Dangerous Dealings

Or post traumatic amazement?

'Fucking cunt,' he murmured. 'I'll teach you.'

*****

Pat had been chatting to the barman, a fellow ex-sixth former. He'd made it halfway down his pint before he realized Sean had been gone long than usual. Assuming he'd gone to see Jack Wright, he finished his drink before going to investigate.

Sean was not a happy bunny. He was bent over a sink, splashing cold water over his interestingly coloured, purple and brick-red face. Well, mostly over the floor, but also over his face.

'I've been mugged,' he snarled. 'Where were you when I needed you?'

'Buying you a lager,' Pat replied, unfazed. 'Who was it? What did he get?'

'Some South Seas warrior. And he was frigging scary. All he was missing was a bone through his nose.'

'What did he get?' Pat repeated.

'My wallet, with the best part of a ton in it. But that isn't the point. The cunt threatened me. He had a razor. I'm lucky I've still got a head on my shoulders.'

Pat resisted the temptation to be witty (With a head like that . . .). 'What about your Rolex?'

'It's at home along with my gold, thank God. My wallet's all he got.'

'Let's go find him, get it back.'

'How?'

'We can go round the pubs . . . not drinking, just checking them out. Bingley first. Then Shipley. Then, if we have to, Keighley.'

'How do you know he drinks?'

'I don't. But I haven't any better ideas.'

'Okay,' Sean said after a pause. 'Let's start back at The Kings. There's something I need to borrow off Benny.'

*****

Huyton reckoned he'd been right about Bingley. Within a couple of days and without using any violence at all, he'd found out how things were. It was amazing how easily a grin and a friendly approach could loosen tongues. Then again, a lot of folk seemed to be alarmed by his grin.

Strange, that . . .

Apparently Bingley had been run by the same figurehead for years. Danny Painter, they called him. He had fingers in pies everywhere and, because he'd once done a job for Reggie Kray, he was feared by everyone. Painter played, Huyton was assured, a big part in the local drugs game, although he didn't insist on exclusive control.

The mention of Reggie Kray had given Huyton pause for thought. Was it a coincidence or were these Yorkies stuck in the past? More to the point, what was Reggie up to nowadays? And what about Charlie Richardson, come to that? Was he in or out? And did it matter? Huyton seemed to recall hearing that, to guys like them, being banged up was no more than a minor inconvenience. That business went on as always and long arms could reach out from cells.

Putting Danny Painter on the backburner, he'd focussed on the lesser dealers and kept hearing the same name, again and again. Sean Dwyer wasn't actually a dealer, but his involvement was interesting, to say the least. By all accounts he didn't offer protection per se, but he did sell small-to-medium consignments here, there and everywhere. It was a familiar enough scenario. The guy made his ackers elsewhere, bought in bulk, and then moved it on through all the obvious routes.

And he didn't offer protection. Meaning he didn't have any to offer . . .

Soft target or what!

Like the professional he was, Huyton had pre-planned their first encounter. And it couldn't have gone better. Dwyer was a weak arsehole with no back-up at all. Okay, no significant back-up. His place needed watching a while before tomorrow's visit, just in case he scraped up a welcoming committee, otherwise he was wide open.

Huyton didn't really give a fuck about owning a wholesaling business. All he wanted was a nice wedge; enough to tide him over until the heat died down back over the Pennines; back in the land where God really resided. Twenty or thirty grand would do the trick. He'd ask for several hundred, naturally, and see what reaction that provoked.

In a celebratory mood he had left The Old Queens Head and found another ale house. Having sampled his first ever pint of Taylor's Landlord he decided these Yorkies had something about them after all. The ones who'd brewed that had, anyway. Three pints later, more celebratory than ever, he went to the khazi, unintentionally walking in on a deal.

'Okay, okay,' he said as the involved parties gaped at him in surprise. 'Do I look like the bizzies?'

'Fuck sake,' the seller said. 'You gave me a heart attack.'

'What you got?' Huyton asked, ignoring the buyer altogether. 'Coke?'

'Let's see your brass.'

Huyton pulled out Dwyer's wallet and peeled off two twenties. 'I'm in the trade,' he said, 'so don't even dream about ripping me off.'

The seller claimed his stuff was eighty per cent pure and probably wasn't lying. Locking himself in a trap, Huyton used another of Dwyer's notes to snort four lines off the top of the cistern. Then, at peace with himself and the rest of the world, he went outside to catch a breath of air.

*****

Starting at the bottom of town, Pat and Sean scouted out The Painters Arms, The Brown Cow and The Old White Horse, asking questions and getting no helpful answers. Pat was about to suggest a quick pint in The Fleece when his mate grabbed his arm.

'That's him,' Sean hissed, pointing up Main Street. 'That's Huyton, coming towards us, as bold as you like.'

Ditching the idea of beer, Pat nodded. 'Leave this to me,' he said. 'I'll subdue him, then you can have a chat.'

'You know he's got a razor.'

'Yeah,' said Pat. 'You did mention that.' Then, as they got closer: 'Are you sure it's him? That twat is as high as a kite.'

'He's not the sort I could fail to recognize, is he?'

'I suppose not. Hey . . . you! A word please.'

The warrior-type was weaving as he walked. Although the pavement was wide he was in danger of stepping off the kerb. At Pat's words he veered inwards, directly at him.

'Gerrout my fuckin' way,' he snarled.

Pat hit the guy with a left-hander that sent him crashing into the doorway of a charity shop. Then he gasped and froze as Sean produced a Rambo-style knife and set into the felled man, going at him as if he was possessed.

'What the hell . . .'

Kicking himself back into life Pat grabbed Sean and hauled him off. But a lot of damage had been done already. There were wounds everywhere, one of them jetting a steady stream of blood onto the shop window.

'For fuck's sake, Sean, I said talk to him.'

'Lemme go. I'm going to finish him off.'

Pat confiscated the knife, making a mental note to give Benny a slap when he returned it, and stooped beside the victim's writhing body.

'Here,' he said, giving Sean his wallet back.

Sean's fingers didn't seem to be working. He couldn't get the wallet into his pocket. After three attempts Pat took over.

'Come on,' he said, grabbing his mate by the arm. 'We need to make like bananas and split.'

Chapter Five

(20th August 1988)

Huyton hadn't a clue where he was when he came round. That is to say he was obviously in an ozzie bed . . . but which ozzie? And where the fuck was he? Manchester? Liverpool?

He tried to sit up and found he couldn't move. After a few moments of panic he realized the bed had been articulated into a position designed to keep him in place. And brick-like NHS pillows had also been used on him. He was as weak as he'd ever been, but wasn't completely paralyzed.

Thank fuck for that!

Determined to be systematic, he took stock. He could feel his toes and they wiggled when his brain told them to. Ditto for his fingers. His cock felt strange, though. Slowly turning his head, he saw why. There was a clear plastic tube running between him and a bag of piss on the floor of the ward. He'd been catheterized.

Bastards, he thought angrily. Can they do that without my permission?

On with the research. He was on some sort of drip; it was attached to one of those multi-purpose thingies stuck in the back of his hand. And he was surrounded by machines, most of them silent but one of them constantly bleeping.

'Ah,' said a female voice, 'you're back with us.'

Huyton tried to reply but couldn't. His tongue was too swollen and he had budgie-cage sandpaper stuffed down his throat.

'Have a sip of this,' the nurse said. 'But steady with it.'

The water actually tasted sweet. Amazing, he marvelled. Where have I been? Crawling through the Sahara?'

'Say something,' the nurse prompted.

'Is the ale house open?' Huyton replied, trying to be funny, sounding hoarse.

'I'm sure there's one open somewhere. Not that you'll be indulging for a while.'

'Where am I?'

'Airedale General.'

'Where's that?'

'Steeton. Between Keighley and The Dales.'

Fuck! What am I doing back in Keighley?

'What happened?' he asked.

'That's what the police want to know. But don't worry; they won't be interviewing you for a while.'

'You keep saying "for a while". Can't you tell me what I'm being treated for?'

'Multiple stab wounds. It's not my place to go into detail, but the doctor said you were incredibly lucky. Seven wounds to the torso and no organ damage at all. There was a lot of cleansing and a bit of a transfusion, then she sewed you back together as good as new. All you need to do now is rest and heal.'

Left to his own devices Huyton started to remember. Or at least he started to try. Bingley Main Street. A feeling of well-being. And then . . .

Although it was misty memory time, it must have been Dwyer. But there'd been two of them, so Dwyer wasn't totally defenceless after all.

Going into survival mode, he banished Sean Dwyer from his mind. Okay, so Dwyer owed him at least twenty grand, but he wasn't going to collect that from an ozzie bed, was he? The trick was to recover, get back on his feet . . .

Before the bizzies came calling.

He scowled. He couldn't see the local plods making it an offence to get stabbed. There again, if they were anything like their mates in Manchester, they might have a good go at it. Not that he couldn't stonewall with the best of 'em. No, his concern was about shootings, not stabbings . . .

What if Mrs Cardboard Cut-out's dobbed me in?

The nurse came back perhaps half an hour later. Huyton turned on the charm, well aware that a lot of women liked his supposedly ferocious grin. Could she adjust his bed a little, so he felt more like a human than a useless vegetable? And could she please get him something to read. He was going crazy here, staring at the ceiling. Local newspapers would do. He wasn't expecting classic works or anything.

The nurse was quite sexy . . . for a very white girl. She grumbled and complained as nurses do, but did adjust the bed. And within five minutes she was back with a big bundle of papers.

'I raided the day room,' she said. 'It's only the last few issues of the Telegraph and Argus, I'm afraid. Try not to rip them to shreds; I'll have to put them back when you've done.'

'You're my hero,' he told her. 'Whenever I do get to go to an ale house, you're coming with me. I owe you a drink.'

She smiled and blushed and looked sexier than ever. Then she left and Huyton concentrated on his newspapers.

The Telegraph and Argus turned out to be the daily Bradford rag. Huyton supposed most cities had similar publications . . . and probably with all the same adverts. Flicking back a few days he found an article about "gang warfare" in Keighley. And a front page article at that. Two dead, two critical. Firearms involved. The bizzies wanted witnesses and were interested in "a gentleman of Asian appearance". Huyton frowned at that. He reckoned the "Asian appearance" came from Mrs Cardboard Cut-out, and wondered at the gullibility of the powers of law and order.

By now he knew it was Saturday. Friday's T&A said there had been an "incident" in Bingley Main Street and witnesses were required . . .

Okay, Huyton thought, no link. And they ain't getting no link from me.

*****

'What are you doing to me? What the fuck is this?'

Pat had become used to Sean's plaintive wailing by now. There really wasn't anything the spoiled brat could say that would make him think twice.

Spoiled brat? Well yeah; being lifelong mates didn't stop you from seeing faults, did it? And, when it came to faults, Sean had them in JCB-sized bucket-loads. DeeDee was right; the ungrateful so-and-so didn't deserve any help. But somebody had to take care of him, didn't they?

'You're in a safe lock-up,' he said evenly. 'And you're staying here as long as I say so.'

'I'm chained to the fucking wall!'

'So you are. Thanks for pointing that out.'

'Bitch,' said Sean. 'You've always wanted to chain me up. You'll be getting the sex toys out next.'

'In your dreams,' said Pat, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Six

(22nd August 1988)

Monday morning and Huyton felt good. Comparatively speaking, that was. His bed had been re-adjusted again and his limbs had life in them. He'd also been relieved of his drip and . . . much more uncomfortably . . . his catheter.

('Here we go,' his favourite nurse had said, 'don't get all excited.' 'I won't,' he'd replied, gritting his teeth as she pulled and pulled. 'Not on this occasion. And you just remember who's buying in The Old White Bear.')

Apart from being hooked up to the beeping machine, Huyton felt free. Well, fucked and under the weather, but free enough. And ten times tougher than most regular twats, that was for sure.

Being considerate, he waited until Mandy (that favourite nurse of his) finished her shift. Then, in a side ward and more or less immune from interruptions, he got out of bed unaided. Woozy; he was definitely woozy, but not likely to flake out.

He hoped.

Huyton's clothes were nearby, in an unlocked locker. He quickly dressed then, not so quickly, put on and fastened his trabs. Then, blocking out all the slashes and bloodstains, he checked through his personal effects. Dwyer's wallet was gone but his own was where it should be. That was the good news. The bad news was that he was down to forty bar. And there was no sign of either his hammer or razor.

'Fuck it,' he murmured. 'God will provide.'

He looked along the internal corridor and saw two scuffers at the nurses' station. From that angle he couldn't see who they were talking to but, even out of uniform, he knew what they were. And he knew what they were after, come to that. They were after him.

There was a small ward across from him . . . a "bay" the nurses called it. He hurried between the beds and out of the open, aluminium-framed glass door.

Thank fuck summer's here at last, he thought, taking in his bearings.

There wasn't a lot to take in. He was standing on a square of lawn, mostly-glass walls on all four sides. Logic told him that, seeing as two sides belonged to his ward, the other two must belong to another, from which he could decamp. And there was another open door, not twenty yards away . . .

*****

Pat's feelings for DeeDee were sincere, but she spent most of the year far away from boring old Bingley, and they were only human. They had long ago agreed that it wasn't right for them both to exist in bubbles. While other relationships weren't exactly encouraged, they were expected and allowed to take place.

'Don't fall in love,' Dee had told him during early negotiations. 'And make sure you don't catch any nasty diseases. Otherwise have fun but be discreet.'

'I'm only capable of falling in love once,' he'd replied, 'and that's already happened.'

'Yeah,' she said, laughing, 'you and your blinking rugby team!'

Not falling in love had been easy. Pat had taken plenty of opportunities to have fun. And, as luck would have it, one of those opportunities had been with a sister from Airedale General Hospital.

'You'll get me sacked,' she said, her voice even sexier over the telephone than it was in bed. 'And why do you want to know, anyway?'

'I told you before,' he said patiently, 'a mate of mine has been wrongly accused. He's pulling his hair out over it. And he hasn't got a lot to start with.'

Sister Elizabeth sighed. 'Are you sure this mate has been wrongly accused?'

'Of course I am. He was with me when it happened, and we were nowhere near.'

'Okay,' she said, sighing again. 'I asked around and your victim is doing well. You can tell your mate he'll be making a statement some time later today. That'll get him off the hook if he didn't do it, won't it? Although why the police won't trust you as an alibi . . .'

Pat thanked her and, after a bit of sweet-talking, managed to hang up without making a date. He liked Elizabeth but DeeDee was in town. He only allowed himself fun when she was hundreds of miles away.

*****

Huyton found it surprisingly easy to get out of the ozzie. Okay, it wasn't a prison or borstal, but his clothes were tattered and covered in gore. Surely someone should have stopped him, or at least asked if he'd just survived a plane crash.

There again, he wasn't the sort of guy people wanted to question. Not unless they were doing so in the line of duty.

The hardest part of his escape was actually the last few hundred yards to the main road. At a first glance, Airedale General was situated at the bottom of a very wide valley. The sides of that valley were, however, steep and some bell end had put the road halfway up a mountain.

Aware he was exaggerating inside his own head, Huyton started up the world's longest flight of steps. They were encased with concrete and looked like they belonged on the underground. And his leg didn't work the way it should. Not that he'd been stabbed in the leg. He had bandages and plasters everywhere apart from his dolly pegs.

Cursing foully under his breath, he finally made it to the bus stop. Within five minutes a single-decker with strange markings pulled up.

Pendle, he thought. Where the fuck's that?

He vaguely remembered drinking Pendle Witch Brew in Manchester, and supposed the bus came from the same place as the beer. What it was doing there, in West Yorkshire, threw him entirely.

First things first, though. The driver didn't like the look of his tenner. In fact he flatly refused it, in an accent that sounded, to say the least, mill town Lancashire. Huyton dug deep in his pocket and came up with a fistful of coins.

'Take it all,' he said, 'change'll do you good.'

*****

The bus dumped Huyton in the centre of Keighley. Looking around he saw stops for places he'd heard of but couldn't point out on a map: Burnley; Skipton; Halifax; Bradford; Leeds . . . The town was well-served; obviously it was somewhere lots of folk wanted to get away from.

For a couple of minutes he toyed with the idea of Leeds. Leeds was a big place, wasn't it; as big as the Pool, if he remembered rightly . . . and as big as fucking Manchester, too.

Trouble was, he was still stuck with a twenty and two tenners. That twat from Pendle had snaffled most of his shrapnel. And Leeds bus drivers probably weren't likely to be any less tolerant.

Two minutes was all it took to come to a decision. That cunt Dwyer owed him. Fuck twenty grand; it had just gone up to fifty. And fuck Leeds. Bingley was no distance away. He'd top up the coffers and get himself tooled, then go right a few wrongs.

Fifty grand and a hole in the head, he promised himself. I'll let him beg then bang him anyway.

Ignoring options such as Oakworth and Haworth, Huyton decided a little stroll was in order. He'd set off from the same starting point before and had learnt from his mistakes. Down to Lawkholme was out of the question. So too was whatever direction it was towards Charlie's scrapyard. Uphill to that other big Asian area was the way to go. No question about it.

*****

Pat had just got back from the chippy when Elizabeth rang again. He put his purchases in the oven to keep warm before listening to what she had to say. That time he didn't get away without fixing a date. In truth he was too surprised to deflect her. 'Friday night in The Royal Shepherd,' he said, thinking that the venue was well off DeeDee's beaten track.