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.
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