by Nicky Black
‘She’s sixteen, man, how did that happen?’ Jed asked, looking through the glass of the doors where Barry headed up a long line of girls winding their way around the hall to the ‘Locomotion’.
Tommy followed his eyes. ‘We’ll be more careful, all right?’ he said. He was already careful. The number of kids being turned away from his raves was growing, some of them not even teenagers yet, desperate to know what their older brothers and sisters had been up to when they snuck back into the house at breakfast time, buzzing like sparklers on Bonfire Night. But Jed’s face was still bleak. ‘Howay, mate, what’s up?’ Tommy gave him a nudge with his elbow.
‘Nowt,’ said Jed, looking away.
‘Tell Uncle Tommy.’
‘Fuck off, perve.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Tommy, slapping him on the arm.
Jed couldn’t help but grin. ‘Honestly, it’s nowt,’ he said, his face flushing. ‘There’s this lass …’
Tommy frowned humorously. ‘Have you been dumped?’
As if, Jed’s face said. ‘She’s just playing hard to get,’ he explained.
‘Must’ve found out about your huffs.’
‘Very funny,’ smirked Jed. He put his face up to the glass of the door again, and Tommy put his cheek next to his.
‘What time does it finish?’ he asked.
‘Seven-thirty, why?’
They had their planning meeting at nine o’clock in The Crown, their favourite drinking hole on the Quayside. And there was the question of Jimmy Lyric’s ability to create arseholes where they weren’t needed.
Tommy flattened his nose against the glass, eyes on the decks.
‘Nah, nah, nah. Howay, Tommy, not Darren,’ said Jed, pulling him away from the doors. The decks at the youth centre had just been replaced after a recent burglary. They were new, they were state-of-the-art. Technics. It wasn’t as if Darren had paid for them himself, they were covered by the council’s insurance, so the Government had coughed up, and Tommy reckoned the Tories owned him one.
Jed’s frown was full of warning. ‘Touch those decks, and you’re dead,’ he said, and he pushed open the doors and made his way back to equipment that would be in the hands of Jimmy Lyric by eight-thirty whether Jed liked it or not, the window to the toilets jemmied open a few minutes after Darren pulled away in his car. Tommy needed Jimmy on Saturday. Jimmy had contacts, a generator, and he was the best MC this side of the Pennines.
Inside the hall, Tommy joined the back of the long line of girls, waving to Jed, but Jed had his eye on the next record. He held the vinyl up to the light before placing it on the turntable and pushing up the sliders on the mixer. Even from this distance, Tommy could see the glint in his friend’s eyes.
The rasping refrain of Black Box pounded from the speakers, Jed’s head flipping forward in time to the beat, teeth biting at his bottom lip. Tommy whooped and threw his arms up, palms pushing upwards with the rhythm. Barry joined him and soon even the boys surrounded him, faces serious as they concentrated on copying Tommy’s moves: big fish, little fish, cardboard box.
He felt Darren’s eyes stinging his neck but fuck him. Fuck Peach, fuck Smartie, fuck Denise, fuck them all. He had a right to dance to the music he wanted to dance to. No such thing as society? Fine. They’d made their own, and, for one night a week, it was Heaven.
***
Tommy caught sight of Jed and Frankie sitting on stools at their usual table by the cigarette machine in The Crown. The pub was lively, the music barely audible over the sound of raised laughter and chatter. Tommy was almost an hour late, Darren wanting to stay behind and chat about his plans for a job club for young people on the estate, Tommy eventually wheeling the decks in a shopping trolley all the way to Jimmy’s house in Arthur’s Hill. No one batted an eyelid.
His friends looked bored as hell as he approached, and Jed raised his hands in exasperation.
‘Here, man, sit down,’ he ordered, ‘and don’t ever leave me alone with this man again. He’s got nee patter.’
‘I’ll remember that next time you want a lift,’ sniffed Frankie.
Tommy pulled up a stool and sat next to Jed, taking a sip from the Coke that had already been bought for him. ‘What the fuck’s that?’ Tommy pointed at a brown leather satchel at Jed’s feet. ‘You going back to school or what?’
Frankie grinned. ‘It’s a bag,’ he said, ‘for a man.’
‘A man’s bag?’ Tommy’s face was a spectacle.
‘It’s called style,’ said Jed, who appeared oddly distracted.
Frankie chuckled. ‘You big puff.’
Jed wasn’t listening, his eyes, all round and moony, fixed on a spot in the distance. Tommy followed his eye line to the bar and recognised the woman with the cheekbones and sleek black hair from the storeroom at the rave. She was an unusually tall woman of around Frankie’s age, sipping a glass of wine and ignoring Jed.
‘Bit different, isn’t she? Name’s Shona.’ Jed pronounced the name with affectation. ‘She’s spiritual. Into all that afterlife shit. She can hypnotise anyone.’
‘Hadaway and shite,’ said Tommy.
‘It’s true, I’ve seen it!’ insisted Jed. She’d been at Phutures the night before, he said. All over him, couldn’t get enough of him. Then she’d hypnotised the barman, and they’d got a free drink.
‘Looks like she’s had enough of you now,’ said Frankie, puffing out his chest as he raised his pint to his mouth.
Jed sneered at him. ‘What would you know about it, Francis Rossi?’
‘Talented man,’ said Frankie, nodding slowly, not insulted in the least.
Tommy picked up his rucksack, pulling out a handful of crumpled sheets of paper. He lay them flat on the table. What had started out as a to-do list now resembled the musings of a mad man.
‘When’s the rest of the cash coming?’ demanded Jed, frowning at the list.
‘First things first,’ said Tommy.
‘Err, no. Cash first, bookings later.’
‘Are you gonna trust me, or what?’
Jed pulled a cynical face and focused on the bar once more.
‘Right,’ Tommy ran his fingers down the list. ‘Jed. Dancers. There’s auditions tomorrow at the Tyne Theatre for some musical shite.’ He looked up, slapped Jed on the arm, and Jed turned his attention from Shona to the paper on the table, eyeing it with a confused frown and a tiny smile Tommy couldn’t quite decipher. ‘I want professionals, no charvers,’ said Tommy. ‘Take Frankie with you.’
‘Eh? Howay!’ Jed threw his arms in the air.
‘He might be an ugly get, but he can dance.’
Frankie grinned with a wise nod of the head.
‘Coaches?’ Tommy’s eyes were back on his list.
‘I’ll need cash for the deposits,’ said Frankie. ‘And we’ll need shed loads of water. I’ll store it at the works.’
‘Good man,’ said Tommy, and he awaited Jed’s childish response to the praise, but Jed’s eyes were hooked on Shona who was now reeling him in like a fresh-water fish.
Tommy looked back his scrawls, turning the paper sideways so he could read his jumbled notes. He grimaced, berating himself for not being more organised. It didn’t come naturally to him. Not like Jed.
He pressed on anyway, Frankie nodding and agreeing to whatever was allocated his way.
‘Generators,’ said Tommy, facing Jed.
‘You’d love this lass,’ Jed mused in response, his chin resting on his knuckles. ‘She’s into all that Space Generation stuff – time travel, parallel universes. She’s trying to get a show on at the City Hall.’
Tommy wondered if Shona had hypnotised Jed, turned him into proper boyfriend material, which would be nice for him at some point, but Tommy could do with his real friend back right now.
‘Mebbies she was abducted,’ said Frankie, winking at Tommy.
‘Aye,’ replied Jed. ‘That would explain lots of things.’
Tommy was just about losing it. ‘Well, go and talk
to her about fucking aliens!’
‘I don’t fuck aliens,’ said Jed, mesmerised.
‘Only ’coz they haven’t landed yet.’
Frankie howled, and Tommy put his hands to his head in distraction. They had four days, and he needed Jed to be on the ball. He pulled his fingers over his eyes, pushing so hard he could see a kaleidoscope of white lights. As he whined in frustration, he heard something clatter onto the table through the din of raised voices. He peeked through his fingers at a clip board, a piece of white paper attached containing neat tables and coloured stickers, dates, times, and contacts, tasks and timelines. He frowned at Jed who was putting his man-bag back onto the floor, a sly grin on his face as he sat up straight and nodded down at the clipboard.
‘Project management, my friend,’ he said.
***
It was closing time and Jed and Frankie had had a skin full. Tommy’s glass of Coke had lasted him all night as usual. No one questioned or expected a round from him.
With Jed’s meticulous inventory of tasks guiding him, Tommy had doled out the orders, and Smartie’s two thousand pounds was distributed in a toilet cubicle, away from thieving eyes, the three of them squashed in, trying not to touch each other in the wrong places. Every penny was to be accounted for – sale or return, each task costed to the penny. Various scenarios even showed potential profit ranges.
Frankie’s eyes had bulged at the highest income forecast of eighty thousand pounds, Tommy staying quiet about the fact that half of it would be going to Paul Smart.
Tommy leant into the cigarette machine now, arms folded, smiling at his friends, drunk and happy. As they staggered to their feet, Jed took a small card from his back pocket and held it up.
‘Youth Club’s cash and carry card,’ he said with a lop-sided grin.
Tommy grabbed at it. ‘I fucking love you.’
‘Ooooohh!’ said Frankie, camping it up.
Jed snatched it back, leant into Tommy and slurred, ‘Just another few grand up front, and I’m all yours, baby.’ He pointed the card at Tommy’s chest. ‘If there’s no more cash, mate, I’m out.’
Tommy made to speak, but Jed held up a hand.
‘I know. I trust you,’ he said.
Tommy quickly threw off the sense of unease that made the hairs rise on his arms. Not only was Jed the organised one, but Tommy simply couldn’t imagine doing it without him. It was their enterprise; they did it together. That’s just how it was.
‘What’s this lad, Frankie?’ he said, putting his arm around Jed’s shoulders.
‘Fanny magnet,’ said Frankie, no one mentioning that Shona had left the pub without him.
‘Nar, he’s a brick,’ said Tommy, pulling Jed towards him. ‘A fucking wall!’
‘The three amigos!’ Frankie cried. Then he paused, held out his arms, his expression one of drunken affection. ‘In the words of our kinsman, Knopfler,’ his arms stretched wider. ‘Brothers in arms.’
Frankie moved in for a hug, but Jed held him back with his outstretched hand.
‘You, mate, have got enough brothers to sink a ship, so back off.’
‘Aye,’ nodded Frankie, ‘but they’re all off at university, or at their bloody jobs. Black sheep, me.’
Jed grinned and pointed a finger at him. ‘That’s because you’re adopted.’
‘Pack it in,’ said Tommy, pulling Jed away.
‘Actually,’ said Frankie, his eyes suddenly forlorn. ‘Me mam did say something about the rag-and-bone man.’ After a moment, his face spread into a wide smile and he belly laughed, leaning back with his hands on his round stomach. Jed joined him, and Tommy couldn’t help but smile. He pulled them towards the door of the pub, Frankie giving one of his all-star Northern Soul spins as they passed Hadgy Dodds, who Tommy grabbed by the arm and led down the steps onto the Quayside to talk about the supply of security while Jed hovered at the edge of the pavement watching the river, Frankie stumbling off to fetch his latest car.
‘Twenty men?’ Hadgy creased his huge brow. ‘This Saturday?’ He shook his head. ‘Depends if there’s a match on.’
‘Well, is there?’ Tommy was no lover of football.
Hadgy thought for a minute. ‘Nope.’
‘Twenty-five, then, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Must be a big do, is it?’
‘The biggest,’ said Tommy, with a slap on Hadgy’s back, ‘and the best.’
He was all pumped up, ready to face Paul Smart and relieve him of some more cash – minimum two-and-a-half grand, though Tommy reckoned he should go in higher. Five maybe.
Tommy shook Hadgy’s mammoth hand and joined Jed at the edge of the pavement. They stood in silence for a while, Tommy deep in thought before he said, ‘Hey, what if he is adopted?’ Frankie was the only one in his family with the carrot top, and once his older siblings were gone, Frankie’s parents had fostered a dozen little worky-tickets. It was a long-shot, but possible.
‘Give over,’ growled Jed, as headlights appeared around the corner of one of the narrow roads that curved from the River Tyne up to the city centre. But the lights didn’t belong to Mr Miyagi, Frankie’s Nissan Sunny.
Tommy pulled Jed back as the wheels mounted the pavement, and the bumper of a gleaming black Range Rover pinned Hadgy against the wall. Tucker emerged stiffly from the vehicle and opened the boot of the car, pulling a large white suit bag from it, the words “Peach Surprise” written on it in what looked like red finger paint. Tommy tried and failed to shield the words from Jed, almost hearing Jed’s mind ticking backwards to Monday and the page from the Racing Post.
Dropping the bag to the ground, Tucker bent down to unzip it. The dog was all but decapitated, its teeth bared, its eyes bulging. Hadgy gagged into his palm and a few women leaving the pub shrieked.
Tucker straightened his back and faced Hadgy.
‘Mr Smart wants a refund by nine,’ he said.
WEDNESDAY
TOMMY
‘Rule number one. Never come to my house.’
Paul Smart wasn’t long out of bed, a short Japanese-print kimono gaping open at his smooth chest. Despite the early hour, his hair stood up in perfect symmetry and his icy blue eyes glistened harshly.
The houses on this side of the street were large and semi-detached, set some way back from the pavement, elevated above steep front gardens and drives. They had once housed the shipyards’ management, the great and the good, living high above the long lines of working men’s two-up, two-down terraces, most of which had been cleared to build Valley Park in the sixties: a new, modern way of living. Now, every other one of these houses was empty, unkempt, or burnt down; apart from Paul Smart’s, which stood behind ten-foot brick walls and an iron gate, two pit bull terriers adorning the plinths of the entrance to a drive which was home to Paul’s cars: a black Range Rover with tinted windows and a silver MG sports car that would have Frankie pissing himself if he ever got the chance to drive it.
Paul grabbed Tommy by the shoulder and pulled him inside. The house was large and spacious, Tommy’s footsteps echoing off the empty walls of a cavernous hallway. Two properties had been knocked into one, the heavy wooden door at its centre flanked by elaborate pillars. Paul had moved away from Valley Park at the earliest opportunity but stayed close enough to maintain control of his customers. He might have loathed the place, but the business opportunities were too great; as the jobs got scarcer, the people got poorer. All the better for financial gain.
Tommy followed Paul into the living room, bare of furniture other than a smoked glass coffee table and two leather swivel chairs that rested on a zebra-patterned rug. A mirrored bar, fronted with padded, black leather, hugged the corner of the room, its shelves lined with optics and sparkling crystal glasses. It was a world away from the bleakness of Tommy’s council house not twenty minutes up the road, and he felt dwarfed by its opulence.
‘What do you want?’ Paul stretched, reaching his fingers up to the ceiling, forcing Tommy to look away as the kimono ro
de up, threatening to expose more than was decent.
‘You said if I needed more money—’
‘What do you think I am, a fucking cash point?’ Paul’s arms fell in a gush of air.
‘Well, now you come to mention it.’ Tommy let out a nervous laugh, thinking better of it when he saw Paul’s poker-faced expression.
‘What’ve you done with the last lot?’
‘Deposits for the stage, dancers, DJs, got to get them sorted first.’
‘How many tickets you sold?’
Tommy screwed up his face. ‘It’s not the Theatre Royal, Smartie.’
‘Mister. Smart,’ said Paul, leaning forward, annunciating the words. ‘It’s not difficult.’ He was petulant, an expression of boredom across his face as he whined on. If it was cash on the door, he expected security to be tight so his profits didn’t go down the swanny, he said. What if twenty people turned up? Where was his return coming from then?
‘That’s it, see,’ said Tommy. He wasn’t used to seeing Paul Smart in a childish sulk; wasn’t quite sure which way it would go. ‘I need flyers, proper lighting, marquees. I only need another five grand.’ Tommy plastered on a smile, but Paul wasn’t mollified by his friendliness.
‘Five hundred per cent on any further loan.’
‘I’ll take it.’ Tommy held out his hand, unable to compute the figures in his head, and not wanting to spend any more time in Paul Smart’s volatile company than was necessary.
Paul breathed a sigh of extreme tedium. ‘Fair enough, but you’ll have to take it in kind.’ He ignored Tommy’s outstretched hand and ambled from the room in his bare feet before Tommy could ask what he meant.
Left alone, Tommy took the opportunity to soak up his surroundings. The room shone with minimalist glamour, and he imagined himself sprawled on a plush sofa with Sam, the kids tucked up in their own rooms, a home-cooked dinner sitting heavy in his expanding belly. He sidled up to the bar and ran his fingers over a bottle of champagne that lazed in a silver bucket.