by V E Rooney
Not that anyone would be able to decipher my accounts books detailing my unofficial transactions with code names. Sean, Paul and Lee have come to the Kirkby farm to pick up a batch of fresh produce for distribution in the south side. I’m asked to explain to Sean my accounting methods, the characters disguising real customers, my way of recording dates and who owes what. Sean is sat on the end of my desk. Paul and Lee are sat on two chairs underneath the office window.
“What’s all this in aid of?” Sean asks as he is flicking through the books, with a puzzled look on his face. Paul and Lee are flicking through the footie pages in the Echo.
“In case I ever get collared by the busies,” I say. “I’ve got a pretty good memory, I know my important phone numbers off by heart, but there’s no way I can remember every single deal. So like any legit business, I note each transaction down in the account books, but I disguise them with false names.” I nod over at Paul and Lee. “For instance, these two? Tweedledum and Tweedledickhead.”
Paul and Lee look up. “Do you want a fucking slap, love?” Lee says, oblivious to the smirk on Sean’s face.
“Even if the busies raided this place and found the books, they’d never be able to trace who I dealt with,” I add. “And there’s nothing on paper, bank statements and what have you, to show me as anything over than someone who deals in reconditioned white goods.”
Sean peers at me over the book. “What do you mean, you can remember all your phone numbers? I can barely remember my own.”
Lee pipes up. “That’s because you keep changing your phone every week, mate.”
“Oh, it’s dead easy,” I say brightly, ignoring Lee’s habit of stating the bleeding obvious. “Instead of trying to remember the number the way people normally do, you turn it into something else. You know, like bingo numbers. Two fat ladies? 88?”
A look of contempt crosses Sean’s face. “Do I look like I play fucking bingo?”
At this, I hear a snort of derision from Lee. I ignore him.
“Same thing. You break the numbers down into units and then give each unit a picture or an image. It’s easier to remember that way.”
“You had best start making some sense otherwise you won’t be able to remember anything at all,” Sean says, looking irritated.
“Well, alright, say that your phone number is 051-545-2700. Which is my number, but anyway. 051, well that’s the name of the club in town, right? The 051 club. Club. That’s the first image. 545? That’s like that Scottish football score, you know? East Fife 4, Forfar 5. 545. Scottish football, that’s the second image.”
Sean is now looking at me like I’m opening up some secret of the universe.
“And 2700? 27 is the age that Jimi Hendrix died and the 00,” I say as I use my forefingers to draw two circles in the air, “is the pair of tits he was snorting coke off just before he snuffed it. So if I’m out and about and I need to recall your phone number, it’ll appear in my head as club-Scottish footie-Jimi Hendrix-tits. The club in Scottish football whose biggest fan was Jimi Hendrix who died from cokey tits. You can do it with any number, phone numbers, bank account numbers…you just have to assign a chain of memorable images to it. It’s dead easy once you get the hang of it,” I say in what I think is a reassuring manner.
Sean returns his gaze to the books. “I’ll have to try that,” he murmurs to himself.
“What, cokey tits?” I say.
“Oh aye? You offering?” Sean says, looking at me in mock surprise.
“Behave,” I say, scowling back at him.
This time, Lee chuckles. “Done that loads of times, haven’t we?” he says, nudging Paul.
“What, snorted coke off each other’s tits?” I say. Paul scowls at me over the Echo while Lee looks at me in horror.
“No!” protests Lee. “I mean with…”
“She’s winding you up, you stupid twat,” Paul snaps, shaking his head and returning to the Echo.
As payment for my errands, Sean’s boys reward me with envelopes stuffed with £20 notes. I usually get a couple hundred for my errands, sometimes more when a batch of produce has been sold. It feels very strange being given my wages when I was the one doling out the money not so long ago. I could clear several hundred quid a week at full tilt – now I’m waiting for my pay packet like everyone else. I’ve got to admit, it fucking burns me, having to hold my hand out like a fucking skivvy.
One day I’m at the Kirkby farm when the pager goes off. Another new number. I duly ignore the phone in the office in favour of trudging around the industrial estate to a callbox. As I wait for the number to connect, I cast my gaze on a procession of haulage trucks churning up a cloud of grit and dust as they turn into the shipping container yards nearby.
“Hello?” It’s Sean.
“Hiya, it’s the farm girl,” I say nonchalantly.
“Come to the dock quick as you can.” He hangs up. He means his pad at the Albert Dock. John and Brian are left in charge of the farm. Ste brings the motor round and soon we are hurtling down the East Lancs road. Ste is a bit fidgety and, dare I say it, excited.
“What do you think he wants?” he asks as he cruises down the motorway, fingers tapping against the steering wheel as we sway to a bit of Little Fluffy Clouds by The Orb.
“Dunno, mate. Never been to his flat before.”
“Maybe he’s throwing you a surprise party. Employee of the month and all that, you know, like in McDonald’s.”
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
“I love the money. I mean, yeah, don’t get me wrong, Al, I was a bit like what-the-fuck at first. I liked our little set-up.”
“So did I. But change happens, I suppose,” I sigh as I take in the new-build housing estates springing up in Croxteth as we head towards the city centre. Another suburban overspill to house the dregs of society, just like Kirkby was 30 years ago.
“You can’t deny he’s looking after us, though, can you?” says Ste. “Look at you, you’re his favourite courier. And you still get to do your own stuff. Did he tell you he was gonna put me on the door at his bar off Bold Street? And he’s got a bar on Seel Street, and…”
Ste is pumped up at the thought of becoming a fully-fledged hired muscleman for Sean’s nightlife empire, and I know that as soon as he starts properly, he won’t be around as much. He’s already undergoing training at Sean’s security company and his boxing skills are bound to come in useful for when the real action begins. Ste only brings his fists up when diplomacy and polite requests have fallen on deaf ears. And he knows to back off before he does serious damage to someone. He’s not like other enforcers who mete out the most vicious of beatings for their own sadistic pleasure.
But I can’t help worrying.
“Yeah, yeah. Just as long as you don’t get carried away with it all,” I reply. “Can’t have you coming in with your head twatted and your arms broken. You’re not shoving some scally who’s forgotten the £20 he owes us. You’re gonna be fronting up against real hard cases who are off their heads on coke and steroids, who’ll be wanting to show off in front of their mates that they can take down a big lad like you. People who’ll do you serious damage just for the fun of it.”
Ste shakes his head. “Nah, I can handle it. Besides, I never knew you cared.”
“I don’t. I’m just bothered about who’s gonna drive me if you’re nursing broken ribs.”
I don’t tell him the other reason I’m worrying. I worry that the more he gets sucked into the orbit of Sean and his testosterone-soaked associates, the more I risk losing him to that world completely. He’s hanging out with Paul and Lee quite a bit already, checking out various pick-up bars, strip clubs and other recreational pastimes aimed at the male sex. A world I have no interest in joining. I don’t begrudge him any of this. I just don’t want him to start treating me the way other men do, or the way he treats other women. There is respect between us.
People have always alluded to Ste and I being more than just friends, but there
is nothing like that between us. He may come out with the occasional flirty remark but that’s just to challenge me to hit him with a sharp verbal comeback. We love sparring with each other like that. He’s the big brother I never had, and I’m the younger sister he never had. We have the same sense of humour, taste in music and the same way of looking at the world. And I would be devastated if that changed, even as everything around us changes. Not that I’d ever tell him that, of course. I dread to think how big his head would swell.
We pull into the Albert Dock. A few years back this place was an abandoned derelict shithole, the warehouses untouched and left to rot for decades as the shipping trade died down. Nowadays, it’s all fancy shops and flats which cost a fortune, well out of the price range of most people in the city.
Oh, and let’s not forget that the Albert Dock is home to Richard and Judy, mainstays of morning television. As luck would have it, that lunatic weatherman with the wacky jumpers is leaping about outside on that polystyrene map of the UK, which bobs precariously in the water. Ste and I slip by the easily-impressed crowds gathered outside the dockside TV studio and huddle by the entrance to the flats waiting for Sean to buzz us in. There’s a security guard sat behind a desk in the building lobby. He gives us the once-over and silently points out the lifts to the side. We go up to the third floor.
Outside Sean’s door, there are muffled voices. Certainly doesn’t sound like a party is happening. Paul opens the door and lets us in. The place is proper minted, it’s like something out of an advert, all tan leather sofas and black glass and the latest Bang & Olufsen TV and stereo gear. Sean is standing with his back to the room, listening on his mobile, gazing at the murky Mersey beneath the windows.
“OK lad. Sound. Yeah, on its way. See you.” He finishes the call and turns to me. “Need you two to go over to Manchester for me.” He picks up a large A4-sized envelope lying on the coffee table in front of him and chucks it at me. I catch it one-handed. Feels like whatever is inside is bubble-wrapped and taped up tight. For a second I’m tempted to open it but think better of it.
“Manchester? Right now?” I ask but already knowing the answer.
“There’s a multi-story car park on Market Street near the Arndale centre. Park on level three near the top. Someone’s coming to pick that up in two hours,” he says, pointing at the envelope in my hand. “They’ll give you something to bring back. And don’t be opening that either. Bring it back here soon as. Get over there now.”
Before I can ask anything else, he’s back on his phone and looking out the window. End of discussion. On cue, Paul opens the door and nods to the hallway outside. He slams the door behind us, just missing my arse. As we descend in the lift to the building lobby, Ste is pondering the route into Manchester, and I’m wondering what will be waiting for us when we get there. I briefly think about picking up John and Brian for extra security but we don’t have time.
We get in the car and head back on the M62, where Ste floors the pedal. As we pass by the slip road onto the M57, barrelling eastwards towards Manchester, I gulp. I’m nervous but I don’t know why. Sounds like a straightforward drop-off and pick-up of product but there are plenty of people who Sean could’ve tapped for that. Why me? I’ve never even been to Manchester before – why the fuck would I want to? – but Ste knows where he is going, the legacy of him attending many matches at Old Trafford and finding the quickest way out before gangs of Man Utd fans get hold of him and play kick-the-shit-out-of-the-Scouser.
We get into Manchester city centre just after midday. The Arndale shopping centre looms into view. Ste finds the car park on Market Street and carefully nudges the car up the ramps to level three. It’s half-full. “Drive around once and then park up,” I tell Ste. Whoever is waiting for us, I assume, knows which car to look out for. Ste edges the car into a spot on the outer edge of the car park. He turns the engine off and looks at me, puffing his cheeks out and checking the rear view mirror at the same time.
Then we wait. We managed to get here in just over an hour from Sean’s place, which is good considering how choked up the arterial roads into Manchester can get. Sean’s contact has just under an hour to show himself. Even though all the other cars appear empty, I have to stop myself constantly checking the rear view mirror and I focus instead on the open concrete slats in front of us, and the disjointed shards of Manchester urban scenery beyond. Sounds of cars, lorries, traffic and the wind whipping around outside. We wait some more.
When the hour is almost up, I’m scanning the rear view mirror while Ste checks the side mirrors. Suddenly, behind us, a car emerges from the ramp. It loops around slowly to the other side of the level and parks a few rows behind us. The engine goes off and then it’s silent. Looks like two fellas in the front and two in the back.
A couple of minutes go by. I’m looking in the mirror when the car’s headlights flash at us. This is it. Making sure that the envelope is tucked inside my jacket out of view, I open the passenger door and go to step out. Ste puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hang on. Shouldn’t I come with you?”
“Nah, mate. You just wait here, alright?” Closing the door behind me, I walk over to the other car, trying to keep a normal pace, looking at the floor. I stop by the driver’s tinted window and he lets it down slightly. Another bouncer type – shaven head, bulky black leather jacket, couple of scars on his forehead. He gives me the once-over. I go to put my hand inside my jacket for the envelope.
“Not here. Get in,” he barks at me in what I think is an Irish accent, while nodding to the rear of the car.
I pull open the rear door and peer inside. Here are two more gorillas who make no attempt to budge up and make more space as I climb inside, trying my best not to make bodily contact with them. The one next to me has biceps bigger than my head and shoulders so wide that it’s a tight fit. If he’s got those muscles without the help of steroids I’ll be seriously fucking surprised.
As soon as I close the door behind me, the driver has started the engine and is moving off. I can see that Ste is looking at me in his mirrors, a panicked stricken look on his face. But my new compadres and I are already bombing down the ramps and out of the car park before he has a chance to do anything about it.
As nervy as I am, I clock on that this is the drill and say nothing. We drive for five minutes, the only sounds coming from the gorillas in the back seat being the constant chewing of gum and occasional smack of the lips. Then the car turns into the car park of a cheap chain hotel, parking in a space near to the entrance.
“Follow me,” says the driver. We all troop behind him, into the hotel reception and into the lift. Driver presses a button for the second floor and the doors close. This is even more of a tight fit, especially when all eyes are on me. I’m getting tired of this, lads. Yes, I am female. Yes, I have tits and a vagina. Big fucking deal.
Lift doors open, into hallway, then we stop outside one of the rooms. Muscle boy knocks on the door. There are another two men inside the room standing by the bed. We all go inside and I stand in front of the two men. They’re a bit sharper-dressed than the others and they don’t have that same roided-up bulk that the others do. One of the guys nods at me and holds his hand out. I bring out the envelope, hand it to him and stand back. He goes over to the table in the corner of the room and opens the envelope. I can’t see what’s inside but the other thin guy cranes over to have a look.
While this is going on, muscle boy is leaning back against the doorframe, leering at me. I give him a smile. “I can see you likes your spinach,” I say, nodding at his biceps. Blank face. Either not amused or has never seen Popeye. Whatever. Small talk was never my strong point. Just then, the guy who opened the envelope puts it inside his jacket and goes to the wardrobe, opens it and lifts out a sports holdall. He holds it out to me.
“Tell Sean the next lot is on order,” he says. Northern Irish accent. Hmmm. Before I even feel the weight of the holdall, I know it’s containing serious weaponry. As I grip the handles of the bag, I can
hear the sound of metal objects chinking against each other. I don’t know how many guns are in this fucking bag but it’s so heavy they must be made of lead. I gamely manage not to drop the thing on the floor.
“What happens now?” I say, looking at Irishman.
“Now?” he says with a sneer. “You fuck off home. Off you go.”
In the lobby of the hotel, holdall clamped to my chest, I use the payphone to get a message to Ste’s pager. Within five minutes, he’s parked outside the entrance. I deposit the holdall (which I haven’t dared open) in the boot, jump in and we head back the way we came. I exhale slowly as the car turns onto the main road.
“I fucking shat myself when you got in that car and fucked off,” Ste says, eyes wide. “So? What happened?”
“Nothing. I dropped off and picked up.”
“What’s in the bag? What was in the envelope?”
Now, I’m no expert, but I feel confident in thinking that it was a bog-standard trade of either drugs or money in that envelope in return for a shitload of guns in that bag. Sean has plenty of the former and it looks like he wants plenty of the latter. For what though? Bank job? Post Office job? He doesn’t seem like the type to go in for old-school crime – too messy and risky. Maybe he wants some steel for his enforcers. Were those lads IRA? Is that who Sean’s getting his guns from? Because that is a whole other world of trouble that I do not want to get mixed up in. All I know is that the less I know about it, the better. Guns are not my thing and I don’t want to get involved. So I say nothing to Ste in case he wants to get involved.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” I say. “And it’s best if you don’t either.”
An hour later, we’re back at the Albert Dock. I put the holdall on the dining table. Sean watches but doesn’t make a move towards it.
“Any problems?” he says to me.
“No. Sound as a pound. The Irish lad said to tell you the other order’s on its way.”