The Rave: A gritty crime drama you won't want to put down (Valley Park Series Book 2)

by Nicky Black

  Peach fumbled in his pockets for the warrant; he still had time, he still had authorisation, but his pockets were empty. He scoured the ground frantically, his shoes crunching on broken glass as he searched, but the road and pavement were littered with debris – it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  He turned to face Tommy, and they remained still, the chopper pounding out its rhythm overhead. The stand-off was broken by the arrival of a woman in a long coat over a high-necked nightie, her hair in curlers under a scarf.

  She held Tommy’s shoulders with trembling fingers, shouting over the crackling of the burning house. ‘Tommy, love!’

  Tommy’s eyes remained on Peach. Why?

  ‘Where’s our Jed, Tommy?’

  Tommy shrugged.

  ‘He’s not here?’

  He shook his head.

  The woman looked relieved, then asked, ‘Are you hurt?’

  Tommy didn’t answer, and Peach watched her try to move him, but Tommy was resisting, eyes turning reluctantly away from Peach and onto his house.

  ‘Oh, Tommy, love,’ the woman said again. ‘Are Sam and the bairn safe?’

  Tommy nodded, and the woman lifted a hand to Tommy’s cheek. ‘Howay back to ours, then.’

  She was going to take him, and Peach’s eyes were back on the ground, but instead of the warrant he was searching for, he saw a pair of red Doctor Marten boots, laced up as far as they could be before they hit a pair of calves like shanks of meat. He looked back up into the face of Paul Smart’s bodyguard, his cheeks a gnarly criss-cross of black stitching, his thick body and the glint in his fierce eyes screaming, brute, bully. He was one of them – one of the lowlifes who thought they owned this city; men who thought they could get what they wanted through fear and violence, murder and corruption.

  ‘I’m here for Tommy,’ the man said, accent thick with Liverpool.

  Like hell. If anyone was taking Collins anywhere, it was Peach. He began to move away towards Tommy, who stood next to the woman in the nightie, staring at the bodyguard like a frightened rabbit.

  ‘Not without a warrant, pig.’

  Spinning around, he saw the man holding up a sheet of scorched paper in one hand and a cigarette lighter in the other. The flames took hold quickly, and the warrant blew from his hand in the hot, gusty wind of the burning house.

  As fire engines hurtled down the street, Peach felt his face fall into a snarl. He walked up to the scarred man, looked him up and down as if he were the lowest of the low, let his nostrils flare at the stench of him. ‘As if this place wasn’t bad enough,’ he growled.

  The man’s face twitched, his eyes flicking over Peach’s shoulder in Tommy’s direction. He wasn’t getting the message, and Peach towered over him, felt the spittle on his lips as he drew them back to reveal his teeth. ‘I said piss off, and crawl back to whatever stinking hole you came from.’

  Their eyes locked.

  ‘Now!’ Peach yelled.

  The man huffed a small, derisive laugh. ‘You’ll regret that,’ he said.

  ‘The only thing I regret is letting scum like you into this city.’

  The man’s face took on an expression of deep hatred, and he took a step back with another glance at Tommy, then he turned and walked away, the billowing smoke taking him within a few seconds.

  Turning back around, Peach found Collins’ relieved eyes back on his. They were glistening with tears and grit, but there was something else there too, Peach noticed: the deep, deep sorrow of someone who had lost everything.

  It was a look Mike Peach recognised all too well.

  FRIDAY

  TOMMY

  For a few blissful seconds, Tommy was in his own bed, Sam’s head on his chest, his feet sticking out the end of the sheet. His eyes swivelled in their sockets as he came too, reality punching him in the gut with the recollection of the night before: the riot, and Trevor Logan. His energy returned, Trevor had been at the rec at nine o’clock as planned with some older fella with a mean mouth and greedy eyes. But Tommy had arrived empty handed, and Trevor had spat at Tommy’s feet before telling him he was a useless fucker and storming off with his lacky in tow.

  Snapping his head sideways, he found Barry bending forward on a pouffe, reading Smash Hits magazine. Looking at his watch, Tommy noticed his blackened hands and realised he’d slept for ten hours on Betty’s sofa. He vaguely remembered lying down, Betty trying to persuade him to take off his clothes and have a wash, but that was the last thing he could recall.

  ‘Jed’s been bad,’ Barry said, looking up from his magazine. ‘Didn’t come home.’ He blinked at Tommy, tearfully. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  Tommy sat up and rubbed at his eyes, noticing the array of sheets marked with soot and dirt covering the sofa, armchairs, and the entire carpet.

  ‘He’s not dead, Barry,’ he reassured.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do, all right? It’s me, remember?’

  Barry smiled, his fear evaporating. Tommy’s word was Gospel. ‘Your face is proper black!’ Barry sprang from the pouffe and skipped towards the door, bumping into Betty who held a tray aloft. She let Barry past and came into the room, setting the tray down on the pouffe.

  Tommy looked hungrily at the pile of toast, stacked like a block of flats.

  ‘There’s someone here to see you,’ Betty said. ‘And God only knows where that son of mine is.’

  Tommy thanked her, and as she left the room, he peered at the door with a mixture of hope and fear, ready to tell Sam everything: he’d been a dickhead, and he would put it right, look for a proper job, grow his hair and dress like a wanker if he had to. But he knew there was little he could do to put it right now. The drugs were gone, and he didn’t blame Sam for getting rid of them.

  Eyes on the door, Tommy felt horribly alone. It was an odd feeling, like he’d been sucked into another dimension where he was invisible. Without Jed, he felt like he’d lost an arm; without Sam the other one was gone too, and the legs. He wouldn’t survive this limbless life without either of them.

  But instead of Sam’s face, Frankie’s appeared, his hamster cheeks full of Betty’s breakfast. Tommy’s heart sank a little, but he felt the relief of reprieve too.

  ‘Jesus!’ Frankie exclaimed. ‘You look like Oliver Twist!’

  Tommy rammed a half slice of toast into his mouth as Frankie strode in and raised a palm for a high-five.

  ‘Soul brother,’ Frankie said, grinning.

  That word again, and Tommy’s eyes searched Frankie’s face, looking for any sign of his own mother in it. He was no astronaut, but Frankie would be as good a brother as any. But he was clutching at straws and he knew it, and seeing nothing at all, he raised his hand weakly to receive Frankie’s palm.

  ‘All limbs accounted for.’ Frankie examined Tommy from a short distance. ‘Mind, you should hear some of the stories. People getting blown up, arms and legs landing in people’s gardens. Fucking Armageddon!’

  Tommy’s mouth was so dry, swallowing the toast made him grimace. ‘Have you seen Jed?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question all night, pet,’ Betty said, coming back into the living room holding a cup of tea and a small pile of Jed’s clothes. ‘You,’ she said to Tommy, ‘upstairs and get in the bath. You can take that with you.’ She indicated the toast and tea when Tommy’s hungry eyes widened. ‘But you’ll have to take them off here,’ she added, eying his filthy clothes. ‘And you,’ she pointed at Frankie, ‘don’t sit on anything, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Foster,’ said Frankie.

  Fifteen minutes later, Frankie stood at the bottom of the stairs as Tommy trotted down, Jed’s Beasty Boys T-shirt billowing around his waist, the football shorts hanging like a lamp shade around his skinny thighs.

  Frankie howled. ‘Thread legs!’ But his laughter was cut short as a key twisted in the lock and their attention turned to the front door.

  ‘Oh, thank Jesus!’ cried Betty, striding in
to the hallway.

  Dropping his key onto the console table, Jed closed the door behind him with his foot. Betty strode past Tommy and Frankie, took Jed’s chin in her hand, scouring his face. She spun him around and checked the back of him, then turned him back around to face her.

  ‘Mam!’ Jed hissed, pushing her hands away. ‘I’m fine, get off.’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ she demanded, ‘I’ve been worried sick!’

  ‘Nowhere,’ huffed Jed.

  ‘Not a thought for anybody. You could’ve been lying dead somewhere!’

  ‘I stayed at a mate’s. And what’s he doing here?’ He nodded at Tommy and made for the stairs, but Betty stopped him.

  ‘A mate’s? A mate’s?!’ she said. ‘Here’s your mates; they didn’t know where you were either!’

  ‘I’m twenty-two years old!’ Jed bellowed at her.

  ‘Not yet, you’re not.’ Jed’s father was at the kitchen door. ‘Talk to your mother like that and you’ll see the back of my hand.’

  Jed rolled his eyes. Davie Foster was all talk and no trousers.

  ‘You’ll neither work nor want,’ Davie said, finger pointing.

  ‘Like you can talk,’ muttered Jed.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Betty snapped.

  Frankie had started to shuffle and cough with embarrassment, and Tommy jerked his head towards the front door, Frankie more than happy to take his leave.

  ‘The Crown, tonight,’ Tommy murmured as he opened the door to let Frankie out. Even without the cash or the drugs, he’d have to try to get some sort of do off the ground, even if it was a shit one that would make enough money to pay back Paul Smart with interest. Perhaps then he’d get away with a duffing-up rather than bullets through his kneecaps.

  When he closed the door, he heard Betty’s stern voice, ‘You two, in here.’ She marched into the living room, now cleared of the mucky sheets, Tommy following, and Jed reluctantly bringing up the rear.

  A minute later, the two friends sat eyeing each other across the living room in a simmering, resentful silence.

  ‘I’ll bang your bliddy heads together,’ Betty scolded. ‘Like a couple of bairns, the two of you.’

  Jed scowled. ‘Mam, just leave it, will you?’

  ‘Don’t you “mam” me. Now tell me what’s so bad that two best friends can’t even talk to each other?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘Money? Girls?’

  Tommy watched Jed turn his head and stick his nose in the air, a gesture he usually reserved for toffs and wankers.

  ‘That’s all men fall out about, money and girls,’ Betty said, ‘unless it’s their mothers, and yours is dead and you couldn’t care less about yours.’

  Jed was ignoring her.

  ‘Money, then,’ she said. ‘How much do you need?’

  Tommy hung his head, cowering under Betty’s disappointed stare.

  ‘More than you’ve got,’ said Jed with a sniff. ‘And anyhow, it’s not just money.’

  ‘I took out a loan,’ Tommy mumbled.

  The shake of Betty’s head was regretful, her sigh laboured and sad. ‘There’s only one person you’d borrow money from round here.’

  ‘Dickhead,’ said Jed under his breath.

  ‘That’s enough from you,’ warned Betty. ‘You’ve got no idea how important your friends are. You’d know about it if one of you wasn’t here anymore.’ Her voice wavered, but she composed herself quickly as Tommy met her eyes. ‘How much?’ she asked again.

  Jed glared at Tommy with a slight shake of the head. Don’t you dare.

  ‘Two grand would do it,’ said Tommy with a glimmer of hope. Maybe Betty had a small fortune stashed away. But Betty looked stunned, her mouth falling open then closing again, swallowing the hope in one big gulp.

  ‘Oh my Lord, you stupid bugger.’ She put a hand to her heart. ‘Your mother would be turning in her grave, God love her.’

  Tommy’s head dropped once more.

  ‘It’ll be for one of these acid-house parties, is it?’ said Betty.

  Jed turned down the sides of his mouth and glanced at Tommy with surprised puzzlement, hiding a grin at the peculiarity of the words coming from Betty’s mouth.

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. We were young once too, you know.’ She pointed a finger at her son. ‘And if there’s a solution, two heads are better than one, and that’s a fact.’

  Tommy heard what he hoped was a sigh of agreement from Jed.

  ‘I’ve got a hundred pounds put by for an emergency if you need it,’ Betty said. ‘And you.’ She was still pointing at Jed. ‘You don’t abandon your friends when they need you the most. That’s not how we brought you up.’

  With that, Betty got to her feet and left the room, leaving only her lily of the valley scent behind.

  It was Tommy who broke the silence. ‘Where were you?’

  Jed drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and sniffed again. ‘Shona’s.’

  ‘Shit. You’re in love.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Yes, you fucking are.’

  There was a pause as the accord settled, then Jed scrunched up his face. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘She’s got bairns.’ He folded his arms, satisfied with his decision.

  ‘So?’ said Tommy. ‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’

  Jed didn’t have an answer and his face settled in displeasure at not winning the point while Tommy sighed, all this talk of love leaving him feeling empty and alone.

  ‘I think Sam’s left me,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I fucking do, you’re a prick. I hope she gave you that.’ Jed nodded at the bruise on Tommy’s face.

  ‘Aye,’ said Tommy. ‘Sorry, pal.’

  ‘Hm.’ Jed pursed his lips in a pout, and Tommy knew from experience he’d have to apologise at least three times before forgiveness came. And so, he did, four times to be exact, each one batted back with an insult before Jed held out a hand for Tommy to shake, his thumb quickly springing to his nose and fingers wiggling; their usual expression of bygones.

  The gesture brought blessed relief. ‘There’s something I need to do,’ said Tommy. ‘Will you come with me?’

  Jed looked at him and frowned with something akin to horror. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that, sunshine.’ he said.

  PEACH

  The evidence bags from the search of Tommy’s house lay scattered around him awaiting bagging and indexing, but with half the station’s personnel in a riot briefing and the other half policing some demonstration in town, the station was agreeably quiet.

  The search had turned up nothing. It was a disaster. There hadn’t been time, and a new warrant would be out of the question; the potential disturbance a further arrest might trigger would be first and foremost in the brass’s minds. The publicity would be too damaging; the politicians would be up in arms.

  He pulled one of the evidence bags towards him and turned it over in his hands. Inside was a videocassette, its sleeve void of any information other than its Japanese manufacturer. He manoeuvred the video inside the transparent bag, so he could see the spine. He peered down at the writing: “Tommy’s Rave.”

  He put the bag to one side and noticed a large, black portfolio resting against his desk. He looked at it with uncertainty before lifting it onto his lap. Opening it, he reached inside and drew out a sketch pad. He flipped it open: a striking scene from an alien invasion was drawn with fine detail in grey pencil, splinters of light bouncing off the roofs and gardens of every-day terraced houses, huddles of miniature people in the street, some staring up in awe, some running for their lives. In the foreground, a teenage boy’s profile stared up at the ship, his hand outstretched. Seeing Tommy’s face sickened him, and he threw the sketch pad to the floor.

  He reached out for the evidence bag he’d put aside and tore it open, pulling out the videocassette and striding towards the VCR that still sat on the table, the building societ
y tapes lying idly by its side. He switched on the TV and slid the cassette into the mouth of the machine.

  A black and white fuzz filled the screen, but the image soon cleared and booming, rhythmic music hit his ears. The screen was awash with colour that cut through the smoky haze with laser fingers. The camera scanned over the tops of jerking heads and raised hands, moving forward and zooming in on the stage. Swirls, splashes, and shapes of all colours and sizes flashed across a screen at the back of the stage, dwarfing the silhouetted bodies that bounced and coiled, dancing as if it were beyond their control.

  Captivated, he stood for several minutes, watching with a mixture of repulsion and curiosity as hundreds of bodies moved in a way that made no sense at all, until the lens rotated away from the stage and into the crowd, the white lights flickering so fast the dancers appeared to move in fitful bursts. Then the camera zoomed out and refocused, and Peach stood paralysed, blood draining from his face.

  She was unaware of the camera, dancing slowly and sublimely, eyes closed, the long white dress hanging from her bare shoulder. White ribbons and feathers swayed in her blond hair, crimped and frizzed into a halo of light. Her face was blanched, her lips red, smiling faintly: an exquisite, heavenly smile. People danced around her, their jolting movements in contrast to her slow, unworried gestures. He scoured the scene, looking for any man of the right age who could profess to be her father. But Sally was alone, in her own secret world.

  The camera stayed on her as if the person holding it was as mesmerised as him. Could it be him, the father, holding the camera? Or Tommy? But then Tommy was in the frame, the palm of his hand covering the lens and the black and white fuzz filled the screen once more.

  Peach lurched towards the television, grasping its sides, shaking it as if the answer to his question would fall from the screen and onto the floor.

  But he knew it was futile. He knew there was only one person who could help him with the identity of this man, and he was pretty sure she would be able to talk by now.