Queen of Green (Queen of Green Trilogy Book 1)

by V E Rooney

  “I’m calm, dead calm, like. It’s fucking mayhem all around me but I don’t shit myself or panic or anything. I’m feeling dead strange, detached, like I’m watching everything from above, like it’s all in slow motion. I’m watching everyone around me and I’m not messing, girl, it’s like they’re all fucking possessed by this supernatural force, they’re screaming hatred until their lungs burst, they’re flinging any object they can find at the busies. It was like they’d all got busy rabies, girl.”

  As Police cars and vans sped towards the trouble hot spots, they were pelted with debris gathered from the streets and any other object that came to hand. Terrified Policeman looked out of their windscreens and windows to be met with a blurred collage of faces contorted with rage and hate, anger and adrenaline. Several Police cars were hastily abandoned by their occupants as roads and streets filled with advancing mobs that appeared to come out of nowhere.

  The Police were fighting blind against an unpredictable enemy, one that they’d never been properly trained to counter and one they had never had to face before. An enemy that sprang up out of nowhere and mutated into something else as soon as the Police thought they had gotten a grip on the situation.

  “I start feeling this fucking tingling all over me, the adrenaline’s kicking in, and I can feel this tidal wave of pure fucking anger which I know is gonna fucking overcome everything in its path and it’s gonna leave scars for years to come. But I stay still. My heart’s going boomboomboomboom. Then I close my eyes and I’m just breathing everything in, all the smoke and the petrol and the dirt, and my mind, it just goes completely fucking blank…”

  “Probably getting high off the fumes, mate.”

  “Shut the fuck up. Anyway, it was like time had stopped. It was so fucking weird, girl. It was just this split-second where everything was perfect, I could see everything…and it was fucking perfect. And then it was gone. I’ve never felt anything like it since.”

  As the blanket of night covered the city streets, groups of rioters congregated near Police lines, taunting them with bricks, rocks and other missiles. The now-ubiquitous petrol bombs flew overhead with increasing ferocity but the lines of riot Police held firm.

  Sean, from his vantage point at the top of Parliament Street, could see that the Police were edging their way forwards, and rioters at the front of the mob were beginning to retreat. He knew that the Police would keep advancing, bolstered by the weakening resolve of the rioters. Sean turned his back on the chaos and headed towards the side of the road, where an abandoned car had been unceremoniously dumped. Its windows had already been smashed in and its interior ripped out. But it was still practical for his purposes.

  “So I’m stood at the top of Parli and I’m looking down and I can see it all kicking off in front of me. You’ve got a line of busies halfway up and we’re all up the top throwing all kinds of shit at them. A few lads nearby head over to the other side of the street where there’s this car hire place and a milk depot and some other lads are pushing this fucking milk van forwards, then they start getting all the empty bottles off the van and they start filling them with petrol. Then they start bombing the busies with these Molotovs, right, oh girl, you should’ve seen it, it was fucking full-on fireworks all over the place. So the busies start falling back down Parli with their fucking arses on fire, right, and then some of the lads get these hire cars and they’re trying to roll them forward down the hill towards the busies. And then I spot this car dumped on the pavement.”

  Sean manoeuvred the car into the centre of the street, looking down at the mass of rioters before him. He brought the car to a halt, put the handbrake on and reached inside to start the engine. It roared into life but the sound of the engine was drowned out by the cacophony of screams and sirens, and none of the other rioters were aware of Sean behind them.

  He reached out of the car to pick up a brick that he had placed nearby. He carefully wedged it against the accelerator pedal and instantly the car began to squeal as its wheels spun furiously. He ducked back out of the car and reached into his jacket pocket for a lighter. By this point a few nearby rioters had turned to see where the noise was coming from.

  “I got hold of this car, wired it, got this brick and wedged it on the accelerator, then I told some of the lads to light a few Molotovs and stick them on the seats just before I let it go.”

  Sean then picked up one of the four glass bottles filled with petrol and plugged with strips of rag. Before lighting it, he reared back and mustered up all the force of his voice.

  GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY!

  The nearby rioters stood stunned for a moment, but then realising what Sean had planned, screamed at those in front of them to get out of the road. The mass before him parted, leaving him with a clear run at the Police. Then he released the handbrake.

  The car’s wheels spun with piercing screeches and the car hurtled forward, picking up speed as it went down the hill. One by one, the petrol bombs exploded, turning the car into a fireball aimed straight at the Police. The advancing Police line saw what was happening and dove for cover out of the road. The rioters cheered and screamed in celebration as the car ploughed into the hapless Police behind the forward line who did not have time to move out of the way. Bodies were flung into the air with a sickening thud on hitting the ground, and the car exploded with a deafening boom as the Police retreated out of sight.

  “Well, girl, this car goes bombing down Parli top whack, the bottles are going off and it’s a fucking fireball, and it goes straight into this line of busies and mows the fuckers down. I was proper buzzing, girl, I tell you. So then the other lads start doing the same thing and next thing there’s this whole line of cars on fire going straight into them. They shat themselves, girl. We were using all kinds – cars, vans, taxis, even got hold of a couple of busy cars as well. Next thing I know, I look behind me and some fucker’s got hold of a fucking road digger, he’s cruising it down Parli towards the busies and behind him there’s this line of lads who are chucking shit at them and they’re all taking cover behind the shovel bit. Fucking clever. The lad driving the digger, he swerves it over towards the side of the road and starts ramming all the busy cars. It was fucking mental, girl.”

  Overall, the nine nights of rioting resulted in over 150 buildings being destroyed, 100 cars being burned out and nearly 800 Police officers put in hospital. There was one fatality – a young disabled man who was knocked over and killed by a Police van. Toxteth also marked the first time that the Police in the UK used CS gas on the mainland outside Northern Ireland. Merseyside Police even brought in reinforcements from other forces across the country.

  “It wasn’t until the busies got pushed back down to Catherine Street that they realised they were this close to the city centre and they were shitting themselves, so that’s when they started with the rubber bullets and the gas. Gotta give the rioters their due, they didn’t burn down the fucking Post Office or the dole office, they wouldn’t be able to cash their dole then.”

  In the relentless heat of that summer, over those nine nights in July 1981, Toxteth was a tinderbox set aflame, and the effects would be felt far and wide, even all the way to Westminster. The headlines, the hand-wringing, moral outrage, tabloid-friendly diatribes, soundbite-ready TV reports and the footage of wanton destruction were all pumped into millions of households across the country.

  In the aftermath, the official political version of events of those weeks in June and July 1981 would be blamed on poverty, social decay, unemployment and disenchantment - disenchantment with the government, with the Police, with the bleak hopelessness of the environment.

  But what more potent factor to trigger a backlash than disenchantment with one’s self and one’s own expectations? If you despise your own existence so much, what is to stop you destroying it and everything surrounding it, to obliterate all trace of that existence in the vague hope of creating something new from the ruins? A chance of a different future was better than none at all. The w
ay Reynolds related it to me, as Sean told it, that perfect moment at the top of Parli was the defining catalyst, his big epiphany.

  “Well, of course most of us just wanted to kick the shit out of the busies and we did. But some lads, me included, well, it was the perfect cover to wipe out rivals while it was all kicking off. It was dead easy for enemies to take each other out while all this was going on, you know, while the busies were distracted elsewhere. There are groups that have wanted to settle old scores for ages and the riots were the perfect opportunity for them.”

  Sean’s car fireball tactic would be duplicated by others over the next nine nights of rioting, but it was Sean whose name would become synonymous among the rioters for ‘fucking the busies’. For Sean, it was further evidence of his biggest strength - knowing how to pick and fight his battles. It was a character trait that would define his criminal career over the coming years.

  19. HOSTILE TAKEOVER

  I first heard about Sean’s instrumental role in the Toccy riots not long after I started working for him. I’d been doing errands, collecting money around town, and some of the crew were having a backroom poker game in the Faulkner’s Arms in Toxteth.

  I’ve been zipping around town like a blue-arsed fly and I’m late for the game, which I’m annoyed about. I pride myself on my punctuality, I do. Anyway, Sean, Ste, Paul, Lee, Gary and Baz are all giving me the evils as I walk into the dimly-lit room.

  “What time do you call this?” Ste says, making a big show of looking at his watch. I take my seat at the table.

  “I call it shut the fuck up and deal me in time,” I say, flinging off my jacket and hanging it on the back of my rickety chair. “Not my fault I’m late. That dozy twat Billy didn’t turn up until half-past,” I say, looking at Sean as I pass him my bag of takings, which he duly starts thumbing through.

  “Oh aye? I’ll get onto him tomorrow,” Sean says as he puts the bag on the floor.

  So I get dealt in. I’m alright at poker. I could never be one of these semi-pro people, I’m far too cautious for that. It’s more of a mental exercise. Calculating the odds of getting a certain hand, calculating which cards are likely to have been dealt, knowing when to fold, knowing when to push the other player. I love all that. There are several conversations going on around the table at the same time. Paul is talking about that Dances With Wolves film.

  “Fucking shit, it was. Almost fell asleep. I thought it was gonna be proper cowboy and Indian shit. Nah, it’s just that Kevin lad riding round with a gob on him like he’s got sore bollocks,” he says, faintly disgusted.

  “I know what your Indian name would be,” says Lee, nodding at me. Oh, I can’t wait for this. Go on, Lee. Cut me with your rapier-sharp wit.

  “Flat as a pancake! Haha!” he chortles as he helpfully points at my chest. Some of the others make groans of disapproval.

  “Aw eh, no need for that, lad,” says Ste but he’s trying not to giggle.

  “I know what your Indian name would be,” I say to Lee nonchalantly.

  The others lean forward, wanting a ringside view. “Aye aye, go on, girl,” laughs Paul.

  I sit forward and stare at Lee. “Face like a squashed bollock. Tinier than a chipolata,” I say, waggling my little finger at him.

  “And how the fuck would you know?” Lee says indignantly as the others rip the piss out of him. “Listen, you, smart arse. I’ve never had any complaints about the size of my sausage, alright?”

  “Oh, please,” I say, scowling at him. “My clit’s bigger than your dick. You’ve got no bulge in your pants, mate. You’re like a fucking Ken doll.”

  “Aw eh, girl, come on!” says Sean, in-between giggles while the rest carry on taking the piss.

  So after several rounds of me folding crap hands, the flop is three of diamonds, seven of clubs and ten of hearts. The others fold their hands. It’s just me and Lee. “I’ll raise you a ton,” he says, looking at me through narrowed eyes as he shoves his money onto the table.

  I just raise my eyebrows at him. He knows I play tight-cautious and he’s trying to scare me off. But I’m quietly confident. “I’ll raise you three ton,” I say to mock gasps of awe around the table. Lee matches me, sits back and folds his arms.

  The turn is queen of spades.

  Lee takes his time but eventually puts another three ton on the table.

  “All in,” I say as I push my money forward. There’s a good couple of grand on the table now. There is a chorus of oohs and aaahs from the others. Lee narrows his eyes at me again. He’s hesitating. Bad move, lad. Bad move.

  “Come on, Lee. Where are your bollocks, lad?” says Sean.

  “Hold your nerve, mate,” says Paul, giving him a slap on the back.

  “All in,” says Lee as he pushes his money onto the table with relish.

  The river card is four of clubs.

  Lee’s got an off-suit Ace and King. He sits back, folds his arms and smirks at me.

  “Not bad, Lee. That’s a decent hand. But,” I say as I fling my cards onto the table, “you can’t beat a lovely pair of Queens.”

  The table erupts into laughter and jeers. Lee looks like his colon has just prolapsed. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters.

  “Fucking hell,” says Sean, laughing. “Queen of Green, eh?”

  I give Sean a mock royal wave as I haul my winnings towards me.

  After we’re done with poker, we’re just sitting round, catching up on things to do, people to see and all that. I get chatting to Sean.

  “So you know my story. What’s yours?” I say as some of the others are leaving the room to fetch more drinks from the bar. Paul stays behind.

  “Oh you know, usual teen tearaway stuff. Few baggies on the corner here, few offie robberies there. Twatted a few busies now and then,” Sean says as he necks a gulp of beer.

  “It was fucking awful round Toccy, girl,” Paul says, shaking his head. “You think the busies are bad now? Should’ve seen the way they carried on back then. Talk about taking the law into their own hands.”

  “Remember that time with our Nans outside the Post Office?” says Sean. Paul sneers in disgust.

  “Fucking cunts, they were,” Paul says. For a second I wonder if he means their Nans.

  “So me and my Nan, we’re going to the Post Office because it’s pension day, right? What were we, nine, ten years old, mate?” Sean says, smiling at Paul. “I’m on my Chopper bike. Remember them? Fucking boss, they were. Anyway, I bump into soft lad here with his Nan. And he’s on his racing bike. So we go up to the corner to mess around while our Nans are in the Post Office. Next thing, busy car pulls up. These two cunts get out and start hassling my Nan when she comes out. ‘Alright, Mrs Kerrigan, don’t suppose you’ve seen your Patrick about?’ That’s my uncle, right? So my Nan is saying that she hasn’t seen him. Which was true, my uncle kept doing disappearing acts, right. So she’s saying that she hasn’t seen him. And my Nan? Proper God-fearing woman, she was. She only bothered going outside to go the shops and to church. Anyway, so one of the busies goes, ‘you wouldn’t be running messages for him, would you, love?’ And she’s saying no, she’s just come out to get her pension. Next thing, this fucking busy snatches her handbag off her and starts going through it. And then the bastard just tips her handbag all over the floor. All her make-up, her purse and all that. Tips the whole lot out onto the pavement. She was mortified. She’s crying, telling them to stop, leave her alone and all that. And this fucking bastard starts kicking her stuff all over the floor like it’s rubbish. And then when he’s finished, he just lashes her bag on the ground and goes, ‘sorry about that, love.’”

  “So me and him are on the corner watching all this,” continues Paul. “And so I hear my Nan going, ‘I don’t know why my husband bothered fighting in the war what with you lot behaving like fucking Nazis.’ So then the other busy jabs his finger in her face and goes, ‘fucking shut it, you old coon.’ And then they go to walk off,” Paul adds.

  “So we’re watching all th
is, right?” Sean goes on. “And I’m proper fucking fuming, girl. You don’t treat little old ladies like that. Especially not my Nan. So I pick up this bit of brick that’s lying in the gutter and I fucking lash it through the back window of their car. They turn around, start chasing after us. So we do a dusty on our bikes round the corner, and there’s a bunch of old fellas sat outside someone’s house playing dominos. So we go flying past them, shouting that the po-po are coming. Next thing, all these old fellas stand up and block the pavement so that these busies can’t get past. Then one of the old fellas whistles to someone up the road. Next thing, bunch of lads come flying out the social club with their snooker cues and all that and they block the road. So the busies come bombing round the corner only to be met by a wall of pissed-off lads, and the busies know they’re not getting past if they know what’s good for them so they fuck off.”

  “Oh, they knew they’d get clobbered good style. As revenge for all the times they’d kicked the shit out of us for no fucking reason. Walking while black. That was the only reason they needed to haul you into the back of a black Maria and knock seven bells out of you, girl,” says Paul.

  Later on, the lads are swapping battle tales – who’s twatted who, who’s pissed who off, that kind of thing. I decide to do a little probing about some of the urban myths I’ve heard over the years.

  “So this Metal Mickey fella, the one with the machete who chopped up that fella who’d been done for kerb-crawling,” I say. “Is he real?”

  Everyone around the table bursts into laughter. Knowing glances are exchanged between the lads. Then Sean pipes up.