was lucky. The Kenworth Estate was his and he ruled it in filthy jeans and his trademark hoodie, a concealed weapon in one pocket and ten Marlboro Lights in another, with a permanent scowl on his pockmarked face.
And then, one day, Bob Kirby disappeared. He was last seen driving east on the A14 in a stolen car and rumor had it that he had upped sticks and moved to London. This was strange, as he had no friends or relatives there. Bob had no friends anywhere. Some people whispered that he had been stopped by the police on the way, beaten up and left in a ditchâbut this was just wishful thinking. He had gone because he had decided to go. And the only thing that mattered was that, with a bit of luck, he wouldnât come back.
His place, however, had been quickly taken. Harry Faulkner had been Bobâs lieutenant, his second in command and the first to do whatever Bob wanted. When old Mr. Rossiterâs house was burgled and his war medals stolen, it was Harry who had put his elbow through the back window. He was pale and unhealthy looking, with tufts of greasy, fair hair cut short and a sty that had taken up permanent residence in the corner of his eye. His teeth were amazingly uneven and he had lost two of them in a fight ten years ago when he was barely eleven. He had been suspended from school more often than he had been in it and he too had been served with an arrest warrant. He appeared frequently on the lists passed between the police and social workers. He lived with his single mother, who drank, and a mongrel dog that limped around the wreck of the garden and cowered when Harry came home.
He had chosen Jason Steel to be his own right-hand manâsomething that had made Jason enormously proud, particularly as he was only fifteen and, despite his best efforts, still had no police record. As soon as Harry took him under his wing, Jason promptly gave up attending school, something his teachers couldnât understand because, despite appearances, he was actually fairly bright. Those appearances included a shaven head, hostile eyes and nicotine-stained fingers. Jason was scrawny and small for his age, hollowed out by the life he had chosen. He didnât sleep enough, eat enough or look after his personal hygiene in any meaningful way. He was just happy to be with Harry. That was his tragedy. He couldnât see how pathetic that made him.
The two of them spent their days doing very little. They seldom got up before ten or eleven oâclock in the morning. Once they were up, they ate large, unhealthy breakfasts and were outside the Kingâs Arms by one. Here they would meet up with Den, Frankie, Jo-Jo, PK and Ashleyâthe other members of the gang. Of course, the barman wasnât supposed to serve them drinks. But Harry Faulkner was old enough to buy alcohol and the rest of them looked it, so why argue? Keep the boys happy and your windows might stay unbroken. That was the philosophy around here.
In the afternoon, the six of them might go shopping in Ipswich . . . or shoplifting, rather, for they seldom paid. Sometimes Harry and Jason would head off alone. They liked going to the cinema. One of them would buy a ticket and let the other in through the fire door. They took drugs, of course. So far they had stayed off the heavy stuff. Both of them were afraid, although neither of them would have admitted it. But they smoked grass and passed hours in a semiconscious state. For all seven gang members, this wasnât so very different from their normal state. They had found a way of making the day pass without noticing. If they were bored, they didnât know it. And if they knew it, they didnât admit it. They were happy being together. What else did they need?
But Harry and Jason were on their own the day they came upon the BMW.
It was parked just around the corner from the Kingâs Arms, sitting in an empty street as if it had simply dropped out of the sky. What was an expensive car like
And then, one day, Bob Kirby disappeared. He was last seen driving east on the A14 in a stolen car and rumor had it that he had upped sticks and moved to London. This was strange, as he had no friends or relatives there. Bob had no friends anywhere. Some people whispered that he had been stopped by the police on the way, beaten up and left in a ditchâbut this was just wishful thinking. He had gone because he had decided to go. And the only thing that mattered was that, with a bit of luck, he wouldnât come back.
His place, however, had been quickly taken. Harry Faulkner had been Bobâs lieutenant, his second in command and the first to do whatever Bob wanted. When old Mr. Rossiterâs house was burgled and his war medals stolen, it was Harry who had put his elbow through the back window. He was pale and unhealthy looking, with tufts of greasy, fair hair cut short and a sty that had taken up permanent residence in the corner of his eye. His teeth were amazingly uneven and he had lost two of them in a fight ten years ago when he was barely eleven. He had been suspended from school more often than he had been in it and he too had been served with an arrest warrant. He appeared frequently on the lists passed between the police and social workers. He lived with his single mother, who drank, and a mongrel dog that limped around the wreck of the garden and cowered when Harry came home.
He had chosen Jason Steel to be his own right-hand manâsomething that had made Jason enormously proud, particularly as he was only fifteen and, despite his best efforts, still had no police record. As soon as Harry took him under his wing, Jason promptly gave up attending school, something his teachers couldnât understand because, despite appearances, he was actually fairly bright. Those appearances included a shaven head, hostile eyes and nicotine-stained fingers. Jason was scrawny and small for his age, hollowed out by the life he had chosen. He didnât sleep enough, eat enough or look after his personal hygiene in any meaningful way. He was just happy to be with Harry. That was his tragedy. He couldnât see how pathetic that made him.
The two of them spent their days doing very little. They seldom got up before ten or eleven oâclock in the morning. Once they were up, they ate large, unhealthy breakfasts and were outside the Kingâs Arms by one. Here they would meet up with Den, Frankie, Jo-Jo, PK and Ashleyâthe other members of the gang. Of course, the barman wasnât supposed to serve them drinks. But Harry Faulkner was old enough to buy alcohol and the rest of them looked it, so why argue? Keep the boys happy and your windows might stay unbroken. That was the philosophy around here.
In the afternoon, the six of them might go shopping in Ipswich . . . or shoplifting, rather, for they seldom paid. Sometimes Harry and Jason would head off alone. They liked going to the cinema. One of them would buy a ticket and let the other in through the fire door. They took drugs, of course. So far they had stayed off the heavy stuff. Both of them were afraid, although neither of them would have admitted it. But they smoked grass and passed hours in a semiconscious state. For all seven gang members, this wasnât so very different from their normal state. They had found a way of making the day pass without noticing. If they were bored, they didnât know it. And if they knew it, they didnât admit it. They were happy being together. What else did they need?
But Harry and Jason were on their own the day they came upon the BMW.
It was parked just around the corner from the Kingâs Arms, sitting in an empty street as if it had simply dropped out of the sky. What was an expensive car like
Similar Books
