A DRM confirmed to Lassie what Tom was thinking about Aky’s night.
‘Well, glad you enjoyed yourself Aky, a Thursday night in Amsterdam – vodka, methadone, horse tranquilisers and a vanilla milkshake to finish. You, my friend, are one of a kind.’
2.23 A Sausage Sandwich
Gary Sparks woke with a slightly sore head from last night’s session. He had a feeling today was going to be tough and so far he’d been shambolic on this trip. He needed to up his game. He showered and dressed and went down to the dining room. George was sitting at a table that looked out over the hotel garden and another sunny day in Amsterdam. Gary liked this hotel, a lot.
George had finished his breakfast and was busily checking numbers from some sort of local directory. ‘Come on, get fed and let’s get going,’ he said to Gary.
‘OK, boss. What’s the plan?’
George looked around the room quickly. ‘Don’t call me fucking boss, it makes us look like cheap gangsters!’
‘Sorry, George.’ Make your mind up for fuck’s sake Gary thought as he tucked into his sausages.
George nodded. He wasn’t really irritated with Gary; he was irritated with himself and the goings on yesterday. He felt like he’d lost his grip. The day had been a mess. There was no structure, no plan. Just a fucking mess from the moment they’d got off the boat to the moment with Thelma... He was determined today would be different. He was going to find this Tom Adams and his sidekick and sort out this mess. He’d already been on the phone and found out that the funerals for the Stones brothers and possibly Patrick would be on the coming Monday, pending the results of the post mortem. He wanted to be back in Liverpool by then and that meant winding this up ASAP.
He told Gary he’d had an idea as he had showered earlier. They were going to call as many hotels as possible and say they were looking for their brother, Tom Adams, who was in Amsterdam on a stag weekend because they urgently needed to get in contact with him due to a family crisis. George was guessing that as most hotels needed to see a passport the boys would be booked in under their own names. If they did strike gold, they would take the car, watch and follow them to see what they were up to. He was convinced it was a better plan than wandering about looking for them, especially as Gary didn’t even know what they looked like.
Gary shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘Can I make a suggestion, George?’
‘What’s that, Gary?’
‘Well, why don’t we do both? I don’t know the faces, you do. So why don’t I stay here and bash the phones while you go out and look for the boys?’
George had to admit it was a good idea, although he’d be covering a lot of ground alone. But it was only reconnaissance so he didn’t really need the man power. He said he’d head out but would call Gary’s room occasionally to gauge his progress and he’d check back physically every two hours and see how things were going.
Gary had barely finished his breakfast, but got up with George, ready to go. He could easily order room service later and watch a film while he rang the hotels. George gave him the local directory. He and the waiter had gone through it earlier and crossed off all the expensive hotels as he guessed two little scallies wouldn’t be staying anywhere posh.
‘Start with A and remember the script, Gaz, he’s our brother, family and we need to contact him.’
‘OK, George, I’m on it.’
Twenty minutes later George Meachen was outside the hotel, he turned to the left and was instantly very nearly knocked over by a woman on a bicycle, ringing her bell madly as she swerved past him.
George managed to avert the crash but looking down the road as the woman disappeared into the distance shouted after her, ‘Fuck me, you nearly killed me, love!’
Judging by the grins on the faces of the people sitting outside the café opposite the hotel, her response had contained a few choice words for him in Dutch. George walked towards one of the men sitting at an outside table. Seeing his approach the man began to cower back into his seat, assuming he was about to get his coffee poured over his head, at best.
‘Excuse me, Sir… would you know where a gentleman might be able to hire a bike, such as the one that just nearly fucking killed me?’
A very shaky hand, holding an almond croissant that was busily shedding almonds and sugar, pointed to a shop just down the street with a sign proclaiming ‘Bike Hire – By the Hour or Day’.
‘Thank you very fucking much. Enjoy your fucking breakfast.’
As soon as George headed down the street towards the hire shop a very flustered man left a very good tip and rushed away from where he had been enjoying a leisurely Friday morning breakfast before work.
Being nearly killed by a Dutch bicycle had given George an excellent idea – hire a bike. This would allow him to cover more ground and look more Dutch and less like a bounty hunter, which essentially he, or they, were. His driving licence and a hefty deposit were all that was required and before long he was cruising along the Dutch canals on his very own Dutch bicycle, much like the thousands of other bikes that were buzzing around the capital.
George had tried his story out on the very helpful chap at the hire place who’d been able to provide a map of the city and circle the hotspots where young people hung out, like clubs and bars and so on. He decided to make his way to Rembrandtplein first. It was early, but as the saying goes, the early bird strangles the fucking cunt of a worm. He smiled to himself and pushed down on the pedals.
Back at the hotel Gary was sitting at the little desk in the room. He had the window open and the radio on. He was actually enjoying himself and had already got through most of the hotels beginning with the letter A. He put down the phone, picked it up again and called room service. He ordered a sausage sandwich with brown sauce and an Amstel. He might as well start as he meant to go on he thought, this could be a long day.
2.21 Dream Sequences
They left Aky, with his methadone dream state life and drifted off into the morning air. People were starting to go about their daily routine, which, it seemed for a lot of people in Amsterdam, was to go home and sleep it off. Unless, that is you worked in a shop, bar, café or bank, and even if you did it seemed most started late.
‘You coming back to our flat, boys?’ Pascale asked. ‘We can just chill out and relax, watch a film or something. I have some Valium.’
‘You had me at Valium,’ Lassie laughed and caught a friendly slap on the arse from Abi. They walked down the cobbled streets that curved around the river and headed toward Centraal Station. It was a nice walk. This time it was Tom who took Pascale’s hand and squeezed it lightly as they strolled along the bank of the canal.
‘I had a great night, Pascale. Thanks for taking us out. I’ve loved it so far and I guarantee Lassie is having the time of his life.’ They turned to look back at Lassie and Abi, who again, were snogging like teenagers.
‘Why don’t you boys get your stuff from the hotel and stay with us? You can stay as long as you want.’
Tom stopped and gave her a hug. ‘Thank you, it’s a lovely offer. I’ll speak to Lassie and see what he thinks.’
‘I think I know what he’ll say.’ Pascale laughed, and carried on walking.
They climbed seven flights of stairs before Abi opened the door to a huge, spectacular loft apartment that gave amazing views of Amsterdam in two directions. Lassie stood looking out of the huge front window at the view across the city. He felt like he was soaring above the rooftops like a bird.
‘Fuck me, I think I’m rushing again,’ He said and lay down on the sofa by the window.
‘It’s amazing, girls,’ Tom said, ‘fucking amazing. What did you say your dad did again? And when can we get married?’
The girls laughed and offered to show Tom around, as Lassie still couldn’t get off the sofa as he was having a ‘moment’. The apartment was beautiful, securely in the ‘Benelux style’ that Tom had heard about on those fucking irritating house shows at home. With the tour complete they sat, as co
uples, on two large sofas, each of which had a view of the large TV.
‘Shall we crash then and watch a film? We’ve got a whole bunch of tapes we can choose from, well three…’ Pascale said.
Abi laughed, got up and disappeared downstairs. Tom had crawled the short distance to the TV stand and was looking at the selection of the three films available to them when Abi returned and tossed a bottle to her sister.
Pascale read the label and sighed, ‘Ahh, Valium.’
‘And the Grapes of Wrath,’ added Tom. ‘I can’t think of a better way to spend a Friday morning in Amsterdam.’
‘Never seen it, lad.’
‘It’s Dad’s, I think.’
Abi shrugged her shoulders.
Tom pressed play on the video recorder, took his place next to Pascale on the sofa, and thanked her as she passed him some blackcurrant and a Valium, necked it and smiled as she rested her head on his chest to watch the film.
Pascale squeezed Tom’s leg, ‘You gonna come and stay with us for a while? Come on, we could have some fun, go up to the beach at Scheveningen, or go to a theme park and ride rollercoasters!’
Tom had been thinking about this since the café that morning and was slowly coming round to the idea. Nothing would go wrong to put the girls in any danger. Even if they bumped into the Scousers they surely wouldn’t hurt two innocent Dutch girls, especially one that was deaf. He winced at himself for playing the disability card but it was the truth he thought, or hoped.
‘That sounds cool, apart from the rollercoasters, I don’t really like heights.’
‘I didn’t even know Holland had beaches,’ Lassie said.
‘We have beautiful beaches, Lassie, they are very long, wide and sandy. With cool beach bars and music. You would love it.’
Lassie felt his eyes roll as the Valium made his eyelids heavy. ‘I’m sold, people.’
‘OK, let’s wander over to the hotel to get our stuff early afternoon. Check out isn’t until two, I asked for a late one when we arrived.’
Lassie had already fallen asleep on Abi. Tom could still feel the Ecstasy in his blood, his heart still pumping over the odds. Though that could easily have been the effect of cuddling up with Pascale. It wasn’t long before the Valium got the better of them both though and they were also off into the world of spectacular Ecstasy and Valium dream sequences.
2.22 Stay Safe, Son
The big red digital display read 08.30. The ceiling hadn’t changed since the last time he had looked at it. He felt helpless. His body was weak and at its core was a thick rope of guilt that ran through him like a second spine. In fact, like it was his only spine. A backbone of guilt and regret that he had been party to the downfall, the suffering, and the fucking torture of all the people he loved.
They heard the screaming from the nurse’s station and a nurse rushed into the ward to find Razor screaming and shouting.
‘What’s the matter, Raymond?’
‘Sorry, flashback.’ He was being careful to not let them know his final intentions. Another nurse approached with a sedative and a cup of water.
‘Take this Raymond, it will relax you. It’s only mild and won’t make you drowsy.’ The nurse’s tone was soothing and kind. He had determinedly refused to take any painkillers or sedatives that made him feel off his head. He wanted to be able to read and to understand the news. Some of the drugs he had been given would have been superb with some rum and coke and a banging baseline but if you wanted to be able to read and recall information 10 minutes later they were a disaster.
‘I want to move about, please,’ he said the Nurse. ‘Can I have a wheelchair?’
He still couldn’t walk but if he was lifted into a wheelchair he could move about. He’d enjoyed getting out of bed and the staff had seen that it had noticeably lightened his mood. He had even made it to the day room and read a magazine by the window. This was seen as positive for a man who had a ninety-five percent chance of losing at least one of his legs, if not both, from the knee down.
‘I’ll ask the ward Sister, but I don’t see why not.’
Razor lay back down on his bed, his half-eaten breakfast cast aside. He wasn’t hungry. He felt like a spy in a film, trapped by his injuries. Had he been able to walk he would have been out of here days ago. He either had to get better, go home and face the consequences, or take more drastic action. He was at a crossroads. Losing one of his legs or both, would just add to the bleakness of his future. Scratching around for charity fucks or even spending his disability allowance on a cheap fat brass to get his rocks off. The future was bleak – he didn’t need anyone to tell him that. Perhaps he could tell the girls he’d been in the Gulf War and get a sympathy shag, but only if he was living on fucking Shetland. Anywhere else and he was sure he’d be known as the scally that robbed his own and ended up the spam in a car sandwich. Fucking loser.
He wondered what was happening at home and what the fuck had happened to Tom in Harwich? That poor cunt was up against it now and he’d need to seriously get the fuck away from George Meachen and his crew, or he’d end up in the boot of a car… all he’d done was try to help them, and now he was caught up in all this. And what about his Mum and Dad? All he wanted to do was see them and make sure they were all right, why the fuck would someone do that to a person? A cunt… He thought deeply about this question but could only come up with one answer. Perhaps if someone had stolen 40K from them?
This, it seemed was all his and Paddy’s fault. He pulled his pillow up over his face and began to cry, not for the first time this week. Razor could sense his mind was melting, but he told himself to stay calm, if he got sectioned that would be it. Strapped down and over medicated. Useless to everyone and that was unforgivable. He had to do something.
He pulled the pillow away from his eyes as he heard his name being softly called. In front of him was a nurse, with a metal trolley with a big yellow payphone mounted on it. She held the receiver out towards him, with the curly yellow lead all twisted from over-use by stressed out patients and spoke again, ‘Raymond, you have a phone call. I think it’s your Dad.’
Raymond sat upright in shock. His Dad? Fuck. His Dad. He quickly tried to get himself together, rubbing his face and pushing the pillows back to get himself upright. His legs still hurt and he flinched as the nurse attempted to help him.
‘Sorry,’ he said, acknowledging that she was only trying to help, and once ready held his hand out to take the receiver from her.
‘Hello? Dad? Is that you?’
‘Hi, Son, it’s me. How are you?’
Raymond bypassed the question, ‘I love you Dad, and I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you and Mum.’ He began to sob uncontrollably. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I hope you can forgive me.’
‘Listen, Son, pull yourself together. Mum and me are OK. Don’t say anything that will get you into trouble. You need to get yourself better and get home. We can sort all this out when you’re back. You hear me Raymond?’
‘OK.’ He couldn’t believe his Dad was being so composed. He was such a lovely, gentle man. ‘OK, Dad.’
‘The police have been round to see your Mother and I, that’s how we knew where you were. But they haven’t told us much.’
‘Dad, have you heard anything about Paddy? The police said…’
The other end of the receiver went quiet for a few seconds before Razor’s Dad spoke again, ‘There was a car crash, the other day, Son, late evening. A car left the road just off the M62 and hit a concrete post on the underpass. Three people were pronounced dead at the scene, there aren’t too many details being released but I’ve been told it was the Stones brothers.’
‘Fucking good job,’ Raymond interrupted.
‘Hang on, Son, there’s more. They haven’t said who the other person in the car was, but rumour is that it was Patrick. I’m sorry, Son, it all adds up. You’ve got to get well and get home. Goodness knows what George is doing at the moment and who to, just stay safe, son, and come home soon.’
With that, Raymond gave the receiver back to the nurse, grabbed the pillow again and began sobbing into it. He had never felt so completely alone in his entire life.
2.23 Amsterdamage
George had decided, after looking at the map of the city to cycle backwards and forwards across the fan shape that grew out of the central station. That way it would be easy to pop in and see how Gary Sparks was getting on. He was enjoying himself and had stopped at a small café for a coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich. He sat, waiting for his coffee to cool down to a temperature where he would be more inclined to drink it, scanning the people on the street. He imagined he was too early for Adams and his mate, unless of course they were on their way home from a night out, like a lot of the other people on the streets seemed to be. He had even heard two men walking past saying that they’d forgotten where their hotel was. How the fuck could you get so wasted, he thought? Then he remembered where he was. He leant back into his chair, took a bite of his sandwich and a small sip of his coffee and told himself the answer again, this time out loud. ‘Amsterdamage.’
Some people were on their way to work: the beggars and homeless were setting up shop for the day. Across the road he had seen a drug deal happening as a young mum with a child in a seat behind her cycled past. It really was a huge social experiment in tolerance, George thought to himself. One that he, unfortunately, couldn’t be a part of. Tolerance in his game led to weakness and weakness led to failure.
He finished his coffee and climbed aboard his iron horse. He crossed over a small bridge scanning the crowds as he went. Backwards and forwards he cycled, at a steady but slow pace, allowing him time to check faces in the street and outside bars. He was hoping for a breakthrough. If one didn’t come this wild goose chase would become a waste of money, time and effort. He had thought about travelling back to Essex and attempting to extort the monies owed from family members, but Essex wasn’t Liverpool and he was pretty sure turning up and demanding money from people who truly had no idea what he was on about would bring the whole of the Essex constabulary down on him and he had no help, or underworld jurisdiction there. He was also worried that this was becoming some kind of vendetta or a matter of pride. It irritated him that the little shit had the balls to fuck off abroad and he was interested in why he had. He was pretty convinced that Tom Adams was actually trying to raise the missing 6K. In which case he had definitely understood the gravity of the situation. Seeing the state of Razor Wilkins must have made the lad shit himself. George actually quite admired the little tosser, though that wouldn’t save him from his fate. Even if he was enjoying this little holiday, people were dead because of this situation, and he couldn’t rule out there being a few more bodies before it was over.
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