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

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.

Chapter 3 (#u1a2f521b-e60a-56ad-917a-bd729a4a0eb5)

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 telling the same thing over and over. As ever, at such times, Gurdy cursed himself. Why didn’t he just keep his trap shut?

‘What have I told you about all the fucking questions, eh? Eh, mate?’ Paddy asked him, almost conversationally. As if the flat of his hand wasn’t pressing hard into Gurdy’s sternum, pinning him to the wall. ‘Do I go poking my nose into your dad’s business?’ Gurdy swallowed and shook his head. ‘Exactly. No, I don’t,’ Paddy said, removing his hand and wagging a chastising finger. ‘So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll just keep your trap shut and get on with it, okay?’

Gurdy nodded, rubbing his chest as he took the talc to the bench. He hated it when Paddy got rough with him, even if it was half in jest. Even if he knew, and he did know, that Paddy would never hurt him. That it was all front. Vicky had told him that countless times. Told him Paddy thought a lot of him. He just didn’t say so, because that wasn’t his style.

But Gurdy hated that he still had so much to learn; mostly because he never quite knew what was going to set Paddy off. Which, as he was quickly learning, could be the slightest thing. For now, anyway. One day, not too long away, he knew he’d earn Paddy’s respect.

‘Alright, mate,’ he said, more comfortable now there was a bit of distance between them. ‘There’s no need to start on me, is there?’ The talc still in hand, he started looking around for a knife to split the package open with. ‘I just wondered, that’s all. Last thing I want is Mo chasing us with a fucking cleaver, innit?’

Paddy smiled. ‘Chasing you, you mean,’ he corrected, grinning as he placed his hands on the bench behind him and hoisted himself up onto it. ‘Give us a smoke, will you?’

That was another thing. Paddy was always cadging his fags. He fished in his jeans pocket for his ten Benson & Hedges and a book of matches. ‘Here you go, mate,’ he said, almost certain Paddy would have a pack of twenty of his own inside his parka.

Paddy lit a cigarette, then blew out the match. ‘So,’ he said conversationally, ‘how’s things, then?’

He clearly had nowhere to be and no inclination to help. Perhaps he’d start work on his Capri when he was done smoking. ‘Doing my fucking head in,’ Gurdy admitted. ‘Expecting me to work for them all the fucking time – morning, noon and bloody night. Like I don’t have a right to my own life.’

Paddy chuckled. ‘You know what you wanna do? You wanna tell them to fuck right off, mate. Fuck. The. Fuck. Off. Just like that.’

Gurdy chuckled too, imagining Paddy saying that to his mother. She’d freak. Or probably faint. But at the same time, he knew, there’d be this little bit of her that would be slightly in thrall to him. He had that kind of charm. She’d probably drag him into the kitchen and feed him.

‘Just like that,’ Gurdy repeated. ‘Yeah, I’ll do it tonight, mate.’

‘Well, it’s your bed, mate. So you’ve got to lie on it, haven’t you? They’ve got different values, haven’t they? They’d have you out planting rice, or whatever it is they grow out there. Till you’re fucking forty! No, you got to put them straight. Point out that you make more dosh working a day for me than slaving away all bloody week serving cheapskate customers in their little shit hole.’

Yeah, he was really going to do that. Just so you know, Mam, I’m a joey for Paddy Allen. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. But it seemed to be for some – those who didn’t have his parents – and for Paddy, especially so. He got away with murder with his mum and dad. Always had done apparently. They owned a bakery, with a shop at the front, and they worked all hours too – the difference was, though, that they never asked Paddy to help out. Far as Gurdy could see, he never lifted a finger.

He was always loaded as well. Or, at least, he seemed to be. And with money that didn’t come from the drugs or the garage. Even as a kid, he always seemed to have pockets full of money. Not that Gurdy was stupid. Lucy had told him once that they gave it him to keep him out of their hair; plied him with cash to get shut of him, essentially.

So, on balance, which was better? He wasn’t sure. He peeled off the tape and carefully opened up the package of cocaine, smoothing out the paper that had surrounded it. ‘I wish I could tell ’em, Pad, I do. But my dad’s an arsehole. A proper arsehole,’ he added, warming to his theme. ‘Why me all the time? Why do I have to work in the fucking shop all the time? When our Vikram does fuck-all?’

‘Because your Vikram’s not a soft touch like you are, mate,’ Paddy told him. ‘Your Vikram’s got his mam round his little finger.’ He chuckled again. ‘And his finger in …’ he laughed out loud. ‘God, you are such a pussy, Gurd! Well, don’t you worry, mate,’ he said, dropping the cigarette on the floor and sliding off the bench to grind it out. ‘You keep saving all the money you’re making from me, and you’ll soon be able to tell him to fuck off as well.’

That was the main thing. That was the thing Gurdy hung on to. That, for all that the drug dealing caused him anxiety, he already had quite a stash thanks to Paddy – and for relatively little work. All he had to do was turn up outside Arthur’s Bar on Lumb Lane any Friday or Saturday night and, within an hour, all his tiny wraps of coke would be gone. It always amazed him how much people were willing to pay for it. Especially the prostitutes and their pimps. Perhaps they needed it to get through their particular line of work. At any rate, they were the backbone of his trade, and, as they ran pretty lucrative businesses themselves, they were a willing and rich market too.

Win-win. And Gurdy always got a fair share of the proceeds. That was one good thing about Paddy – he paid bloody well, and that was down to the fact that he had no need to be greedy. Money always came to him, and he was always very generous. No, one day, he’d get there. He’d have his own curry restaurant. Be free of his parents’ shackles once and for all.

‘Oh, and I nearly forgot,’ he said, noticing that Paddy looked as if he might be leaving. ‘It’s our Vikram’s eighteenth next weekend and he asked me to invite you and Vicky. Mucky Willy’s,’ he added. ‘Next Saturday at eight.’ He pointed down to the gear he was now carefully mixing, and grinned. ‘I’ll have this lot gone by then, too. Should be a good night.’

‘Should be,’ Paddy agreed. ‘Well, if that fucking Lucy and her knobhead boyfriend aren’t there. But I’m guessing they will be.’

Gurdy nodded apologetically, while mentally rolling his eyes. All of them. Always singing the same bloody song. ‘Course they will, Pad. You know how things are.’

Paddy crossed the garage and clapped Gurdy on the back a second time. ‘Don’t wet your pants, my little friend. We’ll be there. Be a laugh.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘You know how much I enjoy seeing that pair of cunts squirm.’

‘Pad, I don’t want no trouble. My mam and dad …’

‘Can fuck right off, remember? I’ll even tell ’em for you, if you like, since I’ll be seeing them. Cos you’d really like that, wouldn’t you? Joke!’ he boomed then, as he headed back out the door. Gurdy could hear him laughing all the way down the street.

Chapter 4 (#u1a2f521b-e60a-56ad-917a-bd729a4a0eb5)

The salon Vicky worked at was called The Cutting Edge, and was on Market Street, in the town centre. Despite the trendy name, it was considered a bit of an old-fashioned hairdressers, and catered mainly for an older clientele. Nevertheless, its position in the town, and the relatively cheap cuts and perms they offered, meant that there was always a stream of regulars to keep them busy. Vicky loved it when after six weeks of slog as a Saturday girl, she’d been offered a permanent job there. The days had mostly flown by – they certainly got their money’s worth out of her and her feet knew all about it – but today she was clock-watching as the hands crawled to home time, because Paddy was coming to pick her up.

She knew it was childish but she so wanted to show him off. Not least to Leanne, the more senior apprentice she worked under, because, as Lucy once put it when she started seeing Jimmy, she felt a powerful need to put her marker down; she’d clocked the way Leanne had looked him up and down last time he’d come to collect her.

Leanne grinned at her now, glancing across as she washed her last client’s hair. Vicky sometimes felt as if she could almost read her thoughts.

‘Honestly, Vic, it doesn’t make the time go faster the more you look at the clock, you know. He’ll get here when he gets here.’