One Way Street

Book 2: Jimmy Mullen Newcastle Crime Thriller

by Trevor Wood

Genres: Noir; Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

A series of bizarre drug-related deaths among runaway teenagers has set the North East's homeless community on edge. Jimmy Mullen, a homeless, PTSD-suffering veteran, is attempting to rebuild his life. As his probation officer constantly reminds him, all he needs to do is keep out of trouble. But then one of Jimmy's friends asks for help. Someone this friend was close to but has lost touch with is found dead in a dumpster, yet another victim of Newcastle's drug culture. Jimmy knows he shouldn't get involved, but loyalty compels him to try to find out what's really going on. Sadly for him, trouble just seems to have a habit of tracking Jimmy down.

Release date: October 29, 2020

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

1

December 2012

The giant metal monsters were closing in on him. The kid was screwed. He couldn’t feel his hands and his body temperature was all over the place, one minute freezing, the next sweating his cobs off. But all of that was nothing compared to his certain knowledge that any second now he was going to be stamped to death by a Transformer. The bastard things were everywhere.

A sudden wave of nausea swept over him and he crouched down, trying not to vom. A couple of minutes ago he’d been starving, desperately searching for food, now he wanted to get rid of the little he’d eaten. He cursed the day she’d tempted him with that spice shit – had sworn it was ‘what he really, really wanted’, laughing as she did. He had no idea why. He giggled, putting his hand over his mouth to cut the sound off. If they found him he was a dead man.

He waited for several minutes until he felt a little better, his head clearer, his stomach less likely to empty its contents on the ragged concrete, then glanced around. It was getting dark now and he had trouble adjusting. His eyes flicked from one thing to another, never focused on anything for long enough to recognise it until he looked up and a vague sense of reality kicked in. Gutted cars were piled high, towering over him, empty shells, waiting for the crusher. Not Transformers then. Just a scrapyard. Thank fuck for that.

One of the few things he knew anything about was cars – he’d nicked enough of them – and he recognised the bare bones of some classics, even a newish-looking Range Rover. His mum used to say that everything was disposable ‘these days’ – turned out she was right. He just wished the list didn’t include him. Wanting to take a better look he stood up too quickly and immediately felt sick again, ducking straight back down behind the shell of an old BMW, trying to get his breath under control, to stop his heart racing. It wasn’t easy, not with them still after him, their knives ready to carve him open. If he listened carefully he could hear them whispering.

Come on, son, come with us, we’ll look after you. We’re your friends, we’ll keep you safe . . .

A dog barked in the distance. A guard dog? He hoped not, though he was good with dogs, wasn’t he? His dad used to have a dog. No, not his dad, he’d never known him. Someone else then. Couldn’t remember who. His friend? He flinched as he heard footsteps somewhere close by but then there was nothing until a creak of metal made him look up. One of the higher cars seemed to sway in the wind. He followed it with his eyes, then the rest of his body, until a flickering beam of light caught his attention.

The kid tried to focus on where the light was coming from but was overcome with another wave of nausea and had to put his head between his knees. When he glanced up again the light was gone. A passing car? He listened for the sound of an engine but all he could hear was a far-off chorus of ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’ which he ­quietly sang along with until he ran out of words. Something about glad tidings? Whatever they were he was pretty sure he’d never got any.

The light hadn’t come back so he tried to move on, grabbing at the wing mirror of the car to pull himself up but failing miserably, unable to grip it with his fingers, unsure whether the numbness was from the freezing cold weather or the drugs. Bit of both, probably. Somehow, eventually, he scrambled to his feet and looked around. No sign of anyone. All quiet now. He had to get a grip, find somewhere to crash for the night. Sleep it off.

He ran to a small Portakabin on the other side of the scrapyard. The door had a big flash bastard lock on it and the windows were boarded over, solid wood as well, none of your flimsy chipboard shite. Whoever owned this place wasn’t taking any chances. The kid was pretty good at breaking into places – again, he’d had plenty of experience – but this looked tough. He fumbled in his pocket for his picks but his fingers were so numb he couldn’t even pull them out. He gave up.

You always give up too easily.

The voices were back.

Something flew past his head – not a bird though, a bat maybe? He shivered and pulled his parka around him. The zip was busted and the hood long gone but it was usually enough to keep the chill off. Not tonight though. The cold had finally beaten off the sweats. He knew that if he stayed there he would die – one way or another. He had to find somewhere warmer and safe, somewhere they couldn’t find him.

More noises behind him, a shout, something banging repeatedly – the gate to the yard? He’d climbed over it but they must have had a key. They could get in anywhere. He scooted behind a huge pile of old tyres, an unlit bonfire waiting to cast its stinking fumes over the neighbourhood. The place was toxic enough but that would really mess it up.

Light the fire. Burn the place to the ground.

That voice again. He resisted, not sure if it was his voice or someone else’s, someone trying to trick him. Listening to it had got him into trouble before, a lot of trouble.

Behind the tyres was a large industrial waste bin, next to the fence, a chance to escape. He clambered onto the bin and looked up. Only six feet or so to go, not a problem for a monkey like him. Not so the razor wire that ran along the top from corner to corner. No chance of getting over it without being cut to ribbons.

The kid jumped down again. The voices were much closer now, their whispered promises filling his head. Something else too. Definitely footsteps this time. Loud and clear. He had to hide and he had to hide now. He pushed open the lid of the bin and pulled himself up. He couldn’t see to the bottom but the smell was rank and he could hear something scuttling around inside.

A beam of light shot up the fence about twenty yards to his right. He took a deep breath and threw himself into the bin, the lid slamming closed behind him.

2

‘I’ve done some terrible things.’

Jimmy had been coming to the veterans’ therapy group for several months and it was only the second time he’d spoken. The first time he’d talked about his time in the navy, seeing his best friend burnt to death; how it had taken him a long time to understand that it had affected him. ‘Denial’ they called it, but he hated those sort of cheap throwaway words, like ‘closure’ and ‘acceptance’ – meaningless words, coined by pen-pushers. They should come to this group, those people, they might learn a thing or two. Not that they’d let the wankers in.

He’d heard all their stories now, some of them two or three times over, and they were all different. And they’d all reacted differently. The young kid from Gateshead who’d seen his comrades blown up right in front of him, the older guy who’d been tortured by the Taliban in Afghanistan, the army doctor who’d had to amputate legs and arms in a field hospital. Some of them had ended up in prison, like him. Some of them had screwed up their marriages, like him. The lucky ones had done nothing wrong, well, nothing quite as bad as he had. All of them, though, were broken in some way, many of them living on the streets.

‘I used to be a bit handy, with my fists like, got into a few scraps that I shouldn’t have, couldn’t stop myself. One of them was with an off-duty copper and I ended up in prison.’

He looked around the bare room; a dozen or so faces stared back at him. A couple of the younger lads seemed impressed. He soon put them right.

‘It’s nothing to be proud of. I was young and stupid and it cost me everything. If I’d just walked away, minded my own business, I probably wouldn’t be here now. I’d be at home with my wife and daughter. Ex-wife and daughter.’

There was a lot more he could say, a lot worse that he’d done, but he wasn’t quite ready for that. Baby steps.

‘Back then the red mist would come down and I’d lash out, couldn’t seem to stop it. I finally worked out that fire was my trigger. One of my triggers.’

Another of those fucking words – even he was using them now. Jesus. At least these guys wouldn’t judge him for that. They wouldn’t judge him for anything – that was kind of the point of the group. No surnames, no judgement, no leaders. Speak if you wanted, just listen if you didn’t.

‘Anyway, I just wanted to say that this has helped – this group. I’m not cured or anything like that, don’t think I ever will be, but I’ve started to get my head around it. I’m better at keeping out of situations I can’t control. Still have the nightmares, obviously, not so often though – and I’m still jumpy as hell – but I don’t punch so many people. Which is good. And I’ve got a sort-of girlfriend now.’ He smiled. ‘Also good. Thank you.’

Jimmy left the speaking chair to wolf whistles and a shout of ‘give her one for me’ from the youngest kid in the group which brought a laugh from the other lads. Jimmy let it go as the kid reminded him a bit of his friend, Deano, the same cheeky front hiding a shedload of pain. Anyway, him and Julie, it wasn’t like that. Not yet.

 

Jimmy had first noticed her at the Pit Stop. Always a ready smile, which you wouldn’t say about many there. He’d taken the piss a bit by getting her to look after Dog when he couldn’t do it himself. Like the time he’d been shot. To be fair she always sold more Big Issues with Dog in tow so it wasn’t all one way. Things moved on from there.

Eventually she’d invited him round for some food, nothing fancy, just supper, a few bits and pieces, she’d said. Her smile when she opened the door gave him butterflies.

‘Ooh, nice haircut, not one of Gadge’s specials that.’

It was true that he normally got his friend to cut his hair but had upped his game for their dinner date. He’d popped in to the drop-in centre that morning and managed to catch the nice old dear who brought her scissors and razors in once a week, had got her to give him a number 2 cut – a throwback to his old navy days.

‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring you a drink through. Shall I hang your coat up?’ Julie continued.

He could tell she was nervous, talking too quickly, trying a bit too hard – and she still had oven gloves on her hands.

‘Maybe I should do it?’ he said, nodding at her gloves.

She blushed. ‘Course. Right. Calm down, Julie.’

It was a small house in the west end of the city, just a lounge and kitchen downstairs, one bedroom and a bathroom up. Cosy though, and safe, most of the time. She was renting it cheap from a friend; moved there from a self-contained flat in a women-only hostel – a refuge for those fleeing domestic violence which Julie had most definitely been doing. But there was a problem with that – Jimmy wasn’t allowed in. Understandably, there was a strict no-men policy. So, without him knowing, she’d decided to move. The women who ran the place tried hard to dissuade her, as did Jimmy, but she was adamant – she refused to let her ex’s problems stop her moving on. In the end the staff gave up arguing as it freed up a precious space for someone else who maybe needed it more.

Jimmy sat in the kitchen, Dog at his feet, while Julie bustled around, moving things in and out of the oven, chattering away as if silence would bring a sudden end to their budding relationship.

Truth be told, she was a terrible cook. The spag bol didn’t have enough bol, the garlic bread was burnt and the cheesecake was still frozen. But it didn’t matter, he still ate the lot and smiled while he did it.

Afterwards they sat on the sofa with Dog in between them and watched Marley and Me on the telly, which was great until the dog died at the end.

‘Oh no,’ Julie said, her eyes tearing up, ‘I didn’t expect that. I hope it wasn’t too traumatic.’

‘It’s OK,’ Jimmy said, ‘I don’t think Dog was watching.’

Dog snored loudly to prove his point. They both laughed but then sat silently, neither seeming to know how to move things on.

‘I should probably get going,’ Jimmy said, eventually.

‘Oh,’ Julie said. ‘I thought . . . I thought you might stay over.’

Jimmy stared at the floor for a moment. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it but it had been so long since he’d been in that situation that even thinking about it frightened the shit out of him.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Jimmy said.

‘I know I don’t have to,’ she said, putting her hand on his, ‘but I want to. It’s not like you’ve got a home to go to.’

She was right. He’d been given a room in a halfway hostel but in no way was it a home. More like a kind of purgatory, to help ex-cons settle down into civilian life. Sandy, his probation officer, had sorted it out for him in an attempt to keep him off the streets and out of more trouble. He’d resisted at first – he hated feeling confined and liked owing people even less – but she was persistent and in the end he’d folded. Sandy gave him a lot of leeway and if that was the price of keeping her onside then it was worth paying. It was all right – especially now the icy winter had kicked in – as long as you didn’t mind the dealers or the screaming that went on half the night. Some of it from Jimmy’s room.

He turned to look at her, saw the need in her eyes.

‘OK,’ he said.

They’d undressed in the dark, still shy with each other, and then talked for hours until they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, both too tentative – and maybe too damaged – to take things any further. Jimmy’d woken them both up with his shouting, covered in sweat, no idea what the nightmare had been about. He’d spent the rest of the night on the sofa with Dog, wondering if he’d blown his chances. He should have known she was better than that.

3

BANG!

Jimmy flinched. Couldn’t help himself. It was only a Christmas cracker but Jesus, they might have warned him. It was right by his ear and really loud. Gadge – who was sat at the head of the table in a scruffy Santa suit – reckoned they used gunpowder to make them bang but that was probably bollocks. You never really knew with Gadge’s stories. Jimmy was a lot better with loud noises than he used to be but not when they crept up on him unannounced, like this one. He turned and glared at the two old men sitting behind him but the partners-in-crime were several cheap rums past caring, already scrapping over the plastic toy and the flimsy paper hat.

The Pit Stop was rammed. It always was on Christmas Day. The volunteers came out in force in snazzy red-and-white jumpers and paper hats, smiling for all they were worth. Good people. The customers were less colourful, swaddled in dark winter clothes, scarves and fingerless gloves, few of which had been freshly unwrapped that morning. Good people too, mainly, whatever they might look, and in some cases, smell like. Not everyone used the showers they provided there.

Thankfully the aroma of Christmas dinner overwhelmed any others, filling the dining hall with the festive combin­ation of meat and fruit, turkey and cranberry sauce, roast pork and mulled wine – non-alcoholic obviously, the Pit Stop didn’t allow real alcohol on the premises, not that it had stopped some of the guests loading up before they arrived.

Jimmy’s plate was still half full, a couple of slices of turkey, some roasties and a handful of Brussels sprouts just sitting there. Nothing wrong with the food, the women behind the counter made sure of that, he was just distracted. Opposite him, Julie had finished every bite and had started, almost immediately, on the pudding, a sliver of custard running down her chin.

She caught him staring at her. She did that a lot.

‘What?’ she said.

He nodded at her chin and she reached up, wiping the bright yellow goo away with her fingers then licking them clean, not wanting to miss a drop. He pulled a face and she gave him the finger.

‘Waste not, want not,’ she said, eyeing what was left of his food. ‘You not eating that?’

Jimmy had no idea how she stayed so thin. She ate like a horse. Nervous energy, he guessed. She never sat still. He looked down at his plate, surprised there was so much left. He’d been enjoying it until he remembered the empty space beside him.

Julie saw him glance to one side.

‘He’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Probably sleeping it off somewhere.’

Maybe, Jimmy thought, but he’d never known the lad miss a free meal, especially one like this. Despite everything that had happened to him in the past, Deano was still a big kid at heart and big kids loved Christmas dinner. And that wasn’t all. Deano had been banging on for weeks about the ‘mint’ presents he’d got for Jimmy and Dog, driving Jimmy mad with his little hints, desperate to give the game away and knowing that Jimmy would be honour-bound to get him something even minter. They were supposed to be exchanging gifts after dinner but it looked like that wouldn’t be happening now.

Julie picked up a cracker and held it out to Jimmy.

‘I’ll fight you for the rest of it,’ she said, nodding at his half-full plate.

‘Long time since you pulled a cracker, I’ll bet,’ one of the volunteers said as she cleared away Julie’s empty pudding bowl.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Julie laughed, her eyes twinkling at Jimmy.

Normally Jimmy would have played along but he wasn’t in the mood. He reached out and tugged half-heartedly on his end of the cracker, giving up the rest of his food without a fight. He’d lost his appetite. The bang was desultory in comparison to the earlier one, a soft pfft that captured how he was feeling. Julie grabbed the plate, dropping one of the spuds on the floor for Dog, and picked up the joke that had fallen out onto the table.

‘How does Santa like his pizza?’ she asked.

Jimmy shook his head. ‘No idea.’

‘Deep pan, crisp and even.’

He faked a smile. Before they’d come to the Pit Stop Jimmy had been thinking about his daughter Kate, no doubt enjoying Christmas dinner with all the trimmings at Bev’s, her stepdad holding court with his expensive wine and free-range, hand-reared, eco-fucking-friendly turkey. He’d wondered if she would think about him at all, whether she’d liked the present he’d bought her which would probably pale in comparison to the lavish stuff she’d have been presented with there. But those were minor niggles, something he knew he could sort out in time. His new problem was much more urgent.

‘Any news?’

Jimmy looked up. Gadge stood there in his ill-fitting red suit, a worried frown on his face, the polar opposite of the cheery Santa he was supposed to be portraying. They were clearly both thinking the same thing.

Where the fuck was Deano?

4

The allotment that ran alongside the Ouseburn was nearly always empty once it got dark. Occasionally there was someone sitting in a shed listening to the radio, or even strumming on a guitar, but not tonight. Jimmy imagined the post-Christmas lull keeping them all stuck on their sofas, glued to the TV specials, desperately trying to finish off the mountains of food in the fridge before it went to waste.

He still trod carefully though – he’d once disturbed a couple of dodgy kids there and been smashed to the ground as they ran for the fence. A few minutes later and he’d probably have been trying to put out a shed fire. He’d found a small tin of paraffin on the ground behind the bin, where they’d been hiding.

He was on his own tonight though. Gadge had offered to come with him but, even though Newcastle was a small city, it made more sense for them to split up so they could cover more ground in their search for Deano. The kid had been missing for a week now and that had never happened before. Even when he was off his face he always managed to get himself to the Pit Stop or one of their mobile vans for food, and no one had seen him at either of those.

Gadge had headed down to Byker Bridge, the arches underneath it were one of Deano’s regular sleep-spots. The kid didn’t seem to be bothered that one of their own had been set on fire there a few months earlier – maybe because he didn’t expect to live to see thirty anyway so had nothing much to lose.

They’d done the same search every night but Deano liked to move around a lot so it was worth repeating it at random intervals. It was the same during the day; they’d checked most of the libraries in the city – although the kid couldn’t read he liked the warmth and some of them even let you have a kip there if you weren’t disturbing anyone. No luck there though either.

Julie said she reckoned that Jimmy must have another woman, the amount of time he was spending away from her. She was joking, obviously, she knew how worried he was and how the kid had helped him in the past when he’d needed him. They had each other’s backs. As Gadge liked to say, they were the three street musketeers, looking out for each other – all for one and one for all.

Most of the sheds on the allotments were locked – the kids Jimmy had disturbed weren’t a one-off, there was a lot of vandalism on the site so the gardeners were cautious. There was one, though, that never was. Gadge had discovered it first but all three of them had used it at one time or another. The owner knew what was going on but didn’t mind, and even looked after them in some ways. One time a pillow and a blanket appeared there and since then they’d both been regularly refreshed. Sometimes there was even a small plate of biscuits left on the side.

He glanced around, almost there now, still no sign of any occupants other than a couple of stray cats. In the background, behind the allotment, he could see the ­tower­ing heaps of metal in the nearby scrapyard, casting weird shadows in the moonlight, the same light that was helping him keep to the paths so as not to disturb the gardeners’ hard work. He didn’t mind picking off the odd strawberry in the summer – or even a tomato if the greenhouses were open – but it was a nice place to rest if you were on the streets so he tried not to piss people off by wandering aimlessly through their plots. Some of the other allotments had started using night-watchmen and he didn’t want that.

The shed was at the far end of the site, out of the way of the vandals who generally picked a target nearer the bit of broken fence at the road end that was the easiest way in.

As he approached he could see there was still no padlock on the door, unlike most of the others, though there was a keyhole so it wasn’t necessarily unlocked. No light on inside but that didn’t mean anything – Deano could be sleeping in there, he was still young so had no problem sleeping anywhere, unlike Jimmy, who had learned to survive on about four hours a night. He tried the door, unlocked, as he’d hoped. Pitch dark inside but no sound of snoring. He found the battery-powered lamp that the owner always left on a shelf just inside the door and turned it on. Empty.

5

Police stations still freaked Jimmy out. Every time he walked into one he wanted to turn around and walk straight back out. A surge of anxiety even though he’d done nothing wrong. Not this time anyway. The smell didn’t help – a mix of sweat, vomit and disinfectant – but it wasn’t that. It was the past creeping up on him: the beating he’d got way back, after that fight with the cop, then, years later, being arrested for a crime he didn’t commit. The beating was bad – a vicious kicking in a back room – four against one. The arrest was worse though, fresher in his mind; a stitch-up that nearly sent him back to prison for life.

But he had no choice this time. He needed help. Deano was still missing. The civilian desk jockey grimaced as Jimmy made his way to the counter.

‘There’s no beds here, pal, doesn’t matter what you’ve done.’

‘What?’ Jimmy said.

‘You’re the third one tonight. I don’t care if you’ve murdered the Queen, you can’t sleep here, it’s not a doss-house.’

‘I don’t want a bed. I want to see DS Burns.’

The man did his best to hide his surprise though his best wasn’t very good. A small smirk crept onto his face.

‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s personal.’

‘Is that right? You a relation?’

‘Yeah, I’m his mother.’

The smirk disappeared as quickly as it had come.

‘Don’t piss me about, sunshine, on your bike. DS Burns is a busy man. He’s not working this late for nothing.’

‘I’d call him if I were you.’

‘Would you now?’

A stand-off. Jimmy didn’t feel it was necessary to expand. He’d said his bit. The fact that he’d dragged Burns out of a burning building a few months back was nothing to do with the prick standing in front of him. Probably wouldn’t believe him anyway. He felt his own smirk appearing, as he imagined the bollocking the desk jockey would get if he messed him around too much. He just watched and waited, seeing the man’s cockiness start to fade until he shrugged and picked up the phone.

‘Who shall I say wants him?’

‘Jimmy.’

‘Jimmy what?’

‘Just Jimmy.’

The desk guy looked like he was going to say something else but then thought better of it and made the call.

 

Andy Burns shook Jimmy’s hand warmly.

‘Good to see you,’ he said. ‘How’s it going? Keeping out of trouble, I hope.’

The desk guy looked like he’d swallowed his tongue and suddenly seemed far more interested in the clipboard on the counter in front of him.

‘Doing my best to,’ Jimmy said.

‘Good to hear. Come on up to the office, everyone else is out, we can talk there.’

Jimmy followed Burns back through the door – giving the desk jockey a wink as he left. Despite fronting up to the man he didn’t really blame him for his attitude – even Jimmy found it hard to believe that he had become friends with a copper, especially one he’d once thought was trying to stitch him up for murder.

‘What can I do for you?’ Burns said, once they’d sat down at his desk.

‘One of my friends has disappeared. I’m worried about him.’

‘Name?’

‘Deano.’

‘Is that it?’

Jimmy nodded.

‘I suppose it’s a start. How long’s he been missing?’

Jimmy explained that he’d seen Deano just before Christmas Eve. That the kid had banged on about how much he was looking forward to Christmas lunch at the Pit Stop but had been a no-show and hadn’t been seen since.

‘Me and Gadge’ve been to all his usual haunts, the Pit Stop, the library, underneath Byker Bridge. I even checked the allotment sheds, down by the scrapyard. Nobody’s seen him.’

‘I’ll need a description,’ Burns said, picking up a pen and opening up a pad on his desk.

Jimmy did his best. Deano was skinny as a rake and could have passed for anything between eighteen and twenty-five – he’d never asked his real age, knew the kid didn’t like to talk about himself. He’d got most of what he knew from Gadge but it wasn’t much. Deano’d been on the streets for several years, at least a couple before Jimmy had met him, and God knows how much that had aged him. He was a local lad, that much was obvious from the broad Geordie accent, but Jimmy had no idea which bit of the. . .