Barely nine o’clock in the morning and they’re making progress.
As they crossed the road some muffled groans came from the car boot. George smiled but otherwise ignored the sounds as he opened the car door and stowed his jacket in the back seat. He then went round and calmly opened the boot.
‘Shut the fuck up, you little thieving cunt, or you’ll never see beyond the boot of this fucking car.’
Leaning in he delivered a flurry of body blows to the kidneys and ribs of the body in the boot, producing yelps and screams that were muffled as George slammed the boot of the car and climbed into the driver seat.
‘Is he nice and comfortable in there?’
‘It’s not the Ritz, and the room service is a little fucking rough but he’ll fucking live.’
In the boot, a bruised, beaten and starving Patrick Wherry felt himself going slowly mad. He was worried about Razor, but knew he was at least alive. He, on the other hand, could wind up dead. A fresh start he’d thought, a new life maybe? It had lasted barely three days and he was now staring down the barrel of his family’s shotgun. He’d fucking hated Liverpool and all that went with it but he’d rather be there and breathing than dead, in the boot of a car. He’d been moments from getting on that fucking boat, moments. He’d had to think fast when they grabbed him, he’d played stupid, not as stupid as Razor but stupid enough he hoped. He shut his eyes and tried to block out the pain of the cramps he was suffering from the cable ties that were bound around his hands and ankles.
1.21 Bona Fide Crazies
Tom was quiet on the journey into college. This had been a mental couple of days. He thought about Razor. Would his legs be alright? The whole thing was beyond crazy and he wanted no further part in it. He’d had a laugh with a couple of lads he’d met in a pub but things had got well out of hand. Those lads were in deep and the maniacs coming after them were not fucking about! Razor could quite easily have been killed and they had been fucking lucky to get away. Jesus fuck, he thought, I just need to get a normal job, a normal life. His head fell backward onto the rest and he stared at the ceiling of the car. He decided to try to count as many of the tiny pinholes in the material that covered the inside of the roof as he possibly could before they arrived. At least Paddy got onto the boat last night. He’d be in Holland very soon and frankly Tom hoped he’d lost his phone number.
The Seat Ibiza pulled into the car park of the Institute. Tom bunged Bad Monkey a couple of quid for petrol and said he was sorry he’d been so quiet but he’d catch him at lunch. He drifted past the vocational workshops, quiet at this time of the morning, but soon to be full of day release plasterers, chippys, bricklayers and sparks. Tom had decided to some academic subjects, even though one of the vocational ones would have him earning sooner.
He drifted into the main social and canteen area. It was rammed full of lovely girls. He grabbed a coffee and a piece of toast from the friendly old girl at the counter and settled down for twenty minutes before his GCSE English class. He glanced around the room, looking for one particular girl. He hadn’t met her but she was amazing to look at, with close-cropped hair. She wasn’t there but his eyes carried on their tour, catching glances of leg, hair or eyes as the girls threaded their way through the room.
His class began, predictably enough, with a ‘how to’ exercise. Tom took out his pen and pad and began jotting down the notes from the overhead projector. Opposite him, in her regular position sat a pretty girl with lots of curly black hair and gorgeous olive skin. She had very long, slim legs and dark hypnotising eyes. Tom had only exchanged pleasantries with her but he guessed she was Middle Eastern in origin. Oh, he would, wouldn’t he? Definitely. Absolutely. The little head was in charge now and he felt himself getting a riser. Jesus, he thought, get a hold of yourself. He adjusted himself in his seat and looked up to see her smiling at him. He felt himself blush, as if she could read his mind. He dived back into his notes trying to avoid her eyes in case she really could.
As he was considering looking up and catching another sly letch, the whole class looked up, like a troop of eager Meerkats. A lady holding a small piece of paper had come in.
‘Morning, and sorry to interrupt your lesson. Is there a Tom Adams here today?’
Eh? He thought. Tom put up his hand and was ushered outside to be given the message that he must ring home immediately.
‘You can use the office phone or there are public telephones in the foyer.’
Tom nodded his thanks and followed her down the hall and into the office where she gave him the piece of paper with the message on it.
Mum, Dad, family had been the first things that had sprung to mind. What else could it be? He looked down at the phone and at the piece of paper. He read the message and felt both relief and terror: relief because the number was not his Mum’s or sister’s, terror because what the fuck could be going on at home to make that stone head Lassiter get his shit together to the point that he could call the college?
After exactly half a ring the phone was answered and an agitated voice on the other end spoke through two fat and swollen lips, a broken nose and a chipped tooth.
‘Tom, is that you?’
Tom put the phone down and felt a wave of nausea sweep through him. He slumped into the chair beside him and in seconds felt the hand of someone on his arm offering him a glass of water, which he took gratefully and sipped while his thoughts swirled around his head like a machine on full spin.
‘Are you OK?’ the lady who had brought the water asked.
‘I’m fine, I’m going to have to go home though.’ He had to get out of the building and gather his thoughts.
‘That’s completely fine, I can pass a message to your tutors for you. You get yourself off home as soon as you feel OK. Do you need a cab or anything?’
Nice lady and very helpful, he thought. ‘No thanks, I’ll be OK in two mins and I’ll get off home.’
In a minute he was off, and frantically flipping the conversation with Lassie over and over in his head.
Fuck! What the fuck! He felt scared now. Very scared. How the fuck did they find out where he lived, and why the holy fuck did they want to talk to him? Although, he realised, that bit was clear. He was the one person who’d had contact with the boys and they would want to know where Paddy was. Jesus, he rued the fucking car crash of a day Monday had been. Fuck! He was going to be sick. He was going to have to talk to this psycho soon. What the fuck was going to happen to him? The only good news was that he’d found out No Name girl’s name when Lassie had been telling him what those fuckers had done to her.
Back to Harwich ASAP was his plan. After that, fuck knew. He imagined he’d have to ring the Scousers and try to sort the whole mess out.
There was no one on the station gate so Tom breezed through the barrier. A free journey home. Some things were going OK today at least... The thought made him stop in his tracks. He walked back to the machine, selected a single to Harwich Town, paid and walked over to the platform. He needed some good karma today.
Lassie was waiting for him at the station. He looked a total mess.
‘I’m so fucking sorry, man,’ Tom said, giving him a hug. He really was and he didn’t deserve this. What a mess, Tom thought as Lassie showed him his chipped tooth.
‘What the fuck am I going to do, Lassie?’
‘Well, lad, the situation, in my esteemed estimation, is not exactly ideal in any way, shape or form…’
They both smiled and managed a laugh before debunking to the Victoria Hotel for a beer to discuss what they should do.
‘I have the number you have to call here, mate.’
Tom took the note and stared at it. ‘Fuck, even the writing looks psychotic. What about Jodie?’
Lassie considered that less was more in the circumstances. ‘She’s OK. Shaken. She had a shower and I lent her a top so she could get home. She’ll be fine. We can ring her later.’
Tom thought he couldn’t even begin to say how sorry he was or mak
e up for the mess he had dragged her into.
‘First things first, you have to ring them and find out the lay of the land. They might just want to thank you for looking after the lads and that will be it.’
‘Fuck off Lassie.’
‘You never fucking know,’ Lassie pointed to the quaint little phone booth in the pub, one of the oldest, most run down in the whole town. ‘Come on, this won’t go away and those two mad bastards could be anywhere.’
Tom stood up, felt in his jeans for change, nodded at Lassie and walked over to the payphone. Lassie watched as he put in some money and dialled the number. Tension gripped him as he heard the money drop, signalling that Tom was through. Inside ten seconds Tom was waving his arm and calling for a pen. Lassie got one from the bar and gave it to Tom who wrote down another number. The receiver down, Tom sat back down next to Lassie.
‘That was another psycho. I had to give him the number of that phone. We have to wait here. I don’t like it at all. I feel sick to the fucking core.’
Lassie could see Tom wobbling and put a Laphroaig in front of him with two ice cubes in it.
‘Sip that mate and we’ll have a think. Clearly the boys have a pager and he’s going to page the one down here and then he’ll ring the number. You can talk and we can sort this out. Though if it doesn’t ring in ten minutes lets bail and ring from somewhere else eh? Keep ahead of them?’
Tom wanted to cry. He had to muster all his strength not to let it out and he took the whisky in one, the peaty taste snapping his senses. He hadn’t eaten at all and needed to. He went to the bar and bought two rolls, a few bags of crisps, a whisky for Lassie and an Appletiser for himself. He was going to need a clear head, he was sure of that.
The rolls were released from their Clingfilm prison and devoured, the Quavers and Frazzles were opened, poured into the same bag and split on the table between them. As they shared the crisps the phone rang. They exchanged glances and Tom walked towards it, counting the rings.
He picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ Tom said.
‘Is that Tom?’ said the voice on the end of the phone.
‘It is.’
The voice was almost upbeat, which made Tom immediately uneasy. ‘Alright, la, it’s Paddy.’
Tom was speechless, what the fuck was going on? ‘Err, alright, Paddy. What the fuck is going on? I thought you were in Holland?’
‘Yeah, long story like, but I kinda didn’t get on the boat. Decided against it. Rang home to make amends.’
Tom wanted to ask what the fuck he was ringing him for? If they had him and Razor, why hadn’t they just fucked off back up to Liverpool to sort out their own shit and live happily ever after? He was about to ask all this when the reason for the call became apparent.
‘See the thing is, la, I need that money I lent yer back.’
Tom felt his knees buckle. Had he just heard that right! Was that dirty little northern weasel stitching him up? ‘What fucking money?’ Tom screamed done the phone. ‘You barely bought me a fucking drink, you fucking cockroach!’
Tom could hear other voices talking in the background at the other end of the phone, but through his rage he could hear what could only be Paddy saying to someone ‘I knew he’d be like that, cunning lad him.’
A different voice came on the line, calmer but with a tone that made part of Tom’s roll come back up and sit at the bottom of his throat, bursting to get out all over the phone.
OK, Mr Tom fucking Adams of 11 Park Ridings, fucking Harwich, fucking Essex… You, it seems, are a slippery little toe-rag gipsy throwback thieving cunt.’
All Tom could do at this point was listen in stunned silence. He felt like he was floating and in court again, only this time he was not guilty, had been found guilty and was awaiting the judge’s decision on punishment.
George Meachen continued delivering his verdict. One he had been rehearsing since grabbing Paddy out of the queue for the ferry, the ferry that had to wait while another ferry left port that evening. Dragging him like a naughty school boy back out into the car park and into the boot of the car.
‘OK cunt, our Patrick tells us you took the boys on a right merry spend up. A spend up that happened to be with my money. Now since myself, my nephew and his divvy side-kick have been reunited, I have had a chance to have a decent chat with them and it has come to light, that with a few Es inside them you managed to persuade them to lend you £5,000 to do a little score. A score, you told Patrick, that you could turn around in two days with a profit of a tidy £500 a day. I was impressed, to say the least, you little fucking thieving cunt. Very impressed. Now, I am going to be kind, for the grace of God and all that. I am going to give you til tomorrow, that’s two and a half days by the way, to turn this around, I will also be taking half the profit on your end and I am charging you 500 fucking pounds expenses. All in all, Tom fucking Adams that makes £6000 you are going to give to me by midday tomorrow. You may be considering what will happen if you fail to pay. In response to this I can only say that very bad things will happen, probably to people you know and most definitely to you. You hear me?’ I said, ‘Do you fucking hear me?’
Tom was speechless. He managed to get his voice to work and rasped down the phone, ‘You do realise that this is a total load of bullshit?’
‘Lad, I really don’t give a fuck, either way, I just want getting my money back plus interest. I’ll ring this number at eleven tomorrow to arrange the meet.”
It was true that George didn’t really believe a word of what Paddy had told him, but he was family man, after all.
‘Done?’ Kevin asked as George got back in the car.
‘Pretty much, let’s find a hotel. We can pick up and go home tomorrow.’
Kevin Stones turned the car around and out of the Colchester Institute car park, heading into the town centre.
‘There, that’ll do us,’ George said, pointing at a sign. ‘The George Hotel. It has secure parking too, that’ll do us fine.’
‘What about the boy?’
‘I think he’ll be absolutely fucking fine where he is.’ Meachen turned and shouted at the boot, ‘You’ll be fucking fine won’t you, Paddy?’ There was no response. ‘See? no fucking problem whatsoever, Kev.’
‘You’ve been well and truly fucked, mate,’ said Lassie.
‘Mmm.’
‘Any ideas? What about the Police?’
‘No way, mate, they wouldn’t or couldn’t help us anyway. I, my friend, am fucked. I have to find 6K by lunchtime tomorrow, end of.’
Lassie could see Tom was shaken and he couldn’t help thinking that he’d got off lucky in his brush with those two. He tongued his broken incisor and felt his nose as he spoke, ‘What a cunt that Paddy is, eh? A proper cunt!’
‘I can’t even get angry about it, Lassie, it’s unbelievable. Where did the 6k even go in the first place? Did they count it wrong? Or is that psycho just making it up? Either way, I’m in it up to my neck.’
Staring into space, Tom started laughing. Not in any way a huge laugh, but definitely a laugh,
‘It’s madness, Lass, but madness that isn’t going to go away. We are.’
‘Hey Adams, I love you man, but I’m not with you on this one.’
‘I need a wingman, Lass, nothing dangerous will happen, just someone to bounce ideas off of and get a bit of counsel, a second pair of eyes you know?’
‘Well that bit sounds OK,’ said Lassie. ‘But what about the psychopaths?’
Tom realised that Lassie wasn’t up for it, but he really needed someone with him. He hadn’t quite thought everything through but he needed Lassie, if only to keep him company. ‘Come on, Lass,’ Tom urged him with a dig in the ribs. ‘All expenses paid… it’ll be a laugh.’
In the back of his mind Tom also realised that this was his only real chance to save his legs from being broken, or worse. He wasn’t enjoying this new situation.
‘I promise you, with hand on heart, Lassie, that we will keep these loons at arms-length until
we, sorry I, have the cash.’
Lassie thanked him for his timely correction in relation to the 6K, shook his head, looked at his pal and said, I’m’ willing to listen, Mr Adams, but if I don’t like the sound of it I’m walking.’
‘OK,’ Tom said. ‘This is what I have so far…’ He realised his opening line didn’t really inspire much confidence but it was early doors and he was somewhat desperate.
Tom’s pride & joy, his SAAB V4 stick shift would have to go, unfortunately it was only worth around 500 quid. He did, however, have the bank of sock. Which was in fact just a sock with his savings in it. Much to Lassie’s amazement this totalled around 2k. Flogging his Stereo and some clothes would fetch another 1k. This left him 2.5k to find. This, he explained to Lassie, he would try to borrow in town. Everything he had scrapped for would have to go, just because he’d gone to the pub on Monday and met those two lads, who had now left him destitute through absolutely no fault of his own. This would cripple him and leave him without any options or independence. No stereo, no car and a thinned-out wardrobe, just for going out on a Monday. Fuck, he thought. Fucking hell. His next thought, however, sobered him… it could be a lot worse. As long as he could carry on with college he thought, he’d be happy.
‘Tom, you’re miles away mate, come back to reality.’ Lassie nudged him on the leg and waved an empty glass at him, all expenses paid remember?’
‘You in then lad?’
Lassie smiled and nodded, despite feeling somewhat apprehensive.
Tom felt the relief course through him and was smiling he approached the bar for a celebratory drink. At the bar, his frown deepened as he thought about what he was actually proposing and how he was going to get the other 2.5K.
1.22 Gary Sparks
George and Kevin were sitting quietly in the bar of the hotel, both having ordered a full English breakfast with a side of onion rings. Outside, in the boot of the hire car, a heavily sedated Paddy passed in and out of consciousness. And when conscious, wished he was dead.
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