by Tommy Dakar
‘We'll take it in turns, ok? Danny, you first. Tomorrow.’
‘Friday.’
‘Yeah, and then me, then, Bobby, then Tommy, ok?’
‘No, I can't do Monday, Dad. School. If I miss any more.....’
‘You're right. Ok, so you do Saturday and I'll do Monday. Ok with you Bobby?’
Bobby said nothing, which probably meant yes. It was best not to insist.
‘But if Tommy can't do school days then we can't take it in turns, because if he does Monday then it'll be his turn again on Thursday, so that won't work.’
Danny pointed out.
‘Well more or less in turns. We'll play it by ear. I have to work, too, remember.’
‘And I've got the doctor on Wednesdays,’
added Bobby. The shrink probably, thought Chris.
‘We'll play it by ear. Now then. A few things to bear in mind. Keep your distance. It's better that you lose sight of them than that they catch you following them, ok? And if you tail them in a car, don't do it like they do in the films, right up their arse all day wherever they go. No wonder they always spot them.’
‘Follow that taxi!’
joked Danny. Nobody laughed.
‘And write it down. This is very important. You think you'll remember everything, but later on you'll forget it, it's too much info, too much detail. Make a note, jot it down. I've got some notepads in the house. Remind me to give them out before we go.’
He could have kicked himself. He'd had the pads for over a week, he'd got them ready, pens and all, and then gone and left them in the house. He would carry on as if nothing had happened.
‘I can't drive.’
That was Bobby. Neither could Danny or Tommy. So Chris's advice applied only to himself. Another cock up. He stared at them one by one. Danny looked cool, happy enough in a concentrated way. Bobby looked as dim as ever. Tommy couldn't tear his eyes away from his hero and was still toying with his knife inside his jacket. He could breathe easily, there would be no challenge to his command from this bunch.
Then to his horror Bobby Hornsby pulled out a packet of cigarettes and started to smoke! In his car! Danny threw a look at his little brother Tommy. It hadn't occurred to either of them to warn him. Bobby nonchalantly opened his side window and blew the smoke out.
Chris was in a rage. Nobody, repeat nobody, ever smoked in his car. No food or drinks either. In fact nobody so much as sneezed in his immaculate Ford Focus. Now this, this, moron thought he could just light up, just like that, not a word to anyone, no permission needed, oh no, not for mad Bobby Hornsby, he just does what the fuck he likes, go ahead, just fucking do it!
‘Put it out.’
Bobby took another pull and for a second he looked as if he were going to blow it straight into Chris's face. There was a tense moment as the two of them tested each other. Eventually he blew it out of the window again.
Mr. Morton had to control his rage. He needed Bobby. He also needed to be coherent to Danny and Tommy. By rights and under normal circumstances he should have dragged Bobby out of the car and smashed his head against the concrete floor a number of times until the message was made crystal clear – no smoking in my car, and I am the Boss. Rhythmically, each bang on the floor to emphasise the words – do-you-un-der- stand?
But this evening he had to tread carefully, play his cards right and keep it all together.
‘Danny, Tommy, do we smoke in this car? No, we don't. Put it out. Now.’
Bobby put his hand out of the window, palm down. Without saying a word, without taking his eyes off Chris for one second, he stubbed the cigarette out on the back of his hand, grinding it slowly until it went out. He didn't so much as flinch.
Tommy stared with his mouth open, Danny gulped, and Chris did his best to hold Bobby's gaze. This was not going to be easy.
‘Thank you. Now do you all know PK's address?’
The three boys grinned at each other. They knew well enough by now.
‘45 Denby Street. Bottom flat.’
Tommy was keen to be heard. He knew he was the youngster, the apprentice, and that he would always be last in line, but he wanted to show willing, let them see they could always count on him. He ran his hand over his recently cropped hair in case nobody had noticed. Nobody noticed.
‘That's right. Well there's a bus stop a little further down the street which would be ideal for this sort of thing. Nobody will suspect nothing. You're just waiting for the bus.’
He didn't often use double negatives, but sometimes you need a bit of street cred.
‘The number 32.’
‘Right Tommy. 32. Ok. No newspapers neither.’
They looked puzzled.
‘You know, spies, newspaper, looking over the top or peeping through a hole made in it? Too obvious. No newspapers. Discretion is the key.’
He imagined Bobby pretending to read the Times. He'd stick out like a heterosexual priest in a boys' choir. Everybody knows kids don't read papers, they just slouch.
‘Can we listen to music?’
Asked Tommy. His Dad nodded.
‘How long is it going to take, Dad?’
Danny wanted to know.
‘Well, it depends on PK, but I reckon with any luck we should know enough in a week or so, maybe a fortnight max.’
‘Then what?’
It was imperative that Bobby be kept in the dark about their plans. He was too volatile to be trusted with valuable information. Still he would need to see that this mission was up to his reputation.
‘Trust me, Bobby, we're saving the best for the end. And it'll be a job for someone like you. You're the only one who can do it, believe me.’
Bobby Hornsby smiled. He was a key player, they needed him, valued him, and that was enough, more than he'd ever had. They were alright these Mortons. He nudged Tommy and passed him a cigarette. Luckily for Tommy his dad wasn't watching, so he quickly slipped it into his pocket. It wasn't that Chris Morton was against his kids smoking, he couldn't care less. But in the car! He was a daredevil this Bobby.
‘Right, I want the notebooks handed in everyday, ok, so we can go over his daily routine and find a pattern, and a good place for the …... next stage.’
‘But if we hand in the notes we haven't got the notebook for the next time, have we?’
Very loquacious for Bobby. Danny explained.
‘No, it doesn't matter, 'cos we're taking it in turns, remember? So Dad can give you the notebook back before it's your turn again.’
‘I thought we were playing it by ear.’
‘Only 'cos I've got to go to school.’
Tommy chimed in.
‘So maybe I'll have to do two days in a row. Then what?’
Chris had to add a little order.
‘Don't worry, leave it to me, ok? Don't worry about the fucking books or the turns or who does what when. It'll be alright. Just leave it to me. For now, just hand them in at the end of each stint. If you have to do it again, I'll read it quick and then give it back. Or give you another notebook. It doesn't matter, ok? Just leave it to me.’
It was uncomfortable in the car, especially for Chris and Danny who had to half turn in their sticky seats to be able to speak to Bobby and Tommy in the back. Chris wanted out. He decided to wrap it up for now.
‘So that's that, then. All clear I think. Any questions?’
There's something about that question that throws everybody off. Even if you have a whole host of doubts and queries, you are frozen into silence. No, no questions.
‘Right, then that's that. Danny, you start tomorrow, first thing. Get out to that bus stop and see what you can find out. And don't get spotted.’
‘What about my notebook?’
‘Don't worry Bobby. Tommy, go and get the notebooks, they're on the sideboard. And the pens, too, right next to them, you can't miss them. They're blue.’
He turned to Bobby and winked. Had to keep him sweet.
‘So, you can't drive? Or do you mean you just haven't got
a licence? Danny 'can't drive' either, but he knows how to.’
Bobby Hornsby took a long time to answer the question. An unnervingly long time. He bit the inside of his lip, he stared long and hard at Chris, then at Danny, then back to Chris. What on earth was going on behind those dark eyes? Was he going to suddenly attack them, rip out their tongues and eat their hearts? Or was he about to break down in tears? He shifted, and clenched his fists. Then he turned away, looked out of the window at the spanners lined neatly along the wall and said flatly.
‘Yeah, I know how. Smashed a few up. For fun. Nicked a fucking lorry once.’
He turned back to Chris and Danny and grinned proudly. A lorry! How many people do you know who have stolen a lorry, eh? Father and son Morton, relieved, felt obliged to show their admiration and opened their eyes wide in wonder. A lorry? No! You are amazing, Bobby.
Still, it was good news to Chris, who had been a little worried there for a moment as his plan had required a driver, and he had hoped it could be Bobby. Problem solved. They climbed out of the car and squeezed their way to the side door. It had stopped raining.
Tommy came back and gave out the expensive hi-tech material.
‘Now we'll have to meet up every night from now on, but I don't want the fucking neighbours sniffing around, so you just roll up when you like and we'll be here, ok? Just go straight to the garage. I'll make sure it's open.’
He pulled himself up to his full height.
‘Bobby.’
And he slapped him on the back. Bobby knew his cue. He grunted something or other and strode off without looking back.
Laura sat in the kitchen with her mother and aunt. She was angry. She was as capable as Danny, and much more capable than Tommy, but she had been excluded. Because she was a girl. They said it was because she was under age, but that was nonsense. Technically Tommy was under age too. But of course, he was a boy, wasn't he? It was unfair, and short-sighted. She could be of much more use to them than her brother Tommy, always with his mouth hanging open like a half-wit. To make matters worse she had to pretend nothing was up when in her aunt's presence. So now she sat slumped in her chair with her face hidden in her hair, headphones on, sighing from time to time just in case the others hadn't noticed she was totally pissed off.
She wanted desperately to sneak out to the garage and find out was was cooking, but her mother had warned her to steer well clear of the boys, especially that Bobby Hornsby, and it was best not to cross her. All she could do was cut herself off from all of them and hide in herself. The sulky teenager's last resort - leave me alone.
‘What's the matter with her?’
Inquired Catherine as she threaded little coloured balls onto a length of fishing line to make a necklace. She wanted to follow a sequence, but was not sure she had enough orange beads to complete the creation.
‘Oh, she's alright, growing pains. Best leave her to get on with it.’
Laura had heard and threw her mother a sneer.
The two sisters were about to play the game again. Catherine would ask apparently innocent, ignorant questions, hoping to trick her sister Trudy into making a mistake, a slip of the tongue. Trudy would pretend not to notice the hidden intentions implicit in the questions, and would answer frankly whilst revealing absolutely nothing.
Catherine suspected that something unusual, relevant, maybe even spectacular was being prepared. She suspected it had everything to do with her. She was both curious and flattered. Her sister knew this, but never admitted openly to knowing it. As far as she was concerned her sister Catherine could have no suspicions whatsoever as there was nothing at all to find out. So ask away, dear sister.
‘Where's Chris? With the boys?’
‘In the garage I think. Checking the tyres or something.’
Trudy started clearing the table, to Catherine a sure sign that she was lying. She was like an actor who needed something to do with his hands to look natural. They both sneaked a look at Laura, Trudy to make sure she would not give anything away, Catherine just in case she did. Laura played her part and slouched in silence.
‘Oops, careful with the beads. Did I see Stella's boy with them, you know, young Bobby?’
‘Yes, poor thing, he loves cars apparently and Chris felt a bit sorry for him after..... well, after all he's been through. He thought he might like to help him, you know, and show him a few tricks, a bit of mechanics, keep him off the streets. Seems like a nice enough type.’
What on earth was going on? Bobby Hornsby a nice enough type? Come on, Trudy, that's going a bit too far. We all know all about mad Stella and her mad kid. (Real name Victoria, nickname Stella, after the beer she tried to drown herself in most nights at the Half Crown. Had people seen her at home she'd have been known as Cheap Plonk). Catherine studied her junk jewellery effort and realised she was going to be short after all unless she changed the pattern
‘I thought he was dangerous myself, that's what I heard, well off the rails.’
‘Then a bit of help won't harm him, will it? Chris knows what he's doing.’
‘I hope you're right. For Danny and Tommy's sake more than anything.’
That hurt. Attacking a mother over her children is always a painful blow. Well done, Catherine, but I will not be provoked.
‘Don't you worry about them, they can look after themselves.’
Passing shot. Because you can't, dear sister, remember?
Catherine decided to change tack.
‘Did Chris's friend find what he was looking for?’
Trudy didn't understand the question at first, so she started rummaging in the cupboards for something or other.
‘Come again?’
‘That flat or garage he was after.’
‘Oh, you mean him? No, not yet, I don't think he really knows what he's looking for anyway. Still, we did what we could.’
She felt she needed to elaborate to make it all sound more realistic.
‘He's recently split up apparently, and has a few bob left over and wants to invest, but he hasn't got a lot so it's not easy. And he's so indecisive. God knows how many places we've shown him round over the last few weeks.’
‘So I saw.’
Alright, so you saw the keys being handed over, but you don't know why, eh? Keep your nose out of this, Cathy, it's for your own good.
‘Give me a hand with the supper will you, I need to peel some spuds.’
Once more confirming that lying was for Trudy uncomfortable yet imperative.
Catherine gathered up her coloured balls and wondered if she shouldn't simply confront Trudy. Something like 'I know something's up, so just spit it out', 'I think that, as your sister, I have a right to know'. But that was out of the question. Even if she plucked up the courage to start the conversation, she knew she would crumble and fold at the first set back. Trudy would push up her sleeves, toss the hair off her face, glare at her and demand to know what the hell she was going on about. And Catherine would mutter 'nothing', and slip away to her room. If your bravery is so short lived it is wiser to do nothing at all and leave your fate in the hands of others.
The boys had a great time tailing PK, it was an adventure, it was a feature film. It reminded them of espionage and thrillers, of femmes fatales and private eyes. There was an element of excitement and endeavour that slouching around couldn't match. And although they were alone, they could listen to music, and have hamburgers for lunch, and drink loads of fizzy drinks. And smoke. The only boring bit was waiting for Paul to leave his flat. Then they would get miserable and cold and want to chuck it in and go home. The number 32 would come over and over again, but they would never get on. Elderly ladies with free bus passes and all the time in the world would urge the young lads to climb aboard first, but they would just spit though their teeth or tell them to fuck off. Nosey old cows. Others, who had not yet mastered the intricacies of British social behaviour and found endlessly waiting for a bus to arrive but never actually catching it rather
odd, were swiftly corrected by a short, sharp 'who the fuck are you looking at?' As Chris had pointed out, discretion was the key.
When Paul did eventually emerge from his meditative den, it was as if the director had shouted 'lights, action!' The whole street scene suddenly sprung to life and it was all systems go. It was almost always Paul and his personal assistant, Rani, though sometimes Diamond or a few others would accompany him for a while. Luckily for the boys he nearly always walked. Once Rani had opened the door and ushered Paul into a taxi, and that was the end of that. Another day he had decided to catch the number 32, but in the opposite direction, and Danny had almost lost him. But fortunately for all concerned Paul's creeds led him to believe that walking was the healthiest form of transport, the cheapest, and one that enabled him to maintain constant physical contact with the world at large.
Theoretically both Danny and Tommy hated Paul Kavanagh and all his family, and what they were doing now would hopefully lead to his downfall. But they had no urge to jump on him and drive sharp instruments into his body, it was not a personal loathing. Their grudges were second hand, had been passed down to them from father to son, were once removed. They carried this animosity in their blood, the way a person born in Scotland automatically despises anything English even though they have no real cause to do so. It is expected of you, your forbears would accept nothing less. It would appear that grievances follow the laws of genetics - a mutant gene can affect thousands of people in just a few generations, but it will take thousands of generations to remove that mutation.