Blood Sisters: Can a pledge made for life endure beyond death?. Julie Shaw

She could smell the night air on him. See the tension in his shoulders. Perhaps she’d misread things. Perhaps his business, whatever it was, had been more complicated than he’d thought, and he was stressed. And the last thing he needed was a needy, jealous girlfriend.

      Chastened, she reached out a hand and touched his back. ‘I’m sorry, babes,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve just been worried about you, that’s all. Wondering if you’re okay …’

      ‘Yes, I’m okay,’ he replied shortly, his back to her, a wall. Then he stood and stamped his feet out of his trousers.

      ‘Come to bed then,’ she said, pulling the covers back on his side. ‘I kept it warm for you, like you wanted …’ She let the sentence hang.

      Paddy crossed arms and peeled his jumper over his head, his shoulder blades moving sinuously under his skin. Then he turned around and, for the first time, he smiled. Vicky felt the anxiety drain out of her in a welcome rush, all thought of where he’d been, and what the hell he’d been up to, gladly extinguished by the loving glint in his eyes.

      ‘Oh, go on, then,’ he said, slipping into bed beside her.

      It felt as if she’d only just gone to sleep when she first heard the commotion. And, at first, it was simply a part of her dream; a logical extension of the jumble of images and sounds that, on waking, she clung onto, confused.

      But it was real. It was coming from downstairs and getting louder. Shouting – Paddy’s mum? – followed by a sound she recognised; that of many boots, running heavily up the stairs.

      And then a shard of white light, which quickly became a blaze, which made her eyes, barely open yet, shut again by themselves. So she was still squinting, shielding her eyes against the sudden glare, when the silhouettes in the doorway finally resolved themselves. Coppers. She counted them – one, two, three, four of them. Then she started. The first of them was Jimmy’s dad.

      Mrs Allen was right behind them, in a short jersey nightie, attempting to push her way into the room. ‘I want to see the frigging warrant!’ she was yelling at them. Mr Allen was there too, trying to hold her back.

      Paddy sat up then, naked and confused. Then rubbed his eyes, flung the covers off and leapt out of bed, seemingly not remotely bothered that his mum was in the room and he was showing all he’d got. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he demanded, now face to face with DI Daley. ‘Has that fucking pussy son of yours reported me for giving him a fucking slap?’

      Of the three other coppers, Vicky belatedly noticed, one was a female. Mid-twenties, Vickie estimated, slim and smirking. ‘Patrick Allen, we’re arresting you for taking a vehicle without consent and related crimes,’ she monotoned at him. ‘You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say, can and will be …’

      ‘Save it, bitch,’ Paddy replied, cutting her off. He glanced across and grinned at Vicky, then started to swing his bits in the female officer’s direction as he made a show of bending down to pick up his trousers. ‘Mother,’ he said, still bent over, ‘you might want to go wait downstairs. Because the way this one is looking at my dick, I think she might want to do a body search.’

      Vicky cringed. Why was he so intent on making everything bloody worse? ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’ she demanded of Jimmy’s dad. ‘Tell us! You can’t just barge in here like this!’

      ‘I’d shut it, love,’ the female officer warned. ‘Or you’ll be the next one to be arrested. I’m sure lover boy here will put you in the picture. If he ever makes bail,’ she added dryly.

      ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, babe,’ Paddy reassured Vicky, as, dressed now, after a fashion, he allowed himself to be led roughly out of the room. She scrabbled to free herself of the covers, not even caring that she was wearing little more than nothing. Though thank God she’d at least put on Paddy’s T-shirt to nip out earlier and use the loo.

      She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, and he turned around, his eyes almost black in the shadow. ‘Don’t you worry about me, babe,’ he reassured her. ‘You just get yourself some kip while I give these tossers some grief down the nick.’

      ‘Shut it, Allen,’ Jimmy’s dad said. They were the first words he’d spoken. And the way he spoke them chilled Vicky to the bone.

      It had taken less than five minutes. Couldn’t be more. Probably less. Vicky stood on the bright landing, her bare legs sprouting goosebumps. Listening to Paddy’s mam yelling at DI Daley’s retreating back all the way down the stairs.

       Chapter 7

      Gurdy had heard about Paddy being arrested. Who hadn’t? It had been all over – pretty much the only topic of conversation outside the Percy when he’d arrived there at just after twelve. News travelled fast in Bradford – and in this case at warp speed; it was Jimmy who’d told Gurdy first, perhaps unsurprisingly, phoning him to pass on the news almost as soon as he’d got up. Then, on his walk to the lock-up on Manningham Lane (where he’d planned to sell off some of the dope Paddy had given him) he must have been told by another half dozen others.

      But it was at the Perseverance, or the Percy, as it was known to the locals, that the person who had most need to catch up with him found him. Namely, his boss and nemesis, Rasta Mo.

      As always seemed to be the case, Mo had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, like a superhero in a blockbuster movie. Though hero he wasn’t. Unless you liked your heroes to be dreadlocked, and in cahoots with the devil.

      Gurdy could smell how expensive Mo’s leather jacket was as he approached. ‘The boy Paddy,’ he said to Gurdy, having ambled up alongside him, ‘he’s been lifted,’ he said, ‘as you probably know.’

      He poked Gurdy then, hard, in the shoulder, with his finger. ‘And you’re his boy, so now you have work to do, got it? You have a set of keys to my lock-up, yes?’

      Gurdy nodded nervously. He was absolutely shitting himself, not to mention being painfully aware that the punters in the Percy, now milling outside with their drinks in the summer sunshine, were all witnessing his discomfort. He wasn’t daft. He knew everyone knew what the score was. In this pub, in Arthur’s Bar, and even the Mayflower – the curry shop on the corner – they all knew he’d become a running boy for Paddy, which ultimately meant he was owned by Mo.

      Mo flashed his famous grin, displaying his set of immaculate white teeth, and shook the dreadlocks that framed his fearsome face. ‘Good boy,’ he said, clapping Gurdy on the back now, like they were mates. ‘The pigs will be sniffing around now, obviously, so you need to do a clean-up, you understand? A proper clean-up. The boy won’t squeal,’ he added, ‘but, you know, just in case.’

      Gurdy didn’t think Paddy would ‘squeal’ either. Given a straight choice, between the rule of the law and the wrath of Mo, he imagined he wouldn’t squeal either. ‘The cars too?’ he asked, not yet sure what Paddy had been arrested for exactly. Drugs presumably. The precise details hadn’t yet filtered through; Jimmy had been that elated when he’d phoned earlier to share the news that he’d neglected to mention what the arrest had actually been for. He felt the weakness in his sphincter increase. Would he be next?

      Rasta Mo looked at Gurdy like he was mad. ‘Yes, the cars, man! Of course the cars! That’s why he’s been lifted. You need to hide the plates, the obvious tools, all the papers, everything. Just leave it set up like a tyre yard until they’ve done with us, okay?’ He flashed another smile, gazing around at his audience. ‘Don’t fret, boy, the other business will go on as usual.’ He lowered his voice, though for the life of him, Gurdy didn’t know why. Did anyone not know who Mo was? What he did? ‘But tonight you’ll meet with either me or Irish Pete to collect your gear. Outside Arthur’s, seven o’clock. Don’t be late.’

      Mo then turned and walked away, without another word or even gesture, and, out of nowhere, a black BMW pulled