Aside from his kids, Danny Jordan only had one real love in his life. Elizabeth the third he called her, Lizzy for short. She was a white Nissan minibus and his pride and joy. He, Lizzy and a few mates had been wearing out the road from Sunderland to Calais for the last four years, and he proudly told anyone who would listen that, unlike a few women he could mention, Lizzy had never once let him down.
Danny called her Elizabeth because of his love for old films and the queen of his dreams was Elizabeth Taylor. He'd worn out at least four tapes of Giant, and his current girlfriend Julie was starting to kick up a fuss.
And who could blame her, his cousin Len had said when he'd admitted to once or twice, in the throes of passion, calling Julie Elizabeth. A common mistake, he shrugged. It only ever happened when he went up to bed straight after watching Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Completely understandable. He still couldn't see how she could say he was obsessed with the film star. Fancy being jealous of a film star! His ex-wife Jade had been the same, and the evil bitch had even taken to kicking Lizzy's tyres every time he called round to pick the kids up. He just couldn't understand the problem. It wasn't as if Elizabeth Taylor was gonna walk through Houghton-Ie-Spring any time soon, for Christ's sake, nor was she ever gonna be perched on the top of Penshaw Monument where nearly the whole bloody world would be able to see her, worse luck.
He sighed. Women. Bet they don't even understand themselves.
Danny was tall, thick set and in dire need of a shave ten minutes after he'd had one. He had dark hair, green eyes and, usually, a friendly smile. He also had a mortgage that he struggled with monthly, and a maintenance bill that he swore supported half the kids on the Seahills.
He worked shifts at the Nissan car factory, which left him with ample time to make his frequent trips to the Continent for the duty-free fags and booze that helped keep his head just above water and his three bairns in shoe leather. He swore if it wasn't for the extra few bob he made on the booze trips, he'd be rising out of his grave every morning and clocking on well into the year 3006.
He was waiting outside his cousin's house in Tulip Crescent. When he was a kid, his friends had called it the House of Usher after an old Hammer horror, and now their kids still called it that, though they probably did not know the reason why.
Not that yer could blame them, Danny thought, as the red satin curtains twitched. It was an imposing building that had been in Len's family for years but was in desperate need of a paint and grass grew out of the drains. It wasn't so bad inside, or it wouldn't be if Len's daughters didn't insist on draping the furniture with black lace and spraying everything with patchouli. Danny was just about to give up waiting and knock on the door, when Len appeared, shutting the door behind him.
At forty-two, Len was as tall and dark as Danny, with green eyes that were a shade or two lighter than his cousin's, but the resemblance ended there. Len was extremely thin, with legs not much fatter than a pair of pipe cleaners. He had the look of a professional pall bearer off to perfection, especially since he had taken to dressing in top-to-toe black after his wife had died three years ago. It also didn't help that the remaining two ladies in the house, his daughters - nineteen-year-old Carol and seventeen-year-old Lucie - were both goths, who dyed their hair a deep shade of purple, hung heavy silver crucifixes around their necks, wore long, floaty dresses that laced up at the bodice and made up their pale faces with dark eyeliner and black lipstick. Danny often wondered where the hell they got black lipstick from, but seeing as both girls were fire-brands, and very touchy on most subjects, Danny kept his questions close to his chest. He wouldn't be surprised if they got called Morticia or Vampira to their faces; it was what he called them behind their backs.
After locking the door, taking three steps up the path, then spinning round and going back to check that the door really was locked, a habit that drove the usually laid-back Danny up the wall, Len, blue plastic carrier bag swinging at his side, strode up the path and jumped into the minibus. Danny sniffed the air, praying that Len didn't have egg sandwiches again. Three days ago he'd very nearly caused a mutiny on the bus over the stink the eggs had made after being wrapped up and sweating in the heat of the van for nearly twenty hours.
God only knows what he's got in that carrier bag, but anything was better than day-old boiled egg sandwiches, that's for sure.
Got to keep everybody happy, usually that's quite easy: just make sure that Adam doesn't take his trainers off.
"Morning," Len grunted with his usual dour smile as he made himself comfortable. For the next day and a half, apart from their time spent on the ship, Lizzy would be home to five men. That's why Len always demanded family rights: he was the first to be picked up so that he could stake his claim on the best seat.
Len loved his comforts - always had. Danny had lost count of the times they had camped out as kids, and he'd woken up in the middle of the night stiff as a board, freezing cold and completely alone because Len's bed had called him home.
He watched Len through the mirror. Satisfied that he was sitting down and buckled up, he drove to the next pick-up, Brian Levy's. Brian was medium height, thick set and very strong as he worked out almost every day in the gym. He kept his long brown hair tied back in a ponytail that hung past his shoulder blades; his eyes were the same colour as his hair. No one knew too much about Brian. Len, whose opinions on every matter were frequently aired, reckoned that Brian was forty pretending to be thirty, a sign of vanity, according to Len. Danny didn't disagree with Len when it came to Brian - he noticed that he dressed young for his age in tracksuits and trainers, and occasionally wore a baseball cap; once or twice he'd turned up in a hoodie. And it all seemed to be the latest, trendy gear, the stuff you saw teenagers wear.
Brian had only lived on the Seahills for a couple of years, so no one really knew for a fact how old he was, and no one cared to ask. He'd come knocking on Danny's door one day six months ago to buy a packet of duty-frees and talked himself into a job. His accent was South Durham pit village, although which one was anybody's guess. As far as anyone knew he lived alone in the corner house in Daffodil Crescent. But he kept to himself and worked hard, and both were assets as far as Danny was concerned.
For some reason Brian had the same annoying habit of double-checking everything just as Len did. Only Brian wasn't content with just checking the damn door and maybe having a quick glance through the window. Oh no, Brian also went back into the bloody house to check everything out, and God only knows what else he did in there.
Resting his elbows on Lizzy's steering wheel and his chin in his hands, Danny sighed. Brian's ritual took four minutes each time they made the trip, and there was no way in God's known universe that he could be hurried along. And Danny certainly wasn't gonna try. He had a feeling that Brian could be hiding a real mean streak, and he wasn't gonna get on the bad side of him, not for a measly four minutes.
Brian finally jumped in the van and Danny felt like applauding. He said his good-mornings, sat down with legs stretched out in front of him and, using his rolled-up sleeping bag for a pillow, promptly went to sleep. This suited Danny, because in four hours Brian would take over the driving and Danny liked to think that Lizzy was in the safe hands of a fully rested driver.
Before they moved off to the next pick-up, Danny leaned over and opened the glove compartment to check the three grand he had stashed there. He would do this many times on the road to France, much to the annoyance of his passengers, who would look at each other then pull faces behind his back as they shook their heads at this silly little habit, none of them realising their own little habits annoyed Danny just as much.
Danny stopped outside of Adam Glazier's door, at the other end of the street to Brian's. Adam was already outside and waiting for them. He was twenty-six years old, tall and slim with fair hair that was already thinning on top, his hazel eyes had a slightly oriental slant and his right front tooth was snapped in half. Having broken away from home and tried life on his own in a council flat for three months a year ago, he'd decided that life was much easier with his widowed mam, even if he had to put up with shit from his teenage twin sisters. At least there was always food on the table, so he had moved back home. The three-bedroom semi-detached house was also home to four boxer dogs. Oscar, the eldest, was beaten, only marginally, in his lager consumption by Adam's mother, Brenda.
"Hi guys," Adam said, his perpetual grin lighting up his face as he stepped over Brian's legs and flopped down next to Len. "Wanna hear a good joke?"
Len looked him up and down, snorted loudly, then muttered something unintelligible under his breath before swinging his head back to the window.
"What?" Adam asked, his eyebrows raised in a picture of innocence.
Len turned back, gave Adam a calculated stare, and then said an emphatic, "No."
"Why not?" Adam held his hands out palms up and looked around the minibus as if he had a huge audience.
"Cos it'll be yer usual stupid crap, yer daft idiot, so what's the point... And if yer ask me yer just make them up as yer go along, 'cos believe you me, each one's worse than the one before, so there."
"No, I don't make them up. Anyhow, yer've got no sense of humour at all. Yer as miserable as me cousin Jimmy. He wouldn't get a punch line if it stood up on two legs and bit his friggin nipple."
"Aye, yer do make them up, yer tell the worst jokes I've ever heard... And half of them are blasphemous." Len tutted. "And, of all things, fancy mentioning yer cousin's nipples! See what I mean, depraved, that's what yer are... depraved."
"Oh no," Adam groaned, "he's on his God trip again... And anyhow, somebody's gotta make them up, else where do yer think they come from, eh?... God's little joke shop in the sky?"
"See what I mean, do yer see what I mean... blasphemy." Len practically spat the last word at Adam. "Yer should be struck right between yer eyes."
"Just tell the joke will yer? For Christ's sake." Brian snapped, glaring at Adam with one eye.
"I thought you were asleep?"
"I was 'tit you arrived, yer prick."
"OK, OK, chill."
Brian's other eye opened and Adam was just about to tell his joke when Danny said, "We've got to pick Jacko Musgrove up, then we'll be on our way. The forecast's fine so we should make good time this trip."
Adam's ears pricked up, but he wasn't interested in the weather forecast, he left that to Danny.
"Is Jacko joining the crew now Danny?"
"Aye, just for the run up 'til Christmas like. Remember last year, there was nowt left come Boxing Day. And I had four days of hell with people knocking on the door. I'm certain half of them thought I was telling lies. Jesus, if I'd had the gear I would have been over the moon to sell it."
"Good. I like Jacko."
Len grunted his approval and Brian, who didn't know Jacko that well, shrugged his shoulders. As the last man to join the crew he had very little say.
Danny drove down the street. At the bottom he turned right then right again, which brought him outside Jacko Musgrove's house. He beeped the horn twice but it was from across the road, the house facing his, that Jacko came, the house Christina Jenkins shared with her father.
Hand in hand they walked down the path to the gate. Once there Jacko took Christina in his arms and kissed her. It was clear to all of them on the bus that she returned the kiss a thousand times over even though her face was as scarlet as the jumper she wore.
"Oooo," Adam said. "Since when have them two buggers been an item?"
"A few months now. They got together just after Christina was attacked and little Melanie went missing, remember, round about Houghton Feast time?" Len put in, pleased that he had the gen and it gave him one up on Adam.
"Oh aye, nasty business that, we were all out looking for Melanie, like. Me and me mam had the dogs out," Adam replied, still ogling Christina.
"What I want to know," Brian said, "is what's a good-looking chick like her doing with an ugly bugger like him. He's got a patch on his eye, and scars on his cheek."
Len snorted, "Jacko's not ugly, at least not underneath where it counts. And he wasn't born like that, that happened in a bike accident. And he's not as ugly as some I could mention." Len's eyes raked Adam up and down.
But Adam was still looking at Christina, wondering why he couldn't get somebody like that, and he didn't take the bait, thinking Len was now having a go at Brian. Jacko kissed Christina again, then whispered something in her ear which made her smile. A moment later he was climbing into the bus and saying hello to everybody.
They each returned the greeting then settled down for the long haul.
As they pulled onto the main road through the Burnside that led from Houghton, Adam winked at Jacko. "When's the wedding then?"
Jacko laughed, "Give us a chance mate, we're not even engaged yet."
"Slow aren't yer?"
Jacko shrugged.
"How's her old man taking it?" Danny asked.
"Not good, but Christina's stronger now and the old git's not getting so much of his own way. Besides he's no match for Doris."
Doris was Jacko's mother and a force to be reckoned with.
Len nodded, "Aye, she'll show Jenkins the road home alright."
"True," Adam agreed. He'd been on the receiving end of Doris's wrath before. "Anyhow, want to hear a good joke?"
Len groaned as Brian snapped, "Just tell the joke will yer?"
"OK, OK, chill... Right, what's the difference between an in-law and an outlaw?"
Len couldn't help himself: even though he moaned about Adam's jokes he fell for it every time. "What then... Come on, tell us."
"An outlaw's wanted." Adam slapped his own thigh as he laughed out loud.
As they pulled onto the A19 and the others groaned, Danny chuckled. He quite liked Adam's jokes.
To find out what happens to this odd company, and the other residents of the Seahills Estate, read Sheila Quigley's third thriller, Living on a Prayer.