Essex Boy by Steve 'Nipper' Ellis; Bernard O'Mahoney Read Free Book Online Page A

home he began thinking of ways to earn the money that he would need to support his family. Being told what to do in return for a pittance of a wage was not an existence that Tate could give genuine consideration to, and so, within a couple of weeks, he had abandoned any notion of earning an honest living. We were both soon immersed in credit card scams, distributing counterfeit money, robbing drug dealers and selling cannabis. Tate had met a man in prison, who I shall call James, and he happened to be on the ascendancy in the ever-thriving drugs trade.
    Tate had kept in touch with James since his release and he knew that he was regularly supplied with large amounts of cannabis. It was decided that, when the time was right, Tate and I were going to rob James’s supplier. We arranged a meeting with James and put our proposal to him. Initially, he was reluctant to play any part in our plan but when Tate began to lose his temper over his interpretation of a snub, James quickly reconsidered and agreed that, when he was due to pick up his next shipment of drugs, he would let us know. When the call came, less than a week later, Tate told me that James was on his way to Kent to purchase 80 kilos of cannabis and we were going to intercept it. An hour later, Tate and I were parking our car in a quiet Kent suburb and walking towards a large, well-kept house.
    Not in the habit of knocking on doors, Tate ran and hurled his enormous frame at the front door and emerged on the other side roaring at the occupants, ‘Stay fucking seated. Stay fucking seated.’ Following Tate through the splintered remains of the front door, I entered the lounge waving a gun around and saw that three terrified men were cowering on the settee.
    ‘On the floor now, arseholes, and keep your hands above your head,’ I barked.
    When the men complied, I set about tying them up with nylon rope, but Tate grabbed the largest man by the head, dragged him from the floor and began punching him mercilessly. Blood splashed the walls as blow after blow rained down upon the man’s face.
    ‘You fucking cunt,’ Tate shouted, ‘you had better tell me where the gear is or you are going to die.’
    His face a mask of blood, the man could barely speak with fear and so Tate began to strangle him. I thought it highly unlikely that Tate’s vice-like grip around his already crushed windpipe would permit the man to speak, so I suggested to Tate that he be allowed to breathe. When Tate had relaxed his grip a little, I could see that the man’s swollen head had turned blue and his bulging eyes were barely able to focus, but he did manage to tell Tate that the cannabis was in two vehicles parked outside the house. A crushing blow to the middle of the man’s chest emptied his lungs of oxygen and he was left struggling to answer Tate’s final question about the whereabouts of the keys. Pointing a blood-stained shaking hand, the man indicated that his car keys were in a jacket hanging on the door.
    Having retrieved the keys Tate turned his attention towards the other men, one of whom was crying.
    ‘Fucking keys. Give me the other fucking set of keys, you slags, or I’ll shoot you all,’ Tate roared.
    The men quickly complied with Tate’s request and, moments after gate-crashing the social gathering, we were striding back through a hole in the wall where the front door had once stood. Tate opened the boot of both vehicles to ensure the drugs were on board and then like an excited child he began to shriek because he had found not only the cannabis but a bag containing £50,000 in cash.
    ‘Eighty fucking kilos, Nipper, and a wedge of cash, not a bad night’s work, eh?’ Tate said. ‘I will have to take a bit of additional expenses to get my clothes dry cleaned though. One of those bastards has bled all over me,’ he added laughing.
    We drove both of the vehicles back to where we had parked ours and transferred the cash and drugs into our boot. Laughing and joking about the