Blood Sisters: Can a pledge made for life endure beyond death?

Gurdy had heard about Paddy being arrested. Who hadn’t? It had been all over – pretty much the only topic of conversation outside the Percy when he’d arrived there at just after twelve. News travelled fast in Bradford – and in this case at warp speed; it was Jimmy who’d told Gurdy first, perhaps unsurprisingly, phoning him to pass on the news almost as soon as he’d got up. Then, on his walk to the lock-up on Manningham Lane (where he’d planned to sell off some of the dope Paddy had given him) he must have been told by another half dozen others.

But it was at the Perseverance, or the Percy, as it was known to the locals, that the person who had most need to catch up with him found him. Namely, his boss and nemesis, Rasta Mo.

As always seemed to be the case, Mo had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, like a superhero in a blockbuster movie. Though hero he wasn’t. Unless you liked your heroes to be dreadlocked, and in cahoots with the devil.

Gurdy could smell how expensive Mo’s leather jacket was as he approached. ‘The boy Paddy,’ he said to Gurdy, having ambled up alongside him, ‘he’s been lifted,’ he said, ‘as you probably know.’

He poked Gurdy then, hard, in the shoulder, with his finger. ‘And you’re his boy, so now you have work to do, got it? You have a set of keys to my lock-up, yes?’

Gurdy nodded nervously. He was absolutely shitting himself, not to mention being painfully aware that the punters in the Percy, now milling outside with their drinks in the summer sunshine, were all witnessing his discomfort. He wasn’t daft. He knew everyone knew what the score was. In this pub, in Arthur’s Bar, and even the Mayflower – the curry shop on the corner – they all knew he’d become a running boy for Paddy, which ultimately meant he was owned by Mo.

Mo flashed his famous grin, displaying his set of immaculate white teeth, and shook the dreadlocks that framed his fearsome face. ‘Good boy,’ he said, clapping Gurdy on the back now, like they were mates. ‘The pigs will be sniffing around now, obviously, so you need to do a clean-up, you understand? A proper clean-up. The boy won’t squeal,’ he added, ‘but, you know, just in case.’

Gurdy didn’t think Paddy would ‘squeal’ either. Given a straight choice, between the rule of the law and the wrath of Mo, he imagined he wouldn’t squeal either. ‘The cars too?’ he asked, not yet sure what Paddy had been arrested for exactly. Drugs presumably. The precise details hadn’t yet filtered through; Jimmy had been that elated when he’d phoned earlier to share the news that he’d neglected to mention what the arrest had actually been for. He felt the weakness in his sphincter increase. Would he be next?

Rasta Mo looked at Gurdy like he was mad. ‘Yes, the cars, man! Of course the cars! That’s why he’s been lifted. You need to hide the plates, the obvious tools, all the papers, everything. Just leave it set up like a tyre yard until they’ve done with us, okay?’ He flashed another smile, gazing around at his audience. ‘Don’t fret, boy, the other business will go on as usual.’ He lowered his voice, though for the life of him, Gurdy didn’t know why. Did anyone not know who Mo was? What he did? ‘But tonight you’ll meet with either me or Irish Pete to collect your gear. Outside Arthur’s, seven o’clock. Don’t be late.’

Mo then turned and walked away, without another word or even gesture, and, out of nowhere, a black BMW pulled up on the lane and he got into it without a backward glance.

The car out of sight, and the chatter outside the pub starting up again, Gurdy pulled at the collar of his T-shirt to stop it sticking to his back. It was more than the midday heat. He was out of his depth with all this, and for about the tenth time that day he contemplated, and only just shy of hysterically, the merits of blowing what little he’d saved up, getting a flight to Karachi and going in search of one of the many elderly relatives he had there; the ones that lived in the middle of nowhere, far from civilisation – and danger – and eked out the sort of living his parents had come to Bradford to escape from.

Oh, if only. Because it was all getting just a little bit too real. While he just dealt with Paddy, it was largely okay; he could easily convince himself he was just doing stuff for an old school mate. Yes, illegal, but still just doing a bit of what loads of other people did – earning a bit of cash to help him on his way. But the reality he was forced to face now was very different. Rasta Mo was a seriously dangerous man. Everyone knew that. He had literally got away with murder, and on more than one occasion. Two dealers in the last ten years had been bludgeoned to death for trying to rob him, and though the police had been convinced that Mo had been responsible – everyone knew that as well – they had never found any evidence to put him on trial for it, and never once been able to break any of his alibis.

He could only hope that tonight he would be meeting Irish Pete. That Mo would have other, more important things to do. Pete was fine; just a big, friendly bear of an Irishman, with nice twinkly eyes and an equivalently twinkly smile. Far better to deal with than the intimidating Rastafarian, even if he knew deep down that Irish Pete, if crossed, would crush your balls between his hairy fists just as readily.

He needed a drink, he decided. One with a little more clout than the pint of lemonade he’d opted for as a nod to the time of day. He left it on the bench, all too aware of how everyone lowered their eyes as he passed them on his way to the bar.