by V E Rooney
Sean nods briefly. “Nice one. Paul?”
Sean moves in front of me, and begins to open the bag. I don’t get to see the contents because Paul hands Ste and I a small envelope each. This is our cue to leave. When we get outside and check the contents of our envelopes, there’s a grand in each.
With each week that passes, I’m being called upon to do more of these impromptu errands, whether it’s dropping off or picking up money or drugs from various locations around the city and occasionally beyond. Ste and I do a few more Manchester runs to meet with the tooled-up Irish lad. I don’t know his name because I know not to ask questions. I just keep my head down and do what needs to be done.
Meanwhile, Ste is moonlighting as a bouncer at Sean’s security firm. He’s on the door at Scallywags, this jazz and blues club on Seel Street. I’m relieved about this because it doesn’t get as raucous as some of the other places around – jazz fans aren’t really renowned for kicking people’s heads in.
The serious bouncers work the big dance clubs scattered around the city centre because they attract the most trouble and the most dealers. And they also attract the attention of rival security firms who aren’t averse to kicking off in order to wrestle control for themselves. Several of Sean’s heavies are on the doors at these places but Ste is too green for that sort of thing just yet.
On the eve of David’s departure for Sheffield University, we all gather at the Boffin for a few celebratory bevvies. I’m genuinely sad to see him go because it feels like our little gang is growing up and entering adulthood. Our insular bubble has burst, as it was always bound to do, I suppose. I look around the table – David talking about his student dorms, John ripping the piss out of David for using big words (any word with more than one syllable is big to John), Brian asking whether the girls in Sheffield are fitter than the girls in Liverpool, Ste banging on about how Sheffield Wednesday are better than Sheffield United. We’re all on the verge of a new chapter in our lives. My pangs of wistfulness make me uncomfortable.
David is onto his third pint in less than an hour, making the most of the free drinks we feel obliged to give him. His liver is getting hammered tonight, that’s for sure. He drains the dregs of his pint in one gulp, sets the glass down on the table and belches.
“I’m not being cocky, right, but can you imagine how popular I’m gonna be at uni? As soon as the rest find out I’ve got quality ganja, they’re gonna be all over me like flies on shit,” he says.
“Just as long you’re discreet, David, don’t be going around blagging everyone about it,” I caution him. It’s undoubtedly a new customer line, and a very profitable one at that. Students will happily hand over the remnants of their grant to get hold of piss-poor weed, and they will pay top whack for my stuff. As soon as Sheffield gets a taste of my stuff, the orders will start rolling in. But we can’t advertise it too much. Students aren’t exactly known for their circumspection and self-control.
“How often are you coming back?” I ask.
“Oh, I’ll be back for half-term and the holidays and that,” David says, wiping the beer dribble off his chin, “but I reckon I’ll need to be coming back here to pick supplies up on the odd weekend. Anyway, you lot are coming to visit, aren’t you?” The rest of us look at each other and frown.
“Oh, that’s nice, thanks very much,” he says indignantly. We crack up. “Course we are, you daft sod,” says John. He gives David the dregs of his own pint to finish off. “Right, get that down you and let’s jump a taxi into town. Send you off in style.”
“Is right, mate,” says David.
Twenty-five minutes later and we’re queuing outside the 051 Club, just past the Adelphi Hotel. I have two ounces of tightly-bagged and taped-up produce stuffed down the front of my shirt. I wouldn’t normally deliver directly in person, but we’re here to see a valued customer, and one of the perks of being a female drug dealer is that bouncers tend not to search girls. One of the bouncers on the door waves me through with an “in you go, love”, then he steps forward to block the boys’ entrance.
I saunter inside as the boys line up to get patted down. I turn back and wink at them. They have those resigned looks of search-me-if-you-must on their faces. It’s funny watching Ste getting patted down by the bouncers as he’s twice the size of them. They actually look nervous.
I like the 051, it’s probably my favourite place to go for a night out. It’s a massive single-room high-ceiling club. There are small staircases around the edge of the dancefloor leading up to a low mezzanine level, where a single long bar is located at the back of the room. The high walls are covered in black and white sheets with fluorescent patterns on them for the full-on psychedelic acid house experience.
Sure, it’s not as fancy as most other places but it has no airs or graces about it, with a more chilled-out and less stuffy vibe than some of the super-clubs popping up all over the place. If you’re not bothered about looking your finest or copping off, it’s the place to go when all you want to do is have a blast with your mates and dance your bonce off. There is a rotating set of DJs playing proper dance music, music that you actually want to dance to, whether you’re E’d up or not.
While the boys get the drinks in at the bar, I make my way over to the DJ booth in the far corner of the dancefloor where our VIP customer, Ian (AKA Mr Magoo for accounting purposes), is spinning some tunes tonight. I like Ian a lot, he’s always happy and smiling and buzzing with positivity because he’s doing what he’s always wanted to do, which is discover new music and bring it to the masses. He’s not like some of the arsehole DJs who do it only for the money and the women. He does it purely for the love of music, and that’s what makes him the best DJ in the city, even though he’s only a year older than I am. Ian has also thrown a lot of custom our way through his DJ and music connections, so we look after him.
He spots me coming through the crowd, gives me a massive smile and a wave and hands over the decks to one of his mates. Then Ian and I go behind the booth, round a giant curtain which shields a makeshift den from the rest of the club. There’s a thick layer of smoke hanging in the air. One of Ian’s mates, Wayne, is sprawled on some cushions on the floor and gives me a nod. Ian brings out a wad of notes while I fiddle underneath my shirt to bring out the weed bundles and hand them to him.
“Nice one, girl,” he says as he puts them into one of his record boxes.
Wayne perks up. “Aw, love, you’re a lifesaver!” he says.
Ian cocks his thumb at me while looking at Wayne and then to me. “Best fucking weed in town, I’m telling you. Sends you to the fucking moon and back, doesn’t it?” Ian says to Wayne.
I like these small compliments. “What the customer wants, the customer gets,” I say, smiling.
Ian turns to Wayne. “Skin up, lad, I’m gasping.” Wayne duly gets the ciggie papers out and fiddles about in the record box. While he’s doing that, Ian turns back to me.
“Eh, I heard you’re getting pally with Sean Kerrigan, is that right?”
“I see John’s been gossiping,” I sigh. I’ll have to have a word with him. Loose lips sink ships and all that.
“Like I’m gonna blow you up to anyone. Fucking hell, girl,” says Ian with a nervous chuckle.
“You know Sean?”
“Know him? Jesus, everyone in Toxteth knows who he is. You don’t wanna be messing with him, he’s fucking serious, I’m telling you.”
“I’m not messing with him and I know how serious he is, so don’t be worrying.”
“Fuck, girl. I don’t just mean he’s serious, I mean he’s fucking lethal,” Ian says, all wide eyes and raised eyebrows to reinforce his statement. “Have you heard about what he did to Philly Young?”
Ah, Philly Young. Another poor bastard who entered into local folklore. Small-time dealer and cokehead. I didn’t know him personally but through the proverbial friends of friends, I was told that Philly couldn’t resist the temptation to stamp more than he needed to on a few kilos of Charlie and ski
m the profits for himself. This carried on for a couple of months until his greed caught up with him one night in the snooker club down the back of Wood Street in the city centre. Philly had been snorting all night and was giving it the Big-I-Am in front of his mates when four heavies came in and started kicking the bells of Shannon out of him.
They then dragged him outside where he was bundled into the boot of a car, and that’s the last anyone saw of him until he turned up a couple of days later floating down the Mersey, just past Runcorn bridge. Given that no one with any sense would testify as to Philly’s last known sighting, given that the CCTV tape from the snooker club mysteriously vanished, and with the results of the autopsy showing that Philly had enough marching powder in him to walk to John O’Groats and back, the coroner put it down to misadventure. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he was so high he decided to see whether he could fly off the side of the bridge. Well, he did, with the aid of who I now know to be Sean’s crew.
“Fucking served him right and all,” says Wayne who is putting the finishing touches to one of the fattest spliffs I’ve ever seen. “Twat ripped me off once, gave me a load of fucking baby powder. Cheeky cunt.”
Ian leans into me. “I know you know what’s what, Ali, but just be careful with him, alright? Besides, if he bumps you off, who else am I gonna buy from?”
“I’m touched by your concern, mate,” I say wearily. “Right, I’ve got to go keep an eye on that lot out front. Later, lad.”
Ian and Wayne wave me off and I head over to the bar and retrieve my orange juice as the boys go over to catch up with Ian. Later on, in the middle of the dancefloor, I can see David, John, Ste and Brian huddled together, craning their necks round at a group of girls nearby. It proves to be a long night. And a fortuitous one for the boys, because they all cop off and head to John’s place for you know what. I leave them to it and jump a taxi back to the Kirkby farm.
The next morning, we all meet up at a very hungover David’s house to see him off. He looks like pale dog shit and he can barely string two words together. David’s dad is taking the piss out of him while he loads up his car with David’s belongings. “I hope she was worth it, lad,” he laughs as he loads another suitcase into the boot. “Reminds me of the night before I went off to poly. Me and my mates stayed out all night getting hammered, found myself in some knocking shop down the dock road. No idea how I got there.”
“Shut up, Ken,” hisses David’s mum, looking severely embarrassed. The boys are trying not to laugh. I silently commiserate with his mum. Her twat of a husband thinks it makes him look cool in front of the youngsters to brag about banging a prozzie.
With the last of David’s stuff in the car, it’s time to say our goodbyes. I’m getting those pangs in my stomach again, like you get at the sudden return of a long-forgotten wistful memory. Only this time, in reverse. This is the moment when the wistful memory happens. This is the moment when our little gang physically changes and it won’t be the same without him. All birds have to fly the nest eventually.
“You’ve got my address, right?” David says looking at all of us, as his mum shuts their front door, ready to commence their journey over the Pennines and into Yorkshire. “And the number for my dorms?”
“No worries, mate, we’ll be over there causing mayhem before long,” John says as he slaps David on the back. “Too right,” says Brian. David hugs each of us, getting head ruffles and pats on the back from the boys. David turns to me. “Stay out of trouble,” he says as he hugs me. “You too,” I say with a wink, nodding at the massive love-bite on his neck.
With his parents ensconced in the front of the car, David gets in the back to a chorus of see you, mate, get stuck in there, see you soon, ta-ra, all the best.
Then the car jerks into life and moves off. He waves at us from the back seat while we give him waves and wanker signs in equal measure. With a final thumbs-up from him, the car disappears out of sight. As one, we all let out a sigh of resignation.
John claps his hands together. “Right then. Hair of the dog? I’m parched.” And off we trudge to the Boffin.
John and Brian are taking care of things at the Kirkby farm most of the time, although I pop in a few times a week to keep an eye on things. I’ve had to put a rocket up their arses on a few occasions when they’ve been keener on smoking the stuff than actually growing it. One morning I go in to find the pair of them fast asleep in the office, telly blaring and the place full of takeaway boxes and empty tins. It’s a shithole.
“You’re not getting paid to get monged. You’re getting paid to grow and shift this stuff,” I say tetchily as I whack John over the head with a rolled-up copy of the Echo.
“Got to do quality control, haven’t we?” protests John, rubbing his head and yawning.
“Not to the point when you put yourselves into a fucking coma. Look at the fucking state of this place. Have you even bothered cleaning over the past week? If I find rats in here, I swear I’ll have your bollocks off.”
“Alright, alright,” moans Brian. The fucker has got pinkeye in a bad way. “We’ll do it later. Why are you so bothered anyway? Trying to impress the boss?”
That stings me. “Listen here, fuckface. Number one. You clean up now. Not later. NOW. Number two. I’m still your boss.”
“And Sean’s your boss now. Which makes him our boss,” John says, rather too smarmily for my liking.
“Maybe so. But I run things here. I paid for all this shit and I’m paying you to shift it for me. So when I’m here, you do as you’re fucking told, otherwise you don’t get paid at all.”
The pair of them just look at me and then each other.
“I’ll get the bin bags,” Brian says to John. John gets up slowly and brushes past me to go into the farm. All of a sudden I feel an urge to shout that this kind of subordination will NOT be tolerated, but I take a deep breath and sit down at the desk while the boys get on with it. I’m not going to go all Genghis Khan on them but I make a mental note to remind them on a regular basis that they’re only here, and enjoying the fruits of our labour, because of me.
22. COMPANY MEETING
Up to this point I’ve really not had much contact with Sean outside of business-related stuff but that changes when I get a message on the pager. It’s from Paul. I duly trudge outside and head to the phone box.
“Party at the big place tonight, bring the lads down as well. Get there for about 8pm.” Before I even have a chance to say anything, the fucker has hung up on me. This is not an invitation. It’s an order.
The big place is Sean’s cavernous mansion in Woolton. I’ve never been there but I’ve heard enough snatches of crew conversation to know that this is where Sean and his boys like to go for some rest and recreation. So far it’s been strictly off-limits for me, a venue reserved for Sean’s nearest and dearest. Being invited there is a sign that Sean trusts me enough to hang out socially, even if I don’t know what the occasion is. A birthday? A big deal going off smoothly? I guess we’ll find out.
Ste, John, Brian and I are in the car, making our way from the grime and grit of suburban streets into the wide, tree-lined avenues that encircle Woolton. You need serious money to afford a place in this part of town, it’s like Liverpool’s version of Hampstead. Wide suburban semis slowly give way to spacious detached residences that sit in their own acres, behind imposing railings and gated drives, designed to keep the likes of us out.
Ste slows the car to a crawl as we turn into a dimly-lit side street looking for the right house. There is a large brick wall, at least nine feet tall, built around a massive plot of land framed with centuries-old sycamores and birches which shield whatever property is behind them from prying eyes. We inch upwards towards a wooden double gate blocking the drive. There is an intercom panel on the side of the wall and a small security camera fixed overhead. As Ste presses a button on the panel, Brian lets out a small whistle.
“Fuck me. This is mega, isn’t it?”
John is cr
aning his neck around to get a glimpse of the neighbourhood. “There’s supposed to be loads of footballers living round here. Burglars would have a fucking field day.”
“Don’t be getting any ideas, John. I’d bet there are even more hard cases than footballers round here. All that money’s got to go somewhere, hasn’t it?” I say as the gates open backwards. Ste edges the car forward and into a long, winding drive that curves through a clump of trees and bushes. There are small outside lamps lighting up the path ahead of us. As the car curves round the bend, we see Sean’s property for the first time.
“Woah. Fuck. Me.” Brian’s verbalised sentiment is pretty much what we’re all thinking. In front of us is a double-fronted whitewashed Edwardian mansion, with what looks like a double-level extension tacked on in more recent years. It’s like something out of a film. There are already several cars parked up in the gravel driveway stretching in front of the building, and in front of that is a well-manicured garden that must stretch at least 100ft back to the road out front.
There are two crew boys manning the front door but I don’t recognise them. We all step out of the car slowly, taking in the surroundings but trying to act unimpressed and cool at the same time. I turn to the other three as we trudge up the driveway to the house.
“No smart-arsed remarks, alright? Behave yourselves,” I caution quietly.
“No chance, girl, that’s your area,” replies Brian.
We stop in front of the two crew boys. They’re a pair of brick shithouses with biceps straining at the seams of their standard issue black nylon bouncer jackets. I decide to take the nonchalant approach.
“Alright? I’m Ali, here to see Sean?”
One of them steps backwards and opens the front door. The other one nods at us to go in. I can hear the thump of dance music reverberating throughout the entire house, which intertwines with the loud buzz of a hundred conversations happening at once. The front door opens into a gigantic hallway which has a winding staircase at the back, leading up to some sort of open mezzanine gallery. It looks like there are already a good hundred people here at least. And they’re not the scally shell-suited minions like Tony, either. There are lots of designer clothing on display, polished shoes, even a few suits and ties milling around. In fact, we’re probably the scruffiest bastards here tonight.