Gurdy had heard about Paddy being arrested. Who hadn’t? It had been all over – pretty much the only topic of conversation outside the Percy when he’d arrived there at just after twelve. News travelled fast in Bradford – and in this case at warp speed; it was Jimmy who’d told Gurdy first, perhaps unsurprisingly, phoning him to pass on the news almost as soon as he’d got up. Then, on his walk to the lock-up on Manningham Lane (where he’d planned to sell off some of the dope Paddy had given him) he must have been told by another half dozen others.
But it was at the Perseverance, or the Percy, as it was known to the locals, that the person who had most need to catch up with him found him. Namely, his boss and nemesis, Rasta Mo.
As always seemed to be the case, Mo had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, like a superhero in a blockbuster movie. Though hero he wasn’t. Unless you liked your heroes to be dreadlocked, and in cahoots with the devil.
Gurdy could smell how expensive Mo’s leather jacket was as he approached. ‘The boy Paddy,’ he said to Gurdy, having ambled up alongside him, ‘he’s been lifted,’ he said, ‘as you probably know.’
He poked Gurdy then, hard, in the shoulder, with his finger. ‘And you’re his boy, so now you have work to do, got it? You have a set of keys to my lock-up, yes?’
Gurdy nodded nervously. He was absolutely shitting himself, not to mention being painfully aware that the punters in the Percy, now milling outside with their drinks in the summer sunshine, were all witnessing his discomfort. He wasn’t daft. He knew everyone knew what the score was. In this pub, in Arthur’s Bar, and even the Mayflower – the curry shop on the corner – they all knew he’d become a running boy for Paddy, which ultimately meant he was owned by Mo.
Mo flashed his famous grin, displaying his set of immaculate white teeth, and shook the dreadlocks that framed his fearsome face. ‘Good boy,’ he said, clapping Gurdy on the back now, like they were mates. ‘The pigs will be sniffing around now, obviously, so you need to do a clean-up, you understand? A proper clean-up. The boy won’t squeal,’ he added, ‘but, you know, just in case.’
Gurdy didn’t think Paddy would ‘squeal’ either. Given a straight choice, between the rule of the law and the wrath of Mo, he imagined he wouldn’t squeal either. ‘The cars too?’ he asked, not yet sure what Paddy had been arrested for exactly. Drugs presumably. The precise details hadn’t yet filtered through; Jimmy had been that elated when he’d phoned earlier to share the news that he’d neglected to mention what the arrest had actually been for. He felt the weakness in his sphincter increase. Would he be next?
Rasta Mo looked at Gurdy like he was mad. ‘Yes, the cars, man! Of course the cars! That’s why he’s been lifted. You need to hide the plates, the obvious tools, all the papers, everything. Just leave it set up like a tyre yard until they’ve done with us, okay?’ He flashed another smile, gazing around at his audience. ‘Don’t fret, boy, the other business will go on as usual.’ He lowered his voice, though for the life of him, Gurdy didn’t know why. Did anyone not know who Mo was? What he did? ‘But tonight you’ll meet with either me or Irish Pete to collect your gear. Outside Arthur’s, seven o’clock. Don’t be late.’
Mo then turned and walked away, without another word or even gesture, and, out of nowhere, a black BMW pulled up on the lane and he got into it without a backward glance.
The car out of sight, and the chatter outside the pub starting up again, Gurdy pulled at the collar of his T-shirt to stop it sticking to his back. It was more than the midday heat. He was out of his depth with all this, and for about the tenth time that day he contemplated, and only just shy of hysterically, the merits of blowing what little he’d saved up, getting a flight to Karachi and going in search of one of the many elderly relatives he had there; the ones that lived in the middle of nowhere, far from civilisation – and danger – and eked out the sort of living his parents had come to Bradford to escape from.
Oh, if only. Because it was all getting just a little bit too real. While he just dealt with Paddy, it was largely okay; he could easily convince himself he was just doing stuff for an old school mate. Yes, illegal, but still just doing a bit of what loads of other people did – earning a bit of cash to help him on his way. But the reality he was forced to face now was very different. Rasta Mo was a seriously dangerous man. Everyone knew that. He had literally got away with murder, and on more than one occasion. Two dealers in the last ten years had been bludgeoned to death for trying to rob him, and though the police had been convinced that Mo had been responsible – everyone knew that as well – they had never found any evidence to put him on trial for it, and never once been able to break any of his alibis.
He could only hope that tonight he would be meeting Irish Pete. That Mo would have other, more important things to do. Pete was fine; just a big, friendly bear of an Irishman, with nice twinkly eyes and an equivalently twinkly smile. Far better to deal with than the intimidating Rastafarian, even if he knew deep down that Irish Pete, if crossed, would crush your balls between his hairy fists just as readily.
He needed a drink, he decided. One with a little more clout than the pint of lemonade he’d opted for as a nod to the time of day. He left it on the bench, all too aware of how everyone lowered their eyes as he passed them on his way to the bar.
He was just pushing the door open when, to his dismay, he saw Vicky making her way towards him. Even from a distance he could see what a state she was in. Eyes red and swollen, dressed in a pair of baggy trackies, she hurried up to him, looking on the verge of fresh tears. He bundled her inside, got them both a pint of lager, and, fearing the attention they’d attract given the Paddy situation, bundled her back outside, but this time through the side door.
They’d be okay here, he reckoned, given everyone was out enjoying the sunshine. The sun didn’t make it round this side till gone two so he was confident they’d have the area to themselves. No, there weren’t any chairs, let alone tables to sit at – just some grass and a couple of boulders. But what kept cars out could easily double up as seats.
He sat down on one and indicated for Vicky to follow suit. ‘Now,’ he said, passing her a brimming, slopping glass, ‘have a swig of that and tell me all about it. So, Paddy’s been arrested. And he’s still at the nick, is he?’
‘Oh, Gurdy,’ Vicky sobbed, after taking a large slurp of her lager. ‘I just don’t know what to do. It was awful. They said it was taking a vehicle without consent. Or something – so that’s, like, stealing cars, isn’t it? Is that what he was doing? I mean, I’m not stupid – I’m really not, Gurdy, but he’s a bloody car thief? Is that it? I mean, d’you think he has? I mean, is that what he does when he’s off up to fuck knows what? I mean, seriously? I mean, how would I even know? He just fucks off and leaves me out of everything. So I never know, do I? Where he goes, who he’s with, what he does … Tell me, Gurdy, what the fuck is he up to?’
Gurdy buried his nose in his own pint to give himself a moment to think. Vicky clearly knew nothing about anything very much, which left him in something of a quandary. It wasn’t as if she was naïve – well, not to the point of complete ignorance, anyway. But she clearly knew almost nothing of what Paddy did for Rasta Mo.
He lowered his pint. And she didn’t really need to know the half of it – didn’t need to know any of it. Yes, it might come out at some point – and possibly sooner rather than later now, but Paddy wouldn’t thank him for being the one to enlighten her that, yes, twocking – as in taking without consent – formed a substantial part of Mo’s and Paddy’s business.
Nicking cars, and then altering them beyond recognition – including removing all identifying numbers and markings – was precisely what they took vehicles without consent for. Not that Paddy was involved in the nicking part, as it happened. He was just the one who did the ‘redesigning’ part. Which thought caused a connection to be made in Gurdy’s brain. So how come the plod had nicked him for that, then?
He smiled at his friend in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. ‘Course he hasn’t done that. Pad, a car thief? Never.’ He shook his head with emphasis, happy that at least that part was true. ‘No, you know as well as I do,’ he went on, ‘that Jimmy’s dad’s got it in for him. Specially now, after that fight – after what he did to Jimmy’s face. Mate,’ he said, leaning across to place a reassuring hand on Vicky’s leg, ‘he hasn’t done fuck-all, I promise you. Listen, he was with me all last night. Up here on the Lane. So I’m his alibi if they try to suggest he did.’
Vicky sat back on her boulder. ‘What? He was with you last night? So why didn’t he tell me? Doing what, then? He told me he’d only be a couple of hours – and that was before seven. And he didn’t get in till three. What the hell were you doing?’ She began sobbing again.
It was too much of a stretch to put his arm round Vicky’s shoulder, so Gurdy stood up, then squatted down beside her rock, taking a slow draught of his drink to give himself a bit more thinking time. Three a.m.? What the fuck had Paddy been doing since he’d left him? Which had been nine or thereabouts – six whole hours earlier. His brain whirred. What would sound like a plausible explanation?
Scrabbling around desperately while Vicky sniffed, he eventually found one. ‘You know Irish Pete?’ he said.
Vicky shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, no matter,’ he said, flapping his free hand. ‘You don’t need to. Only that he’s got these pallets of video recorders from a factory that went bust. Top fucking notch, they are, and dirt cheap an’ all. So me and Paddy was gonna store them for him, up at the lock-up, yeah? But then we had this idea to make an offer for them instead. The lot of them. Worth a fair bit, we reckoned. Anyways, we met up with Irish Pete last night, and it took us a good few hours, but he eventually made us a deal, and,’ he paused to beam, ‘they’re ours now if we want them.’
‘But 3 a.m., Gurdy – you’re telling me you were out till 3 a.m.?’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘We were. You know what it’s like, Vic. We ended up in the Mayflower – you know, to discuss how to get the money. And, you know what it’s like. There’s a lock-in and next thing you know … honest, Vic, you’ve got nothing to worry about, mate. I put him in a taxi myself.’
‘Really?’ Vicky said, looking far from convinced. ‘He was in such a mood …’
‘That’s the drink,’ Gurdy said. ‘You know Paddy. Fight his shadow, he would, when he’s that tight. You know that.’
‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘But why didn’t he just say so, for God’s sake?’
‘Because that’s the way he is, Vic. You know that better than anyone.’
Gurdy took a breath then, ready to embellish his tale a little further – bring in some small altercation with the cab driver, or something, but Vicky was already nodding, and he saw she’d probably swallowed it. As could he, he thought, privately pleased with his invention. If only momentarily, because hard on the heels of his fiction came grim reality, thundering up like a herd of fucking wildebeest. He had work to do. Work he had to do pronto.
‘Oh, Gurdy!’ Vicky said, ‘I can’t tell you how sick I’ve been feeling all morning. I haven’t known what to do with myself! And I can’t tell my mam, and I don’t know what’s happening – Paddy’s mam and dad went down the station, and that’s been the last I’ve heard of anything. And it’s been going through my mind – what if they don’t let him out? But they’ll have to let him out now, won’t they?’ She smiled a thin smile. ‘Oh, Gurdy, no wonder he never said anything to me. He’s been saving … we both have …’
She looked dreamily into the middle distance. ‘Oh, thank God,’ she said again, draining her own pint, visibly happier. ‘I’m so glad I came and found you. They’ll have to let him go now. They will have to, won’t they? Will you go down?’
Gurdy frowned. Go down? What, him instead? ‘Go down where?’
‘Down to the station, to give him his alibi.’
‘Er, yes,’ Gurdy answered, re-grouping again. ‘Course. Heading there now as it happens.’
‘Shall I come?’
No! He shook his head. ‘No, no – you’ll only muddy the waters. And what would Paddy say? Seeing you down there?’
‘No, no, of course,’ Vicky said. ‘You’re right. I’ll head home then. Tell him, yeah? Tell him that’s where I’ll be?’
‘What, you’re going to walk?’ It was a long way from the Percy back to Vicky’s. ‘Don’t be daft. Let’s get you a cab, yeah? Get you back home.’
Thankfully, apart from a pithy rant about how home wasn’t fucking home anymore, she didn’t argue and he was soon able to wave her off. And, watching another car head round the corner, he felt leaden. He had a garage to go and sort out and clean down, like, now. Which would take hours – possibly till late into the evening, he knew. Yet he was also supposed to be at bloody Arthur’s Bar at seven.
He set off up Manningham Lane under the unforgiving sun. If only it were as simple as knocked off fucking video recorders.