Tom and Lassie sat back and contemplated their current helplessness. Tom pondered the future as they made their way up the main road and through the town. They soon pulled into the car park at the back of the police station, where they were escorted into the charge room and interviewed by the custody sergeant. Their fingerprints taken, they were walked down a narrow hallway and placed separately in individual cells.
Tom waited until he heard the main door close before shouting to Lassie, ‘You OK mate?’
‘Yeah, I’m OK,’ Lassie shouted back as he sat down on the blue plastic cushions inside the cell.
Tom sat on his bed and stared at the walls, hard paint covered them and he could see people’s vain attempts to leave their mark. The seat-less stainless steel toilet, took pride of place in the corner next to a tiny hand basin. The thick glass bricks that gave the incumbent a suggestion of the outside world only reminded him that it was now dark outside and another day in this disastrous week had passed and he wasn’t any closer to daylight, or understanding, or emancipation from the problems that had seemed to have swept over him and Lassie like the waves crashing on the beach less than a mile away from where he sat. He was exhausted and felt like he must be on the verge of an emotional breakdown. He couldn’t take it anymore. He decided to lay down and close his eyes. Perhaps it would all go away.
As his head hit the tough blue plastic the first door opened and he heard the custody sergeant approaching. The door opened and a gruff voice spoke, ‘Someone wants to speak to you.’
Tom stood up, and was led back up the passageway and left, into an interview room where he was offered a seat at a barren table. In the room were two police officers in plain clothes. In ugly plain clothes, he couldn’t help but notice. One was female, the other male. They introduced themselves as DS Cook and DC Barnes.
‘Hi, Tom,’ said the female. ‘We’d like to have a quick chat if we may. You are of course, allowed to get in the duty solicitor but that will take time and we’d love to get you out of here ASAP if poss. What do you think?’
Tom nodded tacit agreement and was invited to take a seat. Tapes were placed in the recorder and the two officers introduced themselves again before introducing Tom who acknowledged his presence and waived the right to legal representation for the time being.
‘So Tom,’ DC Barnes said, ‘I’ll tell you where we are. Over the last week lots of incidents have happened. Incidents in relation to which your name and your friends’ name have popped up again and again. What we need to clear up is what part have you played in these incidents and how involved you are with a man we now know is called George Meachen.’
Tom’s face twitched even at the sound of the name. ‘I don’t know any George Meachen.’
‘Tom, I haven’t got time for this bollocks, I know you’re small fry but definitely connected somewhere.’
At this point, DS Cook handed DC Barnes a plastic bag with a letter in it. Tom looked at the letter, written on nice beige paper in quite neat handwriting.
‘This letter, Tom, names you. It was written by a man called Raymond Wilkins, on Friday we believe, and it attempts to explain, to some extent the goings-on with which you seem to be connected. It appears that Raymond and Patrick stole some money from Patrick’s brother-in-law, George Meachen. They fled from Liverpool to Harwich where they met a lad called Tom who had a laugh with them for a couple of days before things went a bit awry and they realised Uncle George wasn’t too happy. You still following me lad?’ DC Barnes looked across at Tom, ‘Need some water?’
His mouth was stuck shut, and very dry indeed and he nodded at the offer. Where the fuck was this leading?’
The DC continued, ‘It seems that this George then ran his car, a black BMW 5 Series into young Raymond, nearly severing his leg and putting him in hospital. Now Raymond luckily remembered the car type he and Patrick had hired. A Ford Orion, and put this in the letter too. He names you as being there, apparently on a bit of a day trip. Fancied yourself as a bit of a tour guide for thieves and gangsters, eh, Tom?
Raymond then goes on to explain George Meachen’s nefarious activities in his hometown of Liverpool and the fact that he’s a psychopath.’
Tom put his hand up and the DC stopped.
‘Yes, I do know most of this story, but why would Razor, sorry, Raymond write all this down?’
‘Well, it seems that later in the week Raymond spoke to his parents, who were in shock both from realising where their son was and from the brutal attack carried out on them in their own home by George Meachen. During that phone call he also found out that there had been a car crash that had unfortunately killed the Stones brothers and Patrick Wherry.’
‘Why would he write all this down though? I still don’t get it.’ Tom was confused.
‘Because it was the last thing, apart from two other letters found on him, that he ever wrote. He committed suicide in Colchester hospital.’
Tom sat stunned. Gutted. Four people were dead now and he was pretty sure he could be next. None of them could be tied to George Meachen though. It was fucking crazy. He now had a question of his own.
‘Where are George Meachen and the shell suit guy, Gary, I think?’
‘They are also in custody, but with much less chance than you of getting out. We traced the BMW back to the crash in Essex. It ended up in a compound, amazingly, with a Glock handgun under the spare tyre. The Orion we then traced in Harwich, parked on the seafront, luckily bits of Raymond were still all over the front of it. Wilhire gave us the Astra and the manifest on the boat gave us Holland, we just had to wait for you all to get back. We arrested you on suspicion of failing to stop and that still stands, I have to decide whether to charge you, as I am sure you were probably taking the best course of action in fleeing the scene. Which leads me to my next question. How come you two fools seemed to have survived this one-man hurricane, and what the hell were you doing in Holland with Meachen and Sparks?’
Tom was slowly beginning to realise that with George Meachen and Gary Sparks in custody and everyone else dead there could actually be a speck of light at the end of the tunnel. What were they charging him with he thought? The same as them? Attempted murder?
’I was scared, scared shitless. Apparently when Paddy gave back George Meachen’s money it was 6K short. George decided that I owed him that money because he knew I’d been with Paddy and Razor. I haven’t got £600, let alone £6,000, what did you expect me to do? I wasn’t really aiming on coming back, I have a few friends in Amsterdam and I was going to look for work, then they found us and threatened to hurt my friends unless I came back with them today. I was going to have to work off the 6K by doing jobs for him; I imagined they weren’t thinking along the lines of building work or taxi driving and I didn’t know what to do. That’s it, honestly. I just didn’t know what to do. I feared for my life and for the lives of my friends too.’
Tom was doing his best to sound the innocent victim but didn’t want to over-egg the pudding.
DS Cook interrupted, ‘You prepared to write that down in a statement Tom? Potentially modern slavery or bonded labour charges there?’
DC Barnes nodded in agreement. ‘The more charges the better. Less chance of seeing him again, Mr. Adams.’
Tom refused. ‘No way. No statement, I just want to forget him and the past week.’
The DS spoke for the benefit of the tape and paused the interview. Tom was to be taken back to his cell while they followed up other enquiries and he imagined, spoke to Lassie and or the Scousers. As he was escorted back he listened to the cells, he was on one end and Lassie the other. There didn’t seem to be anyone else there, he wondered where George and Gary were being held.
Back in his cell Tom lay on his stiff and uncomfortable mattress and reflected on what he had just been told. The whole story was mental, from start to finish and Raymond Wilkins had, essentially just saved his life. He made a promise to himself that he would visit Razor’s and Paddy’s graves wherever they were buried
and pay his respects. His thoughts turned to Pascale, he’d said he’d phone her this evening and it was past his promised time. Should he buzz and ask for his phone call? Would they even let him call abroad? He wasn’t sure. That one would have to wait until tomorrow. She was rock solid. She’d be OK and he was gambling that he and Lassie would be out of there by the morning at least. He just hoped George and Gary wouldn’t be. That would be heartbreaking having being given this little lifeline. His senses picked up a noise, the door creaked open and he heard a key slide into a locked door at the end of the corridor, they must be questioning Lassie he thought, and decided to try and get some sleep.
3.6 Roaring Red Rockets Racing
The key turned in the door of Tom’s cell. Tom woke as he heard the noise and opened his eyes to the sight of the custody sergeant, DS Cook and DC Barnes standing by the bed. The custody sergeant then left the two plain clothes police in the cell with him.
‘Well, Tom.’ DS Cook sounded very tired herself, ‘We’re letting you go without charge. We are happy with your account of your involvement in what has been going on over this past week.’
Tom sat up, stunned. Not really knowing what to think or do.
The DS continued, ‘What I would say is that, with all the tragedy surrounding this mess, your friend Raymond did the right thing, despite the utterly tragic outcome. He gave us a number of other lines of enquiry and George Meachen is not going anywhere anytime soon. Now, I think you should go home, lesson learned. Keep your nose clean and try to put this all behind you. And of course, if you think of anything else that could possibly help us further get in touch straight away.’
Tom felt a tidal wave of relief wash over him.
Tom was led to the custody desk where Lassie was waiting with the sergeant. They had their belongings returned and then were formally released without charge, taken through to reception and let out into the moonlight of very early Sunday morning.
As they walked towards the cab office Tom said, ‘I feel like I’ve been on the shittiest rollercoaster all week, Lass. What happens next? Or when they get out? It’s all a bit surreal, they just let us out, scot free and locked the two of them up for us. It’s just fucking weird.’
Lassie didn’t want to think about it, but indulged his mate one last time ‘In jail, out of jail. He’s not going to come looking for you or us. They have bigger fish to fry probably holding on to their turf up there, and to be fair, who actually knows the story? Everybody’s fucking dead. It’s like a poisoned chalice mate. Whoever touches it seems to meet a sticky end.’
‘I hope so Lass, I really fucking hope so. Apart from us of course.’ With that he managed a wry smile. ‘I just had a beautiful thought, Lass, I’ve still got a little over 2k stashed at mine! Result!’
The taxi arrived at the office and whisked them away home. They both knew the driver but were well and truly beyond conversation. Soon they were both lying on their beds, Lassie fast asleep and seconds from snoring, Tom wide awake, his head racing. The tongue twister about roaring red rockets racing round ridiculous rabbits was spinning around in his head, refusing to let his mind rest…
3.7 Soaking Up The Rays
It was four o’clock on Sunday afternoon before he’d even opened his eyes and the first thing he hoped was that the last week had been one mad awful dream. His damp sheets and sweaty body suggested that it probably wasn’t, and when he looked at his bag laying where he’d dropped it last night the nightmare was complete.
He sat upright in bed and leant over to pull the curtain open. Sunlight exploded into the room and he immediately closed it again. A couple of minutes later, more composed, he got up and opened them again. He went downstairs wondering when the front door was going to get smashed in and those two mad bastards would drag him off somewhere and hang him from a tree. He told himself to calm down; his imagination was wringing him out.
‘Hello! You up then… lazy fucker!’ Lassie was sitting outside in a garden chair soaking up the rays with a massive spliff. ‘How goes it my friend? Seems you needed that kip.’ Lassie offered Tom the joint but was waved away.
‘Very much so. I just can’t believe that it all actually happened. It’s fucking mental. And is it even over?’
Lassie nodded in agreement, and tugged hard on the spliff causing its tip to burn a dark orange. He spoke through a huge cloud of white smoke in a very matter-of-fact way. ‘Well the Old Bill seemed pretty sure they had them bang to rights and as much as I dislike John Law, at this given point in the proceedings I am more than happy to concur with our local constabulary, young man…’
‘Fucking stonehead,’ Tom said, laughing. He couldn’t actually believe Lassie had been so subdued in Amsterdam with all that gear about.
‘“Fucking stonehead”… Do you know, that is exactly what that Meachen fella called me when they turned up here and smashed my nose and my vinyl?’
Tom now understood the mess in the front room and promised Lassie to replace all of his records. They really were fucking animals and he was crossing everything he had that neither he nor Lassie ever saw them again. He heard the Top Forty countdown in the background on Radio One as they announced that Crystal Waters’ ‘Gypsy Woman’ had moved five down to number eight.
‘Come on, Lass, I’ll take you to the pub. My shout.’
Lassie stood, slid into his flip-flops, finished his spliff and was ready for the pub. In a moment of clarity stopped and looked at Tom. ‘Have you rung Pascale?’
‘No I haven’t, we’ll do it from the call box on top of the hill. I’ve got some change and their number.’
They left the house and walked purposefully towards a drink. They talked as they walked and Tom suggested they give up their tenancy and move house. Lassie agreed. ‘Great idea, lad. Back to Amsterdam?’ He proposed hopefully.
‘Great idea,’ Tom replied as they approached the call box. Once inside the smelly cubicle they called the girls, it rang for ages before going to an answer machine. Tom left a message, explaining last night and that he had just got up. They sent their love and carried on to the hotel bar. The sun was out and they decided to sit upstairs and look out onto the coast. It wasn’t long before they had moved downstairs and had begun to get steadily pissed at the bar. Tom had insisted to Lassie they shouldn’t talk about what had happened to anyone else. It was much safer that way.
Last orders soon rang resoundingly at the bar. ‘Soon be time to go boys,’ one of the bar staff shouted at them.
Lassie sat up, grinning. ‘Hang on, this is a hotel too isn’t it?’
It was, he was informed, but the smallest room, a twin was still £55 a night and a cab home was in fact only a fiver.
Tom’s decision however, was made. He owed his mate more than a night out and they booked the room, ordered two pints of Stella, two Smirnoff Ice, two whiskies and two burgers and then staggered upstairs, past the parrot to collect their key before being shown where the room was. The night porter met them with a smile, ‘OK, you two bloody drunken idiots. Last chance. You sure you don’t just want me to ring you a cab?’
The boys politely refused the offer and were soon at the door of the room.
‘OK, I’ll put the grill on… arseholes,’ he murmured sleepily.
They sat on the beds and waited for their drinks to arrive. Something suddenly struck Tom and he told to Lassie that this was the exact room the two lads had stayed in last Monday, where they had sniffed E and the whole sorry fucking affair had started.
‘How fucking weird fella, total full circle.’
‘Bizarre eh? And now they’re both dead. Fucking tragic.’
The drinks arrived and the two boys toasted absent friends and downed the whiskies. When they woke up the next morning the Smirnoff Ice and Stella had been left untouched, and the burgers were cold and looking very unappetising.
‘Fuck me, my head is pounding.’ Tom made his way to the small bathroom and threw cold water over his face.
‘Come on pal, time to get up and o
ut of here before I have a bite of that burger.’
Lassie was making horrible noises from his bed and refused with a grunt to come from under the pillow he had over his head. With no toothpaste Tom decided to scrape his teeth, front and back with a flannel he had found in the bathroom. When as clean as could be expected he strode back towards his single bed, considering a twenty minute snooze before trying to raise Lassie again. As he paced across the room a creaking noise oozed from the floorboards close to his bed. He dived onto it and, kneeling on the floor, pressed on the area that produced the noise. Something seemed loose under the carpet. He pushed the bedside table to one side and began to tug at the carpet, the ease with which it came away from the skirting board gave him a twinge of excitement. He pulled the carpet back to the point where the noise had come from and found a loose floorboard. He hands began to sweat and he looked up to see if Lassie had offered any interest in his endeavors. He hadn’t and was lightly snoring. He carried on, wobbled the floorboard loose and felt it, with a bit of resistance come away from the joist.
Tom looked around the room, checking for inquisitive eyes. There were none and he gingerly looked inside, expecting nothing. He then sat back down on his arse, leaning against the bed as a smile began to grow on his face. In the floorboard cavity nestled a wad of notes, mostly twenties and fifties. He guessed that when counted they would probably add up to around six thousand pounds.
The End
Epilogue
He refused to answer or look back, instead opting to zero in on the mottled glass bricks in front of him – the only access to light and the outside world. It was a diffused and cloudy light, only offering a canted sense of the reality lying on the other side of the thickly over painted wall. A bark, constituting the gruff tones of the ‘Screw’, barely registered on his consciousness as the door slammed shut, followed by the rattle of keys that signalled his incarceration…
The Comedown Page 25