by Paul Jones
Geoff could see his point. ‘So how did you end up in prison then?’
‘Oh that was nothing to do with the organisation. That was purely my own doing. All that happened because of a completely separate incident. Besides, going to prison actually freed me from the organisation.’
‘So Stacey had no idea about this organisation?’
‘Christ no! I couldn’t risk telling her about it for her own good.’
‘So what did you actually do to be put in prison in the first place?’
Will’s mouth opened to tell him, but the text beep on Geoff’s mobile stopped him. Geoff snarled and took out his phone to see what the message was. It turned out to be Guy, one of their old friends who ran a Judo club in Colwyn Bay. After suggesting his name as a possible candidate for the team Geoff had sent him a message to get in touch ASAP. The text replied… will ring you tonight about 7.30. Ideally, Geoff had wanted to wait until he’d spoken to Will about it first. Yet now with Will threatening to leave town, it looked like that conversation wasn’t going to happen.
‘Who is it?’
Geoff decided to lie so he could keep everything under wraps for know.
‘Oh it’s just Jan wondering where the hell I am, that’s all.’
‘I won’t keep you if you have to go.’
‘That’s OK, she can wait for me for a change,’ Geoff replied and got back to the business of talking about Stacey. ‘Listen, Will, the way I see it is if you’re going to have any chance at all you must tell her everything you’ve just told me. Come clean. Stay and give it one more try.’
Will gave him a drained look.
‘No, honestly. What have you got to lose? It’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it?’
Will didn’t appear so optimistic. ‘To be honest, Geoff, even if I told her about all this, I don’t think she’d believe me now. I know how she thinks, she’d say, well you’ve had three long years to dream up that one.’
‘But what have you got to lose? I mean you’re all packed up ready to shoot off back to Warrington. You’ve already accepted that it’s now over. How much worse can it be?’
Will stood up and rubbed his face in frustration. ‘You don’t understand. Even if I did tell her everything, and she did believe me, she wouldn’t leave it there. She would have to know exactly what jobs I did, how far did I go, and to what kind of people did I do it to. And if I held back she’d accuse me of being dishonest again.’
‘Well, why can’t you tell her?’ Geoff asked.
Will slumped back down in his chair. ‘Geoff I’ve seen some pretty nasty shit in my time. And I’ve done some pretty nasty things in and away from the organisation. Things I’m not particularly proud of. Things I couldn’t even tell you about. I could never tell her everything. In the end it nearly destroyed me. I’ve even had some counselling myself. But things are different now. That’s not me anymore, Geoff. And that’s why I can’t tell Stacey about it, because she’d end up dredging it all back up and judging me in a completely different light. She already thinks I’m a monster and if I had to tell her of some of the jobs I had to do. She wouldn’t want to come anywhere near me.’
Geoff felt inclined to ask out of morbid curiosity, but decided not to. Not now, perhaps not ever, maybe some things were best left unsaid.
*
Driving back home, Geoff breathed in deep through his nostrils, his mind was muddled with everything, especially with what Will had just told him – an operative for some kind of Serious Crime Squad. Christ it made him sound like a secret agent. Geoff’s head tottered at the idea, and he wondered what other dark secrets Will might be harbouring about his past? Plus what was the terrible thing he did to get sent down to prison? And how could it be so bad that it still haunts Stacey to this day?
Geoff needed some fresh air so he pressed down the electric windows. The icy November air breezed in and felt refreshing against his face. He thought about Will again and prayed that there was some way of making him stay just a while longer. Not just for the fact that Will’s knowledge and experience alone would be perfect for the team; but also because he would miss him as a mate.
CHAPTER 7
Inside the chemical storage warehouse down Builder’s Street West, they all met up for their first session. There were seven of them in attendance; Geoff, Phil, Tom and Charlie, plus the new additions to the team; Mike, Guy and Brad. All of them donned casual sport’s wear, T- shirts and hooded tracksuits.
Mike, the bouncer mate of Tom and Charlie, was a shaven-headed Jamaican only five foot eight, but looked like a concrete shed with a head on it.
Guy, an old friend of Geoff and Will, was also somewhat vertically challenged, and stood a mere five foot seven, but unlike Mike he had a 4th dan black belt in judo. To look at Guy one would probably imagine a mild-mannered David Banner type before he turns angry and bulges into the Incredible Hulk.
Except when Guy got angry he didn’t turn green and bulk up to 400 pounds, he just tied someone’s balls to their feet quicker than one could say Brian Jacks.
Guy, with an untidy bowl of mousey-grey hair, stood to attention hands behind his back as if he was in an army inspection, and peered analytically through his fifty pence glasses.
Last but not least, we had Guy’s protégé – Brad. Brad himself was a dead ringer for a young Charles Bronson, he stood a shade under six foot, sinewy muscled, and slightly bandy legged. The credentials he brought to the team were a judo brown belt and five years experience of Ninjitsu, another martial art he had been a student of for five years. He was also very proficient with weaponry.
After the brief introductions were made, Geoff stood before them in the wide open space surrounded by pallets and racks of chemical containers and cleaning agents. To Geoff it felt like the start of one of his usual karate classes.
‘OK, lads, we all know who we are now, so lets get down to why we are all here, shall we?’ He took a breath, and paced about to focus himself. ‘First of all I think you are all aware of what happened to Phil when he was out with friends on a recent night out.’
All heads turned to Phil whose facial bruising had begun to fade since the merciless attack. Phil grinned bashfully.
‘And I know you are also aware of our revenge attack on two of the three thugs who were responsible for the assault. The thugs themselves happened to be members of a Colwyn Bay gang called the Wilkinsons, and because of that, we now seem to have started a bit of a war with them. That’s the first reason we’re all standing here. We need a back-up team.
The other reason concerns the nature of protection. Now I don’t need to remind you about the alarming crime statistics out there. And I don’t need to remind you about the fact that the police have basically lost control of the streets. With this in mind, who can we now rely on to protect us and our loved ones? What assurances do we have of justice being served when someone tries to mug us out on the street, or burgle our houses when we sleep? What is going to happen if one of those bastards rapes our wives or stabs one of our friends?’ Geoff took a moment to calm himself.
The rest of them stood arms folded, and legs akimbo like an army squad being briefed by their commanding officer. Geoff continued.
‘So what do we do about it?’ He gave anyone the chance to reply, but no one answered.
‘Well, we surely can’t fix the whole of broken Britain. We surely can’t win the war on street crime all by ourselves. And we surely can’t be there to protect everyone. But we can be there to protect ourselves, our families, and our friends. Charity indeed begins at home.’
‘So this is definitely not a vigilante group then?’ Tom asked.
Geoff turned to him. ‘No, that’s not what I’m asking for. The problems with vigilante groups are once you start, where do you stop? Let’s say for instance you target a group of youths causing trouble on a street corner and sort them out. Next you start looking for anyone wearing a hoodie, or anyone who even looks a bit dodgy and start harassi
ng them just in case they start any trouble.
‘Finally, you end up wanting to execute some kids just for kicking a football outside your bloody house. No, I certainly don’t want us to end up like that.’
Guy the judo expert raised his finger. ‘What if someone comes to us for our help?’
‘Well, really, we don’t want to start advertising our services? If word gets around who we are and what we’re trying to do, the police are going to start trying to track us. And if our enemies get wind of who we are then we’re in trouble. But let’s just say in exceptional circumstances, for instance someone we know is getting hassled by a group of bullies, or a friend of a friend’s wife is getting knocked about by her husband, then of course who wouldn’t help?’
Phil, raised his hand ‘So how is all this going to work? What’s the plan?’
Geoff scratched his bald head. ‘This is how it’s going to work. Once a fortnight, we all meet here and train together. We must all be ready to respond to any emergency night or day. Obviously, I don’t expect everyone to be able to respond to every call-out every time. But there are seven of us here so I expect at least half of us to make the effort when needed.’ Geoff held up his mobile phone. ‘In an emergency, a text should be sent to every member. HELP. And then the address!’
‘Why can’t we have a bat phone?’ Tom jested and everyone smiled.
Geoff gave things time to settle again. ‘The reward for this honourable commitment will be the protection of the team 24-7 for ourselves, our families, and any of our friends. Any questions?’
Guy raised his finger once more. ‘So I gather this is all definitely hush-hush, but are we expected to keep this from our wives and girlfriends as well?’
Geoff filled his jowls thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I’ve already chewed on this one myself and I think as long as they’re not all blabber-mouths, it’d be best just to tell our spouses and girlfriends. In all honesty, I really don’t want anybody to know about this, but I also don’t want anyone to have to sacrifice their relationships because of it either. Not that any of you would do that for something like this. But I know how paranoid some partners can get, and I think you will all agree it wouldn’t be worth all the added stress and tension trying to hide this from them day and night.’
Mike the muscle-bound doorman raised his hand. ‘So what if someone we know does need help, what do we do?’
‘Discuss it with the team first. Don’t any one of you take it upon yourselves to do anything without back-up. Even if your wife has just been raped, we will sort it as a team.’
Tom and Charlie exchanged questionable glances.
‘So is everyone in agreement with all this then? If anyone here thinks they cannot commit to the team, they are quite welcome to leave right now?’
All eyes shifted back and forth to see if anyone was going to move, but nobody did.
‘Don’t worry, there will be no bad feelings or criticism on those who might want to leave, the rest of us will fully understand.’
Everybody stood their ground. Satisfied, Geoff bent down to pick up a pair of Thai focus pads. He clapped them together with a loud thwack that echoed around the small warehouse. ‘OK, let’s get to work…’
*
It was splashed across the front page of the North Wales Weekly news.
“RESIDENTS OF LLANDUDNO COUNCIL ESTATE TERRORISED BY YOBS.”
The notorious estate itself was situated near the Llandudno General Hospital, and was also known as Beirut to the unfortunate occupants who lived there.
Inside the issue, one resident gave her harrowing diary of her life on the hell estate, but wished to remain anonymous for fear of any reprisals, from the young thugs.
‘Two years I have been living on this cursed estate, and in the last twelve months or so, it has become like Beirut. Kids as young as eight are still out wandering at eleven o’ clock at night. They shout, swear, and throw stones while their parents are either out or at home too drunk to care about what’s going on.
‘But it’s the older ones who are worse, the fifteen-sixteen-year-olds who actually intimidate the elder residents for money, and if they don’t get it, they break windows, or worse. A couple of weeks ago, one elderly woman had to be rushed to hospital with a heart attack because she was so distressed by the harassment. And even as the ambulance arrived, the yobs began pelting it with empty lager bottles. They will stop at nothing!
‘Some of them even throw excrement at neighbours front doors. One of them, apparently their ringleader, gives the order, and they do whatever he says. (the names of these youths have been given to the police). Over the last twelve months dozens of complaints have been made to the police, but nothing has been done. We have written to the council, yet all we get back is a letter saying they are looking into it, and that’s it!
‘Meanwhile, we all have to live in this hell day after day. Some of the residents have been re-housed or have found alternative accommodation themselves. But for the rest of us who can’t afford to move out, we have to wait in line to be transferred, and that could take years. Isn’t there anything that can be done to help us? We can’t go on living like this.’
A text message beeped on someone’s mobile phone, and a meaty hand with scratches across the knuckles, picked it up.
A navy Escort van pulled up at the top of hospital road on the west side of the infamous Beirut estate. The whole town had just been saturated from a light shower which made everything glitter like jewels under the orange sodium streetlights. The time on the van’s dashboard read 8.21pm. Two of the occupants wearing beanie hats, exited the van and spread out. One went back down towards the corner shop, the other walked through the estate itself. The third member remained in the van.
Two teenagers pulled wheelies on their mountain bikes, while another hooded teen stood leaning with his hands in his pockets, down one of the estate’s alleys. Soon the hoodie was joined by two more teenagers, and without any fear of being exposed, they exchanged small packages. Completely unperturbed by this little business transaction, the bikers continued showing off performing their bunny-hops.
All sorted, the youths dispersed in opposite directions. Hoodie continued through the estate hands still in his pockets, but now clutching his prized possession. Behind him, the two bikers picked up the trail of their leader.
A few doors ahead of them, a medium-built man in his fifties opened his door to let in his cat. Hoodie turned his head towards the man about to close his door. ‘Hoi you… wasn’t you was it?’
The man widened his door. ‘Pardon?’
‘Wasn’t you who went blabbing to the papers, was it?’
The man shook his head vigorously. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Better not be, cos if it was, I’ll butcher your cat, and post it back through the letterbox in bits.’ Hoodie glowered at him before swaggering off.
The man said nothing. He just stood there as the bikers following behind gave him a maniacal smile, and mimicked the sound of his cat to torture him.
Hoodie and his two lap dogs on wheels reached the end of the estate about to cross the road on to the rugby field when a navy van skidded up in front of him. Hoodie and his biker companions jumped back irritated at the idea of something getting in the way. But irritation quickly turned into surprise as Hoodie’s arms were seized from behind by two men in beanie hats.
‘Hey what the…?’ he squealed.
A third man whipped out of the van to open up the double doors.
‘Get off me?’ Hoodie struggled as he was frogmarched toward the van.
The two bikers were so stunned by what was happening, they didn’t know what the hell to do. In panic, Hoodie tried to wrench himself free, but a thumping blow to his abdomen soon put pay to that. Swiftly, he was bundled into the back of the waiting van, and finally his two impotent accomplices managed to find a set of balls.
‘Hey, let him go!’ they bleated.
One of the men turned before ju
mping into the van and said. ‘Piss off or we’ll take you two as well.’
The doors were slammed shut and within a second, the van, with the number plate removed, was off down the street. The bikers themselves fumbled with their mobile phones to try and call whoever they thought might be able to help.
Inside the van, an extra large woolly hat was secured over Hoodie’s face, and he was held down to the floor. His bray-like cries of protest were duly ignored.
A couple of streets ahead, a switch of cars was made, and the navy van was cunningly stored away in a nearby garage.
On the North side of the Orme at a place called Pigeon’s Cove, three shadows set about their task down on the steep rocks, over looking the rushing sea. Hoodie’s hands and ankles were tied with rock-climbing rope, and slowly he was being lowered head first, down over the jagged rocks towards the freezing black sea thirty feet below. Being so scared out of his tiny young adolescent mind, he was unable to utter anything more than a pathetic whimpering. And if he tried to grab a hold of anything to stop the decent, his tortures had told him, they would let go of the rope completely.
Lower and lower went Hoodie down over the craggy rocks. The cold, rough limestone grated his head and face, and the sound of the heavy rumbling water drew closer and closer.
‘How does it feel?’ one of the men shouted down.
Hoodie’s life began to pass before him. ‘Please. Please you can have the drugs for nothing. I’ll never deal with them again I promise.’
‘Sod the drugs, mate. You ain’t getting them back anyway.’
Down below, the black rolling sea was now only six feet or so away from his face. It was like being sacrificed to a gigantic slumbering serpent. The smell of algae and seaweed began to burn its way into the young man’s brain.