scraped the mascara gunk out the corner of her eyes with a little fingernail. She checked each profile and gave her shoulder-length brown hair a quick finger-comb. The make-up was good. Not too much to make a fuss. She sighed and looked at her watch. He’d said he’d be back by seven.
Hearing a car door slam outside she stood tall, pushed up her boobs and pulled on her jacket, hoping to get out of the door before he could say anything. But Micky Kelly stood in the doorway already. Where are you going? his marble eyes asked.
It was over in a nanosecond. He took in her lipstick and clothes in the blink of an eye. She stiffened, the memory of the face being scrubbed off her with a nail brush over the bathroom sink still fresh in her mind. She looked back in the mirror, this time flattening everything down and pulling the top up over her cleavage.
‘Come ’ere, man,’ said Micky, putting his thick arms around his wife’s waist. He hated it when she flinched in his arms. ‘You’re fucking gorgeous.’ He kissed her, pressed himself against her, breathing out heavily and reaching down to her firm, round backside with his hands.
Nicola felt his hot breath on her face and pulled back. ‘Margy’ll be here in a minute,’ she said, looking around for her handbag. ‘Why don’t you come later?’
Spurned, Micky turned away and headed for the kitchen, emptying his gym bag onto the floor. Why would he want to spend his evening with his wife’s sorry excuse for a brother?
Nicola swallowed her anxiety. She needed to see Mark. Her brother's trial was only a week away and he wasn’t coping. He was jumpy and fractious, thin as a rake and black around the eyes from lack of sleep. She knew the signs when he was about to fall over the edge.
She weighed up her options, every little decision needing an assessment of the consequences. Walking into the kitchen, she sidled up behind her husband, her arms going round his great stomach. She purred a little: ‘The kids’ll be staying next door, so if you can get off work and come later …’
He cleared his throat. ‘We’ll see,’ he said, feeling himself harden. But by the time he’d turned around, Nicola was heading back to the living room.
Their two boys sat on the floor with sherbet dips watching The Lion King, Liam’s favourite film. Six-year-old Michael was showing little Liam how to lick his finger and dip it in sherbet. As she stroked Michael's hair she noticed her handbag lying on the floor next to Liam. It had become his favourite toy of late - taking everything out and putting everything carefully back in. She kissed them on their heads, picked up her bag and headed for the hall just as she heard the doorbell chime.
As she opened the door she heard Micky shout, ‘A
nd don’t let that fat bitch get you pissed!’ She stared into her friend’s unyielding face. Margy sucked in one round cheek and glanced over Nicola’s shoulder at her fuckwit of a husband, her arms folded over her huge breasts.
‘Hiya, Margy!’ Micky shouted pleasantly.
Margy sighed and curled her lip. She couldn’t be arsed with fuckwits. ‘Howay,’ she said, and turned from the door as Nicola shouted her goodbyes.
Nicola caught up with her friend who was taking an envelope from her bag.
‘Here, this came to the centre for you,' said Margy.
Looking over her shoulder to make sure Micky had closed the door, Nicola opened it and read it. Her computer qualification: a distinction in word processing and spreadsheets. Her face spread into a smile: ‘Eeeeh, Margy, I’m not thick! I’m not thick!’ she said, waving the paper in the air.
‘Aye well, give it back here. If Him Indoors finds out, he’ll have you locked in the shed for a fortnight.’
Nicola handed the envelope back to Margy with a grin. Her first ever qualification. It felt good, and as she walked briskly down the street, shoulder to shoulder with her best friend, she pulled the top back down and pushed her boobs back up into their rightful position.
***
Lee ordered a large Scotch with ice from a waiter in a white pinny. He observed the straight-haired women in glittering heels sipping cocktails and the rosy-cheeked men drinking beer out of bottles, their shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, their voices carrying crystal-clear and unselfconscious. This wasn’t the Newcastle he remembered. But then, his life had been on Valley Park – his school, his friends, his enemies, the Nags Head where they all drank underage and freely.
