by Phil Redmond
‘So, what do you reckon? Got time before the school run?’ Joey asked, hopefully as he held her round the waist and nuzzled her neck.
‘Oh yeah. Let’s decide to bankroll a bunch of mercenaries to run amok round the town and then jump into bed. Great turn-on, that is.’
‘Power’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac, isn’t it?’
‘Power is. Losing your mind isn’t. Ask my mother.’
Joey relaxed his grip and arched back to examine her eyes. Anxiety. Second thoughts? She saw his concern. ‘I’m OK. Really. But I meant it. All we are doing is helping a friend with some cash. Nothing more. Clear?’
He nodded.
‘Say it, Joe.’
‘I’m clear. Nothing more. No details.’
She then sank back into his chest, giving him just enough time to find a breath hole.
‘Promise?’ she asked again.
‘Promise,’ he reaffirmed.
‘And I can feel where your mind is going,’ Natasha said, as she pressed her groin against his, then pulled away. ‘But I do have to go, as I want to look in on Mum before picking the kids up. So calm down.’
‘What about tonight, then?’
‘You’ll be out.’
‘What? Where? I’m not supposed to be here.’
‘But you are. And now you’re here, you can do the taxi run tonight.’
‘Where to?’
‘Oh, Tanya’s off on one because I’ve said we won’t let her go on holiday with this new boyfriend of hers.’
All thoughts of a romantic night evaporated. ‘What new boyfriend?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But …’
She started gathering her handbag, phone and car keys. ‘The compromise is that she can go to the student night at some new club they’ve been badgering me about for ages. Provided that I – well, you now – can drop her off and pick her up. And that she stays with the girls.’
She gave him a quick kiss as she headed for the door.
‘Hang on. Why’s she going out on a school night? And where is this club?’
She finally smiled. ‘Warrington.’
‘What? That’s an hour each way. And how were you going to do this if I wasn’t here?’
‘Er … Alex is fourteen.’
‘You leave them on their own?’
‘Joyce pops in from next door. Welcome to the world of shared parenting, Joe.’
With that she left, leaving Joey realising how much she had kept from him while he was away. What else did they all get up to when he was trying to stay awake listening to Benno’s stories? But then his phone vibrated on the worktop ALWAYS 2MORO. GET SLEEP. I’LL WARN KIDS YOU HOME. LXXT Joey grinned. Tanya’s going to love me being here to hound her, he thought, but his mind soon went back to his main concern. Who is this boyfriend?
‘Oh My God, you’re trending,’ Megan announced to Noah, scrolling through the Twitter feeds as they walked in from school.
Sandra had insisted Noah came straight home. And stayed home.
Noah instantly snatched Megan’s phone to look. Which she instantly snatched back. And then had it instantly snatched by Sandra.
‘Mum!’
Sandra then handed the phone back. It wasn’t her daughter she was getting angry about. ‘Look. The pair of you.’ But she focused on Noah. ‘Today was not your Mandela moment. No matter what your father said about peaceful protest. OK?’
‘So how many dead kids does it take, Mum? Someone’s got to do something,’ Noah shot back, obviously liking the Mandela reference no matter how pejoratively Sandra meant it.
‘But not you, Noah. It’s bad enough having your father banging on, without you getting yourself arrested for fighting with the police.’
‘I wasn’t arrested …’ Noah countered. ‘We were just protesting. Remember?’
The sarcasm could not be missed. It just bounced off Sandra, who was straight in Noah’s face. ‘Did you get permission?’
‘Permission to protest? That’s an oxymoron.’ But he stepped back a little as he said it. Just in case.
‘The only moron around here is you.’
‘I’ll go with that. I’ll tweet it,’ Megan offered unhelpfully.
‘Don’t you dare, young lady …’
The tone was enough to cause Megan to put her phone down and move to the kettle. ‘Tea, anyone?’ she asked. Sweetly. Proto-teen sarcasm. Also not missed, and she turned away sharply to sit at the kitchen table in response to her mother’s glare.
‘Well?’ Sandra demanded.
Noah flopped into a seat opposite Megan. ‘I told Dad. I told the plod. We were talking about next Saturday’s match and how we’re fed up with having to get there early to help clear up all the mess the druggies leave behind on Friday nights.’
‘What sort of mess?’ Sandra asked, deciding to follow the logic chain. ‘Syringes and things?’
Noah exchanged a quick glance with Megan. Eyes and ears wide open. ‘It’s not Trainspotting or whatever movie you grew up with, Mum.’
‘Like sex, is it?’ Sandra asked.
‘What?’
‘Drugs are something else your generation discovered?’
‘I didn’t mean it like—’
‘Your look to your sister did,’ Sandra shot back, which was a reminder that thirteen-year-old Megan was at the table. ‘Megan. This has nothing to do with you.’ Sandra pointed to the door.
Megan thought about making a symbolic protest but knew that’s all it would be, so huffily stood up, grabbed her stuff and headed for her room, stopping just outside the kitchen door to try and listen. Until.
‘All the way. Go. Now.’
She gave an exaggerated eye roll and headed off. She’d find out all about it later. Online.
Sandra refocused on Noah. ‘Continue with my education.’
‘There’s an occasional syringe.’ Noah started. ‘But it’s mostly wraps. Bottles, cans.’ Then, with a glance over his shoulder to make sure Megan wasn’t still lurking, ‘Condoms. Tampons. Although finding a dead body was a first.’
Sandra gave him a disapproving glare. Enough. But her revulsion remained.
‘And you have to clear all this … mess up before you can play football?’ Sandra asked.
Noah nodded. ‘For some reason they always use the goalmouths,’ he added.
‘That’s because the trees shelter them from the wind.’ Sandra said. Authoritatively. Which was not missed by Noah.
‘Oh yes. And, how do you know that?’ he asked. Grinning. Intrigued.
Sandra couldn’t help but grin herself. ‘I told you. Your generation didn’t invent everything.’
‘Moth-er!’ Noah said. Surprised.
‘Anyway,’ Sandra said. Realising it was a detail too far. Wanting to get back to the point. ‘What’s any of that got to do with being arrested?’
‘Well, why should we be forced to do the clearing up? The teachers used to do it while we were too young to see life’s dirty little secrets. But now we are apparently old enough, we can help share the burden of protecting our young.’
‘So you decided to organise a protest?’
‘Er … yeah. I think that kid’s death took it to a whole new level. We only wanted to highlight the point that it’s getting worse. It was supposed to be peaceful. Until the robocops arrived.’
Now having a bit better understanding, Sandra tried to offer some support. ‘Everyone’s a bit sensitive about that area at the moment. Not just the drugs but whether they’re going to sell the playground. So I suppose the Council and police are getting a hard time about anything that goes on down there.’
‘So they end up giving us a hard time?’ Noah asked. The irritation returning.
Irritated by his irritation, Sandra toughened up again. ‘And you end up giving us a hard time by making a show of yourself.’
Noah stood up to gather his stuff. Obviously he’d had enough. ‘Oh, what? All the gossip in the hairdresser’s, is it?’
Sandra rose
to meet him. Enough was definitely enough. ‘It’s more the way you went about it. And yes, you do have to have permission to protest, Mastermind.’
Noah tried to end the lecture with a dismissive shrug and turned towards the door. Until—
‘Stay.’ He stopped. Recognising the rising but controlled maternal anger. Sandra continued. ‘Since our generation invented not only sex, drugs and rock’n’roll, but raving. They passed laws making it illegal for any more than half a dozen people to gather in one place outside.’ She paused to increase the emphasis. ‘Without a licence. It was to stop people turning up spontaneously and taking over fields for rave parties. And, yes, that means we invented flash mobbing too.’
‘So what, Mum? So you were all teenage rebels. Great. But so what?’
‘The “so what” is because …’ She was trying to hold on to herself as well as her son. ‘Because some people acted irresponsibly, laws were rushed through that in the end caused people to fret about whether they needed a licence to have a barbecue in their own gardens. Imagine how that would have affected the business.’
‘But that’s a stupid law,’ Noah responded. Voice rising.
‘A lot of laws are,’ Sandra shot back. Increasing the decibels to match. ‘Because some people act stupidly …’ she said as she tapped the side of his head, invading his personal space as only a mother can. ‘And then so-called intelligent people try to be too clever trying to stop them. Instead of everyone talking to each other first.’
‘So, we’re supposed to go to the cops and ask permission to protest against them not doing their job?’ His frustration was building again.
‘In a nutshell, yes,’ Sandra said. ‘It’s what’s called democracy.’
‘Then it’s wrong.’
There it was again. Teenage perception. Black. White. No greys.
‘Yes,’ Sandra replied. ‘And you can do the bull elephant thing with your father, but don’t try it on with me.’
Noah held her eyes, but not for too long. Even if it wasn’t fair, he knew she was right. He could have a real fight with his dad but that mother thing … A lifetime of obedience and gratitude for the pain of childbirth. He reached for his only defence.
‘Can I go now?’
She nodded, accepting the capitulation, but couldn’t resist her maternal right to dispense advice. Although she softened her tone once more. ‘What I’m really annoyed about, Noah, is that you didn’t think it through.’ She tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away.
‘You can do the wise oracle thing, Mum. But don’t patronise me. OK? I don’t need anything kissed better.’
She gave another nod. This time accepting the point. He took it as a concession. A small step in acknowledging that he was growing up. She took it as a need to defuse the situation.
‘You don’t have to ask permission to protest about the police not doing their jobs. But they’ll have all the excuses lined up for that. You should protest about politicians not giving them the resources to do their jobs. Then they’ll see you as being on their side. Not as the enemy. Then they’ll help you. Not arrest you.’
‘That it? That the end of today’s life lecture?’ But as her face tightened and eyes flared, he grinned. ‘I get it. I do.’
Instinctively she reached out to stroke his forearm in maternal acknowledgement. This time he accepted it, as it was also a sign that he could go. At the door, he stopped. Unable to resist a final shot.
‘It’s bullshit though, Mum. Someone’s got to do something. And not sitting around chatting like Dad.’
‘Go,’ Sandra snarled. A verbal flash of the claws.
He did. And she was left recalling that Sean had told her to try and go easy on him. He was a good kid at heart and all that proud dad stuff. But it’s always the good kids who can’t spot where the real trouble can come from.
Six hours into their 72-hour window, Luke was heading for the Fast Dog, having just dropped Matt in the lane about 200 metres from Leather Jacket’s farmhouse. Matt was now working his way along the field, behind a hedge that kept him screened from the road. He was in full blacks: boots, coverall, turned-up beanie, Motorola in place, and carrying a backpack. When he reached the corner of the field that touched the front of the farmhouse fence, he swung the backpack off and settled down. Listening. Apart from a passing car, there was nothing. All quiet on the other side of the fence. Satisfied that no one had seen him approach he took out his phone and rechecked the 3G signal. Still strong. He squawked the Motorola to advise Luke, then opened the backpack and started setting up the drone.
Outside the pub, Luke had never felt so exposed. As Matt’s squawk came it faded. He had tried re-squawking but had no response. He was out of range and he’d just been marked. One of the quad bikes they had seen on the recce had followed him into the car park. With the Motorola useless he reached for his pay-and-throw. No signal. No backup. He was on his own. With only his good looks and smooth tongue, as his mother had often said.
While Leather Jacket had demonstrated his desire to remain below radar, Luke knew from the lack of helmets and registration plates that law enforcement, never mind Health and Safety, was not something the two young bucks riding the quad were concerned about. They only had one thing on their minds. Him.
‘Oh, I love him. You will bring him in here for a cup of tea won’t you?’
Sean had just told Glynnis that he’d had another call from Craig Harlow’s PA. He would come along on Saturday and take a look at what Sean wanted, when he visited his mother. Her surprise at this was beaten only by Sean’s over her excitement.
‘It is still up for discussion, Glynnis.’
‘If he’s coming here because his mum says so, it’s a dead cert.’
‘Perhaps, but … it’s supposed to be a quiet, private visit, Glynnis. He, er, we don’t want too many people to know just yet so we can make a big splash in the paper later.’
‘Have to put a bag over his head then. Cos as soon as he steps through that door, word’ll be round town like wildfire.’ The surprises then kept coming. ‘Hey, if he’s not coming into the café, will you introduce me? Do you think he’d sign a menu for me? Or have one of those pictures I can put up on the wall? I might even get a mobile phone so I can get a selfie.’ Without waiting for an answer she then went off, with an excited grin across her face that Sean had never seen before. ‘Can’t wait to tell our Hilda.’
That was something else new. He had never heard Glynnis refer to anyone in her life before. No family. No friends. So who was Hilda?
‘No idea,’ Byron replied when Sean asked him later. Nor did he have any idea who Craig Harlow was, but he still agreed to be sworn to secrecy.
Luke sat slowly tapping the steering wheel. Fight or flight? He knew they couldn’t match him for speed, just as he knew that if he pulled away it would confirm whatever was in their heads and from that moment he would be a target. The quad had shot past and spun to a stop right in front of him. Headlight to headlight. Luke wondered what, or who, might come next. That came in the form of a small van, speeding into the car park and stopping within six inches of his rear. Blocking any thought of reversing.
No one moved. Luke knew this game. They were waiting to see what he would do. The driver had a retro skinhead and parka look. The rider looked more Ragged Priest with long, lank hair. They were probably a bit older than he was when he first signed up. Still just kids. Playing at cops and druggies. If they had weapons they would have showed them by now, so Luke assumed they were in the van. Out of sight but ready. He looked in the mirror but could only see two heads against the panel obscuring the back. The same reason they had chosen to shoot from a van. How many more could be inside? He knew that in the car he had a chance. Out of the car he had none. They would have to come to him. So he sat and waited. And waited. His cold stare matching those of the quad riders.
After a three-minute staring contest, the Ragged Priest slowly dismounted and walked up to Luke’s window. He lowered it. Only partly
. Waiting for the challenge.
‘You lost, then?’ The global question. The same neutral non-aggressive tone. The one he had heard the world over, no matter the dialect or language. It wasn’t an offer of help, but a probe. To get a response. In many places, from Belfast to Helmand, a response in the wrong accent would have meant a death sentence, but at least here he wasn’t already tagged as an enemy combatant. Or at least he hoped. Just someone who had strayed where he shouldn’t. He looked in the mirror again. No movement, but also no way back. Only forward. So forward it had to be.
He slid the Motorola under the seat out of view and ran through the cover once more. He was looking for the David Lloyd Sports Centre. He’d clocked it on the way in. Part of the routine. Keep logging. A nearby location. Close enough to be easily missed. Stay as close to the truth as possible. The rev of the quad engine informed him their patience was running out. Time to play. Luke got out of the car, a move that made the Ragged Priest step back. He wanted the swing space but looked nervously at the van, confirming Luke’s early assessment. If it kicked off that was where help would come from.
As he straightened, Luke held up the pay and throw with a useless shrug. ‘David Lloyd Centre? Satnav’s useless.’
‘Signal’s crap round here,’ the Ragged Priest responded.
‘Right. Do you know where it is?’
‘Yeah.’ But nothing more.
Luke held his stare, knowing it was part of the anxiety test. ‘And?’
‘You passed it on the way here.’
This was the all-important moment. The one when the van men would decide whether he was a potential threat or just some random idiot.
Luke tried for the idiot badge. And idiot’s ramble. ‘Oh, really? Damn. Must have been looking at this and not the road. Then it, well, the Maps app just seemed to stop and I couldn’t figure out where I was, so I decided to pull in and ask. And then you …’
It seemed to do the trick as the Ragged Priest let out a sigh of frustration, while distracted by a commotion near the recycling bins. Three men were dragging another, followed by one more, that Luke immediately recognised. Leather Jacket. The Priest was obviously as curious as Luke and wanted to go and see what was happening.