Hanky Panky

By Peter Harrison

Touching sixty, with little money and even less pride, Patrick, brother of the late, infamous Michael Awkwright, leads a miserable existence fetching and carrying for his grouchy, pining sister-in-law.
Fate suddenly points a Lotto finger at the old man when a bag of cocaine lands on his proverbial lap. After unsuccessfully trying to offload the haul, the notorious Turner twins, undersized psychopaths and ancient rivals of the Awkwright family, focus on Patrick as they search for their missing drugs.
In desperation, Patrick succumbs to the silver-tongued addict, Barton Robson and agrees to sell the cocaine to drug-dealers, Duane and Troy White. An argument breaks out and Patrick accidentally off-loads his ancient double-barrelled shotgun and kills both dealers.
Young Barton disappears, Patrick takes to his bed, and the Turner twins keep up their vigil.
Meanwhile, newly-released hoodlum, John Cutter, is seeking the men who killed his father; the one-eyed, machete-wielding drug-baron known as Captain Cutlass. When Barton Robson is caught by Cutter trying to steal cocaine he misinterprets the confession from the youth and heads for the Awkwright home.
Double-dealing, mayhem and murder erupt around the old man as he struggles to find a fast exit from hell and a way out of the self-inflicted maelstrom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barny Books
• Release date: Oct 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311266057

Book preview

1

Present Day

The minor road is an alternative route to Pittington, Durham and Chester-le-Street. It is picturesque during the day but at night the winding, pock-marked narrow highway, without street lights or markings, is rarely used.

A luminous glow from the afternoon sun shone down on a lone fox as it hurried across the road and trotted through a wide gap that led on to open fields. The animal stopped suddenly, its snout high as it sniffed the air. Slowly, purposefully, the fox followed the hedgerow. It stopped again, stared at an area of recently disturbed soil then slowly circled. It continued to sniff and whine before stepping across the soft earth. The fox pushed its nose at the soil. It started scratching.

The animal paused then began circling the area. It honed on the cleft it had created then started pawing at the place. Its action became more frenzied until its claws caught and snared on some hidden object. It panicked and started to retreat. As the fox tried to free itself, the momentum slowly dragged a human hand from the soft earth. The fox, liberated from the trap, nervously approached the limb. It sniffed and started licking at the putrefying fingers.

The animal began to feed on the festering, human limb. It clamped its teeth and crunched hard on flesh and bone, the creature whining with delight as fingers were wrenched free of the corpse’s hand.

As it started to gnaw at the festering meat, a second fox suddenly appeared on the scene. The newcomer, bigger and heavier than its rival, slowly approached. Its fangs were bared, its eyes wide. The smaller fox, with human meat nipped tight between its front teeth, slowly retreated. Once it was a safe distance from its rival, it bolted.

The larger animal paused next to the protruding remains of the human hand. It started sniffing at the mangled stumps. A thumb and an index finger remain untouched. On the index finger was an enormous gold ring.

One Week Earlier

Antonio Gappo’s restaurant was situated in a prime location close to Newcastle’s China Town. Antonio was neither an Italian nor a restaurateur. His real name was Anthony Gadd and he was born and bred in North Shields. Anthony was the sole proprietor of the restaurant. He was a tall, thick-set, handsome man; a self-made man. To his friends and acquaintances he appeared to be a very astute, successful businessman.

Anthony owned a Bentley and a top-of-the-range Jaguar. He wore designer clothes. His shoes were hand-made. His wealth however was not derived from the restaurant - which made only paltry profits - but from the buying and selling of drugs. The restaurant was used to launder drug money, turning dirty money into legitimate profits. The enterprise made Anthony Gappo rich.

He had used one supplier for years. Peter Cutter. The man liked to call himself Captain Cutlass; the title not too outrageous perhaps because of his fondness for wielding a cutlass whenever trouble raised its head. The cutlass, plus the leather cowboy hat that was always pulled down over his forehead to hide the false eye, only enhanced his persona.

Weeks earlier Anthony Gappo changed his supplier and started buying from Durham twins, Timothy and Thomas Turner.

It was only a matter of time before Cutter heard about the change of allegiance, before the shit hit the fan …..

Anthony was alone in the large sitting-room of the flat above the restaurant. He leaned against the bureau, his back touching the cardboard files and the computer monitor, a worried look on his face. Try as he may he could not stop shivering uncontrollably. His nerves were in shreds, his mind in turmoil. It was crunch time; make or break.

He pictured Lana Turner, the girl who had changed everything. He had first met her years earlier - teenagers then, enjoying the night life on Newcastle’s Quay Side. A few months ago, in one of the most popular pubs near the Tyne, the couple met again. The romance was rekindled. The woman said she was married but separated from her husband. It took a short time for Tony to realise the truth about the wayward, headstrong female. She was wed to Durham man, Timothy Turner. When Lana finally bared her soul to her newest beau she admitted her marriage was a sham, a failure. She told Tony about her wild husband. He, like Cutter, was a drug dealer and, according to Lana, was both volatile and unstable. Tony Gadd, besotted with the female, opened his heart to her. He revealed his life of crime. It was then that Lana put the proposal to him, told him to change dealers. Abandon Cutter and buy from the Turners. She laughed when Tony described the ferocious Peter Cutter. Smirked when he mentioned Cutter’s modus operandi; the cutlass. Intrigued by her attitude, Tony decided to meet the Turner Twins.

The pair concocted a story that would not only pacify Lana’s husband but would also satisfy his curiosity about Gappo’s sudden appearance on the scene. The lie was not too outrageous. Both had been born in Gosforth, Newcastle, their families were near neighbours. The fairy tale was believed by Lana’s naïve husband.

The meeting with the Turner twins was an eye-opener. Tony almost knocked the deal on the head. The Durham pair were genuine half-pints, five-four, five-five in their stocking feet. Tony Gappo tried the diplomatic route, pretending he needed time to consider the deal. Delaying tactics, believing Peter Cutter would eat the twins for breakfast. It took all of Timothy Turner’s persuasive talents - and massive discounts on the goods - to sway the restaurateur to sample the supplies.

Tony Gappo had one week of peace before he received the dreaded phone call from a hysterical Peter Cutter. The Newcastle hard man promised to call at Tony’s apartment above the restaurant that very evening. Tony immediately telephoned the Turner twins who, if anything, seemed to welcome the confrontation …

Three heavies stormed into apartment at 12.30am, ranting like devils. They were led by fifty year old Peter Cutter, a.k.a. Captain Cutlass. Cutter was a huge, tattooed Irishman whose usual ruse when attempting to expand his empire, or when mutiny threatened, was to brandish his favourite weapon, a cutlass, occasionally slashing at his intended victims as he bellowed like a madman. And when Cutter threatened retribution he always reminded them of his pseudonym, his non de plume. The tactic usually worked. The same man, however, was a charlatan who used lies and innuendo to enhance his awesome reputation, a conman who used deception and bluff to augment his status. His facial disfigurement was one such lie. Cutter always told people his eye was lost in a knife fight and that the man who blinded him ended up in the morgue. The truth was very different. Cutter lost his eye as an eight-year old to a cancerous tumour. He was a clever man. Conniving. A sociopath. Few had the courage to challenge him.

Cutter neared the quaking figure of Tony Gappo and began lashing the weapon at the retreating figure. As Cutter shrieked death threats, Gappo wailed with fear as he tried to fend off the blows.

One of the Cutter’s cronies noticed that the carpet had been overlaid with sheets of plastic. Artie Brinks, forehead tattooed with the word Evil, shouted at the top of his voice, The Italian can afford to decorate but can’t afford treats!

Brinks picked up a heavy glass ash-tray and flung it at the proprietor. The missile missed its intended target and became embedded in wall-boarding.

The second man, under-sized, barrel-shaped Nat Nichols shrieked, The mess on the wall is nuthin like the damage that’s comin’ your way!

Peter Cutter intervened, bawling at the top of his voice, Gonna cut off your fingers, toes … testicles!

Tony Gappo, shaking like a leaf, tears running like rivers down his blanched features, finally reached the emergency exit-door, his fingers shaking so badly he could not manipulate the locks.

I’ve done nothing! wailed Tony Gappo. I swear!

Cutter waved the cutlass above his head and rounded on the restaurateur, Liar! he screamed.

You’ve got it all wrong, Peter! stammered Gappo, frantically trying to open the bolts. I told you I wanted out! It’s too dangerous! I could lose my business! I could end up in jail!

Want to explain that to Willie Watson? shouted Cutter.

Gappo started whimpering as he struggled to open the fire-door. The bolts seemed welded to the door stanchion.

You sold to Willie two days ago! shouted Cutter. Good stuff too! Top quality! Want to explain where you got it?

Gappo twisted his frame and saw Cutter raise the weapon. With one last desperate effort he managed to manipulate the rusting bolt.

Nowhere to run, Tony! shouted the sword-wielding thug and began swishing and slicing the air. It’s time to learn a lesson you’ll never forget!

The fire-door suddenly crashed open and Gappo was knocked to one side. Two diminutive figures rushed into the small room. The tallest of the pair, a dark-haired, heavier version of his twin, ran at the mesmerised Peter Cutter and with one upward thrust plunged a knife into his chest. The blade disappeared leaving only the ivory handle sticking from the man’s shirt. The victim froze into a surreal dying pose, both arms high in the air, his budging disbelieving eyes locked on the spreading smudge of blood that covered his chest, the cutlass swinging loosely from his limp fingers before crashing to the floor. His two accomplices, immobilised with shock, whined in unison as the second man stormed towards them. Timothy Turner, using a steel poker with venomous frenzy, attacked the pair. Brinks and Nichols crumbled under the onslaught of the attack. They were joined on the floor by their dying leader.

The Turner boys hovered over the broken men who shivered with fear and pain waiting for the end. Not a word was spoken, no pleading, no whimpering, only the undeniable knowledge from the injured duo that their world was almost over. Silence echoed around the tiny room as the pocket-sized killers glowered at the condemned men, so quiet it seemed unreal.

You’re now unemployed! spat Thomas, smirking coldly. Would that be a problem?

Both men started begging for their lives. Peter Cutter, his glass eye skewed and loose in its socket, lay next to them, silent and still.

We’re taking over! grunted Timothy. Open your mouths and Tom will gut the pair of you!

Well? said Thomas Turner. What’s it to be?

Brinks and Nichols pleaded for clemency. The twins smiled. Timothy gestured towards the door and the injured pair - one with his arm broken arm, the other suffering cracked ribs and a fractured skull - struggled upright and shuffled from the room.

Moments passed. The twins stared passively at the corpse. Thomas finally dragged his eyes away and glanced at the shivering, open-mouthed Tony Gappo. He ordered him to leave. Gappo did not need prompting.

Timothy stooped and started rummaging through the dead man’s pockets. He found documents and handed them to his twin.

Car licence, gas bill, said Thomas, pocketing the stuff. That’s all there is.

No little black book, replied Timothy. We’ve messed up.

No we haven’t. We’re calling on Cutter’s son next. He’ll give us all the information we need.

Damn! I forgot! replied Timothy, wincing. Tony Gappo phoned Lana. Told her Cutter’s son was locked up overnight. Apparently he kicked the shit out of his fiancé.

We’ll visit him later, said Thomas. I’ll make him talk.

Big brother won’t be too pleased.

Paul thinks he can do any better! replied Thomas. He’s welcome to try!

Timothy nodded grudgingly. Roll up the plastic? he asked.

One minute, said Thomas. He leaned over the corpse and manipulated Cutter’s false eye into its socket.

The task completed, the twins began to wrap the body with plastic sheeting.

The following morning Timothy Turner left the house on the prestigious Oakerside Park Estate in Peterlee and hurried to the neighbouring house. The second house, like the first, was owned by the Turner family. Timothy and his wife Lana lived with their eight-year old son, Liam, in one house. Alzheimer’s sufferer, Pattie Turner - wife of the late Luke Turner - lived with sons, Thomas, twin of Timothy, and eldest son Paul in the other house.

Timothy’s brothers were waiting in the living-room. Timothy sat next to Thomas on the huge sofa. Paul, taller than his siblings, paced the floor. He looked edgy. Stopping next to the massive marble fireplace, Paul glowered at his brothers.

What’s with the stare? said Thomas defensively.

You were supposed to surprise Cutter! replied Paul brusquely. Bust him up enough so that he’d hand over his books! He grimaced and shook his head, He’s dead! His cronies are in hospital! What went wrong?

Don’t be getting on your high horse, Paul, answered Thomas, angry and hurt by the insinuations. You never said Cutter would have company!

Cutter wouldn’t talk! interrupted Timothy, helping his brother out of a jam. Even when Tommy threatened him with a blade!

What about Cutter’s son? asked Paul Turner.

Believe he’s in Police custody, said Thomas. Expect he’ll be out of circulation for some time.

Brinks, Nichols? questioned Paul. They mute as well?

Thomas said, They were bust up pretty bad …

They wouldn’t have known anything! snapped Timothy, intervening. They’re muscle …

Did you ask them? spat Paul. Cutter must have a book with names and addresses of punters! He pulled documents from his pocket, All we’ve got is his car licence and a gas bill!

That’s a start! said Timothy. We know his address!

Risky! said Paul Turner. He pondered for a moment, This can still work, he said, his tone softening. You said they were hurt? Could Brinks and Nichols be hospitalized?

Timothy said, I reckon the pair will still be in Casualty.

Maybe you should drive to Newcastle? said Paul Turner. There can’t be that many hospitals … Have a word, put the frighteners on them? We might get lucky and find the diary.

In a long, draughty corridor in Newcastle General Hospital two middle-age women talked. Elsie Brinks and Naomi Nichols stood close to one of the ward doors. Naomi Nichols was weeping softly; Elsie, fidgety and pale, her open palm covering her mouth, listening as the older woman talked.

Three hours in the operating theatre, Elsie, she said. Brain haemorrhage. She broke down again and wept.

Elsie Brinks bit her lip, her eyes wet with emotion. Nat will be okay, Elsie. He’s been in worse trouble.

Brain swelling. That’s what they said.

I’d better go and see Artie, love, said Elsie. She spontaneously cuddled the older woman and pecked at her jowly cheek. I’ll call round later, okay?

Elsie Brinks hurried along the corridor. Naomi Nichols, sighing and sobbing, trudged towards the exit-doors.

On the second floor of the hospital, Artie Brinks, safe behind the locked lavatory door, fussed with the bandaged sling that held the cast. He sucked heavily on the cigarette and blew the smoke out of the open window. He looked down on the huge car-park and watched as a white Mercedes pulled close to the hospital entrance; the big saloon parking on reserved parking bays. Two men, cigarettes sticking from their mouths, climbed out of the car and leaned against the bonnet. Artie Brinks gasped. A deep shiver racked his body as he recognised the Turner twins. He stubbed out the cigarette and left the toilets.

On the other side of the car-park, close to the exit, a tall, well-built young man sauntered from his car. Despite the coolness of the day he wore jeans and tee-shirt. His arms were liberally tattooed. He wore a leather trilby which was pulled over his forehead. A distance away, the chunky figure of Naomi Nichols trudged his way. The young man recognised her.

Naomi! said John Cutter, waving a greeting. How’s Nat?

The sight of the youngster caused Naomi Nichols to break down. She shuffled towards John Cutter weeping profusely. They’re operating now, John! She found a handkerchief and wiped her bloodshot eyes. It’s looking bad.

Artie Brinks. Is he okay …?

John, replied the woman, interrupting, your dad has to do something!

Grimacing, John Cutter took a deep breath, turned away from the distraught woman and hurried into the hospital. He asked directions then walked quickly along the corridor. He found twin elevators and stepped into the open door nearest to him. As the door closed on John Cutter, the second elevator opened and a couple shuffled into view. Artie Brinks, with his crocked arm in a sling, linked his wife Elsie. They walked towards the exit.

Minutes later a grim-looking John Cutter meandered through the hospital exit-doors. He did not notice the Mercedes parked in the reserved parking bays or the two men who were flicking cigarette-butts into flower-beds. Had John Cutter glanced their way, he would have seen Timothy Turner lean into the saloon and grab a bunch of flowers. As the twins headed for the hospital entrance, Cutter was hurrying across the car-park.

2

Dixon Estate Bungalows, situated on the southern fringes of Shotton, consists of a long cul-de-sac with small, pre-war bungalows either side of the narrow street. At the apex of the small road stood a huge detached house; the only house in a street of bungalows. The front gardens of the house, ablaze with mature trees and ornate flower-beds, would impress any visitor to the street. The massive rear gardens, totalling several acres and leading to a meandering brook with a wooded area opposite, would impress more.

Within the large house was a self-contained, one bed-roomed apartment. Patrick Awkwright, brother of the late, infamous Micky Awkwright, lived rent-free in the flat.

The intercom in the small apartment buzzed.

It was late morning. Patrick looked dejectedly at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He sighed long and loud, disgruntled with his lot. And who could blame him. He was after all, a lackey for his sister-in-law. Beholden to her. At her beck and call. Twenty years ago, maybe ten at a push, he would have packed his pride inside a suitcase and walked away, but now, aching with arthritis, jowls like a bull-dog and thinning hair snow-white, now was not a good time to stand up to Myrtle Awkwright, his late brother’s wife. He sighed again, his thoughts in freefall as he reassessed his situation. He knew why the woman acted the way she did, the way she griped and whined at everyone and anyone. It was his brother’s fault. A year before he died, Micky had left Myrtle for a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. Poor Myrtle had almost lost her sanity. Patrick grimaced. He sighed. His whinging was over for the day, maybe because he knew that behind the sniping was a decent woman.

The intercom buzzed again.

Patrick Awkwright, six three, 2401bs, still looked a brawler especially when he sucked in his sagging beer-gut. Nodding at the mirror, he adjusted his battered leather trilby, straightened his jacket, fussed with his shirt and walked from the bathroom of his one bed-roomed apartment - the ‘granny-flat’ as Myrtle was so fond of reminding him - hurried down the stairs and opened the door on to the plush six-acre gardens.

Taking a deep breath Patrick stepped out on to the magnificent lawns and saw Myrtle lounging on a sun-bed, part-shaded under a bevy of trees wearing an enormous sun-hat. He smiled genuinely, could not help himself. Despite the swimming costume being too small and showing every bump and ripple of her fifty-eight year old body Myrtle still looked good. His late brother’s one mistake was leaving her.

Myrtle! he called. You want me?

The woman turned her pudding face towards her brother-in-law, lifting her hand over her eyes to stop the glare. It’s almost lunch-time, Patrick, you know what you have to do! She paused for effect then added dryly, You want a note?

I’ll get the leash, he said, turned and walked to the double garage, wondering why Myrtle was trying to sun-bath under cloudy, autumn skies.

You do that! answered the woman who turned and eased her overweight frame on the sun-bed and closed her eyes.

The detached garage was situated at the far end of the front garden. Patrick opened the double-garage doors.

Marvin! he called. Tommy!

Two pit-bull terriers bolted from the garage, bound across the lawn, tore through a flower-bed and jumped the steel railings like they were chasing jack-rabbits. The