She could hear them now. They weren’t far behind. Closing in and coming ever nearer, calling their names. She could almost feel their breath on her neck, their cloying touch on her skin, pulling her back. They needed to move but above the sound of the rain she could hear the barking dogs, louder and louder. They didn’t have long. She knew that. She could feel the blood trickling down her legs and panic beginning to rise as the dark set in. And the pain, the pain was getting worse. She couldn’t breathe. It was holding her. Slowing her down, making her not want to move, but she had to push through. They had to keep going. They couldn’t rest, not until they were safe. Shhh, they had to be quiet. They had to be still … The dogs, there they were again. Nearer … Nearer … But oh God, the pain. She didn’t know how long she could bear it … Maybe if they just stayed here. Maybe they’d be okay, but she was so cold, and the bleeding was getting heavier … Oh Christ, the blood. The dogs would smell the blood if she didn’t cover it up.
Then, crawling out into the moonlight as the rain poured down, she saw them, they were coming. It was too late, they were coming …
ESSEX
In a remote scrap yard, four miles outside Saffron Waldon, Johnny Dwyer bent over the perfectly cut up lines of coke. He paused, almost in reverence, looking appreciatively at the white powder before eagerly pushing the fifty-pound note up into his nostril, hungrily sampling the new batch of cocaine he’d just shipped in.
He felt the burn at the back of his nose followed by the tingling sensation in his throat. This was the best part. The first rush which he’d spend the rest of the night trying to chase.‘Can I move now, Johnny? I’ve got cramp in me bleedin’ foot.’
Johnny stared down at the brass in disgust. Whores, they were all the same. Moaning and doing his head in. Jesus, if he’d wanted that, he would’ve stayed at home. He didn’t know why he’d even bothered and now, now he was regretting it big time.
‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut the fuck up and keep still.’ He bent down again, snorting another line off the hooker’s stomach whilst trying, then quickly giving up on remembering her name.
‘I ain’t going to lie here any longer, I’ve got to go to the bog. I’ll bleedin’ piss meself otherwise.’
Whining and pulling a face she began to wriggle, spilling the coke down the side of her scrawny tattooed hip.
Johnny gnawed down on his lip. That was it. The final straw. Not only did this silly cow think it was okay to waste some decent blow, but she was now beginning to spoil his high.
Leaping towards her and pushing his hands down hard against her throat, Johnny’s eyes bulged with rage.
‘And I ain’t going to pay for some bleedin’ crackhead like you to have a piss in my bathroom, so if you wanna …’
‘Boss?’
The door to the portacabin was flung open. Johnny scowled. ‘Fuck me, what happened to knocking? Give a man a chance to put his cock away.’
Big Billy Baldwin, who stood no taller than five feet, grinned at Johnny. ‘Sorry boss, but he’s here. Ma told me to bring him straight to you. She said you’d know what to do. She also said “enjoy!”’
Tucking his penis back in his trousers, Johnny wiped his nose and nodded. ‘Fine, bring him in … oh, and get her out of here.’
Happy to oblige, Billy stepped forward, grabbing hold and dragging the naked woman off the table.
‘That hurt! Get off me! Oi! Who d’ya think yer manhandling? And what about me bleedin’ money? I need me clothes! I’ve a mind to—’
The cabin door shut, muting the rest of her words.
Straightening himself up, Johnny rubbed his chin, feeling the coarse dark stubble, a throwback to his Romany genes. Sighing, he swept back his black hair as he leant forward on his chair, moodily spinning round the well-used cosh which sat in front of him on the desk.
He hadn’t had the best of days; he’d heard a few things through the Essex grapevine which hadn’t made him very happy. In fact, they’d positively pissed him off.
Ma had told him his wife, Bree, was acting suspiciously again, no doubt planning, thinking about leaving him as she so often did. But of course, that was just never going to happen. No one left him … ever. And if the stupid mare dared or thought she could just get up and go with the kids, then she really was braver than most men he knew.
But he’d sort it. He always did when she decided to step out of line. Though it always surprised him that she still hadn’t learnt the lesson by now; she was his, and she was going nowhere. Yet even with all he’d taught her, every few months she’d get a bee in her bonnet about how she was going to leave, and every few months Ma would tell him about it. And then, well, he just sorted it the best way he knew how.
Rolling a spliff, Johnny thought about the other piece of information he’d heard today. The information which Ron the runt – who was not only one of the biggest grasses between Essex and John o’ Groats, but also one of the biggest liars – had delighted in telling him.
‘It’s true Johnny, I swear it is. I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you. I was told by one of me sources.’
Johnny had stared at him in disbelief, but even when Billy – who’d been branding one of the horses at the time – had held a red-hot, glowing horseshoe inches away from Ron’s face, the runt had sworn that his information was true. That now Reginald Reynolds, the kingpin of Essex, was dead, Vaughn Sadler and Alfie Jennings, two legendary faces of Soho, had decided to come back