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  I felt fuckin’ fantastic now, like ten men. ‘Yeah? What’s his nickname? Weirdo? Ha ha.’

  ‘No, Gaz man, it’s Unsolved Steve.’

  September 1997 – Aged 30

  Weetwood Police Station, North Leeds

  The fat copper sat his huge arse on the crappy aluminium chair and it almost buckled under his eighteen stone of lard.

  The shivering suspect laughed out loud at the wobbling cop and muttered under his breath, ‘Fat cunt.’

  PC Freud wasn’t amused. ‘I’ll give you fat fuck, you fuckin’ smack head bastard…’ He was not amused at all. He leaned across the table and grabbed the young lad by the throat. ‘I fuckin’ hate burglars, you little junkie scum cunt. My old mam got burgled, never got over it she didn’t. You are goin’ down, boy. DOWN!’ He was shouting, embarrassed by the fact that this scum sucker and his own colleague had watched his fat behind nearly breaking the cheap furniture.

  ‘Look, let’s calm down, gents…’ PC Humbert intervened. He wasn’t fat at all, in fact he was very thin indeed – he looked like a smack head himself. ‘We’re getting carried away with ourselves.’

  He looked over at the suspect. He was a young guy, about eighteen years of age, been brought in on a charge of burgling a chemist. He didn’t steal anything. The alarm went off as soon as he got through the window, and he couldn’t get back out. And got caught. They’re not the brightest people smack heads. They wouldn’t be on smack if they were, would they? Paul Ingleby was his name.

  ‘Right, Paul…’ PC Humbert shuffled some papers that were on the desk in front of him.

  ‘You’ve said that you do not want a solicitor present, is that correct?’

  Paul the Scrote rubbed his throat where Freud had grabbed him. ‘If he keeps grabbing me fuckin’ throat pipe, man, I’m sayin’ fuck all.’

  Humbert gave Freud a disapproving glance. ‘That won’t be happening again, Paul. Will it, PC Freud?’ Freud shook his head, grimacing as he did.

  ‘Good…’ Humbert reached his hand over and took Paul’s in his. ‘Right then, Paul, you said that you may have some important information for us, that might make us look at your burglary charge in a more favourable light, so to speak. Is that correct?’

  Paul was a rattling, shaking mess. He didn’t want to go down for burglary, twelve months at least. How would he get his heroin in the shovel, man? Oh yeah, he’d be able to get it sure enough, but he’d have to sell his scrawny arse to afford it. He’d done enough of that bollocks to last him six lifetimes. He’d been used and abused too much over his young life. Fuck that for a game of fuckin’ fairies, he thought. There’s a way out of this situation, a very easy way.

  He took a deep breath and, ‘There’s this guy who lives in Kirkstall, a dealer, a big-time fuckin’ dealer… Can I have a drink of water please?’ His mouth was drying up. Fat Freud grunted and passed over a plastic cup of lukewarm water. ‘Go on, Paul,’ said Freud.

  He gulped his water down like an animal, belched like a pig, and, ‘Like I said, he lives in Kirkstall this guy. He gets deliveries to his flat every Thursday teatime. Without fail. Loadsa stuff, man. Thousands of Es, ounces and ounces of speed and nuff Charlie, man. Seen it wi’ me own eyes I have. Fuckin’ Boots the Chemist he is, man.’

  Fat Freud started to shake his head. ‘Yeah? Big time? Have you bought gear from him yourself?’

  ‘Yeah, course I have…’ Paul went on. ‘He’s a mate, kind of.’

  ‘A mate? Don’t make me laugh. If he’s your mate why the fuck are you grassing him up?’ Fat Freud shook his head again, as though he didn’t agree with grasses.

  Paul wiped the sweat from his brow and half shouted, in the quivering, smack head voice that they all have, ‘I’ll tell you why I’m sticking the cunt in, coz he fuckin’ skanked me that’s why. He sold me some fuckin’ glucose powder instead of Billy. The cunt. Cost me fuckin’ twenty-five quid. Hurt me teeth, man.’

  Freud looked at Paul’s four or five black teeth that he had left and said sarcastically, ‘Ah well, twenty-five quid. He deserves it then, doesn’t he? What do they call him, then? This big-time dealer. What’s his name?’

  Paul put his head into his clammy hands and whispered, ‘Gaz.’ He looked up from his hands and said in a louder voice, ‘Gaz… They call him Fast Gaz.’

  Thursday Teatime – Gaz’s Gaff

  The small radio in the kitchen was playing Tubthumping by Chumbawamba. I sang along as I chopped the spuds into chips.

  Katie walked in and pulled a fake smile. ‘You’re happy, Gaz. I’m glad one of us is.’ At this she started to cry into her hands.

  Katie was my baby, my lady, the love of my life. Katie Farmer was her name. I’d lived here in Kirkstall with her for about three years now. She had a seven-year-old daughter, Gemma. She was a little star. I treated her just like my own. As much as I loved Katie, I hardly ever saw her, I was always out with Steve, but I lived there all the same. I first saw Katie way back in the ’80s and swore to myself that she’d be mine. Well, she is now, and I treat her like a doormat. It’s all gonna change though.

  ‘Katie baby… don’t cry… What’s wrong?’

  She simpered, ‘You, Gaz… that’s what’s wrong. You. You treat me like a Muppet these days. You’re never in. I’m sick of it. Sick to death of it all. Why can’t you be normal? Thinking you’re some kind of gangster. It’s bollocks, Gaz. BOLLOCKS!’

  I threw the chips into the boiling fat on top of the stove and then hugged Katie close to me.

  ‘Listen, Katie love, I agree. You’re right. I have been a twat. But that’s it now. No more. Steve’s locked up, he’s gonna get five years or summat, and I’m giving it all up. The drugs and the DJing. I’m gonna get a proper job. I’ve had a good think about it, love. Trust me. You’ll see.’ I was, of course, chatting shit, telling her what I thought she wanted to hear. I had no real intention of giving it all up.

  She pushed me away from her as the chips sizzled in the pan. ‘Oh I’ll see, will I?’ She was being sarky now, I could tell. ‘Give up the drugs, will you? There’s a bloke coming in five minutes to drop you some gear off, same as every other week, isn’t there? Give up the drugs, my arse.’

  ‘Just this last time though, Katie love…’ I tried to reassure her. ‘He’s only bringing them this last time then I’m out of it, I promise.’ I gave her a huge kiss and she looked as though she believed me. And so she should, I sounded as though I really meant it. Then all holy hell broke loose.

  Shouting and banging came from the flat’s entrance, someone trying to break our door down. Fuck, it’s the police. Armed to the teeth. Katie screamed as they exploded through the front door and pushed her out of the way. They barged into the kitchen, shouting crap, as they do.

  I had the pan of chips bubbling away in my hands, and a fat cunt of a copper shouted at me, pointing his automatic at the ceiling, ‘Put the pan down. NOW!’

  I wasn’t gonna ignore him, was I? He had a fuckin’ gun, man. He had a gun and he thought that I was gonna burn him with chip fat. Fuck that, I don’t wanna get shot. Do I? I’m sure it might sting.

  I shivered a little, stood there in me boxer shorts, and gently placed the pan on the side.

  ‘There, look…it’s down.’

  On putting it down they all piled into the kitchen and pinned me against the wall.

  ‘Where’s all the gear, you little cunt?’ ‘Where’s the stuff?’ ‘We’ve got a warrant.’ All that shit.

  All sorts was going through my head. Where was Katie? Where was little Gemma? The Man was gonna turn up any minute and then I would be fucked. He most certainly would not be happy to arrive and see the place crawling with armed feds. I had to think. Think, Gaz man. Think.

  Viva Zapata! It came to me just then and there. I struggled in the coppers’ arms and twisted my head around.

  ‘If you gimme a minute, fellas, I’ll
show you what it is you wanna see. You don’t need to break me fuckin’ flat to pieces. Or me arms.’

  They were as well, emptying me cupboards, smashing stuff and knocking shit over. Bastards.

  The fat one who had hold of me said, ‘C’mon then, Gaz, show me the gear.’

  I nodded and walked over to the little cupboard where we kept the vegetables. Inside was a bag of glucose. It was what I used for cutting shit up, but it was in a clear plastic bag. Looked just like a one pound bag of Charlie or whizz or something. The copper’s face lit up like Christmas.

  ‘Sarge…!’ he shouted for his boss to come into the kitchen ‘We’ve got the goods, Sarge. Is there anything else, Gaz?’

  ‘Nah, man, that’s it.’ I bowed my head as I spoke to him.

  Then they spun me around, cuffed me and gave me all the shit about my rights. They led me out to the car and Katie stood in the doorway sobbing. Little Gemma was up at the window as I was taken to the van. As they drove me up to the cop shop, I saw the Man driving towards my house in the other direction. Phew. Good timing, Gaz man. Katie’ll tell him to go get himself fucked. She doesn’t care if he’s the “so-called Man” as she puts it.

  On entering the station I got marched straight to the reception desk and was being processed when I decided to come out with it…

  ‘Why am I being charged with drugs offences, Officer? I don’t know anything about drugs. Except that they’re bad of course.’ I was being a smug little cunt.

  The desk sergeant looked up from behind his stupid big glasses and said, ‘Yeah, very funny, lad, I suppose that great bag of powder we found at your gaff is icing sugar, eh? Gonna make some fairy cakes? Ha ha.’ He laughed to the other cops who were milling around the place.

  ‘You never found the bag at my gaff…’ I got really sarcastic now. ‘I showed you where it was. You’re not far off though when you say icing sugar. It’s glucose. Pure glucose. Nothing more, sir. For me energy levels and that. I didn’t know you were looking for drugs, did I? Oh, by the way, Sarge, last time I looked… possession of glucose isn’t an offence. Is it?’

  He glared at me, then at the police who brought me in. ‘Has anyone checked that bag of powder?’

  All around were muffled whispers, ‘Sarge, Sarge, Sarge.’

  ‘Chuck it here!’ he shouted, and one of the young constables passed it to him. I stood looking really smug as he ripped the bag open with his key. He stuck the key in the powder, shovelled some in his mouth and… laughed his head off. ‘Fucking glucose! You mad little fucker.’

  They locked me up all night anyway, just to be bastards, but when they let me go in the morning I felt like John Gotti, the Teflon Don. I’d got one over on the feds. No charges. No fuck all.

  That smell of roses is getting stronger all the time.

  Right, now I’ll go back home and patch it up with Katie.

  Chapter Ten

  -

  Tales from the Darkside

  Living On The Ceiling– Blancmange

  (Neil Arthur and Stephen Luscombe) 1982

  Summer 1988 – Aged 21

  Apart from the terrible tragedy that was the Lockerbie Disaster, and the Bishop of Turin announcing that the famous Shroud was nothing more than a drawing of Jesus on a crappy bed sheet, a miraculous fake, 1988 was the Bee’s Knees. The Vicar’s Knickers. The Bastard’s Bollocks. Get the picture yet? ’88 was the year. Oh yes, kids, the fun starts here.

  These were definitely the good times. Me, Flakey and Steve. Larging it at our house. Larging it at Fat Sally’s, and larging it anywhere we could lay our beer-crazy, drug-lined hats.

  It was the year that house music really exploded on to the scene, which meant only two things. Ecstasy and more ecstasy!

  The Second Summer of Love they called it. They were right. Everyone loved everybody and everybody loved everyone. The boozed-up, fighting, white-shirt brigade had turned into loved-up, gurning, hugging, almost gay looking, peace-loving, ecstasy and acid fuelled dancers in baggy tee-shirts with smiley faces on the front.

  We loved it, we thrived on it. I was getting more and more successful as a DJ, which meant unlimited women and unlimited drugs, in other words unlimited fun!

  Me and Flakes lived together in my house. Steve didn’t live with us but he might as well have done, he was always there. Why wouldn’t he be? It was always full of women and drugs and alcohol! Everyone knew us in Leeds, we were like rock stars – free entry into all the clubs, no queuing, VIP, free cognac, free champagne and the free, free, ever so free-est of girls.

  Yes, boys and girls, life was shit. Shit fuckin’ hot!

  We worked hard, long unsociable hours, but you know what? If you don’t work, you don’t get any money. And we like money.

  Tonight was one of those rare occasions where I was gonna get to finish early, about twelve ‘ish instead of 2am. I’d arranged for a young upcoming DJ to cover for me, so he could practise. This meant that me and Flakes could go visit some old pals of mine, Fat Cheeno and his fat brother, in Bradford, who had just opened a new club. Now, I wasn’t really a fan of Bradford, “The Dark Side” as we called it, but hey, it was a well-deserved, free night out in a new place.

  Steve couldn’t make it tonight, he had to “go do a thing”.

  I played my last tune of the night, Yazz, The Only Way Is Up, said my goodbyes over the mic, handed over to young DJ Bernard and then we tore out of Fat Sally’s the second I’d finished, even though we had quite a few girls hanging around my booth. Fuck ’em, they’ll be there tomorrow. Tonight we’re going for bit of fresh, Dark Side style.

  We’d already taken two Es and a gram of whizz by the time we set off. We were up there with Pluto, man, and it was fucking ace! As we waited in the queue for a taxi to Bradford, Flakey looked me up and down and laughed.

  ‘Gaz man, you’re not gonna get in wi’ them fuckers on yer feet.’

  I had a pair of trainers on, nice ones, but trainers none the less. Now, back in 1988 you couldn’t get in any nightclub, anywhere, with trainers on, even expensive ones. It had to be shoes. Or boots.

  I’m buzzing my tits off in the taxi line, giggling and gurning.

  ‘Aw, Flakes man, I’ll be cushty. Fat Cheeno and his fat brother aren’t gonna knock me back, are they? They’re mates, man. Chill out.’

  ‘I know, Gaz man, but what if they do though? What if they’re not about when we’re goin’ in, and what if the bouncers are cunts? Bouncers are always cunts, man.’

  I giggled even more at this, Flakey being a bouncer and all.

  ‘Hmmm, yeah you’re right, man, I don’t wanna get made to look a cunt if they don’t let me in. All the way to Bradford and then get knocked back by a pair of cunts, man. Nah!’

  So I stuck my head out of the taxi queue and shouted down the line of people, ‘Anybody wanna swap some shoes for these Adidas trainers, man? They’re brand new.’

  I stuck my leg out and wiggled my foot at everyone.

  ‘I will.’ This guy trotted up to me from the back of the queue. He was some sort of hippy, six foot ten and built like a brick shithouse.

  Flakey laughed, I laughed, then the guy laughed.

  I looked up at him and said, ‘What size foot are you, big lad?’

  ‘Size eleven.’

  I laughed even more and looked at his feet. He had giant great cowboy boots on. With big wooden Cuban heels. These boots were massive, man.

  ‘Aw man, I’m only a seven, pal, these’ll never fit on your big plates.’

  ‘Course they will. Pass ’em here.’

  So I passed him one trainer. He looked at it, inspected it, sniffed it and then rubbed it on his thigh. He then took his giant boot and passed it to me. He tried sliding my trainer onto his big, swollen pig foot, squeezing, scrunching, grunting and sweating. He eventually got it on, but it looked funny, not comfy at all. I passed him the other,
laughing, and he did the same routine with that one too.

  ‘See. Told you they’d fit. Cool, mate, I’ll have these, they’re nice. Thanks.’ He passed me the great big giant cowboy boots and fucked off down the street. Hobbling.

  Me and Flakes were still laughing at him as he trundled away.

  ‘Fuckin’’ell, Flakes man, what am I supposed to do with these? Look at the size of ’em!’

  He thought it was hilarious.

  ‘They’ll look nice, Gaz. Just roll some socks up in the front or summat.’

  I put them on and my feet were swaying all over the shop inside them. They were huge, man. Too huge. I couldn’t do anything but laugh really, even though I looked a cunt.

  A lass in the queue gave me a load of tissues and I stuffed them in the boot fronts, quite snug as it goes, but they still looked a cunt.

  Flakey laughed again.

  ‘Ha ha, they look nice, Gaz man. John Wayne. You’ll be cush. At least we won’t get knocked back now. It’ll be dark inside the club anyway. No-one’ll even notice, man.’

  I laughed again.

  ‘Yeah, suppose you’re right, man. Anyway, fuck all that shit, taxi’s here.’

  The three hours that we spent at Fat Cheeno and his fat brother’s club flew by. In out shake it all about. Home time. Fuck, that was quick. That’s Es and whizz for you, man.

  Anyhoo, the club had been awesome. Nobody had noticed that my boots were five sizes too big and that they were high-heeled and that they looked cuntish. In fact, we danced, we drugged, we laughed and we drugged some more. We scored with a couple of tasty treats too, a rarity for Bradford, tiny little skirts and bodies from the Good Lord in Heaven.