(18th August 1988)
Thursday in the Aire Valley had long been known as “Pay Day”. Even now, late into the Eighties, when many local employers paid monthly and/or straight into their serfs’ bank accounts, a lot still honoured the original arrangement and paid weekly. In cash. In those little brown envelopes that folded over, so you could count the notes before breaking the seal.
Sean always did cash but had never been paid weekly. His dealings were without fail on the nail, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Serious accidents had been known to happen when credit became involved.
‘Fancy The Queens?’ he said, finishing his latest pint.
‘Why not?’ Pat waved his hand, indicating the less than salubrious setting of The Kings. ‘It’s got to be better than this dump.’
‘Don’t be like that,’ said Sean, beating the same old drum. ‘When I make my first million I’m going to buy this dump. And I’m going to turn it into the best boozer for miles around.’
‘So you keep saying. I only hope you get Stella in, too, and draught Guinness for Padraig. He’s shunned the place since they went bottle-only.’
‘What would your mum say if he was in here every night?’
‘Not a lot.’ Pat laughed. ‘She’d be glad of the peace and quiet.’
The two friends left one pub and strolled down Main Street towards the next. Thursday night had been Lads’ Night Out for years, starting when they were well underage. The theory was, as far as Sean was concerned, that people were out there with money to burn; meaning female people, of course. And not that he was after their money . . .
Comfortable in each other’s presence, they crossed at the pelican and went through a pair of propped-open doors.
‘Get ‘em in,’ said Sean. ‘I’ll have lager this time, to be sociable.’
The gents’ toilets were deserted. Heading straight for the trough, Sean emptied his bladder.
‘Better out than in,’ he said aloud.
Then he turned to find himself face-to-face with a fearsome, dreadlocked warrior. No, on second thoughts make that a fearsome, dreadlocked warrior with a cut-throat razor.
‘Mister Dwyer,’ the warrior said, waving his razor dangerously close to Sean’s nose. ‘Or should I say Mister Big? I understand you’re the moving force in these parts.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Sean managed. He was by no means a wimp but this guy was massive. He usually let the likes of Pat fight his battles, but even Pat might struggle with this cunt.
‘I’m your worst nightmare,’ the warrior replied. ‘I’m Huyton. And I’m here for your business.’
An enormous, muscular grip closed around Sean’s throat, cutting off his objections.
‘It’s quite simple,’ his assailant went on. ‘Hand it over or die. That’s your choice. It makes no odds to me. I win either way.’
Sean sucked in air as the throttlehold relaxed. ‘It’s not so simple,’ he wheezed, his voice croaky and strange. ‘I don’t have anything to just hand over.’
‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
Not necessarily, thought Sean. Suicidal and murderous for sure, but not necessarily stupid.
Still croaky, unsure which particular business was being debated, he said: ‘No, of course I don’t. But I never touch the goods. Understand?’
‘Empty your pockets.’
The razor was against Sean’s cheek now. He emptied his pockets.
‘See,’ he said, ‘nothing, not even a reefer paper.’
‘A ton,’ the robbing giant said, closing and pocketing Sean’s wallet. ‘You’re doing something right, obviously.’
‘That’s all I have in the world,’ said Sean. ‘My kids will have to starve if you take that.’
‘Like fuck. You haven’t any kids. You live alone . . . and I know where. Go home and get your shit together. I’ll be dropping by tomorrow. Be ready to hand over or die. It’s up to you.’
Sean stared at the door as it swung shut on its hydraulic hinge. It was hard to believe all that had just happened without someone calling in for a piss. Or had he lost all sense of time? Was he in some sort of shock?
Or post traumatic amazement?
‘Fucking cunt,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll teach you.’
*****
Pat had been chatting to the barman, a fellow ex-sixth former. He’d made it halfway down his pint before he realized Sean had been gone longer than usual. Assuming he was seeing Jack Wright, he finished his drink before going to investigate.
Sean was not a happy bunny. He was bent over a sink, splashing cold water over his interestingly coloured, purple-to-brick-red face. Well, mostly over the floor, but also over his face.
‘I’ve been mugged,’ he snarled. ‘Where were you when I needed you?’
‘Buying you a lager,’ Pat replied, unfazed. ‘Who was it? What did he get?’
‘Some South Seas warrior. And he was frigging scary. All he was missing was a bone through his nose.’
‘What did he get?’ Pat repeated.
‘My wallet, with the best part of a ton in it. But that isn’t the point. The cunt threatened me. He had a razor. I’m lucky I’ve still got a head on my shoulders.’
Pat resisted the temptation to be witty (With a head like that . . .). ‘What about your Rolex?’
‘It’s at home along with my gold, thank God. My wallet’s all he got.’
‘Let’s go find him, get it back.’
‘How?’
‘We can go round the pubs . . . not drinking, just checking them out. Bingley first. Then Shipley. Then, if we have to, Keighley.’
‘How do you know he drinks?’
‘I don’t. But I haven’t any better ideas.’
‘Okay,’ Sean said after a pause. ‘Let’s start back at The Kings. There’s something I need to borrow off Benny.’
*****
Huyton reckoned he’d been right about Bingley. Within a couple of days and without using any violence at all, he’d found out how things were. It was amazing how easily a grin and a friendly approach could loosen tongues. Then again, a lot of folk seemed to be alarmed by his grin.
Strange, that . . .
Apparently Bingley had been run by the same figurehead for years. Danny Painter, they called him. He had fingers in pies everywhere and, because he’d once done a job for Reggie Kray, he was feared by everyone. Painter played, Huyton was assured, a big part in the local drugs game, although he didn’t insist on exclusive control.
The mention of Reggie Kray had given pause for thought. Was it a coincidence or were these Yorkies stuck in the past? More to the point, what was Reggie up to nowadays? And what about Charlie Richardson, come to that? Was he in or out? And did it matter? Huyton seemed to recall hearing that, to guys like them, being banged up was no more than a minor inconvenience. That business went on as always and long arms could reach out from cells.
Putting Danny Painter on the backburner, he’d focussed on the lesser dealers and kept hearing the same name, again and again. Sean Dwyer wasn’t actually a dealer, but his involvement was interesting, to say the least. By all accounts he didn’t offer protection per se, but he did sell small-to-medium consignments here, there and everywhere. It was a familiar enough scenario. The guy made his ackers elsewhere, bought in bulk, and then moved it on through all the obvious routes.
And he didn’t offer protection. Meaning he didn’t have any to offer.
Soft target or what!
Like the professional he was, Huyton had pre-planned their first encounter. And it couldn’t have gone better. Dwyer was a weak arsehole with no back-up at all. Okay, no significant back-up. His place needed watching a while before tomorrow’s visit, just in case he scraped up a welcoming committee, otherwise he was wide open.
Huyton didn’t really give a fuck about owning a wholesaling business. All he wanted was a nice wedge; enough to tide him over until the heat died down back over the Pennines; back in the land where God really resided. Twenty or thirty grand would do the trick. Not that he’d show his hand just like that. He’d ask for several hundred first, and see what reaction that provoked.
In a celebratory mood he had left The Old Queens Head and found another ale house. Having sampled his first ever pint of Taylor’s Landlord he decided these Yorkies had something about them after all. The ones who’d brewed that had, anyway. Three pints later, more celebratory than ever, he went to the khazi, unintentionally walking in on a deal.
‘Okay, okay,’ he said as the involved parties gaped at him. ‘Do I look like the bizzies?’
‘Fuck sake,’ the seller said. ‘You gave me a heart attack.’
‘What you got?’ Huyton asked, ignoring the buyer altogether. ‘Coke?’
‘Let’s see your brass.’
Huyton pulled out Dwyer’s wallet and peeled off two twenties. ‘I’m in the trade,’ he said, ‘so don’t even dream about ripping me off.’
The seller claimed his stuff was eighty per cent pure and probably wasn’t lying. Locking himself in a trap, Huyton used another of Dwyer’s notes to snort four lines off the top of the cistern. Then, at peace with himself and the rest of the world, he went outside to catch a breath of air.
*****
Starting at the bottom of town, Pat and Sean scouted out The Painters Arms, The Brown Cow and The Old White Horse, asking questions and getting no helpful answers. Pat was about to suggest a quick pint in The Fleece when his mate grabbed his arm.
‘That’s him,’ Sean hissed, pointing up Main Street. ‘That’s Huyton, coming towards us, as bold as you like.’
Ditching the idea of beer, Pat nodded. ‘Leave this to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll subdue him, then you can have a chat.’
‘You know he’s got a razor.’
‘Yeah,’ said Pat. ‘You did mention that.’ Then, as they got closer: ‘Are you sure it’s him? That twat is as high as a kite.’
‘He’s not the sort I could fail to recognize, is he?’
‘I suppose not. Hey . . . You! A word please.’
The warrior-type was weaving as he walked. Although the pavement was wide he was in danger of stepping off the kerb. At Pat’s words he veered inwards, directly at him.
‘Gerrout my fuckin’ way,’ he snarled.
Pat hit the guy with a left-hander that sent him crashing into the doorway of a charity shop. Then he gasped and froze as Sean produced a Rambo-style knife and set into the felled man, going at him as if he was possessed.
‘What the hell . . .’
Kicking himself back into life Pat grabbed Sean and hauled him off. But a lot of damage had been done already. There were wounds everywhere, one of them jetting a steady stream of blood onto the shop window.
‘For fuck’s sake, Sean, I said talk to him.’
‘Lemme go. I’m going to finish him off.’
Pat confiscated the knife, making a mental note to give Benny a slap when he returned it, then stooped beside the victim’s writhing body.
‘Here,’ he said, giving Sean his wallet back.
Sean’s fingers didn’t seem to be working. He couldn’t get the wallet into his pocket. After three attempts Pat took over.
‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing his mate by the arm. ‘We need to make like bananas and split.’