The Crew

by Bali Rai

  Nanny kept his cool and asked the Asian kid which way the man had gone and whether he’d seen Jas. The kid, who was shaking by now, said that the man who gave him the letter had just driven off in a black car. He hadn’t seen anyone else. Nanny told the kid to get lost and turned to face me and Will, both of us fuming.

  ‘Tek Life will be here in a minute. We best find Busta quick time.’

  ‘I’m gonna break his neck when we do,’ said Will. He meant it too.

  ‘I’d better let Mum know,’ I said, but Nanny told me to leave it for a while.

  ‘Mek we get dat bwoi first,’ he said, meaning Busta.

  We stood in silence, waiting for Nanny’s friend. Will was pacing, one way and then another, finally walking over to the door of the community centre and unleashing a punch so powerful that it cracked the wood. At the same time he let out a grunt, then calmly walked back over to us. He stared at me and Nanny, a look of madness and rage glinting in his eyes. ‘That’s it,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Somebody’s got to pay.’

  thirty-two:

  wednesday, 10 p.m.

  TEK LIFE SHOWED up in a BMW with blacked-out windows. The electric whirr of his window gave way to clouds of smoke from his spliff as he grinned a gold-toothed smile at us. A deep, rolling bass line provided him with a mobile soundtrack. ‘Irie, Nanny – what up, man?’

  ‘Bad t’ings a gwan, y’know. Busta and him boss have one of we yout’ dem.’

  Tek Life looked at me and Will. ‘Well, you best get in, my yout’s.’

  The drive to Busta’s yard took about ten minutes. His actual house wasn’t in the ghetto but on a predominantly white estate on the other side of the ring road. Tek Life’s car was like a death trap for asthmatics, the thick, acrid smoke of his spliff making my eyes water. But I didn’t mind too much. I didn’t care in fact. My mind was racing with possibilities and probabilities about who had Jas and what they would do to him. I was gutted. First Ellie and now Jas – by the same people – the people who had beaten Sally and killed Claire. I wasn’t too comfortable about not telling Jas’s mum either. We had to. What if something happened to him? She wouldn’t ever forgive us if Jas got badly hurt and she found out that we had held back. I wanted to talk to Nanny, but he was busy telling Will why his friend had the nickname that he had.

  ‘See, my man here – his real name Patrick but in the dance we call him Tek Life.’

  ‘Why? What does Tek Life mean anyway?’

  ‘Exactly what it say nuh, man. Him take life.’

  Will suddenly looked all scared. ‘What, he’s a murderer?’

  Tek Life let out a low, rumbling laugh that sounded like an earthquake.

  ‘No, man.’ Nanny grinned. ‘See, Patrick was lazy back in those days. He used to jus’ sit ’pon the stage and never dance until his favourite tune play. And then – man, yuh could never stop him. Him jump up and throw out him legs and him arms like a ninja.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Will still looked none the wiser.

  ‘And the selector – what de yout’ man call the DJ nowadays – him know exactly which tune Patrick did love. So every time he play dem tune, him shout out, “Patrick? TEK LIFE!’”

  ‘And the name stuck,’ grinned Patrick. ‘Like superglue.’

  I let them talk, understanding that for both Will and Nanny talking about something, anything, stopped them from doing what I was doing – running things over and over in my head. Driving myself spare. Who was to say which method was the right one in dealing with what had happened to Jas? Certainly not me.

  We drove back through the ghetto, past dealers on street corners and takeaways and working girls. Every so often a police car would float past us and the occupants would scrutinize Patrick’s car, wondering who was driving it and to what end. There were kerb-crawlers slowing our progress through the streets and stupid kids riding out in front of the car on mountain bikes sprayed in garish yellows and greens. Outside a small mosque, a group of Muslim men were talking, while across the road from them an Asian youth stood with a mobile in each hand, taking orders and making deals. We crossed the front-line area and as the car passed a couple of the alleyways that ran from it, crack dealers emerged from the shadows, removing their merchandise from its hiding place in their mouths, thinking that we were looking for a rock or two.

  I had seen a play on the telly once – a version of Dante’s Inferno – and I wondered what the writer would have made of my area after dark, when all the creeps came out to play. My mood was hardly alleviated by the music playing on Patrick’s car stereo either. Dread reggae music warning vampires and evil-doers to beware of an impending Armageddon, all underscored by powerful, hypnotic bass notes and crashing cymbals. The smoke from Patrick’s spliff was putting me in a daze, making my mind wander from pillar to post without finding a single coherent thought.

  I could hear Nanny and Patrick talking but I wasn’t actually listening to them. I was wondering how Busta would react when we got to his place – assuming that he was at home, that is. I wished we were already there instead of on the way because the tension inside my body was building and my stomach was churning again. I hadn’t eaten anything since I had found out about Claire so there was nothing to throw up, but the feeling of nausea was far more unsettling than the actual act of puking, which was at least a release. Yet when Nanny broke my thoughts by telling me that we had reached the street where Busta lived, I suddenly remembered something that my teachers at school always said to me, whenever I told them that I hated the place and didn’t want to be there. They told me to be careful what I wished for. If I had thought that my tense feeling would disappear when we got to Busta’s, I was wrong. It got worse.

  Busta lived in a low-rise council block. Patrick told us that one of his girlfriends lived in the same block so he knew it well and could get us in, even though it had a key-card entry system for added security. ‘My gal give me a spare card so I can check for her any time,’ he said with another toothy grin.

  We got out of his car and waited whilst he went to the boot to get something. He returned with a sledgehammer about a metre long and encrusted with dried concrete. I just looked at him.

  ‘Don’t you think we’ll be a touch conspicuous if you’re carrying that?’ Will pointed at the sledgehammer.

  Patrick just grinned on. ‘Nuh worry yuhself. I ain’t never had no bother before.’

  Before? I didn’t even want to guess at what Tek Life did for a living. Man, how did Nanny know all these dodgy blokes?

  We made our way to a door beyond which was a dimly lit stairwell and Patrick ran a plastic card about the size of a credit card through a machine on the wall. The red light on the machine changed to green and the sound of bolts unlocking echoed in the stairwell. He pushed the reinforced glass door open and ushered us inside. Taking the lead, he ran up the steps two at a time as we made for the top floor.

  ‘Ronnie tol’ me that him live in twenty-t’ree,’ explained Nanny as we hit the top floor and walked down a dimly lit corridor. ‘Seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one. Ah! We have it nuh, man.’

  Flat twenty-three had a dirty, yellowing door. From within the thumping bass of a garage tune could be felt. Nanny put his finger to his lips, asking us to keep quiet, something that I found very strange considering that Busta had his music on so loud. That, and of course the fact that we were about to break his door down with a sledgehammer. Better not sneeze, I thought to myself. We might alert him to our presence.

  Nanny put his ear to the door and then gestured for Patrick to swing his hammer. The door broke open with one swing and a thunderous crack. Nanny went flying through, followed by Patrick and then Will. I looked up and down the corridor, checking to see if anyone would come out to see what the noise was. No one did, which in itself said something about the area we were in.

  Inside Nanny ran through a living room and headed for a door to the left of it, a door that had just slammed shut. He shoulder barged it open as the rest of us followed. I was the last one into B
usta’s bedroom and in the time it took me to get through the door, Nanny and Patrick had already got Busta in a hold and had him pushed against his own bed. Busta was wearing a leather outfit, trousers and shirt, with gold dripping from his neck – ghetto not-so-fabulous. His face, light brown and freckled, was screwed up – looking for an explanation. Some UK garage stars were singing about how no one knew about their crew and I thought about how Busta didn’t know about ours – he was in shock, man, struggling underneath Nanny. He was going nowhere.

  I looked around the room. In one corner, next to the bed, was a table. On it was a plastic money bag full of white powder. Patrick left Busta to Nanny and went over to the table, picking up the bag. He sniffed the contents, then dipped in his finger, tasting it. Grinning again, he turned to Busta, who was still wriggling. ‘You are temporarily out of business,’ he told him, pocketing the bag.

  Underneath the table I spotted another bag, a bigger one – a black nylon holdall, just like the one that Will and Jas had found. I went over and grabbed it. Inside was a large amount of money. The second bag. I turned to the others. ‘It’s the rest of the money,’ I told them.

  Nanny let Busta sit up but kept his head in an armlock.

  ‘Bwoi, yuh not very clever,’ said Patrick, pointing at the bag. ‘Yuh could’ a try to hide de money at least. Is what kinda criminal yuh call yuhself?’

  ‘Look like yuh have a lickle explainin’ to do, man. Where we friend at?’ added Nanny.

  Busta struggled a bit more, stopping when he realized it was useless. Nanny had him strong. He swore.

  ‘Hush yuh mout’, bwoi!’ shouted Nanny, in a tone that I had never heard him use. Man, it scared me. Lord only knows what it did to the state of Busta’s boxer shorts.

  Patrick leaned into Busta’s face and then pulled some gold from his neck in a sudden movement. He looked at the chains and smiled. ‘Busta, I think it’s time you told us what a gwan, yes? An’ quickly. Where de kid at?’

  Busta swore again. Patrick slapped him. Busta spat blood.

  Nanny looked at me. ‘Call Rita,’ he told me, handing me his brick again. I didn’t need telling twice. ‘Tell her about Jas – and tell her to call de Babylon. We bringin’ dem a nonce, man.’

  At the mention of the police, Busta started to struggle again, kicking out his legs like a dying fly. From nowhere Will flew in with a punch that took out two of Busta’s teeth. ‘You best hope my man is OK,’ he told a distraught Busta. ‘Or there’s only you and me gonna square it. And I ain’t in the mood to play no more,’ he finished, just as my mum answered the phone.

  thirty-three:

  wednesday 11 p.m.

  ‘WHERE IS HE? Where?’

  Jas’s mum was waiting for us by the time we got back to the house. She opened the door to us in tears, grabbing hold of Nanny.

  ‘Where is he, Nanny?’

  Nanny looked at his feet. ‘Me nuh know. He was gonna meet us by the centre but him never show up.’

  ‘Oh God!’ She turned to me and Will.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her. ‘We thought he was coming to meet us after kick boxing but . . . we just got this . . .’ I handed her the note and she burst into fresh tears.

  My mum was standing behind Jas’s mum. She looked really angry, making me wish I had just called the police straight after the Asian kid had told us his news. Patrick had stayed in his car, keeping an eye on Busta, who he had tied up with some electrical wire, and staying out of DI Elliot’s way.

  The kitchen felt like a railway station waiting room with so many faces sitting around the table, waiting for something that wasn’t about to arrive. Ellie and her parents were there, along with Della and Sue. There was a policeman in uniform and next to him Lucy Elliot, wearing the sort of look that suggested we were in a lot of trouble. She gestured for the uniform to go outside.

  ‘Where is this Busta?’

  ‘He’s in the car,’ I told her, looking at Nanny.

  ‘And he’s talking, is he?’

  Nanny nodded. ‘Yeah, yuh could say that.’

  ‘Meaning what exactly?’ Elliot eyed Nanny and then me with the kind of suspicious look that only a copper can give you.

  ‘Him tell we everything. ’Bout kidnap and drugs and ting.’ Nanny shrugged as he finished speaking as if to say, ‘It’s up to you what you do now.’

  Elliot turned to the uniform. ‘Right, get PC Raines from the car and take the suspect down to Central.’

  ‘Yes, ma’ am,’ replied the young copper, with genuine fear in his face. He looked scared of Elliot.

  It was only when she looked at me that I realized why. Her eyes were blazing. Not looking at the PC, she told him what to charge Busta with. ‘Kidnap, attempted murder and murder,’ she said, as though each thing meant nothing to her.

  ‘Yuh want I fe get de bwoi from de car, miss?’ asked Nanny, actually being polite.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Elliot. ‘And then I’d like to see all three of you and your friend with the car in your living room, if you don’t mind.’

  The last part was directed at my mum, who nodded. ‘Be my guest, Lucy,’ she said. Lucy? So my mum was getting friendly with the Babylon now? Talk about loyalty. The look on my face was a big mistake. My mum spat out her words. ‘And you, Billy, can keep your views to yourself. I can’t believe you didn’t phone the police straight away.’

  ‘But Mum – I was going to—’

  ‘Just get in that living room and be grateful that you haven’t been arrested. Yet,’ she said, turning away.

  ‘Arrested for what?’ asked Will, looking directly at Elliot.

  She didn’t even blink. ‘How about obstructing a police investigation for starters?’ she said.

  ‘Get stuffed, man! Without us, you wouldn’t have nothing. Man, we just went and got you the effin’ suspect, you dutty . . .’

  ‘William! Shut up!’ My mum’s voice cut through the room and shut Will up.

  ‘Without you and your pretend detective friends we wouldn’t have a missing young man either,’ added Elliot.

  I looked at my mum, then at Jas’s and over to Ellie and Della, who were surprisingly quiet, especially Della. No support from anywhere. I turned to Elliot. ‘Listen, Babylon – we didn’t kidnap no one and we didn’t kill no one and we sure as hell ain’t to blame for this mess, all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ replied Elliot sincerely. ‘I just need to know exactly what has been going on. This is a murder enquiry – not to mention another abduction.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you had better speak to one of your colleagues.’

  ‘If you are talking about DI Ratnett, I know. Your mother told me.’

  I looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Ratnett has been under investigation for six months. We know about him,’ she continued.

  ‘What? And you just let him carry on?’ asked Will. ‘Instead of using him to catch his boss?’

  Elliot sighed and her face softened. ‘We think Ratnett is the boss,’ she said.

  Everyone in the room suddenly sat up and listened.

  ‘He’s the man your friend Busta works for. He’s behind it all.’

  Nanny walked back into the kitchen as Elliot spoke. He looked at her. ‘My associate haffe leave to go a work,’ he told her, talking about Tek Life. ‘But I have de money here.’ He handed the nylon bag over to Elliot.

  She raised an eyebrow and then shrugged.

  ‘It’s Ratnett – the policeman,’ said Ellie’s dad, in Nanny’s direction. ‘That’s who’s behind all of this. Was it him who kidnapped Ellie too?’

  Nanny shook his head. ‘No, Brian – Sally told Billy it was Busta organize the kidnap – some man him know.’

  ‘And where is this man now?’ asked Elliot.

  ‘Him gone. Busta coulda tell yuh where him deh.’

  Nanny’s reply confused Elliot – which he saw and then corrected.

  ‘Busta-can-tell-yuh-where-the-man-is,’ he reiterated s-l-o-w-l-y.

  Jas’s mum start
ed to cry again, hugging my mum, as Elliot brushed her hands down the skirt she was wearing. She took out her mobile and rang someone. Her boss. She spoke for a few moments, telling whoever was on the other end of the line about Jas and Busta and everything else we had told her.

  ‘I’ve sent the suspect in for questioning,’ she said. The voice on the other end was male and loud. ‘Yes, sir, I’ve arranged for that. Only yourself and the Chief are allowed near him.’ There was more of the loud male voice. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll call back in twenty minutes. With all due respect, sir, I think I can handle things my end.’

  She flipped her phone shut just as her boss began to reply and turned to face me and Will. Putting the phone in her bag she mouthed the word ‘wanker’ to us, meaning her boss, smiled and then asked us to follow her into the living room. Nanny came with us. Behind me my mum was still comforting Jas’s mum and Ellie had started sobbing. I couldn’t believe what was going on – it was surreal, like one of those dreams where everyone you know is part of the action but the actual situation makes no sense. My mum’s house was like the drop-in centre and police interview room. The coppers were the criminals and me, Will and Nanny were the detectives. And to top it all, Della hadn’t gone mad and Ellie wasn’t talking about random stuff. It had to be a dream.

  Between myself, Nanny and Will, we managed to tell DI Elliot everything that had happened. We told her about the money, the first kidnap, the assault on Jas, the warnings, everything. We told her about how Claire had used Sally as a go-between to tell us where Ellie was being held and how there had been a second bag of money which we had found at Busta’s – the bag Nanny had brought in. I explained my visit to Sally and how she had told me all about Busta and his scam. Elliot was upset at that because she had tried to get Sally to talk and hadn’t managed it.

  ‘She doesn’t trust the police,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t really blame her, can you?’ added Della with a large dollop of sarcasm.

  Elliot just shrugged. ‘Like I said before, Billy. There’s good and bad police.’ It was a bad move on her part.