Outlawed: Looking for Trouble

By Mark Howell

Outlawed is Marks third novel and is the final installment of the Prank Trilogy. A critically acclaimed and fast-paced adventure series featuring a host of colorful characters, including Kev and Sadie, the series heroes. It comes hot on the heels of its predecessors Prank in 2010 and Scallywags in 2011.
The author has become well known for his descriptive skills and has developed a knack for suspense building and the setting of a particular scene. It makes for great reading, and the pages seem to turn themselves as the story weaves and the plot twists and turns; at times it leaves you breathless, others it will make you laugh out loud. One thing is for surethere is never a dull moment even when there is one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481787123

Book preview

© 2013 by MARK HOWELL. All rights reserved.

1No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/09/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8710-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8711-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8712-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

PART 1

IN AT THE DEEP END

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

PART 2

LOOKING FOR TROUBLE

14

15

16

17

18

19

PART 3

PARTNERS IN CRIME

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

PART 4

END OF THE LINE

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Dedicated to the memory of Nigel Stephen Whiteley

& Craig Michael Richardson.

Wish you were here.

THE PRANK TRILOGY

PART 1

PRANK

PART 2

SCALLYWAGS

PART 3

OUTLAWED

PART 1

IN

AT

THE

DEEP

END

By the Church Garth of Thurne is a praty pile or castlet well diked and now used for offenders in the forests, but sometime longging to the Mulbrays (Mowbrays) as Thurne did".

JOHN LEYLAND—16th CENTURY TRAVELLER AND POET SPEAKING ON THORNE AND IN PARTICULAR PEEL HILL CASTLE AND MOAT.

1

British Airspace.

AFTER HIGHTAILING IT OUT OF Dam on the redeye things were beginning to look up, we had just broken through cloud cover, the plane started to rock gently as it pushed its way through the air; which at this speed would be like wading through wet cement. I breathed a sigh of relief as the Yorkshire countryside came into view; it was a magnificent sight, Amsterdam is all well and good but like Dorothy said There’s no place like home.

We were about ten minutes from hitting the tarmac at Leeds/Bradford. It couldn’t come quick enough as far as I was concerned; I was still riding high on a crest of a wave after narrowly escaping with my face intact, the last effects of the adrenaline rush were looking for the exits like rats deserting a sinking ship. I was now beginning to flag. Less than two hours ago I was bartering for my life, it wouldn’t be long before I would be on my last legs. The bruising on my face was starting to take shape, and my molar was hanging on by a thread, due to me constantly wiggling it whilst we had been in the air.

I needed sleep and fast.

I heard the mechanical whir as the wheels came down, so I dared myself to look out the window; we were about eighteen hundred feet up and descending fast. My stomach heaved, but up to press I hadn’t been sick yet. I hoped it would stay that way for the duration. Sadie squeezed my hand; I gave hers a squeeze back in response, and we all put our faith and lives in the hands of the pilot. I glanced over to Sadie just before we hit the ground, her eyes were soft and she managed and even softer smile.

I turned to face the front and just as I did there was an almighty bang as the wheels hit the tarmac. I could only conclude that a tyre had exploded on impact. There were a few screams and worried looks as the plane shuddered to a halt. It felt like every pot rivet was being shaken loose as the brakes did their thing. The ride was bumpy and shaky, and accompanied by more screams. I looked out of the window and found out I was right about the tyre as a shower of sparks came into view, followed by what remained of the tyre rolling iggledy piggledy down the runway after us like a rugby ball. It seemed like an age before the plane stopped completely, the tyre stopped rolling long before we did. I was just about to join in the screaming with my own version when the plane finally skidded to a halt, for a split second all was silent and everybody still, and then a kid started crying and it seemed to be the signal for everybody to start breathing again. I looked around and everybody was hugging each other and there were smiles all around. It could so easily have been a different story. I blew out a huge sigh and let go of Sadie’s hand for the first time since we’d left Dutch airspace.

Life is a series of cross roads, where you can go one way or the other. Sometimes the decisions are out of your hands and if that happens all you can do is just hope for the best. I’d much rather have the ball in my court so to speak than have my fate in someone else’s hands. It’s how I roll.

There was a crackle of static over the speakers and then the Captains voice came out loud and clear.

He cleared his throat and then addressed the crew and the passengers.

Hi, this is your captain speaking, sorry about the drama back there but we got there in the end, no big deal just a weak tyre which exploded on impact. Hope you enjoyed your flight and if you do decide to fly again make sure it’s with us; remember no drama is too big or too small. Thank you and have a safe journey home.

There was another crackle of static and then he was gone. Talk about being cool under pressure, he took the biscuit and dunked it.

I unbuckled and then sat for a minute collecting my thoughts; I had my head in my left palm and my heartbeat in my ears and throat making it hard for me to swallow.

Sadie pulled me close and hugged me like a child. I could have cried there and then but I was determined not to succumb to that guy and I swallowed it all down. Instead I jacked myself up and wriggled our case out from the storage compartment above our heads and made for the nearest exit with Sadie in tow, hardly anybody was speaking and if they did it was just the odd whisper here and there.

There was a sombre atmosphere as we dodged our way towards the exit. I just needed to get off this plane and out of this airport quick. It was a forty minute drive from here to Sadie’s house; I had a couple of hours left in me if that, after that it was touch and go. I would be in unchartered territory.

We stepped off the plane under a moody sky; it had a weird tint to it, and it felt like I was looking at it through a Budweiser bottle. If this was anything to go by then we were fucked.

The heavens opened up as I joined the M18, we were ten minutes from Sadie’s. She was asleep on the seat next to me, snoring slightly, it’s alright for some I thought to myself as I’d been struggling to keep my eyes open since we’d joined the M62 some thirty minutes ago. Now I welcomed the rain, anything to rid myself of the monotony of motorway driving. I let my foot off the accelerator pedal and flicked the windscreen wipers on constant and turned the radio up a little to compensate. Sadie moaned and moved in her sleep from an upright position to a sideways curled up foetal one. I watched out of the corner of my eye as her breathing settled back into a steady rhythm.

I noticed as I passed the scene of the prank that a mobile home and a 4x4 were parked at the side of the old house. Maybe somebody had bought it and it was to be renovated, or maybe it was just travellers pouncing on an opportunity. Whatever, I sped up and left it behind, see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.

The big blue sign told me that the next turn off was the one for Thorne so I checked my mirrors and flicked the indicator on. Once off the slip road I took the second left at the roundabout into Thorne and under the railway bridge passed the car park where I’d first met Mik and Dim not so long ago. I snuck a look back as I passed the entrance and shuddered, the gnarled arthritic limbs of the trees were swaying back and forth in the wind and the rain in what looked like a pathetic attempt to shelter the car park from Mother Nature’s onslaught. They looked like lost souls trapped at the gates of hell.

The rain had eased off slightly by the time I made the left turn at the traffic lights so I flicked the wipers onto intermittent, the mailed horse was shuttered up and the car park at the side of it empty. There were a few cars on the road here and there but apart from the odd pedestrian it looked like everybody was indoors.

I flashed a car out that was waiting at the cross roads and then fell in behind it cruising at a steady thirty two miles an hour down Saint Nicholas’ road, no need to get pulled speeding I just wanted to hit the sheets so hard they would need treatment.

Sadie stirred again so I turned the radio down so low I couldn’t even hear it, it was just on mumbling in the background, like a pissed mate at a party. I put my foot down after the chippy on the corner of Alexander and then eased off again when the speedometer hit fifty. I rounded relay corner and the village of the damned came into view.

Even though I could just close my eyes and go to sleep, I keep them peeled for any unsavoury characters, after all it is Moorends and it pays to keep your guard up. I pass Wilkinson’s Avenue, the first of the two entrances to Newfield Avenue and then Ferndale Drive. My old school (Marshland Middle) has been dismantled and there is to be a dozen or so houses built on the old site. The same goes with The Welfare club and the old Bingo Hall, knocked down to be redeveloped, out with the old and in with the new. I’m all for change I just don’t like it when it affects what memories I have, and the way they are ripping down my old haunts is demoralising so for that reason I welcome it with trepidation.

Moorends Hotel is open, or at least the door to it is. There is no one to be seen on the steps, or leading up to them. There are no cars parked up anywhere, it’s like a ghost town where the only thing that moves is the rain, and that’s bouncing off the road again now. I indicate to turn right, gear down, and make the manoeuvre onto West Street. We were nearly home, two minutes tops.

I make the turn into Sadie’s little cul-de-sac and shift the gear stick into neutral so I can cruise the rest of the way. As I pull up on Sadie’s drive her eyes open and she rubs them vigorously with the knuckle of her forefinger.

We home. She whispers.

It’s not a question, just a statement, so I nod once and pop the boot. As I get out of the car Sadie is sorting herself out, straightening her clothes and checking her appearance in the pull down mirror on the sun visor. I scoot round the back and open the boot and then pull out our remaining one case and then close it softly, pushing down on it after the click.

It’s just after eleven, pitch black, and wet. By the time I turn back round Sadie has just opened the house door so I follow her in and dump the case at the bottom of the stairs. Were both dripping on the flooring so we remove our outer garments, Sadie hangs hers on the corner of the radiator, I just drape mine over the banister at the bottom of the stairs and we both wearily start to climb the stairs, up the twelve steps to heaven.

Quick as a flash Sadie whips off her remaining garments and jumps into bed pulling the duvet up to her chin. I follow suit making sure my mobile is turned off as I am expecting a call from Dim anytime. Neither of us as the energy for sex, so we spoon until we drift off and go our separate ways.

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The next day—Doncaster Magistrates Court—holding cell one.

Ian Johnson is a nutcase, plain and simple. No need to sugar coat it, it’s the way it is. You mess with him and you better be prepared to go all the way, because he will. EX-Paratrooper and fully fledged lunatic, armed with a boyish charm that is guaranteed to leave most women weak at the knees and vulnerable to his advances. He had well over a thousand notches on his bed-post, carved in so deep they were there forever, hanging like a millstone around his neck, undeterred he was always on the hunt for more. With swept back, jet black hair and perfectly formed lips that were almost lost on a man, he hadn’t had a sniff in months. Not through his own doing, he was incarcerated, in prison, locked up, banged up, sent down at her majesty’s pleasure.

He had claimed his first kill as a fresh faced paratrooper in Northern Ireland, a dicker in a Londonderry alleyway. It was either the dicker or him, he had silenced him just as he was about to alert his comrades, if the dicker had been successful then his unit would have been slaughtered for sure, but he wasn’t, he was cut down in his prime. A close quarter kill with a commando knife, throat sliced text book style, back and forth, back and forth, like sawing through a piece of wood. He smiled as his mind drifted back to that drenched, windswept alley as he wiped the blade on his victims brushed fleece sweatshirt, it was red so it blended in well, a kind of urban camouflage.

He didn’t sleep for a full week after the kill, seven days of seeing the guys face every time he closed his eyes. It didn’t drive him mad, no it did the opposite, it spurred him on to claim another, and another. Until there were so many of them he couldn’t possibly remember any one of them singularly, they were just a number now and he was well into double figures, and still counting.

He was thinking of adding another to the list here in this holding cell underneath Doncaster Crown Court. A plastic gangster wannabe was doing the rounds; he was asking each prisoner in turn why he was inside and how long he was expecting. Johnson was to be his last port of call due to his geographical position, he was the furthest away. So with that in mind he reckoned it would take the wannabe two minutes tops to reach him, he would count off a minute and a half in his head and then shout one of the screws to open the door so he could use the toilet. It would keep him off his back for a little while longer. He started off the count in his head, one, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand.

Holding cell one was a fifteen by fifteen box room; it had a five lat bench running around the left, right and back wall. The front wall was missing; in its place were bars and a locked gate. The decor was plain and bland, with white washed walls and flecked, scuffed linoleum, just like school decor—thick paint and shiny floors.

There were seven prisoners in all; wannabe was half way through his round. Johnson had reached the sixty second mark, things were going according to plan for the moment. It was the calm before the storm.

Johnson’s cerebral second counter had hit the one hundred and fifty second mark, just. He was ready to shout for a screw to open the gate, sprawled on the bench in the far left hand corner Johnson sat up in the same clothes he had been arrested in some five months before. Of course they had been washed but the fact remained and he felt dirty so he wasn’t in the best of moods to start with.

Johnson’s attention was grabbed by a screw heading his way to holding cell one. The one next door to the screw’s station, the one he was in. He reached for his keys a couple of steps before the door, found the right one and stopped short of opening the gate.

Johnson. The screw bellowed. Your solicitor is here to see you.

Johnson ruffled his hair as he got up and headed towards the gate, he knew the drill so he stood to one side and waited. The screw turned the key; it made a clunk as the key hit the lock and a clink and a metallic creak as the gate opened and the hinges groaned. When Johnson had crossed the threshold the screw pulled the gate towards him and it clanked shut, he turned the key and locked the gate and then returned to his default position behind the desk next to the phone, these were all routines buried in his subconscious, he had done them so many times before he didn’t even have to think about it he just did them. It was his job to make sure the prisoners got to court in time, he received a phone call from upstairs and then he escorted them up in handcuffs through the labyrinth of tunnels and staircases to the courts above.

He nodded towards an entrance to his left.

Johnson made for it.

Inside, the room was the same as everywhere else in the building and immediate vicinity, bland and whitewashed, only a few posters were stuck to the walls with blue tack and they all followed the same theme; crime stoppers, drug awareness, legal aid, re-hab centres, and missing persons.

There was a small, foot square formica topped table centred in the room with a caged fluorescent tube hanging overhead; it had two chairs facing each other; one of them was tucked under the table, the other was occupied by Johnson’s solicitor, Miss Dooney, who was a petite brunette with delicate features, Cupid bow lips and a shoulder length bob which had a centre parting allowing her soft hair to drop effortlessly down. She was wearing a black trouser suit with a plain white blouse underneath and she was sat up straight, prim and proper. She smelt clean and fresh like she had just stepped out of the shower.

She looked up when she heard Johnson enter the room, it was just a rustle of fabric but it was enough to grab her attention. Balanced on the edge of her nose was a delicate pair of silver rimmed half-moon glasses which she whipped off and placed haphazardly on the desk in front of her, her hands were shaking, she was obviously nervous about something.

She smiled and flicked her hair back as he made his way over to the spare chair and plonked himself down, sprawling on it like he was on his favourite armchair in front of his favourite T.V. show.

Johnson looked down and saw a battered brown satchel next to a pair of flat black shoes; immaculately polished stacked side by side on the floor under the table like two soldiers at inspection, he diverted his gaze to the left and saw her veneered feet caressing each other and wiggling about; he immediately went hard as a rock, and a trace of a smile touched his lips and eyes. He was amused and this was more than just a case for her. He looked up and caught her gaze; evidently she had been staring at the top of his head.

He raised his eyebrows and said,

So what’s the story?

Johnson looked like Ally’s younger brother, same shape face and facial features; the works; same squished nose and dimple in the chin and the exact same dimples in his cheeks when he smiled; it was uncanny, like they were related, like you were being visited by Ally’s ghost. In fact if you didn’t know it you would swear they were kin. But it was the other way round; it was Michelson who was related to Johnson, not Ally. And now they were both in the same prison, on the same wing, and from Michelson’s arrest up until Johnson’s court appearance this morning in the same cell. Cooking up God knows what?

I have some good news for you. Miss Dooney said and paused for a second while she gathered up the paperwork she had been working on and bound them all together with a blue piece of ribbon. Finally she looked up caught his gaze and carried on.

It seems you will be a free man by the end of play.

What? How come?

The eye witness has changed his statement, he says he can’t be sure of the description he gave and that he was coerced into it, same with the line up, when he successfully picked you out. Without it they have no evidence and with no evidence they have no case. I fully expect the judge to throw your charges out today.

Johnson gave her a cheeky wink and then looked to the floor. When he looked back up she was shuffling papers in front of her like a news reader finishing up.

Maybe we should celebrate. He said and nodded towards his crotch.

She looked down and blushed when she saw he already had his button undone and his fly half way down.

We can’t. She said still blushing and looking everywhere except where it mattered, in Johnson’s eyes.

She looked left, she looked right, she looked down at the paperwork and over to the entrance and finally she met his stare. They might come in, I will ring you later, that’s if you’re not too busy.

I’m never too busy for you babe. Johnson whispered zipping his fly back up just in case someone did walk in and catch him with his flies down, literally.

She blushed an even deeper red.

I finish at six I’ll give you a call. She whispered.

He nodded twice. That was all that was needed, nothing over the top, just enough and nothing more. He was the stereotypical, silent brooding type, and it wasn’t just a show it was who he was.

She gathered up the file and stuffed it into the already crammed satchel and then fastened it up. She then got to her feet slipped her shoes on and walked over to the entrance and popped her head round the corner and said something to the screw. She turned round and smiled and then she was gone, with a swish of fabric and a waft of her fragrance.

Precisely two minutes later Johnson was back in holding cell one, sprawled on the bench.

The screw was back behind his desk waiting for the next call, none the wiser; sometimes he felt like he was herding cattle to the abattoir. So for that reason he chose to treat the prisoners with respect, and in turn they showed the same respect back. Of course there were the odd exceptions but all in all his watch ran smoothly. He had been in the job twenty eight years, another four and he would retire. He was fifty six years old and it couldn’t come quick enough. Although it ran smooth he was tired of the shit that people did to each other every day, tired and run down with it all.

Just before Johnson was escorted back into the holding cell wannabe had sat down for the first time since they had been locked in the room; which was some forty minutes. The screw unlocked the gate and Johnson sauntered in.

He clocked Johnson and nodded.

Johnson ignored him and carried on regardless to his spot on the bench, he took up the exact same position as before; the I don’t give a fuck position.

Wannabe was busy for the time being picking on a weak link. He had settled in next to a skinny smack head shoplifter from Sheffield and was picking away at the lads frail defences bit by bit. Wannabe carried on at the lad for a couple more minutes, until he got bored. He jumped to his feet and went over to the bars at the left of the gate clamping hold of them with both hands and pressing his forehead onto the cold steel, shouting to the screws.

Here boss, is there any baccy in the drawer for us.

He was referring to the surplus tobacco left whenever a prisoner got bail or was released. If the prisoner was flush or just that way inclined he could donate it to the cause if he so wished. It got put in a drawer and was given out to other prisoners, who didn’t have any, what goes around comes around, honour amongst thieves and all that.

Hang on a minute. The screw replied.

Johnson heard a faint scrape as the drawer was pulled out followed a couple of seconds later by the screw coming into view. The screw passed a clump of dried tobacco, a few tattered rizla’s, and a couple of matches through the bars to the wannabe and then returned to his default position. Wannabe made his way over to the bench and sat on it. He was the tight kid at school who could open a sweet in his pocket, in other words he wasn’t sharing with anybody.

Johnson watched him through the corner of his eye as he manipulated the material of his jeans into a groove and placed the crumpled Rizla inside it. He then watched as he sprinkled the dried up tobacco evenly over the paper and then as he nipped, tucked and finally ran his tongue over the strip of gum and rolled it up.

One of the other lads got up and made for the wannabe, he stood hovering, waiting. When an offer of a smoke wasn’t forthcoming the lad finally said,

Gizza smoke Jimmy.

The wannabe didn’t answer at first, he just looked up with the roll up dangling from his lips and gave the lad a look that could kill, he then struck the match on his thumb nail; it flared for a second as a whole lot of chemical components came together and he bent his head down and tugged on the sorry excuse for a roll up. Most of it burnt away on the first drag; swings and roundabouts.

The lad didn’t back away; instead he stayed where he was. He repeated the words after ten seconds or so. Gizza smoke Jimmy. He echoed.

Wannabe had dragged the life out of the roll up so he flicked it at the lad as a sort of reply; it bounced off him in a shower of sparks.

The lad backed away without saying another word and went back to the bench and sat on it with his head in his hands.

Johnson was minding his own business, keeping tabs on the situation without attracting attention to himself. Not that he was scared, far from it; he would relish the chance to put the wannabe in his place. He was torn between keeping a low profile and giving the wannabe the comeuppance he deserved. In the end common sense prevailed and he hung fire for the time being.

Wannabe was busy making another smoke; he was half way through the process. He had just started to sprinkle tobacco onto another of the ironed out rizla, another minute or so and he would be done and looking for someone else to exploit. He had the same inherited ability as a lion, his dad was the same and so was his dad before him; picked up from an early age it was how they had learned to get by, and nine times out of ten they got by. But it was a vicious circle that needed to be broken; all it took was the right elements coming together at the right time and that would be it—broken.

Johnson was taking advantage of the lull, he was still sprawled out using his elbow as a prop, he had his eyes half closed and lips slightly parted, breathing steadily. Waiting, watching. If he was lucky he would be out of here just after dinner, if it worked out right he might just manage a picnic bag before being released. The food in here wasn’t gourmet but what do you expect? The picnic bag consisted of a squashed, soggy, sandwich of sorts, a small packet of biscuits, a piece of fruit, and a cup of tea in a Styrofoam cup that was delivered to the bars