by Jules Grant
Forgot their manners, says Car, and shrugs. I only asked her to dance.
I look at the three women, none of them an oil painting, laugh. Are you kidding me? Which one?
A small round face with a bleach-blonde DA peeps out from behind Carla, ducks back again.
Who is she? I ask Carla.
Mine, says Glasses, that’s who.
I’m not fucking asking you, I say.
Glasses reaches over to push Carla to one side, grabs the blonde’s arm, twists and pulls, I’m so gonna batter you when I get you home.
I step in between, point at the blonde, Hey, she gets to decide who she dances with, it’s 2007.
Not in Liverpool, says Carla, they’re all behind in the head, comes of shagging their mothers.
Before I know it something hits me smack in the gut and I’m flying backwards, pair of somebody’s arms wrapped tight round my waist. I crash-land backwards on a table, Glasses on top. Women, chairs and bottles falling everywhere. She puts her hands round my throat and I can’t breathe. Then I see the chair coming down from behind, crashes down on her head. She slips off and down to one side in slow motion, out cold.
Carla looks down from above me and grins, pulls me to my feet with one hand. We turn, look back across a sea of arms and legs, kicks and punches flying where the dance-floor used to be. In the corner of my eye I see Lise out of the way against the pillar with the blonde.
Alrighty, nods Carla, let’s do this.
We sprint across the room, together in perfect time, wade on in.
By the time the bouncers split us all up and chuck us all out we’re battered and breathless but laughing. On the next street we sit down on the kerb outside a lap-dancing club to get our breath. I look round. At least everyone’s here and alive.
Marta leans back, rests one elbow on the pavement, wipes blood from her nose with the back of her hand. She touches the bridge with the tips of her fingers, looks broken. Not again, she says, I can’t be doing with all that packing.
Finn stretches her arms out in front of her, cracks her fingers one by one, lump the size of boiled egg coming up over one eye. Well wicked, she says.
Lise brushes a speck of dirt off her skirt, examines her hands. You’re going to have to come out without me if this kind of thing goes on, she says, I’ve broke a nail.
I turn to Carla, Where’s the blonde?
Sent her out the back exit with Lise, she says with a grin. Gave her money for a taxi, told her to get herself home.
Mina’s mouth twists into her cheek.
I don’t know her from Eve, Carla hisses at her, it was only a bloody dance.
Mina gets up from the kerb, goes to lean on the wall, lights a cig. I suck my knuckles, nudge Carla and grin, You satisfied now? This is your fault you pillock.
Yeah but you love me, she says, and crinkles her nose.
It’s wearing off, I say.
I’m starving, goes Lise, gotta be a KFC round here somewhere. She walks up to the corner, disappears, and we’re getting up to follow her when I hear a shout. Lise sprinting back round the corner, high heels in her hand.
I catch hold of her arm as she goes past, What you running for? How many are there?
Hundreds. She twists free, runs on past.
Don’t be mad, I call after her. Lise is always exaggerating.
Uh-oh, says Finn, low.
Scousers pour round the corner towards us, maybe a dozen across, four-deep. I see a blade glint mean in the street-light. The front row see us and slow to a stop, back rows bumping into the front there’s so fucking many of them. I spot Glasses out front, holding what looks like a chair leg.
Mina’s looking the other way down the street. Ahh shit, she goes.
I swing round, another line of Scouse dykes strung out across the street, heading up towards us. Lise is turning one way then the other, nowhere to run. Oh shit oh shit oh shit, she says, why’d you let me wear these bloody shoes?
I back up to the black door of the lap-dancing club, bang on it with the heel of my boot, keep my eyes on the corner.
A small grille opens high up, man’s voice, Yeah?
I keep my voice down, Open the door, mate, will you?
Members only, says the voice.
It’s an emergency, moron. Just open the door.
You got an emergency you need to dial 999 love, says the voice, deadpan. This is a respectable adult establishment.
I’m about to kick the door when Lise pushes past me, speaks to the grille. Can you let us in mate? Only I’m five months pregnant and I don’t feel very well.
I look at her. She’s joking, right?
Oh and really sorry about my friend, she says, pulling a face at me.
Ahh right, says the voice, is this your first? Me and the missus we got three now, all little buggers God love ’em. Might be your blood pressure. How are your ankles?
I roll my eyes at Lise, jerk my thumb over my shoulder to where Glasses and her mates are waiting to skin us alive, Get on with it.
I just need a glass of water and somewhere to sit for a minute, phone a taxi, she says. Three? Really? That’s great.
Just you, love, says the voice, Anyone else needs a membership card.
You’re a total sweetheart, says Lise.
Marta nudges me. Up the road the wall of women starts moving towards us. I reach down, take my blade from my sock.
I hear the bolts draw across the back of the door and it swings open a crack. I grab the doorframe on both sides, swing my legs up, kick as hard as I can with both feet. It crashes back, knocks the poor sod behind it flying.
I push Lise in first. Half behind the door, half across the corridor, the Scouse version of the Incredible Hulk is lying, spark out. I scramble over, hold the door for the others. When everyone’s through I try to shut the door but somehow he’s got wedged. I can’t move him, he’s a dead weight. I hear the roar from the street and I know I won’t be able to hold the door. Across the corridor a set of stairs goes down to a basement, music pumping. Downstairs, I tell the others, then scatter.
Down the stairs, past the ticket office, black-painted walls, silver mirrors, thick carpet. The place is gloomy, people sitting at tables or standing around a central platform, mostly men but not all of them by any means. If that’s equality you’re welcome to it.
Up on the platform half a dozen near-naked women, false tits bouncing, wrapped around poles pulling stunts that’d make your eyes water. Pinstripe punters glassy-eyed and panting. The place could be on fire and they wouldn’t notice.
I throw myself underneath a table, start to crawl across the room from one table to another, heading for the other side of the room. Must be a fire exit, somewhere.
Six tables deep I get to the edge of the platform and take a right to crawl round it. I can hear the ruck back at the door even over the pump of the music, bouncers trying to stem the flow, got as much chance as a kid with a plastic bucket has of holding back the Mersey.
I crawl forward, find Lise crouched underneath the next table. She nods to the right, We can’t get to it that way, I’ve tried, she says.
I turn to crawl back only to see a pair of Doc Martens right smack in front of me. I can only see up to the knees but I can guess who it is. Lise follows my eyes, so can she.
Shit shit shit Donna. What do we do now?
I peer up round the edge of the table. I’ll have to jump her, I goes, then you run.
I glance back. Lise is unbuttoning her blouse.
What the fuck are you doing?
She slips her skirt down over her knees and her feet. The stage, she says, c’mon, get your gear off. They’ll never look there.
Give her credit it’s a pretty good idea, but there’s no way I’m going up there in my boxers and monkey boots. I’ll take her, you get up there, I say.
Lise is crouching now in her knickers, slips her heels on, a natural.
I crawl forward, undo the Docs in front of me and tie the laces together, leap up right in
front of Glasses, give her a shove. She goes down with the table, takes half a dozen punters and a champagne bucket with her. You beauty.
Lise wriggles past me and up on to the stage.
I dart out round the stage towards the exit, no one minding it, bouncers running towards the place where Glasses went down. I push the door open and feel the fresh air rush in, glance back into the room and it’s mayhem. I see Carla and Finn making their way over, no sign of Marta, Lise dancing her heart out in the nudd on the stage. To be honest she’s not half bad. Get over here, I mouth at her.
She shakes her head, eyes wide, still dancing.
I’m not leaving you, I yell over the din.
Outside and we’re running again, Lise trying to pull her top on, bra and skirt still in her hand, Mina dragging her along by the arm.
At the top of the street we turn left. I’ve lost my bearings, don’t even know which way the van is, call a halt. We’re going round in circles.
Christ I’m freezing, says Lise, hopping on one leg to get her foot in the skirt.
From the corner behind us I hear the sound of shouting and footsteps. Lots of footsteps.
I’m done running, goes Marta, these numpties are starting to piss me off. Let’s just give them a pasting.
A solid line of women appear round the corner, Glasses up front. Twenty of them at least, and six of us.
Lise is starting to shake. Get behind us, I tell her, and when we reach them you run.
On my count, I goes, then charge them. Fan out round the edges at the last minute, come back in from behind.
A shout goes up behind us. I swing round, a dozen more women heading up towards us and we’re back where we started – Plan B, then. I take a deep breath. Back to back, and no one bottle it or we’re dead. We form a circle, link arms.
Another shout, Hold up.
At the front is the blonde from the bar, beside her a handsome dyke with a trilby, long dark-red hair.
The blonde jogs up to Carla, My cousin, she goes, jerking a thumb at the one in the trilby, we can help.
Carla looks at me, like, Well? My first thought is why should I trust them? My second is what other choice do we have?
Mina steps in between Carla and the blonde, curls her lip. We don’t need you, she says.
I glance up the street at the poison dwarf and her hodcarriers. Shut up Mina, don’t be an idiot.
Before I can say anything else the Trilby walks past me, straight towards Glasses. I’m braced for the kick-off, but they reach each other and stop, face to face. I can’t hear what they’re saying. OK girls be ready, I say.
Glasses is turning away, shrugs, says something to the rest I can’t hear. Then they all turn and walk slowly away. I watch them disappear round the corner, can’t quite believe it. Maybe it’s just some clever trick to catch us off-guard. Sonn nudges me.
Stay ready, I say.
The dyke in the trilby walks back towards Carla, holds her hand out, Mel, she says. She nods towards the blonde. Our Whitney says you come to her rescue?
Carla looks at the hand like she’s wondering whether to shake it or spit in it and I realise this could still go to shit in a nanosecond, you never can tell with Car. I step forward, hold out my hand.
Donna, the Brontes. And you’re welcome, no problem. I nod my head to the corner, How’d you do that?
Mel laughs, tips her hat. Her eyes are bluer than blue.
Toxteth Tigers, I own Fiery Jill’s and the club. Her eyes twinkle. Amongst other things, she says.
Truth be told Mel controlled half the women’s scene in Toxteth, clubs, security, bars, the lot. Her and Carla had a thing for a while after that and Mina never quite forgave me. Still, I guess she’s forgiven me now.
Mel takes off her jacket, sits down at the table, Jen stands by the wall. When everyone’s got a seat or a view I tell them about Tony, what he said, and there’s dead quiet. I look round the room. So that’s it, he’s not gonna help us, I say.
Finn looks at me, and I know she’s thinking about Danny. It’s not like she loves him or anything, but everyone knows he’s baby-daddy to her little one, Shiloh. Hey, don’t sweat it, I trust you, I say.
Fuck that, goes Sonn looking daggers at Finn. No offence.
To be honest, Sonn’s had a downer on Finn ever since I can remember, something about her once being straight. Most times if Sonn makes a call I’m the first to stand by her, but I can’t have her diss me, right in front of the crew. We wait around for dykes to be born and not made, that’s slim pickings in anyone’s book. You got no call for that, Sonn girl, I say.
Now Finn’s looking at Sonn like she wants to leap over the table, pull her heart right out of her chest, makes me see red. I bang my fist down hard on the table, and everyone jumps; Rio shoots off the chair and right on to Sonn’s knee. Then I hear myself shouting. That’s right, let’s not wait for those fuckers to do us, let’s just do it all by ourselves, save them the bother, is that it?
And wherever Staffies get that hard-faced rep from I guess no one ever told Rio, because now he’s whimpering. Sonn puts her hands over his ears. Don’t shout, you’ll be scaring him.
I rest my head on the table, feel the wood cool on my forehead, breathe in Mr Sheen. When I look up everyone’s looking back, even Rio, waiting. I shake it off, no point losing it.
Look, I say, we got no room for this shit. If we do this we need to stick together, whatever, and anyone wants out they better say so now, no shame in it, you all know where the door is.
No one speaks, but no one leaves either.
Things go round the table and I let everyone have their say.
No surprises. Sonn’s all for war right now and who gives a fuck who’s on what side, a Cheetah’s a Cheetah when all’s said and done.
We’re going to fight a war we need a proper strat, got to rally some troops or we’ll get pissed on, says Mel.
Lise thinks we should let things settle, get in touch with Mike, let him know what’s going on.
Finally it’s my turn and they look at me.
We’re not deciding anything today, I say, not until I know for definite what’s going on. But we need to be ready.
I tell Mel and Jen to get their women together, the sound ones, see how much firepower we got. Jen says we can use the safe house in Warrington for the hardware, the one they use for a refuge, even their own boys don’t know about it.
The way some people tell it, used to be we could call on Women’s Aid when a woman needed protection, way back when they put women first. Now all that council funding comes at a price, and that’s usually your kids. Before you know it they’ve got the police around asking questions, trying to make her grass to keep the roof over her head, making appointments with social workers, testing her piss. And if you’ve got any kind of paper trail, been in care or in prison, or you’re on the radar, you might as well forget it. No understanding of what goes on for women round here, what the risks are, what she’s got to give up just to leave. So now we do it ourselves.
Warrington’s empty right now, Mel says. Any woman needs protection though and we’ll have to double up.
You can’t have kids around hardware, says Lise.
Anyway you don’t want to go storing all the stuff in one place, I say.
I put Marta in charge of communications, tell her to get an extra scanner so she can hear what the police are up to, keep us all up to date.
I’ve got an Alinco, says Jen, pretty old. Gotta turn it right up to hear the transmissions but it works. Reckon I can get us a couple more handheld, got some army contacts in Crewe.
I’ll do a new network, new codes, says Marta.
I shake my head.
Marta looks back at me, No?
Messages in person. No phones, no internet, no SatNav. No trace, I say.
Yay, back to basics, says Sonn.
Now the rest are staring. You what? says Marta.
I slap the table. Can’t think why I haven’t thought of it before. That’
s what always gets the lads in the end, isn’t it? Think about it. The big trial at Bolton last year? The importation one at Preston last month?
Silence.
All those logs, surveillance, everything, I say. Police didn’t have any independent witnesses, not a shred of old-fashioned forensics. In the end it was all down to GPS and that Mile End pillock with the SatNav.
You mean matching up locations with calls, using SatNav and mobile records to prove someone was somewhere or knew about something? says Mina.
Yeah, never mind the calls and texts, I say, and now Gartside thinks he’s William A. Rawls.
Lise chips in. I heard they spent millions on those 3-D inter-satellite things last year.
Mel leans forward, smiles slow, And that’s what they concentrate on…
I smile back and nod, Gartside thinks he’s got it all sorted. Got a headquarters full of techno geeks now instead of real coppers.
Old-school, says Jen with a nod, I like it.
So how about we step outside all that nerdyboy-video-game bollocks, ditch the phones and the net? Be smart, I say.
I look round at the nods. We’re agreed.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking for a war. No one with any sense goes looking for one of those mothers. The problem with war is keeping control, all your cards turned face-up on the table before you know it, people taking pot-shots at each other when they’ve forgotten what the fuck they’re fighting about in the first place, everything up in the air, no one even knowing where their own shit-pile will land. Then Gartside and his mob stroll right in, straight through the middle, no one paying any mind, and anyone left standing goes down for twenty years. Oh the coppers love a good war. So chances are if you’re anyone you’re gonna end up dead one way or another. Strikes me that kind of chaos is for boys or those who don’t know any better.
But preparing for war, now that’s different. You’ve always got to know how far you can push it if you have to, otherwise you’ve got nothing to take to the table, nothing to make you feel strong. Prepare for war and that’s the best way to make sure you never have to fight one, I reckon.