Big City Jacks

One

Keith Snell was on the run.

In the grand scheme of things, the 25K in wads of cocaine-tainted notes stuffed untidily into the cheap blue sports bag by the side of the bed was insignificant. But it was enough for someone to want him dead. It did not take a mastermind to work that one out. He had been given the chance, pretended to heed the warning, made all the right conciliatory noises, then blown it when faced with the cash. He could not bear to let go of it because he was greedy, poor and wanted it for himself.

As he lay there in the dank guest-house bedroom, he was sweating profusely, even though he was on top of the wire-framed bed, legs splayed, dressed only in grubby, once-white Y-fronts. The transom window was slightly open, allowing a chilly early morning breeze to waft through the curtains over his skin, but it did not help cool him down.

He laid the ice-cold barrel of the sawn-off shotgun across his chest. This made him shiver, but not from cold — from fear.

It was a side-by-side double-barrelled 12-bore, loaded, safety off. He kept his forefinger away from the triggers knowing they were extra-sensitive. He’d done the work on the trigger spring himself and did not want any accidents. He had taken the gun on the last two armed robberies he’d pulled, neither of which had gone to plan. From one he’d had to leg it empty-handed — bad planning — and from the other he’d got just short of four hundred quid (bad planning again: his information had been there was four grand for the taking) and had almost blown his foot off into the bargain.

He had not been a good armed robber, nor a particularly competent thief, not really having the necessary psychological make-up for either. That was why he hung up the shotgun and went into drugs. The robbery and thieving only paid for his habit anyway. His short-sighted strategy had been to offer his services to a dealer — which, he reckoned, would be a nice, easy way to keep close to the scene, get paid for being a gofer, and feed his addiction without putting himself in constant danger of being arrested seven days a week for being such a useless crim.

What he had not bargained for was his own greed.

He had started to come into regular contact with lots of cash and drugs.

At first he fought his inner demons, but it was a losing battle. In truth he should never have allowed himself to look into the packages he was entrusted to deliver. But he had.

It was the last one that had been his downfall.

Twenty-five thousand pounds. More money than he had ever seen or handled in his life. An amount that could change his life, he believed. Mere pocket money to the parasites he was working for, but to him it was a lottery win. The difference between living hand to mouth and the good life.

What he should have done with the package then was deliver it. Easy. If only he had not looked. If only he had not unzipped the bag, stuck his hand in like it was a tombola and drawn out a handful of cash prizes. But he had done, and then he was hooked by the sight, feel and rustle of bundles of notes. And instead of putting them back in and forgetting what he had seen, and going on to his destination, he had landed back at his flat — almost in a trance — and counted it. When his girlfriend came in, he recounted it in front of her.

Twenty-five thousand pounds. Exactly. Maybe drugs debts, maybe purchase money, he didn’t have a clue. All he knew was that it was untraceable and it was in his possession.

Grace was his girlfriend’s name. He loved her and she was his world. She was thin and bony, with self-inflicted tattoos on her knuckles and suicide scars on her wrists. She was as much of an addict as him. They shot up together regularly, sharing the warmth and tranquillity of a heroin trip between themselves. Yes, he loved Grace. She was his soul mate and normally he went along with her.

Not this time.

‘Yeah, luvverly,’ she said worriedly in her rasping, smoke-roughened voice, clearly unimpressed by the sight of the cash. Even though she was an addict and a thief — a very slick shoplifter — she could see the glaring error of her boyfriend’s intentions. ‘And now you’ve counted it, go and take it, every last note of it, to who it belongs to.’

‘What?’ he said in disbelief.

‘You cannot even think about keeping it, Keith. No way. You know that, don’t you?’

He stared blankly at her while she expertly did a roll-up and lit the thin stick of tobacco. She flicked her flaky hair off her forehead.

‘Yeah, yeah, guess you’re right.’ He sighed wistfully.

‘Keith,’ she said firmly, not taken in by his response, ‘you don’t take that money where it belongs, they’ll kill you.’ She was scarily matter of fact. ‘Or worse,’ she added.

He re-zipped the sports bag with a heavy heart, thinking, ‘One hundred quid, a ton, that’s all I’ll end up with.’ He said nothing more to Grace and left the flat as though he had heeded her eminently sensible instructions.

Back on the street, his face turned into an angry snarl at the thought of the unfairness of it all.

The money, he decided, was now his.

Two days later, they found him and grabbed him. Obviously the word was out and everyone was looking for him. Fortunately he had stashed the cash safe and sound round at a mate’s house.

When he came in front of them, they were remarkably reasonable about things. They did not attempt to break anything of his, such as his legs or head. Instead they cocked a listening and sympathetic ear to Keith’s tale of woe and weakness and gave him the chance to go and retrieve the money, although they did warn him in no uncertain terms of the consequences of not having it all back to them within eight hours.

Foolishly, Keith perceived this as a failing on their part.

When they let him go in one piece he could not believe his luck. He had no intention of returning the money. Empty threats, he thought. They have no bottle this lot, he thought. All bark, no bite.

It was the condition in which he discovered Grace ten hours later that made him change his mind and plans.

She was in the council flat, lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of spreading blood. Her left forearm was twisted out at an obscene angle, the splintered and jagged end of a broken bone jutting out through the skin. She had been hammered remorselessly with baseball bats or iron sticks and when she had gone down, succumbed to the blows, they had kicked her and stomped on her, making a terrible mess of her frail body. She was conscious when Keith found her, blood-filled eyes fluttering but vacant. She rallied briefly and was able to whisper Keith’s name and look sadly at him before closing her eyes and exhaling as though it was her final breath.

As much as Keith adored her in his own way, he wasn’t going to hang around. It looked as though her attackers had only just gone, and could be back at any time. Keith was intelligent enough to make the connection to himself and he had no intention of again coming face to face with the people he had ripped off. He knew that he would not be so lucky as to walk away again. He had to run. . and he had the money to do it with.

After collecting a hidden stash of heroin, he left the flat and sneaked nervously down shadow-laden stairwells, crept along needle-littered balconies and emerged unscathed on to the streets below.

Keith had never been so utterly terrified in his life before. He had gone a mile on foot before stopping at a piss-filled phone box and dialling treble nine for an ambulance for Grace. He refused the kind request to leave his name and contact number. At the end of the call, he hung up with a heavy feeling in the gut: he doubted that even the best paramedic in the world would be of much use to Grace now. At least he had tried, which was the main thing. He knew she would understand, wherever she was. He wiped a tear away and turned his mind to more pressing matters.

The retrieval of the money and some form of protection were the next priorities. Then he needed to get some breathing space so he could have time to work out exactly what he was going to do with his life and his newly acquired wealth. The only thing he knew for sure was he had to leave the city and never return. The streets of Manchester would never be a safe refuge for him again.

His friend, Colin the Commando, with whom he had stashed the cash, lived on a housing estate about three miles away.

The big, burning questions for Keith at that point were — how much did they know about him? Did they know of Colin, his mate? What, if anything, had Grace blabbed?

He was under no illusions. They would have tortured the poor cow. So Keith knew he had to work fast and put some real distance between him and them, keep a step ahead and get the hell out of the city.

Three miles on the hoof would take too long. He needed transport.

Keeping to the dark spaces, Keith spent several valuable minutes in search of a suitable motor.

He found an ‘F’ registered Ford Escort Fresco that fitted the bill nicely. It was the sort of car that could have been started with a spoon, but Keith used the screwdriver he always carried with him and jammed it into the ignition. Within a minute he was on the road, threading his way through the streets towards Colin’s pad.

It was a nightmare journey for him, constantly believing he was being tailed. But he arrived intact and pulled up down the road from Colin’s house, which was in a cul-de-sac. He remained in the car for a while, eyes peeled and watchful, his thin-walled heart pounding — for a change — a self-induced drug, adrenaline, through his veins. He pulled out the screwdriver and the engine died. Then he sat there a while longer in the darkened car, watching, waiting. Everything seemed fine. Colin’s house looked normal, in as much as a house with a US army tank and a British army Land Rover parked in the front garden could be.

Eventually Keith climbed slowly out of the car, senses pinging with tension, and walked to the front door of the house. He knocked gently, head hunched down between his shoulders. From inside he could hear the sound of a battle raging. He knocked louder and tried the handle, but the door was locked. Annoyance got the better of him then and he hammered on the door until, suddenly, the sound of warfare stopped, the door was unlocked and opened.

In full World War Two battledress, the chubby yet diminutive figure of Keith’s best friend, Colin the Commando, stared at him from under the rim of a tin hat.

‘No need to knock so bloody loud!’

‘Let me in.’ Keith shoved past.

‘I’m just watching Saving Private Ryan.’ Colin locked the front door.

‘Fancy that,’ Keith said sarcastically. ‘That sports bag I left you to look after? I need it.’

‘Summat up?’ Colin sensed his friend’s tension.

‘You could say that. Where is it?’

‘You OK, pal? You look shell-shocked.’

Keith caught his breath with a stutter, momentarily realizing just how bad things were. ‘I need the bag, man. . OK?’

‘OK, OK.’ Colin saluted, then removed his helmet, revealing his totally bald head. ‘Under the sink.’ He led Keith through. ‘So what’s going on? You look like you’ve shat yourself.’

‘You don’t need to know, OK?’

‘Whatever,’ Colin shrugged. He placed his helmet down in a space between ration tins on the draining board, opened the cupboard below and pulled out the sports bag.

‘You haven’t looked in it, have you?’

Colin the tubby commando shifted uncomfortably. ‘You told me not to, so I didn’t,’ he tried to blag it.

‘Good.’

‘What’s in it?’

Keith opened his mouth, but his proposed little speech about what was and wasn’t good for Colin to know was terminated before it began by a pounding on the front door. ‘Shit,’ he breathed. ‘You expecting anyone other than Germans?’

Colin looked towards the front door, then at the ash-grey face of his friend from school days. ‘No, I’m not. . but you’re in deep shit, aren’t you?’ he said perceptively.

‘Yeah, look pal,’ Keith said urgently, ‘stall the bastards for me, will ya?’

‘Colin? Colin Carruthers?’ a harsh voice demanded through the letterbox. ‘We need a word, matey.’

‘You go out back and leg it. . I’ll sort these people out. . go on, shoo, fuck off!’ He urged Keith towards the back door.

‘Thanks — you’re a mate.’

‘No sweat.’ Colin saluted him again, then said grimly, ‘I just hope that twenty-five big uns is worth it.’

The two friends exchanged knowing looks.

‘Cunt — you peeked.’

‘Yeah, now go,’ Colin ordered him with a push, ‘and thanks for bringing the heavies to my house.’

‘No probs.’ As Keith turned towards the back door, a chill of deep fear spread through him faster than Ebola as the voice through the letterbox shouted, ‘Colin, we know you’re in there. We can hear voices. Open up or we’ll kick the fucking door down.’ He yanked open the back door and ran into the obstacle course of discarded, rusting army machinery that littered Colin’s garden.

Inside, Colin donned his tin hat again and went to the understairs cupboard. He pulled out a Thompson sub-machine gun, strapped the weapon over a shoulder and turned menacingly to the front door, which was now being kicked violently.

‘OK, OK,’ he shouted and flung open the door, stepping back into a threatening combat stance, Tommy gun at the hip, trained and ready to fire. . except it was empty. ‘Right, you mothers,’ he screamed, ‘what the chuffin’ hell do you want?’

There were two men there, hard-looking and eager — but when they saw the gun in Colin’s hands, they stopped dead. Their own hands shot up and they backed off warily.

‘Whoa. . hold it, pal,’ the best-dressed one of the two said. ‘Take a chill pill.’

‘Why the fuck you tryina knock my door down?’ snarled Colin.

Keith jumped and stumbled through Colin’s garden, climbed through the broken fence into next door’s less cluttered one, and started to run hard. He was not thinking now, just responding to the stimulus, getting as far away from danger as possible. And then his small brain kicked in and directed him back to the stolen Ford Escort parked down the road from Colin’s pad. If he could just get back to it, sneak into it, get it going again. . that could put real distance between him and his pursuers.

He fell spectacularly through a hedge and found himself back on the cul-de-sac, only metres away from the car.

Ducking low, he crept round the back of it, down the side and slid into the driver’s seat. He kept his head down at the level of the dashboard, one eye on the road, whilst he started to fiddle with the screwdriver. He jammed it back into the ignition and rived it round.

The engine whirred over, died.

Keith cursed desperately.

Down at the gate leading to Colin’s house, he saw the dark figure of a man appear and stare in his direction. Keith’s head bobbed down out of sight as he fiddled with the screwdriver again.

Once more the engine turned reluctantly. And died.

The man at the gate was peering with more interest towards him.

‘Come on, come on,’ Keith muttered.

There was a shout. The man at the gate took a few strides in Keith’s direction.

He twisted the screwdriver desperately. This time the car started with a backfire and a plume of blue smoke. Ahead, the man stepped into the road and shouted again. He was joined by a second man who vaulted Colin’s garden wall. Both then began to hurry towards the car.

Keith rammed it into gear and the old banger lurched.

In the glow of the fluorescent street light, Keith saw both men reach underneath their jackets. At first, his intention had been to mow them down, but as their hands came out with guns, he had an immediate change of heart and courage. He literally stood on the brake and found reverse gear. Within a second the Escort was slewing backwards, picking up speed, the engine and the gearbox screaming in unison as speed increased.

Keith’s head swivelled backwards and forwards as he tried to keep an eye on his own rearwards progress and that of the two armed men who were now on their toes.

He saw one raise his gun. There was a crack and a hole appeared in the windscreen, then a whizz as the bullet almost creased his arm and embedded itself somewhere in the back of the car. They were firing at him!

Keith yanked the wheel down and the front of the car spun, tyres squealing. The back tyres smacked on the kerb. He heaved on the steering wheel, wishing he had stolen a car with power steering.

They were closing on him and he was presenting them with a nice wide target. Ducking low again, he forced the gear stick down into first and revved the nuts off the engine as the clutch connected it to the gearbox and, once more, the car did a good impression of a marsupial — bouncing like mad — until he regained control and, then — miraculously without stalling the beast — he raced away.

Behind him, both men came to a standstill, watching him disappear, their guns held down by their sides.

Keith watched them in the rear-view mirror.

‘Bastards,’ he said. He punched the air victoriously. Then he saw the bullet hole in the windscreen and his guts churned with a loud, slurping noise.

‘What do we do?’

The men were panting, but not breathless. They slid their guns back into their waistband holsters and stood side by side in the middle of the road, watching their prey escape.

It was the older of the two who had asked the question.

The younger man glanced furtively up and down the street, noticing they were quickly becoming the centre of attention as one or two people emerged from their houses, drawn by the sound of gunfire and the screaming engine.

‘We get out of here and we find him and we sort him — that’s what we do.’

He was called Lynch. He was young and out to make an impression. He spun on his heels in the street, muttering, ‘Even some of these low lifes might call the cops,’ referring to the nosy householders, ‘so we’d better get gone.’

Followed by the older man, whose name was Bignall, the two disappeared into the night like spectres.

‘We nearly had him,’ Bignall said as they got into their car parked three streets away. It was a dull-looking Rover 214, nothing special or memorable, just the right kind of transport for the city. The sort of vehicle that fitted in with any background and could be left anywhere and probably not get stolen because it was such a boring car.

‘Yeah, nearly,’ agreed Lynch. He sat in the front passenger seat, next to Bignall who would be driving. His mind was working fast, going over the few snippets of gen that Colin the Commando had divulged in their very short, but fruitful and violent meeting. Lynch looked at his fist and winced at the grazed knuckles, where he had slightly mis-punched and caught Colin’s tin hat instead of his face. It had hurt. . but it had hurt Colin more.

Lynch sucked his knuckles thoughtfully. Bignall started the car and began to drive.

‘Where to?’

Lynch checked his watch. ‘You’re due to start work soon, aren’t you?’

‘Yep — but I could call in sick.’

Lynch shook his head. ‘No need for that. You drive round to your place and I’ll keep the car. It’s always better to go to work.’

Bignall squinted cautiously at Lynch. ‘How about some dosh? I’ve been doing this most of the day with you.’

Lynch nodded and pulled out a fat roll of banknotes. He peeled five twenties off and dropped them into Bignall’s greedy paw. As an afterthought he dropped him an extra twenty. ‘Bonus for being so helpful.’

‘Cheers. . you’re a real mate.’ Bignall grinned widely at the unexpected windfall. This game was pretty worthwhile after all.

Lynch ran his hands over his short-cropped hair and smoothed down his sharp jacket, breathing out, getting comfortable, whilst he thought about the problem of Keith Snell. In some ways he was responsible for letting Snell off the hook in the first place and now he was charged with the responsibility of dealing with the issue. It was a task that meant a lot to Lynch, his make-or-break time. If he was successful it would do him no end of good, but if he ballsed it up he could say bye-bye to a lot of wealth and status. Dealing with Snell and retrieving the money was a route to the inner sanctum, to the lucrative lifestyle offered by the invincibles. But only if he got the money back.

They arrived at Bignall’s flat. Lynch slid awkwardly across into the driving seat as Bignall got out. Bignall leaned back into the car.

‘Want me to deal with the shooters?’

Lynch considered the question for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. It was unlikely he would need a gun again that evening, so it would be better not to have it with him. He handed the weapon over to Bignall and said, ‘You know what to do?’

‘I know.’ Bignall slid the gun into his jacket pocket and slammed shut the car door, turned to walk away to his house.

Lynch wound his window down. ‘Did you get the car number?’ he called to Bignall’s retreating back.

‘Yeah. . I’ll sort it and let you know what the score is.’

Lynch drove away and headed towards Manchester city centre, his grazed knuckles throbbing painfully. ‘Not good,’ he said to himself, ‘not good at all.’

Keith drove the old car hard, clouds of black and blue fumes pouring from the exhaust as he gunned the engine against its natural desire to rest. His watery eyes kept returning to the bullet hole in the windscreen. Shit, he thought, as it dawned on him for the first time that he had made a very serious error of judgement. He shivered involuntarily at what might have been had the bullet smacked him in the head. But never once did he consider returning the money. Now it was his and he refused to sacrifice the prospect of the new life he had set his heart on.

He drove recklessly across the city, constantly checking his mirrors to see if he was being tailed, finding himself descending the slip road on to the M60 Manchester ring road at Prestwich. How he had arrived there, he did not know. He was beginning to sweat and shake slightly. . the first signs of a requirement for what he knew would be a heavy hit.

Only when he was on the motorway proper did his brain clear slightly and he realized where he was. He had been navigating on autopilot, no particular plan in mind, but as he gathered his senses he had an idea. He veered off the M60 and joined the M61, heading west.

‘Blackpool!’ he thought with a blinding flash of clarity, ‘is the place for me.’ It was the resort to which all runaways went and hid. He knew people there who might hide him, would give him some protection; it was a place he could catch his breath and make some real plans.

Cheered by the thought of the bright lights — he could have some fun there, too, and definitely score — he pushed the accelerator to the floor, noting for the first time he could actually see the road surface through a hole in the footwell.

‘Bleedin’ kids, joyridin’ bastards,’ snarled the owner of the car. ‘I’ve had it nicked a few times, but it always turns up eventually. No doubt it’ll get torched sometime.’ His anger turned to resignation, the sad attitude of a repeat crime victim past caring. He was a big, unshaven man with a massive beer gut hanging over the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, wearing a grubby vest and zip-up slippers. ‘Bloody thing’s droppin’ t’ pieces anyway.’

‘How much is it worth?’ the police officer taking the report inquired.

‘Coupla ’undred, maybe less,’ the man pouted thoughtfully. ‘No great loss, just means I’m walkin’ t’ work tomorrow.’

‘OK,’ the officer said, ‘let’s get this right. .’ He checked his notes. ‘Blue Ford Escort Fresco, registered number. .’ He reeled off the details to verify them, then said, ‘OK, I’ll get it circulated right away.’

‘Whatever,’ the owner shrugged.

The officer returned to his patrol car and settled in next to his shift partner who had not bothered to get out for such a mundane job. He radioed the details in and a communications operator took them down, circulated them locally, then forcewide across Manchester, then entered them on the Police National Computer. Having done this, the operator stood up, stretched and mouthed, ‘Going for a pee,’ to his colleague on the adjacent console.

He made his way to an empty office and picked up a phone.

‘It’s me.’

‘Any news?’

‘The car has just been reported stolen.’

‘It is a legit report?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you sort out the you-know-whats?’

‘I did — they’re safe and sound.’

‘Good. . keep me informed of any developments.’

* * *

By the time Keith Snell drove into Blackpool ninety minutes later, he was shivering and sweating and beginning to hallucinate. He needed something desperately — and he knew where he was going to get it. He came off the M55 at Marton Circle and drove down Blackpool’s back roads on to Shoreside Estate.

After a couple of fruitless drive-arounds, he found the house he was searching for and pulled up outside. He heaved the money bag on to his shoulder and stumbled down the short pathway to the front door, smacking it loudly with the palm of his hand.

Inside he could hear the TV blaring out loudly, and voices.

Eventually the door opened. A teenage girl stood there in a skimpy T-shirt exposing a diamond-studded belly button and tight shorts. She was chewing and sneered at Keith. ‘Yeah?’

‘Troy? Is Troy here?’ he gasped.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I’m Keith Snell. . he’s a mate. I need to speak to him. .’

A figure appeared behind the girl and barked, ‘Fuck off out the way!’

‘Troy. . mate,’ Keith wheezed as the man shouldered the young girl out of the way.

‘What the hell are you doin’ here?’ There was suspicion in the voice.

‘Man. .’ Keith extended his arms, palms outward. ‘I need somewhere to doss, man, somewhere I can get my head together. . and I really, really, need some shit.’ The sports bag rolled off his shoulder and crashed to the ground, the zip bursting and revealing the shotgun resting on wads of cash.

It hit the spot with alacrity and immediately Keith started to feel mellow and warm, like he was sitting in front of a gas fire. It also pleased him he had not had to break into his own stash. He exhaled and relaxed for the first time in hours. His head lolled back and his mouth opened. ‘Jesus. . fuck. .’ he said slowly, then, ‘Ahhh. . this is good shit, man, real good.’ Gently he extracted the hypodermic needle from the well-accessed vein at his elbow.

Troy Costain stood at the end of the bed and watched Keith shoot up, then experience the drug which Troy knew to be — as Keith had indeed verified — very good quality indeed.

‘Nice one, man,’ Keith said coolly, rolling back on to the bed and closing his eyes dreamily.

Troy had bundled Keith away from his house and into his own car after instructing one of his cousins to dump the stolen car in which his friend had turned up. Troy had driven the increasingly nervous, almost delirious man down to North Shore in Blackpool where he knew he could find some accommodation. Troy knew exactly where to go and within twenty minutes had escorted his friend into a very dubious bed-and-breakfast establishment not far from the back of the Imperial Hotel on the promenade.

He had provided Keith with another free sample, remaining with him whilst he mainlined it.

Troy knew this would loosen Keith’s tongue. He was intrigued by the contents of the sports bag, particularly the money. It looked a substantial amount and his antenna had extended with interest.

He perched on the end of the bed as Keith continued to make orgasmic sounds whilst the drug permeated all points of his system. He watched with a sneer of disgust on his face. Troy dealt drugs, having recently gravitated from ecstasy to much more potent substances, but he did not use them himself. He was in the trade for profit, not for pain.

‘How’s it going?’

‘Good. . yeah,’ breathed Keith. ‘Like it.’

‘Do you want to talk?’ Costain suggested slyly.

‘About what?’

‘Why you’re in sin city, why you called on me, and why I’m helping you.’

‘No, no, it’s right.’

‘No it’s not, Keith. You need to be speaking to me because I think you’re going to need me, aren’t you? I can put two and two together.’ Troy’s voice was soothing and cajoling at the same time.

The Costain family lived and operated from a large semi-detached council house on the Shoreside Estate in Blackpool. They were numerous and claimed descendency from the Romanies and also had a stranglehold on the estate via their intimidatory tactics, burglary, thieving and now, through Troy, drug dealing. The youngsters in the family ran wild on the estate and two of them, Roy and Renata Costain, sixteen-year-old twin cousins of Troy, were being hounded by the cops, desperate to make the two little rascals subjects of Antisocial Behaviour Orders. It was to Roy that Troy had entrusted the dumping of the stolen Ford Escort.

Troy had given him specific instructions. ‘Just get it off the estate, dump it, fire it, and nothing else, OK? Do not fuck around, just do what I say, OK?’

Roy could hardly keep a smile off his face. ‘How much?’

‘Tenner.’

‘Oh — OK.’ Roy extended his greedy, grubby paw.

When Troy disappeared with his spaced-out junkie friend, Keith, Roy got into the car and twisted the screwdriver. He drove away with glee and cruised the estate until he found Renata hanging out with a group of like-minded girls on a street corner. ‘Get in,’ he shouted. Without a moment’s hesitation or one question, she was in the front passenger seat. Renata was the girl who had answered the door to Keith earlier.

‘Spin time,’ he said.

‘Yes!’ she responded, clenching her fists.

He stepped on the accelerator and skidded away from the kerb. ‘Bit of a shit heap,’ he observed, ‘but it’ll do.’ He veered back across the kerb, mounted the footpath and gunned the decrepit vehicle half-on/half-off the footpath.

Renata screamed with hysterical laughter.

When Troy Costain left Keith, his friend had slipped into a deep slumber. Troy had waited until he was certain Keith was well gone before peeking into the sports bag and inspecting the contents. His heart skipped a beat or two at the sight of all that money and the deadly looking firearm.

Troy, however, touched nothing — despite his urge to gather all the dosh into his hands and disappear with it.

Instead, troubled by what he had seen and what Keith had told him, he backed quietly out of the room, wondering if he could profit in any way from the knowledge he possessed. He walked slowly down the dingy, mouldy corridor of the guest house, his mind in turmoil, his loyalties being tested to the limit.

At four minutes past midnight Blackpool was buzzing with crowds of punters moving from pub to club, all watched over by the cynical eyes of a few pairs of patrolling police officers. One such pair found themselves parked on the promenade in the wide open space between the colourful entrance to Central pier and the tram tracks which ran north-south down the promenade.

For Blackpool it had been a fairly quiet evening, even though at the last count there were forty-two jobs outstanding on the log in the communications room. Most could wait, some needed attention, but even so, this duo of officers had told comms a lie (that they were busy) and had decided to chill out for a few minutes (by watching the ladies of the night tootle by).

Neither officer had been particularly motivated by their work that evening. Most of it had been boringly mundane and they were hoping that something interesting — and fun — might happen. A good fight, maybe; perhaps a sudden death or a good car crash. What they didn’t realize was that they were about to get a combination of the latter two.

They had sat in silence watching the crazy world called Blackpool speed past their windscreen as they faced the traffic lights at the junction of the prom and New Bonny Street, quite close to the central police station.

Then both officers shot bolt upright in their seats as they simultaneously clocked the blue Ford Escort which had stopped at the red lights, then kangarooed through, heading north, when they changed to green.

Even from a distance of twenty-five metres and with the road lit only by street lights and the windows of the car reflecting the bright glare of Blackpool’s myriad coloured lights, both men recognized the driver and passenger.

‘The cocky little shits!’ one said.

Their blue lights flicked on and the police car slotted in behind the Escort which, as expected, accelerated.

That ‘something interesting’ they had wished and hoped for was about to happen.

‘Yes!’ Triumphantly Roy Costain punched the air, looking over his shoulder, his eyes a-gleam with excitement. ‘The plods are with us. . hold on,’ he warned Renata, who had a grim smile on her face, heart pounding with the rush of adrenaline. The chase was on and both of them loved it to bits.

Her right hand slid across to Roy’s thigh and she jammed the edge of it up into his crotch.

Roy dragged the gear lever down into second and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The old car responded quite well, actually.

Behind them, the police siren came on in accompaniment to the blue lights.

‘Stolen earlier tonight from the Greater Manchester area,’ the comms operator informed the two officers on the tail of the Ford Escort in response to their PNC enquiry.

‘Bingo!’ the driver blurted.

‘Doncha just lurv it when a plan comes together?’ his mate said, rubbing his hands together. Into his radio he said calmly, ‘We are behind this vehicle now, heading north along the prom, just gone past Talbot Square. It looks like he doesn’t want to stop.’

‘Roger that,’ the operator said.

‘We’re taking up a following position,’ the officer doing the radio said, very aware of the force pursuit policy.

The comms operator started to direct other patrols to the area.

Traffic was light on the promenade and it was easy for Roy to put his foot down in the battered Escort as there was nothing to get in his way. He was going to enjoy himself and then get into a position where he could ditch the car and leg it with Renata. He knew there was a good chance he would get locked up for it at some stage but that did not bother him unduly. In fact he rather liked getting arrested. It was great being obnoxious to the cops and there being nothing they could do about it. They even had to feed him!

He checked his rear-view mirror. The cop car was still behind, keeping his distance. Roy tutted with frustration. He also knew the force policy on chases and that he could lead them on a merry dance all over town without them even trying to ram him or stop him or box him in if he didn’t look likely to endanger life. If he drove really recklessly they would back off and let him go, or maybe just follow him with the helicopter if it ever appeared.

‘C’mon, put your foot down,’ Renata encouraged him. She squeezed his thigh. ‘If we outrun ’em, I’ll give you a blow job,’ she promised him.

That made him press even harder.

His plan was to do a scoot around the highways and byways of North Shore, then head back to Shoreside Estate, or nearby, and dump the car, then run.

‘C’mon, c’mon!’ she urged, tightening her grip.

‘I’m doin’ the best I can,’ Roy rasped. ‘It’s bloody clapped-out, this thing.’

‘So?’

The Escort hurtled along the promenade. Another police car swerved out of a side road and slotted in behind the first one.

‘Seventy miles per hour now,’ the officer riding shotgun in the first police car commented down his radio. ‘No other traffic to worry about, though,’ he added.

‘Roger,’ the comms operator acknowledged. ‘Be careful. Oscar-November ninety-nine has been scrambled,’ he said, meaning that the force helicopter had been turned out from its base at nearby Warton. ‘Be with you in a few minutes.’

‘Thanks for that.’

When they shot past the Imperial Hotel on North Shore, the speedo in the Escort was hovering somewhere in the region of 75mph. He knew that some very sharp braking and cute manoeuvring would be required for the roundabout at Gynn Square. In his mind’s eye he was working out where he would position the car, how he would brake, which gears he would use. It must be said, though, that because of Renata’s hand working excitedly away on the outside of his trousers, his brain was not 100 per cent focused on the driving.

Roy almost lost it on the roundabout, the car skittering sideways and the back end slewing wildly. Gripping the steering wheel for grim death, he managed to keep control, accelerated right around the hazard and back down Dickson Road, the two police cars on his tail.

Renata screamed delightedly.

By going along Dickson Road, Roy had changed his plan, as this road ran almost parallel to the promenade and back into Blackpool town centre. He had now decided to ditch the car in town, where he knew he and Renata would have a better chance of disappearing into the alleyways of the night.

There were actually more cars and pedestrians using Dickson Road than the promenade, all serving to slow down Roy’s progress.

He weaved the car in and out and overtook a slow-moving taxi as he passed the rear of the Imperial Hotel and then shot right across the two mini-roundabouts and plunged down the slight gradient before hitting the town centre again.

The cop cars were still with him. He wondered if they had managed to get any other cops up ahead to roadblock him, but he doubted it. This chase was only really seconds old and he knew the cops wouldn’t have yet been able to deploy too many officers to it.

Ahead of him was the old cinema now converted into Funny Girls, one of the country’s leading nightclubs. The road here split into a one-way system. Roy squeezed the Escort between parked vehicles on his left and oncoming traffic, but he was going far too fast to make the almost 90-degree left-hand turn into Springfield Road, which was the one-way street looping round the nightclub.

‘Christ!’ he muttered and slammed on the brakes, wrenching the wheel down to the left.

Nothing happened. The car did not slow down. There was no pressure on the brake pedal.

‘What?’ cried Renata.

Roy held on grimly, pumping the pedal repeatedly.

Still nothing.

‘Fuck!’

The Escort swerved and the back end came round. Roy found himself travelling broadside into the path of an oncoming black cab.

Renata screamed, realizing the car was totally out of control. It was not a scream of delight anymore.

Roy knew there was nothing he could do. He braced himself for the coming impact.

‘Ooops, he’s lost it,’ one of the officers in the following police car stated coolly.

Both cops saw the Escort being driven at high speed towards the left-hand bend, realized it wasn’t slowing down, saw the brake lights come on, saw it still wasn’t slowing down, saw the car twist mid-road and start to skid sideways into the unsuspecting cab.

The taxi driver tried to veer away, but there was nowhere for him to go, nowhere to manoeuvre and in the end he just slammed on and held on for dear life.

The area of the stolen car which smashed into the front of the taxi was around the offside back door and rear wheel arch. Both cars became a tangle of scrunching metal. The Escort came off worst. It was old, rusty and past it; it disintegrated like a vampire being hit by a shaft of daylight.

The impact threw Roy hard against the driver’s door, but somehow he managed to avoid banging his head against the window. He was stunned for a moment and was surprised to be still sitting on the driver’s seat, hands holding the wheel. Next he was astounded he could open his door — which actually just dropped off its hinges and clattered to the ground — and he climbed out.

‘Come on, let’s fuck off!’ he yelled.

It was only when he stopped to glance back at Renata that he saw she had not been quite so lucky.

Roy’s shock at her bloody and smashed appearance was over in an instant when his self-preservation gene kicked in. Without a further backward glance, he ran, leaving her in the car.

He had a pretty good idea she was dead.