Andy Rivers - The Geordie Author

‘Bastard’

Caught me jumper on the fucking broken glass. I’ve been in and out of places like these loads of times and now I’m making mistakes like that – fucksakes. Mind, it’s not like I’ve left any evidence is it? Bit of cotton on the glass – ooh I hope CSI Byker divvent get hold of that – as if.

The warehouse is dark and quiet. Not like this through the day mind – proper fuckin busy then but not at night – not now. No nightshift anymore, all laid off last month see.

I’m down from the window, through the Goods In office and on the floor. That was a canny tip from Choker about the alarms an all, I wouldn’t have touched a place like this if I didn’t know they didn’t work properly. He’s worked here nearly five year has the big lad – straight from school onto nights in this dump. It was handy though what with me working nights as well – well you do in my trade divvent you - meant we could have a few bevvies through the day and that. Cos his dad was the supervisor it wasn’t the end of the world if he turned up a few sheets to the wind - they soon learned to keep him off the forklift when that was the case - that dent’s still in the wall look.

Aye, Choker’s dad was a canny bloke. Always looked after me when I was a kid. When the rest of our class were getting picked up in Beamers and Mercs by their old men I’d be proper embarrassed some times but then the Cartwright wagon would turn up and I’d be hauled in. It was a bit like that Rolf Harris song really – you kna that bit ‘did you think I would leave you lying there?’ He used to buy us clothes an all. If he took Choker shopping for some new gear he’d always buy me a shirt or summit so I didn’t feel left out – never made a big deal of it neither like some would of.

Me and Choker were top pals at school like. He was bigger than every fucker else, got his nickname when some posh fucker was taking the piss out of me. Asking us if I knew what ‘Bastard’ meant – course I knew I heard it every fucking day- anyways Choker grabbed him round the neck and told him he better say sorry. The kid wouldn’t at first and then he couldn’t cos he had no wind left in his pipe, hence ‘Choker’ – he’s never shook it off to this day.

After that people at school started using the nickname I had at home – ‘Snake Simmons’ as in built like a racing one. Aye, I’m a skinny fucker me – handy for getting in and out of windows like.

It was always useful at the match an all, you kna when they had the old turnstiles and the terracing. Choker’s dad would be paying at the window and I’d be under the gate and in. He’d get us both Bovril and a hot dog at half time and let us both run loose amongst the barriers. Fucking brilliant in them days man. Big George Reilly scoring that goal against Liverpool – all the jocks in the Gallowgate End were going mental that time. Chokers dad was mortal on the bus back. He kept saying how much he hated his boss and then ruffling both our heads telling us to stick in at school and show the world what we could do. I fuckin hated his boss an all mind but not enough to make me stick in at school heh heh.

Where’s them computer games then? This torch is fucked. Ah there we gan, battery’s kicked in again. That looks like the fellas over there. Belter, fill me bag, out the window, back to bed. Sweet as.

It was a right bad time for the family when Choker’s dad got the push last year mind. Times were hard in their house. He’d worked here all his life an all and they just said he was surplus to requirements and hoyed him out the door with a statutory redundancy – wasn’t enough to buy a fucking round in the boozer. Fucking tossers.

Choker was beside hisself at the funeral, hardly touched his beer and that. Blamed the company for it obviously, said they’d broke the old mans heart and basically killed him the day they sacked him. I had to agree like. I mean they didn’t put the rope round his neck or owt but they took away his reason for being here didn’t they?

I decided then I was going to do the place over – get some of the money back they didn’t give him when they got rid like. Thought I’d give it to Chokers mam what with her looking after us an all when I was a kid. I mean me mam did her best but after the old fella walked out on her for a younger model she fell apart a bit. I still visit her in the hospital now and then but she doesn’t kna it’s me.

Aye, so I thought I’d weigh in for the funeral and that, mebbe’s help out round theirs but it was too late. She couldn’t live without him and we were at another one a week later.

Fuck it – can’t dee nowt about it now. Right bag’s full where’d I leave that petrol?

Here we are then, the boardroom. Splash a bit here and a bit there. Keep the other can for the chairmans office – that’s the fucker there with the brass plate on.

CEO – Mr. J. Simmons

Right where’s me matches…here we go, I’ve waited all me life for this.

This one’s for you Mr. Cartwright…and for me.

They think they know me in this boozer. Think they know all about me. Wankers. Look at him selling Lynx from a carrier bag. One fifty a tin, that’s proper big time that is son. The cunt’s made about fifteen quid and he’s swaggering about like some fucking celebrity gangster. It’s not like he’s even a snotty nosed kid either, the fucker’s about thirty and scratches a living by nicking tat out of them cheap shops, you know the kind where the workers are on minimum wage and care more about their health than they do the company’s profits. Here’s another one, his sidekick, this boozer’s full of wannabe’s tonight. He’s pulling out his snide watches and giving it all the ‘I know a man who knows a man bollocks’, the twat’s walking over to me now, smug grin on his blotchy, junk food face.

‘Come on Davey, live a bit dangerously, tenner apiece and I’ll even get Dodger to hoy in a free can of deodorant.’

I just smile back at him and shake my head, looking all model citizen and respectable as I turn back to my pint, hearing him mutter under his breath as his sweaty, charva frame moves away from me. Another one who thinks I’m a law abiding, salt of the earth, couple of pints at the weekend type. They know fuck all.

After last orders I normally go back to my council house on my own, I don’t go for a drink at anyone else’s and they don’t get invited to mine. Normally I’m about a tenner down on cards to some of the older lads; I don’t mind they’re good blokes. Sometimes I get a chinkys on the way home; sometimes I plead poverty and just get a bag of chips. Proper grey man me, none of this touting gear round pubs for twenty bar here and there, sticking your chest out and playing it hard. No visible tattoos, nice sensible short back and sides, no bling and no designer gear. What I do have though is an offshore bank account with seven hundred grand in it and about forty grand in cash under the bed. I work in a steel factory and everyone on this estate knows it. I live within my supposed means and record wise I’m as clean as a fucking whistle. What this means is that I’ll only ever get caught if I’m actually pulled in the act and that’ll never happen.

Taking a large gulp from my second pint of the weekend I revise the days events. The van pulled up and the guard was straight out and into the bank, first mistake mate. Company procedure is to wait in the van for five minutes and assess the area. As the company in question give them far too much to do and then bollock them when they don’t do it then it’s no surprise they all cut corners.  He came back out, no helmet on, enjoying the sunshine, breaking all the rules. My hand slowly let out the clutch and the bike moved forward, he couldn’t even hear it, too busy thinking about the baguette he’d bought half an hour ago from Greggs. Smiling to myself as the lager hits my throat again I recall how he half turned and started to bend down at the hatch as I got closer, full throttle now. The engine whined as I pushed it hard into third. He noticed a noise and started to turn but by then I was on him. He tried to push the case in the slot but it was too late. I booted him over as the bike slewed to a halt, engine still running. Grabbed the case, rammed my hand round the throttle and I was off. Piece of piss. 

The bizzies found the bike two miles away, they might find a nicked Peugeot ten miles north of Newcastle in a couple of days, I bet you no-one noticed the crappy Escort Van parked down the road from it though. The one I’ve just sold on Ebay for five hundred quid. Thirty grand in the case, minus the five hundred quid loss I took on the van for a quick sale plus sundries like petrol, equals a profit of roughly twenty nine and a bit thousand. Stuff it into the hiding place, show my face in here and then get to bed; I’ve an early shift tomorrow.

That’s the beauty of my chosen profession, I work alone; no one can grass me up; no one can get pissed and mouthy about me; no one can suddenly start spending money that they didn’t have yesterday. The only risks I take are when I’m doing the job and I’m very careful, preparation is everything with me. At the end of the day I’m a professional blagger and a fucking good one at that. That’s why I even make an effort to drink in here regular, blend in, be part of the scenery, I fucking hate them plastic gangsters that get in though. That Lynx selling muppet’s been a bit familiar lately as well, I can’t work out why, I think he might suspect I’m not what I seem but he can’t prove it so he just digs away. Well you keep digging son, I say fuck all me.

Then, suddenly, he’s in my face, a bit of an audience behind him.

‘Davey, how come you never buy any gear off me? Everyone else in this bar takes a bit of hoisty of me, they all appreciate the bargains but you never do.’

He’s obviously had a few pints more than he’s capable of and he’s getting brave, maybe the coke’s kicked in and he just feels the need to talk, whatever it is the cunt’s voice is getting louder and he’s drawing attention to me. Not what I want. This needs stopping.

‘I mean anyone would think you were some kind of undercover bizzy or one of those professional witnesses or something. You know the kind who can’t break the law or it fucks the case up.’

Shite. Too late to nip in the bud now, there’s a buzz round the bar and a couple of his gobshite mates have left the pool table and walked over, still holding their cues. I can’t have this. Instant death on this estate if I don’t deal with what he’s just said.

‘I can see your point,’ I say, ‘It must look suspicious to a charlie’d up, paranoid wanker like you. The reason I don’t buy your gear is because it’s shit and you’re a tu’penny ha’penny thief who thinks he’s a gangster. You want to remember your name’s Gray not Kray.’

The cunt is nonplussed no-one’s ever spoken to him like that before, even his tattoos look confused, he’s not gonna like the next bit then.

‘As for being a bizzy and not doing owt illegal, how does this grab you?’

I welt my pint glass against the bar and ram it in his fat charva face, the blood sprays his two useless mates and they’re on their toes. Next thing I know the bar’s full of people applauding and I’m getting free pints all night, turns out they hate the cunt an all. Despite my desire to be low key I have to say I enjoy it but I know that was just the start. He was put into an ambulance telling everyone exactly what him and that Dodger prick would do to me. I’d best ring work tomorrow and ask for a few days holiday; tell them I’ve got a bereavement and I need to plan the funeral.

**********

I’m on top of the wall breathing softly. The glint of the cars that are parked in this quiet street remind me that it’s a full moon and I don’t hang about. A little hop and I’m on the other side, crouched in the bushes. The building rises up in front of me like some kind of gothic vampire haunt. It looks very different in the dark, I can picture Ozzy Osbourne running out in his pyjamas chasing that fucking dog and shouting ‘Shhhaarrronnn.’

A rabbit is playing on the lawn between me and the building, it scampers forward a couple of yards and immediately the whole garden is bathed in bright, white light so I crouch further into the bushes looking for a way past. His brothers and sisters provide this by skipping round the perimeter to the side of the building and showing me where the light sensor doesn’t reach. Making a mental note never to eat rabbit stew I follow them.

The side door is a piece of piss, one fucking Yale lock – are they for real? A quick fumble with my trusty blade and I’m in. Padding up the stairs to where I want to be I see a shadow cross the windowed door at the top and crouch back against the wall, I’m not keen on advertising my presence just yet. Once I’m certain it’s gone I jog up the rest of the stairs silently and very carefully push open the door and look up and down the corridor – there she is.

About twenty yards ahead of me is the stout woman I’ve come to see, she looks fat from the back, big calves poking out of the bottom of her A line skirt and fleshy arms protruding from her potato shaped body, obviously plays a lot of bingo. Controlling my breathing so it’s barely audible I creep up behind her, I’ve got something for this particular bird and no one else can know I’m here.

She starts to turn so I clamp my hand round her mouth and drag her backwards into a storeroom. She’s gasping and panicking, struggling to free herself until I spin her round and she looks into my eyes, relaxing instantly. Smiling at her I remove my hand.

‘Sorry about that Mrs Jessup but I knew you’d scream.’

She smiles back, unworried now, no thoughts of rape and murder in her mind. She knows what’s coming when I visit.

‘No problem Mr. Turnbull.’ Holding out her hand, ‘Have you got anything for me then?’

All business this old stick she never changes at all, I hand her the holdall with the cash in and nod towards the corridor again. She smiles, adjusts her dishevelled blouse and heads for the door with me tucked in behind.

‘Incidentally,’ I whisper, ‘you need to put another lock on the side door.’

It takes about thirty seconds to get to room fifteen, the warm, carpeted floor masking our footsteps and the dim night-lights shading our progress. The residents of this particularly exclusive nursing home like their comfort, that’s why I chose it for my mam.

It wasn’t easy finding somewhere good enough for her, somewhere I could trust that she wouldn’t be abused but when I did, well it was a no brainer. There’s not a nursing home manager in the world that makes any kind of decent money so when I targeted the lonely and unloved Mrs Jessup I knew I was on a winner.

From her poky flat to her shitty old Morris car I knew she’d jump at the cash and from then on in it was just a case of how much. Two and a half grand a month in cash buys my mam the cosiest, safest room in the cosiest and safest home in the Northeast, for her part Mrs Jessup now drives a newish Focus and is buying a nice big house; everyone’s a winner.

**********

I’d heard on the grapevine that Dodger and that Gray cunt had bought a shit load of jellies today, obviously planning some blissed out recuperation of his sliced up face. I’d also heard they were coming for me at the weekend and made a big show of not giving a fuck. This was so that when they died I wouldn’t be associated with it, not given the way they were going to go. I let everyone in the pub think I was an honest man who could have a bar room brawl if the occasion demanded it, not the kind of single minded, determined and cold blooded murderer that would go round to a scummy charvas house at two in the morning when he was out of his box to do him and his mate in.

Climbing up the drainpipe to his first floor maisonette I listened intently for sounds of babies or pit bulls coming from inside, hearing nothing I heaved myself over the balcony and landed by the glass doors. Sitting there just listening I could hear the banging of a stereo playing some kind of rap shit, can’t make out the words just bass thumping out regular and steady, the neighbours’ll probably want me decorated when I off these pricks. Looking through the glass I can see one of them sprawled out across a beanbag but the other one’s nowhere in sight so I decide to give it a couple of minutes in case he’s at the toilet.

Looking out from the balcony over the estate I can see the rain driving in over the rooftops and the anger builds in me. These cunts are keeping me here, they’ve set my plan back by a couple of months now, they saw to that by interfering in my life. The bizzies marked my card when they interviewed me the day after I glassed Lynx man in there. They told me that he grassed me straight up for doing him but that none of the regulars would testify against me. The cunt was all matey with me; like he was doing me a favour and that he was pleased to see the bastard get his comeuppance.

The thing is I’m on their fucking radar now, before it happened they would have said ‘Dave who?’ now they know who I am and where I drink, that’s how blaggers get caught. It just takes one person to give any kind of description, one copper to have a vague recollection of a bloke in a pub and they’re right up your arse.

No, I’ve got to leave the jobs for a few months now until the local plod have seen so many other faces that they forget mine. Like I said though that sets my plan back and keeps me living in this shithole and it’s all because of them cunts in there. Looking back in at his prone figure I can’t help but see the irony of the situation, he accuses me of being a grass, in public, like I’m the lowest of the low and when I glass him he proceeds to sing my name the first chance he gets. The hypocrisy is fucking breathtaking when you think about it; the cunt should be a politician. 

Right, enough time’s passed; his mate must be spark out upstairs. I gently break the lock and slide the glass door open, he’s got his back to me and doesn’t move a muscle so I’m sliding the gear out of my bag as I approach him. I’ve got a small, weighted rounders bat in one hand just in case he’s got any fight in him and a length of rubber flex in the other. The cunt’s staring straight at me as I step into his line of sight. I push the bat up to his face to see what happens but he just gurgles something unintelligible and smiles dreamily, the fucker’s away with mixer. Time for work.

Moving quickly I wrap the flex around his left bicep and pull it tight, patting his arm as I do so, then using my free hand I pull one of the syringes out of my inside pocket and push it straight into the biggest exposed vein. His face registers a slight flicker of pain and he stares at me while I hesitate over the plunger. Do I really want to do this? Fucking right I do, this cunt messed with me and my plan and he has to pay. I push the plunger down and watch him for a second as the one hundred percent pure heroin I bought in London this morning from Fin the Greek makes it way to the pleasure centres of the brain. His expression changes from one of pure contentment to a vacant shell, as first he is stimulated and then overwhelmed by the smack. There’s probably worse ways to go actually.

Scatter some junkie paraphernalia around the house and start to make my way upstairs, I’m tempted to turn this fucking music off, what is it? Fucking Black Grape? What’s that all about then? Fuck it I go upstairs to find his mate and to plant the rest of the kilo in the airing cupboard.

Job Done.

Ssssniiiifffffff.

Ssssniiiifffffff.

Aah that’s better, a couple of liveners. Just the thing to keep me awake on the drive home. Four poxy hours, alone in the car, at frigging midnight I must be mad. I don’t know why I ever got involved with a northern bird.

Still, it gives me plenty of time to think anyway, I wonder if anyone’s found her yet? She’ll start to smell after a couple of days by which time I’ll be well away and immersed back into normal life. No-one saw me go in and no-one saw me leave, I parked the car two streets away and entered and exited via the back garden under cover of darkness. That’ll teach her anyway, no-one fucks with me. I dunno who she thought she was threatening me with the papers, I spent too long building the image up to have it wrecked by a jealous, hormonal, needy bitch like that.

I’ve got the radio turned up to help keep me awake as well but I’m sure I can hear something, a moaning sound or something, bollocks I’m imagining it. This charlie’s good stuff but it makes you well paranoid. I’ve caned it as well over the last few days building up to this. Mind you, that fucking station never seems to play any of my records, Gigolo Doorman was a classic, number one in fifteen countries and these cunts played it once, fucking once! I’m Frankie Martins the biggest male artist in the world and these twats ignore me. I ought to get my manager onto it, put a bit of pressure on the cunts, might be a problem there though, being as she’s lying dead in her front room at this moment in time.

My mind keeps flitting back to when I did it, strange really, she didn’t seem that bothered. Almost like she knew it was coming, just grinned at me all soulless and empty. Absolutely nothing behind them eyes, fucking freak. I must have smashed her brain in with the first blow of the hammer, cos she never screamed or anything and just kept grinning at me, eyes open. Oooh ya fucker, I got a big rush there but at the same time I’m shuddering at the thought of it.

Takes me back though, driving down the motorway in the middle of the night, I used to do it all the time when I was just starting out, shitty clubs up and down the country. Different now though, Stadium tours, free drugs and beer and of course birds on tap. Oh yes my son, plenty of birds, I’ve fucked them all over the last couple of years, long, short, fat, thin, not so much of the fat ones these days mind, black, white, brown, yellow, supermodels and professional groupies, they’ve all had a length of the Martins meat.

That’s where it started to go wrong for me and her, I met her just as I was starting to be noticed by the music press and had built up a little following nationwide. She said she could manage me to stardom and I told her to fucking get on with it then. Knobbed her the same night actually.

She was true to her word though, next thing I know I’m on top of the pops and I’ve got an album coming out, a couple of stage managed fights in Browns and I’m hot news, that was twenty million album sales and a clutch of awards ago. Funny thing is I only ever signed one contract with her, she said it was a five year one, right back at the start and she never took any money just kept saying she’d get her payoff when the time was right.

This coke’s shit, my fucking eyes are closing here, the three lanes turning into one. Bollocks to this I’ll stop for a bit, where am I? Yorkshire, yeah smells like it. Big cup of coffee, quick piss and finish the rest of my gear to get me home.

“Large regular mate, make it strong. I’m just nipping to the bog.”

That’s better, nothing in the world like having a piss when you’re desperate, it beats coming anyday. Jesus these taps gush out quick. What’s that? I could swear something moved behind me in the mirror. Getting twitchy again, must be the gear. I’m really too old for this shite now, I’d better finish it anyway.

Ssssniiiifffffff.

Ssssniiiifffffff

Job done, two big Hollywood lines to finish the wrap. An injection of adrenalin straight to the heart, add the big cup of coffee and I’ll be buzzing all the way home.

This service station is right gloomy, lights half on and that. The tight bastards must be on an economy drive or something. I dunno where matey boy’s gone as well, just left my coffee and change on the counter and disappeared. Fuck it neck the drink and get out. Actually, looking round I reckon this is where I met her, it was on a drive home from a gig and I’d stopped for coffee to stay awake, couldn’t afford coke in those days, yeah it was here she approached me, round about five years ago. Fuck it no use reminiscing, she’s gone now and I need to be asleep when the press come round.

It seems a long walk back to the car in the dark, all the fucking lights are off out here as well, lots of shadows moving around the bushes and stuff. Spooky as fuck, really cold as well. Glad to be back in the car, lock all the doors and get the heater on. Fucking laughing at myself as I look in the mirror, acting like a big girl. Get the radio on and let’s go, I’m buzzing my nut off here.

I’m just cruising out of the station and all the lights come back on, weird that. Hitting the motorway as well and every road light in front of me is out but behind me they’re all on and the lines on the road are all merging into one lane. It’s like I’m dreaming but I’m wide-awake. What the fucks going on here then? I‘ll do that Desmond if he’s mixed my gear with acid the wideboy chav twat.

Now the fucking radio’s cut out, lean down and try to watch the road, don’t know why there’s no one else on it, and punch the bastard. That’s it, it’s kicking back in now, playing that Blue Oyster Cult song, never liked that one. Something catches my eye in the rear view mirror, eh? It’s that same soulless grin and dead eyes I thought I’d left in Newcastle, I look away quickly, shake my head to clear it. Fucking drugs, I’ve gotta stop using them.

Then, I look back again and it’s still there, only now her face is closer to mine. Hit the brakes but the car’s not stopping. I can only stare at the mirror, too scared to look round.

Then the radio goes dead again and she’s whispering in my ear

“Time for my cut Frankie.”

‘The stupid bastard only broke in with no gloves on and then set the alarm off.’

‘Daft get, how did he think he’d get away with it?’

‘He’s a fucking pisshead man, has been since his daughter got done in a few years back.’

‘Aye you can tell like, he smells like the Fed Brewery. Stinks man.’

He’s right; I smell like George Best’s first liver, you know you’re in a state when you’re aware of it yourself.

The drunk in the corner of the bar had been quiet for some time, maybe it was the amount of alcohol he had consumed that day, indeed that week, maybe for once he had nothing to say or maybe, just maybe, the entrance of the man who raped and murdered his daughter had something to do with it. On the very day his daughter would have celebrated her twenty first birthday her killer had entered his local and left her father dumb with rage and sadness. At first the eyes of every patron were upon him but they soon tired of this as he just slurred quietly to himself and seemed to not even notice the presence of the gangland royalty that had also entered the pub.

‘They reckon he’s been on a bender for a week, done the whole of the East End from Wallsend to Byker.’

‘What every pub?’

‘Every fucking boozer on every fucking street – anniversary of the daughters death see.’

‘Why did he try robbing the paper shop then? Drink money?’

‘Probably, who knows why a useless washed up old tramp like that would do anything. He wouldn’t have made a mistake like that back in the day, his nickname was the invisible man back then, the fucker was in and out of places all night long. A proper little moneymaker this lad was, certainly wouldn’t have bothered with a shop like this one. He was just asking to be banged up. They reckon he was falling all over in the Butchers Arms, shouting about how he had a big job on that night.’

The young gangster was noisily making merry with his friends and hangers on when the barman presented him with a whisky. Assuming it to be a gift from a sycophant he downed it greedily, the drugs in his system aiding his thirst, before announcing that, as promised, he was now going to the cash machine. Anyone sharp-eyed looking over at the old drunk in the corner at that point may have noticed him pocketing a small plastic bottle before necking his pint and staggering towards the side door.  

‘What happened to him then?’

‘Like I say the daughter got done in. Officially never solved and case still open, unofficially, Tommy Kinghorn, you’ve heard of him right? Inadequate, spoiled, bisexual son of Billy ‘One Punch’ Kinghorn.’

‘Aye, we’ve all heard of the Kinghorns.’

‘Well he didn’t like the way she kept knocking him back and decided to take what he wanted, her permission or not. She was found in the woods with no knickers on and her tights stuffed in her mouth. Old Tadger there lost the plot, hit the drink hard when Kinghorn got away with it and of course there was no prospect of a minor league scrote like him doing anything about it. He could’ve destroyed the skinny little twat in a square go but wouldn’t have lasted five minutes once the old man and his muscle got hold of him. He just fell apart, the wife topped herself because of the grief and Kinghorn Junior walked away laughing.’

‘Tragic enough like but it doesn’t give him the right to go burgling shops.’

The scrap yard at the bottom of Shields Road had seen some action over the years but nothing ever quite like this. Any normal person would have been horrified at the sight of a prone and unconscious man, his face full of blood and broken bones, with the hilt of a rounders bat peeking out from his distended anus. It didn’t seem to bother the dishevelled looking gentleman though; the one that was walking jauntily away as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

I moan again, sick of listening to these bastards dissecting my life, sick of having to replay the shite in my head.

‘I’ve done nowt, let us gan you bastards.’

‘Come on Tadger you know the drill, you know you’ll get a bit of time for this one. You were recorded on CCTV in the Shields Road area of Byker at 21:10 and then picked up inside the property twenty minutes later you’re bang to rights mate, why don’t you just hold your hands up.’

I lift my arms in the air just to piss them off and say ‘like this’ then my head reminds me that I’ve been drinking for seven straight days. It’s banging like that piped trance shite they play in the trendy bars these days. What the fuck ever happened to jukeboxes anyway?

‘I cannit remember nowt man.’ I shout.

‘Look at his hands shaking, proper DT’s there.’

‘Fuck it let’s charge him. He’s bang to rights and he’s going to jail.’

The jaguar pulled up outside the pub and a greying, broad shouldered and powerfully built man emerged. He could have been a top business executive surrounded by aides and assistants were it not for the tattoos on his neck and scars on his face. The figure that approached him on his journey up the Road looked startled at his appearance, as if this was not in the rules for whichever game he might be playing, and immediately started stumbling and slurring. The big man turned, half recognised the face, and stared, trying to place him. The drunk stopped and seemed to think for a second before pulling a crowbar from his pocket. The minders were a little twitchy and headed for him en-masse but he stumbled across the road where they observed him jemmying the window of the paper shop and chuckled to themselves, just another small-timer. The big man dismissed the idiot and entered the bar to find his son.

I’ve been read my rights and formally charged; I have no alibi and can’t offer a defence. They’re right; I’ll get six months. As they’re processing me I’m shaking like a shitting dog and smell like a tramp that’s been slumming it. The looks I get as I’m led through the custody suite en-route to my cell are a blatant mix of pity and contempt. Then the place explodes into life as ten riot suited pigs come steaming through, charvas and conmen alike are smashed to the side as the robocops head to their van.

“What’s going on?”

The head of the steroid squad flashes my copper a glare for being too nosey but one of his goons can’t help himself. 

“Jimmy McGilligan was found in the scrapyard under Byker Bridge this morning. He had his boxers in his mouth and a rounders bat stuck up his arse. Looks like he’s been Rohypnol’d, apparently he was on the lash down Shields Road and wandered off from his pals.”

“Fuck me his brother’ll go mental.”

“Aye, he had to be sedated when he was told, he was screaming about it being Kinghorn again. With them being the type of family they are then it’s definitely all gonna kick off and I tell you what, Billy one punch as his dad or not, I wouldn’t like to be in young Tommy’s shoes.’

As they close the cell door and forget about me while they continue speculating on the bloodshed to follow I stop shaking. Sometimes you have to lose the battle to win the war and six months is nothing. By the time I’ve served three, Kinghorn’ll have died a horrible death, half the gangsters in this town will have wiped each other out and my family will have finally been avenged.

Aye, when the time comes then I’ll be fuckin drinking to that.