This character surfaced at 03.00 am the other morning, now he’s interesting me more and more. Not the sort you’d want your daughter to bring home. Here’s a couple more extracts from my working notes, the character of Dexter may not be retained, but I need a force of counterpoint to the dark side, represented by the unlovely Spider.
Spider looked at the face of the youth standing before him, scowling as only a fifteen year old can, and realised he’d made an error of judgement. A rare error, it was true, but a mistake had been made and would have to be corrected.
“It’s your patch, Buzz. Your job to stop it happening, right?” His voice was calm, but the air of lurking menace was always there.
“I told ‘em, if they…” Buzz blustered.
Spider held up a hand and the youth fell silent. “Not interested. You know the rules. Don’t shit on your own doorstep. Simple as that. Kids running riot every night on your patch. You’ve let things get out of hand. I can’t have that.” He spoke in short clipped sentences, prodding the chest of the younger man to emphasise each point.
Buzz made no further attempt to justify his actions. One look at the face of the man in front of him was enough to ensure his silence. Buzz had seen at first hand what happened to anyone foolish enough to argue with this man. The results had not been pretty. Keep quiet, say nothing. That was the only way he could earn the right to another chance.
“Listen to me,” Spider raised his voice a notch for the benefit of the other figures crowding into the empty flat. The windows were boarded over and the only furniture was a mattress on the floor. Spider moved around a lot and required very few creature comforts. Setting an example. Showing his troops that having money didn’t mean he’d opted for an easy life. These streets, this housing estate was where he’d started and would remain his home and the centre of his power base.
“I told you the rules. I don’t allow anyone to fuck about on this estate. This is my turf. I decide what goes on round here. I’ve told you that many times. Now what do I see?” His voice rose higher and the boys at the back of the room pressed in closer. “I see bloody kids doing whatever they fucking want. Out at all hours, stealing fucking cars, painting their fucking names on walls. Your patch, Buzz. Your responsibility.”
Buzz lowered his head. A patch of urine soaked through his denim jeans as he shuffled his feet nervously. The acrid smell spread throughout the room and a collective sigh went up as the younger boys crowded closer still.
Spider looked out at his troops, their eyes bright with excitement. “Any of you got any ideas? Who’s fucking with me?”
A skeletal youth, about fourteen or so, spoke up. “It’s the Price twins and their cousin. Ray somebody. He’s from Kirkby, used to deal a bit at his last place and he’s got the idea he can do that here. The fucking Price kids are just thick bastards, nicking cars just because their cousin tells them to.”
“I told them,” Buzz burst out, “I told them straight what I’d do to them if they did it again.”
Spider looked at him, a vein pulsing in his temple. He prided himself on his ability to keep his temper, but rage was threatening to overwhelm him. “Wrong answer,” He said quietly. “You don’t tell ever tell anyone not to do it again. They know the rules. There’s nothing in the rules about getting another fucking chance.”
He turned his head and spoke directly to the thin youth who’d spoken out. “Digger, isn’t it?” The youth nodded, his pleasure at being recognised by the leader clearly evident. “The Price kids, they need a lesson. See to it, right?” Digger nodded. “And the cousin. I want to deal with him myself. Bring him to me.” Digger nodded again, his eyes bright. “You up to running his patch?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of Buzz. Digger nodded again.
The spreading pool of urine forced Spider to take a step back and he looked at the dejected figure of Buzz with disgust. He reached into his back pocket and took out a black case. The blade gleamed when he took it from its case and held it out for all to see. The straight-edged razor was his favourite weapon and the boys took a collective step backwards to allow him a free range of movement. Buzz scarcely reacted as the first stroke opened his cheek from side to side, but when blood spurted from his throat with the second strike, he gave a single scream of pain. The third slash took away his capacity to scream, cutting through his vocal cords and sending him crashing to the floor where his blood mixed freely with his own urine.
Spider looked at the faces surrounding him and felt exultation. His workforce was growing. Every day he became more powerful. A black community leader in South London had been on TV a while back, sounding off about the way in which the deprivation and poverty of housing estates in places like Peckham was producing a new breed of terrorist whom he’d termed Urban Child Soldiers. Spider could have told him the Child Soldiers tag had been widespread on Merseyside long before a few gang-related shootings rattled the cages of the politicians.
The difference up here was that the man in charge was shrewd enough to keep everything low key. Young kids were the future of his empire and he chose them with care. The boy he’d singled out to replace the hapless Buzz would do well. Spider had chosen the name Digger because the lad’s facial features and athleticism reminded him of the former Liverpool football legend, John “Digger” Barnes and had been keeping a close eye on his progress.
He named each of his boys personally; from day one they would be known only by their street names. It was important that they forget about who they used to be. Make a fresh start. As he had also made a fresh start.
Nobody knew anything about who he used to be. He was Spider and he was the leader. That’s all anyone needed to know.
Spider reached down and wiped the blade clean. “Get rid of that,” He said, walking away. The group parted to let him through, every one of them still throbbing with excitement. When Spider left, the boys crowded round the figure on the floor, watching him die.
An hour ago, Buzz had been one of them. A senior figure with extra powers, extra rewards. No one in the group could quarrel with the fate of their erstwhile colleague. The rules were clear enough and they all knew that Spider was a stickler for rules. The most important rule was to own and control your own patch. Petty crime had virtually died out on the estate, vandalism and joyriding eliminated at a stroke. All part of the plan. Spider controlled the estate, not individual gangs, not the police, and everyone on the estate knew it. This estate and the surrounding area were the only crime-free areas in the city and all the residents felt the benefit of that.
Spider had taken power from the feuding gangs who’d made up the estate by sheer force of will. He’d recruited younger boys, those without a role or purpose in life and given them hope. When the local gangs had been brought to heel, Spider went after the money. Money meant power and the men with most money were the drug barons. The drugs trade has always been lucrative and the drug barons had built up a formidable power base over the years. Secure in their positions of wealth and influence, the established gang leaders were slow to realise that resisting a hostile takeover did not depend on manpower or weaponry, in which they were infinitely superior but in the application of force.
Spider was prepared to go to the limit, without fear and without scruples, he would go to any lengths to achieve power. Possessing no family or friends he had no weaknesses. He intimidated the drug cartel bosses by putting pressure on their families, their homes and businesses.
Spider had no possessions; he moved around, living in a succession of squalid flats, and without the trappings of an extravagant life-style. When the drug trade was secured, Spider branched out, expanding his empire. He bought up property and businesses at rock bottom prices. Threats and intimidation were not idle threats and lessons were learnt quickly. Drugs, prostitution, landlord, protection money, as well as a cut of all criminal action in the area, he had it all. Potential rivals were too frightened to cross him as it became widely known that he’d never take a backward step. He recruited even younger boys to push drugs, run errands, obtain information, or steal cars to order. The money flowed in and still he pressed on, always expanding, always pushing the boundaries of his empire a little further. His rules were few in number, but the consequences of disobeying his rules were draconian.
There were no paper trails. No bank records or invoices to incriminate him. Premises where drugs or weapons were stored had no contact to himself. Everything he did, his entire business, was carefully arranged in such a way that there was never any link to Spider. If the police got lucky or a job went wrong, someone else would take the fall. His name would never be mentioned. His soldiers were loyal but loyalty only went so far. Anyone arrested knew the score. Spider used the classic stick and carrot method. Keep your mouth shut, do your time and you’d be rewarded when you came out. That was the carrot. The stick aspect was equally simple: anyone who talked out of line or attempted to grass up Spider or any other member of the group was a dead man. No expense would be spared to ensure retribution would be instant and certain. Prisons were full of Category A hard men who’d been grassed up by their subordinates. Spider had known the effects of treachery at first hand and all his team received regular reminders that this was a zero tolerance issue. Retribution would also extend to family members. Wives, girlfriends, mothers, sisters, all were in the frame.
The drug trade remained his main interest and it was here that the rules were most strictly enforced. He never allowed his dealers to be users and would not allow his best men to handle drugs in case of a set up or police action.
Spider was 22 and had built up his empire in little more than a year. His relative youth made him a role model for his followers, someone they could relate to and provided a sharp contrast to the men he had replaced. Established drug barons were mostly men in their mid-thirties, too far removed from the violent natures of their youth. They were too soft now, too concerned with their wealth and with extended families. They were vulnerable and Spider brought the threat of total violence to their homes and families. Spider was convinced that within another year, all areas of the city would have fallen to him and he would be powerful enough to go after his ultimate target. There were old scores to settle and it was with this end game in mind that Spider took each and every decision.
In the flat, the group of boys were silent, each with their own thoughts as they looked down at the body on the floor and felt a tingle of excitement at the possibility that it would soon be their turn to move up. Digger was now marked out as someone who was going places. There would be other promotions on the way. Before Spider came, they had nothing. Now, the estate belonged to them and their influence was growing. Spider already controlled great swathes of territory across the city and soon, very soon, all of it would belong to him.
Dexter had last been through this estate a couple of years ago, back in the days when he was still a copper. All the shop fronts had metal grills over the windows, graffiti covered every available surface and there wasn’t a car in sight that still possessed a full set of wing mirrors or hub caps.
Moonlight cast iridescent pools of shadow that softened the harsh outline of the towering apartment blocks. Rows of concrete posts stood useless and redundant, their globes having been smashed in a single night of riot and mayhem two years ago and never replaced. There had been little demand for their reinstatement; no one who walked these dark and dangerous streets after nightfall had any pressing desire for illumination.
The estate was still in the same place and so were the shop-front grills, but the graffiti had gone. Completely. He stopped the car and looked up at the flats. No sign of ply board covering broken windows. Dexter climbed from his car and looked around. The roads were deserted, but the finely honed instincts of an ex-copper told him he was being watched. A dozen unseen eyes were shadowing his every move. Like jungle predators waiting for their next meal to enter the killing zone, there were eyes everywhere. None of them friendly.
There was little point asking the neighbours if they’d knew anything. Selective myopia was a common condition on these landings. If a herd of wildebeest had galloped through their bedrooms, they’d still claim not to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. A bad memory and poor eyesight were essential qualities for healthy living in these tower blocks.
A couple of years back, the Betts family were top dogs in this area. Three toe-rag brothers and the old man who was the worst of the lot. The boys ran this estate and old man Betts ran the three boys. With an iron fist in both cases. Violence was the common theme and crime flourished under Betts rules. Dexter had wasted more hours than he cared to remember in attempting to find witnesses to the numerous offences carried out within the boundaries of the estate. Nobody ever talked. Like the wartime poster said, careless talk really did cost lives. Usually the life, or at least the health, of the person doing the talking.
The Betts family were no longer at the top table. The old man, Dennis Betts, had vanished a year ago and his sons were either dead or banged up in maximum security. The disappearance of Dennis Betts had brought about a power vacuum in the area almost overnight. It was widely rumoured that the old villain had been snatched on his way back from the drinking club he part owned and was feeding the fish somewhere out in the Irish Sea. His bodyguard had turned up a week later, most of him anyway, in a drainage ditch at the side of the East Lancs. Road, but Dennis had never been seen again.
The corpse of the bodyguard, minus his hands and feet, had clearly been intended to be found and to provide a clear message that the old order was about to change.
Dexter had asked around, but the identity of the new man at the top was still to be confirmed. Dexter wanted to see the old Betts stamping ground for himself before he committed himself to further action. He’d never backed away from a job in his whole career, but Dennis Betts had been a hard bastard and an opponent worthy of respect. Nobody knew better than Dexter how big a step it had been to crush the power of the Betts regime and the unknown man responsible was obviously someone who posed a considerable danger to anyone foolish enough to stick their nose where it was not wanted.
A distant figure slowed as Dexter’s face became visible in the gloom, then turned abruptly at right angles and vanished into an alley between two buildings. A second figure followed at a discreet distance in the manner of a reprimand coming after an incautious remark. Separate, yet closely linked. The second man pulled his hood down, covering his face and took the same evasive action. Druggies, Dexter surmised. Dealer and client. These days, more likely to be crack, a development that boded ill for Dexter’s former colleagues in the Drug Squad.
Crack was bad news. Heroin lifts you up and lets you down slowly so you stay peaceful. Unless and until you hadn’t the means to buy your next fix. That aside, heroin addicts tended to be gentle souls asking nothing from the world outside their close relationship with the white powder. Crack cocaine is a different beast. Under its spell, peaceful men discover a taste for mayhem and those who are already wild become madmen.
The wind stirred the branches of the only tree within sight, its leaves rustling like the whispering of naughty children.
Dexter always reckoned this estate had been planned with criminality in mind. A maze of cul-de-sacs and blind alleys made the estate as inaccessible to an outsider as a mediaeval hill village in Spain. No problem if you knew your way around, but a nightmare for non-residents, especially if the stranger was a policeman. Dexter had never countenanced the idea of no-go areas, but the ease with which dead-end streets could be barricaded, trapping unwary officers, had brought about more than one tactical withdrawal in order to ensure the safety of his team. These days, without any back-up worthy of the name, Dexter wouldn’t even consider engaging the enemy on their own turf. The prospect rankled, but he’d have to be more subtle if he wanted this particular enquiry to be productive. Direct action was a non-starter.
He climbed back behind the wheel of his car and drove slowly away from the estate. He’d seen nothing to suggest his safety had been at risk, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the case.
