‘Ever wonder about that? You know, choosing to end your own life? Top yourself? Knowing you’re never going to wake up ever again. Never see another sunset, another dawn, lambs in a field, nothing. Ever again.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I could do it. Think about it a lot.’
I shrugged. ‘Thinking about it usually means you won’t do it. It’s spontaneous, or so I’ve always thought.’
‘Maybe.’
I looked at him, eyes red-rimmed, skin drawn tightly across his cheekbones. ‘When was the last time you were up at dawn, watching lambs running around fields?’
He barked with laughter. ‘Yeah. Suppose you got a point there.’
Danny possessed a wry sense of humour as dry as a pile of bleached bones in a desert and the creases under his eyes bore a perpetual hint of mirth. He was also a heroin user, although claiming not to be an addict. I’d known him for three years and he was still around which gave some credence to his claim. He appeared to have no visible means of support. No job, didn’t claim benefit, lived between the cracks of society. People like Danny are survival experts, living hand to mouth. He knew his way around; knew when to keep his head down, kept his eyes open, storing up information. He never informed to the police; had made it a point of honour to tell me that on our first meeting.
I’d never worked out why he spoke to me. Told me things that would ensure he got a good kicking if word got out. I’d not let him down. Never revealed him as a source. He didn’t know what I did with the information he gave me, didn’t want to know. I was a mover and shaker, knew all the right people. That’s all he knew. It was enough. A discreet word here and there could prove useful. Ensure his safety. Keeping the wolves at bay.
‘You’ll have heard about the lad from Kirkby?’ He asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. I’d been there, just after the event, but kept that to myself. I’d seen two lads in hooded tops, that was all. I hadn’t hung around for the police to arrive. Being hauled in as a witness was not part of the agenda.
‘Silly,’ Danny continued. ‘Way out of line. Dissing, they won’t stand for that.’
‘No.’ Dissing, showing disrespect by entering the territory of a rival gang, was more than enough reason to earn a death sentence, such was the warped nature of the underclass who ruled the interlocking groups of gangs.
‘Must have been important,’ I said, probing a little deeper. Danny heard things.
‘I reckon he’d been setting up a meet between the big boys. Big deal on the way. I heard Spider was involved.’
‘Spider? He up to this?’
‘Come a long way very quickly. He’s ready to move on. Move up. I heard a rumour about a contract. May be nothing.’
‘A contract? On Spider?’
‘So I heard. May be nothing.’
I said nothing, but my mind was racing. I’d not taken much notice of Spider. Small-time, I thought. Ran his estate like a tribal chieftain, but nowhere ready for the big time. Not yet. It may be time to make more enquiries.
‘Out of town job, they reckon. No names, not on this.’
An out-of-town contract where the chosen assassin has had no previous connection to the intended victim is the most efficient system yet devised for the elimination of a targeted individual.
In and out.
Nothing to link killer and victim, leaving any subsequent police investigation up against a brick wall. Contract killers weren’t cheap, but no other system worked as well.
This raised the whole job up several notches. Contract killings were rare. Most of the locals preferred top settle scores personally. If Spider was considered worthy of a contract I’d better take a closer look. Danny’s info muddied the water, but I daren’t take the chance of ignoring it.
I thought back to the murder I’d happened upon a couple of days ago. Two hoodies running away. Different directions. Organised. From what I knew about Spider he used teenage youths as soldiers. The arrival of hooded tops as a fashion item had been a boon to gang-bangers. Spider insisted all his troops wore hoodies. The omnipresent CCTV cameras couldn’t be avoided, but their effectiveness could be blunted. One hooded youth looks very like another, makes precise identification difficult. Banks and building societies refuse admittance to their premises unless items of clothing which mask the wearer’s features are removed, but that was never going to be a problem. Spider’s capital was never going to be invested in a building society.
‘Spider’s going places. So they reckon,’ Danny said, eyes glinting as he saw my interest. ‘Good organiser. Efficient. Hard as fuckin’ nails. Shaking up some of the old guys. They’re not too happy about it.’
I knew change was on the way. This job was only a few weeks in and I’d noticed the differences. Less respect for the established order. I’d been expecting it. The old days were on the way out. The old men too.
Old style gang leaders still thought themselves hard. The days of straighteners – one on one bare-fisted fights, without weapons, to settle disputes – were well and truly over. It didn’t matter how hard you were, or thought you were. Not when a ten-year-old who can point a gun and pull the trigger is a match for any hard man of the old school. That’s what being hard is really about; the new realities of life on the streets.
There’d been a big power vacuum at the top. Some of the big men were dead, some were banged up for life, some had taken the money and opted for a safe life in the sun.
Drug barons were always top of the tree. Men like Spider started small. Built a power base. Cheap ciggies, drugs in holiday resorts, lucrative and yet under the radar of the barons. Rock, Ibiza, easy to move in and out. Young people. Plenty of money to spend.
‘Time to go,’ I said. ‘Stay safe.’ I didn’t offer him money. Never had. He’d never asked.
‘Any chance of a lift?’ Danny asked.
I looked at him, surprised. ‘Where to?’
He shrugged. ‘Anywhere. Away from here. It’s all kicking off. Any day now.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re no use to me out of the loop.’ It seemed harsh, but experience had taught me the folly of appearing grateful. Passing on information fulfilled some need in people like Danny. Something beyond mere avarice. I wasn’t his mate, had never pretended to be. Best to keep it that way.
He hunched his shoulders at my words as if bracing himself against a physical attack. I shook my head dismissively and turned my gaze inwards showing a blank indifference.
A tenuous smile hovered uncertainly on his lips for a moment and then departed without a hint of its former existence remaining.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘See you around.’ He walked away, limping slightly. I watched him turn the corner, wondered if I’d see him again. There’d been no signs of his usual humour, a grimness there that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘No,’ I thought to myself, ‘Danny’s got the death wish.’
