things worse; I was convinced now that she really must have known what I had been up to last night and had taken off in a proper huff.
I went into the kitchen and looked in the cupboards for a tin. As far as I was concerned a meal was something that lived in a tin. I used a can opener to crack open an all-in-one breakfast and tipped it into a saucepan. I heated it up, then got stuck in, spooning it straight out the pan. It tasted like dog sick, but I was starving and gobbled it down like a fucking seagull. Next I made myself a brew and took it into the front room, switched on the telly. I sat down on the sofa, built a good morning draw and watched the regional news.
The newsreader stated: “Excessive violence among rival Liverpool drug gangs came to a head last night when a nasty confrontation in the Bricklayer’s public house ended with multiple shootings. A ripple of shock was felt through the local community and the police have emphasized the serious level to which the feuding had escalated …”
Any investigations, though, would come up against a brick wall. There was a code of conduct the hood rats lived by: Never snitch on anyone, sort out your own problems. If another crew shoots you with a nine-milli, you come back with a Mac-10 - even if it’s in a public place and there’s innocent bystanders milling around. The police were the common enemy and policies of zero tolerance enforced with brutality made trouble for everyone one of us while we made trouble for those who co-operated with the bizzies.
Like Judas informants who broke the code against giving the bizzies the heads up. Confidential informants and phone calls to Crimestoppers accounted for most of the crime detection on the estate. This malicious behaviour had to be discouraged and, if outted and exposed, the lives of these lowest of the low and their relatives would be made worthless on the estate. Their ultimate nemesis would be to end up on Witness Protection, branded outcasts and grasses for life.
It was eight bells by the telly’s reckoning. I switched it off and rubbed out the spliff in an ashtray on the coffee table. I grabbed hold of my tablet, went back upstairs and laid on top of the bed with it. I logged onto Facebook to read the news feed. There were threats, taunts and challenges from the attacked rivals on the other side, but I resisted taking the bait because the police monitored the same pages that these muppets were leaving messages on. I logged off and put the tablet down, stretched and yawned.
The house was at the mouth of a cul-de-sac of terraced, pebble-dashed houses. It backed onto the ring road that bordered the estate. Everytime a bus or HGV drove past the foundations of the house rumbled like there was some kind of mini-earthquake striking and shaking me awake as I tried to get some shut-eye. But the spliff had the effect of making me doze off and, before long, I was lost in a dream. It was the same one, recurring. I was in the dark stairwell, being chased up the stairs by an evil and menacing presence. Dreading looking over my shoulder and then running for my life up to the light I couldn’t reach. All of a sudden I was snapped out of it.
I must have slept for only half-an-hour when I woke up startled because there was a racket going on outside and I thought I was in some kind of mini-Syria for a moment, the noise pollution was deafening. Something was up; the sounds of screeching tires, a low-flying chopper and orders barked from a loud hailer.
I jumped out of bed and looked out the window. The bizzies were everywhere; in vans, cars and a helicopter, some of them Matrix wearing skip hats and flak jackets, weapons drawn. When I saw them pointing Heckler Koch MP5s I crapped my kecks. For a second I thought they were coming for me, but three armoured-plated vehicles had blocked in a car on the main road outside the house.
It was the usual aggressive-stop routine: ARMED POLICE! ARMED POLICE! ARMED POLICE! DO AS I SAY! HANDS
I went into the kitchen and looked in the cupboards for a tin. As far as I was concerned a meal was something that lived in a tin. I used a can opener to crack open an all-in-one breakfast and tipped it into a saucepan. I heated it up, then got stuck in, spooning it straight out the pan. It tasted like dog sick, but I was starving and gobbled it down like a fucking seagull. Next I made myself a brew and took it into the front room, switched on the telly. I sat down on the sofa, built a good morning draw and watched the regional news.
The newsreader stated: “Excessive violence among rival Liverpool drug gangs came to a head last night when a nasty confrontation in the Bricklayer’s public house ended with multiple shootings. A ripple of shock was felt through the local community and the police have emphasized the serious level to which the feuding had escalated …”
Any investigations, though, would come up against a brick wall. There was a code of conduct the hood rats lived by: Never snitch on anyone, sort out your own problems. If another crew shoots you with a nine-milli, you come back with a Mac-10 - even if it’s in a public place and there’s innocent bystanders milling around. The police were the common enemy and policies of zero tolerance enforced with brutality made trouble for everyone one of us while we made trouble for those who co-operated with the bizzies.
Like Judas informants who broke the code against giving the bizzies the heads up. Confidential informants and phone calls to Crimestoppers accounted for most of the crime detection on the estate. This malicious behaviour had to be discouraged and, if outted and exposed, the lives of these lowest of the low and their relatives would be made worthless on the estate. Their ultimate nemesis would be to end up on Witness Protection, branded outcasts and grasses for life.
It was eight bells by the telly’s reckoning. I switched it off and rubbed out the spliff in an ashtray on the coffee table. I grabbed hold of my tablet, went back upstairs and laid on top of the bed with it. I logged onto Facebook to read the news feed. There were threats, taunts and challenges from the attacked rivals on the other side, but I resisted taking the bait because the police monitored the same pages that these muppets were leaving messages on. I logged off and put the tablet down, stretched and yawned.
The house was at the mouth of a cul-de-sac of terraced, pebble-dashed houses. It backed onto the ring road that bordered the estate. Everytime a bus or HGV drove past the foundations of the house rumbled like there was some kind of mini-earthquake striking and shaking me awake as I tried to get some shut-eye. But the spliff had the effect of making me doze off and, before long, I was lost in a dream. It was the same one, recurring. I was in the dark stairwell, being chased up the stairs by an evil and menacing presence. Dreading looking over my shoulder and then running for my life up to the light I couldn’t reach. All of a sudden I was snapped out of it.
I must have slept for only half-an-hour when I woke up startled because there was a racket going on outside and I thought I was in some kind of mini-Syria for a moment, the noise pollution was deafening. Something was up; the sounds of screeching tires, a low-flying chopper and orders barked from a loud hailer.
I jumped out of bed and looked out the window. The bizzies were everywhere; in vans, cars and a helicopter, some of them Matrix wearing skip hats and flak jackets, weapons drawn. When I saw them pointing Heckler Koch MP5s I crapped my kecks. For a second I thought they were coming for me, but three armoured-plated vehicles had blocked in a car on the main road outside the house.
It was the usual aggressive-stop routine: ARMED POLICE! ARMED POLICE! ARMED POLICE! DO AS I SAY! HANDS
Similar Books
