‘Why’s that then, love?’
‘Oh, no reason, Mum. Just thought the van was more discreet to pick you up in.’
He daren’t tell her that he was swanning about in a brand new Merc. She’d have given him a Spanish Inquisition about where he’d got the money from.
‘So what are you doing for money? Are you working at the moment, love?’
Mickey chose his words carefully ‘I’m doing okay. I’m working as a party organiser, setting up functions and stuff.’
June shot him a surprised glance. She had her Mickey down for a lot of things, but planning parties wasn’t one of them.
‘What do you mean? What sort of parties?’
‘You know … weddings, birthdays, anniversaries. All sorts of stuff, Mum.’
June knew he was lying, but decided not to pry. The less she knew about his lifestyle, the less she would worry.
‘Where do you want dropping, Mum? I take it you don’t want me pulling into the turning.’
‘Drop me by that little shop, Mickey. I need to get a loaf.’
Bumping the van on to a stretch of kerb, Mickey leaned over and hugged her tightly. ‘Does Peter always leave for work at the same time?’
June ruffled her son’s dark hair, just as she’d done a million times when he was a little boy. ‘I can’t get out a lot, Mickey, you know what Peter’s like. I can probably manage it about once a month. He’s normally gone to work by ten but ring first, just in case. And do me a favour, son – find out how Debbie’s doing. As soon as you have any news, ring me and let me know. I’ve been worried sick about her.’
‘I’ll ring you when I’ve seen her, but I have to say a lot of this is your own fault, Mum. You should never have lost contact with her, nor with me. We’re your kids, at the end of the day. I know we’re not perfect but blood’s thicker than water. You shouldn’t let that prick dictate to you. You have to learn to stand up to him before it’s too late.’
June opened the door of the van and climbed out.
‘Let’s not spoil a good day, Mickey. I can’t deal with this conversation right now. I’ll see you soon, love. Ring me as soon as you have any news about Debs. Take care, son. Love ya.’
June had tears in her eyes as she left her beloved boy and began the short walk home. She knew what he’d said to her had been right. She also knew that she was too weak to do anything about it. Peter was so bloody domineering and if she started standing up to him, she was worried her days as his wife would be numbered. In Peter’s world women were to be seen and not heard.
Mickey hit the A13 and headed back towards Bow. He’d been living there since he’d come out of the Scrubs. It was only a temporary thing, just till he got back on his feet. He was planning to move out to Essex once he got a few bob behind him, but for now Bow and his one-bedroomed bachelor pad suited him fine. He’d spent a fair few years as a kid there, working on Roman Road Market, and he knew the area and its inhabitants inside out. In fact, most of his contacts came from that neck of the woods.
Life was sweet for Mickey at the moment and had been since the day he’d walked out of nick. The money was rolling in thick and fast. He’d hooked up with an old pal of his, Big Stevie Roberts, and they were currently on to a nice little earner.
Big Steve had told him about his newfound business venture while he’d been on the inside. It wasn’t until Mickey was released that he realised just how big it really was. Illegal raves were fucking massive, and he and Steve were currently netting a fortune, organising the little beauties. This was the score. Scour the M25, find a friendly farmer, smile at him, offer him a big wad of money … and Bob’s your fucking uncle.
Mickey was now in charge of finding the right venues and chatting the owners up. He looked the part and had the spiel. Steve was no good at all at that. A massive bastard, with a skinhead haircut, he looked like an out and out thug. He had a heart of gold, but the farmers weren’t to know that.
There was a real biggie organised for a fortnight’s time. It was due to be held at a disused airfield on the outskirts of Essex, and Mickey had been running around like a blue-arsed fly, trying to get things sorted. Everything about these raves had to be kept hush-hush. The old bill were doing their utmost to put a stop to them, and any tip-off they received was a tip-off too much.
Because of this, the advertising was mainly done on the night, via pirate radio stations who would give out a mobile phone number. Partygoers would ring up from a phone box to find the exact venue. The M25 would then fill up like rush hour as thousands of pilled-up punters headed off for the night of their lives. It was a bit like a game of cat and mouse with the filth, and so far the boys in blue were on a losing streak. Mickey and Steve were absolutely loving the chase, and up to this point hadn’t had one rave cancelled.
Smiling to himself, Mickey thought about his mum. It had been so good to see her. She’d changed a lot since he’d seen her last. She had never been a stick insect but was now quite plump, with a real mumsy look about her. She looked even shorter than he’d remembered, though at only five foot she’d never been tall in the first place. Maybe it was the weight she’d put on. Mickey decided he liked his mum’s new look. Her clothes were top drawer, her short dark hair cut into a modern style, and he thought she looked just like a mum should.
Parking the van he’d borrowed outside his mate’s, Mickey stuck the keys through the letterbox and jumped into his Merc. He immediately punched Big Steve’s number into his mobile. ‘What you up to, mate?’
Steve was having a swift half in his local. He’d been hard at it all morning, trying to sort out the security for their latest rave, and was now having a well-earned rest.
‘I’m in the Needle Gun, having a beer with Terry. Why, what’s up?’
‘How do you fancy a trip to Barking? Apparently me sister’s got herself knocked up by some wrong ’un and I need to sort it out.’
‘Okay, count me in,’ Steve said, downing the rest of his lager.
After Mickey had filled Steve in, the lads decided the best way to do their homework was to pay a visit to a few boozers around the Barking area. They struck gold in the very first pub. The spotty kid of a barman was only too willing to spill his guts at the sight of a fifty pound note. Tucking it safely into his shirt pocket, he ushered them over to a quiet corner.
In ten minutes flat the lads knew Billy McDaid’s life story. They were told where he lived, where he drank, and where he punted his puff and speed. They also learned that he wasn’t exactly fucking popular.
‘Wonderful! She’s got herself knocked up by a middle-aged, drunken drug dealer and he’s Scotch an’ all,’ sighed Mickey as they left the boozer.
Much to his pal’s annoyance, Steve burst out laughing.
‘Don’t wind me up, Steve. It ain’t fucking funny. What are we meant to do now?’
Trying to keep a straight face, Steve looked at his mate. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just, well, the cunt couldn’t have sounded any worse, could he?’
Mickey let out a worried sigh. ‘No, he fucking well couldn’t. My mother’s gonna go apeshit if I tell her the full SP. I’m gonna have to keep schtum and pretend he’s not as bad as we first thought. How do you reckon I should handle it, Steve? Should I knock seven colours of shit out of him, or should I go and see Debbie first? Check he’s treating her all right?’
‘You’ll have to go and see your sister first. You can hardly go in with both feet, not if she’s carrying his nipper.’
Mickey started the engine and looked at the address on the bit of paper he’d been