The First Two Rules of Burglary

Listen, this is a long story so I won't bother with any shit about
the weather or how nice the trees were looking. I need to tell you
about how I got involved with Frankie Goodwin's tart and a plot to bump
off the man who practically ownes the rights to crime up north, but
before I can tell you about all that I have to explain a bit about
Conroy.
By the way, the name's Dave but friends call me Sonny. You can call me
Sonny. Only idiots call me Dave. But I was about to tell you about
Conroy wasn't I?
Steven Conroy's a greasy oilslick of a man, the kind of lowlife that
can limbo under a slug. He isn't a big man - in fact he looks like
someone who would only eat vegetables if they were on top of a pizza -
but that doesn't make it any safer to turn your back on him. He's
charmless, devious, manipulative, bone-idle, and about as much use to
society as a town crier. Needless to say he isn't on my Friends and
Family list. If you were me you'd stay well away from him. That would
make sense wouldn't it? Yeah well, if everything in our lives made
sense we'd all be floating around in that hermetic bubble of smug
enlightenment with the Jesus team. But the truth is that there are
times when nothing makes less sense to you than your own
judgement.
In terms of criminal intuition I was always one step ahead of Stephen
Conroy. I never failed to spot the flaws in his crazy plans, the
cracks, the canyons and the downright suicidal, but Conroy was better
at talking me into situations than I was at talking myself out of them.
And I wasn't the only gullible slob living in Perfect at that time.
There was Mick Brice, Andy Thompson, Gordon whatsisname with the big
front teeth and missing toes, and some others, but don't ask me for a
team photo because we were never all out of prison at the same
time.
So now you know who we are - just a bunch of hopeless thieves living
in a dried-up ghost town out on the North York moors.
And this is what happened...
***
Mick Brice came over to my house one night and said that Conroy wanted
to see us both.
"Say I'm out," I said. Behind me I could hear Arnie letting loose with
his ooo-zee nine millimetre."I'm watching the flick."
"He's seen you," Mick said. It was obvious that the summonds from
Conroy had put Mick in a mean mood. He looked all knotted and sour like
a man roused from a drunken slumber. "Do you want him coming over here,
with the kids in the house?"
I stepped outside and closed the door behind me."What does he
want?"
Mick just shrugged and walked on. We got to Conroy's house in about
thirty seconds. There's only seventeen houses left in Perfect,
seventeen houses and a blue and white caravan with a copy of Auto
Trader covering the broken window. There's no pub, no shops, no
telephone box, no Burger King; nothing much of anything in fact.
There's no industry here, no enterprise other than petty crime. Anyway,
if you want a more sophisticated description of Perfect you'll have to
go and look for yourself. I'm not Judith fucking Chalmers you
know.
Conroy was waiting for us in the kitchen, the walls of which were
adourned with mirrors depicting bygone bubble gum heroes such as a thin
hillbilly Elvis, Donny Osmond, David Cassidy, Slade, and the Bay City
Rollers, all souvenirs of Conroy's days as a fairground worker. There
was also a black and white framed photograph of an impossibly youthful
Conroy posing with some of his teddy boy cronies. All of them had bad
teeth and meticulous gleaming quiffs. They could have been some
forgotten bop singer's backing group.
Time had withered Conroy but essentially he was still the same
sneering teddy boy as the one in the photograph. He still preserved and
fussed over his quiff as if he considered it an important monument to
the early sixties.
"Dave," he said with a nod. "There's a beer in the fridge if you want
one."
I took a tin of Fosters and joined Mick and Conroy at the table. Mick
looked edgy; his eyes were moving like nervous little fishes. Conroy
talked and we listened, just like last time and the time before that.
His plan had more holes than a gipsy girl's knickers but I said nothing
and Mick said even less. Somehow by the time Conroy'd stopped talking
I'd agreed to rob Frankie Goodwin's house.
***
I know a bit about Frankie Goodwin. I know he runs a firm and they're
no Ant-hill Mob. He kills people who get in his way. The man's a
gangster, what more can I say?
He was meant to be hosting this meeting, Conroy had heard. A group of
Yardie boys from Manchester were coming up to discuss a conflict of
interest on the drugs front. The meeting was at the Steward Park hotel,
which meant that for a couple of hours Frankie Goodwin's big house
would be empty. Conroy said that Frankie kept about twenty grand in
cash behind a fake electrical outlet in the main bedroom. All we had to
do was break in and steal it.
"What do you think?" I asked Mick when we got outside.
Mick shrugged awkwardly."Dunno. Twenty grand's a lot of cash to put
behind a plug point."
"About robbing Frankie Goodwin," I said.
I could see him wrestling with something. In the end he gave up and
looked at me with faintly desperate eyes."Can you get us in
there?"
"In and out, ten minutes tops," I said."If the money's not where
Conroy says it is we'll just have it on our toes. No point hanging
about."
It was a stupid thing to say. And stupidly Mick agreed with every
word.
**
Two nights later we did the job. We went in Mick's Toyota pick-up.
Conroy wasn't even at the window to wave us off. No doubt the bastard
was drinking in some snake-pit with plenty of witnesses for
company.
It was only eight o'clock and far too light for my liking. Trouble was
we didn't know what time Frankie Goodwin was due back. We only knew
that he was meeting the Yardies at eight. Rumours about the climate
were suggesting that the meeting would be brief and to the point, so we
didn't have a great margin to work in. We left the pick-up parked off
the road not far from Frankie's driveway and took the scenic route
through the fields.
We sneaked down to the house and hid behind a clump of sweetly scented
rose bushes until we could be certain there were no goons on patrol. It
occurred to me that there ought to have been. You'd think a man like
Frankie Goodwin would have a regular army of thugs keeping an eye on
the place. It made me wonder about dogs, you know, those big mugs that
eat sofas, and the thought was not a pleasant one.
The main bedroom was situated directly above the extension that housed
the indoor pool. There was a little garden on the roof of the pool
house with a terrace and french windows, and I could imagine old
Frankie taking breakfast there with that tart of his. He'd have
scrambled eggs and kippers and fresh orange juice instead of that
orange squash stuff the wife brings home from Kwik Save. I hated him
then, you know, the way you can only hate rich people.
On my nod we scooted up to the pool house and clambered up the
drainpipe onto the roof. My trusty bag was on my shoulder, and I took
out what I needed. Mick paced around the roof while I went to work on
the lock. It took longer than I anticipated but I managed to get it
open in the end. I'm not going to tell you how I did it. You show me
how to make a killing on the stock market and I'll happily show you how
to do every lock Chubb have ever made.
I was confident that Frankie Goodwin's property would not have an
alarm fitted. Tell you why - If you were the biggest importer of
illegal porn in the north, a major player in the small arms trade, a
racketeer and a respected drugs baron, would you want the plod racing
to your house every time a gust of wind set the alarm ringing? Course
not. On the other hand it could be that Frankie had invested in one of
those systems that ring directly through to a private security firm, in
which case we were only moments from discovery. I was banking on the
man's arrogance, truth be told. No one was stupid enough to rob Frankie
Goodwin's place were they?
Mick turned on the lights. Can you believe that moron? My hair nearly
fell out. There I was, about to switch my little torch on, when all of
a sudden it's like a religious interruption in here. I was speechless.
I watched as he scanned the room with feverish urgency (like that
phrase? Nicked that from a Jeffrey Archer novel. Never leave anything
lying around when I'm about), then suddenly he darted across the room
and dropped to his knees behind the four poster bed.
"I've got it!" he whispered, and I guessed that he was trying to rip
the electrical socket from the wall. His scrawny neck and head bobbed
up like a fishing float."What if I get a shock?" he hissed, and I had
to explain that the socket was a dummy.
It was time to bring a little order to the scene, so I switched off
the lights and switched on my torch. I went over to the bed and knelt
beside Mick, where I tested the socket to see if it was genuine or not.
Want to know how I did it? Alright, just this once - I plugged the
bedside lamp into it.
I tested six more sockets - all I could find - and none of them were
dummies. Conroy had sold us a lemon. I should have known. Twenty grand
wouldn't fit into one of those little safes even if it was in hundred
pound notes; you'd even have to fold a cheque in half. And I should
have known because Conroy had sold me so many lemons over the years I
was beginning to suspect that he had shares in Cif.
Mick's nerves couldn't take any more. He told me he'd had enough, then
he grabbed a portable CD player and legged it. I put my gear away and
followed him. We were about to drop from the roof when a small convoy
of gangster cars rolled up the drive.
**
So there we were, standing on the roof like flag poles, and just a few
feet below us is the cream of the British Mafia. Oh, and the Yardies
were here too. There must have been a worry over hotel security because
it was all back to Frankie's place for a game of pool and a bottle of
Bud.
Mick turned his head and looked me in the eye. A moment later we both
dropped to our stomachs. It must have been funny to look at but from my
position the scene was about as funny as the end of Love Story.
They all milled around the front door for what seemed like an age.
Frankie had nine of his boys with him, including a psycho they call the
Removal Man. There were three Yardie boys there too, a chief and two
indians, and from all the cackling and back-slapping going on I guessed
that the meeting had been more about merging forces than dividing
territory.
Frankie Goodwin's tart got out of the last car. She's Chinese. Frankie
has a taste for exotic tarts. Somebody told me that he used to keep a
veritable harem of them on his boat, which he could simply dip into at
random like selecting from a box of continental chocolates. That was
until he met the Chinese tart and either gave the others up or had them
thrown into the sea. I hear they married last year, some place hot and
foreign, but people still know her as Frankie's tart.
Eventually they all went inside. We jumped from the roof and bolted
like a couple of kids scared away from a haunted house. Neither of us
said a word until we were home, when I asked Mick what we were going to
tell Conroy. Mick didn't have a lot of ideas so I did all the talking.
I spun a yarn about Frankie having installed this sophisticated alarm
system that I couldn't crack. Conroy just smirked.
That should have been it. Mick went home to fiddle with his new CD
player and I went home to watch a rugby game on Sky Sports. It was as I
was sitting there, a can of strong lager to ease my jangled nerves,
that a feeling of dread came over me like a hot flush. I felt like a
rabbit in a goshawk's shadow. I put the can of lager to one side and
stood up, thinking I was going to faint, and patted my back
pockets.
I went through the house like a copper searching for a vital clue. I
looked everywhere, even in places I knew I hadn't been, such as the
kids' bedroom and Jane's knicker drawer, but it wasn't there. I rushed
out to the Tranny and searched the glovebox. I found the MoT
certificate and the insurance papers but that wasn't what I was looking
for. So I went back to the house and searched all over again, then back
to the van and did that all over again. In the end I had to accept it.
I sat down on the front step and rubbed my head. I was almost in tears,
I'm not lying. Well can you blame me? I'd only gone and dropped my
driving licence in Frankie Goodwin's bedroom.
**
First rule of burglary - never carry anything that might identify you.
Forget all that romantic Raffles stuff. In this business you don't want
a trademark. Coppers aren't stupid you know. Use the same MO on more
than a couple of jobs and they've got you sussed, and if they ever put
a name to the technique they'll pull you every single time on that
evidence alone. So yours truly, who modestly bills himself as an above
average burglar, varies his style and never, never carries anything in
his pockets when he's out on a job. If it isn't in the bag it isn't
needed, that's my motto.
But we all make mistakes. Trouble was my little slip was likely to get
me tortured and killed.
How I had managed to lose my driving licence on the most dangerous job
I've ever pulled shouldn't have mattered at that time, but for some
reason it did. At first I was just tormenting myself, you know the way
you do when you mess up big style, but then I realised that If I
accounted for every move I'd made that day I might even discover
exactly where I had lost it.
Okay, so I got pulled over by this patrol car earlier in the day. I
went home and got my stuff together, the insurance documents, MoT
certificate, log book, driving licence and the producer I'd been
issued, then I drove into town and showed them all to the nice man on
the front desk. He gave them back to me and off I went. When I left the
nick all the documents were in my hand, I remember clear as a bell. So
that's that, you're thinking, go take another look in the van. You
know, that's exactly what I did. You should have seen me, you'd have
thought I was looking for a gnat's bollock, but you tend to go a little
mental when you're desperate. All logic leaves you.
It wasn't there, and there was no great mystery. All I had done is
slip the driving licence into my back pocket without thinking about it.
Well, it is pocket-sized after all.
There you go. One mistake, one measly little mistake and I was going
to pay for it for the rest of my life.
Or what remained of it.
What can I tell you about my state of mind at that point? I mean, it
wasn't as if I was just having a bad fucking hair day or something. I
was listening to my life ticking away by the second. I thought about
fronting it out and trusting that I had dropped the driving licence in
the field or something but I'm not that lucky, never have been. On a
long shot I checked down the back of the seat in Mick's pick-up but it
wasn't there, so that left me with only one option.
I had to go back to Frankie's place.
**
It was almost eleven by now. I drove back to Frankie's house in my own
Transit van and stashed it in a safe place, then I sneaked into the
grounds and watched the house from the relative safety of a sweetly
scented bush.
There were lights on downstairs, and a couple of lights on in the
upper rooms, but not in Frankie's bedroom. The cars were still parked
outside, which meant that Frankie and the Yardies were still chewing
the fat. Probably boasting about all the poor slobs they'd tortured
over the years.
I spent a long time just staring at those sinister black cars,
absently totting up what the stereo systems, alloy wheels and nodding
dogs would be worth down the pub. When I couldn't stall myself any
longer I took a deep breath and ran fast and low for the pool
house.
The French windows were closed but the lock was still disengaged. I
couldn't remember if I had closed them behind me when Mick and I were
last here. It didn't seem important at that time - I just wanted to get
in and get out again.
I opened the doors and crept inside. I had my gloves on. I was dressed
in black. It was night time...I fucking love this job. The danger just
makes it all the more thrilling. I'll never give it up no matter what
happens. If I ever win the lottery the first thing I'll buy is a faster
getaway car.
Once inside I dropped to my knees, powered up my trusty little torch
and began to scan the carpet. I did every inch, eyes down and ears up,
but the only thing I found was a paper clip. So I had dropped it
outside after all. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Later, I thought. Come midnight I would be sipping a beer in front of
the late movie, and I could laugh like a madman.
I made sure that all my gear was in the bag and then I made to
leave.
But that's when the bedroom light came on.
***
My heart dropped around my ankles like baggy underwear. I just stood
there, unable to move. Frankie's tart was standing in the doorway
dressed in something black and silky the likes of which I'd only ever
seen in the Kay's catalogue. I didn't understand her smile. I didn't
understand why she hadn't screamed.
"David isn't it?" she said, and sashed cool as you like over to the
drinks cabinet. She moved like a cat, graceful and arrogant."Jack
Daniels?"
I looked longingly at the French windows. I could be down on the
ground and running in three seconds flat, five at the outside. But that
would only prolong the agony. The bitch had my driving licence, which
in real terms meant that she had me by the balls.
"Don't drink?"
"What do you want?" I asked her. There was nothing in my voice. I
wanted to sound tough and menacing but I sounded like a weedy kid in
the face of the school psycho.
"I want a drink," she said. She had an odd way of talking because the
words didn't come naturally. I'm not being funny about that. Hey, all
the Chinese words I know end in fried rice."Why don't you have one
too?"
"I don't want a drink," I said, and that was the biggest lie I've ever
told. "I want my driving licence. Just give it back and I'll leave.
I'll never come back again. I swear, I'll leave and you'll-"
I shut my mouth double quick. I was hearing myself beg and it shamed
me. She gave this smoky little laugh and unscrewed the cap off the
whiskey bottle.
"Say Jack Daniels."
"Jack Daniels," I heard myself echo, and she laughed again. God, only
time a woman laughs at a man like that is when he can't get it up. She
was starting to affect me. I'm not talking about the situation here, I
mean she was doing something strange and powerful to me.
"Straight up?" she asked."You look like a straight up kind of fella to
me."
I like Coke with my JD's, as it happens, but I just nodded and watched
her pour. She came over to me, fearless, her dark eyes fixed on mine,
and handed me the glass. I didn't drink straight away. I kind of
hesitated out of sheer insolence. I learned that at school when some
fat baldy in a tweed jacket stinking of pipe tobacco was staring down
his nose at me, and it's got me in no end of bother with the bobbies
and the screws. Thing is, don't ever let them think they're getting to
you, even if they are. You get a slap round the face but you'll still
have your dignity. And I'll tell you this - when some grinning screw
pulls on a rubber glove and tells you to bend over, a moment of dignity
is worth dying for.
She went back to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a drink. I
sipped mine. She knew I was watching her.
"Do you know what Frankie would do if I told him his house had been
burgled?" She turned her head. A trick of the light made her dark eyes
glitter all silvery."If I told him it was you?"
"I've a pretty good idea."
"I don't think you have," she said. Her voice chilled me."I don't
think you've got a clue how bad it could be."
"So what do you want? You must want something from me otherwise you
would have told him already. It can't be money, so what is it?"
"I want you to kill him," she said. She was staring at me like a dumb
rottweiller, murderous eyes and something even worse behind
them."Frankie's worth more to me dead than alive, so I want you to put
a bullet in his forehead."
"I've heard enough," I said, and dumped my glass on a lampstand.
She was smiling at me the way she had smiled at me when she turned on
the light. The skin on the back of my neck began to crawl. I had to get
out of here right now. I sensed more danger from her than from Frankie
and the Yardies.
"FRANKIE!" she screamed at the top of her voice."FRANKEEE!"
I didn't know which way to turn. I tried to scatter in a dozen
directions but only ended up going round in circles.
"Stand still!" she hissed at me.
Have you ever seen a cat when a dog gets too close, the way its back
arches and its fur comes up? Scary, right? Well, she was exactly like
that. Me, I stood the fuck still.
"What is it?"
A voice from the bottom of the stairs. Male. It stopped my breath as
surely as a pillow clamped over my mouth.
"Frankie, have you seen my white shoes?"
"White shoes?" the voice growled back."What would I want with your
white shoes? Leave me alone when I'm playing cards, woman!"
"Sor-ree," she sang, sneering at me.
I had to sit down. I groped for my drink and collapsed on the bed,
staring wildly up at her, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and
loathing.
She came over to me with the bottle and refilled my glass. I watched
her warily and thought of the way Mick Brice's Doberman watches Mick,
never sure whether to expect a boot or a bone.
"Now you know," she said darkly."Fuck with me and I'll have Frankie
and his men strip your skin and rub you in a barrel of salt."
I gulped down the refill and held out my glass. She filled it up
again. By the time I left I was drunk, but not drunk enough.
***
I met her two days later at the Kissing Bench in Grumble Wood. She was
wearing a headscarf and dark glasses. She sat at the opposite end of
the bench and took a package from her shoulder bag.
"Tonight," she said."He's got another meeting with the Jamaicans. Do
it just the way I told you."
She slipped the package across the bench and left before I'd even
touched it. I picked it up and tucked it inside my jacket. I didn't
need to look. I knew what was inside.
***
It was kill or be killed. Nothing personal, Frankie, but I'm a
survivor. I could have gone to the police but where would that have got
me? I had no proof and the ice queen didn't look like the type who
would burst into tears under Mr Plod's wagging finger. Anyway, Frankie
would have just killed the both of us to save any doubts.
I couldn't let him do that. I like myself too much. The only thing
was, I didn't think the bitch would just let me walk away after I had
done what had to be done. I was certain that she had another trick up
her sleeve, one that would send me off to that big remand centre in the
sky.
So I decided to do the both of them at the same time, save any doubts
and all that.
***
That night I strolled right up to Frankie Goodwin's front door and rang
the bell. Nobody answered. Nobody was meant to answer. Lord knows what
I would have said had the big man opened the door - maybe tried to sell
him double glazing or something. Anyway, when I was satisfied that the
house was empty I went round the back and did the kitchen door.
Frankie likes fish. There was a huge tank in the main sitting room
which must have been twelve feet long. There weren't many fish in it
though, just this miserable looking mug the size of a Yorkshire terrier
and one that was square. I did a double take but yep, it was a fucking
square fish alright.
I poured myself a brandy from the decanter. The glass I drank it from
was probably worth more than my van so God only knows what the decanter
would have set you back. I went on a school trip to Chatsworth House
once and Frankie's place was no beach hut in comparison. I think
palatial is the word. I can't really describe it because I don't know
the proper names for half of the stuff he had, but there were some big
vases and statues and pictures on the wall that didn't come in sets of
three from Poundstretcher. Art, you know, art is what I mean. Whenever
I dream of being rich I always imagine myself owning all the latest
video and hi-fi gear, loads of Cd's and other gadgets. Art's okay to
look at but you can't really do anything with it. Like fish,
really.
I don't know if you've ever held a gun but if you haven't I can tell
you that it's like holding your own erection. It makes you feel strong
and virile. I even had it all worked out in my head. Frankie would walk
through the door and see me sitting in his favourite batwing chair, and
I'd say something tough and funny like glad you join the party, Frankie
old boy, now why don't you sit down...better still why don't you lie
down.
Bam-bam-bam, and I'd fill him so full o' lead his coffin would need a
catalytic converter.
I was trying to dilute the fear by pretending it was all a game. Come
on, I've never seriously hurt anyone before let alone killed a
man.
Headlights swept through the window. I heard car doors slamming; more
than one but I was too hyped up to count them. If I had I would have
been out the back before you could say-
***
"What the fucking hell is this?"
Frankie stood in front of me, staring at me with eyes that contained a
terrifying combination of madness and intelligence.larger than life.
He's got an undeniable presence, Frankie Goodwin. It's like coming face
to face with one of the great screen legends such as John Wayne or
Marlon Brando.
There was quite a little mob with him too. Three of the Yardies had
come back for milk and cookies. One was a short guy in a nice suit,
another was pale with cropped hair, while the third, a lanky rasta with
long dreads, looked every bit as dangerous as a berserk chef. Crowded
behind them were seven or eight of Frankie's boys. They parted as the
impossibly tall figure of the Removal Man stepped serenely up to his
boss's shoulder. His small grey eyes shone with weasly delight. A
humourless skeleton's smile stretched across his gaunt face.
"Shall I remove him, Frankie?" he said.
At that point I had a reality attack.
***
I know what you'd have done. You'd have backed out slowly, never taking
your eyes from them, the gun steady in your hand. Nobody make a false
move or the big guy gets it. Yeah, well you wasn't there, see, and you
never know for sure how you'll react until the time comes.
I bolted. I just leapt up from the chair and bolted. I don't know what
happened to the piece but I never even fired off a shot. I managed to
make it outside. That was the heartbreaking thing, seeing all that
lovely space suddenly open up before me. I had about one second to
enjoy it before one of the goons rugby tackled me from behind and
dumped my face on a paving stone.
I remember bodies piling on top me, fists pummelling my kidneys, my
face, my legs and balls, and then I must have passed out. The next
thing I remember was waking up in a windowless room with my hands and
feet tied and a strip of packaging tape fixed across my mouth.
I heard them arguing, Frankie's boys and the Yardies. The atmosphere
felt dangerously combustible. I managed to roll my head to one side and
saw them facing each other across two feet of space. Frankie and the
top Yardie were arguing. The boys on either side of them had their
hands inside their jackets. Man, I had this vision of them all shooting
each other like at the end of Reservoir Dogs.
From the gist of the argument I understood that Frankie suspected me
of being a Yardie hitman. I would have laughed had it not been for the
tape across my mouth. The Yardie boy was trying to cool the big man
without losing face. His point was that he would hardly jeopardise a
deal set to make him more money than he could spend. He needed Frankie.
They were partners, right?
Frankie was weakening. Eventually he turned and looked speculatively
at me."Must admit," he mused,"He doesn't exactly look like one of your
lot."
That got a laugh, which acted as a bit of a tension defuser.
The Removal Man came over and knelt down beside me. He had a scar on
his cheek you could hide things in. He ripped the tape from my mouth
and looked up at Frankie.
"I'm not going to bargain with you." Frankie said."You are in a whole
pile of trouble, so you decide what's best. I just want to know who
sent you."
Did I tell the truth? Like fuck I did. It was about the wisest move
I've ever made, as it happened, although it seemed like nothing short
of suicide at the time. I could have told him that his own dear wife
sent me, but I just didn't think he'd believe me. The bitch was far too
cunning not to cover her tracks. It would come down to my word against
hers, and like I said before, Frankie would just kill the both of us to
save any doubt.
"I don't know his name," I said. My mouth felt funny. I guessed my
lips looked like a big hot dog."Black guy in Oldham, knew me from
Armley, gave me ten grand and a revolver and told me to fix you."
Frankie glowered at the Yardie man. Behind him his boys were already
stripping pistols. One of the Yardies, the guy with the dreads, slipped
an Uzi from under his jacket. We were about as close as you can get to
Armageddon.
"The man's -" I heard the Yardie boss say, but I didn't catch the end.
The Removal Man stamped the tape over my mouth and stood up, drawing a
pistol from a shoulder holster.
Now I wanted to tell the truth. Not being able to plead my innocence
was the worst thing. It's the basic right of every crook.
It was a stand-off that neither side could win. There was more heated
discussion, none of which was getting us anywhere. We were just going
round in circles until Frankie - God bless him - barked out the
solution.
"Right," he said."If he isn't your boy you can get rid of him."
The Yardie man nodded."Junior," he said, and Dreads turned that stubbi
little Uzi on my face.
"Not here!" Frankie hissed."I won't have that kind of shit in my
house. Take him somewhere well away from here. I don't want my boys
involved in this, Sam. The toerag's your problem now, so if you're as
loyal as you say you are, you can deal with him."
***
I was marched outside with my hands still tied behind my back and my
mouth taped shut and dumped into the back of a black Beamer. I felt
just as low as a man can feel. I don't mean scared - of course I was
scared, scared enough to have wet my jeans already - but low as in
beaten. I was a wretched figure curled up in the back of that car,
whimpering and sniffing back snot, dreading the end like I can't begin
to tell you. All that stuff I said before about dignity, well, it
doesn't apply when you're about to be taken somewhere dark and lonely
and shot.
After some time the car stopped and the engine cut. The silence,
ominous as a drumroll, was a pretty bad moment for me. It marked the
end of the road; hope services were behind me and I'd forgotten to fill
up. It comes to something when the only thing you have left to look
forward to is a quick and painless death.
I heard the door open and close again, slowly approaching footsteps,
and then a key turning in the lock of the boot.
The black guy with the dreads looked down at me as if I was shit on
his shoes. I'll never forget his face so long as I live. He reached
down and grabbed me by the collar and all but dragged me out. I fell to
my knees, head down, waiting for the bullet. The ground below me was
moist and springy. The air smelled damp and rich and green. It was very
dark, no shadows anywhere.
"Get up," Dreads said tonelessly."Stand up and be a man about
this."
That did it. I lifted my head and gave him the eye. He didn't like
that. Then I struggled to my feet, leaning in to him as if I wanted to
square up. Not a wise thing to do, I know, but suddenly I didn't give a
toss. I was sick of being treated like an animal.
He manhandled me round the car and pushed me against the passenger
door, face over the roof. We were in a copse on the edge of farmland. I
could see a distant pinprick of orange light and the smudged outline of
a house. It was like seeing a long lost friend too far away to call out
to.
"You're the luckiest little piggy in town," Dreads said. His accent
was more your pint of Boddingtons than the Lilt Man. I twisted around.
He didn't try to stop me."When I set you loose I advise you to go
wee-wee-wee all the way home. Fact, take a long holiday. A couple of
years or so should do it, just until Frankie's luck runs out."
He ripped the tape away from my mouth. It hurt like a bitch but I was
too stunned to even wince."You're a copper," I managed to croak.
"That's for me to know and you to find out," he muttered. Then he took
this gorgeous little pearly flick-knife out of his coat pocket and
sprung the blade."Best forget about me," he said."Now turn
around."
I shuffled my body and offered up my bound hands. And he cut my index
finger off.
I didn't know what he had done at first. I actually heard a slicing
sound, really clean at that, and my whole hand went as cold as a nun's
tit. When the pain set in I yelled for the first time that night, but
it sure as shit made up for my previous silence.
He cut me loose and wrapped my finger in a handkerchief which he
slipped absently into his pocket. I was on the ground by then, nursing
my hand against my chest.
"Something to show Frankie," he explained."He might think I chickened
out otherwise." He looked at me for a long time, and I just know that
the bastard was wondering whether he had done the right thing by not
killing me. I've met some coppers from Hell in my time but this nutter
had his own parking space down there.
He went to the car and got me a rag to wrap around my hand."Tell the
hospital you were working and the saw slipped or something."
"It's past midnight," I said."Who puts shelves up at this time in the
morning?"
"Tell them you're a nightshift worker, or an insomniac with a DIY
habit. Go tomorrow if you have to, just don't tell the truth. You know
how to lie, don't you?"

***
That's about it, except to say that I never did get my driving licence
back. I got my hand fixed the next day and moved out of Perfect that
same afternoon. We went to stay with Jane's sister in Wakefield but I
got a cold sweat on and we left in the middle of the night. I'm not
telling you where I am now. Loose lips sink ships.
One other thing before I go. I phoned Mick Brice a couple of weeks ago
and he told me what happened to Frankie Goodwin's tart. Laugh? I nearly
grew another finger.
But that's for me to know and you to find out.

END