The Judas Sheep

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘No,’ Bell replied. ‘I’m sure Georgie will keep us company. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s just too stuffy for me in here. Give me the keys, Darren. I’ll wait in the car.’

  Atkinson handed the keys over.

  ‘I’ll be back in about an hour,’ were Parrott’s parting words.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Georgie asked as Parrott departed.

  ‘Women,’ Atkinson explained. ‘All these young birds has made him feel randy. Me too.’

  Georgie waved an arm in the direction of the dance floor. ‘Be my guests,’ he invited.

  ‘Shawn doesn’t do too good at pulling birds,’ Bell told him. ‘He has better results when he pays for it. But never mind him, let’s get back to business.’

  ‘With a face like that, I can understand his problem. OK, Frankie, what have you to offer?’

  ‘Let’s just say we might have a shipment coming in next week. Small but tasty. Will you be interested?’

  A girl, about eighteen, with long hair obscuring half of her sulky face, slinked by, looking sideways at Georgie.

  ‘Talking about small but tasty …’ Atkinson murmured.

  Georgie turned to follow his gaze. ‘Hi, Trish,’ he called to the girl. She pretended she’d just noticed him, and smiled. He extended an arm and she walked into its embrace. As he was sitting in a low chair this meant that it was wrapped round her legs, and he stroked her bare thigh with a hand that bore three gold sovereign rings and a bracelet that might have kept the Welsh goldmining industry viable for a couple of years. She draped an arm around his neck and let her fingers explore the undergrowth of his chest. ‘Next week?’ he commented, unmoved by the girl’s administrations. ‘You disappoint me, Frankie. I was hoping you could do better than that.’

  Bell produced a new pack of Red Wings from his pocket and tossed them towards Georgie. ‘How about cigarettes?’ he asked.

  Georgie picked them up and rotated the packet between his fingers. They looked genuine. ‘How many are we talking about?’ he wondered.

  ‘More than you can handle.’

  The owner of the Copper Banana untwined the girl’s arm from around his neck. Trish,’ he said, ‘why don’t you take this young man – Darren, isn’t it? – for a dance, eh?’ The sulk returned, like a bad smell at a picnic. ‘Be a good girl; I’ll see you later.’ His hand flicked upwards and briefly goosed her. She set off walking towards the dance floor, not waiting to see if Darren was following. He rose awkwardly, adjusting his jeans, and chased after her.

  ‘Right, Frank,’ Georgie said. ‘Now the children are out of the way, let’s talk about prices and deliveries.’

  Shawn Parrott eased the driver’s seat forward a notch and started the engine. He was about the same height as Darren, but preferred a more hunched driving position. And his legs were shorter. He didn’t readjust the mirrors. Cruising round the one-way system he passed a police car, which was still in the same place, and the doorway where the two girls had been standing. They were no longer there. Two streets further along he saw them, arguing with three boys. The youths were following behind, hurling insults, but Parrott couldn’t fell if it was good-natured or deadly serious. They wore back-to-front baseball caps and bomber jackets with incomprehensible slogans emblazoned across the backs. He drove a few yards past them, stopped the car and got out.

  ‘Fag?’ he said to the slim girl, as the pair drew level with him. The three youths stopped in their tracks, a respectful thirty feet away.

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied, throwing a triumphant glance at them.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked the podgy one.

  ‘Ta.’

  He held his lighter towards the girls, and soon they were blowing clouds of smoke into the blackness above the drizzle slanting through the streetlamps’ glare.

  ‘They causing you any bother?’ He nodded towards the youths, who’d turned their backs and were rapidly losing interest.

  ‘No, they’re just pests,’ the overweight one told him, gazing straight into his face. It was an ugly face, but she didn’t mind.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the other girl, smiling. ‘They’re causing me a lot of bovver. What you going to do about it?’

  Parrott accepted the challenge. ‘I could give them a good thumpin’, if you wanted. Or you could come with me and we’ll just forget them, if you’re knowing what I’m meaning.’ He liked the look of her. She reminded him of a film star – the one that married Frank Sinatra and that weedy American comedian.

  ‘What about me?’ the big one protested, realising that she was being abandoned, yet again.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ her friend assured her. ‘Go with them – you know that Baz fancies you.’ She turned to her new-found white knight. ‘Where you taking me, then?’

  The less attractive half of the couple walked after the boys, who turned to accept her into their group. She wasn’t too disappointed, for now she’d have their undivided attention, free from the shadow of her better-looking friend. They’d flirt with her, until they found themselves lost among the empty stalls of Heckley Market. She’d share her favours, allowing each a quick grope and a feel, accompanied by French kissing, until two of them left her and Baz alone together. Then they’d explore the roller-coaster delights of fumbled sex, where, earlier in the day, Asian traders had sold cheap clothing, and white ones had peddled pirate videos.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the slim one said, pulling the car door closed,

  ‘Shawn.’ He started the engine.

  ‘I’m Nicky.’ She was disappointed that he hadn’t asked. ‘What you got, then?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Dunno. I ’aven’t scored for a week. What you got?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nuthin’! Not even any adam?’

  ‘No.’ He swung away from the kerb without signalling, causing the taxi behind to blow its horn, and headed out of town. ‘I’ve got plenty of money, though.’

  Nicky shook her head and smiled across at him. ‘You’re a disappointment to me, Shawn. I fought I’d found me the man wiv the golden arm. Never mind.’ Never mind. So it was to be sex again – sex for money. Unlike her friend, she had no romantic illusions about the sexual coupling of two members of the human race. All those notions had been destroyed when she was ten years old, under the grunting beer belly of her mother’s second husband.

  Shaw bragged: ‘Next week. We’ll ’ave some stuff then. All sorts. Anything you want. Big shipment coming in from Amsterdam.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Are you a pusher then, you know, big time?’

  ‘Look,’ he said, reaching across and grasping the back of her neck between his thumb and fingers, ‘smart people don’t take it, not all the time. Maybe just a bit, say once a week, if you’re knowing what I’m meaning. Smart people sell it. Make a lot of money that way.’ He sounded almost fatherly. Nicky rotated her head, so that his fingers moved against her skin. She wouldn’t take his advice, but she appreciated it. She liked him.

  He was ugly, but – in a perverse way – that made him more attractive to her; brought him within reach. And he was fairly young, with a good body. Not like the drunken friends of her stepfather, who’d come up to her after playing cards into the early hours of the morning, and leave him a fiver for the privilege. Shawn was a loser, like her. She could give him a lot, and he could give her more than he dreamt possible. They’d be two outlaws, battling against the world. It was a potent combination.

  ‘Is this your car?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Nice, innit?’

  ‘It’s OK. Got a new one coming next week. A BMW.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong wiv this one?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just been seen around too much. It’s time for a change. It doesn’t do to be seen around too much. They watch, if you’re knowing what I’m meaning, on videos.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘The filth, that�
��s who.’

  ‘Bloody ‘ell. So you just swap your car to keep them guessing?’ She was impressed.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Will you take me for a ride in your BMW?’

  ‘If you’re a good girl.’

  The lights of the town had fallen behind and below them. Parrott turned left, into a narrow steep lane. He noted an isolated cottage, completely in darkness, with Wiihins House written on the gate, and an estate agent’s For Sale board lying on the ground, a victim of the prevalent winds. ‘So ’ow old are you?’ he asked.

  She leant towards him, provocatively pursing her lips and feeling her breasts dangle against the front of her blouse. ‘’Ow old would you like me to be?’ she whispered, in a way that she thought was seductive.

  There was a clearing at the side of the road, housing a large mound of road salt, left over from a mild winter. Parrott parked the car behind the heap and switched off the engine and lights. ‘I asked you your fuckin’ age,’ he growled.

  Nicky giggled. ‘My fuckin’ age?’ she mimicked. ‘My fuckin’ age is sixteen, but I ’aven’t seen that many Christmasses.’

  ‘So ’ow many ’ave you seen?’

  She didn’t like being asked her age. ‘Fifteen,’ she admitted. ‘What difference does it make?’

  Parrott’s hand was on her shoulder, his thumb roughly flicking back and forth across her cheek. ‘None,’ he told her. ‘Get in the back seat.’

  He needed a pee, so he walked over to the pile of salt and relieved himself into it, the steaming stream of urine carving a deep canyon in the pink crystals. Nicky climbed over into the back of the car. She removed the waistcoat and her shoes and waited for him to return, wondering how much she should sting him for.

  He climbed in with her, throwing his jacket over the back of the seat and unzipping his jeans. Bloody hell, he don’t hang about, thought Nicky, as he started to strip her.

  Shawn Parrott, failed soldier, drug pusher and murderer, never knew what he had in his hands. Nicky was the best thing that nearly happened to him, but he threw it all away. He strangled her, and when she was dead he violated her body like all the others before him; on the back seat of a Ford, in a layby, with the moon blazing brightly, then fading away, as the rainclouds fled across its face.

  I decided not to see Kevin over the weekend, after all. The M62 to Hull was becoming a hair shirt to me. I drove over on Tuesday, instead, in the Transit.

  ‘False alarm,’ I told him, with my broadest smile.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Customs got lucky. They used a sniffer dog, and a bag had burst. Arrested everyone, but they’ll have to let them go. The captain’s Russian, but he speaks no English and doesn’t know a thing. Lot of money down the drain.’ It sounded convincing to me. ‘Trouble is,’ I continued, ‘my lords and masters have decided to cool things for a while, so I’m in the same boat as you, Kevin, old pal. Looks as if I’ll have to do some freelancing, or the Jag’ll have to go back. It’s a bit risky, though.’

  Kevin looked what I took to be thoughtful. Less blank than usual. He said: ‘I could maybe ’ave a word with someone, if you like?’

  I shrugged. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ I declared.

  ‘Where can I get you?’

  ‘You can’t, unless you leave a message at Merlin.’ I pointed to the van, with the swooping bird of prey that I’d painted years ago. The telephone number was written underneath it. ‘It’d be a shame to lose business now,’ I told him. ‘Prices will be sky-high, and the Customs will be feeling over-confident. Should be a piece of cake.’

  Kevin looked puzzled. Things like that never crossed his mind. ‘Yeah. Just what I thought. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Cheers.’ I wrote the number down for him.

  Christmas Day fell in late March that year. Early on Thursday morning Annabelle’s plane landed at Heathrow. She caught the shuttle up to Leeds and Bradford Airport and I was there to meet it.

  I was the only person waiting at the Arrivals exit. There was no sudden flood of self-conscious holidaymakers in Bermuda shorts and silly hats; just a trickle of po-faced businesswomen and men, carrying bulging briefcases and heavier newspapers. And a tall lady in jeans and Stewart Grainger jacket who looked ridiculously healthy compared to her fellow travellers.

  She let go of her suitcase and threw her arms around my neck, nearly throttling me. I squeezed the rest of her to me.

  ‘I’ve missed you, Charles,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve lost weight,’ I observed. I kissed her on the lips, and told her that I’d missed her, too.

  It was a bright spring day, but the breeze had been sharpened by the polar icecap. When we reached the automatic doors I put her suitcase down and told her to wait inside while I fetched the car. I sprinted across to where I’d left the E-type and drove it to the front of the terminal.

  We were well on the way home before the power of speech returned to her. ‘I didn’t think you would buy it,’ she admitted.

  ‘Good. I like to keep people guessing.’

  ‘Maybe you are not the old fuddy-duddy that I thought.’

  I looked across to check for the dimples in her cheeks. They were there – she was teasing me.

  ‘I have two weaknesses,’ I told her. ‘Wimmin ’n’ cars. I like ’em fast and flashy.’

  ‘Then you should be well content.’

  I nodded. ‘Yep, I think I am. Well content.’

  We were at her home in about forty minutes. Everything was intact, with the usual pile of mail inside the door. The only letter of interest was from Tom Noon, asking her to go for a formal interview on the following Saturday.

  ‘So you haven’t got the job yet?’ I asked.

  ‘No, there are probably lots of other applicants. I must be in with a good chance, though.’

  ‘A dead cert, if he’s any sense.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

  We had a cup of tea, then I left her to have a shower and catch up on her rest. At the door I suggested we went for a meal in the evening. As usual, she volunteered to cook something.

  ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘We’ll go out. There’s a new vegetarian restaurant in town. Shall we try that? Unless, of course, you have a craving for a T-bone.’

  She looked surprised. ‘Vegetarian is fine by me, but what about you? Won’t you develop rickets or something if you are deprived of your daily dose of roast beef and Yorkshire pud?’

  ‘Mmm, possibly, but I’m fed up of eating meat. Let’s have a change. Then you can tell me all about Africa.’

  * * *

  The beeper on my ansaphone was going. I pressed the button and heard Eric Dobson’s recorded voice asking me to contact him at Merlin Couriers.

  ‘Somebody called Kevin has been after you, Charlie,’ Eric told me when I called him. ‘Wants you to give him a ring. I told him you were on the South Coast run, but that I’d try to raise you.’

  ‘Fantastic, well done.’

  I timed the radio to a pop music station and turned the volume up high. Kevin was in.

  ‘I’m on my mobile,’ I yelled into the phone, over the din of the music. I said it, I really said it. I couldn’t resist saying it again: ‘It’s Charlie, I’m on my mobile. I’m just outside – er – London. What do you want?’

  Kevin had watched too much TV. He said: ‘Hello, Charlie, this is control. We’ve another run for you, if you can get back in time. Friday night, OK?’

  I entered into the spirit of it. ‘Message understood, control,’ I told him. ‘Will comply. Over and out.’ I was sitting on the floor, close to the radio. I clicked it off and did a backward roll, jumping to my feet and shouting, ‘Yes!’

  The meal was enjoyable, but it would’ve had to be pretty awful not to be. Annabelle told me all about the poverty and deprivation she had witnessed, and the overwhelming optimism of the people. She’d taken her photographs and was looking forward to seeing the results. I’d been worried about the danger, but she assured me that the onl
y threat had come from a military attaché with amorous intentions, and she’d soon discouraged him. The influence of the tobacco barons was everywhere, she claimed. Their stranglehold on the countries was twofold – economic and narcotic. She was animated and enthusiastic as she related her story, and I wished I’d gone with her. Africa was obviously my chief rival for her affections, and I wasn’t happy that it was a fair contest. Maybe next time I’d have to go, for I felt sure there would be a next time.

  I told her about my new cottage, and she wanted to see it. I briefly mentioned the drug smugglers, making them sound like the Famous Five, and said I would be on duty over the weekend, ‘Just on observations, on the ferry to Holland.’ I said I was working part-time. Annabelle needed to write a lengthy report, so wasn’t too disappointed that I would be away for a couple of days. I wanted to stay the night with her, but didn’t suggest it, and she didn’t invite me to.

  Kevin gave me a sports bag of indeterminate make and told me to put a few things in it that I might need over the weekend. ‘Towel, sweater, that sort of thing. We’ll swap it over there for one with the goods.’ He had an identical one.

  ‘Where’s “over there”?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  ‘What are “the goods”?’

  ‘Only shit, this time. It’s a practice run. Good stuff, though – Ukrainian gold, it’s called.’

  ‘How much are they paying us?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty quid each.’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty lousy quid! You gotta be joking!’

  He looked devastated. ‘C’mon, Charlie,’ he protested. ‘I stuck my neck out for you. It’s all arranged.’

  I gave him my morose look and hooked the bag over my shoulder. ‘OK, I’ll do it this time. For you, Kevin, because I’m grateful. But I want to talk money with someone before we go again. Understood?

  ‘Right, Charlie. Right. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

  We made our separate ways to the docks, pretending that we didn’t know each other. I suppose it lessened the risk of us both being caught, but I couldn’t see much point in it – there were plenty of men travelling in small groups, as well as the usual couples and families. This time I didn’t enjoy the meal and the airline seat was even less comfortable.