In the living room, empty lager cans were strewn on the carpet, and the remains of biscuit wrappers and crisp packets littered the sofa.
Jenny turned on the television and manoeuvred around her low coffee table, careful not to knock any mess from its surface. Crouching, she swept her hand across the worn seat of the sofa, knocking all the boys’ crap onto the floor. With a small groan of comfort, she sank into the fabric.
Outside, the street lights deemed it dark enough to start the night’s work, and flickered on.
The change attracted Jenny’s attention to the window.
The Harper house lay directly across the street. A quick flash of seething hate always accompanied sight or mention of the Harpers.
What a bitch,
thought Jenny.
Enough money to not even work? If I could afford to stay at home all day like a goddamn princess, my boys might be as perfect as her goody-goody kids. She don’t know how good she has it over there. And she kept her figure…
Jenny looked away from the Harper house and further up the street. The witch’s house. The old bag always had a problem with the boys, looking down her nose at them every time she dared venture out of the house.
You’re not going to get one penny out me, you old hag. Probably buy a new cauldron and spell book with the compensation.
Jenny chuckled to herself. She wondered if all their hardships over the last few years had been the result of a gypsy curse from the old mystic. In fact, Jenny had been secretly pleased that the boys had tried to steal from her.
Steal from the rich, give to the poor. That Robin Hood has his head on straight. If only they had paid that bitch Anne Harper a visit first…
She glanced down and realised that she’d begun to fidget with her necklace that held her husband’s wedding ring. Jenny instantly regretted her spiteful thoughts.
I’m sorry, Harold
, she thought, turning his ring over and over in her fingers.
I hate thinking like this. I shouldn’t be encouraging the boys; they should be disciplined, just like you did when they were kids.
She turned her head to the old photo of her late husband on the dusty mantelpiece. Taken at the park about twelve years ago, he held the young twins up, one on each arm, and all three were smiling in the sun. He might have been thinning on top and worn tiny, bookworm spectacles, but he’d been her hero.
It’s times like this I need you. The boys need a firm hand.
She returned her attention to the television, knowing this trail of thought led to tears.
The snooker was on. A young player, who looked like a thirteen year old trying to grow a moustache, debated his next shot. The commentator rambled on in hushed tones.
Jenny searched for the remote control. The news had started on the other channel; she needed to hear about other people’s misery.
She rummaged through the contents of the coffee table, almost knocking over an ashtray full to the brim of stubbed out filters. She wrinkled her nose; she hated the boys smoking, especially in the house.
Jenny looked around the carpet, hoping that the remote had fallen within close proximity of the sofa. She stopped and sat back, studying the room in complete disbelief.
How could she have let it get this bad? Where along the line had she lost her control over the twins and let them treat their home like a pig sty?
Her body seemed to deflate and curl up.
She gazed at the photo of her late husband with tear blurred vision.
You’re not coming back
, she realised again
. I’ve waited ten years for you, Harold. Ten long years of waiting for you to come walking in like nothing happened and sort out the boys, sort out everything. You’re dead, Harold. I’m on my own.
The thought, far from bringing on a fresh bout of despair, sobered her somewhat.
On screen, the youngster had potted a tricky red and lined up a shot on the black. It was a hard shot, but the ball took a lucky deflection from the cushion and cleanly fell into a corner pocket. The audience applauded and the commentator gushed with praise.
When they walk in, I’ll be here, waiting for them. No matter what time they return, I will be here.
She wiped her cheeks dry and fingered Harold’s wedding ring.
They will listen this time.
3.
Jake clung onto his brother, his hands clasped onto each shoulder. His head had filled with the whine of the bike, the screech of tyres, the blare of a car horn, and the shout from angry pedestrians layered beneath it. His hair flapped about his face, sometimes hitting him in the eyes. He’d blink and whip his head from side to side to shake it loose. They hurtled towards town.
The wind stung his eyes, and he stared through tear-streaked vision. Streetlights swelled to large spheres of golden brilliance that grew in size as he squinted at them. The road and its markings blurred into one black plain under the night.
The storm clouds had taken full control of the sky, totally blocking out the stars and sleek crescent of moon. The draught that swept around his arms and chest earlier had grown steadily chillier during the short journey; penetrating his coat with ease and sliding icy fingers of cold air across his skin. He shivered.
Hope we make it back before it rains. You can easily get soaked to the bone driving through the rain.
They emerged from the quiet suburbs and approached the centre of town. Through the smell of oil, petrol and exhaust fumes emerged the scents of pizza, chips and vinegar. Seemed the takeaways had opened for their Friday night business, ready to feed the hungry revellers that walked, or usually staggered, through their doors.
This is where the boys wanted to be, where the action was.
A group of around a dozen women walking down the street stopped to file into one of the many bars along the road. Jake looked over his shoulder as the bike passed them, his gaze full of short skirts and low vest tops. Only when the last of the giggling girls entered through the doorway and out of sight did he turn back to the road ahead.
Roughly a hundred yards down the street, an old woman walked alone, heading away from the boys. Grey-white curls hung from beneath her woollen hat, and she slowly shuffled along the pavement, leaning on a worn cane. A black handbag, slung over her right shoulder from a thin strap, swayed with each hesitant step.
She reached the outside of Sefton’s off-licence, and Jake released his grip and pounded his brother on the shoulder. Reaching past Adam’s head, he pointed at the woman.
Adam nodded and steered the bike to the far left of the road, the curb only inches from the tyres. He glanced upwards at the approaching road.
The distance between the growling bike and the elderly woman had halved in the few seconds it had taken Adam to complete his checks.
Jake prepared himself.
He hung onto his brother’s right shoulder even harder. The white fabric of the tracksuit folded in between his fingers, and the lean muscle bulged underneath. Jake leaned out to the left of the bike, hovering over the pavement, hand outstretched.
The woman stopped and turned to cast a weary glance at the approaching din.
Jake saw the worry in her eyes, nestled in the network of wrinkles on her weathered face.
Too late, old girl.
With a sharp tug from Jake, the strap tore from her shoulder and the old woman lurched forwards, her balance gone with the slight impact. With a small cry of surprise, she toppled forward, front first onto the pavement. The cane dropped from her hand.
Jake watched from over his shoulder. Both hands had returned to clutching Adam, only now one contained the black handbag.
Adam steered to the right, returning the bike to the centre of the road.
Behind them and rapidly falling into the distance, the woman lay on the pavement, surrounded by a troupe of Samaritans that must have come running out of Sefton’s. A man and woman carefully tried to get the old dear back on her feet with looks of sincere concern on their faces. Another man, obviously the have-a-go hero of the group, sprinted up the street to recover the stolen handbag.
Jake laughed. He failed to hear his own glee ring out over the noise of the engine, but the vibrations rattled in his head. He lifted a hand from Adam’s shoulder and waved the bag in the air over his head in triumph.
The bike slowed as Adam drifted to the right hand side of the street, widening the angle before he swerved down a road to the left. The scene of the old woman and her rescuers fell behind a row of closed shops.
They would be at Smithy’s soon. The wind had grown harsh and its icy bite had finally found its way inside the folds of his coat and through his T-shirt and jeans. His limbs shook from the cold and the adrenaline of the successful bag snatch.
Be glad when we’re there, need to get warm.
He smiled when the handbag bumped into his chest.
…and we get to see what goodies we have in here…
He hung onto Adam, keeping his head low, riding out the rest of the short journey to Smithy’s house.
4.
Adam pulled the bike over in front of the home of Eric “Smithy
”
Smith and killed the engine. The house, although small, put the Dean twins’ home to shame. The windows were immaculately clean; white lace curtains hung inside, with frames freshly painted a deep brown that matched the front door. Slate tiles lined the roof, not a single one missing. All this suburban perfection sat behind a well-tended garden, with a short-trimmed lawn, rosebushes and various other flowers. Not the typical abode of an opportunist drug dealer.
Groaning, Jake dismounted the bike and stretched his legs. He loved the bike, but the vibrations fucking hurt after a while. He rubbed his sore areas, the backs of his thighs and his rear, the handbag swinging around as he tried to get his circulation going again. An onlooker might have mistaken him for a cross-dressing Goth with cramp. He felt like he’d crossed the west on the back of a mule, not across a small town on a motorbike.
“Hey,” said Adam, climbing from the bike and leaning it on the kick stand. “If you’re not too busy fondling yourself, toss me the bag.”
“You’re so fucking funny, you know that?” Jake replied, squeezing the tops of his legs. “You should be a comedian with that cutting wit of yours.”
“Nah, don’t wanna entertain’ faggots like you. Give me the bag.”
Jake threw it, and Adam easily made the catch with a two hand grab. He opened the zip that ran across the top of the black leather and rummaged inside.
“Crap!” he said, lifting out a tube of lipstick and throwing it onto the pavement. Its transparent casing shattered, and the plastic cylinder rolled off the curb and into the road. A small mirror, a laminated bus pass and a hairbrush quickly followed in a rain of belongings. “Crap…crap…crap…crap…”
Jake straightened from his self-massage and searched his coat for his cigarettes. “Don’t tell me that all she got is a bag of junk. I’ll fall off the fucking bike doing that stunt one of these days.”
“Bingo!” said Adam, his hand pausing inside the bag as he grabbed something. “Look what we have here.”
He pulled out a small red purse with a buttoned clasp holding it closed.
“Looks like the old dear was worth it after all.” Jake lit a cigarette. “How much?”
Adam popped the clasp open and spread the purse wide. He riffled through the contents.
“Cards, three of ‘em. Two banks, one credit. Might be useful. Steve deals with cards, doesn’t he?”
Jake nodded. “Might get twenty for each.”
“Bit of change…ah, what’s this?” He pulled out a small piece of paper, looked at it and sniggered.
“Let me see.”
Adam turned it around. It was a photograph of a naked newborn baby lying on a blanket.
“Cute. Anything else?”
Adam let the photograph fall from his hand to join the rest of the bag’s contents on the ground. “There’s another zip in here…”
Jake peered up and down the street as he smoked. They weren’t that close to the centre of town but it was always better to be careful, being on a caution and all. He liked the police; so dependable. Someone gets attacked or mugged or killed, it takes them all day to get there, but controlling the hordes of tipsy women staggering out of the bars on a weekend, well, that was a different matter. Jake imagined himself as a copper: driving through red lights with the sirens wailing, taking hefty bribes to turn a blind eye, escorting drunken girls back to their homes in the back of his patrol car, in pairs of course…
Jake was torn from his fantasy as Adam hissed a quiet “Yes!” and pulled out a thick wad of rolled twenty pound notes, bound together by an elastic band, from the inner compartment of the purse. “Looks like we hit the jackpot here, bro!”
“How much?”
“A ton, at least.”
“Old ladies shouldn’t be carrying that kind of money around. What if they get robbed?”
Adam smiled at his brother and stuffed the bundle of notes back inside the purse. He closed the clasp and put the whole bundle in the pocket of his tracksuit top.
“That should take care of business,” he said, picking at an angry patch of acne at the side of his nose. “You wanna go see if the sweaty bastard’s home?” He nodded towards the house.
Jake threw the cigarette stub onto the pavement among the old woman’s belongings. The growing wind rolled it away.
“Yeah. Hope he has the heating on. It’s freezing out here.”
“The thought of Smithy sat next to a hot radiator makes me feel sick.”
“Come on.”
Jake headed up the neat garden path towards the front door, pulling leaves from the surrounding bushes. Adam followed, hand over the new bulge in his tracksuit. The brothers arrived at the door, and Jake knocked a cheerful tune on the wood.
“Queer,” said Adam.
Jake half turned. “What?”
“That was a queer’s knock.”
“So what is a straight knock then?”
Adam leaned over and hit the door hard three times.