Trilogy Collection

‘Mind if we come in, June?’ the other copper said, equally brightly. What the fuck did these two have to be so cheerful about?

‘I do mind, as it goes,’ she said. ‘Our Vinnie’s still locked up, so we’ve got – let me see – about three more months before you start harassing us again. Now, what do you want?’

The tallest copper cleared his throat. ‘Well, June,’ he said, ‘it’s about these stolen club cheques – the ones that were taken from the site your Jock was working at a while back. We’ve been following a bit of a chain and it all seems to lead back to you, June. So again, shall we come in or do you want to conduct this on the doorstep?’

June managed to curl her lip into what she hoped was an innocent-looking smile. ‘Club cheques?’ she asked. ‘Club cheques? Are you right in the fucking head? I’ve no idea what you’re on about, mate. Now, is that it? Because from where I’m standing, you couldn’t conduct a fucking church choir, let alone an investigation.’

June glanced at the shorter of the two, who seemed to be staring at something on the floor. She followed his eyes to see her morning post scattered on the lino in the hallway. Just as her mind registered what it was he was staring at, the copper bent down and picked up a postcard. A postcard that might have meant nothing whatsoever, were it not for the ‘Greetings from Blackpool’ written in swirly writing diagonally across the front.

He was way too quick for her. Before she could reach out and snatch it up, he’d already done so and was now holding it out of arm’s reach to read. Typical Maureen, she thought, staring at the back of it, or rather the front of it: a cartoon couple, fat and sunburned, eating ice-creams on the beach. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. He started reading aloud now.

‘Dear Jock and June,’ he read, addressing his words mostly to his sniggering colleague, and adopting a high-pitched posh lady’s voice, ‘cash the rest of our paper money in – wink, wink, nudge, nudge – because me and Steven might come back here with you and Jock. Wish you were here, love Mo.’

June made a second attempt to grab the postcard, but once again the copper was too quick for her. ‘Give it here, you lousy bastard. I’m sure that’s a fucking offence, that is – tampering with the Royal Mail!’

He held it above his head now, seeming amused to see her jumping up to try and get it. How dare he fucking laugh at her, he and his dumb fucking mate.

‘Sorry, June,’ he said pleasantly, ‘not when it’s evidence, it isn’t. Shouldn’t have been so greedy, love, should you?’

He slipped it into a pocket then, and patted it for good measure. ‘And just so you know, there’s no point in you putting on that “butter wouldn’t melt” face, either. This –’ he patted the pocket again ‘– just sort of seals it. We already knew most of the picture already. Them fuckers up Buttershaw are not as scared of you as you and your little gang like to think. Anyway, Jock around?’

‘No,’ said June, her mood growing as black as her expensive nightie. ‘He’s gone to Torre-fucking-molinos. What do you think?’

And how she wished that they really could. Ideally now.

Two months later, June was carefully cutting an article out of the Telegraph & Argus newspaper. ‘Oh What a Tangled Web We Weave’ read the headline, and beneath it was a black-and-white picture of June, Jock and eight others, all in their Sunday best, outside Bradford Courts, smiling for the camera.

Our Vinnie’s gonna love this, thought June as she folded the cutting and placed it on the fireplace. She grinned as she remembered the day in court. The judge had shaken his head in disbelief as they all, one after the other, had been called up. They had all pleaded guilty of course. No getting out of it, but the fine and the warning had been worth it. All that money they’d spent and enjoyed, and then the look on that judge’s face. Priceless.

Chapter 15 (#ub0b25701-d126-509d-97b1-76fe329d1888)

September

June couldn’t remember that last time she’d felt so happy and yet so anxious all at once. So much as if everything was slightly shifted off kilter. In some ways it had felt as if the time had passed so quickly, yet in others it felt like a lifetime had passed. Vinnie was almost 17. It didn’t seem possible.

She squealed when she saw him – her boy! Home at last! And then again as, when she ran to him to try and give him a squeeze, he lifted her up – right off her feet, too; she couldn’t believe he was tall enough to do that – and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

‘Alright, Mother?’ he said. ‘Well, I’m back.’

‘Oh, put me down, you daft bleeder,’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t. Not just yet – he was home and she wished the whole world could see.

He did put her down then, and grinned at her, cupping a hand to his ear – God, his hair was so long now! – and saying, ‘What’s that? Nope – I can’t hear that kettle whistling!’

She followed him inside then, marvelling at him. He looked so different. She’d clocked that the minute she’d clapped eyes on him, studying him minutely from the first second she’d seen him, strolling up the road carrying his case with such a swagger. She hadn’t seen him since last Christmas, so it had been a while now. And that had been a rare treat in itself. He saved his visiting orders for Brendan so he could keep in touch with his mates. Which wasn’t surprising, she supposed. Why would he want to waste them on his mum? She’d reminded herself of that so many times over the last couple of years, so that Christmas visit had been a real shock. He’d grown so much. Become so manly.

And now he’d changed again. There was something. Something tangible.

He was taller still. That was a definite. He’d grown a good couple of inches. And he was leaner; not so much thinner – he’d always been a stringy little bleeder – as less soft, less boyish. He had proper man’s muscles now, as well – no doubt all that manual labour the screws made them do – and his jaw seemed to be set in a firm, angular line. He’d grown a moustache, too – a proper bushy one. It was red like his hair was, only flecked with brown and blond too. It was odd seeing him with it, but it suited him. June couldn’t wait to take him down the Bull and show him off.

She hurried into the kitchen to fill the kettle. He’d had a long journey: the train from Redditch, and then bus journey from the city centre, then the walk – it must have taken him a good five hours or so and, if she knew him, she didn’t doubt he’d have stopped along the way, too, to catch up with a couple of his mates.

It had been a bit of a shock opening the door to him after so long away; watching him carefully set his case down, take off his immaculate new Crombie coat, smooth that silky-looking shoulder-length hair. She’d have liked to touch it, but didn’t reckon that would go down too well.

Tea, that was the thing, she’d thought. Make him a cuppa. Let him settle. Josie’d be home soon – home like a bleedin’ whippet, June knew – she was that desperate to see him. Jock too, she thought, even though his only comment before he headed off to the bookies earlier was to say that he hoped his idiot son would keep his fucking nose clean from now on.

Which was a bit rich, coming from him, given how they’d spent their summer. She smiled to herself then; she couldn’t wait to show Vinnie the piece from the Telegraph & Argus. See where all those fivers came from – see where that smart coat had come from, for that matter.

‘Tea won’t be long, love!’ she called through to the living room, her face wreathed in steam as she poured.

Vinnie was watching TV when she went in with the cups, sitting in his dad’s chair, elbows on knees, leaning forward, intent on it, ignoring her.

‘What you watching?’ she wanted to know. ‘Here you are love –’

He took the proffered cup without speaking.

June sat down on the sofa, feeling ignored. ‘Turn that off, will you? I want to talk to you!’ There was a silence. He was really glued to it. ‘Vin!’ she said more insistently. She didn’t do being ignored. ‘You’ve only just got home, for fuck’s sake!’

Now he did turn towards her. ‘Shush, Mother!’ he said. Then he stood up and went over to turn the volume up a bit. ‘Look!’ he said, pointing. ‘Bombs! Bombs’ve been going off in London!’ He shook his head. ‘I fucking knew it. I knew they weren’t lying, the little fuckers. I knew it!’ He grinned at June as he sat down again, this time next to her on the couch.

‘Bombs?’

‘The IRA, Mother. They haven’t declared it yet, or owt, but they will do. Just you wait.’

June studied the screen. It was a station. King’s Cross. It looked bad. She turned to Vinnie. ‘How would you know about that, then?’

‘I was locked up with a couple of them, wasn’t I? Mad fuckers, the pair of them. Call themselves ‘political prisoners’ apparently. Looked just like any other fucking mad Irish to me.’

‘And they did that?’ June nodded her head towards the TV.

Vinnie shook his head. ‘Not them, Mam. Their “brothers” – that’s what they call their mates – they were the ones planning it. We weren’t supposed to know, or owt, but one of them got stoned one night and blabbed.’ He shook his head again and laughed. ‘And they fucking have!’

June felt her stomach clench, seeing Vinnie so excited. There they were, watching folk being led out of the station, bleeding and terrified, and her son was laughing – her son seemed to actually find it funny. There was blood and glass everywhere, loads of injuries, people shaking, people crying. She might not be perfect, she thought, but laugh at that? At all those innocent people hurt and – yes, they were already saying so – being killed? There was nothing funny about that. Nothing at all.

‘Vin, mate,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing to laugh at. This is fucking terrible. Fucking IRA. Why’d you want to hang around with the likes of them?’

Vinnie laughed again, and it sounded strange. It was a man’s laugh. No longer a boy’s laugh. ‘Mother, you have no fucking idea, do you? It’s fuck all to do with me anyway. I was just saying – they said they’d do it and they did do it. You’ve got to think of it differently anyway. You’ve got to think of them as like soldiers. That’s what they are – soldiers. Fighting for their cause.’

‘They don’t look like soldiers to me,’ June said. ‘I’ve known plenty of soldiers, your own uncles included. Let me tell you, they don’t go around killing ordinary people going about their business.’

Vinnie got up again and switched the telly off, then slurped his tea. ‘Anyway, enough of that. What’s been happening around here, then? What have I missed?’

That was better. A change of subject. Maybe she’d feel a bit less on edge then. She leapt up and grabbed the cutting from its home on the mantelpiece. ‘Have a read,’ she ordered, passing it to him. ‘You’ll piss yourself laughing.’

And he duly did. ‘You mental bastards!’ he chuckled, shaking his head. ‘And you wonder where I get it from! And only a fine – how d’you manage to pull that off? You’re lucky you didn’t end up banged up yourselves!’

‘Not that lucky, really,’ June said. ‘I almost had a coronary when the bloody judge or whatever it was sentenced us. Right twat, he was. He read it out as though we were all going down for six months, then, right at the end, after a pause to make us sweat, the evil bleeder, he finally tells us that it’s “suspended”.’ She shook her head. She still blanched at the memory. ‘My life was flashing before me eyes, son, I can tell you.’

Vinnie laughed. ‘Oh, mother – how I wish I’d been there to see your silly face! But what about Titch? She wasn’t in on this, surely?’ The idea seemed to concern him.