(15th August 1988)
Huyton wasn’t much of a scholar. He’d been expelled from school aged fourteen and never went back. That was his mum’s fault, not his. She’d unwittingly chosen the day of his expulsion to turn her single-parent family into a zero-parent family. He’d come home early, bearing paperwork that explained how to “relocate to a new educational establishment”, but she was already gone.
‘Ma’s done one with her fancy fella,’ his older brother told him. ‘And I’ve work coming off down the Big Smoke. You won’t see either of us again.’
It turned out Huyton’s mum hadn’t paid the rent in months. That is to say, not in cash. Her favours hadn’t kept the wolf from the door indefinitely, however. So she’d jumped ship and his brother had been right: he’d never seen either of them again.
Huyton didn’t hate his mother any more than he missed her, which was not at all. He’d been a bit upset at the time, naturally, but that had been more practical than emotional. Where am I going to sleep? What am I going to eat? He hadn’t worried about who was going to tuck him up and read him a bedtime story, because nobody ever had. Not since his nana died, when he’d been eleven, anyway.
Nan had been one hell of a woman by any standards. Jamaican-born, she’d lived in London for a while before she moved north, met a no-good white guy and gave birth to Ma. Nan claimed she had no regrets about anything, ever, but clearly wished she’d given Liverpool a miss. Her “night, night stories” all centred on her time in the Swinging Sixties, south of the river. And a lot of those stories were about the Kray twins and their rivals the Richardsons, also known as “The Torture Gang”.
‘Come on,’ Charlie prompted, hauling him away from his memories. ‘I can see you know where I’m coming from. It’s time to make your decision, before I make it for you.’
Huyton studied the ravaged-faced man. Despite his appearance he was only a kid. He couldn’t have been more than a twinkle in his mother’s eye when the real Charlie went down. And the rest of his mob was younger still. Not that that was any reassurance. A roomful of boys was not good news; they could be capable of anything.
Like the use of pliers to remove perfectly sound teeth. Or bolt-cutters to remove fingers and toes. Not to mention the application of electric shocks to . . .
To . . .
Nan claimed she’d been introduced to the Kray twins once, when she ventured across the river Thames. She also claimed she saw Charlie and Eddie Richardson on just about a daily basis. While she couldn’t speak for the Kray boys, the Richardson brothers were, she insisted, “proper gentlemen”. Huyton thought she might have been exaggerating. He’d met some nasty cunts in his time, but dragging it out for hours on end, making a guy cry and beg for his mummy . . .
‘The chair,’ he said. ‘I’ll sit in the chair.’
‘Fuck me!’ Charlie laughed. ‘It talks!’ Then, still perched on his desktop, still swinging his feet, he asked: ‘Got a name, have you?’
‘Huyton,’ Huyton admitted.
‘Is that your first or last? Or is it where you’re from? You sound like a Huyton lad.’
‘I’m from Toxteth,’ Huyton growled. And said no more.
Charlie’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Come to that, there was nothing in his eyes at all. ‘Okay Mr Prosecutor,’ he said. ‘Open your case.’
‘Right,’ Little Twat began, still holding his bat. ‘Well, as you know, the Pakis told us there was this black, Scouse bastard throwing his weight about down Lawkholme . . .’
‘Mr Prosecutor, objection!’ Charlie put on a pained expression. ‘How many different minorities are you trying to offend?’ He turned back to Huyton, smiling his insincere smile. ‘Sorry about that. He has difficulties with diplomacy.’ Then, after coughing mock-politely, ‘What do you class yourself as, anyway?’
Shit scared, Huyton thought, surprising himself.
‘Sticks and stones,’ he said aloud. ‘I’ve had all sorts.’
‘But if you have to?’ Charlie persisted. ‘Filling in forms, and that? Go on, humour me.’
Huyton wasn’t about to confess he didn’t know. ‘My mother’s black,’ he grunted.
‘Sounds like a pat answer to me.’ Charlie’s chuckle was echoed by every one of his sycophants. ‘What about your dad? What was he? Chinese or something?’
‘How should I know? I never met him.’
‘So my learned friend was right. You’re black, Scouse and a bastard?’
While boyish laughter rained over him Huyton had another study. Charlie was obviously a big, long-term user of his own products. That much said, his dead-fish eyes were under control. They weren’t continually flickering to and fro. And he didn’t have the facial tics favoured by most of his ugly little henchmen. At a guess he was clean, for the time being at least, and had never been in a youth custody centre in his life.
‘Touched a nerve, did I?’ Charlie chuckled again.
‘So,’ “Mr Prosecutor” resumed, ‘my Asian contact rang me. He thought that this . . . He thought that The Accused had something to do with us. Said his mates up Highfield were having the same sort of problems. Well, I wasn’t having that. I got a team together and . . .’
Charlie held up a hand to stem the flow. ‘I get the drift.’ Then, staring at Huyton: ‘Case made and proven. Before I pass sentence, are you going to tell me why?’
Huyton stared back at him and said nothing.
‘Why Keighley, of all places?’ Charlie’s eyes were deader than ever. When Huyton shrugged he went on, ‘What’s a big-city boy like you doing out here in the sticks? Are you going to tell me? Or do I have to nail you down with your own hammer?’
‘I’m here on business,’ Huyton said flatly. ‘Jimmy Blue Eyes sent me.’
‘Who the fuck is Jimmy Blue Eyes? Some Scouse scally?’
‘He’s from Manchester.’ Huyton stared at his feet as he spoke. ‘And he’s no scally.’
‘Let me get this straight. Jimmy Blue Eyes sent you here to turnover a few street dealers.’
‘No. He sent me with a message for Paddy O’Brien. And I haven’t turned over anybody. Your lads caught the wrong guy.’
‘As if,’ Charlie snorted. ‘Let’s see this message.’
‘It’s in here.’ Huyton tapped his forehead. ‘Men like Jimmy don’t write things down.’
Charlie was doing a bad job of pretending not being interested. ‘Okay everyone,’ he said, ‘court’s in recess. Let’s have you all out of here. Except you, Clint.’
Most of the occupants vacated the portacabin. In less than a minute there were only three people left: Huyton, Charlie and Clint (aka Zitface). Zitface was still brandishing his HP.
‘You do know who Paddy is,’ Charlie began.
‘I do,’ said Huyton. ‘And I presume he’s a . . . business rival of yours.’
‘We co-exist. And we have . . . arrangements. I sincerely hope your friend from Manchester isn’t rocking our boat.’
Huyton shrugged again. Said nothing.
Charlie went behind his desk for the first time and dialled out on his landline. ‘Paddy? It’s Chaz. I’ve got a guy here says he needs to see you. He’s got a message from Jimmy Blue Eyes. Can you vouch for him?’
‘Tell him I was with Jimmy at The Hacienda,’ Huyton said quickly. ‘I was the one who got us the girls.’
It was hard to read Charlie’s expression but, from his half of the phone conversation, it was clear Paddy was ready to hear whatever he had to say. It was also clear that Charlie wasn’t done with him yet.
‘Thing is,’ he said into the receiver, ‘the cunt’s been making waves. He’s upset our friends down Lawkholme, up Highfield and possibly elsewhere. And he’s arrogant with it. It’s hard for me to let him walk, yeah?’
He listened then laughed. ‘Sale or return,’ he said, ‘I like it. He’ll be with you shortly.’
Hanging up he addressed Zitface. ‘Deliver him and wait. If he really is the dog’s bollocks, Paddy will give you enough for us all to have a decent drink. If he isn’t, you can bring him back here. And never mind the genny, we’ll use soldering irons.’
*****
Pat sat at his Formica-topped table and wondered why they’d kept their affair so secret. It wasn’t because of Dee’s mum; that was for sure. Dianne Dwyer would be delighted to know. In fact she would be planning the wedding within seconds of finding out.
The answer was an ugly one. It was Sean; Sean with his jealousies and insecurities.
DeeDee was more at home in Pat’s kitchen than he was. ‘Here we go,’ she said, ‘Gold Blend and ginger biccies.’
He smiled his thanks as she took a seat opposite him. ‘Results soon,’ he said.
DeeDee struck a devil-may-care pose. ‘Ask me if I’m worried.’
‘Are you worried?’
‘Yes.’ She abruptly dropped her pose. ‘Of course I am. I know I did well, but finals are very final, aren’t they? There’s so much at stake. It’s literally life-changing.’
Pat hummed at that. Dee already had job offers; lots of them, getting better and better in line with grades achieved . . . and getting farther and farther away from home in line with her success. The way he saw it, the more she excelled, the less time he’d get to spend with her.
‘I visited Sean yesterday,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Mum took me. He hasn’t half got a nice flat. He had a fancy new XR3i parked outside. And talk about conspicuous jewellery! He had so much gold on his wrists he was dragging his knuckles as he walked. The only thing I didn’t see was any sign of him working for a living. Why would that be, Pat?’
Bugger! Pat sighed. There were only two things he hated talking to Dee about: her career and her brother.
‘Don’t sigh at me, Patrick McGuire. Tell me the truth.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mum says he buys and sells things. I think he’s dealing drugs. So which is it?’
Another, even deeper sigh escaped Pat. ‘Sean doesn’t do drugs,’ he said quickly, before he could be reprimanded. ‘He’s never done anything heavier than grass. Your mum’s right; he makes his money by buying and selling.’
‘You mean like he did at school? The way he got himself excluded?’
‘He didn’t get excluded. He just got told not to bother applying for a place in the sixth form.’
‘Come off it, Pat. He was excluded because he’d been fencing stolen goods.’
‘No he hadn’t. Not exactly.’
‘Oh, you, you’re so annoying! You’ve been sticking up for him all your life. God knows why you do it, because he doesn’t deserve any help. Come on, tell the truth for once.’
‘I am telling the truth,’ he said. Just not all of it, he added silently.
Dee shook her pretty head and scrunched up her forehead. When she did that she looked as cute and desirable as a Labrador puppy. ‘Mum will die if Sean gets arrested for dealing. Please tell me he isn’t.’
‘He isn’t,’ Pat said convincingly.
And that was the truth. Sean wasn’t a dealer . . . he was a wholesaler.
*****
Huyton reckoned it was the same crew in the van as before: two faceless guys up front, Zitface and Little Twat with him in the back. The only difference this time was that he got to sit on a wood bench over the wheel arch.
Oh, and the little bastard was wielding the silver hammer instead of a baseball bat.
Huyton was good at observing things without being observed himself. And he was interested to see that the safety on the HP was on.
Fuck, he thought. Has it been on all the time? And could Little Twat really have hit a home run in this cramped space?
Quickly falling back on another skill, he banished the past from his mind. Earlier he’d been in no state to fight, safety catch on or not. Now, an hour or so later, his arm would work again. Not well, not as good as new, but well enough.
‘This is going to be entertaining.’ Zitface sat on the bench opposite. ‘I mean don’t get me wrong, but it’s ace when Charlie gets the soldering irons out. He uses welders too, but they’re harder to come by. He has to get them in specially.’
Little Twat guffawed and tossed the silver hammer from hand to hand. Both of them, the so-called “guards”, were up their own arses and a mile off the pace. So fuck it.
Acting purely on instinct, Huyton launched himself across the van, aiming for Little Twat and smashing his forehead down onto an unprotected nose. Little Twat grunted and flopped, offering no resistance at all. Snatching hold of his hammer, Huyton turned on Zitface.
Zitface had the reactions of a sloth. He was gaping and hadn’t pulled the trigger . . . as if pulling with the catch on would have helped. Laughing now, Huyton whacked the hammer against his exposed chin. Zitface went down as if poleaxed. Ever cautious, Huyton revisited Little Twat. He was dead to the world but a solid hammer blow to his temple couldn’t hurt, could it?
Impressed by himself, Huyton drew in a deep breath. What did that take? Ten seconds? Faster than Linford Christie, wasn’t he?
The van was still progressing along, law-abidingly slow. The two guys up front hadn’t heard the fight in the back . . . which was hardly surprising; their acid house music was rattling the panelling. Moving economically, Huyton patted his two victims down, emptying their pockets but leaving their few cards. Forty-five quid and a cut-throat razor was as good as it got.
Okay, time to change the game. He did personally know Paddy O’Brien but had fuck all to tell him, so a meeting in the current climate was not to be recommended. And, if Paddy had bothered to call Jimmy Blue . . .
Well, these days Huyton was almost as unwelcome in Manchester as he was in Liverpool. What a shame! But why else would he have fucked off east of Eden?
Light on his feet for such a big man, Huyton approached the rear doors. Unlocked, they opened at a lift of a lever . . . fortunately. And still no reaction from up front.
Selecting Little Twat first, Huyton lifted, dragged and threw. He laughed as the limp body hit the tarmac and bounced away into the distance. What he was seeing was, he knew, like a mirage: an optical illusion. In reality, aided by momentum, the bastard was bouncing on in the direction of the van. But it still looked and felt like tossing away bad rubbish.
Zitface went the same way and, at last, someone up front noticed. For once the driver must have looked in his wing mirror. With the screech of brakes and a sudden smell of burning tyre, the van slewed to a halt.
Not knowing anything about the guys up front, assuming they were armed and hating himself for being chicken, Huyton leapt out of the van and legged it.
‘Hey!’ someone yelled.
‘Come back,’ someone else re-joined.
As if! Huyton found himself in a mostly industrial area that, oddly, seemed to include a few shops and lots of cheap housing. He took the first right then, seeing a dead-end ahead, the next left.
Fuck! Another dead-end!
Faced with no option, he swivelled and pointed the Hi-Power. One of his pursuers was ten yards away and rapidly closing. Flicking off the safety, he fired.
Hit him bang-on!
The second pursuer arrived as the first fell. Not waiting for introductions, Huyton fired again.
Shit shooting that time, but a hit for all that. The guy went down, holding his leg. Judging by the gallons of blood spurting out of him, he’d be lucky to keep enough in to survive.
Two more sets of pockets to raid. Huyton stashed another fifty quid then cast around. There was an old woman staring at him. She looked like a cartoon character out of Monty Python. One wave of the gun in her direction and she magically vanished.
Four men down, multiple deaths imminent. Assuming there hadn’t been deaths already. Distant sirens heading this way. Huyton made an on-the-spot, management decision. Fuck fucking Keighley, it was too rough; made Toxteth look like Knotty Ash. It was time move on. That other town was a better bet anyway. It was smaller and richer, full of the sort of folk who wouldn’t dare fight back.
Dismantling the Browning as he went, knowing how to best scatter the parts, Huyton set off for Bingley.