Brett Rawcliffe, ‘Razor’ to his friends because they thought he was sharp as a tack. He was sixteen years old but he’d already built a rapidly expanding drugs empire specialising in supplying his schoolmates and associates. It was one day away from being Christmas Eve and he was sat in a city centre pub with his trusted side-kick, Stevie. The Chrimbo CD compilation was just starting its third play through and the office parties were starting to trickle into the pub. Stevie normally knew no fear, but he averted his eyes when he saw local hard-man, John ‘Mad Dog’ Maddison making his way across the pub. There comes a time when it’s wise to be careful.
‘Now then, lads’ said Mad Dog, taking a seat.
‘Alright’ Razor mumbled back.
‘I hear you two are doing well for yourselves. I mean, just look at those trackies you’re wearing. Top gear.’ Mad Dog burst into manic laughter and lent over the table to squeeze their shoulders.
‘I hear you’re doing very well.’
They weren’t sure how they were supposed to respond, but Mad Dog’s reputation preceded him, so they decided the best course of action was to simply nod and play it safe.
‘But we can always do a bit better, can’t we lads?’ he continued.
Razor nodded. ‘Oh aye. Do a bit better.’
‘That’s good to hear. I like ambition. I like to help out the up and coming local talent. More than enough work to go round in this city, isn’t there?’
‘Oh aye, Mr. Maddison.’
‘Lads, please, there’s no need for such formality. Call me Dog, ok.’
‘Aye, ok...Dog.’
‘In that case, I’ve got something for you. You know this continental market they’ve got happening at the moment?’
Razor nodded. The continental market was in Hull for the Christmas season and stretched half way down King Edward Street, bringing a taste of Europe to the city with its stalls offering festive fare.
‘I have a contact, on the continent like, called Jurgen. He’s a baker, does all those fancy bread sticks they sell.’
Razor was confused. A baker? He didn’t want to know about Mad Dog’s friends. It was safer that way.
‘He’s not just a baker though, is he lads?’ They both shook their heads, as if they understood what he was telling them.
‘No. He uses these continental markets as a front. He’s really bringing in a load of drugs hidden amongst the ingredients. He’s a major player abroad, but he’s bringing in more than I can use, so I need some reliable partners to help me out. I need to buy a minimum amount from him, or he won’t sell anything to me. Look, I’ve been keeping an eye on your gang and I reckon I could cut you in on this, if you’re interested?’
They looked at each other. ‘Oh aye, we’re interested’ said Razor.
Mad Dog rubbed his hands together. ‘Excellent, lads. I knew you’d be the kind who’d see the potential of this rare business opportunity. After all, you’re budding entrepreneurs, aren’t you?’
‘Aye. That’s us.’
‘Good. What I need from you then is two grand by five o’clock tonight. That two grand will get you enough stuff to at least triple your money.’
They looked at each other and tried to keep the growing fear and excitement off their faces.
‘Not a problem, erm…Dog.’
Two thousand, Razor thought. He knew ways of getting that kind of money.
‘Right, let’s go for a walk and I’ll explain what you need to do.’
Mad Dog and his two young associates made their way out of the pub and towards the market. Snow was starting to fall and the temperature was dropping rapidly. The city centre was at its busiest, with shoppers moving from shop to shop, like ants laden with carrier bags full of presents.
‘Waste of money, eh lads’ said Mad Dog.
‘What’s that, then?’
‘The screen’ he said, pointing upwards. The Big Screen was massive, dwarfing the city’s tired looking Christmas tree. The screen was dressed up for Christmas with an oversized wooden advent calendar neatly placed between its supporting pillars. Traditionally, the city received the gift of a tree from Norway, but presumably the Norwegians had felt it necessary to cut their expenditure this year. The party moved on down the street. Razor and Stevie looked on with astonishment at the variety of unusual sausages and cheeses on display, amazed that people actually ate them.
‘Here we are, lads.’ They moved away from the stalls and lent back onto the window of a near-by shop.
‘That’s Jurgen over there. See him?’ Jurgen looked slightly older than Mad Dog, more muscular with closely cropped hair. They could see the tattoos on his hands and face from where they were stood.
‘Right.’ Razor and Stevie exchanged glances; Jurgen was clearly hard as nails.
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He must be setting up or something’ said Mad Dog. Jurgen was stood next to the stall, rummaging about in a couple of large sports bags. ‘He has staff to serve the customers, you see. He’s probably setting up a banner for the stall.’
Razor rubbed his hands together. It was freezing.
‘The most important thing though, lads,’ continued Mad Dog, ‘is that you don’t approach him without my permission. He won’t take risks. He’ll only talk to me. Put yourselves in his position. You just can’t take the risk, can you? Beside, he don’t speak much English, so you’d be wasting your time anyway.’
‘Aye. Fair enough.’
‘Right. So, the two grand, then. By five o’clock today, yeah? When you’ve got it, send me a text message. Then we’ll discuss how you pass the money over.
‘Can’t we just give you the money, like?’
‘Afraid not. You’ll have to see Jurgen, as he likes to know who he’s dealing with, face-to-face. If you do the business, he might want to put more work your way.’
Razor felt a pang of terror at the thought of having to deal directly with Jurgen, but if he wanted to make serious money, he knew what he had to do. Mad Dog gave them his number and left.
‘No problem’ Razor said. They watched Jurgen for a short while before pushing their way towards the end of the market. They had work to do.
Being top dog in the gang meant that Razor had an image to maintain. To start with, he needed a car. He drove around Hull in a beat up old Ford Fiesta XR2, but seeing as neither he nor any of the gang was legally old enough to be driving, it was a babe magnet. The other drain on his resources was his girlfriend, Chelsea.She was sixteen and all the boys wanted her. The price to pay was indulging her taste for designer clothes and handbags. Razor had counted the stash of money he kept hidden under his mattress and called in all his debts, but he was still short of the stake money. He revved the engine of his car; he wouldn’t have to wait long. He checked his mobile for new messages and texts. The door of his car flew open and Stevie jumped back in. Razor hit the accelerator as Stevie removed his mask.
‘How much?’ asked Razor.
‘Give us a fucking chance.’
Razor hammered the car out of the forecourt and back onto the main road.
‘Easy?’
‘Too easy. She handed the money over straight away.’
Stevie started counting the notes in the carrier bag he had ordered the sales assistant to empty the till into.
‘We’ve easy got what we need.’
Razor laughed, as they drove away to safety. He threw his mobile to Stevie and told him to send Mad Dog a message, telling him they’d got the stake money.
The boys walked back into the pub they’d left earlier in the day, tired but happy with their work. The pub was jumping as more and more office workers crammed in to celebrate their last day of work before Christmas. Some of them even looked as if they were enjoying themselves. They scanned the room for Mad Dog and found him tucked away in a corner, holding court with some associates. As they approached, Mad Dog loudly dismissed his audience, explaining that he needed a word with his boys.
‘Now then, lads. You’ve done great today, I’m really proud of the pair of you.’
Razor hoped that he managed to hide the pride he felt. He opened the carrier bag and showed him the money.
‘Right. What you need to do is this.’ He beckoned them in closer. ‘You need to go and see
Jurgen and hand him the money over in a rucksack. Have you got a rucksack?’
They both shook their heads.
Mad Dog produced one from underneath the table and laughed. ‘Here you go; an essential tool of the trade. Put the money in it and take it Jurgen. And then you say the magic words and hand it over, ok?’
They both nodded, neither of them wanting to be the first to ask for the magic words in case it was knowledge they were assumed to already have.
‘The magic words are – Merry Christmas, here is a present. Ok?’
They both nodded again, relieved that it wasn’t too hard to remember.
‘When you’ve done that, give it an hour and then come back here. I’ll have the gear for you.’
Razor and Stevie pulled their tracksuit zips up as far as they could, and pulling their baseball caps down, set off back across Queen Victoria Square in the direction of the market. The fairground rides that dominated the square throughout the day were winding down as the night started to draw in. They performed a quick security circuit of the market, so that they were satisfied the police weren’t watching Jurgen. They spotted him in the same place as before, only this time he was drinking a cappuccino. It was time to act. As leader of the gang, Razor felt that the task of handing the money over rested solely on his shoulders. As the snow started falling more violently, he braced himself for the task ahead, and checking the rucksack, he walked across to Jurgen. For a few seconds, he felt scared. Close up, Jurgen looked even meaner, the tattoos all the more vivid and intimidating. Razor watched as Jurgen wiped the snow from his face and spat onto the pavement.
Razor swallowed and held out the rucksack. ‘Merry Christmas, here is a present.’
Jurgen accepted the bag and gave him a curt nod. Razor swiftly turned around and left. He nodded to Stevie and they headed for the bookmakers to while away a slow hour.
By the time the boys returned to the pub, the snow was starting to lay on the pavement. Groups of drinkers staggered past singing out of tune Christmas carols, the last few shoppers returning to their homes. They deftly moved around the pub, avoiding the groups loudly talking and laughing over the same loop of Christmas music. Razor couldn’t see Mad Dog, so he pushed his way towards the bar.’
‘Oi, Terry. You seen Mad Dog?’ he shouted to Terry, the barman.
‘He’s been in here most of the day.’
‘Yeah, but have you seen him recently, like?’
Terry shook his head. ‘Not for an hour or so. You looking for him, then?’
‘We’ve got some business to sort out.’ He lent in closer to Terry. ‘We’re doing a deal with a contact of his, Jurgen.’
‘Jurgen?’
‘Yeah. Foreign bloke, don’t speak much English. He’s over here pretending to work on that fancy market, but he’s really big-time in Europe.’
Terry placed the last pint of lager onto the tray and pocketed the customer’s change, figuring the guy was too drunk to notice. ‘What’s he look like, this Jurgen?’
‘Hard as nails, mate, hard as nails. Quite small, but you can tell that he works out. Tattoos all over his hands and face, like.’
Terry burst out laughing. ‘Jurgen? That’s Mad Dog’s brother, Jason. He’s just out from a five stretch. They were in here earlier having a drink. Big time in Europe? Somebody’s been having you on, mate.’
Razor stared at Terry, barely able to take the information in.
‘Still, it’s not all bad. Mad Dog left this for you. He’d said you’d be in about now.’ Terry passed him an envelope from behind the bar, before making his way over to the other end of the bar, another office party to serve.
Razor opened the envelope, and after removing the five pound note it contained, he read the message from Mad Dog – ‘Merry Christmas, here’s a present.’
(c) Nick Quantrill 2008