I wrote this twenty-eight years ago. It was set in Liverpool and had languished, unused and unwanted for almost a decade when I appropriated a few sentences for one of my early novels. The character name – Danny – became a favourite name over the years and I keep seeing many different references to ‘Danny’ amongst my discarded ramblings. It’s a good character name after all.
Major cities are not a single united mass but a series of disparate villages and hamlets all clustered together.
In reality, a particular area would have very little in common with its neighbour.
Two areas of the city may live cheek by jowl but be separated by the width of an entire continent as regards a dominant language or mode of dress. Africa and Asia for instance.
Then there are the buildings. Georgian architecture segues into sixties concrete, Victorian gothic merges into Post-Modernist chrome and smoked glass. A single street can encompass entire centuries. In this freshly colonised area of the city, English is a second language at best with many of the residents unable to speak the language of their adopted homeland. I pondered on there already being a case to be made for the premise that most residents of Liverpool speak a different language than the rest of the country.
Residents here are deeply suspicious of outsiders, clinging to what is familiar, even when what is familiar is now also worthless. Changing what could have been a war-zone into a demilitarised zone by applying that age-old principle – don’t shit on your own doorstep. Reinforcing that close-mouthed mistrust of external authority that characterised the fabric of life in the area.
A major criminal, like the one whose dossier I had in my possession, could operate here with impunity. His people recognised one of their own and kept his secrets closer than a child protecting a treasured favourite toy. Isolating him from his power base would be difficult.
The man sitting opposite me was nervous. He was only talking to me at all because of what I knew. Not just who he was, but who he used to be. That knowledge made him nervous.
Understandably so.
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
I shrugged. ‘You don’t. It doesn’t work like that.’ I grinned. You don’t have to talk to me at all. You could always give yourself up. Ask to be looked after. It worked once. Could work again.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m like you,’ he said. ‘Never give up. It’s not in my nature.’
‘Just a thought, go back into protective custody or whatever they want to call it. Of course, they’ll not be as keen as they once were. You skipped out, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. They’ll have a bit more on me than last time and I’ve got nothing to offer in return. I could give them the names of a few drug dealers, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not this time.’
He grinned wolfishly without a trace of humour. ‘Anyway, what makes you think the boys wouldn’t find me? I disappeared once, changed my name, my face, everything and you still found me. Fuck knows how you did it, but here we are.’
‘Here we are. Who are you these days anyway? Back to being Danny?’
He shrugged. A name was only a name. I hadn’t known his new identity, hadn’t wanted to.
‘Good question,’ he said. ‘Who gives a fuck?’
Two old friends chatting. That’s what it may have looked like. Anything but the case, in reality. We knew each other from way back. Five years at least. I’d been his mate once. A good mate. Or so he’d thought. When the big man went down, Danny had ensured he’d not gone alone.
I’d brokered the deal, looked after him, kept him out of the picture until the court case wrapped it all up. He’d taken what was on offer, a new life, slipped out of sight.
Until now.
Now, he’d done a runner, made his way back to familiar ground. People were looking for him. Both sides of the fence. In his shoes I’d prefer the police to the alternative. One faction would lock him up; the other would be rather more creative. There would be pain. A great deal of pain.
When night fell, we’d done a deal. I had a good lead, fresh information; he got to walk away again. He didn’t look thrilled at the prospect. I didn’t expect to see him again. I’d keep my side of the bargain, but I’d found him. Others would also be looking. Looking hard.
I listened to his footsteps as they faded into the darkness, leather soles making a faint slapping sound with every step until the night reclaimed the silence and he was gone. By now, the darkness was overwhelming. Not even a single star overhead. No streetlight glowed. Nothing.
I shivered. Fear of the dark was irrational. A throwback to primitive times when our distant ancestors lived in caves and life expectancy depended on whether you found food or not on any particular day. A time when the human race was just as much prey as predator. It made no sense at all to be afraid of the dark in the Twenty-first Century. And yet…
The darkness closed in, forced me to my feet.
Alert. In the shadows, feral youths kept watch. I couldn’t see them, but they were there. They were always there.
A hundred thousand minors, technically children being under the age of eighteen, go missing every year in Britain. The vast majority of these missing persons turn up safe and sound within a couple of days, but the rest just disappear. Usually because that was precisely their intention when they left home. Many live on the streets, sleeping rough, and it only takes an average of three weeks for street life to become a way of life.
I’d seen the numbers, studied the graphs. Statistics are only as good as the data which underpins them and Home Office figures only include those reported as missing. Families split apart by mutual consent as well. Kids leave when home life is intolerable, both for themselves and the adults who are supposedly caring for them. In such cases there is no record on Police files, no ongoing search. Nobody cares.
These disconnected kids, in their teens but lacking any family structure, form the bedrock of recruits to the cause. Dealers look for them, find them, put them to work. Keeping lookout was a low-level job, but an essential one. Nobody moved around here without eyes watching.
I moved away, walking quickly but with purpose. Looking like I belonged.
In the distance I heard a scream, the sound of scuffling feet. Once more the same person screamed, stopped abruptly. I took a shortcut across a kid’s playground, taking a different route.
Maybe Danny’s luck had run out.
Not my concern. Not any more.
He knew the rules of the game, the risks he was taking. A night of pain lay ahead of Danny.
He’d live. At least until the big man gave the word.
Category A prisoners find ways of getting word back to the streets. Men had been looking for Danny for a very long time. He would be glad enough of the bullet in the back of the head when the time came. The situation required a statement to be made. A very public statement. The penalty for grassing the big man was understood, but also had to be visible.
Danny would turn up. I’d see him again.
In the morgue.
By then, he wouldn’t look anything like he had an hour ago.
Gulliver Smith 