But now, with them both seemingly coupled up with their boyfriends, everything was getting more and more complicated. Lucy and Jimmy seemed solid enough, but to Gurdy they seemed far too young to be so committed. It was all messed up, really, in his untutored opinion – as, increasingly, he listened to one or the other of them ranting, expecting him – like he knew anything! – to make all the right noises, so they believed he was as invested in their fucked-up relationships as they were, when in truth everything about them was completely alien.
Lucy returned from the toilets and Gurdy inspected her breasts – if only analytically – to observe the extent of the difference.
‘One day,’ she said obscurely, as she followed his gaze and then joined him in the queue, ‘or maybe never. What the heck? Jimmy loves me as I am. So, doubles, you reckon? Might as well crack on, mightn’t we?’
And crack on they had. And even more so when a couple of her other mates had showed, and Gurdy, who they’d seemed to adopt as some kind of mascot, had long since lost count of the drinks that were bought for him.
But, unlike Lucy, he could hold his drink – as Vikram told him, that was just basic science – so he was perfectly capable of helping Jimmy, who he’d nipped out and rung just before last orders, in manhandling her home. Well, to Jimmy’s home, it being a good deal nearer, and a good deal further from the doubtless tyrannical machinations of her mother. ‘Her dad’ll be fine with it,’ Jimmy assured him. ‘He knows what she can get like when she’s off on one, and it’s only the last day of school once, isn’t it? So what happened anyway? Why you here? And where’d Vicky get to, anyway?’
Gurdy gave him a substantially edited version. After what Lucy had said earlier it seemed the diplomatic thing to do. Jimmy’s feelings about Paddy were as entrenched and unequivocal as Paddy’s were about Jimmy. Not so much chalk and cheese as North and South.
‘Well, I’m glad she found you,’ Jimmy told him. ‘Thanks for looking out for her. To be honest, mate, I’d rather her be pissed as a fart with you than be sober anywhere around that fucking dick.’
The package delivered, all legs and groans and giggles, Gurdy said goodnight, tucked his hands in his pockets and set off back to Listerhills, looking up at the stars as he walked. In a perfect world, all four of his mates would be friends, but he knew that would never happen; that he was destined to remain piggy in the middle. Some things, he decided, as he weaved his way home, were like oil and water and couldn’t be mixed. But others – and he was pleased with his bit of philosophy – were like a stick of dynamite and a lit match. Safe separately, yes, but if they ever got too close …
There could only be one outcome – boom.
Gurdy rubbed his hands together briskly in an effort to warm up. How could it be this chilly in the bloody summer? Or what passed for a summer in Bradford, at any rate – the ‘two fine days and a thunderstorm’ one of his teachers had once told him when he asked why the sun never came out.
It was the following Monday – never a day with much to recommend it, and with shoulders hunched against the chilly morning wind, he peered miserably out through the filthy window of the garage to check if he could see Paddy arriving. No sign as yet, though, and Gurdy wished he’d spent an extra half hour in bed.
It was a long walk out to the garage, because it was on an industrial estate. A long disused industrial estate, inhabited mostly by rampant weeds now, and suitably isolated and away from prying eyes. It was a big place, too, as in a former life it had apparently been a scrapyard, with a large garage, several outhouses and a big outside area for breaking up cars. There was also a paint and spray shop and next to that a building with a pit, which also served as storage for tyres and car parts.
Gurdy decided to pass the time while he waited for Paddy by admiring all the new tools his friend had recently acquired. Gurdy knew better than to ask, but he knew the tools would have been nicked from some other poor mechanic’s garage. He picked up a large, shiny cutting tool and ran his finger down the edge; they were clearly worth a few bob as well.
Paddy’s garage – or, more accurately, Paddy’s boss Rasta Mo’s garage – was always filled with stolen gear. From tyres and wheels to car parts, and all kinds of tools. And often there’d be whole cars in as well, waiting to be chopped, or cut and shut, to then sell on to some unsuspecting punter in a town miles away. Local branch of Kwik Fit it wasn’t.
Because Rasta Mo wasn’t just in the car ‘repair’ business. He was also one of the biggest drug dealers in Bradford, which took up most of his time and, as Paddy was a decent mechanic, Mo let him have full run of the place. And he was certainly that – all the time Gurdy had known him, he spent all his free time with his nose under the bonnet of a car; fixing cars, he’d always said, was in his blood.
Though he wasn’t just employed as a mechanic. In return for the privilege of more or less being Mo’s number two here, he also had to dirty his hands with the drugs. And that was where Gurdy came in. He didn’t remember when or how he had been roped in to all that stuff for Paddy, but he knew the money was good for doing very little, and though it wasn’t quite the sort of thing he wanted to be doing, nobody said no to Paddy.
‘Now then, me little Paki mate!’
Gurdy jumped. How did Paddy do that? Manage to creep up on people like that? And why this pleasure in scaring the pants off people all the time? ‘Fucking hell, Paddy!’ he said, as he was slapped roundly on the back for good measure. ‘I almost shit myself! Anyway, where you been, man?’ he said, while pressing a hand against his chest to still its thumping. ‘I’ve been here ages. I thought you said eleven o’clock?’
Paddy winked. ‘Vicky wouldn’t let me get out of bed,’ he said, grinning. ‘You know what the birds are like for a taste of the old Padster!’
Gurdy didn’t know, and didn’t want to. He felt his cheeks begin to burn. He didn’t like it when Paddy started going on about his exploits in the kip, especially when he was on about his friend.
‘So?’ he asked, keen to move on to other topics. ‘What’s on the agenda for today then?’
Paddy burst into song, which was another of the things he often did. ‘I’ve got a braaaain, pickled in cocaaaaaine,’ he crooned, and in an accent that was a pretty fair rendition of the Dillinger reggae hit, even if the words were, as ever, completely wrong. He then pulled a paper package from the inside of his parka and slammed it on the wooden workbench with a grin. ‘And this, my little Paki mate,’ he said, stroking the package lovingly, ‘is the best coke that Bradford will have seen or tasted for a long time. So good, in fact, that it’s too good for most of them, so if you look in that end cupboard, you’ll find a big tub of baby talc. I need you to get to work mixing it up for me, okay? And then the usual weighing and bagging before you take it out on the road, mate.’ He slapped Gurdy on the back again, though this time he was braced for it. Paddy winked a second time. ‘Big bucks for us this time, my friend.’
Gurdy did as he was asked and took the talcum powder from the cupboard, but couldn’t help his nerves beginning to jangle. He always felt like this – exposed. Mo could stroll in at any time, couldn’t he? ‘Does Mo know?’ he asked. ‘I mean, you know – he’s probably already cut it himself, hasn’t he?’ Gurdy licked his dry lips. ‘He’ll do his nut if we’re doing it again.’
Paddy put down the tool he was inspecting and without warning – not even so much as a change in his demeanour – shoved Gurdy against the brick wall. It wasn’t a violent act, exactly – almost casual, if anything. And his expression wasn’t hostile, just ever so slightly irritated. It wore the kind of look a weary teacher might give a dozy pupil, who needs