They call this lad Sledgehammer Stan, but I won’t bother you with the technical reasons. More importantly, he’s one of Eddie Craig’s favourite boys. With Stan were three more big lads, looking mean and shouldering people aside. If this was the landlord’s way of calling ‘time’, he had a point.
“What the hell are Craig’s boys doing here?”
Dave was eyeing up the three apes speculatively as they came our way. I might have put odds on him in a fair fight, but Eddie Craig’s lads were usually tooled up some way. It might be time for a strategic withdrawal. Pity — a few more minutes and Kelk might have turned co-operative.
Dave’s back passed in front of me, so I couldn’t see Sledgehammer Stan any more. Even better, he couldn’t see me. There was a fire door behind us, and I began edging backwards, ready to make a run for it, with Dave as my rearguard if necessary.
As we got to the door, I took a quick peek round Donc’s shoulder. Stan wasn’t even taking any interest in us. He’d zeroed straight in on Mick Kelk, who was now propped up between two of the lads, his feet dangling just short of the floor.
Poor old Mick. The balls really weren’t breaking for him tonight. Or then again, perhaps they were.
It was a relief to get away from the Ferret. I didn’t have much concern for Kelk’s welfare. If he’d upset Eddie Craig, then there was nothing to be done for him. Keep out of the way, that’s the thing when Craig and his boys are about.
If you ever saw Eddie Craig, you’d think he looks harmless, like some middle-aged businessman or bank manager, someone who has a comfortable house, grown-up kids, a villa in France and membership of the local golf club. No doubt Craig has all of these. But he also has the best organised and toughest little empire in north Nottinghamshire.
Our paths don’t normally cross much. Even now that I was trying to move up a bit, I wouldn’t expect to run into trouble with Craig. What I’m involved in is small beer to Craig — a bit down market, like. There’s big money to be made in his game, if that’s what you’re into.
Personally, I wouldn’t spit on Eddie Craig or his type of business. It seems to me he’s only making money out of people destroying themselves. In some circles that’s thought to be okay these days. Enough big companies do it, so why not people like Craig? It’s only free enterprise, after all. Right. Pass the sick bag.
Wherever there’s big money involved, there’s always people prepared to do anything to get it, or to protect it when they’ve got it. Craig doesn’t need to dirty his hands with that side of it any more — not while Stan and a hundred others are willing to jump at his command, lump hammers at the ready. And Craig is never reluctant to give that command. There are enough blokes around here with the scars and the permanent limps to testify.
Dave had only one thing to say as Slow Kid drove us towards the Shah Naz.
“That was my trick shot, Stones.”
“Brilliant, Donc. Does Steve Davis know about it?”
“I dunno. Do you want me to lean on him a bit and find out?”
“Never mind.”
It was the most I’d heard him say in weeks. He must have been bubbling over with it.
Slow Kid was taking us back out on Baulk Lane, which curves north of Medensworth, to get to the end of the village where the Naz could be found.
Maybe it was the lack of conversation that made me notice the car that was following us all the way, refusing to take any of the turnings off towards Edwinstowe or Warsop, staying a constant distance behind us — far enough so that I couldn’t make out the occupants or the registration number in the dark.
It just shows my positive outlook on life that I assumed they were the police. I certainly wouldn’t have put it past Frank Moxon to put a tail on us, even though we were all perfectly innocent. That’s the way the cops operate these days, harassing innocent citizens
I nudged Slow Kid. No point mentioning this to Dave. He wasn’t quite asleep, but his brain had gone into a sort of suspended animation while he waited for the food to arrive.
“I think we’re being followed, Slow.”
He nodded and put his foot down. He soon had the Subaru up to seventy, and then eighty, on the long stretch past the bridge. The car behind stayed with us. I hated the thought of the cops catching up with us out here. Like the sheriff’s last words, it was much too quiet.
“Can we lose them?”
“No probs. Just hang on. I’ll take the twocker track.”
At the back of the old pumping station there’s an area of land like rough heath, covered in weeds and scrub, and some trees further in. Across this are tracks much favoured by the Medensworth twockers for a burn-up in their nicked motors, before they literally burn them up in some quiet spot among the woods. There are plenty of scorched trees in there and a few burnt-out hulks still waiting for someone to take them away. In its official guide, the council describes this as an ancient woodland beauty spot. And I’m Lord Byron’s mother.
I was glad Slow Kid was driving. Given a suitable bit of tarmac, I knew he could let the car behind get right onto our bumper, then hit a handbrake turn and be away back down the road before they knew what had happened.
No cop car in Nottinghamshire ever caught Slow when he was racing. Unfortunately, after a while, they all knew where he lived, so they didn’t have to chase him at all. They just went round to his house and sat and had tea with his mum while they waited for him to come home. Such is fame.
The speed had woken Dave up in the back seat.
“Woss going on?”
“Cops are after us.”
“Yeah?”
“Slow’s going to lose ’em, so get belted up.”
“Hang on, I can’t get it fastened,” he complained, stretching the fabric over his belly. Right enough, the seat belt was adjusted for someone of normal size, like me.
“For God’s sake, breathe in or something. The track’s coming up.”
It was no more than a fire break in the woods really, but the kids used it a lot, and the corners were nicely chewed off. Slow Kid seemed to reckon he could make it, even at sixty miles an hour. We might mangle the undergrowth, but who cares about a few bits of broken bracken? Would it ruin the ambience of the ancient woodland beauty spot? I think not. Doncaster Dave’s weight falling around the car willy nilly was a different matter. It would be like steering a rowing boat with an elephant balanced on the side. There was a lot of grunting, and finally I heard the click of the belt.
“Now — lean this way!”
We both lurched to the right just as Slow Kid jumped on the brakes and spun the wheel to the left. Thank God I went for something with power steering as well as four-wheel drive. Dirt sprayed and the back end swung towards a birch tree, scything down bracken and brambles. But the wheels stayed on the track and we kept going, accelerating up towards the trees. It would be no problem to lose the cops once we got on the hill.
“Can you see them?”
Dave turned round and watched the end of the track.
“Yeah, lights,” he said, just before we disappeared from view round the first bend.
Slow Kid was away now. If he took a left turn by the wrecked Nissan that was up there and went round the pond, we’d be on the far side of the hill and into the access road for the pumping station. The cops would never follow us. They’re all townies, and it’s a different world out here.