Thanks to Catherine, though, I not only have an up-to-date address for him and a photograph, but I also have a pretty good idea of where I can find him on Boxing Day 2017. Along with the other items in the envelope provided to Jean was a copy of the 2017–2018 fixture list for Tottenham Hotspur.
Whatever else may have changed with Darren since 1989, you can be absolutely certain that he will have remained a diehard Spurs supporter and will be at the match today against Southampton. Any other day is leaving too much to chance, but this particular day is also close enough to the present when I need Darren to do something for me and is also before my run ins with Douglas started.
All perfect as far as it goes and, after checking in a newsagent and confirming that I have arrived on the right day, I am now standing in front of the huge construction site that was once White Hart lane football ground.
My plan had been to hang around outside for the match to finish and then, hopefully, follow Darren home or to the pub. I have his current home address and the White Hart pub in Luton is still operating, so even if I had missed him leaving the match it would have been fairly good odds that he would be heading to one or the other.
Now, though, I feel like an absolute fucking tit for not remembering that White Hart Lane closed for redevelopment at the end of the 2016–2017 season and until the new grounds are ready all Tottenham home games are being played at Wembley Stadium.
The time is already 2.10 pm and whilst it’s only five or six miles away, kick off time was at 12.30, so by the time I get there the game will almost certainly be done and my chances of catching Darren leaving will be slim. Without wasting any more time, I jump in a passing cab and ask the driver to take me to Wembley as fast as he can.
As we pull away the driver looks over his shoulder and mutters something in deep and nearly unintelligible Cockney.
“Sorry, what was that you said?”
“I said you’ve got no chance of catching the game, it’s nearly over. The spurs are already 5–2 up and there’s only a couple of minutes of normal play left. Harry Kane banged in two in the first half and got his hat trick on the 67th minute. Southampton have probably already caught the bus home,” he adds with a laugh.
“Oh right, thanks — take me there anyway, please.”
“Sure thing, guvnor, the roads around Wembley will be fucking crazy now, though, with the game ending. Is there somewhere particular that you want to be dropped off?”
The news of Tottenham’s imminent victory is good news and the driver is right. Southampton would need an absolute miracle to win now, so knowing that Daz will be in a good mood, I expect that he will be wanting a celebratory drink or three.
“What’s the most popular post-match pub close to Wembley? I’m trying to meet up with a mate, but I lost his number and I can’t remember the name of the pub where he told me to meet him.”
“Popular pubs, you say? That would most likely be either the Torch or the Corner House. Is he a real fan or a poncy city boy that changes allegiance depending on the season?”
“Oh, he’s a die-hard gooner he’s been following Spurs all his life.”
“Okay, more likely the Corner House then, the Torch has gone all upmarket like Weatherspoons. The Corner House is a real football pub. I’ll drop you there.”
Despite the fact that it is a cold December afternoon, the beer garden at the rear of the pub and the entrance at the front are both crowded with Spurs and Southampton fans smoking and drinking.
Flushed with success, the Spurs fans seem to be in the majority but the mood is light-hearted with no hint of aggression in the air as the opposing fans openly mingle and exchange banter. Thirty years ago, this would have been utterly inconceivable and being on the winning team would have made no difference at all to Darren and the rest of the Yid Army.
In 1989, for the gangs, the match itself was nothing more than the prelude to the post-match violence, but times have changed and most of the hooligan firms from the eighties and nineties have long since retired.
That’s probably just as well, because Southampton was one of the very few English clubs that didn’t have any notable gang associated with it, so they would most likely get absolutely battered if the Yid Army were still alive and kicking.
I can’t see Darren anywhere outside and I decide that if he is not inside, I will head to his home address to see if he is there. I know, though, that he is married now with two teenage kids and it won’t be as easy to corner him inside his own home, so I am praying that he is here.
Inside the pub, it is standing room only once again and after pushing my way through the crowd twice, I am just about ready to give up when I hear a familiar voice just a few feet away from me at the bar.
“Get me another Prosecco, Daz, and tell him to fucking fill it right up this time. The tight bastard gave me half a glass last time.”
She has put on a lot of weight since I last saw her, but thankfully, her make-up and overall look have improved dramatically over time.
At first sight, I thought that Darren had married Sarah, but on closer inspection, I realize that he has actually hooked up with my ass-groper Karen. They seem to be with a group of five or six others and, like Darren, the guys have the look of hardened street fighters, albeit street fighters now in their late forties and early fifties.
The flat cap on Darren’s head is possibly the reason I had not recognized him before now. It is pulled down low and conceals the fact that he is almost completely bald. Very little else has changed about his physical appearance, though, apart from being a little heavier as you would expect after thirty years.
The scar below his right ear is still obvious, but he also now has a few other smaller scars and his nose looks like it has been broken a few times. Clear evidence of his continued violent behavior and gang involvement long after our last meeting. I knew all this already, though; Catherine was able to provide me with a full summary of Darren’s criminal record, including various short terms of imprisonment and, most crucially, his current suspected activity.
I needed this to use as leverage with Darren if I am to have any chance of him playing ball, but with the pub so busy and his mates so close around him, I need to pick my moment carefully or risk ending my trip prematurely at the hands of the ex Yid Army.
By four o’clock, the crowd in the pub have started to thin out slightly and I hear Darren asking his mates if any of them want to go outside for a smoke. Two of the guys nod and follow him out towards the beer garden, leaving Karen inside talking to two other guys and another woman of about the same age.
A minute later, I head out myself and put my bottle of Corona down on the opposite end of the bench where Darren and the guys are sitting. They all look up towards me briefly, but as soon as I pick up my beer and turn away slightly, they look back down and carry on chatting.
The conversation is mostly about today’s match, but every so often, a comment is made that causes them to reminisce about the old days and fighting on the terraces. For the most part, it is nothing very interesting and certainly nothing worth getting your knickers in a twist over after so long, but ten minutes into the conversation, they lower their voices and I make the mistake of leaning too far over to hear and I catch their attention.
“Oy, is there something we can fucking help you with, pal?”
The question is not from Darren, but from one of his mates. They are all still sitting down, but there is a real danger of this escalating if I don’t calm the situation down.
“Sorry, I was just stretching my back. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Darren is now on his feet with an empty beer glass in his hand and weighs in on the conversation, “You know what, I might actually swallow that shit if you were smoking out here, but a guy on his own freezing his fucking tits off in a beer garden without a smoke doesn’t fucking cut it with me. So what the fuck were you doing trying to listen in on our private conversation?”
His mates are now also on their feet and
as they move towards me, I pull the wallet out of my pocket and flash them the warrant card.
“Back the fuck up unless you all want a ride to the station,” and then to Darren, “I just need a quick word, Darren, it won’t take long and then you can get back to your mates.”
My warning causes them to stop and they now look unsure what to do until Darren tells them to go inside, “Go on, lads, get me another pint — this shouldn’t take long. If I’m not back in five minutes, ask Karen to call my brief.”
As soon as they turn to go back inside, I sit down at the bench and gesture for Darren to do the same.
“Sit down, Darren, this really won’t take long if you don’t fuck me around.”
“What the fuck is that meant to mean and who the fuck are you? I haven’t been in trouble for years, so what the fuck is this about?”
I don’t know how much he saw on the warrant card, but I don’t intend to take any chances so I use the same name.
“My name is Detective Sergeant Walker, from the Serious Crimes Squad and I know all about you, Darren.”
“Fuck off, you don’t know shit about me, Walker, and by the way, that fucking badge said Constable Walker, so go fuck yourself. What is this, a fucking shake down?” He stands up to leave and as he passes, I push him back and make a pretense of going for a pair of cuffs.
“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Darren, do you seriously want me to take you in, or do you want to hear me out? I know all about your record for violence with your soccer gang, the shoplifting, your spells inside, and your recent arrest for a long list of burglaries going back more than three years. You were lucky to get out on bail, but once this goes to court you are looking at a minimum of five years inside. Play ball and I can get this reduced to community service. I just need a little favor from you in return. Just give me five minutes.”
My knowledge of his criminal history and the offer of community service seems to catch his attention and he sits back down.
“Okay, I’m listening; you’ve got five minutes before I walk. Tell me about this community service.”
“Good, now listen carefully, Darren, there can’t be any fuck ups or the deal is off.”
I pull out the sheet of paper from my pocket with the address of the target, the items that I think could be in the house, and details of what I need him to do with them. I then spend the next five minutes explaining the plan to him, much to his disbelief and amusement.
“So, let me get this fucking straight, in order to get me a reduced sentence for a string of burglaries, you want me to do a fucking burglary for you? Are you off your fucking rocker, mate? This is either a fucking wind-up or a fucking setup, isn’t it? Do I seriously look that fucking stupid?”
“Do I look like the kind of guy that makes jokes, Darren?”
“No, but if you really are a copper, and at the moment I have my fucking doubts, I wouldn’t put it past you to put me up to this just to catch me in the act. Whose house is it anyway and why do you want me to turn it over on 18th February next year? Why not now? I might already be in prison by then anyway.”
Although he doesn’t know it yet, he will be getting a letter in two weeks advising that his court date is set for the 14th March 2018.
“Don’t worry about prison, Darren, I’ve already arranged to push back your court appearance to sometime after the end of February. As for everything else, you don’t need to know any of that — just do the job exactly as I’ve told you and your kids won’t need to visit you in prison for the next five years.”
My assurances are flimsy at best, but the thought of community service instead of a custodial sentence is appealing to him.
“I’m not saying yes, and frankly I think you’re full of shit, Walker, but I will consider it over another pint. I guess this stuff you are asking me to get must be pretty important?”
“It is important, Darren. It’s of national importance and that’s why I can get you such a sweet deal if you agree to help.”
He shrugs and then stands up. “Like I said, you’re full of fucking shit, I’m going for another pint. Feel free to fuck off or stay out here while I think about it, your choice.”
It looks like it is about to rain, so in the end I do neither and instead follow him back into the pub and take a seat opposite the bar to watch him as he slowly finishes his fresh pint. He follows this up with a shot of Fireball Whisky and then, noticing my growing impatience, he turns towards the bathroom and indicates for me to follow. As I pass the bar, I warn his mates to stay where they are and, confident that they are no danger to me, follow him into the bathroom.
Inside, Darren is alone and standing with his back to the wall. There is a mop and bucket next to the line of urinals and, to limit the chances of his mates joining us, I push the door closed and wedge it with the handle of the mop to slow them or anyone else down, and then I move closer to speak to him.
“Well, did you make up your mind? It’s a good deal, Darren, one quick job and the last three years get pretty much wiped out.”
“You’re right, it does sound like a good deal,” he answers. “Too good a deal in fact, but thanks for wedging the door for me. Less likely for us to be disturbed this way.”
Too late to react quickly enough, I turn just as the two guys concealed in the cubicles push open the doors and step out behind me. The reason he was taking so long over his drink was to give this pair of fuckers the chance to get here and get in position and now they are between me and the door. One of them has a length of iron pipe and the other has a set of brass knuckles on his right hand. I’m a good fighter, but I know that I am no match for the three of them.
“Listen, Darren, don’t do anything fucking stupid. It’s a good deal, let’s talk about it some more.”
I realize that the negotiation is over when he pulls an empty beer glass from behind his back and smashes the end over the edge of one of the sinks.
“The time for talking is over, Walker, or whatever your real name is. You must think that I’m a right fucking mug if you think that you can fool me with that Mickey Mouse fucking badge.
“Do you know what a Chelsea smile is, Walker? The Chelsea Headhunters take credit for inventing it, but the Yid Army fucking perfected it. Fucking hold him, boys!”
I know exactly what a Chelsea smile is and dream travel or not, I have no intention of having my face slit from ear to ear or to take the risk of dying in front of them.
Before his boys can grab me, I lunge for the steel mop bucket and slam it into the face of the guy with the iron pipe and he crashes backwards into one of the cubicles, then I swing the bucket backwards and catch Darren a glancing blow on his shoulder.
Knuckle-duster guy smashes his fist into the side of my head and Darren follows this up and slashes at me wildly with the end of the broken glass. For a minute or so, I manage to keep them at bay with the help of the bucket and then it drops from my hand as my body reacts to the knife in my lower back.
The first strike is followed up quickly with a second and a third and as I drop to the floor, I see the first guy that I had struck with the bucket. The force of my blow must have initially knocked him out, but now his face is contorted with rage and he steps forward ready to stab me again until Darren stops him.
“Are you fucking mad? I said no fucking knives. What the fuck have you done? Is he dead?”
I’m not dead yet, but I can barely hear them talking and I know that death is close as Darren leans over and checks my wrist for a pulse, before being pulled away by the knifeman.
“Come on, Darren, fucking leave him, he’s fucked anyway. Let’s get the fuck out of here before anyone comes asking questions.”
I can now barely hear anything as they argue amongst themselves, but after a few more seconds I am relieved to hear them leave. I can’t be found here and it can only be a matter of minutes at the most before someone else comes in. With the last of my strength, I crawl across the floor and pick up a piece of the broken glass to finish myself off. It�
��s becoming a bit of a routine as far as scenarios involving Darren are concerned, but a firm slash of the glass across my throat does the trick nicely and with the last of my blood flooding onto the bathroom floor my journey back to prison comes quickly.
Present Day – Sunday, 18th February 2018
It’s only just after 6.45 am and Billy is still snoring away in the bunk above me. I’ve been awake, though, for more than two hours pondering what my next move should be. My trip back to see Darren was a disaster, to say the least, but now with the benefit of hindsight, I think I was being naïve to think that he would cooperate. Even if he had agreed to my request, the chances of him backing out over the following few months would have been high.
I was stupid to think that he would roll over so easily, but, ironically, because of the way he left me dying on the bathroom floor, I think I now know how to get Darren onside. Time is critical, though. My plan was for him to carry out the burglary today and that still needs to happen. My first inclination when I woke up was to call Catherine this morning to ask her to visit Darren at home and pressure him into it, but I quickly dismissed that idea.
My story and reasoning would have been so far-fetched and so far outside of the law that I would have been in danger of losing her support completely. I had then thought about calling him myself from a landline but the call message would tell him that I was an inmate calling from prison, so that was also a non-starter.
This leaves me with my last and only real option — ask Billy for help again. Unlock is in about an hour, but I won’t have long enough to talk to him before we are called out for ablutions if I wait until then. It needs to be now, so I stand up and poke him in the arm.
“Hey, Billy, I need to speak to you.”
He moves slightly and wipes a gob of dribble off the side of his face, but then drops his arm back down, smiles in his sleep, and resumes his snoring.
The Network Page 12
