The Judas Sheep (17 page)

‘What about stronger stuff?’ asked Bell. ‘Are any of them sneaking anything else past your tame gorillas?’

Georgie shook his head. ‘No. Prices are too high. Maybe some pot, smack now and again, but snow and base are over the roof, even if you can get it.’ He smiled and raised his glass of blue fluid. ‘Even Saturday-night users are having to find alternatives. It’s back to good ol’ sex and alcohol. Cheers!’

Bell looked thoughtful, not sure how forward to be. ‘So it’s a sellers’ market,’ he said.

‘Sure.’

Parrott finished his drink. ‘Do you need me, Skip?’ he asked. ‘I could use some fresh air.’

‘No,’ Bell replied. ‘I’m sure Georgie will keep us company. Are you all right?’

‘Yeah, it’s just too stuffy for me in here. Give me the keys, Darren. I’ll wait in the car.’

Atkinson handed the keys over.

‘I’ll be back in about an hour,’ were Parrott’s parting words.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Georgie asked as Parrott departed.

‘Women,’ Atkinson explained. ‘All these young birds has made him feel randy. Me too.’

Georgie waved an arm in the direction of the dance floor. ‘Be my guests,’ he invited.

‘Shawn doesn’t do too good at pulling birds,’ Bell told him. ‘He has better results when he pays for it. But never mind him, let’s get back to business.’

‘With a face like that, I can understand his problem. OK, Frankie, what have you to offer?’

‘Let’s just say we might have a shipment coming in next week. Small but tasty. Will you be interested?’

A girl, about eighteen, with long hair obscuring half of her sulky face, slinked by, looking sideways at Georgie.

‘Talking about small but tasty …’ Atkinson murmured.

Georgie turned to follow his gaze. ‘Hi, Trish,’ he called to the girl. She pretended she’d just noticed him, and smiled. He extended an arm and she walked into its embrace. As he was sitting in a low chair this meant that it was wrapped round her legs, and he stroked her bare thigh with a hand that bore three gold sovereign rings and a bracelet that might have kept the Welsh goldmining industry viable for a couple of years. She draped an arm around his neck and let her fingers explore the undergrowth of his chest. ‘Next week?’ he commented, unmoved by the girl’s administrations. ‘You disappoint me, Frankie. I was hoping you could do better than that.’

Bell produced a new pack of Red Wings from his pocket and tossed them towards Georgie. ‘How about cigarettes?’ he asked.

Georgie picked them up and rotated the packet between his fingers. They looked genuine. ‘How many are we talking about?’ he wondered.

‘More than you can handle.’

The owner of the Copper Banana untwined the girl’s arm from around his neck. Trish,’ he said, ‘why don’t
you take this young man – Darren, isn’t it? – for a dance, eh?’ The sulk returned, like a bad smell at a picnic. ‘Be a good girl; I’ll see you later.’ His hand flicked upwards and briefly goosed her. She set off walking towards the dance floor, not waiting to see if Darren was following. He rose awkwardly, adjusting his jeans, and chased after her.

‘Right, Frank,’ Georgie said. ‘Now the children are out of the way, let’s talk about prices and deliveries.’

Shawn Parrott eased the driver’s seat forward a notch and started the engine. He was about the same height as Darren, but preferred a more hunched driving position. And his legs were shorter. He didn’t readjust the mirrors. Cruising round the one-way system he passed a police car, which was still in the same place, and the doorway where the two girls had been standing. They were no longer there. Two streets further along he saw them, arguing with three boys. The youths were following behind, hurling insults, but Parrott couldn’t fell if it was good-natured or deadly serious. They wore back-to-front baseball caps and bomber jackets with incomprehensible slogans emblazoned across the backs. He drove a few yards past them, stopped the car and got out.

‘Fag?’ he said to the slim girl, as the pair drew level with him. The three youths stopped in their tracks, a respectful thirty feet away.

‘Yeah,’ she replied, throwing a triumphant glance at them.

‘What about you?’ he asked the podgy one.

‘Ta.’

He held his lighter towards the girls, and soon they were blowing clouds of smoke into the blackness above the drizzle slanting through the streetlamps’ glare.

‘They causing you any bother?’ He nodded towards the youths, who’d turned their backs and were rapidly losing interest.

‘No, they’re just pests,’ the overweight one told him, gazing straight into his face. It was an ugly face, but she didn’t mind.

‘What about you?’

‘Yeah,’ said the other girl, smiling. ‘They’re causing me a lot of bovver. What you going to do about it?’

Parrott accepted the challenge. ‘I could give them a good thumpin’, if you wanted. Or you could come with me and we’ll just forget them, if you’re knowing what I’m meaning.’ He liked the look of her. She reminded him of a film star – the one that married Frank Sinatra and that weedy American comedian.

‘What about me?’ the big one protested, realising that she was being abandoned, yet again.

‘You’ll be all right,’ her friend assured her. ‘Go with them – you know that Baz fancies you.’ She turned to her new-found white knight. ‘Where you taking me, then?’

The less attractive half of the couple walked after the boys, who turned to accept her into their group. She wasn’t too disappointed, for now she’d have their
undivided attention, free from the shadow of her
better-looking
friend. They’d flirt with her, until they found themselves lost among the empty stalls of Heckley Market. She’d share her favours, allowing each a quick grope and a feel, accompanied by French kissing, until two of them left her and Baz alone together. Then they’d explore the roller-coaster delights of fumbled sex, where, earlier in the day, Asian traders had sold cheap clothing, and white ones had peddled pirate videos.

‘What’s your name?’ the slim one said, pulling the car door closed,

‘Shawn.’ He started the engine.

‘I’m Nicky.’ She was disappointed that he hadn’t asked. ‘What you got, then?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Dunno. I ’aven’t scored for a week. What you got?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nuthin’! Not even any adam?’

‘No.’ He swung away from the kerb without signalling, causing the taxi behind to blow its horn, and headed out of town. ‘I’ve got plenty of money, though.’

Nicky shook her head and smiled across at him. ‘You’re a disappointment to me, Shawn. I fought I’d found me the man wiv the golden arm. Never mind.’ Never mind. So it was to be sex again – sex for money. Unlike her friend, she had no romantic illusions about the sexual coupling of two members of the human race. All those notions had been destroyed when she was ten
years old, under the grunting beer belly of her mother’s second husband.

Shaw bragged: ‘Next week. We’ll ’ave some stuff then. All sorts. Anything you want. Big shipment coming in from Amsterdam.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Are you a pusher then, you know, big time?’

‘Look,’ he said, reaching across and grasping the back of her neck between his thumb and fingers, ‘smart people don’t take it, not all the time. Maybe just a bit, say once a week, if you’re knowing what I’m meaning. Smart people sell it. Make a lot of money that way.’ He sounded almost fatherly. Nicky rotated her head, so that his fingers moved against her skin. She wouldn’t take his advice, but she appreciated it. She liked him.

He was ugly, but – in a perverse way – that made him more attractive to her; brought him within reach. And he was fairly young, with a good body. Not like the drunken friends of her stepfather, who’d come up to her after playing cards into the early hours of the morning, and leave him a fiver for the privilege. Shawn was a loser, like her. She could give him a lot, and he could give her more than he dreamt possible. They’d be two outlaws, battling against the world. It was a potent combination.

‘Is this your car?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Nice, innit?’

‘It’s OK. Got a new one coming next week. A BMW.’

‘Why? What’s wrong wiv this one?’

‘Nothing. It’s just been seen around too much. It’s time for a change. It doesn’t do to be seen around too much. They watch, if you’re knowing what I’m meaning, on videos.’

‘Who does?’

‘The filth, that’s who.’

‘Bloody ‘ell. So you just swap your car to keep them guessing?’ She was impressed.

‘Yeah.’

‘Will you take me for a ride in your BMW?’

‘If you’re a good girl.’

The lights of the town had fallen behind and below them. Parrott turned left, into a narrow steep lane. He noted an isolated cottage, completely in darkness, with Wiihins House written on the gate, and an estate agent’s For Sale board lying on the ground, a victim of the prevalent winds. ‘So ’ow old are you?’ he asked.

She leant towards him, provocatively pursing her lips and feeling her breasts dangle against the front of her blouse. ‘’Ow old would you like me to be?’ she whispered, in a way that she thought was seductive.

There was a clearing at the side of the road, housing a large mound of road salt, left over from a mild winter. Parrott parked the car behind the heap and switched off the engine and lights. ‘I asked you your fuckin’ age,’ he growled.

Nicky giggled. ‘My fuckin’ age?’ she mimicked. ‘My fuckin’ age is sixteen, but I ’aven’t seen that many Christmasses.’

‘So ’ow many ’ave you seen?’

She didn’t like being asked her age. ‘Fifteen,’ she admitted. ‘What difference does it make?’

Parrott’s hand was on her shoulder, his thumb roughly flicking back and forth across her cheek. ‘None,’ he told her. ‘Get in the back seat.’

He needed a pee, so he walked over to the pile of salt and relieved himself into it, the steaming stream of urine carving a deep canyon in the pink crystals. Nicky climbed over into the back of the car. She removed the waistcoat and her shoes and waited for him to return, wondering how much she should sting him for.

He climbed in with her, throwing his jacket over the back of the seat and unzipping his jeans. Bloody hell, he don’t hang about, thought Nicky, as he started to strip her.

Shawn Parrott, failed soldier, drug pusher and murderer, never knew what he had in his hands. Nicky was the best thing that nearly happened to him, but he threw it all away. He strangled her, and when she was dead he violated her body like all the others before him; on the back seat of a Ford, in a layby, with the moon blazing brightly, then fading away, as the rainclouds fled across its face.

I decided not to see Kevin over the weekend, after all. The M62 to Hull was becoming a hair shirt to me. I drove over on Tuesday, instead, in the Transit.

‘False alarm,’ I told him, with my broadest smile.

‘What happened?’

‘Customs got lucky. They used a sniffer dog, and a bag had burst. Arrested everyone, but they’ll have to let them go. The captain’s Russian, but he speaks no English and doesn’t know a thing. Lot of money down the drain.’ It sounded convincing to me. ‘Trouble is,’ I continued, ‘my lords and masters have decided to cool things for a while, so I’m in the same boat as you, Kevin, old pal. Looks as if I’ll have to do some freelancing, or the Jag’ll have to go back. It’s a bit risky, though.’

Kevin looked what I took to be thoughtful. Less blank than usual. He said: ‘I could maybe ’ave a word with someone, if you like?’

I shrugged. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ I declared.

‘Where can I get you?’

‘You can’t, unless you leave a message at Merlin.’ I pointed to the van, with the swooping bird of prey that I’d painted years ago. The telephone number was written underneath it. ‘It’d be a shame to lose business now,’ I told him. ‘Prices will be sky-high, and the Customs will be feeling over-confident. Should be a piece of cake.’

Kevin looked puzzled. Things like that never crossed his mind. ‘Yeah. Just what I thought. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Cheers.’ I wrote the number down for him.

Christmas Day fell in late March that year. Early on Thursday morning Annabelle’s plane landed at
Heathrow. She caught the shuttle up to Leeds and Bradford Airport and I was there to meet it.

I was the only person waiting at the Arrivals exit. There was no sudden flood of self-conscious holidaymakers in Bermuda shorts and silly hats; just a trickle of po-faced businesswomen and men, carrying bulging briefcases and heavier newspapers. And a tall lady in jeans and Stewart Grainger jacket who looked ridiculously healthy compared to her fellow travellers.

She let go of her suitcase and threw her arms around my neck, nearly throttling me. I squeezed the rest of her to me.

‘I’ve missed you, Charles,’ she said.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ I observed. I kissed her on the lips, and told her that I’d missed her, too.

It was a bright spring day, but the breeze had been sharpened by the polar icecap. When we reached the automatic doors I put her suitcase down and told her to wait inside while I fetched the car. I sprinted across to where I’d left the E-type and drove it to the front of the terminal.

We were well on the way home before the power of speech returned to her. ‘I didn’t think you would buy it,’ she admitted.

‘Good. I like to keep people guessing.’

‘Maybe you are not the old fuddy-duddy that I thought.’

I looked across to check for the dimples in her cheeks. They were there – she was teasing me.

‘I have two weaknesses,’ I told her. ‘Wimmin ’n’ cars. I like ’em fast and flashy.’

‘Then you should be well content.’

I nodded. ‘Yep, I think I am. Well content.’

We were at her home in about forty minutes. Everything was intact, with the usual pile of mail inside the door. The only letter of interest was from Tom Noon, asking her to go for a formal interview on the following Saturday.

‘So you haven’t got the job yet?’ I asked.

‘No, there are probably lots of other applicants. I must be in with a good chance, though.’

‘A dead cert, if he’s any sense.’