Kerry Barnes - The Rules

When Tatum had arrived at Maidstone Prison, he’d called her and set up a meeting for her with a man named Leon Khouri. He gave her the parcel to take into the prison, but the handover had never taken place. Her son Ricky had been expected to take the drugs on the visit, but he’d flatly refused, and she’d been left shitting herself. Luckily, she’d managed to get away from the visiting room with the parcel still concealed in her oversized hair bun.

Her mind went into overdrive: there was always money in drugs , she thought.

***

Before leaving her caravan, she had called Leon, in the hope that he would see her. To her surprise, he’d agreed. Heading over to South-East London, Jackie pondered what she would say when she met the man. She was aware that he was seriously dangerous because Tatum had already given her the heads-up when she’d picked up the parcel. His deep, intense glare had been concerning enough. Compared to her husband, Mike, though, he was probably only small fry, but she’d escaped that relationship twelve years ago and hoped that Mike had given up looking for her and Ricky. Little did she know that Ricky had met up with his father in prison.

The sun beaming down turned her car into an oven. Dressed in the velour tracksuit more suited to colder weather, Jackie was sweating buckets. She peered into the rear-view mirror and cursed; her eyeliner was embedded into the wrinkles around her eyes and her drawn-on eyebrows had smudged. Her hair had lost its lustre and gained a frizzy halo. As she looked away from the mirror and straight ahead, she suddenly had to slam on the brakes. A tall, slim woman, wearing a flowy dress, stepped onto the zebra crossing. Jackie gritted her teeth. She’d once looked like her, but the last twelve years had left her tired, and although she hated to admit it, she was looking old. Without the money to get her lip fillers and Botox, she was bordering on ugly.

Once the woman had crossed the road, Jackie set off again. Turning into the long, overgrown drive that eventually widened into a dusty track, Jackie could smell the dryness in the air. A few chickens ran out in front of her, making her slam on the brakes again. At that moment, she felt nervous. This place was miles away from anywhere, and no one knew where she was going or would even care for that matter. She hesitated. It would be sensible just to turn around and head back. But behind her was another car, a large black BMW, and so she continued along the drive.

The farmhouse looked like an unsuspecting old cottage, with rambling roses and a wishing well by the front door – a typical pensioner’s palace. Then, as she parked the car, she noticed more vehicles behind the cottage. Her heart began to beat even faster. There was no way she could go back because the Beemer had blocked her in. She would have to hold her head up and not show she was nervous. Her whole body shook anyway, from all the drinking, but clutching her fake Chanel bag, she managed to steady her hands.

Jackie didn’t need to knock at the door because the man who had followed her in his car placed a thick, muscly arm over her shoulder and pushed the door open.

She turned enough to nod politely and was met with a cold stare. She didn’t recognize the tall, heavily built man and wondered if he was a business associate of Leon’s or someone higher up the chain. He certainly wasn’t a copper. The tattoo on his neck and across his chunky knuckles confirmed that little notion.

Stepping inside, she was surprised at the layout. What was probably once the main living room was now an office with just a few essentials. However, the room kept its rustic charm, with exposed oak floorboards and a beamed ceiling. To the right was a large wooden desk and directly in front of her were two brown velvet sofas. The random mismatch of dining room chairs and a coffee table with magazines on it reminded her of a dentist’s waiting room.

The previous meeting had been brief. All she’d done was to knock at the door and give her name and take the parcel. At the time, she just assumed it was the dealer’s house. She hadn’t realized that the cottage held any special significance. Judging by the hard-faced men in the room, though, she had clearly been mistaken.

Sitting behind the desk was Leon. He appeared to stiffen and looked uneasy when the tattooed man came in. ‘Everything kosher, Steph?’ he asked nervously.

The tattooed man snatched a briefcase from one of the seated men, gave a menacing sneer in Leon’s direction, and marched out the door. The tension suddenly lifted, and the men, who were gathered and poring over a large map of South-East London, went back to circling areas on it, using black felt-tip pens. Jackie didn’t know whether to say hello or ignore them and walk over to Leon. She suddenly remembered her make-up had run in the heat: she’d been distracted by the car behind, causing her to forget about the state of her appearance. Now, she was feeling uncomfortable and could have kicked herself.

Leon looked up and waved his hand for two of the men to leave. He grinned and leaned back in his chair.

‘Hello again, Jackie.’

She took two steps forward and nodded. ‘Hi,’ she said, feeling very awkward.

‘So, Jackie, what can I do for you?’ His sly grin widened. He was mocking her, and she knew it.

With her back now to the ominous men, a surge of gumption shot through her veins. ‘It’s more about what I can do for you.’

Leon raised an eyebrow and lost his grin. She noticed how his deep-set eyes were close together. They were dark, like his hair. His skin was olive. Maybe he’s Italian or an Arab , she thought, yet he spoke like a Londoner.

‘Is that so, Jackie? Only I didn’t come knocking at your door, you came knocking at mine.’

She smiled and hoped he was joking, but his eyes narrowed again. ‘So, what is it then that you can do for me?’

‘I know people and—’

He laughed. ‘We all know people, darling.’

‘Yeah, but I know people that I can sell to.’

No sooner had she got the words out of her mouth than Leon lunged across the desk and snatched her hair, pulling it an inch from his face. ‘Bad fucking move, tramp!’

She almost tasted the whisky on his breath, but it was mixed with the taste of her own fear. Wide-eyed and petrified, Jackie didn’t move.

Leon let her go and looked over at the men sitting on the sofa. ‘Leave us, gentlemen, please.’

He didn’t have to ask twice; they swiftly headed for the door, leaving him glaring at Jackie.

‘Who the fuck do you think you are, coming into my premises and announcing to everyone in the room that you can sell stuff? You don’t even know who those fucking men are, do ya? Who the hell do you take me for? I ain’t no small-time fucking street dealer. I gave you a parcel for an associate of mine, and now you’re presenting yourself like you’re some kinda gangster! The only thing you could sell, Jackie, is ya fucking fanny, a score at most. Now, get outta my house and never fucking come back!’

Shaking all over, Jackie was on the point of leaving, but she’d driven all this way, and she needed money. ‘Look, Leon, I’m sorry about that. I stupidly assumed . . . well, never mind. I just thought I could work for you. I’m a grown woman. The Filth won’t sniff around me, if ya know what I mean.’

Leon stretched his neck and rubbed his bristles. ‘So, then, you want to sell drugs?’

Jackie thought he was a bit blunt, but at the end of the day, he was right. Swallowing hard, she nodded. ‘I don’t take drugs myself and I’ve got no criminal record. I keep meself to meself, but I reckon—’

Leon interrupted. ‘You don’t take drugs? Really?’ His eyes regarded her ragged appearance.