Chapter 9
“Fuck off,” I laugh, shaking my head at the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. “They’ll kill me before I could blink. I’m never told anything other than the destination. I’m just a runner, and there’s always another one waiting for me to fuck up so they can take my place.”
Pilkington looks at me, his grey eyes so focused, it’s like he’s trying to read my mind.
“You don’t seem to have much faith in your abilities.
You talked your way into the position, did you not?
I’m sure you can ask for some extra responsibilities; play to your strengths, you could sweet talk the knickers off a nun. We’ve been watching you.”
I fidget in my chair, not liking the idea of being watched.
Or rather, not liking that I hadn’t noticed.
I’m always on the lookout for anything or anyone that seems out of place.
“I’m no snitch, and I like my bollocks where they are.
You know what would happen to me; it wouldn’t be a quick bullet in the head.
No, I’ve seen what they do to their enemies, and it’s fucking scary, man.
You know they keep the dogs hungry for a reason, right? ”
“We won’t let it get to that. All we need is some intel, a couple of names, and the collection point. You do this for us, and you’ll be rewarded.”
“It’s still fucking no. Don’t you get it? They won’t ever stop looking for me. I’ll have a gun pointed at my head for the rest of my life.”
“Not if they think you’re already dead.”
This time I just laugh and laugh, through fear more than humour. This guy is never gonna quit. It’s not like they can just let me go now. I’ve got no fucking choice.
“Why me?” I ask when they know they’ve got me. “There are plenty of runners; I’m not the only one.”
“You’re the newest, and your face hasn’t got around too much. They’re expecting you to fuck up, to get caught by either the cops or by one of their rivals. We can work with that.”
“Deano!” DeVon’s voice comes shouting down the phone, which means one of two things: he’s driving so fast that his voice has to get above the loud engine of his car, some flashy, bright red car that I have no clue about.
Or, more likely, he’s high as a kite and has no clue he’s shouting. I hate being called Deano.
“Yes, Boss, what can I do for you?” I shout back, no fucking clue why.
“I’ve got a new job for you. It’s big, and you’re the only one I want on this.” He’s said the words I’ve been waiting to hear for a while now.
Ever since I was dropped off miles away from my home ground, I’ve been putting myself in DeVon’s line of sight. Ready to jump at his every command, to do whatever he wants, and he’s a crazy fucker who wants a shit ton of work out of all of us.
“Anything, Boss, you know that. Just say the word.” I cringe.
I know I sound like a twat, but he loves it.
I have no idea where he grew up, but he can sound a bit fake sometimes, like his background and family.
Kids that grew up like me and Ellis, we know what a tough, hard life is.
Full of pain and paedos and having to sleep in doorways rather than be abused every night.
“I knew I could count on you. Meet me at the flat, and I’ll fill you in. You’re one of us now, boy. You’ve been sworn in.”
I can still feel the kicking I took before having to stand and vow to his rules.
The ink on my back has now scabbed over and cleared up.
I’m in it for life now. I’m just not sure how long my life is gonna be.
Pilkington is happy with the way I’m moving up the ranks, and the intel I’m passing on is good.
I hate this; I hate all of it. I’ve become a liar, a thief, and now a snitch.
There’s nowhere for me to go but the grave, and sometimes, I think it wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to me.
I use a phone in an out of the way pub and call the number given to me by Cole, the guy Pilkington assigned as my contact. “On my way now.”
It’s all I have to say, so I shove my phone in my pocket, then make my way to DeVon. He’s probably called Devon, but thinks it’s cooler, more acceptable as a gang leader.
When I get to the flat, I knock twice like I’m supposed to and stand back so they can see me through the doorbell camera. I push the hood of my hoodie back from my head and greet with the fist bump we all know to use as a member.
“Yo, dude, looking better than last week.” Mo chuckles and grabs my nape, giving me a shake. I know he liked kicking the shit out of me last week. He pats me down, making sure I’m not carrying anything.
“Yeah, what doesn’t kill ya and all that shit.” I grin and follow him into the living room; the smell of weed fills my nose as the door is pushed open, and the smoke makes my eyes sting.
“Deano! My man,” DeVon calls out, and the spliff between two fingers gets offered to me. “Get a taste of this. It’s the good stuff.
I take a toke and hand it back. He’s right; it is good, and I feel it straight away. “What’ve you got for me?”
He puts his feet up on the sticky, stained coffee table and pushes a bag with his foot towards me. “This needs to get to Tyrone.”
My blood goes cold; this isn’t the usual counted and weighed baggies of sugar. It looks like it weighs at least a kilo. I open the bag and peer inside. Fuck!
“This is the best clean snow you can find,” he laughs, and all the other guys in the room join in.
“Tyrone is gonna cut it and then you get it back here.” He hands me a bit of paper with an address on it.
I memorise it and give it back, then from the side of the sofa cushion he pulls out a knife—a burro.
“You’re gonna need this too. Tyrone lives in the Saint’s manor.
I reckon you can be in and out in an hour.
Head back here as soon as you’re out. Tyrone’s a master at this.
We’ve got eyes around there, so you’ll have cover.
You get this right and you’re moving up, man.
” I can read through the lines at the threat that’s veiled in fake praise.
If I fuck it up, I’m wasted, whether it’s by DeVon’s instruction or the Saints.
This is it; this is what Pilkington wants. He wants as many gang members as possible out and watching me. Something about rounding up the sheep when it’s all done.
I pick up the bag and the burro and nod. “Done. I’ll see you in a couple of hours. Get the scales ready.” I laugh.
DeVon gives me a nod of approval, and that makes me want to shit myself. “You’ve got this, kid.”
With his last words as my dismissal, I get the hell out of the flat.
I can see a few watchers in the doorways of the tower blocks.
I’ve gotta get away from them; Cole is meeting me with a bullet proof vest. I’m more concerned about it being knife proof—that’s the weapon of choice for these guys.
I get to the meeting place, another backstreet pub, and after I’ve downed a shot of tequila, I head for the bathroom.
Cole has me protected in just a few seconds. “Ready?” he asks as he steps away so I can pull my hoodie back on. It’s baggy enough to hide any sight or shape of the protection.
“No, not in the slightest. These fuckers don’t mess about; they’ll kill me first, ask questions after. You could be starting a turf war.”
“Just remember: if you’re caught, go down and stay down. We’ll take care of the rest. Good luck.” He smiles, but I can see the concern in his eyes. This is a sting that could end up killing a lot of people—including me.
No one pays me any attention when I walk out of the pub and make my way to Tyrone and the Saint’s manor.
I walk with a swagger that should get me through the myriads of tower blocks and into the stairwell of Tyrone’s building and up the three flights of stairs to reach his flat.
Everyone knows that using the lifts is a sure-fire way of getting killed.
Again, I only knock twice and step back. “You’re late,” is the only thing he says as I step inside.
“Thought I had a shadow and changed my route.” I pull the bag out, handing it over with an internal sigh of relief.
“Stay there. Don’t move.” Tyrone’s ice blue eyes glare at me, and I do exactly what he says.
There are stories about him and his OCD and paranoia.
He leaves me standing on plastic runner that covers the length of the narrow hallway.
He moves into another room, which I expect is the kitchen, but it could be anything.
Against all instructions, I creep down the hallway to the edge of the doorway Tyrone disappeared into.
It’s definitely not the kitchen; it must be a spare room because it’s empty, bar a table with a pristine white countertop.
One of the few items on the table is a digital scale, like the ones at the meat counter in the supermarket.
On it rests a metal bowl, two plastic containers that look like the four-pint milk bottles, and they have powder in them.
There’s also a scalpel, a box of plastic gloves, and finally, a face mask and goggles.
Tyrone puts on the protective gear and unwraps the packaging around the drug, and using a scoop I hadn’t seen, lifts a portion of the powder onto the scale.
I don’t even think I’m breathing as I watch him cut and split the drug, adding whatever shit he can to make my crew sell more shit drugs to stupid users.
It could be fucking washing powder or the powder you put on a baby.
This carries on until all the bag I brought is gone.
After seeing this, I move back away from the door since I think he’ll be done soon.
But before I can reach my spot on the runner again, his phone rings.
“Yo,” he says in greeting. Then he’s silent for a couple of seconds. “Yeah, the dude’s here now.” More silence. “Yeah, it’s some pup DeVon’s bringing up. He was late, and I don’t trust the fucker.”
Silence again.
“Look, I don’t give a shit who I cut for: you, them, shit, the old lady with the meth lab in her kitchen.
As long as I get paid, I don’t care. So, do what you want with him.
He’ll have the gear back again in a few minutes.
You’ll catch him on some corner soon enough.
Yeah, he’ll be carrying nothing but plain flour.
He’s wearing some baggy black band hoodie.
I want the money for him and the package in my account right now. ” There’s a pause. “Cool, got it.”
What the fuck?
He’s just sold me and DeVon out to some other gang, and considering where I am, it’s the Saints.
I tiptoe back to the front door, and with as much care as someone saving their skin can, I creep out.
The second I hit the stairs. I’m down them so fast I don’t even think my feet touch them.
My hoodie gets dumped in a corner as I hit the bottom step.
I’m running so fast I can’t breathe enough to make the call to DeVon to fill him in. He’ll know soon enough. As I reach the path that leads down to the pedestrian underpass to the main road, I slow down. Hitting the high street at full speed is never a good idea.
Fuck! In front of me are four men. Two are the muscles and built like brick shit houses; the other two are tall, skinny guys that I know will be fast on their feet. I’m fucked and already breathing hard after running. Yet, instinct takes over, and my feet move.
I’m not fast enough, and I hit the ground hard as I’m tripped. The first knife hits my back, and I thank god for the protection now. One of them curses, probably realising he hasn’t hit flesh. It doesn’t stop the next one from hitting my thigh, another in my arm and my neck.
Then, the kicking starts, and as I curl up into a ball, I guess that the muscle men have taken over.
I don’t even move when the shouting and loud footsteps move in to break them up or join in.
All I want is for it to be over. Pilkington fucked up, because I’m pretty sure the knife in my thigh hit an artery, and I’m bleeding out.
Then it’s all loud noises and panic.