The Crime Syndicate

A British Crime Thriller Collection

M J Newman

MJ Newman Books

Copyright © 2016 by Mark J. Newman

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Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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CHARACTERS

Malkie Thompson - Recently released from prison. Now working for Glasgow crime boss, McAlister. Problem is Malkie’s got ambitions to go it alone.

Frank Mayer - Malkie’s right hand man, an original member from the Glasgow street gang

George Patterson - Recruited by Frank Mayer, impressed by his appetite for violence, joined the street gang.

Billly Kane - Malkie Thompson’s nearest thing to a best pal, been around since their school days. Willing to do whatever it takes for Malkie and the organisation.

Agnes Thompson - Mother of Malkie Thompson

Violet Thompson - Agnes’s younger sister and aunt to Malkie Thompson

McAlister - Glasgow’s Mr Big of the criminal fraternity. A man not to be crossed.

Johnston - Personal driver for McAlister

Rob Masters & Cory Finnegan - Enforcers for McAlister’s firm

The Macbride brothers - Associates of Glasgow underworld kingpin McAlister

John Blake & Kieran Williams - Former British Army soldiers. Now ex-pat freelance contractors, based on the Portuguese Algarve. Operate on word of mouth recommendations. Specialists in armed raids throughout the UK and Europe.

Rachel Proctor - Young, and strapped for cash single mother, willing to provide information in exchange for money.

Michael Phillips - Royal Mint Processing Plant Supervisor

Baxter - McAlister’s south of the border connection, known as the Sassenach to the Scots. A former police officer, operating as a freelance cleaner for the criminal fraternity.

Vinnie Edwards - Midlands based crime boss. Specialises in extortion.

DI Chas Morrison - Serving detective in West Midlands Police. A corrupt cop, in the pocket of Vinnie Edwards. Passes on sensitive information in return for cash payments. Plans to disappear to Costa Del Sol once he has enough money to fund his lifestyle.

‘Tanya’ - Mistress of Vinnie Edwards.

‘Box Cutter Boys’ - Members of Vinnie’s crew, muscle he uses for extortion and keeping a check on his business interests.

Charlie Green - Proprietor of Breaks Snooker Club

Laura Edwards - Vinnie’s wife

Lila Edwards - Vinnie’s daughter

Callaghan - Crime lord of the North East, based in Newcastle, rumoured to have Irish Republican connections back in the old country.

Prologue

Glasgow 1976

Agnes Thompson waits for the knock at the door. Inevitable, same way she feels the dread in the pit of her stomach. Nothing she can do about it. Resigned to it - this her lot. She’s accepted it for what it is. Normality. The way it’s been since her worthless husband decided upon a disappearing act four months ago.

She looks out from her third story tenement rain battered window, the street below a kaleidoscopic blur. This is the place she calls home, nothing more than a one bedroomed shithole. Rising damp leaving its mark - inky black staccato stains forming a trail along the skirting, finding sanctuary in cold dark corners.

Life was never easy when her husband was around, but this new reality, this is something else.

Agnes takes a long hard drag on her cigarette and holds it deep in her lungs. If the damp doesn’t get her first, she’s damned sure the woodbines will do the trick. Part of her welcomes it, anything’s better than this. This eternal misery she calls life.

That’s when the guilt slaps her full on in the face, harder than anything the old man could ever muster. What about Malkie, what will he do when she’s not around?

A vision of her sister, Violet, comes into play. Pretty little thing. Long, black ebony hair and big brown eyes that men seem to melt into. She’s not what you might call the maternal type. Agnes’s younger sister has a liking for the drink and men. In Violet’s case, where there’s one, the other seems to follow. A surrogate mother in the making? Agnes doubts it.

Three loud successive wraps on the door bring Agnes back from her melancholic daydreaming. She stubs out her cigarette and adjusts her holdups. The special black ones, with the lace spiral pattern at the top. That’s what he likes. Last time he called, he made a point of getting her to put them on in front of him.

‘Next time,’ he said, ‘be wearing them.’

Agnes takes a sharp intake of breath. She buoys herself up for the next installment. Looks at herself in the faux art deco mirror, a framework of trapezoid and triangular shapes. She adjusts her hair, then licks her lips. That time already. Not that she needs to check. She can set her watch by him. Or at least she could, until she pawned it. Little good it did - bought some time. Made a small contribution and put a dent in the back payments.

Agnes walks to the door, she pauses one last time. Closes her eyes and tries to block out the reality. May God forgive me.

She opens it, her best fake smile plastered across her face.

He’s standing, leaning against the doorjamb. Half-smoked cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. Agnes, ten years his senior but still a good-looking woman. The man facing her, the tenement landlord - McAlister. He’s come to collect. Some say he’s one to watch. A man in the ascendency. The name of McAlister - one of growing reputation. Feared and respected in equal measure. Rumours emanate around Glasgow. McAlister’s not a man you cross. Agnes needs to tread careful, she’s got to keep him on-side. Play the game, for little Malkie’s sake as much as her own.

Truth is, he’s not so little these days. Growing up fast. Spends more time outside the house than in. Christ knows what he’s up to. She’ll take it as a blessing. Agnes doesn’t want him around when McAlister comes calling.

The arrangement, as McAlister likes to call it, it’s way past the honeymoon period. Gone are the days of small talk and chit-chat. Working off the payments is nothing more than business - the sex, sterile and functional. Devoid of emotion.

‘You look good Agnes,’ he says, as a way of greeting, grabbing her by the hips, pulling her to him. Close and intimate, she can feel his urgency pressing up against her.

No escape. His breath, a mixture of tobacco and drink. Agnes tries to wriggle from his grip, but he holds her tight. His hand reaching round the back of her head, he pulls her face to his, then forces his tongue inside her mouth. She wants to gag but needs to play along - at least for now.

‘Been thinking about you all morning, Agnes. What I’m gonna do...’

She frees herself, then ushers him inside, away from prying eyes. Agnes closes the door to the outside world. She might be whoring herself to keep a roof overhead, but she’s still got her dignity, and no way is she putting on a show for the neighbours.

‘You wearing them?’ he says.

Agnes nods her head.

‘Show me.’

Agnes hoicks up her maroon pleated skirt, three inches beyond the knee. Just enough to offer a taste. She watches as McAlister licks his lips. His stare never leaving her thigh. She takes the material a little higher, enjoying the power of the moment. It’s a small win, but she’ll take what she can get.

‘Stop.’

Agnes frowns, she says nothing. Time to play along.

‘Take it slow,’ says McAlister.

She complies. ‘Like this,’ she whispers, watching as he battles his desire. Agnes teases the dress a centimetre at a time, her stare fixed on the strange expression upon McAlister’s face.

He reaches out to stroke her leg. Agnes bats his hand away - watching as his pupils dilate. His black serpent like eyes lock on to hers. Foreplay done with, he grabs her by the arm and shoves her towards the bedroom.

Malkie brings his leg back, then swings it forward, his foot connects with the crushed can. The force of the kick hoofs the decimated piece of tin forward. His eye follows the trajectory, watching its descent as it lands thirty feet further down the road. He charges forward. Teeth bared, it’s his for the taking. Nothing’s going to stand in his way. He shoulder barges his opponent, adding a jab to the gut as the taller, gangly youth stumbles off to the side.

Malkie shoots for goal, then fist pumps the cold grey sky, watching as the can crosses the line.

‘Fucking beauty.’

His face beaming, he turns to his friend. ‘Come on Frankie, we’re out of here. Let’s go see what your maw’s cooking up on the stove, eh?’

‘You’re a cheeky bastard, Thompson, and sure enough she’ll be glad to see you. Fuck knows why.’

‘It’s how it is, Frankie. I’m like the prodigal son,’ says Malkie, taking a mock bow.

‘Aye, you wish.’

‘Come on, let’s get back to mine. Something I want to pick up on the way.’

‘What’s that?’ says Frankie.

‘Nowt to worry about. Little surprise. Something to keep the chill from your bones.’

Malkie and Frank make their way down the road, back towards the house. The two of them talking shit about their exploits and dreaming about the day they’ll carve a slice of the city - one to call their own.

‘... Frankie, that’s why you’re my right hand. You and me together, pal. Telling you now, this city won’t…’

Malkie stops dead centre of the road, his words tail off then evaporate. Frank continues two paces before realising he’s flying solo. He turns. ‘What’s up, you shat yourself or something?’

Malkie says nothing. He’s standing - mute, staring off into the middle distance.

Frank spins on his heel, his eye darting from one side of the road to the other. A cluster of cars, made of a white Mark 1 Ford Escort and a shitty brown Morris Marina with a vinyl roof, sit idle at the kerbside. Beyond that his eye settles on the olive green Hillman Minx, its glory days long gone, the wing and sills conceding to rust. He squints, recognition follows. His eyes focus on the object that’s got Malkie spooked. To the untrained eye it’s a thing of beauty - sky-blue paint job, V8 3 litre engine, the Triumph Stag. For Malkie, it’s a gut punch of a reminder.

‘Guess you’re not coming to mine after-all.’

‘No. You get yourself on home, Frankie. I’ll wait here a while. Check everything’s okay.’

Frank turns to face Malkie’s third floor tenement window. ‘Want me to stay. You just say the word, it’s no bother.’

‘No. It’s fine. On you go. I got this, Frankie.’

He nods agreement, knowing better than to press Malkie. He’s seen that look before. ‘Aye. Okay. No bother. Catch you tomorrow.’

Malkie watches Frank disappear from view, then turns his head towards the third-floor window. He takes a pre-rolled cigarette from behind his ear and lights up. The smoke wafting up, stinging at his eyes, but he won’t avert his stare. Something compels him to keep watching. His mother, god bless her, thinks she’s shielded him from the truth - but Malkie knows the extent to which she’d go to keep them both off the streets.

One day mother, I’ll make this right. I promise you that.

Ian McAlister - slum landlord and rising star of the Glasgow underworld. Rumoured to be making in-roads to the top flight. Feared and respected by all those in the know. To Malkie, all he sees is a man, one that hides behind a flash suit and a sports car. Nothing but fakery and sleight of hand.

Malkie takes out his knife and presses the chrome stud button. A smile broadening on his face as the five-inch blade projects from inside the black and chrome edged handle. He turns it around, holding it up towards the sunlight streaking out from behind greyed alabaster clouds. He takes his time admiring the design of its lethal beauty.

He raises his eyes back towards the window, then plunges the tip into his palm. He drags the cold steel in a downward motion, opening up a two-and-a-half inch gash. There’s comfort in its effect as the warm sticky claret pools around the edges of the blade.

Memories of his last street brawl flood into vision. The boy was older, almost a man. Never thought the small kid would strike out at him like that. He had it coming. Malkie gave him a chance, told him to back off. The lanky streak of piss laughed in his face. Malkie knew then he’d carve him a smile - something permanent. A reminder he’d carry forward in life. Every time he looked in the mirror, he’d remember never underestimate the underdog.

It’s close to four months since his father went AWOL. Not that that was a problem. Thompson senior went unmissed. He spent most of his time staring into the bottom of an empty pint glass. What little money he made, he pissed up against the wall.

When he made it home, that’s when the real trouble started. His favourite pastime, to knock seven bells out of Malkie’s mother. When he’d done with her, he’d start on Malkie. Whatever fate had befallen Thompson senior, Malkie hoped it was something permanent.

Malkie crossed to the kerbside. He made a point of walking round the car. Slow and deliberate, taking his time to admire its design.

He could feel the eyes on him, hidden behind rags that passed for makeshift curtains. Seemed foolish to him - to leave such a fine-looking vehicle unattended. Such was McAlister’s ego. Confident that he could park anywhere he wanted, without the need for a minder and the arrogance to forgo the paying of tax to a local to watch over the car.

Malkie tapped the five-inch blade on the door panel, half an inch below the chrome strip. He applied a little more pressure, then walked, dragging the tip of the knife across the paintwork - enough to leave the faintest of scratches. He continued until he’d walked the perimeter of the Triumph Stag twice over.

Satisfied. He admired his handiwork, then retracted the blade and stuck it in his back pocket. He walked the five paces to the tenement door, opened it, then made his way inside, up three flights of stairs to the place he called home.

At the top of the stairs, Malkie took a moment to right himself. The last place he wanted to be right now was here. He opened the door. Stood there - looking in. His legs unable to move, his feet welded to the spot. He balled his fists and listened. The room - devoid of sound or movement. The bedroom door off to the right - ajar. He crept along, careful to dodge the two floorboards under the rug. The ones the old man had pulled up, a hidey hole to stash his drink money. Neither Malkie nor his mother - supposed to know it was there. His father’s secret, along with the rolled up porno mag he kept hidden down there.

Malkie found it the morning after the night before. He’d watched as the old man stumbled in. Part of the usual routine. A little before midnight, enough time for him to sit and brood after closing time, before making his way home. Malkie pretended to be asleep on his mattress, huddled up in the far corner. Experience had taught him it was safer that way. His father entered, mumbling an incoherent rant - arguing with the voices inside his own head, something about Teddy’s wake. Then he’d stuffed the notes and coins down into the hole, replaced the boards and rug, before collapsing on the floor. It was Agnes who’d come to his aid, pulled him to his feet, then dragged him to the marital bed. Seemed his mother had a talent for attracting a certain man. The type who got a kick out of keeping the little woman in her place. At least with the old man, the booze dampened his fire - for the most part. On occasion it morphed into something angrier, more deep-rooted, an unprecedented violence.

Malkie tip-toed midway across the room when McAlister stepped out from the bedroom, tucking in his shirttails. Malkie looked past him, could see his mother lying in the bed, her face turned to the wall.

‘What you doing skulking around out here, son?’

Malkie said nothing - returning the strangers glare.

‘You know who I am?’ said McAlister, moving further into the room, making his way to the mirror to comb his dark ruffled hair back into position.

Malkie watched the reflection as the Brylcreem held the guy’s receding hairline in place. ‘I’ve seen you around.’

McAlister laughed, keeping his eye on the reflection in the mirror. ‘You’re not scared are you, kid? I like that. You got balls. Plenty twice your age wouldn’t stare at me the way you are right now.’

Malkie continued to stare. Movement from the bedroom forcing his eyes to avert for a split second, before returning to McAlister.

‘She’s okay, needs to rest awhile, that’s all.’ McAlister stepped away from the mirror, the hint of a smirk on his face as he reached for his jacket. ‘Here,’ he said, taking his wallet from the inside pocket, ‘Treat yourself - it’s on me.’ He held out his hand, a single pound note protruding from his fist.

Malkie looked at the money, then back to McAlister.

‘What, you don’t want it, too proud to take my money? Fine, have it your way.’

McAlister stuffed the note back inside his wallet, then disappeared into the bedroom. He made his way round to the window, to the dresser and placed a crisp unused five pound note on the surface. He moved to Agnes, kissed the top of her head, ‘Buy yourself something nice. Want you to look good and make sure it’s something I’ll like.’

He made a point of locking eyes with Malkie before speaking again. ‘Same time next week, hen.’ The intonation in his voice, for Malkie’s benefit, a statement of intent rather than a question.

He exited the room and came to a halt two paces from Malkie. ‘You don’t like me much, do you?’

Malkie said nothing.

‘I can understand that. You’re looking out for her. Nothing wrong with that. You only get one maw, right? But don’t worry. We’re friends. We like each other’s company. That’s it. That’s all you need to know.’

Malkie stood rooted to the spot, his fists pumped tight like two hammers battling the adrenalin coursing through his veins. All he wanted to do was lunge for McAlister’s throat, knock him to the floor, then squeeze the last breath from him.

‘Thought you were Landlord, or something?’ said Malkie, keeping his temper in check.

McAlister grinned. ‘You’re a smart kid. How Old Are You?’

‘Fourteen next month.’

‘Kind of small for a fourteen-year-old,’ McAlister paused, assessing the sullen face standing in front of him. ‘Yeah, you got an attitude all right. Way you hold yourself and that scowl. Fuck me. You practise that in a mirror? You a tough guy, Malkie?’

‘I practise nothing.’

‘Don’t get all moody on me. I’m just pulling your pisser. But a word of advice, son. Don’t be staring at people like that, unless you’re ready to back it up.’

‘You’ve no need to worry about me, Mr McAlister. I do what’s needed, when it’s needed.’

McAlister chuckled to himself, ‘we all best watch out then, eh?’

Malkie balled his fists tighter, then dipped his chin.

McAlister clocked the body language. ‘You like to fight, Malkie?’

‘Depends.’

McAlister nodded his head. ‘I’ll let you in to a secret. Someone like me, it’s very rare I’d have to raise my hand these days. I have people do that for me. So tell me, why is that?’

Malkie shrugged his response but kept his eyes on McAlister’s.

‘I’ll tell you. Power. Control. Respect. Take note, young Thompson, because it’s these three factors that keep me on top - ahead of my rivals.’

Agnes entered the room, pulling her robe tight around her waist. ‘What’s going on?’ she said, her eye darting from McAlister to Malkie and back.

‘Nothing to worry about, Agnes. Me and the boy here, having a wee chat. Bright lad - you’ve got there.’

‘Malkie, go wait downstairs,’ said Agnes.

‘He’s fine where he is,’ said McAlister, not taking his eyes from Malkie. ‘We’re finishing up anyhow.’

McAlister held out his hand and summoned Agnes to him. She trundled three brief steps towards him, reluctant as to his intention. Managed a nervous glance to Malkie and back, fixing her stare on McAlister.

Malkie readied himself, light on his feet, his hand reaching round to his back pocket.

McAlister took out his wallet and held out two notes.

‘That’s unnecessary,’ said Agnes.

‘It’s for the boy, Agnes. Get him kitted out.’

‘It’s very kind, but…’

‘I insist.’

Agnes hesitated.

McAlister narrowed his eye. ‘It’s not like you don’t need it.’

‘I’ll take it,’ said Malkie, one hand on the blade in his back pocket, the other reaching out towards McAlister.

‘Fair enough,’ said McAlister, a smile breaking out over his face. ‘You ever box, Malkie?’

‘Now and then, when the mood takes me.’

‘You should. Boxing teaches discipline, fitness, speed and agility. Once you’ve got that mastered - let’s just say you can add a few adjustments to your repertoire as and when you need.’

Malkie frowned, trying to stay on track with the conversation.

‘You follow?’

‘Aye,’ said Malkie.

‘Good. This is what I want you to do,’ said McAlister, putting the money in Malkie’s hand, taking out a card from his wallet and writing on the back. ‘You familiar with Ramsay’s, the gym?’

‘Think so.’

‘Cal Ramsay’s a friend of mine. We go back a long way. Go see him, show him this card and tell him I sent you. If he needs to - he can call me. Number’s on the back.’

McAlister held out the card towards Malkie. ‘Here, take it.’

Malkie grabbed the card.

McAlister took hold of his wrist, eyeballed him, smiled, then let go.

‘You’ve got potential wee man. Need some guidance, that’s all. Ramsay will put you through your paces - right enough. If he thinks you got something he’ll put the time in - train you up. You might even make something of yourself. That’s what you want, right? To get you and your maw out of this shithole?’

Malkie said nothing, his cold eye burning into McAlister’s.

McAlister made for the door, then turned. ‘It’s your choice but do yourself a favour, take that pal of yours, the big guy - the one you’re always knocking about with.’

‘You mean Frankie?’

‘Aye, that’s him. He’s got the look and stature of a young Jackie Mayer. He any relation, I wonder?’

Malkie knew the truth of it but shrugged a response. Frankie came from a long line of bare knuckle boxers, going back four generations or more. No way was he sharing that kind of information with the likes of McAlister.

McAlister smirked from the side of his mouth as he lit a cigarette. ‘Okay, have it your way. Makes no difference to me, even if your pal is his double, but remember this - if he throws a punch half as good as old man Mayer, you two might have a…’ McAlister stopped mid flow. ‘Ah, no bother, what do I care?’

Malkie woke at his usual time of 6:15. He rolled the mattress and stuffed the bedding into the battered old wooden chest, sitting next to the window. The day was still to break, nothing but a hint of indigo and magenta slashed across the sky. He liked this hour, the house quiet, the neighbours sleeping. It gave him time to think. Soon his mother would wake, and with it her pensive mood and bad temper. Made all the worse by her night out with Violet.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t woken in the night. Strange, he noted, as he pushed the thought to the back of his mind - usually he’d hear her voice singing in the stairwell, crucifying the hell out of a Bay City Rollers track, once the mix of ale and whisky took effect. Not that he minded, Agnes was a happy drunk. It was the day after she was hell to live with. Not a scratch on the old man, though. For that they could be thankful. He was plain evil from the start, nothing but a sadistic sack of shit. Truth is, they were both well shot of him and happier for it.

Malkie crept along the floorboards, careful not to wake his mother. He slunk out of the door and down the corridor. Down the three flights of concrete stairs, then out into the yard. The rain started before he made it out of the external battered wooden door. By the time he broke mid sprint across the cobbles, it had soaked him to the skin. He took some comfort knowing he’d be first in line to use the communal WC and on a rare occasion such as this, could take his time about it.

If McAlister was true to his word, soon enough they’d get rehoused.

Easterhouse - if Agnes got her way. Frankie had gotten the nod his family were moving at the end of the week. Not that they had a choice in the matter. The wrecking ball had been on site for over a month, ready for the go. As soon as the last diehard tenants packed up their shit, the demolition team had instructions to raise the half mile area to the ground.

Like any other place, Easterhouse had its share of problems. Malkie had listened as his older cousins regaled colourful accounts of their exploits running with the gangs. Bloody retellings of hand to hand combat, where hatchets and blades came into play. Skirmishes, his kin claimed to have won. Not that he had cause to doubt them, their faces tattered and torn, bearing scars of conflict - worn like medals of honour. Malkie relished the prospect of moving out to the Schemes, new territory to claim as his own. The perfect setting for an ambitious young man, keen to make his mark.

Ten minutes later he returned to the one bedroomed tenement. He pushed the door ajar, half expecting Agnes to be standing waiting in the middle of the room, ready to tear into him over something or other.

The room was still. Malkie entered, he grabbed a damp towel from the drying rack. He held it towards his nostrils, only making it halfway before the stale mildew wrinkled his nose. Needs must. He dried off, doing his best to hold his breath whenever the towel came close to his face.

He finished in record time, driven on by the cold that was threatening to take lumps out of him if he delayed. Malkie reached on top of the cupboard, searching for remnants of Thompson senior’s leftover Old Spice talc, anything to mask the offensive odour. He found it and applied it under his arms. Blinking as his eyes watered from the powder, he raised his index finger and pressed it underneath his nose to quell the sneeze that threatened to erupt.

When it had passed he dressed in the far corner of the room. He wore the same clothes as the day before. Blue denim jeans, white t-shirt and his brown and beige tartan patterned jacket with the big collar. His appointment at the local bathhouse still three days off, he’d make do for now.

He skulked to the bedroom door. Shut - tight to the jamb. He twisted the white wooden knob, wincing as it squeaked, turning clockwise to three o’clock. Malkie put his shoulder to door, remembering that it had a tendency to stick. The door opened. He peered in around the edge. The bed was empty - undisturbed. Agnes hadn’t made it home. She’d either got lucky or was worse for wear, sleeping it off at her sister’s. Malkie had never known his maw to date other men. Not that he’d blame her even if she did. The way things stood, tied in with McAlister, and their arrangement, he got the impression the local godfather wasn’t the type to share his women.

Malkie decided it was time to make a house call. Violet’s place was less than three miles on foot. If he got a move on he could be there inside the hour. He made it as far as the first floor. There she was, collapsed, half slouched against the bannister rail. Sobbing.

He rushed to her, lifted her head. Her make-up smeared. Her eyes defeated. Puffy, swollen and red.

‘Maw,’ said Malkie. ‘What’s wrong. Tell me what’s happened? Someone hurt you? McAlister, did he do something? Talk to me?’

Agnes took Malkie’s hand and gripped it. Her red-rimmed eyes boring into his. ‘She’s gone…’ her voice tailed off as the tears rolled. ‘My sweet Violet, they’ve taken her…’

Agnes’s voice broke off again, her chest heaving in rapid motion as the sobbing vied for command.

‘You’re not making sense. What do you mean?’

‘She’s gone… Gone, I tell you.’

‘Gone where? Who took her?’

Malkie grabbed Agnes by the shoulders and tried to shake some sense into her. ‘Has someone got hold of aunt Violet? Tell me. I’ll go find her?’

Agnes fought to control her ragged breaths. ‘She’s dead, Malkie… Bastards killed her. Left her battered and naked. Her body discarded on waste ground.’

Malkie felt the anger rise within. ‘What? No. It can’t be. It’s got to be a mistake. Who told you this?’

‘It’s the truth, son… I’ve seen her with my own eyes. She’s dead.’

Malkie pulled Agnes towards him - held her close. ‘I’ll make this right. I swear to you, maw. I’ll find who did this.’

1

Back in eighty-eight, Vinnie Edwards ran the city. He controlled it all, nothing went down that he didn’t know about. Problem was, he didn’t figure on Malkie Thompson showing up and staking his claim.

Malkie and his crew started making noises mid-July of the same year. They travelled down from north of the border. Their destination, the Midlands, the former industrial heartland of England. They made for the central region, their impact immediate, ripping off a building society. Pure textbook heist, a daylight job, zero casualties, save for the cashier pissing himself.

Simple but effective. A three-man crew, one on the door, Frank waving a shooter, a modified double-barrelled shotgun, cut short, making it easy to conceal. The intention to intimidate, not to kill. George, his back to the counter, wielding a pickaxe handle. His role - crowd control. Malkie, his trusted Browning 9 mm pistol, embedded into the back of the cashier’s head, encouraging her to load three sports holdalls.

Two minutes forty, Malkie called time. All three felons strolled out into the Friday afternoon sunshine, without a single shot discharged in anger. Sixty grand up, they separated and disappeared into the throng of commuters eager to get home and begin their weekends. They laid low for seventy-two hours.

It had all the hallmarks of a pro job. It was clinical, executed with military precision. They were in and out in less three minutes door to door. The kind of job that grabs attention, bringing heat from the cops. The local faces getting hauled in for questioning, released a few hours later only to be harassed on their own doorsteps in the early hours. Everything filmed and documented for future evidence.

Vinnie Edwards’ name made it to the top of the list, a person of interest. The intel suggested he was the man in the know, he had to hiding something. The police had the thumbscrews on him within a couple hours of the robbery. The Enforcer battering ram busting down the door to his girlfriend Tanya’s apartment. They took it as a given they’d find him with his pants down. If nothing else, Vinnie was a creature of habit, guaranteed to get down and dirty every Friday afternoon. DI Chas Morrison, an informer, was deep in Vinnie’s pocket. The raid had to look authentic, he took along the police photographer to immortalise the moment. The kind that could ruin a man’s reputation.

Organised Crime operates on respect, lose that - everything is forfeit. Difficult for Edwards to maintain, photographed on his knees, gimp mask in situ, getting pummelled from behind with a luminous dildo.

2

Vinnie Edwards wanted answers fast. On his turf, nobody made a move without his consent. The robbery was unprecedented. The way he saw it; it had to have been pulled by an out of town outfit. No local crew wanted to go head to head with him. Part of him, reluctantly, couldn’t help but admire their audacious tenacity, which didn’t change the fact he’d have to kill them. No one went against the firm, more to the point no one crossed him.

Whoever they were, they had to expect repercussions. Can’t encroach on another man’s territory, pull a job and expect to disappear. They’d crossed the line, committed an act of war, and Edwards couldn’t let that go unanswered.

Truth was, Malkie Thompson had caught both Vinnie Edwards and the police napping, which caused embarrassment, and Vinnie was sure as hell it wouldn’t happen twice.

Edwards and the police had an understanding. He kept order, and they left him alone. Three blokes going equipped, waving guns around on a Friday afternoon meant all bets were off.

Morrison traded information, the kind that could have a detrimental effect on Edwards’ business interests, and was rewarded for his endeavours in helping the local business community. Paranoid about Internal Affairs, he covered his tracks. Morrison kept it simple, hard cash, no electronic transfers. IA had been into him for over five years, and had a tome of a file on him. Like Teflon, they couldn’t make it stick.

The way he saw it, safer to go the old way. Used notes, the denominations a mixture of tens and twenties. Fifties brought scrutiny, too many fakes on the market. He stuck with what he knew, the blue and the brown skins. Dividing the stash into three separate deposit boxes, located at three different locations. He also kept an emergency five grand, secreted in the lining of his mattress topper. His just in case money, enough to tide him over, never knowing when he might have to leave in the dead of night.

Thompson’s daylight raid not only threatened their way of life, but their very existence. With the top end chain of command asking awkward questions, Morrison’s survival depended on avoiding IAB. He managed that by keeping those above him sweet. He kicked up to the suits, who in return had his back.

The press were all over Thompson’s coup d’etat. The chief constable screaming for a quick result. Shooters on a Friday afternoon, scaring Joe Public shitless didn’t go down too well at the Masons Hall.

Pressure on, Morrison and Edward’s agreed to meet. Just the two of them on neutral ground, some place away from prying eyes. A one on one, a chance to straighten things out. Both agreed to come alone. The rules were simple, no firearms, no muscle, no wires. They met up on the site of a disused power station on the outskirts of town.

Vinnie had suspicions from the get go about Morrison’s involvement. Confident he had the contacts to put it in play. The question was, did he have the moxie? A dirty cop turning gangster, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Morrison turned up late. Agitated, convinced he was tailed by undercover officers, he’d taken a detour and gone cross-country. Familiar with the pathways, he followed the disused rail track, enabling him to make a rapid exit if things turned bad.

Edwards squinted his eyes against the sun and watched as the figure scrambled down the embankment.

Morrison scuttled the remaining four hundred yards. His thoughts clouded by the fact he only stood a fifty-fifty chance of walking away unharmed. He was sure of one thing, no way Edwards would keep his end of the bargain. His back up would be out of sight, waiting on his signal.

Morrison stopped three yards out. An imaginary line separating him from Edwards. A stand off for two would-be gunslingers.

Morrison broke the silence. ‘Something you need to tell me Vinnie, want to get it off your chest?’

Vinnie returned the stare. ‘Maybe I should be asking you the same thing?’

Morrison shuffled his feet over the rough terrain, the powder like dust rising knee high. ‘Lot of people getting twitchy.’

‘And?’

Morrison smirked, ‘important people Vinnie, the suits.’

‘Fucking pen pushers, what do they know?’

‘They want answers, things could turn ugly - real quick.’

Vinnie bared his teeth. ‘You threatening me now, Morrison?’

Morrison raised his palms to placate Vinnie. ’Take it the way it was intended - advice, nothing more.’

‘I don’t need your advice, detective.’

‘You ever consider, just for a moment - perhaps one of your boys has gone freelance, and forgot to mention it?’

‘Should have expected it,’ said Vinnie shaking his head, ‘got to hand it to you, Morrison, you’ve perfected it, got it down to a fine art, but then again it’s what you do, isn’t it?’

‘And what’s that Vinnie?’

‘The art of deflecting.’

‘We can do this all day Vinnie, but I’m a little short on time, and the result is the same. End of the day it doesn’t change a dammed thing.’

Vinnie stepped forward. ‘That how you’re playing this? The way I see it, you got yourself a little retirement plan. My guess is, a place in the sun, sipping Vodka Martinis.’

Morrison shook his head. ‘Got me all wrong, beer and a pasty more my thing.’ Morrison moved forward, nose to nose with Edwards. ‘Shit, up close - you don’t look so good, you sampling your own product again?’

‘Always the fucking comedian. Don’t be worrying about me, detective. You’ve got other concerns.’

‘Thing is Vinnie, you and me - we’re like family, and that means we look out for one another.’

‘We’re nothing like family.’ Vinnie thrust has hand forward grabbing Morrison’s windpipe. ‘You think I’d let a bent copper like you weasel his way in, what do you take me for?’ And what about that stunt you pulled?’

Morrison extricated himself from Vinnie’s grip. Rubbing at his bruised neck, ‘trust me, that was no stunt, choreographed excellence - maybe, but a stunt, no way. The photographer, he’s one of mine. Had to look authentic Vinnie, you can appreciate that, I’m sure?’

Vinnie took a step backwards and pulled his 9 mm, the muzzle less than six inches from Morrisons face.

‘Thought we agreed, no guns?’ said Morrison.

‘Yeah well, what can I say? I’m a criminal, don’t play by the rules. Now, put your hands on your head and get down on your knees.’

Morrison complied. ‘You plan on shooting me here Vinnie? Ask yourself this, who’s got your back once I’m gone, you thought about that?’

Vinnie laughed. ‘What, so now you’re the only bent cop on the force?’

He pressed the barrel to Morrisons forehead. ‘You’ve had your day, detective.’

Morrison closed his eyes.

Vinnie pulled the trigger, it clicked but the chamber was empty. Morrison’s eyelids snapped open. Vinnie stepped back and tucked the 9 mm back into his waistband.

‘Guess it’s your lucky day. Now, call off the surveillance, and I’ll go sort this - my way.’

Morrison pulled himself up from the dusty track, his heart hammering in his chest cavity, rubbing the dried mud away from his trousers. ‘Out of my hands Vinnie. Pressure’s on, and believe me, it’ll get a lot worse. Direct orders from the top. What, with that and the local elections, the media’s all over this. Public need to feel safe on the streets.’

Vinnie turned to go. ‘Want those pictures Morrison, all of them - hear me?’

‘Jesus, we back on that? Got to admit, was a bit of a shock. Never had you down for all that kinky stuff - each to their own.’ Morrison patted himself down, searching for his cigarettes. ‘Lads on shift enjoyed it, kept ‘em going for a while. Tasty stuff, Vinnie. Press would have a field day, local godfather. Sorry, I mean eminent businessman, caught in more than one compromising position. What would your wife and kid make of that? Let’s just call it insurance, in the unlikely event that anything were to happen to me.’

Edwards launched himself at Morrison, his right fist slamming into his ample gut. Morrison, winded, crumpled to the ground.

The imposing silhouette loomed over his target. ‘One word from me, that’s all it’ll take, and you’ll be hanging from a meathook by your ball sack.’

Morrison, on his hands and knees, his breathe coming in short rasps. ‘I was wondering how it must feel, for someone like you, knowing that a nobody can waltz in unchallenged and disappear with sixty grand. I mean that’s got to hurt, surely?’

‘When I find them, I’ll nail them to a fucking cross and parade them through the streets, just like carnival. I’ll tell you something else Morrison, if I shake hard enough I reckon your name’s gonna fall out somewhere.’

Morrison straightened to a standing position, still holding his gut. ’You’re not thinking straight Vinnie, must be down to your emotional state. Besides, quicker this gets sorted, the better for the both of us. So rein your boys in. This needs to stay below the radar. After which, you and I can renegotiate my fee.’

‘You’re a piece of work Morrison, think you can tell me how this plays out? You’re a dirty cop in a small town, how long do you think you’d last on the streets without my protection?’

Morrison unfazed by the revelation lit another cigarette. ‘If I were a betting man, I’d say all that strap on action’s starting to affect your judgement. Ask yourself this, why in God’s name would I sanction a job like this, and risk jeopardising our arrangement - all in broad daylight?’

Vinnie jabbed Morrison in the chest. ‘Your grimy prints are all over this, and when this is done, you and me, we’re gonna have ourselves, what the cockneys call a straightener, detective. You can count on it.’

3

Malkie and his crew laid low, content to let events play out. They’d managed to create a shit storm and avoid the fall out. All three remained below the radar. Back then, the name Malkie Thompson was unknown south of the border. A ghost, able to make a daylight strike and disappear. A classic hit and run job.

The easy pickings buoyed the fledgling firm. Glasgow, the past, was but a distant memory. The Midlands provided a new beginning, a chance to wipe the slate clean and write their own history. Thompson’s rules.

Meanwhile, the locals were getting restless. Money coming in short from all quarters. The population confident to take a risk, waiting to see how events would pan out.

Problem was, Vinnie Edwards had become complacent, expecting his reputation would deter any would-be challengers. He got that wrong. Malkie relished the opportunity, saw Edwards’ patch as the land of plenty. Now he wanted it all.

4

Glasgow

Violence in the blood, it was second nature to Malkie. He learnt his craft the hard way on the back streets of Glasgow. In the late seventies, during the punk revolution of bands such as the Clash and the Sex Pistols, he fell in with the street gangs. Popping a few pills, downed with cans of Tennents Super Strength, which tasted like tar. It did the trick, jacking him up, ready for the row. He would track down the rivals and get stuck in, close and personal, getting creative using anything that came to hand; bicycle chain, pool cue, flick knife, broken bottle.

Back then, it didn’t matter. No future, no prospects; they were Thatcher’s children of the North. Scotland, the land of the dispossessed, the forgotten, and the abandoned. To survive you had to make your own way.

Within eighteen months, Malkie was doing a stretch in Barlinnie. His first taste of life banged up. He put it to good use, getting in with the faces. He made himself known, attacking a warden on the first day. He went down the block, and got the shit kicked out of him. Four weeks later, his bruises healed, and his reputation enhanced, he was back on the wing.

The MacBride brothers, connected on the outside to the McAlister firm, approached him. Impressed by his appetite for violence, they took him on as muscle. What he lacked in stature he made up for in fury. Word soon went round not to cross Malkie Thompson.

Six months later, he’d served his time, he was out. Got himself a personal endorsement from the MacBrides. He’d changed and wanted something more. Rucking with the gangs lost its appeal. He needed money. Smashing heads and breaking bones wasn’t enough; Malkie had ambition.

He quit the pills and the drink. His dear old ma thought he’d turned Calvinist Presbyterian, thanking God for cleansing her son. He went along with it, what harm could it do? In the meantime, he sought out the MacBrides employer.

Back then, Ian McAlister was the man, a big name in the city of Glasgow, the kind that opened doors for a young man of ambition. McAlister spread his interests far and wide. He liked to diversify, and was into everything from salvage yards to slum rentals. Most of his money came from the racket, by putting the squeeze on local businesses and taxing them ‘for their own protection’ as he liked to call it. But the big money came from illegal gambling and whores. McAlister sank his hooks into everything from arcades, horses and dog tracks, right across to the lucrative bare-knuckle unlicensed boxing bouts he sponsored. His enforcers ran the streets. The working girls were under his protection, seventy percent of their earnings guaranteeing safety from rival pimps and freaks.

Malkie’s name was well known to McAlister. Back in the seventies, when he made house calls, Agnes Thompson was top of his list. As far back as 76 McAlister recognised the teenager’s potential. Intrigued by his brooding menace, he monitored Thompson’s progress all the way to Barlinnie.

The way they told it, the MacBrides reckoned on him being a face, having proved his worth tenfold while doing his time. He was a good earner, fearless, a man with a growing reputation and one to watch. Better to get him affiliated than run the risk of losing him to a rival firm. No point in storing up trouble for the future, so McAlister set him to work the next day.

It took three months for Malkie to move from driver/chauffeur to street enforcer. A fast learner, he soaked it up, spotting the flaws from the start. McAlister never considered his own blokes would dare skim the takings.

Malkie learned the trade from the ground up. All the time he kept his eyes and ears open. Within six months, confident he had watertight evidence, he went to McAlister. He laid it all out, dates and times, he managed to account for the missing percentages, and even threw in a couple of Polaroids. It didn’t go down well. McAlister threatened to rip Malkie’s fingernails out one by one. Malkie stood his ground, refusing to retract the accusation, telling McAlister his own crew were screwing him.

McAlister couldn’t accept the cold, hard truth staring him in the face. He had to make an example. He summoned Malkie. When he arrived, three masked attackers overpowered him, and taped him to a chair. McAlister went to work on him, pliers taking his thumbnail from his left hand, followed by his index finger. His screams penetrating a quarter of a mile radius. McAlister braced the third finger in the pliers, ‘Three to go, then I’m starting on the right hand, I’ll work my way through one by one if needs be.’

Malkie, panting like a dog, gritted his teeth, willing the ragged burning pain far away. ‘Won’t change a thing, telling you the truth. Go check it out; you’ll see I’m right.’

McAlister moved the pliers down to the finger joint, applying the pressure. ‘Okay, let’s just suppose there’s some element of truth to your story, my own guys stealing from me... Makes me look bad. That what this is about, Thompson, you trying to undermine me?’

‘Just trying to help you out.’

McAlister, jerked the pliers up and to the side snapping the finger. Malkie swallowed deep, insurgent pain puncturing his lungs, keeping the scream silent and internal – his eyes locked with McAlister’s the whole time.

McAlister admired his handiwork. ‘Hurts doesn’t it?’ Malkie’s middle finger ruined, hanging limp and flaccid, fragments of bone protruding torn skin. ‘Don’t go away now, I’ll be back directly, so we can finish our wee chat.’

5

Ten days later, Thompson and McAlister had a face to face at the Grosvenor Hotel in Glasgow’s West End.

McAlister embraced him like a long lost son. ‘Good to see you, Malkie, what’ll you drink, whisky, single malt right?’

‘I’m good thanks, water’s fine.’ He took a moment, taking in the plush surroundings. ‘Thought this place burnt down?’

‘You need to get out more, reopened back in eighty-two. Come on, not sure I can trust a man who won’t share a dram with me.’

‘Okay, make it a single.’

Down to business, Malkie ran through the story, going into detail about his methods to extract the truth, convincing McAlister neither had held out on him. The cash already spent, frittered away on women, expensive gifts and designer clothes.

McAlister looked around, checking civilians were out of earshot. ‘You did good Malkie, but now I’m two guys down, which means there’s an immediate vacancy. You up to it?’

‘Depends, what you’re offering?’

‘Shrewd, I like that. Don’t give anything away. That’s important in this life. Put it this way, what if I was to offer you territory? Free to govern it your way, you pay your cut like everyone else but it’s yours all the same.’

Malkie smiled. ‘Reckon I can live with that.’

‘Good man.’ Raising his glass, ‘slàinte mhath’.

‘Slàinte’

Malkie took over the territory, making it his business to do personal house calls. He upped the taxes, informing the owners if they didn’t like it, they best go to McAlister and put in a complaint. He said they’d been complicit in defrauding the organisation and should consider it a fixed penalty, to be paid direct to him and no one else. He told them to ask around about him, confident in letting the street banter do the rest.

Things remained that way for a while, but it was never going to be enough. Malkie had plans, and it didn’t take long for him to grow restless. He’d outgrown McAlister. The man was weak, much too trusting, ultimately compromised. Malkie wanted autonomy, no kick ups. Freedom to operate his way.

And besides, he owed McAlister a date with the pliers.

6

Back in the autumn of eighty-seven, McAlister had a job in the planning. A security depot with bundles of cash for the taking. He’d outsourced it. He got the word on two specialists, freelancers who operated across the UK and Europe. He had to put himself beyond suspicion. When the cops put the finger on him, his alibi had to be solid. He wanted Thompson there, eyes on, nothing more.

John Blake and Kieran Williams spent most of the year living down on the Algarve and worked on personal recommendation. The call came via their contact, Callaghan, a Newcastle based criminal. McAlister, a big name in Glasgow, was already known to them, and well respected. With their cash reserves running low, they flew out the next day.

McAlister had an insider at the Royal Mint processing centre, a low-key unit on the edge of an industrial estate in Dumfries. A place where cash gets destroyed when it’s taken out of circulation. Intel suggested there could be as much as a hundred and fifty grand in there. Unmarked armoured vans drove in and dropped the cash boxes, paperwork got signed off and the vans departed.

The idea was to wait for the last delivery. Three months of surveillance and inside knowledge said this happened each night at eleven-thirty. Blake and Williams were to lie in wait, Malkie to act as driver and look out. The security guards would unload the cash boxes. Being the last drop on the manifest ensured they weren’t in as much of a rush, taking time to flirt with the girls working inside. It was perfect.

McAlister’s plant was Rachel Proctor, a young single mum motivated by the opportunity to make a little extra cash. A girl of natural ability, twenty-three-years-old, full lips and bumps in all the right places. From day one, she took to wearing a uniform blouse two sizes too small, accentuating her assets. It proved to be a big hit with all the drivers.

Two middle-aged blokes walking out into the cold night air, their heads full of fantasy, the last thing they’d expect was to be staring down the barrel of a sawn off shotgun.

The first part went to plan, the guards overpowered with ease. A knock to the head, bound and gagged, relieved of their uniforms, and bundled into the van out of sight. Clockwork – less than forty-five seconds.

Blake hammered on the door, and waved at the security camera. The processing supervisor, a guy called Michael Phillips, looked at the monitor. All he could see was the guard holding up the paperwork, pointing at something. The cameras have no audio, so he can’t make out what it is he’s gesturing to, so he opened the door.

Blake rushed forward, slamming the butt of the shotgun into the supervisor’s mouth. Blood and teeth spewed to the floor. Phillips writhed in pain as Blake delivered a vicious snap kick to his groin, another to the solar plexus. Williams steamed past, securing the area, the supervisor caught in the frenzied maelstrom, powerless to react or raise the alarm.

Malkie waited in the car, feeling as though he’d been reduced to errand boy. In his mind, he’s way past all of this. He’s Malkie Thompson, rising star of the Glasgow underworld. Yet here he is, nothing more than a glorified chauffeur. So he’s thinking to himself about how ungrateful McAlister actually is, and that he doesn’t realise what he’s done for him, concluding that he deserves more.

Five minutes pass, he checks his watch, his eyes flit to the rear-view mirror. He’s getting twitchy. A gut feeling telling him something’s wrong. Perhaps McAlister’s set him up, and now he’s expecting to see the blue lights over the hill any second.

Malkie couldn’t wait any longer. Fuck it. He was out of the car, stomping back to the unit, back through the wire fence he’d cut a hole in thirty minutes earlier. Across the asphalt, he broke into a jog, the wind blowing hard, muting his hearing. He saw the lights from the unit, the steel roller door shut but the side door left ajar.

Closer now, the sound of raised voices. A mixture of agitation and excitement washed over him. He sprinted head down into the gale, slowing as he neared the door. Panting, his lungs burning, he pulled out the Beretta M9, checking the load, one in the chamber ready to go.

Crouching low, scanning the area left to right. He spotted John Blake lying on the floor, blood seeping from his head, lifeless. Farther in, he found Williams, wild-eyed, waving his gun around threatening to shoot anyone who moved.

It turned out the supervisor had a second in command. Protocol dictated that he came looking for the number one within ninety-seconds of radio silence. A little detail Rachel Proctor had neglected to pass on.

So the assistant supervisor, a young athletic type, decided to be the have a go hero. He rushed Blake. It turned out he snuck up behind him and whacked him with a bat. Put him down and whacked him some more, killing him outright. Blake didn’t even get a chance to throw a punch.

Adrenalin flowing, the assistant activated the silent alarm before turning his attention to Williams, who was none the wiser, stacking the cash, getting taken down and tackled to the floor. The first he knew of it, he had four guys on him, twisting him up. His shooter went off, and they backed away. The only thing was, he managed to shoot himself in the lower leg, tearing his calf muscle clean off. Lead pellets peppered his knees and thighs, leaving him bleeding out like fresh road kill.

Malkie assessed the scene. There was nothing for it, Blake was lying face down, his hand clutching a grey mail sack stuffed with used notes. Malkie guessed he was already dead on account of the dark congealed blood pooling round his head. Williams wasn’t looking so good either. Propped against a filing cabinet, arterial spray covering a two-yard radius, stray pellets embedding the femoral artery. No chance of him getting out of there. Malkie took stock. Williams’ eyes rolled round in his head, struggling to focus. Time was running out.

Out of options, sirens already faint in the distance, he had two minutes before they closed in. Malkie had to get out of there. It was a salvage job and he needed to make the best of it. He approached Blake and put one bullet in his head. He turned and walked up to Williams, popped him straight in the face, twice, prising the holdall from his fingers.

News reached McAlister, and he was livid. Ranting at a small select group of his inner circle, those he trusted most. ‘What the fuck was he thinking?’

‘Time to clip his wings, he’s way out of line,’ said one of the Lieutenants.

Another chipped in. ‘Two freelancers dead and no sign of the loot. He’s fucked us. The only good news, if there is any, neither Blake or Williams were affiliated. We can do without that kind of shit.’

A third voice offered his opinion. ‘Bound to be fallout. End of the day, it’s not the Wild West. Can’t go round offing contractors at the scene, Thompson’s got to go.’

McAlister sent a car ordering Malkie to be brought in. He didn’t resist, confident he’d made the right choice. Problem being, he didn’t foresee McAlister’s dilemma, his reputation, his very position at stake. Malkie was supposed to have followed orders, instead he’d used his initiative, and in the process stepped over the mark.

McAlister wanted assurances Malkie wasn’t giving him the runaround. He needed to see for himself. Whatever the outcome, an example had to be made. At the same time, conflicted by his own thoughts, McAlister knew Thompson used his nous. He’d tidied up the loose ends. That said, both the money and Thompson had disappeared, and if McAlister wanted to maintain his position as the Governor, no one could be seen to get a free pass, not even Malkie Thompson.

7

Thompson’s body bore the marks of a beating, angry red weals forming on his chest. It didn’t end there, swelling to the face, a split lip, and blood congealing around his mouth, left no doubt he’d been worked over. They’d stripped him naked, and gaffer taped him to the chair. Malkie still had his head held high, staring down his balaclava-clad assailants. Taunting them, ‘when this is done, you boys are gonna beg me to end it quick.’

They stuffed a dirty old rag in his mouth to shut him up. Then it began. Three blokes equipped with rubber hoses. Thompson knew what was coming, tensing his body, then relaxing it, regulating his breathing, getting himself in the zone.

It started off slow, McAlister’s men lining up, taking it in turn. The hose cutting through the air, like a swarm of mosquitoes, each striking Malkie’s face, then his chest, finishing, beating down on top of his thighs. The first few blows stinging like fuck. The adrenaline coursing through his body, numbing the pain. McAlister’s crew were just getting warmed up. No words, just malicious intent, building to a silent crescendo of violence.

Two more stepped forward, tipping Malkie back in the chair. The prep work completed, now for the main event. The rhythmic pattern of pain raining down on the soles of his feet.

McAlister emerged from darkest recess, crouching close to Thompson. ‘You did well, problem is, you didn’t stick to the plan. You disobeyed my orders.’ He took his time to inspect the damage. ‘I see you and the boys have got acquainted. You need to understand something Malkie, these boys, they enjoy their work, and they can do this all day.’

McAlister moved down to the bloated feet, jabbing them with his finger. ‘They’ve got the look of raw meat, but I’d say there’s still a way to go.’ He used both hands to squeeze each foot in turn. ‘Nice work, boys,’ he said with a nod of appreciation. Malkie choked back a groan. McAlister moved back, closer to his face. ‘Take it as a lesson, son. You need to know your place.’ Whispering close to his ear, ‘can’t have employees running wild, it’s bad for business.’ He took the rag from Malkie’s mouth. ‘Now where’s my money?’

Malkie spat a mixed globule of blood and mucus to the floor, and grabbed a lungful of air. ‘Safe, least it was.’

McAlister’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning?’

‘They’re watching. You should have trusted me.’

‘Who the fuck are they?’

’The police, who’d you think?’

McAlister smirked. ‘You’re a fucking comedian, Thompson,’ he said, jabbing the Browning 9 mm into the side of Malkie’s swollen cheek. ‘Live or die, your choice.’

Thompson glared at him. Unflinching. ‘Your hired help fucked it; thanks to me you’ve got no loose ends. I took care of that. And yeah, even got some cash, two bags. You’d rather I’d stayed, and got lifted?’

McAlister didn’t answer, content to listen, for now. He motioned to one of his men to give Malkie some water.

Malkie swallowed down hard, his instant reaction to puke, but he managed to hold it in. ‘No trace. No connection. That’s down to me.’

McAlister reholstered the gun. ‘I always liked you, Malkie, it’s why you’re still breathing. You’re a maverick, got the ability to go far, but could just as easy go to your grave. Question is, what to do with you, eh? The boys here, they think you’re dangerous, like a rabid dog.’

He was up, moving round Malkie’s carcass assessing the damage, mulling over the options. ‘So, were you running or were you waiting it out like you say? Guess I’ll have to ponder on that some more.’

McAlister signalled for the gaffer tape to be cut. ‘No hard feelings, Malkie. Now go home, and get yourself cleaned up. You’ve got two hours and be sure to have the money. Understand?’

Thompson nodded his head, spitting fresh blood to the floor.

‘And Malkie, don’t fuck about. Johnston will drive you home. Keep you company, wouldn’t want you getting lonely now, would we?’

Back at the house, an old tenement block on Ardenlea Street, Malkie hobbled in, Johnston two steps behind, checking the area before entering the house. He followed Malkie through to what passed for a kitchen, more of a larder equipped with an enamel Belfast sink. Malkie turned to Johnston, smiling. ‘Nothing personal, you know how it is.’

A quizzical look formed on Johnston’s face. ‘The fu…’ incomplete words garrotted from his voice-box as Frank noosed the cheese-wire around his throat.

Malkie turned back to the sink, cleaning himself up as best he could. Most of it superficial cuts and bruises. Ten days time and there’d would be no trace. The cracked ribs were a different story. Even strapping them up, he was still looking at six weeks plus recovery time.

McAlister waited till Thompson was in the car, before putting in the call. His south of the border connection, a sassenach lone operator. The call connected on the third warble.

‘Baxter?’

‘Speaking.’

‘You know who this is?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good idea. How’s the weather up there?’

‘Shite, as usual.’

Baxter closed his eyes and summoned the words, doing his best to block out the memories of his last north of the border job. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Indeed it has. So here’s the thing, I’ve got some trash to dispose of, a priority job. You able to collect?’

Caught between a rock and a hard place, the sassenach took a moment to mull over his options. ‘Depends on just how bad the smell is.’

‘The worst.’

Baxter checked his watch. Trying but failing to convince himself it was just another job. If nothing else, he’d been thrown a lifeline, a chance to appease Callaghan. ‘Give me four hours.’

‘Make it three, and I’ll double your money.’ McAlister disconnected the call.

The same night, Thompson turned up at McAlister’s house. Two o’clock in the morning, standing in the hallway.

McAlister wasn’t taking any chances, his gun trained on Malkie’s chest cavity. ‘You’re late.’

‘Had to take a detour, can’t be too careful. I needed to be sure we weren’t followed. Wouldn’t want the police turning up, be kind of hard to explain,’ he said, gesturing to the bag.

McAlister, his suspicions on high alert, patted him down. Keeping the gun on him the whole time. ‘Where’s Johnston?’

Malkie ignored the question, letting his thoughts drift, dead and buried. Unzipping the holdall, he pulled out a bundle. ‘Parking up, you prefer to wait?’

McAlister directed him to the office, the muzzle of the Browning 9 mm pressed deep into the base of his skull. ‘Lay it down on the desk.’

Malkie complied, and awaited further instruction. McAlister made his way round to the other side of the oak desk, the Browning pointing at Malkie’s face. ‘Count it out, nice and slow.’

He reached into the bag, and began to pile the cash in to neat bundles. ‘I was coming in, nothing’s changed.’

McAlister watched the bundles pile up, with the 9 mm trained on Malkie’s chest, he took a seat behind the desk, relaxing his trigger finger a little. ‘Know what you are, Thompson? A fucking enigma.’

Malkie noticed the pressure on the trigger ease, he kept talking, ‘so, we straight now?’

McAlister remained silent, assessing the man in front of him.

Malkie reached inside as if he was pulling out another bundle, ‘We’re good?’ He said trying to keep the irritation from his voice.

McAlister looked beyond Malkie towards the door. ‘Even as a kid, you were a cocky wee shite. I put up with it, for your mothers sake. Always looked out for you, and this is what I get.’

Malkie shook his head. ‘Ian McAlister, aye, a regular Knight of the fucking Realm. This is you looking out for me, is it? Ready to shoot me in your own home.’

‘Shut up and count the money, Thompson.’

Malkie averted his eyes for a second, peering down into the bag. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? I knew back then. Kept my mouth shut. Couldn’t bring myself to tell her.’

McAlister tightened his grip on the 9mm. ‘The fuck are you talking about?’

Fixing his eyes on McAlister, ‘Violet.’

‘That’s what this is about? Some two bit…’

Malkie pulled the trigger twice, his gun hidden deep within the holdall. The bullets ripping into McAlister’s torso.

He had seconds before the shots alerted the bodyguard. McAlister was alive. Squirming, his white shirt soaked crimson.

Thompson hid behind the door, the bodyguard entered, his weapon drawn. He went straight to McAlister. Rasping gurgling sounds emanating from dual holes to his chest. Malkie stepped from behind the door, the bodyguard turned, aiming his gun, but it was too late. The bullet ripping into his abdomen, he slumped to the ground, the .38 handgun falling from his grip.

Floored, the bodyguard clawed at the ground, trying to reach for his piece. Malkie stood over him, ‘Chose the wrong employer, pal.’

Putting another bullet in him, before repacking the bag. Malkie turned to leave, then stopped. Setting the holdall down on the desk, he retrieved the pliers. ‘Guess I’ll be taking a keepsake, a memento of our time together.’

The armed robbery in Dumfries had the police and journalists swarming all over it like flies round shit. The tabloids, resembled sharks in a feeding frenzy, as they salivated and gorged over the two fatalities found at the scene. National news even sent a London based crew, in the hope of securing an eyewitness account. BBC headline news broke the story that a local businessman with alleged ties to organised crime had been gunned down in his own home.

The Police refused to comment upon speculation that the victim had several teeth forcibly removed with pliers found at the scene, or that the two cases were in any way connected.

8

West Midlands 1988

Thompson was standing outside the gym, his eyes darting left then right, the street deserted. He glanced back over his shoulder towards the car. He nodded his head. The waiting over, time for the show and tell.

Edwards sat ringside, surrounded by his main players. Supposed big hitters. Local hard men. The kind who most right-minded people would cross the road to avoid.

Malkie stood in the doorway, observing the scene. The purpose not to antagonise, more of a reconnaissance mission, deep in enemy territory.

A crowd of six or seven bodies had gathered, watching two fighters sparring. He guessed the big guy they were fawning over was Edwards.

One of the minders turned to grab a water bottle, spotting the stranger lingering at the back of the gym, ‘we’re closed, mate, private training session.’

Malkie said nothing, continuing to stare, his eyes burning into Edwards, willing him to turn and face him. The minder was getting impatient, striding towards the figure. ‘You deaf, pal? Closed. Now fuck off.’

Malkie remained still. ‘Heard you the first time, pal.’ He pointed towards the large figure, ‘I’m guessing he’s Edwards. Go tell your boss I’m here.’

The minder’s eyes strayed to the holdall, his hands twitching. Concern on his face, unsure whether he was staring into the eyes of a gunman. Keeping his eyes locked with the stranger, watching for any sudden moves, he called over shoulder, ‘boss, you got a visitor.’

Edwards turned, irritated at the interruption. He didn’t recognise the figure in the doorway. ‘And you are?’

‘Name’s Thompson, Malkie Thompson.’

Blank faces, followed by a two-second silence, seemed more like two minutes, before one of Edwards’ Lieutenants spoke up. ‘That supposed to mean something?’

Malkie smiled, and opened the holdall. ‘Depends how you choose to look at it.’

He proceeded to take out a bundle of cash, keeping his eye on the minder, watching as his right arm started to reach towards the back of his joggers, ready to pull, what could only be a concealed handgun.

‘Easy, big fella, no drama,’ said Malkie, as he counted tens and twenties, letting them float to the floor. He switched his focus to Edwards. ‘Consider this a peace offering. This is your cut, two grand.’ He waited, but there was no response, just Edwards’ cold murderous stare.

‘Okay, we’ll play it your way, ’ said Malkie, backing away towards the entrance. Satisfied, he turned and pushed through the old battered wooden double doors, making his way to the bottom of the stairs, where he stopped to listen.

‘....taking the fucking piss, Vin. We should do the bastard, now.’

‘No, not like this. Now we’ve got a face and a name. Let’s get the background, we want all of ’em.’ He turned to another of his Lieutenants, ‘get me Morrison, now.’

Malkie exited the building and sauntered to the car, Frank and George waiting inside.

‘How’d it go?’

‘Like I said, George, piece of piss.’

Frank adjusted the rear-view mirror. ‘Ripe for the taking?’

‘Falling from the tree, Frankie.’

Contact made. Malkie had walked into the lion’s den unarmed, dumped two grand on the floor and walked out unscathed. An urban legend in the making.

Two days later, Edwards sent his reply.

9

Malkie, Frank and George were taking the opportunity to relax, shooting a couple of frames in their new home, Breaks snooker club. Malkie had ingratiated himself with the owner, Charlie Green, a washed up fifty something - using his redundancy pay-out to realise his lifetime dream. Malkie offered his usual terms, protection in return for thirty percent of the weekly takings.

Now Green’s no hero, he’s heard the stories about an unknown group of Glaswegians shaking down Edwards’ firm, and wreaking havoc in the locality. Besides, he likes his kneecaps the way they are, so he’s content to play the role of glorified gopher and tea-boy, at least until equilibrium is restored.

George was at the table, readying himself for his shot on black when he clocked the newcomers. ‘We got company.’

Malkie took a hit on his drink. ‘I see them. No bother. Can’t let a good malt go to waste boys.’

Frank moved to the rear of the bar area, reaching under the counter for his trusty bat. He made a show of placing it in clear sight, topside of the bar. He looked over towards Malkie, ‘five on three, things could get interesting.’

Malkie nodded, ‘aye, they could Frank,’ draining the remainder of his whisky.

The first of the uninvited guests stepped forward, his height somewhere close to six five. Malkie calculated that he had to be weighing in at sixteen stone plus. He recognised him from the boxing gym, one of two that had been sparring in the ring. The others held back, fanning out across the room, hoping to gain the advantage when events got lively.

The boxer spoke with a local midland accent, not quite full Birmingham, but something that passed for a watered down wider Brummie accent. His voice was a little higher than Malkie had expected, considering his size and bulk. ‘Vinnie Edwards sends his regards.’

‘Sure he does, so where is he?’

‘Mr Edwards wants a meet, you’re to come with us, alone,’ he said, emphasising the last part of the statement, as he opened his jacket to reveal the 9 mm.

Malkie nodded his head and smirked. ‘You even know how to use that, son?’

The would-be hard-man shuffled his feet and balled his fists, his right hand reaching to the inside of his jacket. ‘Bringing you in one way or the other.’

‘That so?’ Malkie stood, cracking his neck, before taking his jacket off, and handing it to George.

Rolling his sleeves up, he loosened his tie, lifting it over head, and placing it down on the table, before striding towards the messenger. ‘You’re gonna have to take me down, and just so we’re clear, I’m not one for going quietly.’

The messenger took one pace forward. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other...’

Sentence unfinished, as Malkie delivered a head-butt to the bridge of the messenger’s nose. He fell to the floor. Malkie was straight on him, his boot crunching into the victim’s ruined face, his cheekbone shattering on impact.

The would-be assailant reduced to a bloodied pulp, Malkie relieved him of his weapon, before turning his attention to the remaining four. ‘You boys wanna go the same way?’

The largest of the group stepped forward, bat in hand. Three stood their ground, box cutters ready to strike. Malkie placed the 9 mm on the table. ‘Won’t be needing that.’

The guy with the bat advanced. Shorter than his felled comrade, he stood three inches taller as he faced off with Malkie.

‘That was bang out of order, jock, won’t have it as easy with me.’ He swung the bat in a wild arc, missing his target. Malkie stepped in close before he had chance to re-aim. Locking the attackers arm, he delivered a snap kick to the groin, following it up with a punch to the solar plexus. The assailant crumpled. Malkie grabbed his polo shirt collar, pulling him towards him, finishing him off with a head-butt to the bridge of the nose. Retrieving the bat, he pointed it towards the remaining box cutter boys. ‘Come on lads; time to show us what you’re made of.’

Two of the crew rushed forward, growling with menace. They’d covered less than three feet, before George and Frank brought them down clean and quick, a mixture of furious kicks and precision stamping, rendering them useless.

Malkie advanced towards the door, on a collision course with the last man standing.

He was still playing at the hard man routine when Malkie cornered him. Up close it became clear he was younger than the others, by at least three or four years. ‘First time, eh,’ said Malkie sizing him up.

The youth did his best to stop his arm from shaking. ‘Come any closer, and I’ll shank you.’

‘Course you will,’ said Malkie, goading him into action.

He made a wild lunge, Malkie batted his arm away with ease, one hand grabbing the youth round the throat, while the other pinned his box cutter wrist to his side as he slammed him into the wall.

‘Drop it.’

Cowed into submission, the youth dropped the box cutter to the floor.

‘What’s Edwards’ playing at, eh, sending boys to do a man’s job?’

Frank and George made their way over, checking on those they’d dispatched.

‘Reckon it’s his first outing boys?’ said Malkie, as Frank and George joined him.

‘Fucking YTS on the job training - except it’s not panned out the way they told you, has it?’ said Frank, getting up close and personal in youth’s face.

George stepped closer, the three Glaswegians forming an arc around the youth. ‘Now you’re in a whole new world of shit.’ He glanced to Malkie, ‘what do you want to do with this wee shite?’

‘Cut him from ear to ear,’ said Frank, retrieving the box cutter from the floor.

The youth opened his mouth to speak. ‘I didn’t… I…’

‘Don’t piss yourself, son. You’ve seen enough, eh?’ said Malkie.

The youth struggled to catch his breath as the panic set in.

‘Go tell Edwards I don’t dance to his tune or anyone else’s. He wants’ a meet, he comes here in person. Now get out before I carve you up, and send you on your way with a wee souvenir.’

The youth didn’t need telling twice, scrabbling for the door without so much as a backward glance to his battered comrades.

After the event, the word soon went round that Edwards’ crew got taken down in the snooker hall. Vinnie never did take up Malkie’s offer of a meet. Instead, he took the time to regroup, and to plan his next move.

Edwards’ unwillingness to challenge Malkie head on, proved just how weak he really was. Malkie took his inability to man-up as the green light to expand, and he wasted no time going about it. He gave the order to Frank and George to start moving in on the local pub trade. They got to work, making collections in return for the protection of Malkie Thompson. Once secured, he moved onto the restaurants and fast-food outlets. Inside one month, Thompson’s crew had gone from a one-off bank robbery to extortion. Now they had their sights set on the casino and nightclubs in the centre of town – the heartland of Edwards’ Empire.

In the weeks that followed Vinnie Edwards brought in outside contractors, tasked with taking down the Glaswegian upstarts. The outcome was the same, Malkie either bought them off, or if they preferred to try their luck and fulfil their contractual obligation to Edwards, he had George and Frank dispose of them by whichever means they deemed appropriate.

To the outside world and any that still harboured doubts, the message was clear; Malkie Thompson and his crew were in it for the long haul. Street level banter cemented the organisation’s reputation. Malkie’s crew were a breed apart, uncompromising, and fearless.

10

Malkie acquired a derelict pub, empty since nineteen eighty-four, picking it up for a fraction of the going rate. In return he had to do some basic housekeeping, clearing out the rodents and undesirables.

Within three months, it was fully operational. The Kings Retreat. A boozer right in the heart of town, better still, in Edwards’ own back yard. Acquisition of the Kings marked the beginning of the turf wars. Edwards made the first move, desperate to regain ground, above all, he needed to rebuild his reputation or risk losing everything.

Back then, Malkie and his firm were growing in stature, and building on their territorial gains. Frank and George took it in turn to make the collections, which happened each Friday morning. It took a couple of hours to work round the array of betting shops, off licences and fast food joints, and guaranteed to always finish up with a visit to the Thai massage parlour located above the old junk shop. A perk of the job, and a chance to work away the stresses of the week.

On the day in question Frank was back at base, holed up in the Kings Retreat, acting as protection for the boss. Vinnie Edwards had upped the stakes, making two botched attempts to take out Malkie, a failed hit and run and a reluctant gunman adding to the list of calamities. So now, Malkie had round the clock security while he figured out how to remove Edwards.

Meetings with DI Morrison provided an insight into his operation and his personal life. Morrison reached out to Malkie, sensing a power shift, offering his services, negotiating terms for mutual benefit. At the time, Malkie didn’t realise he was playing both sides.

Edwards’ firm had been tracking George all morning, monitoring his movements through their former territory. The promise of getting some payback making it all the sweeter. Watching Thompson’s bagman collect was like joining the dots. No point in rushing in. He still had two-thirds of the round to go, not counting the newer acquisitions.

George exited the betting shop via the fire door to avoid police surveillance. Checking left and right, he stepped out into the rain. Head down, he scurried along, making his way back to the high street. He got within a few yards of main road, but it was never going to happen.

Three of Edwards’ crew blocked his exit. No need for introductions, he recognised their faces from the snooker hall. Looking for a viable alternative, George turned, he managed two paces, then found himself confronted by three more goons all baying for blood, his blood.

No way out. George looked back in the direction of the fire door, his only hope of escape. It slammed shut, followed by the sound of the internal bolt mechanism sliding into place. So this is it. This is how it ends, in a rubbish-strewn back alley on a rainy day. Fuck that.

He was out of options. If he was going down, it would be with his fists flying. He took his jacket off, folding it in half, careful to place it behind him out of the rain on top of a royal blue industrial bin. Positioning himself in a wide stance, he lowered his centre of gravity. Gotta make the best of it. He readied himself, eager to take down as many as he could. Time for some old school moves.

They stalked in like a pack of hyenas taunting him. ‘Gonna mess you up real good, old man.’

He ignored them, and remained focused. The first rushed him from the right. George let him get close, conscious of leaving his left side exposed, sensing movement, he jerked his elbow backwards catching the second would-be assailant clean in the face, taking him out cold. He concentrated on his right again, his attacker’s over-confidence, his undoing. Like a king cobra, George struck, finger-jabbing him in the throat. His victim crumpled to his knees, flailing hands clutching at his voice box. Two down, four remaining. Now they closed ranks, coming in tandem simultaneously from both sides.

George was mid-flow, kicks and punches in all directions, his life hanging in the balance, his breath a series of short rasps. The end game in play, he brought down another with a left hook. George stomped, bringing his foot down heavily, repeating the action over and over. He wanted the bastard dead, ignoring the punches raining down to the back of his own head, each blow thundering down like a mallet, he continued to stamp his size tens.

Fending off two more from the front, no time to avert his eyes, not even for a split second. That’s when he felt the sharp pain to his right kidney. He stumbled, clutching the wound, stars scudding into vision, don’t black out. Rain-diluted blood ran free from his scalp, into his eyes and down his face. He ignored it, squinting through the crimson blur, his attackers on hold.

‘Come on, finish it,’ he said, goading them into action.

They closed in for the kill.

Swan Song. George went into program mode, like a Highland warrior of old, fighting to the death. The adrenalin overload blocked out most of the onslaught. Numb to the pain, he kept going, the pace unrelenting. From nowhere, his knees buckled, as the last elements of life drained away. Everything spun, his vision blurring before fading to black.

11

Edwards’ roll of the dice backfired, all it did was increase Thompson’s determination to break him.

Malkie, brooding and silent, as he stared out the window. His head filled with the vision of George rigged up to life support, it was touch and go. Since the attack Frank had taken on the role of chauffeur. He slotted the cassette into the player, the sound of opera filling the car. Incomprehensible to his own ears, he guessed it was Italian. Malkie’s choice, not his.

Frank glanced over to his boss, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. His own thoughts drifting back to Glasgow, and how far they’d come in a short space of time. The Midlands proving fertile ground, but with a heavy price tag.

Malkie had laid out the plan, a direct move against Edwards at his family home. It didn’t sit right with Frank. It went against the unwritten rules. He tried voicing his opinion. ‘All I’m saying is...’

Malkie cut him short. ‘He’s a cancer, needs cutting out, that’s all there is to it.’

Frank tried again. ‘So we get Morrison to set up a meet, we do it there. That way it’s clean, and ethical.’

‘It’s never clean, Frank, you should know that by now and what’s all this shite about ethics?’

‘You go after him in his home, that’s personal, he’s got family. What d’you want to do, take them out as well? The Old Bill will be all over us like a rash.’

Malkie didn’t answer, keeping his expression blank, watching the world pass by in a blur.

Thirty-seconds passed before he broke the silence. ‘He’s forced my hand, two attempts, Frank, not once but twice, he ain’t stopping till I’m dead. This is a war. Think you’re immune, he’ll be coming for you next and your family, that what you want?’

Frank fixed his eyes on the rear view mirror. ‘We can negotiate, call a truce. We’re not on the East Side anymore, it’s not like it used to be.’

‘You don’t like it, Frank, walk away.’ He let it hang in the air between them, like a menacing dark shroud.

Walking away was never an option. No way Frank was going to see out his days looking over his shoulder.

The things he knew, there was no chance Malkie was letting him disappear into the sunset. He couldn’t live out his days waiting for the knock on the door, and having to deal with the constant state of paranoia. That was no way to live. He’d seen it happen to others. Responsible for dispatching a few of them to the next life himself. In the end, they welcomed it. Anything to end the turmoil. Frank wasn’t going out like that. He was in it for life. He couldn’t cash in the chips because things got a little rough. However it played out, he was Malkie’s right hand.

Frank floored the accelerator. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but remained silent, his inner voice raging within.

The unfolding scenario, way beyond reason.

12

The drive out took a little over thirty minutes. Tooled up, weapon of choice, three jerry cans of four-star petrol stowed in the boot. Edwards’ place backed on to the golf course, a solitary detached new build. The nearest house over a quarter of a mile away. Isolated, away from prying eyes. It was perfect.

Halfway down the gravel driveway, Frank killed the headlights, no point in announcing their arrival. Little chance of anyone still being at the clubhouse at four in the morning. Still, it paid to be cautious, no point in taking unnecessary risks. Not the kind that could get them banged up or worse.

The car came to a halt. Frank popped the boot. Malkie told him to turn the car around, and to leave the engine running, with the lights off.

‘You sure about this, Malkie?’

‘Said your piece already. Not going soft on me, Frank, you of all people?’

‘Soft don’t come into it. Just want to be certain you’re thinking straight, that’s all.’

‘We get this done, it’s finished. Territory’s ours, no argument. I guarantee you Frank, after this, no one’s gonna dare fuck with us.’

From there, it was a short sprint across to the ninth hole. A five-foot hedgerow separating the back of Vinnie’s property from the green. Malkie lobbed the first can over into the garden. It thudded onto the lawn, leaving a deep indentation from the impact. The noise louder than he expected, he waited for the bedroom light to illuminate. Thirty-seconds passed. Nothing. He picked up the second can, forced his way through the thicket. Placing it down, he reached back through and pulled the third to him. He waited, scanning the darkness. Silence. Safe to move forward. Two paces in, he stopped - listening to the night. Nothing. Security light inactive. Everything going to plan.

If Morrison’s information was good, Edwards had a routine. A TV dinner washed down with bourbon, always a double Jack Daniels. Refilled at least twice before bedtime. Enough to relax, unwind, and forget about his troubles.

According to Morrison, Vinnie would be alone, and with his wife out of town he had plans for Tanya to visit, at least for part of the evening. That said, he’d have given his minder the night off, leaving him free to participate in his darkest fantasies without embarrassment or interruption.

Malkie paused by the patio doors, jerry cans ready to go. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the pre-cut key. He inserted it into the lock. It was stiff, he waggled it left to right. Nothing. Shit. It was a bad cut. Malkie cursed Billy Kane under his breath, it was a simple job, he’d even messed that up. ‘Fucker. Should have taken care of it myself.’

He tried again, pulling the handle towards him, applying more pressure, second time around it clicked into place.

Opening the door, he found himself standing in the kitchen-diner, soon to be another man’s grave. He took a second to observe the scene. Edwards had ensured his wife had every modern convenience on the market. All the trappings of success for a mobster’s wife, a double-range stove, American style refrigerator and coffee maker.

He took a couple of paces farther in, listening for the tell-tale squeak of the upstairs floorboards. All quiet, a thought flashed into his head that it could be a set up. Frank had already voiced his concerns about the legitimacy of the act. He pushed it aside, no way Frank would betray him. But Morrison, that was a different matter. Never trust a dirty cop.

Malkie opened the first can, sloshing it over the worktops, up the walls, and over the oak dining table. Making his way into the TV room, he was greeted by two huge, black leather sofas adjacent to a walnut entertainment cabinet. He emptied the second can, making sure it soaked all the soft furnishings.

Out into the hallway. The third can sprayed the floor, walls and doorway. He finished it off on the stairwell.

Lighting the first match, he held it up, watching the flame dance orange and bright. He let it burn halfway down before throwing it. The match hit the floral stair runner and ignited. He stood watching as the flame, found its rhythm, and danced a graceful Bolero. He retraced his steps, throwing a second match into the TV room, the contents igniting upon impact.

He had to be quick now, the stairs were beginning to take hold, as the house filled with the sound of the crackling of timber and the whoosh of the ravenous flames as they engulfed everything in their path.

Back to the kitchen-diner, the intense heat of the fire creating a sweatbox. Malkie fought the reflex to cough, as the noxious fumes suffocated any oxygen pockets. He reached for the patio door, opened it, and stepped outside, sucking in a lungful of breath in-between retching and coughing. He looked up, orange flames licked at the bedroom’s timber window frame.

Lighting the third match, he executed an under arm lob, his eyes followed it as it cut through the night air. It hit the table, flames whipping on impact. He stumbled back, scorching heat lashing at his face and hands. He kicked the patio door shut, the UPVC frame twisting and grotesque as it deformed. He took a second to catch his breath, mesmerised, a cacophony of red, yellow and orange acrobatics.

No way Edwards is making it out. He slipped back through the hedge, sprinting across the green.

Frank was already in the car, engine running, ready for the off.

Elated, Malkie smacked his fist twice on the car roof. ‘See that Frank, now it’s done. Now we rule, no negotiation, no exceptions.’

Frank, unable to share the sentiment, watched as the apex of the roof disintegrated, folding, then caving in. The sound of sirens in the distance, that was their cue to get out of there. Frank hit the gas, shards of gravel flying in all directions.

Navigating the country lanes at speed, the sirens dissipated as he accelerated into the blackness. Two miles in, he turned off down a country farm track, a dilapidated mixture of outhouses and barns greeted their arrival.

Malkie alighted the vehicle, and jogged to the nearest barn twenty yards away. Inside, a clean getaway car, prepped and ready.

Frank drove forward onto a boggy field, and jumped out of the car, the crimson glow on the horizon nagged at his conscience. He ignored it. Moving to the rear of the vehicle, he retrieved another jerry can from the boot, he opened the rear passenger door, and sprayed the contents over the upholstered interior. He did the same to the front, and then worked his way round the outside, making sure the doors, sills, roof and bonnet received an equal dousing.

Malkie was standing beside him now, changed from the hardware store blue boiler suit and workman boots that could place him at the scene. Bagged up, he tossed the contents onto the back seat of the Sierra Cosworth. No trace, no evidence, no comebacks.

‘Safer to let them burn with the car,’ he said. ‘We get pulled, be difficult trying to explain that one to the police.’

Frank nodded his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the blood-red sky flickering in the distance. He released the petrol cap, stuffing a rag into the top of the aperture. Malkie made his way to the replacement vehicle, a Volkswagen Golf, boosted two days before. False plates and a fresh paint job disguised any claim to previous ownership.

Frank lit the taper, he set it inside the rag, and sprinted away. Twenty paces out, the Ford exploded, the blast knocked Frank to the ground. He jumped to his feet, and leapt into the Golf. The tyres ripped into the dirt track as they sped away into the breaking dawn.

13

The next day, local news broke the story. Police remained tight-lipped. Unnamed sources close to the investigation said the good money was on arson. Unconfirmed reports suggested the remains of two charred bodies were recovered from the scene.

Frank’s stomach lurched, he moved closer to the radio, turning the bulletin up. He had a bad feeling where it was leading. Edwards was supposed to be alone. Reports speculating two bodies found at the scene appeared to be a female adult and child. Forget arson. That meant homicide, double murder. Life imprisonment.

Frank grabbed the phone from its cradle, punched in the number. Malkie picked up on the third warble. ‘You best turn the radio on.’

He’d been expecting the call. His voice resigned and flat. ‘No need, I’m watching it on TV, local news reporting from the scene.’

‘This is fucked...we’re fucked, you any...’

Frank was entitled to vent but not like this. Malkie’s voice became harsh, ‘not on the phone, usual place, half an hour.’

The tell-tale click of the receiver told Frank the conversation was done with.

Frank leaned forward in his chair, and cupped his hands to his face. Malkie had fucked up and he’d followed. He might not have set the fire but he carried equal blame. He prayed to God the reporters had it all wrong.

Malkie was waiting at the rendezvous point, a service station just off junction three of the M6. Frank recognised the Merc. He drove past, checking his mirrors. The police were bound to be onto them. He drove round twice, acting as though he was looking for a decent parking space for his Shogun Sport four-wheel drive. Satisfied, he parked a hundred yards away. He hurried across the parking lot, head down against the wind and rain. He made his way inside, and stood at the WH Smith newspaper stall. He picked up one of the red top tabloids, leafed through it, looking for something of worth. Malkie joined him, he reached for another title, and thumbed his way through. He kept his eyes fixed forward. Just another punter.

‘Need to hold your nerve Frank, know better than to phone me.’

‘Double murder...the fuck did that happen?’

‘Nothing’s changed, stick to the plan.’

‘Wife and kid Malkie, and you say nothing’s changed?’

‘Speculation, Frank.’

‘What, you need to hear it from the police before it’s real?’

‘So what if it is?’

‘Civilians, remember.’

‘I say it’s collateral damage.’

‘Eleven-year-old girl, collateral. You taking the piss?’

‘Edwards knew the life, and yet he still took the risk. His choice. Could have walked away. He chose to make a stand. You want me to send flowers, that it?’

Frank eyed him, the anger rising within, fighting the urge to throttle the life from Malkie. He let the rage subside. He knew better than to antagonise the boss.

‘Just don’t sit right...being a child killer.’

‘Fuck that. You wanna get sentimental, best convert, go Catholic. Unburden yourself to some kiddie-fiddler priest, but I don’t wanna hear about any of this shit again.’

Frank took a deep intake of breath, and held it before answering. ‘So what now?’

‘We wait. Let Edwards make his move. Then we finish it. Meantime, I need a drink, you joining me?’

Malkie took a sip, scanning the room, enjoying the reassuring burn at the back of his throat. ‘Like I said, collateral damage. Fuck all we can do now. Shit happens.’

‘And the police, how we handling that?’

Malkie drained the remnants of the Bush Mills, sticking his hand in the air for another. ‘Alibi’s solid, the cops got nothing. So what if they come and speak to us? Be disappointed if they don’t. Just hold it together, Frank. Let them come. When they’re done, Edwards will make his play.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Wouldn’t you? Wife and kiddie gone like that. He won’t be thinking straight, bound to make mistakes. He wants Closure Frank. No two ways about it. He’s coming. He’s hurting so bad right now, I can almost taste his pain, and I’m liking that.’

‘So how we doing this?’

‘You let me worry about that.’

‘You got it all worked out then Malkie, huh?’

‘I’ve been waiting on this for a long time. It’s personal. I took his business, then his family. Fucked with his head and his finances. He can’t let go. It’s eating him from the inside, and now, I finally got that fucker right where I want him.’

‘When, how?’

‘Man’s gotta make a statement, be the Kings. If nothing else he’s gotta save face. What better way than to take me out in my own home?’

‘Why wait? Let’s take the fight to him. Better still I go, that way you maintain your distance. Or we contract out - finish it clean.’

‘Where’s the fun in that, Frank? You heard anything I said? This is personal. I want the bastard on his knees begging me to end it.’

Frank stared into the bottom of his glass, silent. Burning questions tearing into him, had Malkie known all along that Edwards wasn’t even there, just his wife and daughter? The thought brought the bile to the back of his throat. He knew Malkie was a cold bastard, but this was different. Demented. He didn’t want any part of it. He felt tainted, lied to, complicit in the murder of woman and child. Not what he’d signed up for. No way.

The police came and hauled in Malkie and Frank for questioning, both of them released without charge twenty-four hours later. Both alibis held up to scrutiny. Police knew damned well Malkie Thompson was behind the attack, just couldn’t prove it – not yet.

14

Edwards drained his last dregs of bourbon, it helped numb the pain but couldn’t block it out. Didn’t matter what happened now, everything, all he’d ever loved - gone.

He dabbed at the corner of his eye as the image of his daughter, Lila - a happy and smiley eight year old, came to mind. She’d known nothing of her father’s business. An innocent, caught up in a vile and unprecedented gangland turf war. As for his wife Laura, she knew to some extent, but chose not to ask too many questions. She even turned a blind eye to Vinnie’s extra curricular activities with Tanya. Deep down she knew, at the end of the day, it was her and Lila that mattered most.

Vinnie relived the nightmare on replay each night, haunted by his daughter’s voice screaming Daddy help, help me please. His wife’s tortured expression, as silent tears streamed down her face, the flames licking at her nightdress.

Despite his many faults, Vinnie Edwards had doted on his daughter, and for that alone Malkie Thompson would come to understand the true meaning of suffering.

The Glaswegian and his organisation had been running wild like a pack of rabid dogs, now it was time to round them up and dispose of them once and for all.

Vinnie couldn’t bring his family back, but he could go some way to getting even.

15

Seventeen Days Later

Malkie had been questioned twice, released both times without charge. He’d even instructed the police to pass his condolences onto Vinnie Edwards, and to make matters worse, sent a bouquet of flowers to the dual funeral of mother and daughter.

Edwards had gone to ground. No one on the street spoke his name. Heightened fear of incurring the wrath of the prime suspect ensured silence.

Each night, Frank slept downstairs at the Kings Retreat, waiting for something or anything. His mind alert to every sound, but still nothing. Part of him wanted to believe Edwards was gone, instinct told him different.

He squinted at the clock on the wall 3:10am. He didn’t know what had woken him this time, was it a sound or a feeling? Whatever it was, he couldn’t put his finger on it. He reached for his gun, having taken to sleeping with it every night since the fire. He checked the load and chamber of the .38 handgun.

He was in two minds whether to roll over and try to get back to sleep, but the nagging thought wouldn’t leave him. Frank got up and made his way to the door, listening hard. Nothing, just his over-active imagination, too old for this shit, Frank.

He turned to go back to his makeshift bed, comprising of duvet, pillows and inadequate padding that passed for a mattress, his back aching at the prospect of hunkering down again. But there it was, definite this time, Malkie’s voice. It wasn’t raised, his tone level, but the broad Glaswegian accent unmistakable.

Must be talking in his sleep again. Frank opened the door, standing at the foot of the stairs, this time - another voice for sure.

Frank crept up the stairs, careful to avoid the burglar step three rungs up. He kept his gun trained on the landing. Reaching the top, he paused - the breath caught in his chest, he listened. There it was again, definite this time. Two distinct accents, one Malkie’s, the other unknown.

Frank remained stationary, kept his weapon trained on the door. This time it was clear enough to decipher, as both voices raised in argument. He recognised Edwards, his dialogue slurred. Malkie taunting him. Telling him they died slow. Flames eating them alive, screams penetrating the night air.

Edwards let out his own scream, like nothing Frank had heard before, a tortured banshee.

Frank lunged for the bedroom door. Edwards pulled the trigger. Frank caught the muzzle flash, the shot ricocheting off the headboard, the bullet embedded in the chest of drawers.

His eyes darted to Malkie. He was still alive. Motionless, laughing, continuing to mock Edwards. ‘Can’t even shoot straight, wanna go easy on the booze. You gotta do this right, this is for them. Come on. Take aim, pull the trigger. Last chance, dickhead.’

A mixture of tears and snot streamed down Vinnie’s face. ‘Bastard...fucking sick bastard,’ he said, moving forward trying to find his target.

Malkie taunted some more. ‘Do it now - come on, shoot me, useless fucking prick. ’

Edwards raised the gun, he was calm. No more tears. This was for them – his wife, his daughter, his last act.

Malkie looked on defiant, raising his arms out to the side, embracing martyrdom.

Frank dived as if he were reaching the Murrayfield touchline, at the same time he pulled the trigger of his .38 twice. The first round slammed into Edwards’ ribs. The second catching him somewhere lower in the gut. The impact of the first bullet enough to force him to crumple as Frank’s bulk ploughed into him, bringing him down hard.

Malkie burst into laughter, Frank couldn’t work out if it was shock or relief. ‘Took your time there, Frankie, hoping he was gonna finish me off, eh?’

16

Frank pulled himself to his feet. His eyes remained fixed on Edwards as he lay writhing on the floor, gasping his last couple of breaths. Frank’s bullet finding his lung, leaving Edwards choking, and drowning in his own blood.

Malkie sauntered over, in no particular rush to put an end to the proceedings. ‘Well, well Vinnie boy, looks like you’re well and truly fucked, doesn’t it, eh?’

Straddling his body, Malkie pulled him up by his shirt collar. ‘You really thought you could take me on?’

Edwards tried to answer, his words swamped in blood, as his eyes glazed over.

Malkie slapped his face. ‘I say when you get to die.’

Frank retrieved Edwards’ gun from the floor, a .45 US Army import and passed it to Malkie.

Malkie admired the workmanship. ‘Nice hardware, wasted on you though.’

Frank stood at the window observing the street, all quiet, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. ‘Malkie, we got to get this done, getting light out there.’

‘I hear you Frank.’ Malkie forced the barrel inside Edwards’ mouth. ‘Be sure to say hello to the family for me.’ He pulled the trigger once, letting the lifeless corpse slump back to the floor.

Epilogue

In the days that followed Malkie’s firm went about cementing their grip on all of Edwards’ former territories. Not that there was much resistance. The locals and the supposed rivals soon came to realise, Thompson was indeed the undisputed boss, and as such had a license to reign supreme.

Copyright © 2016 by Mark J. Newman

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Mark J. Newman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. This is a work of TOTAL FICTION.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

CHARACTERS

Jed Baxter - Former police officer, and full time gambling addict. Survives by providing out of hours services as a ‘Cleaner’ to organised crime outfits.

Sean Callaghan - Newcastle based senior lieutenant in the Callaghan crime family. Runs the Northeast operation on behalf of his cousin Gerry.

Gerry Callaghan - Staunch Irish Republican, and puppet master of the Newcastle based Sean Callaghan organisation.

Seamus Callaghan - US based, IRA fundraiser and arms smuggler. Recently deceased, brother of Gerry Callaghan.

Tom Callaghan - Son of Gerry, residing in the US, Boston Massachusetts, responsible for securing and distributing the east coast heroin supply, after the death of his uncle Seamus.

Gypsy Boy Malone - Bare knuckle fighter, based in Ireland, travels around Europe fighting in various bouts. The man everyone wants to beat.

Dwyer - A wiry young scouser, eager to make his name in the bareknuckle fight game.

McAlister - Glasgow based crime boss. After recent events he needs to make a big statement, and prove he’s still got what it takes to run Scotland’s largest criminal organisation.

Neil Kennedy - McAlister’s second in command.

Garvey & Henderson - Enforcers for Ian McAlister’s firm, answer direct to Neil Kennedy.

‘Lorna’ - girlfriend of Neil Kennedy

‘Shaven Headed Minder’ - Chief bodyguard to Ian McAlister.

Johnston - McAlister’s driver.

John Blake & Kieran Williams - Freelance contractors. Specialists in armed raids throughout the UK and Europe. Recently deceased.

The McHughs’ - Edinburgh based crime family, arch rivals to McAlister’s firm. Looking for opportunities to expand.

Anonymous Male Guest - Attendee at one of McAlister’s infamous house party’s. Murder suspect.

Anonymous brown haired girl - Murder victim, approximately 13, found dead at the scene of party, hosted by Ian McAlister.

Malkie Thompson - Head strong protege of McAlister. A man with ambitions to branch out on his own. Recently gone to ground.

Billly Kane - confidante and close friend of Malkie Thompson, question is can he be trusted?

Frank Mayer - Malkie’s right hand man and chief enforcer.

George Patterson - Former street brawler, now working for Malkie Thompson.

Arthur William Baxter - Father of the ex-cop, turned Cleaner.

Doris Littleton - eyewitness to a hit and run accident

Lindsey Gaskin - North East Regional Crime Correspondent.

1

Newcastle 1987

Baxter thumbed through his winnings, a wedge of used crumpled tens and twenties bound together with an elastic band. Dog-eared and tatty or crisp and clean, it made no difference cash was cash. He stuffed the wad into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and zipped it up. It had been a long time coming but winning felt good.

He looked up; a small crowd had gathered ten feet from where he was standing. Local faces, associates of Callaghan. They were huddled together talking in low tones, muttering into their warm beer. If looks could kill...

He caught their eye, not that it had been his intention to do so, but it happened all the same. His inner voice was yelling at him to get out of there, but he couldn’t help but linger a moment longer. He wasn’t one to gloat but then again he was entitled to enjoy the moment. He returned their disgruntled stare, a broad smile breaking out onto his face. He felt their pain; of late, he’d been there more times than he cared to remember. Some of them had lost big tonight, and over the last three months, Baxter had lost more than he could account for. Tonight that had changed. Something was different. He’d turned a corner, putting an end to his bad run. That’s how it was; bad luck coming and going, the law of averages. He’d finally broken the cycle.

Six grand in total, not bad for an evening’s work. He’d rode his luck but he’d kept his nerve, believing it would all come good in the end. Half way through the night, things hadn’t looked so good; at worst he was down by two and half grand. He went to Callaghan, the bout’s organiser and kingpin of the northeast’s criminal fraternity. He needed a short-term loan, just to get him through to the last bout. How could Callaghan say no? Baxter was a regular, and he was only too glad to authorise his credit. Besides, Baxter was a safe bet, he’d never missed a deadline. He understood the terms well enough, you don’t pay on time, we cut you. You miss a second payment, we take your fingers. Miss a third, we discuss repayment options with your family.

Each party understood the expectations. There could be no misunderstanding.

2

Although it wasn’t a fortune, Baxter’s win ensured that he could pay what he owed and keep Callaghan off his back, leaving a little left over. He still needed to get his head straight. He’d considered counselling, but his line of work wasn’t the easiest subject matter to discuss with civilians, this was down to him and him alone. He felt bereft; nothing he did could shake the memory. The girl’s face haunted him, ingrained on his brain, when he closed his eyes – she was there. Things had become so bad he’d begun to hallucinate. When driving the car, he’d see her at the side of the road or she’d be sitting on the back seat when he checked his rear view mirror. It was the same in his apartment, when he tried to watch the TV; he’d see her out of the corner of his eye, just sitting in the armchair watching him intently. She never spoke, always silent, her eyes imploring him to act.

Sleep didn’t come easy; he’d begun self-medicating just so he could catch a fragmented couple of hours here and there. He ignored the pharmacist’s warnings about the dangers of mixing his medication. What did they know? He knew his own body better than anyone. Besides, he took them as guidelines more than instructions. He knew what he could and couldn’t handle.

He’d gotten into the habit of concocting his own sleep recipe. Each night, he’d take a triple shot of brandy, crush a Nytol sleeping pill into it, and then add paracetamol, his own method to combat the hangover effects of the morning after. The difficulty was coming round, trying to rouse himself from sleep. He’d devised a regime to shock his body into action. First, he took a two-minute cold shower, followed by three cups of strong, black coffee. Then he’d go for a run, nothing too strenuous, a mile jog. If the coffee rush kicked in, then he could push it to a mile and a half. On his return, he’d perform twenty reps of crunches followed by press-ups then squats before taking a hot shower. It wasn’t fool proof, but it worked for the most part. Anything was better than waking up each day feeling as if he’d been given a double dose of Rohypnol.

Ever since the McAlister job he’d been functioning on autopilot, before the win he’d gambled his savings down to nothing. He’d borrowed even from those he’d vowed never to ask, it was all part of his coping mechanism, gambling helped him to forget. Sure, he had to get it in order, he knew that. He kept telling himself it was just a short-term solution. Anything to dull the memory. Take each day as it comes.

3

It was time to call it a night; he made his way outside, content to be going home with cash in his pocket. He walked the short distance from the cowshed where the bouts had taken place, across a muddy track towards the larger corrugated barn that housed the vehicles. Callaghan had given his staff instructions to ensure that all vehicles were parked undercover and out of sight, safe from prying eyes or any inquisitive police patrol that may just happen to pass by. Not that the local police were a real concern, they knew all about Callaghan’s nocturnal unlicensed bouts, and seemed content to turn a blind eye. It was one way, if a little unorthodox, to ensure most of the criminal fraternity were contained and out of the way.

Gypsy Boy Malone had come good tonight. Baxter had followed his career with a keen interest, keeping a close eye on his form. He hadn’t lost a bout in the last eighteen months, spending most of the year honing his skills, training and fighting in illegal bouts across Europe. But Malone had higher ambitions.

The lure of sponsorship meant he was in the process of making the transition to become a licensed boxer, but old habits were proving hard to break. He only knew one way to fight – dirty. Malone fought to win, whatever the cost. He treated each bout as a fight for survival; the way he saw it, bare-knuckle fighting and boxing were one and the same, it all came down to hand to hand combat. Playing by the rules was easier said than done, with many of his licensed fights ending in disqualification before the second bell.

That’s how he came to be on Callaghan’s line up. A late entry, his name added to the bill only twenty-four hours before the scheduled bout. He’d travelled over from Ireland at the prospect of a big pay out. Callaghan’s events had a growing reputation, drawing fighters from all over the UK and beyond, all eager to cash in.

As expected, Malone made it through to the final bout, dispatching all takers with relative ease. He still looked fresh after winning all four of his fights. He’d come through relatively unscathed, the only clue to his fight history, a cut above his right eye. Some careful needlework from his trainer had done enough to keep it from becoming a problem.

His opponent in the final bout was a wiry Scouser by the name of Dwyer. A game fighter, lean and fast. He danced around the ring as if he was Ali. A typical showman, eager to please the crowd. He knew how to work them and build up a frenzy. Baxter guessed he had some serious money invested in the fight, knowing if he could cause an upset, he’d reap the cash bonanza.

Malone was a big deal in the bare-knuckle fight scene. The news that he was looking to go legit, turn pro and fight exclusively as a licensed boxer didn’t go down too well with the punters. Some made their living following him around Europe, betting on the outcome of each fight, a few getting rich in the process. The name of Gypsy Boy Malone was like a brand, its currency reaching as far south as the Costa del Sol. He was a guaranteed crowd puller, and where the punters went, the money followed.

He’d earned his stripes by taking on all comers, particularly those across the English Channel in France, Belgium, Holland, and farther afield in Spain, where the organisers and the crowd favoured longer, more brutal bouts. Malone’s status had become legendary after going the distance and lasting up to two hours in some of the epic battles of last man standing. For Callaghan and his ilk, Malone’s imminent retirement meant sacrificing their cash cow. It was in neither the organisers’ nor the punters’ interests for Malone to make the transition.

For any fighter on the bill, the chance of taking on Malone was like being handed a prized scalp. If Dwyer could pull it off, he’d become a legend, forever feted as the fighter who’d ended Malone’s reign. Failure wasn’t an option; he was determined not to become just another mangled and beaten mess of a statistic.

For Malone, bare-knuckle fighting was a way of life; he’d grown up with it. From the age of five, he’d had it drummed into him never to back down, no matter the odds. Fighting was about honour, and Malone fought every bout as if it was his last. He was relentless, a predator stalking and cornering his prey before ripping into them.

Going up against Malone took brawn and brains, the secret was to hit and run. To use the jab, then move. Malone was big and cumbersome, built like a cruiserweight boxer. Any opponent wanting to try their luck would have to try to frustrate him, to wear him down bit by bit. The secret was not to be drawn into an open slugfest and try to match him punch for punch. That’s what he wanted, and what the crowd hoped for. For a fighter to stand a chance, they’d need a combination of speed, agility, and stamina to win out the day.

4

The Scouser started well enough, managing to stay out of Malone’s reach, dodging the right uppercut that had brought down so many others. He was able to land a succession of rapid punches and move. At the end of the first round, he walked back to his corner, leaving Malone looking like a tired old bull in the arena. The crowd responded to his precision attacks, the excitement building every time he went forward and landed his jabs. Vast sums of cash were changing hands as the odds tipped in Dwyer’s favour, some having the feeling that an upset could be on the cards.

The fight turned, just before the bell rang out to signal the end round two. Malone was coming forward, chasing Dwyer around the ring, his jaw open, and slack, breathing hard, fatigue beginning to take effect. Dwyer backed away, wanting to tire him out some more before launching his next counterattack. He was doing well, using his brain and athleticism to outwit his opponent.

Dwyer wanted to please the crowd, to give them a show, something they would remember. He tried showboating, attempting an Ali-style shuffle, the crowd surged forward, roaring their approval, the security detail struggling to contain them. Dwyer raised his fist to acknowledge their acceptance, losing his balance in the process. He slipped on a pool of blood that hadn’t been covered with fresh hay since the previous bout, and went over backwards, scrabbling in the dirt. The Scouser didn’t have time to look up; Malone was on him. The punches rained down on Dwyer’s head, face, and neck. All he could do was try to protect his head with his arms. Malone swatted them away as though they were dead flies. He knew he had him. Dwyer flayed around on the shed floor, helpless and pathetic. Sensing the end was near, Malone stepped it up a gear, a flurry of punches coming in from all directions.

The bell rang to signal the end of the round. The fight continued. Malone ignored the shouts from his corner, he was on a kill mission. His trainer ran in trying to pull him off his opponent. Dwyer had stopped responding, offering no resistance. His own corner team peeled him off the floor and dragged him back to his corner.

They went to work on him, smelling salts to bring him round. Swabs to clean him up. When the third bell rang out, Dwyer didn’t know which day of the week it was, but he still went forward to meet the champion head on. Malone came out of his corner determined to finish it. He floored Dwyer with a left hook; he went down hard. If he’d had any sense that’s where he would have stayed.

Dwyer was dazed, rolling around; he managed to pull himself up on to all fours, shaking his head before attempting to stand. As he straightened up, Malone piled in to him, Dwyer crumpled, he was hurt, but he couldn’t concede. He managed to remain on his feet, but his guard was down, his arms rendered useless, hanging heavy and slack.

Malone threw a sledgehammer right with enough force to take Dwyer’s head off his shoulders. At the last second, Dwyer rolled his head to the side, taking a glancing blow to the left of his jaw. Malone’s own velocity spinning him round, forcing him off balance. Dwyer took his chance. Snarling like a wild dog, he unleashed a succession of rapid punches to the kidneys. Malone went down on his knee, winded, but not out of the game. The crowd were on their feet, plastic beer containers flying through the air, the remnants showering both fighters.

Dwyer gave it everything, as though his life depended on it, knocking Malone to the floor. The champion was stunned rather than hurt; the first time he’d been on the floor in more than a year. He lay there dazed, numb to the onslaught. Dwyer was on top of him, kneeling on his chest, his punches pounding away, each one a precision missile landing with speed and pinpoint accuracy.

Fresh claret spilled from Malone’s battle-scarred face, blood from his mouth ran freely from his chin, his nose flattened to his cheek, and his eye opened up under Dwyer’s attack. The crowd sensed the end was near, chants of Dwyer, Dwyer, Dwyer filling the cavernous shed, willing the challenger to end the champion’s unbeaten reign. Dwyer’s arms were like lead, but he kept going, managing a nod to acknowledge their support and enthusiasm. The exertion of his ninety-second barrage was burning from his wrists up into his forearms, reaching his biceps, and then onto his shoulders.

Dwyer’s breathing was ragged; he couldn’t keep up the pace, and slowed before slumping forward to catch his breath. Malone seized the moment, both hands grabbing at Dwyer’s throat. He threw the Scouser off to the side, and pulled himself to his feet. Dwyer lay on his back in the dirt, his eyes wide, unable to comprehend his opponent’s recovery. Malone raised his fists above his head, a victory salute to the crowd before giving Dwyer a toothy, wry smile, spitting fresh blood to the floor.

Dwyer used the moment to get to his feet; he still had a chance. He slammed into Malone as he had his back to him, midway through his victory salute. Dwyer unleashed a combination of jabs to the body and head. Malone swayed and wobbled, but remained standing. Dwyer continued, each flurry of punches more ferocious than the last. Malone backed away. Dwyer followed, pursuing his quarry, backing the champion into his own corner.

Dwyer got in close, throwing his best punch, landing it square on Malone’s already ruined nose. He roared as the pain receptors connected with the smashed, jagged shards of cartilage. His temper surged, he countered with a brutal right uppercut, dazing the Scouser as he staggered back. Malone pursued, using his body weight to spin him around into the corner. Now he had him exactly where he wanted him. He unleashed a volley of punches to Dwyer’s midsection, each one lifting him off his feet. Malone ripped into him without mercy. He respected Dwyer’s ability as a fighter, but there could be only one champion.

The Scouser was trapped and helpless, caught on the far side of the ring, his corner team impotent to offer any kind of help. Malone was on a mission, landing sickening uppercuts to his head, then punishing the body the same way he’d practised a thousand times before with the pig’s carcass hanging from the hook in the garage. In the end, Malone’s own trainer stopped the fight, dragging him off, the undisputed champion foaming at the mouth to finish the job, leaving Dwyer reduced to a bloodied pulp curled in a foetal position in the dirt.

5

Baxter entered the corrugated barn, noticing the gentle buzz from the strip lighting running central from the rafters as it bathed the two rows of vehicles below in a green tinged light. His Volvo 240 Estate was parked to the extreme right edge of the barn, the light filtering out to minimum strength six feet from his car, leaving it draped in shadow. A few of the other punters were already in their cars, their engines turning over, radios blaring, ready to make off back to their homes, eager to return to their wives and children and resume civility, having satiated their blood lust for the next couple of months.

As he approached his car, he became aware of a small group of three men huddled to the side of his vehicle, smoking and talking in hushed tones as he neared the Volvo. He recognised two of the group as the men from the cowshed, associates of Callaghan; he readied himself for a confrontation.

They were blocking his path to the driver’s door; getting in his car and driving away wasn’t an option without taking them on. He didn’t fancy the odds too well. The last thing he wanted to do was risk losing his six grand, the problem was they already knew he had it; they just had to take it from him.

Sean Callaghan stepped into the light from behind the Volvo, now there were four of them to contend with. Baxter considered turning around and walking back the way he’d come, but Callaghan had different ideas.

‘Hear you had a decent win tonight, Baxter, that’s good, I’m pleased for you.’

Baxter eyed Callaghan with suspicion, keeping the others in his peripheral vision, looking for any sudden moves to rush him. ‘I did okay.’

‘Off home already? Night’s young, thought you might want to go big on that win of yours, take the chance to capitalise on your good fortune? You’re on a roll after all.’

‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m calling it a night, another time maybe?’

‘Sure. I understand, no problem.’

Baxter took a step closer to the car, Callaghan and his associates making no attempt to move. ‘All the same, I’d like the chance to win that money back.’

Baxter took a moment to appear as though he was considering the offer. ‘It’s been a long day...’

Callaghan leaned back on the Volvo, scratching at his two-day stubble growth. ‘And there’s me thinking you were a gambling man. Or was that someone else who came to me earlier looking for a loan?’

Baxter sighed, then dropped his eyes to the ground before locking eyes with Callaghan. ‘You want your money, that’s what this about. You know I’m good for it, right?’

‘Sure...we have an understanding, Baxter. This isn’t about me thinking you’re doing a runner.’

Baxter fought to control his temper. ‘So what it is then?’

Callaghan took his time to assess Baxter, careful in his choice of words. ‘I always had you figured as an all or nothing kind of guy. You put it all on the line tonight. I respect that. Took some balls.’

Baxter took a step closer to the car. ‘Even so, I’m going home.’

Callaghan raised his hand, holding it out in front of him, his palm raised flat. ‘Be in your interests to reconsider.’

Baxter kept his eyes fixed on Callaghan, aware the three were poised ready to strike, just waiting on the word.

‘All the same, I think I’ll pass.’

Callaghan nodded his head. ‘Okay, well, can’t blame a man for trying.’

Baxter moved forward, key in hand. Callaghan motioned for his associates to move aside, one standing each side of the door, the other loitering close to his boss. Reaching the door, Baxter inserted the key into the lock and pulled on the handle. He opened the door and began sliding in. When he was half-in and half-out, Callaghan gave the signal; the two standing either side of the door grabbed it, slamming it into Baxter’s torso, wedging him between the car body and doorframe.

Callaghan stepped closer, inches from Baxter’s face. ‘I lost a lot of money tonight. Your friend Malone, well, let’s just say he’s got some peculiar ideas about loyalty. Should have listened to his trainers but he chose not to.’

Baxter’s arms were pinned to his side, unable to move. Struggling against the weight of the door, ‘I can see why you’d be pissed, but how’s that affect me?’

Callaghan took a deep intake of breath and sighed. ‘I don’t understand it, what makes a man like that risk everything and put it all on the line?’

Baxter needed to think fast, the dual pressure of the door crushing against his ribs and the car frame biting into his shoulder blades. ‘I don’t know, pride I guess.’

‘That maybe so, but you of all people should know by now, I don’t like to lose.’

‘I still don’t get what this has to do with me.’

‘You owe me.’

‘You want your money now? Fine. Let’s do it now, right here.’

Callaghan gave the signal for his associates to ease the pressure on the car door. ‘You’re not listening. If I wanted it, I could take that money; like candy from a baby, all I need to do is give the word. He paused, taking a moment to let his words resonate. ‘Look at this way, at least you’ve got a sporting chance. Who knows, you might even win big.’

‘I got a choice?’

‘Life’s about choices, Baxter. I could always leave you and my associates to get better acquainted if you like.’

Baxter knew he couldn’t walk away. If he resisted the offer, they’d beat him to a pulp and take the money anyway. If he played ball, the chances were he’d still lose everything but maybe get to keep his teeth and ribs intact. ‘You want a rematch?’

‘Malone - Dwyer. God no. He’ll not be dancing a jig any time soon, Malone’s seen to that well enough. No. We need a real contender, someone suitable. I reckon I might have just the person. But before that, you need to help me out Baxter. I have a theory; part of me can’t help but think you and Malone got something going. So if there’s anything you need to get off your chest, now would be the time.’

‘What, like we’re lovers or something? Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Each to their own, Baxter, but I was thinking more along the lines that maybe you cut him in on a sweet little deal, told him to ignore his own corner’s advice.’

‘Why would I do that?’

Callaghan moved closer, almost intimate, and whispered in his ear, ‘I know you, Baxter. I know what you do. I know you better than you know yourself. You’re not scared of me, but you should be. If I find out you tried to screw me over, I guarantee I’ll return that favour tenfold.’

Baxter ignored the comment, focusing on the present. ‘There’s no way Malone can fight, his hand’s all busted up, and he can’t even breathe out of his nose.’

‘I disagree. We had a little chat a while ago, he’ll fight, he gave me his word. Swore on his honour. And you know what they say, a gypsy’s word is his bond. After all, he’s keen to make amends. How about you?’

Baxter let the information sink in, recalculating the odds of him getting through the night in one piece. ‘So what are you proposing?

Callaghan took a step back. ‘That’s the Baxter I know. So here it is, Malone fights again right now. You stump up your six grand, and I’ll match it and raise it to ten. Double or quits.’

‘Twenty grand, I don’t have that kind of collateral.’

‘You’re good for it, Baxter, I know that. Never missed a deadline yet.’

Callaghan and his crew escorted Baxter back across the field to the shed. The crowd had scattered leaving the remnants, twenty or so bodies keen to stay, sensing that something special and unscheduled was about to take place. Gypsy Boy Malone’s trainer escorted him in, his body and face a collision roadmap. His wounds had been cleaned and stitched, but it was clear that he was in no shape to fight. His right eye swollen purple and closed. His hands bound in new dressings. His torso a mixture of black, purple, orange, and yellow. He looked to be in worse shape than he’d been after the fight. He was a mess. Callaghan’s boys had worked him over, punishment for going against the boss’ wishes.

The second fighter stepped over the hay bale; he was young, mid-twenties, stripped to the waist, unmarked. A clean skin. He’d been brought in to make an example of Malone. To inflict significant damage, enough to render any notions of competing as a licensed boxer useless.

Baxter got up to leave, only to find his path blocked by two of Callaghan’s associates. He knew his money was as good as gone. Callaghan may as well have coshed him on the back of the head and robbed him right there. Either way, the outcome would be the same. This way, he got to humiliate him publicly, as good as stripping him naked and parading him through the street. Callaghan revelled in the sense of theatre, he liked to portray the illusion that it was an honourable agreement between two like-minded gambling men, Baxter allowing Callaghan a sporting chance to recoup his losses, but the crowd knew the truth of it.

Baxter was back to square one. Skint. And now Callaghan was into him for 20K. You don’t pay on time, we cut you. You miss a second payment, we take your fingers. Miss a third, we discuss repayment options with your family.

6

He put the phone down and squinted at the LED clock face 11:53pm. He rubbed at the corners of his eyes, picking away any remnants of sleep, his eyes adjusting to the low light neon glow. His head felt heavy, as if he’d been woken from hibernation mid-season. His body and mind craved sleep, but McAlister wasn’t someone who understood the word no.

It was odd but not beyond reason for him to call at this time; he didn’t exactly keep office hours. Baxter tried but failed to bullet point the conversation in his head, his brain struggling to recall the specifics, caught somewhere in no man’s land between sleep and wake. He needed coffee, the stronger the better. These days, it took three spoonful’s' just to fire up the engine.

McAlister had sounded hyped, almost manic on the phone, as if something imminent was about to take place; no doubt some foul deed he’d been plotting. He thought it strange the way he’d volunteered a sum of cash way above the going rate without attempting to negotiate. That wasn’t his way. It could only mean one thing, and it wasn’t good. It was going to get messy.

Baxter placed his head in his hands and cursed, fuck fuck fuck. Given their recent history, the last person he wanted to deal with was McAlister. There had to be an alternative, another way forward. Something or anything... In truth, there wasn’t, and with Callaghan’s outstanding debt to repay, Baxter needed money fast.

Given the opportunity, with the right circumstances, McAlister could have kept it local. He wasn’t short on those he could call upon to rein in a favour. There were bound to be those who would be looking to impress; a chance to make their name, but still he’d chosen to go across the border. The question was why? Stepping outside the inner circle posed a significant risk. Above all else, McAlister was a tactician, like a master chess player, always thinking four or five moves ahead. He was a businessman, playing it shrewd; he’d have weighed up the odds.

At least he would have, had he had the chance and time to plan.

Baxter’s hair stood up on the back of his neck, his instincts screaming at him not to go. Drive, go south. But really, what choice did he have? Nowhere to run.

McAlister’s actions were reactive. Another piece of the jigsaw in a wider chain of events that had forced him to follow this path.

Reactive people made mistakes, they got emotional, they disengaged the rational thinking part of their brain in a blind attempt to get even or seek revenge. That’s how people ended up serving thirty-year sentences. The same people who focused on the end product, choosing to ignore the other working parts, realising their mistake only when it was too late, and then they were left dangling to reap the consequences.

It could only mean one thing, McAlister needed to distance himself from the job. He needed to have a solid alibi, one that would place him above suspicion. Looking at it this way, Baxter could see that it made perfect business sense, bringing in an outsider lessened the opportunity for any comebacks. It also meant he was easier to get rid of, no questions asked. At the end of the day, there wouldn’t be too many locals asking probing questions about a missing Sassenach, the police included. McAlister would see to that.

He made his way through to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. It had little effect. He leant forward, placing his face deep into the basin. Baxter turned the tap on full, rotating his head from side to side, letting the fast flowing, cold water wash over the back of his scalp. The coldness of the water numbed his head. He felt drugged, nothing seemed real. He steadied himself, one hand on the chrome tap, the other resting on the edge of the basin. He realised his leg was shaking; he placed the sole of his foot flat to the floor and pressed down hard, forcing the involuntary shaking to cease, taking back control.

The woozing sensation made Baxter’s head feel as if he was locked inside a washing machine on a fast spin cycle. Blinking his eyelids, he found his peripheral vision blurring then vignetting to the edges. He couldn’t operate like this. He’d never been a junkie, but this is how he imagined going cold turkey must feel. Baxter needed to take ownership. He shook his head side to side in an attempt to find clarity. It had little effect, leaving him with nothing more than a fuzzy reaction on the inside of his skull. He waited, deciding it was safer to let the moment pass in its own time. This, the fourth such episode, was becoming an irritating habit, one he didn’t have the time or inclination to indulge. A definite pattern had emerged, one he’d rather not confront, but still he knew it was there. He waited for it to subside.

When the moment had passed, he grabbed the shaving mirror off the windowsill and spun it round, the magnified oval glass greeting him with an obese distortion of his true self. It looked how he felt. He couldn’t help but smirk, asking himself, is this how they really see me? He flipped the mirror three-sixty, his eyes still struggling to focus. He loomed towards his reflection, pawing at his face. Was he dreaming? Was he sleepwalking? Or was this something in between? He guessed this was the nearest he’d get to being one of the undead, a husk living somewhere between the light and the dark.

It was difficult to tell these days, he’d lost track. What day was it anyway? Each day blended into night, and each night was identical to the previous one. He craved sleep more than ever; he rubbed at his eyes, splashing more cold water over his face. He massaged his left temple, the dull throbbing sensation now ever present, it never seemed to take a break, always there niggling away just under the skin. He thought maybe it was his conscience manifesting itself in physical pain. It wasn’t helped by the fact that he’d downed half a bottle Napoleon and laced it with a sleeping pill just to send him on his way. It was all part of his ritual, his regime, anything to induce sleep.

The introspection over, his mind turned back to McAlister, he didn’t like it, any of it. Who the hell did McAlister think he was anyway? He didn’t react kindly to being summoned like some lowly employee. He didn’t work for anyone but himself. Nobody had exclusivity over him. That’s how it was and that’s how he intended to keep it. He could have signed his life over to an organisation years ago, could have being enjoying the benefits all these years, the security of belonging, but he chose not to. The only reason he was going back over the border was down to Callaghan, another arrogant fuck, cut from the same cloth as McAlister.

He should never have become mixed up with either of them, but his world was far from ideal. He didn’t believe in Utopia, just the here and now. That’s how it was; he needed the cash. He hated himself for it, but what could he do? Memories of that night stuck to him like a pair of wet drainpipe jeans, seeping deep within, causing an arthritic pain in his bones.

7

He’d reached the border in a little over an hour, the prospect of doubling his fee spurring him on. His Volvo 240 accelerating along the M74. With one hour twenty remaining on the clock, he’d floored the accelerator, confident the police would be unmotivated to give chase in the dead of night.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the dark memories of that night at McAlister’s, the images forever content to linger in the blackest recess of his mind. He’d vowed then never to return, to distance himself from the Glasgow crime boss, his tastes a little too extreme for Baxter’s conscience to deal with.

Things change. Besides, McAlister was paying well, and he could sure as hell do with the extra cash. Anything to keep Callaghan and his crew at bay a little while longer, and give him the opportunity to come up with plan B. He needed some breathing space and the chance to work things out. The problem was people in his line of work got twitchy when sums of money were left unpaid. To some, his debt might have been loose change, the result of a bad night at the poker table. For him, it was different, twenty grand indebted. Callaghan wasn’t the type to wait either, he wanted paying, weighing in for the full amount. There was no way he was letting it slide; he had a reputation to uphold.

Baxter blinked hard, the glare of a solitary on-coming vehicle temporarily blinding him. His concentration was beginning to wane. Self-medicating had its drawbacks; then again, two hours ago he hadn’t planned on driving through the night to pick up a body. He wound the window down in an attempt to combat the onset of drowsiness and fatigue. The last thing he wanted right now was to end up in the ditch, having to be extracted from the wreckage by the local fire crew. Dropping off at the wheel could cost him dear, more than his own life was worth. There was no room for mistakes; the debt had to be paid on time and in full.

The cold air went some way to keeping him awake, like an icy slap across the face. He started to make plans; maybe it was time Callaghan checked out. He imagined what it would be like to pull the trigger, wrap the body and weigh it down with bricks. It wasn’t the first time he’d let the scenario play out. He knew the exact spot. A deserted fishing quay close to Tynemouth. He had the trawler and crew on standby, good folk, people he trusted with his own life.

Three hours, he’d mapped it all out. That’s how long it would take the trawler to make it far enough out to sea, dump the body, and make it back to the quay.

Callaghan Fish Bait, he liked the sound of that.

The act of killing would be the easy part. He had the motive and the incentive. Baxter knew if anything happened to him, the debt would pass on to his family; he couldn’t risk civilians getting caught up in his world. The difficulty was in getting Callaghan to meet him out in the open, alone. He had to find a way to make it happen.

That was all fine in principle, easy enough for Baxter to whisper it to himself, taking comfort in the security and isolation of his own vehicle. Be little chance anyone would go to the trouble of bugging his car. The problem lay with the name of Callaghan rather than the man. The myth stronger than reality, creating the illusion of power and influence. It was effective nonetheless, stretching far beyond the Northeast. Sean Callaghan was just one piece of the jigsaw, more of a figurehead, a representative for an international organisation. These days, the Callaghans looked more and more like a global conglomerate, their interests spreading far and wide.

The more he considered it, taking out Sean Callaghan had the potential to create more problems than it solved. For one thing, there’d be a power vacuum. He couldn’t see the Callaghans just rolling over. There’d be repercussions.

Gerry Callaghan ran the organisation from his farm in County Meath, Ireland. He was the real boss; his cousin Sean was no more than a caretaker manager. No one ever dared say it to his face, but those on the inside knew that’s how it really was. Sean was in place for as long as it suited the interests of his older cousin. There was no love lost between them; it was a business arrangement and nothing more.

That still didn’t give Baxter carte blanche to make Sean disappear, even if it did his debt would still stand, passed onto the next in line. Baxter figured it was safer to owe Sean rather than Gerry. He’d seen the Irishman’s handiwork first hand, up close, when he’d been called in to clean up after an interrogation that had gone too far. It was grotesque, sheer butchery, the man had no finesse. No understanding of the art and ritual of extracting information. He was nothing but a wild boar, content to gouge and maim.

Then there was the East Coast faction, located in Boston, Massachusetts. Tom Callaghan, Gerry’s youngest son ran the operation. He’d gone over initially to oversee the funeral arrangements when his uncle had passed. Seamus had died intestate, save for a raven-headed twenty-five-year-old claiming to be his illegitimate daughter. Tom Callaghan was bewitched from the moment he first saw her and ended up marrying the girl. He stayed, got his green card, and became a naturalised citizen.

That was nine years ago. Gerry Callaghan made a fuss at the time. He even forbade his son to go through with it, but he soon came round to the idea when he realised Tom had achieved what Seamus never could. He’d secured the lucrative East Coast heroin supply routes, opening up markets across the US and beyond. Gerry wasn’t about to pass on that opportunity; he stood to earn thirty-five percent of the profit. Besides, he needed someone he could trust; he needed boots on the ground. His brother Seamus, a committed Irish Republican, had dedicated his life to cultivating relationships, setting up an intricate arms network to ship weapons from the US to Eire for the Cause, one the FBI couldn’t infiltrate. Boston had always proved to be fertile ground to recruit third, fourth, and fifth generation Irish-Americans looking to get back at the Brits. Gerry saw no reason why that should change.

Baxter needed an exit strategy, someplace to run to. A foreign shore beyond the reach of the Callaghan co- operative. He sniggered at the irony; there was no place on Earth they couldn’t get to him. He was screwed; if they wanted him, they’d find him.

He’d lived the life for so long, he couldn’t see another way; it was part of his genetic makeup. Besides, what else was there for him? Sure, he could go abroad, take some sun, drink to forget. Wake up with a hangover and start-over. Question was, what would happen when the money ran dry? What would he do then, play bartender in Phuket and pimp lady boys to tourists?

8

The concoction of coffee, Nytol, and lack of sleep had jangled his thought processes. There was no way he could think straight, nothing he could do but continue the drive. He was out of choices, he had to deal with the immediate, and that meant McAlister. He pressed the pedal hard, accelerating into the blanket of fog that had begun its descent, rolling down from the hill and onto the road.

Sean Callaghan’s weakness centred on him believing his own hype. He’d traded on the fear factor for so long that he took compliance as a given. The arrogant, fat bastard thought he was untouchable, maybe he was to most, but not to Baxter, he reckoned on there being a lot of people in Newcastle glad to see the back of Callaghan, some even willing to pay for the service.

Three miles out, he recognised the landscape. The knot tightened in his stomach. Getting close now. He was committed to the job, he willed himself on, get in, get it done, and get out. That’s all there was to it. As much as he tried to, he couldn’t force the image from his head. Just another job, that’s what he kept telling himself. One step closer to making a fresh start. Somewhere new. No history. Erase it all and start over. That was the plan. He knew then he was kidding himself, but it was the only thing keeping him heading north. He had to compartmentalise the emotion, shut it down, and sever the connection.

Less than two miles to McAlister’s place, he slowed down to fifty, conscious he’d been ripping into the dense blanket of fog at seventy-five miles per hour. He’d covered the last ten or so miles on autopilot, his thoughts shrouded in darkness. He’d found driving into the white cotton veil soothing, cathartic even. As if he was dreaming or dead. Maybe that’s what it was; he’d already passed to the other side.

9

Flashback

Nearing McAlister’s place, he couldn’t help but run over the events of that night. What should have been a simple collection job had become complicated. He’d been summoned, not knowing what he was walking into, blinded by the prospect of a decent pay-out.

Sure, he understood the requirements from the off; a delicate operation, tact and diplomacy were at a premium, that was a given. Even then, he knew enough about McAlister and his friends to urge caution, but nothing could prepare him for the reality of what he witnessed.

Arriving at the scene, Baxter was escorted by a member of McAlister’s security team. He was guided through a warren of connecting corridors and rooms, passing an assortment of men ranging in ages, from mid-twenties to upper sixties. Girls in skimpy, tight outfits were serving drinks and doing their best to outmanoeuvre wandering hands and blatant attempts to grope them.

On entering the master guest bedroom, Baxter saw a guy, middle-aged, about fifty-one or two, with a pockmarked face and a receding hairline, wearing a black, silk dressing gown, he was sat in a wicker chair, smoking a cigarette. Baxter remembered the detached nonchalant expression on his face as though he couldn’t fathom what all the fuss was about. For a brief moment, he thought he’d recognised him, but couldn’t place him; he looked vaguely familiar like someone he should’ve known off the TV from a few years back.

He moved farther into the room, the minder guiding him around to the far side of the king-sized bed. That was the moment things changed. Baxter turned to him, his face blank, the minder pointing at the heap on the floor, beckoning Baxter to get started.

He was confronted with a girl, a minor, no more than thirteen years old. She could’ve been his own daughter, similar in age and she had the same wavy, light brown hair laying across her cheek. He cast his eyes over her small, delicate features – a child. She was half-naked, a white hand towel casually thrown across her torso, far too small to save her modesty. Baxter knelt down, rearranged the towel, and brushed the hair from her cheek.

That’s when he noticed the bruising and swelling to her face. She’d been beaten, subjected to a sustained assault. Baxter felt a wave of anger and revulsion crash into him. He rose to his feet, balling his fists. The guy was no more than five or six paces away. He ran at him, the minder anticipated his reaction, grabbed him, and swung him down onto the bed. ‘Stay put and calm down.’

Baxter lay still, the force of the impact knocking the wind from him. There was no way he was getting past the muscle without some form of weapon. He looked around the room for something, anything. A heavy object of some description would do. The minder read his thoughts. ‘Don’t even think about it, pal, and don’t give me an excuse to bust you up. You’ve got a job to do, so get it done.’

Baxter dropped down the side of the bed and placed two fingers to the girl’s neck, the pulse was weak, but she was breathing. ‘Get an ambulance.’

The minder kept his expression blank. ‘No way that’s happening.’

He looked back down at the girl, tears welling in his eyes. ‘This isn’t what I do.’

The minder loomed over the top of him. ‘It is now. What you waiting for? Get on with it.’

Baxter brushed the girls fringe from her eyes and looked over to the figure sitting in the chair. ‘You sick bastard. Why?’

The figure ignored him, taking a long drag on his cigarette, unconcerned, blowing smoke rings from his mouth.

Baxter looked back to the minder. ‘Call a fucking ambulance now, she’s still breathing.’

McAlister appeared at the door. ‘There’ll be no ambulance.’

The girl started shaking, her body convulsing, froth spilling from the side of her mouth, her jaw clamped shut. Baxter rolled her on to her side, placing her in the recovery position, his mind awash; all he could do was react.

He tried forcing his fingers into her mouth to separate her top and bottom jaw. ‘She’s going to die unless she gets some proper help. What’s she taken?’

The figure in the chair snorted in between sucking hard on his cigarette. ‘Oh, for God sake, the stupid bitch did a line of coke, then another, such a greedy girl, she just didn’t know when to stop, and now we have this. Not at all what I’d anticipated, Mr. McAlister, such a let down.’

His accent gave him away, English or upper-class Scot, his clipped tone and air of superiority denoting a public school education. His contempt was clear, the girl was nothing more than a commodity, and now she’d lost her value, she was worthless. Her life reduced to being a liability that could not be tolerated. A potential embarrassment that needed to be buried.

Baxter pulled himself to his feet, reaching across the bed to the phone on the cabinet; snatching it from its cradle he began punching in treble nine.

The minder ripped the handset from his grip, terminating the call.

Baxter looked on, his jaw slack. The enormity of the situation dawning on him.

McAlister nodded to the minder, gesturing for him to go to the girl. Without words, he turned and made his way around the king-sized bed, and crouched. Baxter could just see the back of the minder’s short-cropped, grade one hair stubble above the bed. He was leaning forward as though he was consuming the child, the rest of the view obscured by the width of his shoulders.

Baxter’s initial thought was that the minder was leaning in low to scoop the girl up in his arms from the floor, but he remained stationary.

He swung back to face McAllister, ‘this isn’t what...’

The barrel of a 9 mm was inches from his face. McAlister’s arm straight and unflinching. ‘Get it done,’ he ordered, looking in the direction of the minder.

Baxter’s throat was dry, his head swimming. None of it made sense. He pivoted back round. He could see the minder hunched over the girl. He wanted it to stop; he wanted to intervene, to do something. He froze, unable to comprehend the reality of the situation unfolding before his eyes.

10

He brought the car to a halt, and sat looking out towards the house. It was different to his last visit, silent and eerie, no music or laughter. The absence of men milling around outside smoking cigarettes.

At least it wasn’t a party, not like before. For that, he was thankful. He’d spent the entire journey running through the various scenarios in his head. He wanted to avoid a confrontation with McAlister, knowing this time he wouldn’t be able to walk away. He reminded himself of why he was there, he needed the money, and he had to keep Callaghan off his back.

The place looked deserted. The interior lights were on in McAlister’s office, and the main hallway was fully illuminated, the rest of the house was in darkness. He checked his watch, 2:40 am, not unusual for the hour. Still, he had a feeling in his gut that something wasn’t right.

He exited the car and made his way towards the front door.

The CCTV would have picked up his arrival, so he’d expected to be met by one of McAlister’s security detail in the courtyard, but no one came. He stopped walking, and stood motionless, listening to the sounds of the night. There was nothing, no traffic in the distance, no early morning birdcall. He’d have expected something, even the noise from a transistor radio or TV that had been left on through the night by one of the staff.

He advanced, looking around for a sign of anything that might be out of place. Anything that might give him reason to get in his car and get out of there. He moved closer to the front door, the muted night playing heavy on his mind. He took out his gloves, slipped them on, and pushed the door open. He made a visual appraisal of the scene from the doorway, everything looked normal and he could see nothing out of place. He waited, sniffing the air, nothing amiss.

He shouted McAlister’s name down the hallway, half-expecting a gruff reply telling him to come on in. There was no reply.

He tried again. ‘McAlister, you in there?’

Silence. He took out his plastic shoe coverings, pulling them on over his boots. He placed one foot over the threshold and held his breath, half-expecting a gunshot to ring out or an alarm to sound. Nothing happened. He began to take tentative steps down the hallway, wishing he’d brought a weapon. He checked the rooms either side of the corridor as he walked farther on into the house, still finding nothing untoward.

Ten feet into the hallway, Baxter observed footprints ingrained into the parquet flooring. He crouched to take a closer look at the marks. He estimated the owner of the shoe wore either a size nine or ten. Next to them were another set of prints, much heavier, the indentations set deeper into the flooring - McAlister’s.

Baxter cast his eye farther down the hallway, seeing no obvious signs of a struggle. The gaudy yellow and orange vase was still in situ on the corner table and the reproduction Rembrandt still hanging prominent opposite the doorway to the kitchen. The complete absence of any blood spatter was also adding to his sense of intrigue. So the visitor had walked into McAlister’s residence without incident, which meant he was invited or at least expected. Baxter continued to follow the trail of smudges and scratches, leading him to the office.

On entering the room, Baxter’s eyes settled on the shaven-headed corpse lying to the side of the desk. He moved closer, careful not to touch anything, and conscious of where he was stepping. Taking a closer look, he recognised the victim; it was the girl’s killer, McAlister’s minder. What goes around comes around. Baxter wasn’t a religious man, but he believed in Karma. Although part of him felt cheated that it wasn’t he who took his life, he was glad he was dead all the same. Left to him, he’d have prolonged the act. A bullet too kind an option for someone who had taken the life of an innocent child.

Now he had to find McAlister and try to piece together what the hell was going on. He doubted that it was the minder’s corpse that he’d come all this way to collect. If it was down to an internal problem, McAlister was more than capable of making an employee disappear.

The minder had two bullet holes, one to the abdomen, and another to the head. Baxter took a deep intake of breath; he’d walked into something way bigger than he’d anticipated. But where the hell was McAlister? He found his answer lying behind the desk. His eyes drawn to the mangled, bloodied mess. It had all the hallmarks of a professional hit; someone wanted to send a very clear message, McAlister’s reign was ended.

Fuck. His disposal job had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. Baxter inspected the corpse. Judging by the wounds, McAlister had been brought down by two gunshots to the chest. Nothing unusual in that, just another crime boss falling victim to a power struggle. Taking a closer look, Baxter could see evidence of tooth extraction. It was difficult to say whether it had occurred while he was still breathing or was post mortem. Still, it provided context. Now it was personal, something more than a simple tit for tat gangland shooting. The killer wanted payback. Why else take the time to remove teeth? This was punishment, a form of torture, inflicted to cause maximum pain. It was also a statement, a calling card. Almost as if the killer had been trophy hunting.

Baxter stepped away from the body, he needed to think. The potent mix of sleep deprivation and driver fatigue had scrambled his brain. He needed coffee, the strong black type, but that would have to wait. He returned to McAlister’s corpse, it was still warm, no signs of rigor mortis setting in.

He began a fingertip search of the office, looking for a lead, something, or anything to go on. Knowing the police could already be en route, he had to act fast. The last thing he needed right now was to be caught at the scene of a double homicide.

He checked his watch, already three hours invested in the job. Whatever happened from here on in, he had to find those responsible. That was the only way he was ever getting his hands on the money. Callaghan wasn’t interested in excuses. Walking away empty handed wasn’t an option. Baxter’s own family would bear the consequences if he failed to honour the payment deadline.

He knew there’d be those in McAlister’s firm who wouldn’t shed a tear at his passing. Might even be some loyal to him who had a vested interest in his demise. That’s where he’d start.

11

He drove out of McAlister’s place taking it slow and deliberate, careful not to draw unnecessary attention to himself. He kept the needle just below thirty mph, navigating his way through unfamiliar streets. His Glasgow A-Z street map opened, the yellow highlighter pen marking his next destination, Neil Kennedy’s, McAlister’s second in command, recently elevated to pole-position.

The sky was beginning to crack, the blue and black tinged with a purplish hue, daybreak no more than an hour away. He drove on for twenty-five minutes before locating a call box on the edge of a housing estate, a mixture of granite and red tower blocks looming ominous like giant watchtowers over the maze of terraced housing below.

Baxter brought the car to a stop adjacent to the call box, applied the handbrake, and sat watching the deserted street, leaving the engine idling. He scanned the immediate area, looking front and rear, checking both wing mirrors and then scanning his rear view mirror one last time. It was empty, devoid of human life.

Perhaps he was being over cautious, after all he wasn’t the target. He’d only seen two cars on the way over, the first a gold private hire Ford Granada Ghia taking revellers home from a night on the town, the other a clapped out white Leyland Mini, it’s rear suspension gone, the rusted back wheel arches sitting dangerously close to the top of the tyres. Neither had given him a second look.

Realising there wasn’t any sign of a tail car hanging back monitoring his progress, Baxter rolled his neck side to side, easing the tension. If they wanted him dead, they’d have laid in wait at McAlister’s home. At the end of the day, Baxter was the hired help, not a contract killer, therefore he posed no immediate threat.

The bodies had been left in situ awaiting his arrival. Over the years, since he’d left the job, he’d worked for many of the different organisations, north, and south of the border. He had no particular allegiance or personal preference as to whom he worked for. Baxter did it for the money, plain and simple.

The killer wasn’t trying to dispose of either of the bodies or cover his tracks in anyway. It was a hit, revenge, or retribution. It didn’t matter; the end result was the same, murder, a gangland execution.

Ian McAlister, the strong arm of the Glasgow underworld, was no more; some might call it poetic justice or that he’d had it coming for a long time. It could have been down to any number of rivals, in McAlister’s line of work it went with the territory, and he’d made many enemies over the years.

Then there were his unsavoury soirees; someone could’ve caught up with him. A relative out for vengeance or even a client who wanted him silenced. Did McAlister keep records, photographs, or videotapes of his guests who attended his private gatherings? There were plenty who had the motive to go after him. The burning question was how many would see it through?

Taking out McAlister would have seismic repercussions. His territory stretched beyond Glasgow towards Edinburgh. There’d be those, namely the McHughs, looking to consolidate their business interests now that he was out of the picture. The more he thought about it, the more questions it raised. None of it really mattered, whatever the reasons, Baxter had to get to the money. The rest of it was a distraction. He’d let the Scots fight it out between themselves. He had to get back across the border, down to Newcastle, to Callaghan. The clock was ticking and there was no doubt in his mind that Callaghan would honour his promise to do damage to those closest to him if he failed to deliver on time.

He checked the street one final time. The last thing he wanted now was to get into a confrontation with the local yahoos looking to a pick a fight with a stranger in the wee small hours. He alighted the Volvo, noting that he’d seen similar looking places scattered across the northeast of England. The estate reminded him of much of South Shields, but even in the low light, he knew this was far worse.

In the near distance, he could hear an almighty commotion, as though two alley cats were fighting it out. What sounded like a metal bin lid clattered to the floor. He spun round three hundred and sixty degrees following the noise. His eyes fixed on the graffiti scrawled on the wall outside the dental surgery. It read: Welcome to Plean Street home to the drunk the damned the dank and the dour. Baxter smirked, noting that the gallows humour made it across the border.

Pulling on a fresh pair of gloves, he made his way around the car to the red telephone box and swung the door open, the creak loud enough to wake the dead. The stench of urine greeted him. He caught a lungful of it, making him retch. Baxter was sure there was a law about taking a piss in a phone box even in Scotland. Looking on the bright side, the handset was still in one piece. He wedged the door open with his foot, attempting to dilute the heady aroma; removed the handset from the cradle, wiped it, and listened for a dialling tone. It was working. He punched in the number from memory and waited for the call to connect.

On the fourth ring, a gruff voice, the owner’s vocal cords strangulated and parched, answered. ‘Yeah?’

Baxter inserted the first of his ten pence pieces and waited in silence.

‘Who is this... you any idea what time it is?’

Baxter gave him the code, the one he’d agreed with McAlister, to be used should events take a turn for the worse. ‘Switchblade.’ He hung up the phone and waited for the call back. He counted in his head, one, two, three; he got up to ten-seconds, eleven, twelve, still nothing, thirteen, fourteen, by the time he reached fifteen, he was beginning to wonder if McAlister had actually passed on the code to his most trusted confidant.

Twenty-three seconds passed before the payphone began to ring, Baxter picked it up, this time he spoke. ‘Took your time.’

The caller broke into full rant. ‘Who the fu...?’

Baxter cut him short. ‘You got twenty minutes. The dental practice on Plean Street. Be there.’ He terminated the call and exited the phone box, stomping back to the car knowing full well the caller wouldn’t make it to the destination on time.

Kennedy pulled on his jeans and moved through to the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Switchblade, what the fuck?

His girlfriend, Lorna, came in, unsteady on her feet. Sleep still winning out over full consciousness. On autopilot she placed the toilet seat down and plonked her arse in position, ready to urinate. ‘Jesus suffering fuck, Neil, why you up so early, it’s the middle of the night?’ she said bleary eyed.

‘Gotta go check on something. Back before you know it. Go on back to bed now.’ Like an obedient sleepwalker, she got up from the toilet, wiped herself, and pushed down on the handle to flush. Kennedy followed her from the bathroom, slapping her naked arse as she thudded back to the bedroom.

‘Not a chance,’ she yawned, making her way to the bedroom.

‘Aye, you keep telling yourself that,’ said Kennedy, grabbing his keys, reading for the off.

12

Baxter drove on to Kennedy’s home address. He pulled up on the opposite side of the road, giving himself a one hundred and eighty degree view of the front row of terraces. He watched Kennedy leave by the front door, noting that he was unarmed, at least as far as he could tell.

Kennedy looked jittery, checking the street left and right three times before making for his car parked five houses down from his own front door. Baxter slunk down low in the front seat of his Volvo 240 to avoid detection. Kennedy jogged to his Audi Quattro and sped off in the direction of McAlister’s. Despite the risk, he was going to check it out for himself. Just as Baxter had predicted, he had to see it for himself; he had to be sure.

Baxter set his watch and waited a further five minutes before getting out of the car. He needed the house to be sleeping, he couldn’t be sure how many occupants he was likely to encounter. He wasn’t looking for a confrontation; he needed answers, information, something to go on.

He headed straight for the front door. The lock was easy enough to pick, he gained entry within twenty-seconds. The door opened with a whine; he grimaced at the sound, waiting for a light to illuminate the upstairs or a voice to call out into the darkness. The house had the smell of the night before, curry, beer and the lingering after smell of marijuana.

Baxter stood silent, listening for any telltale signs of movement from the upstairs. He counted to thirty before making his way down the hall towards the internal door, which he guessed led onto a back room or kitchen. The smell of curry intensified as he neared the door, his theory confirmed. He closed the door behind him, and felt along each side of the doorframe trying to locate the light switch; he found it protruding from the rough plaster at chest height six inches in, away from the frame.

He flicked the switch and blinked several times, letting his eyes adjust to the strip lighting as it flickered and buzzed four times before illuminating fully. He looked around; a well-used large saucepan stained yellow and tan housing the remnants of the chicken curry sat prominently on the stove. He scanned the area, making a mental note of everything in the place, discarded beer cans and two cheap, supermarket own brand empty white wine bottles populating the honey coloured pine table. Alongside it, a saucer doubling as a makeshift ashtray overflowing with roaches. Baxter picked one up and held it to his nose; he recognised it as Moroccan Black Leb, or at least a derivative of it, potent stuff. That went some way to explaining Kennedy’s confused state when he’d answered the phone.

He carried out a rudimentary fingertip search, checking cupboards, drawers, and along the top of the units, he found nothing. Shit. What had he expected a Tesco’s’ plastic bag full of used notes or a stash of Class A that he could sell on?

He could have been standing in any house on any sink estate, but this was the home of Neil Kennedy, Ian McAlister’s quartermaster. The man with access to the money, the drugs, and the armoury, he wasn’t stupid enough to use his own home as a storage facility. Baxter knocked the light off and took up position sitting behind the pine table. He placed the Sig Sauer 9 mm on the table in front of him; closed his eyes, and waited.

The image of the dead girl flooded into vision.

Forty-two minutes later, Kennedy returned home, the sound of his key connecting with the Yale lock alerting Baxter to his presence. He picked up the gun and aimed it towards the door.

Kennedy barged through the kitchen door, flicking the light switch as he entered, proceeding into the darkness towards the refrigerator. He needed a drink, the image of McAlister’s corpse still fresh in his mind. He didn’t have to guess too hard at who was responsible. He cursed McAlister for his stupidity. Stupid fuck. Then again, he’d always said the boss had given him way too much leeway from the get go, and now he was dead, two gunshots to the chest. But that wasn’t all; the killer had left his calling card, the pliers.

He opened a can of McEwan’s Export, downing three-quarters of it before taking a breath. He took another greedy hit.

Baxter, his Sig Sauer trained on the centre of Kennedy’s torso, announced his presence. ‘Thirsty work.’

Kennedy choked on the last remaining mouthful, spraying the refrigerator with a mixture of saliva and second-hand beer. He dropped the can to the floor and wiped at his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. His eyes furtively checking out the kitchen for any potential weapon within easy reach.

Baxter anticipated his thoughts. ‘You’ve got the cutlery drawer to your right; the chopping knife with the red handle would be your best choice. But you still need to reach round, pull the drawer open, and reach in, grab it, then turn and throw. Even if you’re a great shot, which I doubt, I still have more than enough time to shoot three rounds into you. One would be enough, but I like to be sure, just to be safe. Or you could go for the pan, lob it in my direction, who knows, you could get lucky, a decent strike straight between the eyes might be enough to knock me out. Then maybe you’ve got a chance’

Kennedy stood, his adrenalin pumping, his chest heaving up and down, considering his options. ‘Who the fu...?’

Baxter sat waiting with an amused look on his face. His 9 mm casually poised, ready for any sudden moves. ‘So, here’s how I see things. Somebody got to your boss, that’s too bad, sorry for your loss. Makes no difference to me though. I came to do a job, take out the trash. Pick up and disposal is how McAlister phrased it. I’m taking it he wasn’t referring to himself. So I’m guessing the potential victim had other ideas, tell me if I’m right or if I’m way off target here.’

Kennedy scowled. ‘You’re a fucking dead man, is what you are.’

Baxter laughed. ‘Even now, staring down the barrel of a gun, you’ve still got time to be making threats, God love you.’

‘Go fuck yourself, Englishman.’

Baxter scraped the chair back across the floor tiles and stood up, moving towards Kennedy at speed, his gun held steady at waist level, ready to shoot him in the gut if he made one wrong move. He stopped, leaving just two paces separating them. ‘I don’t think you’re understanding the situation. Your boss woke me in the middle of the night. I don’t sleep well at the best of times, makes me grouchy and pissed off. It’s been a long drive. All I want is my money, then I’m out of here.’

Kennedy sneered, relaxing a little, leaning his weight back against the base unit. ‘Money, there’s no money for you, Sassenach. You’ve done nowt.’

Baxter kept the 9 mm level, snapped his leg forward; a clean shot catching Kennedy in the groin, he doubled over, blowing the air from his cheeks. ‘Bastard, fuck, you’ll regret that.’

‘Why don’t we try that again. Now, the fact McAlister’s no longer amongst the living isn’t my concern. In fact it doesn’t change a damn thing. I’ve invested my time, jeopardised my liberty and wasted time having to track you down to this shit hole.’ He said looking around taking in his surroundings, the peeling paintwork, and battered units adding credence to his statement. ‘So whatever way you look at it, you still owe me Mr Kennedy.’

Neil Kennedy clenched his teeth. ‘I don’t have your money, he’s got it.’

Baxter narrowed his eyes. ‘And who might he be.’

‘Kennedy laughed, ‘what, you don’t know, Mr Former Investigator, well let’s just say the guy who killed McAlister is the one and same who offed your two pals.’

Baxter raised the gun; taking a step closer he pressed it hard into Kennedy’s jaw. ‘Why don’t you enlighten me before I decide to put a bullet in you, here and now?’

Kennedy struggled to move his jaw against the pressure of the 9 mm, his words coming out in a garbled slur.

‘Malkie Thompson.’

Baxter relieved the pressure on the Sig Sauer. ‘Who?’

‘Thompson. McAlister’s boy wonder, that’s who you were coming to collect. He’s the one you want, that’s who made it out of there with your money. Find Thompson, you get your money.’

Baxter processed the information. He’d heard rumours about Thompson, a ruthless little bastard who had made a name for himself while serving time in Barlinnie. Turns out McAlister had taken him on initially as extra muscle, but he’d risen through the ranks quick enough, too quick for some. Particularly those like Kennedy who’d invested their youth and future with McAlister.

Baxter took a step back, keeping the 9 mm aimed at Kennedy’s gut. ‘Why don’t you start with Blake and Williams?’

‘Aye. I see it now,’ said Kennedy gaining confidence. ‘This is all news to you. Well, see now, this is how it went down, just so you’re up to speed.’

‘Get on with it,’ said Baxter, reaffirming his grip on the Sig Sauer.

‘Thompson offed your pals at the depot and fled with the cash, and we were sent to bring him in, limber him up a wee bit for McAlister.’

‘Hold it, back up. We?’

‘Aye, me and a couple of the boys.’

‘Let me get this straight, Thompson killed both of them, and fled with the money?’

‘I know, crazy fuck, huh? Can’t get my head round it.’

Baxter had known Blake and Williams since his days on the force, he passed information in exchange for a percentage cut of the take from the jobs they pulled. Another revenue stream ended.

Kennedy continued with his recollection, enjoying the fact that he was now in a position of power, information his currency. ‘He tried to bullshit his way out of it, said the job had gone to shit, and that all he did was clean up the mess. Convenient eh?’

‘So what happened?’

Kennedy smiled a toothy grin. ‘He took a beating, mouthy bastard right to the end. Wouldn’t shut the fuck up. I had to stick a rag down his gullet to quiet him.’

‘And?’

‘And what? I already told you, we were just the warm up act. McAlister took the pliers to his fingers, one by one. But Thompson wouldn’t give it up. Granted, that’s one stubborn bastard. If I’d had my way we’d have finished it there tonight. But McAlister knew best, sent him on his way with Johnston, who knows where the poor fuck is now eh? Dead and buried I shouldn’t wonder.’

Baxter considered the unfolding scenario. ‘Then what happened?’

‘As soon as Thompson was out the door, McAlister called you, and I got my marching orders, told to fuck off home.’

‘Why not stay, surely he’d want you around, you’re his second in command?’

‘No way that was happening. McAlister knew how I felt about Thompson. If I’d been there, I’d have been tearing him limb from limb. See, I never took to the scrawny wee shite. He started worming his way in from the beginning. He made sure two of my pals, good guys who had worked with us a few years; well Thompson planted the seed of doubt in McAlister’s mind. Said they were skimming the take. That they bragged about it behind his back and made him a laughing stock. So McAlister gave in. Thompson had the green light.

‘Green light for what?’ said Baxter.

‘Lets just say, they disappeared.’

Baxter narrowed his eyes. ‘Looks as though you had a lucky escape, had you been there tonight, you’d be dead.’

Kennedy bristled. ‘Fuck that, I’d have gutted the bastard before he could make a move.’

‘Where do I find this Thompson?’

Kennedy jutted his head forward, and raised his finger, a prodding motion towards Baxter. ‘He’s mine, this is local business. You’d be wise to get your English arse back over the border and maybe I might just forget about our meeting here tonight.’

Baxter whacked the Sig Sauer into the side of Kennedy’s head. ‘You’re not listening; I’m getting paid whatever happens here tonight, got that? Going home empty handed isn’t an option.’

Without warning, Kennedy slammed his weight forward, taking Baxter off balance, knocking the 9 mm from his grip. Kennedy lurched for the saucepan, swung it round in a wild arc, catching Baxter side on, the pan connecting with his lower jaw and neck, rattling a few teeth in the process. For a moment, his vision blurred, turning to blackness punctuated with small rivulets of light. He shook his head, opening his eyes in time to see the saucepan crashing down on him in a two-handed attack. He raised his forearm in defence, countering with a snap kick, hoping to find his target. He heard Kennedy’s yelp and felt him flinch; he’d caught him in the kneecap, dislocating it and crunching into the cartilage. Kennedy slumped to the floor, as the pain surged from Baxter’s wrist to elbow.

Clutching his forearm, Baxter retrieved his weapon from the kitchen floor, wiping the curry from it with his hand, and flicking it off back onto the floor.

‘Maybe it’s time we asked your girlfriend about Thompson, bet she knows where to begin.’ Baxter advanced towards the kitchen door, rubbing his arm, leaving Kennedy writhing in pain. ‘Think it’s time she found out a few home truths about McAlister’s little get togethers, and just how much you like to partake.’

Kennedy, his face blotchy, both hands clutching at his ruined knee. ‘Go anywhere near my woman, I’ll slice you up and feed you to the dogs.’

Baxter, his hand resting on the door handle. ‘You got one chance, and then I’m bringing her down. I’ll put a bullet in each of her knees for starters, just so she can share some of that pain you’re going through.’

Kennedy spat the words out, saliva running from his chin. ‘Billy Kane, find him, you’ll get to Thompson.’

‘Who’s this Kane?’

Kennedy tried pulling himself up, he slid across the curry stained floor, managing to prop himself up against the kitchen cupboard, wedging his back in place to sit upright, a two-handed grip comforting his shattered kneecap. ‘He’s part of Thompson’s crew, he’s your way in.’

‘Where do I find him?’

‘And if I tell you, you’ll leave?’

Baxter grinned. ‘If you don’t bullshit me and I get my money, I got no reason to come back.’

Kennedy nodded. ‘Stop by Ardenlea, number forty-two, that’s Thompson’s place. Guarantee he won’t be there, but you might get some answers from Billy.’

Baxter turned to go; he’d already wasted enough time. ‘Don’t make me come back, Kennedy.’

Kennedy closed his eyes as the relief washed over him. ‘Wait, where’s Lorna, what have you done with her?’

Baxter pulled the internal door open. ‘Safe, tucked up in bed where you left her.’ He watched Kennedy squirming against the pain. ‘I’d get that looked at if I was you, can’t see you playing for Rangers anytime soon though.’

‘Fuck you, Sassenach.’

’You too Kennedy,’ said Baxter, giving him the middle finger as he turned to leave.

Baxter made his way down the hall towards the front door. Pulling it open, the cold night air swept in, whipping up the concoction of house odours. A wild shrieking noise forced him to spin back around. Instinct kicked in, he raised his 9 mm, confronted with a naked woman thumping down the stairs, a baseball bat aloft, doing her best Boudicca war cry.

Jesus Christ. Avoiding the confrontation, he pulled the front door shut behind him, Boudicca went crashing into it, before slumping to the floor, she was out cold. Baxter scurried to the Volvo. Ardenlea his next stop.

13

Baxter drove across to Thompson’s address in Ardenlea. As expected, Thompson was long gone. He followed the trail of blood along the hallway, leading to the pantry, the place of death. He shone his torch around, the blood spatter, evident, sprayed across the walls, he tilted it upwards, the beam illuminating the arterial spray fanning out wide, fine traces of blood covering most of the ceiling.

He guessed it belonged to Johnston, McAlister’s unfortunate driver who’d been sent to retrieve the cash. Going by the amount of blood at the crime scene, Baxter’s best guess was that he’d had his throat slit from behind. Body number three. Thompson was on a roll. He had to have had help. Maybe he’d employed a simple distraction technique, allowing the assailant to creep up unnoticed. Baxter looked around for clues, there was nothing but a shabby enamel Belfast sink. He took a closer look. The basin was bloodstained. Someone had done what they could to clean up in a hurry. A rudimentary attempt to rinse the basin clean, evident, but the perpetrator was out of time. This wasn’t about covering tacks or even trying to hide evidence; this was someone desperate to flee the scene.

Sitting back in his car, Baxter looked through his notes, like police work, it was a process of elimination and the application of nous. The next address on his list belonged to Billy Kane. He took out the A-Z road map. Finding the location, he estimated it to be no more than two miles away. He checked the dashboard clock; at this hour, he should be able to cover it in ten minutes.

He parked up way down the street and walked the hundred yards to number ninety-six. He passed by like any other pedestrian would on their way home from a night out on the town, his eyes glancing up from the front window to the bedroom; nothing but darkness. He stopped just past the house, pretending to tie a shoelace, listening for any telltale signs of movement from inside. He heard nothing. He continued to end of the terraced row, taking a right turn. He stopped on the corner, hidden in the shadow of the end house, using the cover as an observation point to scan the street.

He could opt to go in through the front door, which would be the easiest, and by far the quickest solution, but the street lamp directly outside, three feet from the entrance, made it unviable, any curtain-twitching neighbour would see him in an instant and raise the alarm. Baxter walked on following the seven-foot high brick wall, the coping stones sitting on top housing three stretches of barbed wire all the way along. An assortment of broken pieces of coloured, jagged glass in situ, cemented in place in no particular fashion. A fortified garden wall designed to keep unwanted visitors out. Those stupid enough to attempt to scale it at risk of causing severe injury to hands or knees.

Ten feet farther along, Baxter found a narrow, close board timber gate. He pushed down on the latch, it gave a little, tricking him into thinking it would open freely. Then the resistance kicked in, an additional chain latch. He pushed hard against it with his shoulder, it extended four inches but held solid. A dog in the near distance began barking; it quickly turned to a chorus as other neighbourhood dogs joined the cacophony. Baxter ignored it. He took a step back and threw his shoulder at the gate. The sound of splintering wood, music to his ears. He fell, landing on a heap of black bin bags awaiting collection. A light went on in a rear bedroom of the end terrace house but he couldn’t concern himself with that now. He had to get to Kane.

He ran forty feet back down the alleyway, observing the boundary fences between properties and counting back to locate number ninety-six. He glanced back in the direction of the house that had the rear window illuminated, it turned to darkness. The neighbour deciding it wasn’t worth the confrontation or the potential of becoming another statistic.

Baxter stopped running, he was standing next to a three-foot high, hinged, wooden pallet masquerading as a gate, he pushed it open and dodged his way through the various pieces of detritus scattered across the back yard. To reach the back door he had to pass through the assault course, navigating a path through a swath of discarded beer cans, empty bottles, and broken pieces of furniture. Upon reaching the door, he squeezed in between an old refrigerator and a ragged, floral armchair, silent sentries framing the doorway.

He pushed down lightly on the door handle, to his surprise it opened with ease. He was standing in the entrance to a galley kitchen. To his right, was a mangy toilet, smelling as if someone had forgotten to collect their intestines on the way out. He wrinkled his nose at the foul smell and did his best to keep his breathing shallow. He stepped inside and faced left, letting his eyes follow the line of units, past the overflowing sink and beat-up old cooker that looked in need of an industrial sand blaster to bring it back to life. He was nine feet from a connecting door that led onto the living area.

From the look and smell of the place, Baxter noted that Billy Kane lived alone. He had to be a solitary bachelor, there was no way any woman would put up with the stench, let alone anything else. Baxter took the news at face value, if his hunch was right it would make things easier and lessen the complications; in his experience it was the women who were fierce and unpredictable.

Baxter walked through to the adjoining room, pulling the door to behind him, welcoming the chance to put some distance between himself and the aroma of raw sewage. The first thing he noticed was the sound of light snoring; he twisted his head to the right, his eyes struggling to focus in the low light. He followed the noise and settled on the outline of a mound crashed out on the sofa.

He ignored it, scanning the room for other bodies, potential hazards that could be a cause for concern once he got started. There was nothing. He made his way upstairs, checking each room in turn. Still nothing, just him and Billy Kane, if that’s whom he turned out to be.

Baxter sat watching the mound, listening to the sounds getting louder with each intake of breath. Kane imitating a wild boar. Enough of this shit.

He pulled the mound from the sofa, letting it fall the short distance to the floor. It landed with a thud. Baxter waited five-seconds; the mound moved and groaned then reverted back to snoring.

Baxter stood, shaking his head side to side. He readied himself, aiming for the gut; he pulled his leg back and directed two successive kicks to the mid-section. The sound of air forcing its way from lungs resembled a wheezing, punctured bicycle tyre. Impatient for a result, Baxter repositioned himself, aligning with Kane’s groin, he whacked another vicious kick, landing it with expert precision. The mound recoiled, taking on a foetal shape for self-preservation.

Baxter readied himself for another kick, this time the head.

Kane’s eye’s flicked open. ‘No more, for the love of Christ, enough,’ he said, attempting to scrabble away to the furthest corner of the room.

Baxter remained silent, waiting and watching, expecting Kane to counter attack.

‘Don’t know who you are, big man, but you just fucked yourself. My pals are gonna fu.…’ The potential expletive killed mid vocal cord as Baxter’s paw like fist clutched at his windpipe. Kane’s hands flapped aimlessly trying to bat away the attack.

Baxter flipped his captive over onto his front, then leant on him, wrenching Kane’s hands up high into the middle of his back. He took out his plastic cable ties and applied one to his wrists, pulling it tight, deliberately letting the plastic bite into the skin, drawing blood.

Kane, powerless to resist. ‘What do you think you’re doing, who the fuck are you?’

Baxter said nothing as Kane continued to struggle against the restraints. ‘You even know who I am? I’m connected, pal. You’re a fucking deadman.’

‘Is that right Billy?’

‘Get to fuck, and how’d you know my name?’

‘I know everything, or at least most things, but that’s where you come in, Billy. You and me, we’re going to have a chat, and you’re going to fill in the gaps for me.’

‘Oh aye, like fuck I am, Sassenach bastard.’

Baxter remained silent; he took out another set of plastic ties and fixed them in place around the ankles. Billy struggled against the restraints. ‘You know who I work for? Making a big mistake, pal. Malkie Thompson, heard of him?’

Baxter leaned down and smacked Kane hard in the face. ‘About time you shut up and listened, Billy.’

Billy Kane lay on the floor spitting broken enamel shards from his mouth so not to choke on them. He was helpless, his arms trussed up behind his back, his ankles bound tight. Incapacitated, at the mercy of his captor.

Baxter hoisted Kane back up onto the sofa, leaving him sitting awkward on a forty-five degree angle, with his arms uncomfortable, crossed high in the middle of his back, the cramping pains instantaneous.

He stood back and admired his handiwork. ‘Now, before we begin, here’s the rules. You listening, Billy? Pay attention now, you don’t want to miss anything.’

‘Know what you are, Sassenach? A walking corpse, that’s all, you’re done with, pal.’

Baxter brought his boot down hard, the full force shattering Billy’s left shinbone. Kane let out a howl like an animal snared in the hunters trap. Baxter moved forward, inches from his face. ‘You need to listen and listen well. No more bullshit, you talk when I say you can.’

Kane’s breathing, fast and ragged, the sweat running free from his brow. ‘The fuck you want?’

‘Progress, see it’s easy when you try. So your boss, Thompson, where is he?’

‘How the fuck should I know?’

Baxter moved forward, applied pressure to the shattered shinbone. ‘Want to try that again?’

Kane blinked back the tears. ‘Jesus Mother...’

Baxter grabbed his captive by the hair, yanked him forward ‘Ssh, ssh now, Billy, he’s not hearing you. It’s just you and me.’

Kane’s eyes bulged from their sockets, his chest heaving up and down, hyperventilating. ‘He’ll kill me.’

Baxter smirked, ‘and you think I won’t, Billy?’

Kane took a moment to catch his breath. ‘See you, pal. You’re fucked in the head. Serious; you’re going after Malkie? He’ll fucking crucify you, Sassenach…’

Baxter heard enough, he clamped Kane’s mouth shut with his right mallet of a hand. ‘Tell me where he is and this ends.’ He let go and moved away.

‘Do yourself a favour, big man, whoever you are, whoever sent you. Go. Just fucking do one.’

‘Yeah, that’s not going to happen Billy. Not until you talk. You tell me where Thompson’s hiding out, I leave and you can go back to whatever it is you do in this crap hole of a dive.’

‘You’re not getting it, English. GO FUCK YOURSELF.’

Baxter moved forward, his full force applied to the right hammer fist, smashing into Billy’s left eye socket.

‘Enough of your bullshit, Billy, where’s Thompson?’

Kane squirmed on the sofa, ‘think I’d rat him out to you?’

Without warning Baxter landed another punch, this time a left, crashing into Kane’s nose. He followed with a succession of right and left fists, stopping only to wipe the sweat from stinging his eyes.

Kane lay twisted and helpless on the sofa, his face a bloodied pulp.

Baxter, his chest heaving up and down from the exertion. ‘Still not feel like talking, Billy? Fine, I’ll give you a minute to reconsider, before we go to round two.’ Baxter took a pace back from the sofa. ‘Seems he’s stepping up a league, your pal Malkie. Taking out McAlister like that. Ballsy move. I just spoke with Kennedy; you’ve heard of him right, the quartermaster? Thing is Billy, he’s just moved up to the number one slot. And guess what he’s doing first. No? I’ll tell you then, put you out of your misery. Housekeeping, Billy. And guess who gave me your address?’

Kane lifted his head and managed to mumble a few words. ‘McAlister, he can’t be dead.’

‘Yeah, he is. What, you didn’t know, your mate Malkie kept you out of the loop, dear oh dear, Billy, that’s not on is it? I thought you were part of the inner circle.’

‘Shite, all of it. Trying to fuck with my head,’ said Kane.

‘Ask yourself this, Billy, why would I even bother? You know what, I’m bored. Fancy a cup of tea? I know I do.’

‘You the police?’

‘Not anymore. Consider me a concerned citizen. Someone with a conscience to do the right thing. That’s where you come in.’

‘Me. Why the fuck would I help you out?’

Baxter moved towards the kitchen. ‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’

Taking advantage of Baxter’s move to the kitchen, Billy struggled against the restraints, it was useless.

Baxter called through, ‘tea or coffee? Provided you got some of course.’ He opened the cupboard. ‘Nescafé or Gold Blend? You look more like a Nescafé man to me Billy.’

‘You some fucking nut job, escaped, that it? Best fucking untie me now,’ said Billy.

Two minutes later. ‘Kettle’s boiled.’ He walked back into the room, placing the steaming kettle down on the floor in front of the sofa. ‘No one’s coming for you, Billy. Face it, you were left behind, mate. Malkie, Frank and George, they’re long gone. Just you and me now.’

He pulled Kane forward by his hair. ‘Sit up straight now, this is the fun part.’ Kane stared at his captor, unable to comprehend the complexity of the situation.

‘This is very simple, Billy. You tell me where to find Thompson, I walk out of here and you never see me again. You can go back to living carefree in this shit-hole you call home.’

Billy gritted his teeth together. ‘I don’t know where he is.’

‘I reckon you do know, Billy, you’re just holding out on me.’ Baxter took the kettle in hand and dribbled a teacup full of scalding water over Kane’s groin, letting it soak through his jeans and set to the skin like wet concrete.

Baxter muffled Kane’s scream by clamping his jaw shut tight with both hands. ‘Need to be quiet now, Billy, don’t go waking the neighbours, ssh, ssh.’ He let go, allowing Kane to breathe, each intake ragged and rasping.

‘One last chance, Billy, your choice.’

Billy Kane answered, his eyes bulging with fear, each breathe hyperventilating. ‘Told you, don’t know where he is.’

‘Okay, let’s do it your way.’ Baxter disappeared into the kitchen again, leaving Kane to wonder at the sound of clanking pots and pans. He tried to manoeuvre himself on the sofa, desperate to get away.

Baxter returned, a yellow washing up bowl in hand. ‘Knew you had one in there somewhere under all that shit. Need to get yourself a woman, Billy. Tidy the place up a bit. Should start looking after yourself, every man needs a good woman.’

‘Get away from me you fucking…’

Baxter grabbed Kane’s ankles and placed his feet flat into the bowl. Kane bucked against the restraints, trying his best to get away. Thirty-seconds later, with his energy spent, he lay exhausted on the couch. ‘No, please, don’t do this. Don’t do this. No. No.’

Baxter ignored the pleas, and jammed a dirty old, food stained rag of a tea towel into his mouth, forcing it to the back of his throat. ‘Now, let’s see if we can’t jog that memory of yours.’

14

The deadline had passed; Callaghan finished his drink and made his way out to the waiting Vauxhall Astra GTE Sport. He climbed into the passenger seat and instructed the driver to head straight for the yard. There they’d swap cars. He wasn’t using his favourite vehicle for something like this, the strawberry red paint job far too conspicuous for what he had in mind. They needed to blend in. Something nondescript, dark in colour, mundane and forgettable. Something fitting to match the sombre occasion.

Baxter needed to realise who he was dealing with. Sean Callaghan wasn’t a man to be kept waiting. Soon enough the mistake would be embedded deep into his soul. Then maybe he’d make the next payment on time, once he understood the severity of the consequences.

They’d watched the house for forty-five minutes, Callaghan gave the order, when the old man was crossing the road, making his way back to the quay. They let him get a good way ahead, all the time checking the road for any potential witnesses. Seeing none, they took their chance. The car, a black Ford Cortina Mark 3, sped up to fifty mph, the impact sent the old man high in the air, hitting the bonnet then rolling off into the gutter. He never stood a chance.

Callaghan ordered the driver to stop the car.

‘Sean, we gotta go.’

‘Reverse the car,’ said Callaghan

‘He’s dead, for sure.’

Callaghan glared at the driver. ‘You gonna make me tell you again, I said reverse the fucking car.’

The driver jammed the gear stick into reverse. Hesitating, he looked to Sean.

‘Hit the bastard, drive right over him,’ said Callaghan.

The driver obeyed, the tyre tread ripping into soft tissue and splintered bone.

‘Again.’

The driver brought the Mk3 to a hard stop thirty feet from the body, his foot poised over the accelerator, teasing the revs. He daren’t question Callaghan’s logic a second time; he whacked the gearstick in to first, hit second, changed up to third, snagging the body under the belly of the car.

Callaghan smirked, feeling the old man’s carcass shudder against the metal undercarriage. ‘Now get us the fuck out of here.’

15

The Northern Echo

Elderly Man Dies at Scene of Hit and Run

Arthur William Baxter, 68 years old, reported dead at the scene of a hit and run accident in Hotspur Street, North Shields. Residents living in the immediate area described hearing a terrible screeching noise of a car engine, sounding as though it was caught snagging on something.

Doris Littleton, an eyewitness, said that she had gone to her window, thinking that a drunk driver had ploughed into a lamppost or garden wall. But what she went onto describe was quite different, she witnessed the vehicle, described as a big, black or dark coloured car, reverse over an object in the road. At that point, she believed it to be the body of a large dog lying injured. Then she saw the car come to a stop and accelerate back over the object before driving off. She made her way from her house, down the garden path, and out into the street, where a group of neighbours had begun to gather. Only then did she realise it was the body of a man.

Police described Arthur William Baxter as a loving family man, a husband, and father to three sons. Friends of the family described him as a true gentleman, a local fisherman of nearly fifty years. One man, who asked not to be identified, said; ‘Arthur didn’t have a bad word to say about anybody, he was the archetypal, jovial Geordie who liked a pint and a bet on the horses and followed his beloved Newcastle United come rain or shine. His tragic death makes no sense whatsoever.’

Police have launched a murder enquiry and are appealing for witnesses to come forward.

North East Regional Crime Correspondent Lindsey Gaskin

Baxter put down the paper. Despite everything, he’d failed. Callaghan had gone after his family, he’d taken out a defenceless old man, and he wouldn’t stop there. Baxter had to get to him before he went after his brothers and their families; he had to warn his Mam and get her to a place of safety.

His mind was made up, what choice did he have but to go after Sean Callaghan? He’d have to risk the wrath of Gerry Callaghan, but that could wait. Maybe if he could see how out of control his younger cousin was, he might see reason. Come what may, Sean Callaghan was a dead man. Gerry Callaghan could sanction it or he could choose not to.

That just left Malkie Thompson, the trail had gone cold. He’d gone to ground but Baxter still had a few lines of enquiry to follow up.

16

Sean Callaghan sat in his sunken bath smoking a Cuban cigar; he’d sent Baxter a message, one he wouldn’t forget. Now he’d reset the clock. In another twenty-four hours, either he’d get weighed in, plus the interest for the inconvenience caused, or Baxter’s youngest brother was going for a swim. He laughed out loud at the prospect, he thought how satisfying it would be if Baxter missed the deadline. After all he’d gotten a taste for stalking and killing and wasn’t in any rush for it to stop.

17

Thompson got word that Billy Kane had received a visitor, one who had hospitalised him, almost scalded his damned feet right off. Some Englishman, a Sassenach who had come north of the border poking his nose in where he shouldn’t. Malkie already knew his identity, Baxter, McAlister’s Geordie contact. The same one who’d put him onto Blake and Edwards, useless pricks they turned out to be.

The fallout from McAlister’s death was making life awkward. Neither Malkie nor his crew could move without Kennedy’s mob in pursuit. Glasgow was fast becoming a no go area. Malkie was beginning to feel like a leper in his own city. The word was out, people were genuinely scared, doors were closing as far afield as Edinburgh. They were being systematically squeezed out. He considered his next move. It wasn’t safe to stay in the city any longer.

Kennedy had issued a separate contract for each of them. Holed up by day, they dared only move under the cover of nightfall; even then they ran the risk of being picked up by Kennedy’s roaming street enforcers.

The price on Malkie’s head was ten grand, Frank and George equal at five grand apiece. Billy Kane, a mere two grand. Malkie had a choice, he could either take Kennedy on, and go head to head, or he could run.

That still left the other problem unresolved, what to do with Baxter? He was an outsider, a freelance contractor, should he disappear he wouldn’t be missed. Malkie just had to figure out how to get to him. Then there was Billy Kane; Malkie couldn’t be sure what information he’d given Baxter, had he ratted him out? They had a shared history; and that had to count for something. The question remained, could he afford to take the risk?

Billy had managed to drag himself on his elbows and forearms from his house out into the street. A passing taxi driver had slowed, hesitating before deciding whether or not to play the Good Samaritan. His Christian morals had won out over common sense as he’d bundled Billy into the cab and driven him to the Glasgow Royal Infirmary. The A&E doctors had assessed him, patching him up as best they could and decided there and then to keep him in for observation, despite his protestations.

Whatever happened, Malkie couldn’t risk leaving Billy behind. Kennedy would be looking for any opportunity to pick them off. Going for the weakest link made perfect sense, it’s what he’d do; break the link then move onto the next.

He expected Kennedy to have ordered round the clock surveillance of the infirmary. Maybe he’d even be putting in a personal appearance once he knew Billy was on Ward forty-five. That left the remainder of his crew free to scout the city and the estates, keeping their eyes and ears to the ground for any news.

There was no other option; they had to get to Billy before Kennedy did.

18

Frank entered the hospital through the fire door and made his way to the burns unit.

He ascended two-flights of stairs and entered Ward forty-five, stopping at the reception to speak with the staff nurse. Although it was out of hours, Frank managed to charm his way in, claiming to be Billy’s older brother.

Billy was sleeping soundly, doped up to the eyeballs on morphine to combat the pain. His feet were wrapped in a yard of bandages and gauze, the rest of him, from what he could see, looked as though he’d been worked over. Bruising and swelling to the face, but nothing that wouldn’t heal inside ten to twelve days. Frank went to his bedside and plonked himself down in the chair. He told the nurse he’d just sit there for a while to see if Billy woke, but he wouldn’t disturb him otherwise.

As soon as the nurse left the room, Frank placed his hand over Billy’s mouth, he slapped him hard around the face trying to rouse him. His eyes opened, his vision foggy and glazed. ‘Billy, you hear me? It’s Frank; getting you out of here, need you to work with me. You listening?’

Billy tried to answer, his words nothing more than a slur. ‘Ye…. Fra….’

Frank leaned in close. ‘Kennedy’s boys are on the way. We don’t move, you’re as good as dead. You ready?’

Billy tried to answer; he couldn’t form the words, the effects of the morphine too strong for conversation.

He tried to move his head side to side to indicate his answer was No. His eyes closed as he lost consciousness.

Frank slapped him again, once across each cheek to bring him back round. ‘Stay with me, Billy.’ He looked around the single occupancy room, his eye caught a vacant wheelchair lying idle in the corridor, all he had to do was get him to the chair. Frank left the bedside and moved to the door, checked for the duty nurse, the ward was quiet, he made his move, grabbed the chair and wheeled it back into the room. He unhooked Billy from his drip feed and bundled him in to the chair.

‘We get stopped, I’m taking you for a piss, got that?’

Billy’s pain receptors were alive and burning, the movement from the bed to the chair jarring his tender wounds. His eyes ablaze. He pointed to the plastic urinal under the bed and cleared his throat. ‘They make me piss in that.’

Frank rolled his eyes. ‘Nothing’s ever simple. So we tell them you need me to wipe your arse, okay?’

Frank wheeled Billy down the corridor towards the male toilets. Out of sight of the ward reception, he made for the lift, jabbing two fingers into the call button. The screeching of the hydraulics and cables, in need of oiling, kicked in. Frank kept watch; his eyes darting left and right. The corridor was clear. ‘So what’d you tell the Sassenach, Billy?’

Billy swallowed hard, his eyes wide and fearful. His answer slow and deliberate, careful not to slur his words. ‘Nothing, Frank, I swear. It’s why I’m here, I wouldn’t talk, that Sassenach bastard, burnt me.’

Frank kept his eyes on the corridor. ‘Save it for Malkie.’

The lift arrived, Frank wheeled Billy’s chair straight in and stood with both hands on the handles, ready to make a dash for the door.

Kennedy and two of his boys entered the ground floor main reception, flowers in hand, asking for Billy Kane.

The receptionist tried explaining that visiting hours had long since passed, but Kennedy wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘Listen, darling, I’m here to see my wee, baby brother, he’s had a nasty accident, you’re not gonna send me packing, not when I’ve come all this way?’

The receptionist sighed and repeated the standard response. ‘As I’ve already tried to explain to you, sir, visiting is only up until eight-thirty pm, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow. You can visit from one-thirty pm onwards.’

The lift pinged, announcing its arrival on the ground floor.

Kennedy casually glanced over his shoulder; the lift was empty, save for an abandoned wheelchair. He looked back to the nurse, then flipped his head back double-taking the empty lift chamber. ‘Save it, darling, another time. Garvey, Henderson, with me now.’

Kennedy ran towards the lift doors. ‘You both take the stairs, check the lower floor, basement, and car-park. Bastard’s here somewhere. I know it.’

19

Baxter watched, secreted in the shadows of the supermarket’s recessed doorway as the last of Callaghan’s entourage exited the site, padlocking the steel shuttered gates behind them. He was alone and boxed in, there wouldn’t be a better chance, it had to be now. From his position across the street, he could see light filtering through from the back office that doubled as an apartment. He was the last person Callaghan would be expecting at this hour; even then, he’d be thinking that he was coming to honour his debt.

He watched as the taillights disappeared over the brow of the hill at the end of the street. Now it could begin.

He returned to his Volvo 240, retrieved a fresh unopened pack of white paper coveralls, a new pair of gloves, and elasticated shoe covers. He was almost ready. He took hold of his Sig Sauer 9 mm, placing it in the top of his kitbag and made his way towards the steel gates.

Baxter checked the street for civilians, he glanced up at the CCTV cameras mounted on the lampposts, unconcerned, knowing them to be purely aesthetic. Callaghan would never risk his movements being documented. The cables had been severed months ago, ongoing cut backs to the council budget ensured they were never going to be repaired.

He took out his bolt cutters, the jaws snapping through the chain on the first attempt. He pushed the gate open and advanced towards the metal stairwell, thirteen steps separating him from the porta-cabin entrance.

He entered the reception room, greeted by the residual noise of a lone TV, emanating from the back room, where the light was filtering from. Callaghan was out back, meaning he’d be relaxed, which was good, he’d maintain the element of surprise.

Baxter proceeded to the connecting door that led into the apartment, pushed down on the handle, and eased the door open. Behind him, he heard the flush of a toilet. He spun round, looking for a place to hide. Callaghan entered the room, cursing under his breath, bollocks.

Baxter swung forward, his telescopic cosh smashing into the side of Callaghan’s skull. The force of the impact sent him crashing against the grey, metal filing cabinet. Callaghan was dazed but still conscious. Instinctively, he raised a protective hand to the side of his head. Pulling it away, he could see it was covered in his own blood. The force of the blow splitting his ear open, the stinging sensation lighting up the side of his face.

‘Fucker...this how you repay your debt?’

Baxter stood silent, trying to calm himself. He wanted to let loose, to give into the urge to take out the Sig 9 mm and empty the chamber into Callaghan’s face.

‘What, you got nothing to say, Baxter, you lost your mind?’

He answered by smashing the cosh full pelt into Callaghan’s mouth, taking out the top three front teeth and shattering the bottom row, the force knocking him to the floor.

Baxter stepped forward, the cosh held loose in his grip. He wanted to finish it, but willed himself to restrain. ‘Get up.’

Callaghan cupped his right hand to his jaw, trying anything to alleviate the pain. ‘You’re finished, Baxter,’ he said, spitting a mixture of blood and broken teeth.

Baxter hit him again; he swung the cosh crunching it into the kneecaps. Callaghan, went down, clawing his way into the shadows, but they offered no protection. Baxter pursued, bringing the cosh down hard against Callaghan’s shoulders, working his way down the spine, inflicting maximum damage. He kicked him over onto his side so he could target the ribcage, the cosh fracturing and splintering two at a time. He continued, lost in the rage of bereavement.

External noise from the yard down below cut through his rhythm. He went to the window and peered out through the slats in the venetian blinds. Two vehicles cut their engines, and then he heard the sound of boots on the metal staircase.

Callaghan rallied; he spat blood, managing to raise his head from the floor. ‘Now you’re fucked.’

The outer door swung open, Baxter turned to face the threat, his grip tightening on the cosh, his 9 mm Sig at the ready.

Gerry Callaghan’s bulk filled the doorway; he entered the room, followed by two minders, their weapons drawn. He ignored Baxter and walked over to Sean’s beaten carcass, observing the damage already inflicted. Then he moved to Baxter, his white coveralls bloodstained, sweat dripping from his brow. He looked him up and down, assessing the potential adversary, a mental note for the future. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

Baxter remained stationary and kept his grip tight. Whatever was about to go down he was ready.

Gerry Callaghan signalled for the minders to enter the cabin and close the door. Baxter breathed deep, in through the mouth, out through the nose, widening his stance, anticipating the attack.

‘Relax, they’re not here for you.’

Baxter held his position.

The smaller of the two minders stepped forward, holstered his weapon, and offered an envelope towards Baxter. Gerry Callaghan put it in context. ‘For your trouble.’

Baxter stared at the outstretched hand, not daring to reach out and snatch the envelope. Gerry Callaghan took it from the minder and thrust it into Baxter’s chest. ‘Take it...can see you need it. I understand your reluctance. Think I’m trying to buy you off. Maybe I am. Either way, I need to know when you step out of here that we’re good. If it makes you feel better donate it to charity.’

Baxter remained stock still, cosh and 9 mm frozen.

Gerry Callaghan stuffed the envelope into the front of Baxter’s bloodstained coveralls then gave the signal for the minders to retrieve Sean from the floor. ‘Family sorts family, Mr. Baxter... I’m sorry for your loss, but now it’s time you left, we’ll take it from here.’

Baxter made his way back down the metal staircase, across the yard and out onto the street. Reaching his Volvo, he changed out of his coveralls and slipped them into a bin liner ready for the incinerator. He looked back up at the porta-cabin window, the light flickered then dimmed. Family sorts family.

Inside the car, he placed the brown A4 envelope on the passenger seat. Should he open it or not? Now wasn’t the time. He just wanted to put some distance between himself and the Callaghans. He gunned the engine of the Volvo 240, his destination unknown.

20

Malkie stood on the balcony of the high-rise safe house and lit a cigarette; he inhaled deeply and looked out over the city. He’d spent his whole life in Glasgow and for what, to end up living like some sewer rat? That wasn’t his way. He couldn’t take them all on and win. Like a good general, he had to know which battles to stand and fight and when to call a tactical retreat.

They were locked down, Glasgow a no-go area and the McHughs wouldn’t be offering the keys to the city of Edinburgh any time soon. To the Northeast lay Aberdeen, too cold even for his Glasgow bones. So the decision was made, they were due south, over the border. It was time the English were acquainted with the name of Malkie Thompson.

He took a long pull on his cigarette and held it deep in his lungs. Whatever he did, it was still there, like a rash under the skin, just waiting to be scratched. He’d tried telling himself it was paranoia, it didn’t change the facts. His gut instinct told him Billy had talked. Ratted them out. One way or another, he’d hear it from Billy’s own mouth. Bonded or not, the truth would come out, and then, he’d be in for the kill.

Copyright © 2016 by Mark J. Newman

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Mark J. Newman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. This is a work of TOTAL FICTION.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Characters

Jason Cunningham - Nephew of the Crime boss, Malkie Thompson. Frustrated at the old man’s refusal to move the organisation forward Cunningham’s got his own agenda.

Walter Browne - Accountant to the Firm, loyal for close to 30 years.

Malkie Thompson - Ageing mobster, head of the organisation, refuses to relinquish control of the day to day business, despite his own deteriorating health.

‘Sergei’ - Bulgarian mobster, rival to Malkie Thompson. Both have had an understanding in place for several years.

Vinnie Edwards - Missing businessman, presumed dead. Rumoured to have organised crime connections. Wife and child killed in mysterious house fire in 1988.

Frank Mayer - Malkie’s head of security, a loyal Lieutenant. Can see things need to change if the organisation’s going to survive.

George Patterson - Another of Malkie’s Lieutenant’s. Deep down he know’s change is coming, just can’t bring himself to endorse Jason Cunningham as the new boss, at least not while he’s still breathing.

Ronnie Price - Ex-con and business associate of Malkie Thompson. Runs a couple of clubs on behalf of the organisation. An advocate for change, in private - supports Jason Cunningham’s claim to take over the firm.

Mo Dekker - Butcher by trade, runs a 24/7 abattoir. Rumoured to moonlight, offering a discrete service disposing of human remains for the criminal fraternity.

Kosovars - East European crime gang, tangled with Malkie’s organisation in the late 1990s’.

Tim Elliott - Petty criminal, turned witness for the Crown Prosecution.

Ryan Kane - Former associate of Jason Cunningham, disappeared in the late 1990s’.

DCI Rory Kempton - University educated police officer, with the Serious Crime Unit.

DI Morrison - A corrupt police officer, served with West Midlands Police throughout the 1980s’. Went AWOL in 1990.

DS Ken Millar - Underling to DCI Morrison, victim of a mysterious hit and run accident.

Mr Khan - Private Health Care Consultant.

‘Mimi’ - Malkie’s longterm girlfriend, owner of a Thai massage parlour.

Gunman - Ex-soldier, hired assassin

Maddox - Corrupt SOCO, receives ad-hoc payments from Malkie Thompson, in return for certain pieces of evidence disappearing.

1

Autumn 2016

It’s taken months of planning, and now he’s at the point of no return. Another piece of the jigsaw about to slot into place.

He’s standing outside, his baseball cap drawn close over his face, obscuring his features, enough to confuse the CCTV footage. He knows it’s important not to loiter, he needs to blend in, can’t risk drawing attention to himself. To the untrained eye, he’s just another ordinary Joe, an everyday kind of guy. Disguised, kitted out from head to toe; boiler suit, cap, and boots. He could be a tradesman, or a courier, but take a closer look and you’ll see he’s not alone. The nondescript unliveried white transit van parked opposite contains another figure – waiting on the call.

The old man’s looking up from his morning paper, The Times, a dedicated reader for more than forty years. He looks forward to Sundays, and the return of the broadsheet, he prefers the traditional to the new fangled, supposedly easy to handle, Berliner format. He reads it cover to cover, scanning each of the supplements, ritualistic like taking elevenses. There’s satisfaction in understanding the expectations. But that’s about to change.

Putting his paper down, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Disgruntled at the unscheduled interruption, he glares at the figure silhouetted in the doorway.

The figure steps forward. The old man recognises the face, unexpected as it is. Smiling eyes, cold heart – he’s come to collect.

The old man’s slow to realise the intention. His inquisitive eyes staring back at the figure, scanning from head to toe, looking for a sign, looking for anything untoward.

The figure hides his intention well. No cause for concern. No alarm bells ringing. But they should be. This is no ordinary collection.

The old man’s name is Walter Browne, the firm’s accountant, hand-picked for the role by Malkie Thompson way back in 1988. Walter keeps the organisation’s dealings below the radar. Makes sure the legit money washes through the bad. He’s well rewarded for his expertise, his loyalty and silence taken as a given, relics from a bygone age.

To the anonymous figure, Walter Browne and his ilk belong in the past. The market’s evolved and moved on. They don’t realise it yet, but he does. There’s no room for sentiment, can’t afford to be complacent.

Learnt that from Malkie, now he’s putting it in to practise.

The ever-growing influx of foreigners moving in on their territory means existing agreements are resigned to the scrap heap. It's a young man’s game; no compromise. It’s about strength. Malkie doesn’t get that, he prefers to negotiate. These newcomers won’t hesitate. Malkie might be willing to concede ground to avert a war, but he’s not.

Strength equals power. That’s the real currency. Winner takes all.

He knows how to deal with their sort, paths already crossed—way back, those heady, club days, pre-millennium. Back then, it was the Kosovar Albanians trying to get a foothold. Now it’s a lottery: Poles, Romanians, and Bulgarians. Take your pick, they’re all lining up, waiting for the right opportunity.

He’s tired of waiting for the green light, can’t put it off any longer. Affirmative action is needed. Business is business. The only way to survive is to fight fire with fire. He’s been running the operation for the last six months. He could have cherry picked, but he chose not to. It’s all about perception, important to send out a clear message, no room for misinterpretation. He needed to prove he was capable, solid, and reliable. An all-rounder, a safe pair of hands, someone who could handle the pressure, day to day.

Seventeen years, he’s kept his own counsel. Paid his dues, observed protocol, kicked up to Malkie the whole time. Those days are done. Enough of the penance and bullshit for past wrongs, it’s time to step out from the shadows.

2

Today’s the start of a new beginning, a changing of the guard. Queensberry rules no longer apply, only in the minds of ageing gangsters keen to romanticise the past. It’s guerrilla warfare; and he knows how to play it. Hit hard and fast, fight for every inch of ground. He’ll drive them out street-by-street if needs be, no compromise, no mercy.

The whispers started over a year ago, but not one of them has ever had the balls to go public. It’s time to get it out in the open. Malkie Thompson’s had his time. His best days are behind him now. Old age hasn’t been kind to him; he thinks he hides the illness well, but he doesn’t. He’s physically weak, they all know it, and more to the point the opposition knows it. Malkie’s headstrong, always has been, desperate to hang onto power. His pride outweighing common sense. He only has himself to blame. The wolves are circling.

The figure’s breaking the silence now, content to have let the old man sweat for long enough.

He takes a step closer to the desk. ‘Been a long time, Walter.’

The old man clears his throat. ‘Indeed, but no Malkie? Not like him to miss an opportunity for a dram,’ he says, gesturing with his hand to the quarter full bottle of malt sitting on the desk.

‘Little early in the day for me, but you go ahead. Malkie sends his apologies by the way. Not himself these past few months.’

‘Ah...yes of course. How is he?’

‘You know how it is... He’s getting by.’

Walter Browne’s, weighing it all up. He has that tingling sensation at the back of his left eye, the kind he gets when he’s nervous. ‘I see, so... What can I do for you?’

‘Got a problem I need your help with. Keep coming up against a brick wall. You know me, Walt, I’m all about solutions.’

Walter shifts in his chair, leaning forward, still looking down through his glasses on the edge of his nose. ‘Okay, I’m listening,’ he says, trying to make out he’s relaxed. Feeling his chest tighten a little, he disguises the discomfort with a sudden intake of breath by placing a hand to his mouth, and feigning a cough. ‘Damned dry cough can’t seem to shift it.’

The figure smiles back at him. ‘Need to take better care of yourself, man of your age.’ He begins moving around the small office, taking his time to stop and read the various wall adornments, fellowship to the Institute of Chartered Accountants in England and Wales, and a scroll awarding Freedom of the City. ‘I keep hearing things, Walt, rumours,’ he says, stopping at the photo of a couple, Walter and his wife at a black tie charity event. ‘I remember this one. Acted as Malkie’s chauffeur for the evening.’ He removes it from the wall, and scrutinises it up close. ‘Quite a night as I recall. How is Mrs. B these days?’

Walter follows every movement, suspicion a tumorous growth. ‘She’s fine – thank you.’

‘Good to hear.’ His face a mask, wearing his best fake sinister plastic smile. ‘I’ll have to make a point of calling in on her.’

‘Yes, I’ll...’ Walter doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

‘First things first, I need answers. You know how it is, I got to separate the bullshit from fact,’ he says, still analysing the photo-frame. ‘So I say to myself, easier to go straight to the source.’

Walter’s caught off guard, his mind slicing through the veiled threat to his wife. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘Truth is I’ve let it go for too long... Far too long. Let the past blind my judgement.’ He pauses, averting his eyes from the photograph to face Walter, further unsettling the old man. ‘Good looking woman your wife.’

Walter can feel the anger rising within, like an irritation; he knows he has to contain it. ‘What exactly is it you...?’

He interrupts, picking up the bottle of malt from the desk. ‘Enjoy a drop of the hard stuff, Walt.’ A statement more than a question. He takes his time to read the label aloud. ‘Glenmorangie single malt whisky, Malkie’s preferred brand. I guess some can handle it, and some can’t.’ His eyes burn in to Walter, ‘How about you, Walt, can you handle it?’

Walter shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his cheeks flushing red. ‘What are you insinuating?’

‘Booze, Walter, loosens the tongue. Causes some people to run off at the mouth.’

Fear’s taken hold, Walter’s eyes are dilated, his heartbeat ramped up. He tries to speak, to refute the allegation, but his throat’s too dry to respond. His brain in overdrive, he needs an answer, his mind a blank canvas as panic sets in, consuming all hope of rational thought.

‘You see, Walter, clandestine meetings with the opposition that’s never a smart move.’ He lets the words hang for effect.

‘At first, I said no, can’t be, not Walter. I wouldn’t have it. Not a word of it. Been with us since the beginning, I said. Even slapped one of my own blokes for delivering the message. Had to go and visit him in hospital, make things right. Got daggers and the silent treatment from his missus the whole time I was there.’ He pauses again, his eyes drilling down to the old man’s core.

Walter stares back, silent and paralysed—rooted to the spot.

The figure moves in, and looms over the old man. He places both hands on the desk, resting on his knuckles, his head jutting forward like a dominant silverback. ‘See, they said you were a grass, Walter, I mean you a grass? On the turn in his old age, they said. I told ’em no way, not my Walter. Stand up bloke. A real gent, proper diamond. Then I got to thinking, these last sixth months, jobs going wrong, blokes getting lifted. That drop that never happened. Money disappearing. And that was it, my epiphany—clear as day. Crystal. But I needed to be sure. I even put a tail on you, Walter, real Columbo kind of stuff.’

Walter tried to stand, his legs shaky. ‘I think I...’

The figure raises a hand; palm outstretched flat, just enough to silence him. Beaten, the old man slumps down into his high back swivel chair, the springs grinding and protesting under his weight.

The figure’s pacing now, his voice taut with tension. ‘So here it is, the dilemma, why would Walter Browne - Company Accountant, career unblemished, try to fuck us over?’

Walter knows he’s in the shit, and he needs to act fast. ‘If you just let...’

‘Poles,’ his voice cranked up to full rant. ‘It’s bad enough Malkie keeps that fucking half-breed Mayer on the payroll. But you’ve gone above and beyond.’

Fears gaining the upper hand, Walter’s eyes darting left to right, desperate for an escape route.

He’s inches from Walter’s face, so close he can smell his fear. He stands upright, then sweeps back down, slamming his fist, smashing it into the desk, sending papers scattering to the floor. A Styrofoam cup empties its murky brown lukewarm coffee onto the desktop. It’s pure theatre, the final outcome determined weeks ago.

The figure breathes deep, sucking in the air through gritted teeth. ‘Why…? Make me understand. Thought we’d never find out, is that what this is?’

He steps back from the desk, putting his hand through his hair, regaining his composure. ‘So what am I to do, Walt? Tell me, what would you do in my position?’

Walter splutters, trying but failing to mumble some sort of coherent response. ‘I’m sure we can wo...’

The figure raises a finger to his lips. ‘Not another word.’

The terror’s audible in the old man’s high-pitched whine. ‘Look, I can explain...go to Malkie myself.’

‘Doesn’t work like that. Here’s my problem, either you’ve got dementia, or you’re playing both sides, hedging your bets. Am I right?

He doesn’t give Walter time to answer. ‘This is about you trying to save your own arse, correct? Either way, you’ve screwed us over.’

Walter reaches for the Styrofoam cup, ditches the coffee dregs into the waste paper basket and tips the whisky in, draining the bottle, then necks it in one generous draught. The slow burn in his mouth helping to steady his nerves. Walter knows he has to tread carefully, to separate truth from fiction, to calculate how much the figure really knows. Years of experience can’t stop a solitary cold bead of sweat gliding down the side of his forehead, belying his inner emotions.

The whisky glow provides small comfort. He’s straining his voice to fake authority. ‘I’ve heard enough, we’re done here. I’m not explaining myself to you. I’ll talk direct to Malkie, not the errand boy.’

The figure beams, delighted to have rattled the old man.

Walter opens the bottom drawer to his walnut desk, reaching inside.

He’s watching, hawk like, ready to anticipate any sudden moves. He could be reaching for a weapon. But this is Walter Browne, he’s never touched a gun in his life. Walter places the hip flask on the desk, his eyes defiant. He takes a nip, then follows with another. His face turning to a twisted, blotchy red mess as he struggles to steady his nerves and contain his temper.

‘Tainted...never be the top man. You’ve a lot to learn. Not all flash cars and designer clothes. It’s about cultivating relationships.

The figure paces back and forth, content to let the old man vent.

‘Longevity, that’s what’s important, not chasing a fast buck. That’s what it takes to survive and prosper. Malkie understood that, do you? I doubt it. Prancing in here making out you’re doing his bidding. I don’t believe a word of it. Go on get out of it.’

Smiling, the figure picks up the phone, a retro black Bakelite design, he dials the number, looking straight into Walter’s eyes. Two more digits to make the connection.

Walter returns his stare, his Adams apple bobbing up and down like a yoyo. ‘You see, Walter, it’s all about a retirement plan for you...and Malkie.’

Walter takes another swig. His words splutter out. ‘Retirement?’

3

A knock at the door signals that their time is up.

Walter, the whites of his eyes stained red with broken veins, stares in muted fear.

The figure makes his way to the door, opens it, and nods to the stranger standing in the corridor. He doesn’t bother looking back, his job is done. Now it’s time to move on.

He exits, leaving the silhouette of the stranger to loom ominous in the doorway.

Walter’s worst fear, confirmed. All he can do is wait, his eyes fixed on the stone-faced, emotionless killer.

The stranger gives nothing away. Silent, he approaches Walter, frozen in situ behind the walnut desk.

Speechless, as the gravity of the situation takes a stranglehold. The best Walter Browne can hope for now is a beating, a few slaps for stepping out of line. That he can live with. He needs to atone. He’s been foolish, overplayed his hand, allowed greed to win out over common sense. He can see the error of his ways, but it’s already too late.

The stranger’s wearing driving gloves, brown leather, with neat round machine cut holes forming a triangular pattern on the back.

There’s no way out for Walter, but still his instinct is to survive. His feet slip on the oak-effect laminate as he scoots his chair backwards, prolonging the inevitable, coming to an abrupt stop as he collides with the filing cabinet.

Cornered, with no escape, he raises his hands to cover his face.

The bullet enters his cranium without prior threat or warning.

The gunman’s hovers, taking his time to breathe in the defecation, as Walter’s bowels release, post mortem. He takes out his phone, a pay-as-you-go type, bought from an out of town supermarket the size of a small village. He’ll bin it, and destroy the SIM as soon as he’s done.

He points it at the newly deceased, and taps the screen. He inspects the picture, then takes another, just to be sure, knowing that later he’ll upload it to his private collection.

Job done. Time to go. He wipes down the landline and the desk. The place is clean, no trace evidence for the SOCOs’. He moves over to the window, checking for movement on the street. It all looks good. Normality. The gunshot no louder than a Chinese firecracker. Joe public unconcerned.

He’s exits via the stairwell, before stepping out onto the street, careful to checks for passers-by. It’s empty. Safe to proceed. He takes it slow and deliberate, just another client visiting his accountant above Patel’s Convenience Store. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mission accomplished, it’s time to send the text. No need for pen and paper, Malkie Thompson’s number etched to his brain.

He jabs the Send button. Message delivered.

4

His fist is clenched white, the image of Walter Browne’s dead-eyed corpse staring back at him. He should have listened, the warning signs were all there, but he chose to ignore them.

Taking out one of the old guard. That’s personal, a statement of intent. Kind that says we’re stronger than you, can hit any of you at any time. Challenge made. Now it’s down to Malkie to respond. But who to go after first?

He needs the facts. He’s seen too many of his contemporaries go in guns blazing, a sure way to secure an early grave or end up inside. The police won’t tolerate Wild West shoot ’em ups on the streets.

Recent events have left him shaken, but he’s not ready to bow out, too many things left undone. A cool head that’s what’s needed, keep the emotions in check—for now. Time enough to let vengeance wreak havoc. Situation such as this requires tact and patience. He needs to put the feelers out, use the network, and let those on the street be his eyes and ears.

Malkie takes a seat, rubbing at the corner of his eye. It’s been a long day, and it’s not over yet. There’s a dull throbbing sensation emanating from his right temple, he massages it, willing the ache to disappear. There’s work to be done, he has no time for such irritations. He needs to find the answers, and quick. Could be any number of smaller firms trying to make a play for the top. Where to start? Could be the Bulgarians, even the Romanians. Both small, tight outfits, got the ability, but do they have the nous?

Malkie needs a dram, pours himself a shot, and sinks it in one gulp. He refills his glass with a double, reckons he’s earned it. After all, it’s not every day one of his own is taken out.

He drains the glass, staring into the abyss, running it through his mind. Back and forth it goes, like a racket ball ricocheting off the wall. There’s no reason for the Bulgarians to make a play. It just doesn’t feel right, not now, not after all this time. Malkie’s worked hard to secure an understanding with Sergei. The agreements are in place. It’s not in anyone’s interests to go looking to start a war. There’s too much at stake, for everybody. Malkie’s known Sergei for almost seven years, in that time the two have come to an understanding. Wasn’t always that way, Sergei wanted his own territory, didn’t see why he should have to kick up to the established firm.

Malkie respected that. It wasn’t all that different from when he’d come down from Glasgow back in the summer of eighty-eight and gone head to head with Vinnie Edwards. Difference was, he didn’t underestimate the challenger. Malkie could see the similarities; they both came as outsiders, everything to gain, and nothing to lose. Both mean and hungry, determined to carve out their own niche.

He couldn’t take chances; the message had to be clear. An A4 manila envelope was delivered by hand by a plain-clothes police officer to Sergei’s home address. The officer knocked and waited, then showed his warrant card without giving his name. He told Sergei to examine the contents, he did so, taking out each photograph in turn, scrutinising the detail. Seven photographs in total. His wife, his five kids, and last—his own picture, all with a red felt pen dot obscuring the faces.

No further explanation needed. The anonymous police officer and surveillance photos were enough to demonstrate the depth of Malkie Thompson’s power and influence. Sergei backed down, ordered his crew back to base, and prepared for a sit down with Malkie. It was either that or witness the systematic execution of his wife, followed by each of his children, starting with the youngest and working up to the eldest before succumbing to the executioners blade himself.

Malkie offered Sergei his own territory in return for a twenty percent cut. He could see the potential benefits of having his own foreign legion of mercenary cutthroats to do his bidding. Those who could take on the kind of jobs he was trying his damnedest to steer the organisation away from. It made sense to use outsiders for the dirty work, a reserve army to carry out deniable tasks. So far, it had worked well, at least he thought it had.

Malkie refilled his glass, considering whether one of Sergei’s guys could have gone rogue. Nothing quite as dangerous as an AWOL freelancer with an agenda. He took a nip, savoured the reassuring burn at the back of his throat and imagined himself on the other side. How would he do it? Simple – take the direct route; go for the organisation’s lynchpin. Take out the boss man.

He can’t overlook the Romanians, they’ve steered clear of violence, but things can change. Maybe they’re looking to expand, go beyond credit card fraud. Perhaps they’re looking to up their game. So far they’ve kept a low profile, the available Intel sparse. That’s where Frank comes in; he has the contacts. This type of thing requires insider knowledge. Frank’s well placed, connected to the Polish mob through his maternal lineage. The way Frank tells it, there’s no love lost between the Poles and the Romanians, but what they do have is a mutual respect, and they’re careful not to encroach on the other’s business interests. That said, the Poles have never made any secret about contracting out. Some jobs are dirty, and it’s safer to outsource to keep a safe distance.

Malkie lights a cigarette, blowing a plume of grey-white smoke out. This current situation ups the ante. Hitting the moneyman, that’s strategic. It has the hallmarks of a new crew. Intelligent, ballsy even. Now that they have everyone’s attention, they’ll make contact - want to do a deal. A short cut to getting a slice of the real action. They might not realise it yet, but all they’ve done is sign their own death warrants. Malkie won’t compromise, not on this, this is personal. He won’t give an inch.

5

The killing of Walter Browne was the game changer, now it was time for a show of force. Chance to see if the old man could still cut it in the real world. Step it up a gear. Show the young pups just why Malkie Thompson had been on top for over twenty-five years.

Phone in hand, his fingers jab at the keys, it’s time to rally the troops. Can’t ignore the facts any longer. Holding it to his ear, he listens to the shrill dial tone. His patience threadbare, ‘come on you bastard, pick up.’

‘Hello.’

‘Georgie Boy, need you over here now. Find that nephew of mine, pronto – got that?’ The call ends without pleasantries or explanation.

George Patterson, aka Georgie Boy Patterson, he’s been with Malkie’s outfit since the beginning. Seen it all, good and bad. Earned his place, he’s part of the inner circle. A trusted member of the old guard, Malkie’s advisor, his Chief Lieutenant.

The phone call’s odd, Malkie’s voice tense and taut. The details sparse, can’t be too careful, never know who’s listening in. Malkie’s a seasoned professional; seen more than a few of his rivals get burned that way. Some still serving time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Rule number one, sloppy talk gets you nicked, so keep it schtum. Just the basic outline, no giveaways. Nothing incriminating. Malkie’s intonation suggests it’s bad. Just how bad, he’s yet to find out.

Grabbing his car keys, he steps out into the damp drizzle. The gravel crunching underfoot as he strides towards the Range Rover Evoque parked twenty feet from his front door. Lost in thought, his cell phone pressed tight to his ear. The call goes unanswered. Shit, now he has to go trawling Cunningham’s usual haunts. Fucking prick.

Personally, he’s never had time for the little shit, but he’s Malkie’s blood. The heir apparent. That’s the real joke. Cunningham doesn’t know his arse from tit. He tried to break out on his own back in the nineties, but messed up big time. Used Malkie’s money to go it alone, but never paid his dues. Christ knows what he was thinking, must have known Malkie was never going to let that pass? The unwritten rule, everybody has to kick up. No exceptions, not even family.

Cunningham played at being the man. Always big on the window dressing, flash cars, girls, and mountains of dope. For a time, it was a non-stop party twenty-four seven. He lived the life, the epitome of the playboy gangster, but he lacked substance. He came unstuck when the Kosovar Albanians showed up wanting a piece of the action. Cunningham made the fatal mistake, he’d cut all ties with Malkie. Word went round he was non-affiliated, and that made him easy prey.

His so-called crew deserted him before a single shot was fired, left him standing. All but one, Ryan Kane. A tough bastard, could have made it as a pro light-middleweight boxer - in a different life. As the others skulked into the shadows, he stood his ground. Against the odds, Kane put in a valiant effort, smashed heads and held off three would-be assailants. Then he vanished in the aftermath. Some say the Kosovars took him. Most right thinking folk decline to comment.

Out of options, Cunningham went back to Malkie, his tail between his legs. Malkie sorted things his way. Jason wanted it to be like a scene from Scarface, fancied himself as Al Pacino. But that was never going to happen. No way Malkie was going to start a war with a bunch of gun toting battle-hardened Kosovar Albanians. Safer to opt for the low-key approach.

Malkie played to their egos. He made a deal. Gave them a slice of the action. Brought them into the organisation’s extended family. He started using them for the muscle jobs He even allowed them to operate with increased autonomy.

In return, they kept their brothels out of the way, hidden within an old factory unit on the outskirts of town. Away from prying eyes, or so they thought.

Contained, Malkie monitored their movements twenty-four seven. Even put one of his own guys in as a business advisor. All part of the plan. Let them build it up – create an established network; prostitution, drugs, laundering, the whole shebang.

All he had to do was collate the evidence, and when the time was right—pull the plug. His guy on the inside knew the score, and was prepared to take the fall. The plan was, he’d get lifted with the gang, no other choice, as it had to look legit. Due to the serious nature of the crimes, he’d be looking at a custodial sentence, three to five years, out in two if he behaved himself. Malkie gave assurances that his family would want for nothing. In return, the guy would ride his bang up with peace of mind.

Then again, no one turns down the personal invitation of Malkie Thompson.

The brothel was raided, and the girls rounded up. The punters who didn’t get caught with their pants down at the scene, fled. None of them eager to repeat their near brush with the law, so unlikely to make a return visit. The main players were hauled in, and without the correct identification papers or documentation, they couldn’t verify whom they claimed to be. Posing a serious risk of flight, the authorities detained them until trial without bail. Once that happened Malkie gave the order to move in and close down the remnants of the operation. With the bad guys off the patch it was back to business. The status quo reinstated.

The Old Bill’s end of quarter clear up rate looked outstanding, enabling the old firm to continue behind the scenes. Most important of all, the money kept rolling in. Nobody wanted a war. Escalation of the problem wasn’t an option. For all concerned parties, the flow of money had to continue uninterrupted.

George shakes his head; he can’t see how a fuckwit like Jason Cunningham is going to restore the balance. There’s no way he’s cut out to be at the helm. Deep down, even Malkie has to know that. There has to be a plan B. A back up. Something viable, a doable option.

Cunningham’s no leader. He’s never had the respect of the old guard. Sure, he might have had the unofficial endorsement since Malkie’s recent ailments, but that’s a temporary short-term solution to deal with the day-to-day stuff. A decision that still doesn’t sit right with George. One that sure as hell wouldn’t have been passed if he’d been around. Frank and Ron stitched him up; saw to it that he was two hundred miles away the day it went to the vote.

Democracy in action, he owes them big time for that stunt.

Malkie won’t discuss it. He prefers to bury his head, maybe he is losing it. Sure as hell storing up trouble for the future. If George had his way, Cunningham would have disappeared a long time ago. He never did reconcile Malkie’s decision to let him off. So what if he was busted down, and had his wings clipped? If it had being anyone else, they’d have ended up bleeding out, hanging upside-down from meat hooks at Dekker’s abattoirs.

The situation still left a bad taste in George’s mouth. That whole episode took a lot of smoothing over. There were those in the organisation that saw it as weakness and an opportunity for self-advancement, vying for pole position. George stepped up, quelled any disquiet in the ranks. In doing so, he cemented his reputation within the organisation.

Some say he could have been the top man, and that he missed his opportunity, but he was never going to go against Malkie, not with their shared history.

6

Frank’s pacing back and forth, still trying to comprehend the impact of recent events. George is en-route tasked with bringing Cunningham in, too bad—he got the short straw. There’s something else, Frank can’t quite put his finger on. He’s mulling it over, chewing on his third stick of gum. Malkie’s theory about a new firm - but Frank’s not so sure.

Malkie shuffles into view. Frank’s eyes hone in. He doesn’t look good; got that sickly pallor, his skin taking on a translucent grey.

The end’s coming, Frank can see it - plain as day, and not just for Malkie, for the entire organisation. He needs to plan; got to have an exit strategy. Malkie might not want to admit it, but it’s coming undone, the whole shooting match. Truth be known, everyone can see it but the boss.

Won’t be easy, Frank’s been with Malkie since the beginning, and that’s a lot of shared time, memories good and bad. The scenario’s moved on—this is the game changer, way beyond loyalty now, this is about self-preservation. The opportunities to reach out are drying up, he needs to act fast or risk being frozen out.

Should that happen, it’s all over, might as well sit down with a bottle of malt and spin the barrel of the revolver, Russian roulette style. Better for it to be on his terms than another’s. Beside’s, he’s no reason to gift some bastard the bragging rights for capping him.

He’s taking a second look, giving Malkie that sideways glance, shit he’s old. Got that beaten downtrodden look. The man’s lost his game face. Malkie’s still the Governor; got his loyal followers, ready to step up when the time comes. Voices of dissent won’t be tolerated, he keeps telling himself, play the game Frank, but they don’t see what he’s seeing. It’s like chess, Frank the master strategist planning his moves three or four plays in advance.

But what about George? Frank can’t see him running out on Malkie any time soon, that’s his problem. He and George go way back. Both time-served veterans, the scars running long and deep. He’s always liked George, just one problem – his pride. George never did learn when to step back, just not in his DNA profile. Frank’s known that since the early days, tried teaching him enough times in the ring; guard up, head down; chin tucked in. Useless every single time, Georgie Boy always thinking he was the Great White Hope, sucking on a drip feed diet of Rocky Marciano re-runs.

End of the day, George is a romantic. Still thinks it’s like the old days. Stuck somewhere between seventy-nine and eighty-three. The memory brings a smile to Frank’s face, the golden era for the firm. Plenty of cash, courtesy of the easy pickings from security vans. Back then, they were like street kings, and the manor ran itself. No one dared to question their authority, their reputation was solid, and people stayed in line. Unlike now, Frank doesn’t understand the rules anymore, or if they even exist. The landscape’s changed beyond recognition. Maybe it’s an age thing, too fucking old.

Frank’s unwrapping another stick of gum from its silver foil packaging, still wearing two of the nicotine patches on his upper right arm, so far doing nothing for the cravings. What he wouldn’t give for a cigarette right now, be happy to trade a blood transfusion for a long, slow drag. He’s contemplating how they got to this point. He blames it on the gun culture, the wannabe baby-faced gangsters going strapped. Any idiot can pull the trigger, doesn’t make them a gangster, just a pretender.

Cunningham understands the changing nature of the market; he anticipates the trends, adapts and gets on. A lot of the old guard think he’s nothing more than a jumped up little shit, undeserving of his elevated position within the firm. There have been rumblings of discontent about his status, whether it’s based on blood ties rather than merit. Frank sees beyond that, the boy’s got genuine ability, he could go all the way. He needs guidance, that’s all. A seasoned advisor to show him the ropes. Frank’s done the groundwork, he voted in Cunningham’s favour to run things while Malkie was out of the game.

Ronnie Price is making his way in, the unwelcome summons interrupting one of his illicit liaisons. He’s pacing towards Frank, seeking an explanation. The look on Frank’s face tells him everything he needs to know, and it’s bad. His eyes flit to Malkie, stone-faced, sitting in silence, lost in thought, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. He knows better than to interrupt when his mood is this dark.

This new development puts everything on hold, Ron needs to reassess, gather his own thoughts. If the situation is as bad as he thinks it is, he needs an out. Ron moves to the bar, and pours himself a tonic water, still hopeful that the summons will be over quick enough for him to make a return visit to his lady friend.

‘What’s the craic?’ he says, throwing it out there, hoping one of them will answer. It’s met with mortuary silence. That’s a new one. Maybe they’re just fucking with him. He’s thinking hard now, what’s he done? What’s been said? The paranoia’s taking hold, setting in like wet concrete. Deep down, Ron knows he’s done nothing to cause an upset. He tells himself to get a grip.

Nobody in the firm is above suspicion, but Ronnie, perhaps more so than anyone else, has proved his worth over the years. He’s made personal sacrifices, gave eight years of his life, surrendered his liberty at Malkie’s bidding.

Ron joined the organisation back in the late eighties. He saw an opportunity and went for it. At his core, Ron’s a businessman, he traded information on his old boss, laying the way for Malkie to gain ground once the arrest warrant was in place. That’s how it works; people like him look for exit strategies when they know it’s all going to shit.

Serving his time in HMP Gartree, Ron acted as enforcer, going after anyone who posed a threat to Malkie or the firm. Tim Elliott was a petty criminal, banged up for street robbery and fencing goods; he was also a known grass.

Classed as a vulnerable prisoner Elliott was housed on a segregated wing away from the main prison population that might seek to do him harm. Ron bribed a couple of the screws to get himself onto the segregation unit, so he could have a word with Elliot. It turned out that he had some shit on Malkie going back to seventy-seven. Something about a youth’s body found in a fishing lake near Glasgow. Elliot’s mistake was to mention the name Malkie Thompson when he started making noises about trading information to get a reduced sentence. Doing so, he set the ball in motion, and needed to be shown the error of his ways. Five minutes locked in the cell with Ronnie was time enough to persuade him to remain silent. Sudden amnesia meant he never turned Crown Witness for the prosecution. He served his time without prospect of an early release, even got an extra eighteen months for wasting police time, but at least he was still breathing. Each new day, the dank stale prison air, a bonus, as life expectancy was fickle at best, for a grass on the wing.

Into the last ten months of his sentence, Ron got the word that Malkie had a special favour to ask. By that point, he was in happy mode, so close to getting out that he could almost taste it. Ronnie found himself backed into a corner. If he said no, he’d serve the remainder of his sentence in isolation, but they’d find a way to get to him. Ron took the job, better to gamble his liberty than his life.

7

Lost in a trance, but Frank won’t speak out of turn; this needs to come from Malkie. He’s still the boss man, but the silence is becoming uncomfortable, Malkie gets up, and hobbles over to the bar unaided, pouring himself another whisky. He’s taking his time, his hand trembling, spilling the amber liquid onto the bar. Both Frank and Ron see it, but say nothing.

His voice is like gravel in the mixer as he strains to clear his throat. ‘Some bastard’s taken out one of our own, Walter - he’s gone.’ He pauses to compose himself, then fixes his icy stare upon them. ‘I want those responsible brought to me direct, but we keep this low key, understand?’

There’s no chance for questions, George is in through the main bar, striding across towards them. ‘Traffic’s a fucking nightmare, accident out on the main carriageway.’

Malkie turns, his nostrils flared, as he notes that George is alone. ‘Where the fuck is he?’

‘No sign of him... Disappeared, I tried his place, and a few of his local haunts, not even a whiff.’

Malkie slams his glass down hard on the table. ‘I want Cunningham here now, no excuses.’

George backs away from the table, his phone in hand, tapping away at the numbers as he turns and makes his way back towards the door.

Ronnie’s up, pacing back and forth. ‘We need to hit back and hit hard.’

Frank looks to Malkie, braving the question they’ve been skirting around. ‘What’s your gut feeling?’ Before he can answer, George is back in the room, flushed, nodding his head. ‘On his way over now...reckons he had a visit from our friend Sergei.’ He pauses, then continues. ‘Apparently he’s been enquiring after his health.’

Ronnie clenches his first, ‘I knew it, the slimy bastard; said we could never trust that fucker.’ He focuses on Malkie. ‘What are we waiting for? Let’s do him now before he gathers strength. Show these wankers who they’re dealing with.’

Malkie shakes his head. ‘Enough for Christ sake... It’s not Sergei. Too fucking obvious. That’s what they want us to think. We need logic here, not emotion. We gotta be sure who we’re going after. Sergei makes for a convenient scapegoat, on the say so of who, some street level whore or junkie?’

George is about to interject when Malkie’s phone begins to warble. He picks it up, and accepts the call. ‘Thompson.’

The voice on the other end of the line is familiar, and needs no introduction; it’s safer that way. ‘Just heard about an employee of yours who took a turn for the worse. Might not have to look too far on this one. Could be home grown if the intel’s right.’ The phone clicks off. Malkie presses the call end button on the handset.

8

Jason Cunningham’s scanning the room, the look on their faces giving nothing away. He has it all planned out in his head, his acceptance speech—rehearsed it a hundred times over. Been a long time coming.

No boss man, Malkie’s absence conspicuous. All part of his game. Keep them waiting, build the anticipation. The atmosphere’s thick. They’re all just waiting on the word. The all-important endorsement, it could be any one of them. The future of the organisation hangs in the balance.

George is there, drink in hand. Heard he’s been looking for him, tasked with bringing him in, whatever that means. Doesn’t matter now. It’s unimportant. He and George have never seen eye to eye. Already got a retirement plan in place for him when he gets made. He’s smiling back at him, it’s all fake. They both know it. Just going through the motions. George’s nothing more than a cancerous growth, been sucking the lifeblood out of the organisation for years. Emergency procedure needed, time to make the incision, cut out the tumour.

Needs careful handling, George and Malkie go way back. Old school stuff, bonded by the past. Trouble is George knows stuff. Too much. He’s surprised Malkie’s let it get that way. If the Old Bill ever pulled him in, offered a deal – well, who knows? Faced with the choice of twenty-five years plus without parole, or three to five in a cushy, low category prison – he knows what he’d do.

The time’s come for Cunningham to take his rightful place. Make the changes a reality, they’re long overdue. Onwards and upwards. Malkie’s let things stagnate. Content to keep it small. A distinct lack of ambition in his old age.

Not him. Cunningham’s got plenty of ambition. A man with a vision. Way he sees it; it’s down to him now. Just needs the say so from the boss man. He’s been working hard behind the scenes, cultivating new contacts. Now’s the chance to step up a league. Raise the profile. All it needs is the money and backing to put it in play.

Malkie’s entering the room now, heads turning to welcome the boss. Two minders flank him. Cunningham doesn’t recognise either of them. Both thick set, pumped, gym addicts. Side arms hanging loose under their jackets. That’s a new development. Could be expecting trouble? Or maybe just being over cautious.

Frankie Mayer, the Polak, follows them in. Nobody’s brave enough to say it to his face though. The product of a Northern Irish father and a Polish mother. He’s eyeballing the room, got the instincts of a pit-bull. His role, head of security, it’s been that way as far back as Cunningham can remember. Done well for himself, a safe pair of hands. Unlike George, he knows his own limitations, content to remain an employee. Cunningham’s undecided as yet whether to keep him on the payroll. He needs to suss him out. Frank doesn’t give too much away. He’s a practical guy. Not like George, he’s too emotional. Unpredictable, difficult to gauge.

Cunningham’s watching Malkie approach. Notices he’s trying to hide the limp. Invisible to the untrained eye, but he’s locked on to it. He can feel Malkie’s pain with every step. Admires him for that. Shows strength of character, but he’s had his day. Now’s the time for new blood. He came close a few years back with the whole club scene. He and Ryan Kane cleared up. Least they did till Malkie slammed the brakes on. The firm’s been in recovery ever since.

He’s done with all that shit. Worked his way back up. Penance served. Tired of playing the waiting game. The organisation needs a new boss, and a new direction. Opportunities aplenty for those who pledge loyalty. Those who don’t... Their choice. Live or die by it.

He moves to the bar, takes a Vodka Ice from the refrigerator. Ronnie Price is there; he places a hand to his shoulder. ‘Mr Cunningham, long time.’ He takes a moment to the scan the room. ‘Lot of faces gathered. Guess the old man’s finally ready to call it a day.’

Cunningham turns, and shakes Ron’s hand in an enthusiastic grip. ‘Find out soon enough. Whatever happens here today you and I should talk.’

‘We should, I hear you’ve been reaching out... Making new friends.’

Cunningham eyes him suspiciously. ‘You asking or telling?’

‘Just saying.’

Satisfied, Cunningham nods his head. ‘Good to see you Ron, don’t leave it too long, speak soon, yeah.’

‘Count on it.’

Cunningham moves away from the bar, careful not to draw attention. He needs to keep them guessing, for now.

He takes a seat, and raises the bottle to his mouth, then gulps it down. He’s concerned about Ron’s comment, reaching out, making new friends. Tells himself it’s nothing, that he’s just messing with him. He puts it to the back of his mind then watches Ron work the crowd. Mr Charisma, everybody’s favourite fixer. He’s the key. A shrewd operator. He sees opportunities where others don’t, always one step ahead.

He’s the kind of guy Cunningham can do business with, just needs to get him on side.

Won’t be easy, Ron did an eight stretch. That’s loyalty. Kept schtum the whole time. Lot of rumours about his role on the inside. Word is he got weighed in big. That’s how it goes. Ron took the fall, did the time, got the reward. Above all else, he got respect and trust, that’s what really counts.

He’s the fixer. The man who can make things happen. Got the ear of both George and Frank. A professional respect exists between the three of them, that’s clear to see. Dig away at the surface a little, get down to the root, and things look very different. Sure they put on a performance, play to the crowd. The back slapping camaraderie, it’s all fake. Break it down, look at it logically, it boils down to rivalry, all three gunning for top position, they all want to be Malkie’s favourite bitch.

George’s pouring Malkie a drink, two fingers. All ready for the sit down. Two minders on the door. Frank gives them the nod. Seconds later the doors close, bolted shut. No one getting in or out. Not till his say so.

The room’s been swept twice for bugs, once last night just after close, and repeated first thing this morning. Came up clean on both counts. Can’t be too careful. New surveillance technology what it is, they all need to remain alert.

Things are different now. Got some new DCI on the Serious Crime Unit. Young guy out to make his name. He’s got a hard on for Malkie. DCI Rory Kempton. Thirty-three years old. Graduate type, accelerated promotion. Not a real copper, a college boy playing at cops and robbers, going through the motions. Putting in his basic year requirement, a prelude to the fast track. Already earmarked to make Chief Super within five years. So far, he’s got a decent pedigree, responsible for exposing the infamous DI Morrison as a bent cop, that is just before he disappeared. Those with their ear to the ground reckon Kempton had Morrison cornered, that he panicked and shot him, then buried his body someplace. But the good money’s on Morrison having the dirt on Kempton, and just when it mattered, he told him what he had, Kempton had no choice but to let him walk.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s already made it to Cunningham’s hit list. Kempton has one chance to get on side. Got his Achilles heel, a wife and family. He plays at being the perfect family man – Cunningham knows different. He’s got the pictures to prove it.

Cunningham’s got plans to set up a meet and give him the ultimatum. He’s not interested in the pictures, they can keep, a future bargaining chip. No, he’s going after the family. He’s got no qualms about it. He’ll do what he needs to do, whatever it takes to get his point across.

Cunningham’s letting his eyes wander around the room, faces – past and present. Lot of dead wood, hangers on. He can do without most of them. There are choices to be made; they’re either with him, or against him. They opt for the latter, fine with him, skip to the elimination round. Start over, build it up from the floor. Sure they have experience, some might even have expertise in their field. Nothing he can’t pick up. Old men from a bygone age. Time for the new breed.

Got to give Malkie his dues, quarter of a century at the top, that’s no mean feat. He’s played it just right, fed the police just the right amount of information to keep them on side. Back in the day, the inside man was DS Ken Millar, Morrison’s underling. He and Malkie had an understanding, and it worked well for a time, but then Millar got greedy, tried to dictate terms. The way it transpired, he had an accident, a hit and run. Fuelled up on eight pints of lager he stumbled into the road. The car came out of nowhere, mowed him down – he didn’t stand a chance, dead at the scene. No witnesses forthcoming, the incident was resigned to the cold case file, and there it remains, gathering dust.

Movement catches Cunningham’s eye, the proceedings are about to start. Malkie’s standing, shaking off George’s bear like arms. Important for the boss to stand unaided. It’s all about perception. He can’t be seen to be weak, needs to command respect.

He’s standing, casting a watchful eye over those gathered. Conversational voices ebb away. ‘To business, gentlemen.’ He pauses, making sure he has their attention. ‘Landscape’s changing, evolving. Important we stay ahead, up our game. Lot of newcomers itching to take our prime business right from under our noses.’

Cunningham’s readying himself for his moment; he tries to disguise his nerves, shifting side to side.

George has a big smile on his face, wolf like. Taking satisfaction from Cunningham’s discomfort.

He’s staring back at George; there’ll come a time when he’ll wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face. Melt it away with a blowtorch. Back to the present – he clears his mind of George’s ruined carcass.

Malkie pauses, takes another swig of whisky, readies himself. ‘So here we are, gathered as one. And I know some of you out there think I’m about to sign off, hand over the reins...’

Cunningham tries to relax in his seat. This is it. His time has finally come. He’s mouthing the words in his head. Outlining his plans for the business. He’ll give them a taste in his acceptance speech, nothing more. That’ll come in time. He’s got some housekeeping to do first.

George, Frank, and Ron, they’re all prepped. It could be any one of them. The news they’ve been waiting on. One thing they have in common, know for sure it’s not Cunningham, too much baggage. He can’t be trusted, he can’t even trust himself. Afflicted, those were Malkie’s exact words.

Malkie clears his throat. ‘Yesterday, Walter Browne was gunned down in his office...Murdered. Got all the hallmarks of a professional hit. No prints, nothing taken or disturbed.’ He pauses, letting the information and the gravity of the news sink in. ‘The question is why? Why go after Walter Browne, a civilian?’

Mutterings from around the room, disbelief and anger. Calls for retribution. Accusations made towards those who may have pulled the trigger.

Malkie raises his hands, calls for quiet. ‘Rest assured, friends, we will have justice, and vengeance. And I promise you this; Walter Browne’s death will not go unanswered. But for now, the present, we exercise caution. We can’t allow ourselves to be drawn into a war. Those who antagonise us, they will pay.’

Ron’s up out of his seat. ‘We need to respond, we can’t leave it like this.’

Malkie, his breathing shallow and raspy. ‘Let’s be clear, I don’t want anybody going vigilante on this.’

George is sitting quiet, the revelation still fresh, he’s kept his eye on Cunningham the whole time, looking for a sign, a reaction.

Cunningham remains impassive.

Malkie looks set to continue. ‘Looking around this room, I see faces from the past, lot of shared history. I know some of you are thinking I’m past it. That I’ve had my day. Some might even be sizing things up, thinking they can do a better job than me.’ He lets the words hang, taking his time eyeballing each one of them in turn. Daring any one of them to defy him. None willing to take the challenge.

He sees it all: loyalty, ambition, frustration, hate, as vivid as if it was spray-painted on the wall. ‘This is how it is...’ taking his time, another swig. Signalling for a refill. He waits till it arrives. Then he takes another draught, and enjoys the warm glow, savouring the last drop. ‘We let the police do their job, investigate the brutal murder of a pillar of our community. Behind the scenes, we keep our profile low – carry out our own investigation, nothing that’ll draw attention.’

Cunningham’s up, slamming his drink down. ‘This is bullshit.’

Malkie ignores the outburst. ‘This new DCI, Kempton, he’s just waiting for us to fuck up, and we’re not going to do that. Tact and diplomacy, that’s how we go forward.’

Cunningham’s pacing up and down, the indignation written all over his face. ‘You’re serious? One of our own gets taken out, and you’re content to sit back and wait...some kind of messed up logic that!’

Malkie’s death stare burns into him. ‘Sit down. Mouth off again, I’ll wire your jaw shut.’

Frank’s up, his arm outstretched, signalling for Cunningham to take his seat, imploring him to do the right thing. He doesn’t want to have to make an example of him. It’s a delicate operation; he’s playing his diplomatic card. He’s still Malkie’s guy, for now, but the day will come when choices have to be made. Cunningham’s ready to branch out. He doesn’t want to make an enemy of him. This needs to be done right. ‘Cool it. Sit down, we’re all good here, Jason.’

Cunningham complies, and takes his seat. He’s seething, and continues to mutter under his breath, audible to those within six feet. ‘Bullshit... Too lame to admit you’re done.’

George is up, lurching for Cunningham. ‘What’s that you’re saying?’

Frank and Ron block his path. Cunningham jumps back out of his way. The drinks table going over in the melee. Ron and Frank straining to hold George back.

Malkie’s doubled over, coughing his guts up. ‘Enough of this shit, enough.’

The minders on the door are looking towards Frank for instruction. His icy glare telling them to back the fuck off – stay in position on the door.

Cunningham’s wiping himself down. ‘Fucking arsehole.’

George’s frothing at the mouth. Frank’s got his arms twisted up behind his back in a gooseneck restraint. ‘Calm the fuck down,’ he says, pushing him to the floor.

George, his eyes bulging in their sockets, his teeth clenched shut. ‘Get the fuck off me.’

Cunningham has a sarcastic smile written all over his face, looking down at George. ‘You’re out of control, need chaining up like a wild dog.’

Struggling against the grip, George is threatening untold damage. ‘Days are numbered, boy.’

Malkie’s recovered from his coughing fit. ‘Let him up, Frank. George, cool it – now.’

Ron’s moving towards the bar. ‘Think we all need a drink. Too much dick waving going on in here.’

His comment lightens the mood. The tension evaporating. George is back in his seat, smoothing the ruffles from his shirt. Pushing his hair back in place. Content to banter. ‘You’d know all about that, close-quarters with all those blokes for that length of time.’

His comment raises a laugh from all but Cunningham. Ron’s in situ behind the bar refilling the glasses. ‘Never had you down for the jealous type. What’s your preference? Leave it with me, I’ll make a call, fix you up a date. You like a femme or a bear?’

‘Piss off, Ron, you keep your little queers for yourself, mate.’

Ron has a tray full of drinks. He brings the bottle, Irish single malt, two fingers for each of them. ‘Here, let’s have a drink, get things in perspective.’ He raises his glass, ‘to Walter, may he rest in peace.’

They all raise a glass, and toast Walter’s passing. ‘Walter.’

Ron refills each of their glasses.

Frank’s raising his glass appreciatively. ‘Ronnie, you’re always the voice of reason, good man.’

George drains his Irish, pouring himself another.

Cunningham’s silent and brooding. Wishing now he’d brought a piece. Could have smuggled one in, hidden it someplace .22 calibre would’ve done the job. Dealt with all of them in one night. Be those who would consider it a public service. He should’ve known Malkie would be too stubborn to do the right thing.

Moving in his seat, dabbing at his clothes with a bar cloth, his Ralph Lauren polo shirt and Armani jeans ruined. The stink emanating from every pore, a concoction of stout, lager, and whisky. Way beyond dry cleaning, and too far gone for stain repair. The anger rising within, he’s glaring towards George. ‘You owe me three hundred quid, you stupid fuck.’

‘You reckon? Sing for it, you little prick. Keep your gob shut, and maybe your pretty clothes won’t get all messed up.’

Cunningham’s shaking his head, choosing to ignore the comment, letting the anger subside; it’ll make it all the sweeter when the time comes. He focuses his attention on Malkie. ‘So we just wait, that’s the plan. Wait and see?’

Malkie lets out a sigh, raises his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You go home, Jason, get cleaned up and rest up. Call you in the morning.’

‘What, I’m not part of this now. You’re dismissing me like some fucking errand boy?’

Ron approaches Cunningham, he stands at his shoulder, ‘take the fucking hint, and do one. I’ll call you, Okay?’

Cunningham readies himself to leave, makes a point of brushing down his ruined laundry. ‘Fine... I’m going, but you all need to remember, I’m the only one holding it together out there, you should all be thankful.’

Without warning, George delivers a vicious backhanded punch to the side of Cunningham’s head. He smashes his knuckles into the left temple, sending him flailing to the floor. It happens in the blink of an eye. No one moves. There are no objections. They all know he had it coming.

George is standing, his fists hanging loose at his sides; he’s calm, looking to the boss for the go. All he has to do is nod his head, and George will finish it. Malkie takes another sip, lets out a sigh, and shakes his head.

Frustrated, George stands down. ‘You don’t run your mouth no more today, Jason, you got that?’

Frank and Ron are both silent, content to sip their Irish – Frank knows not to tangle with George when he’s taken a drink.

Malkie’s straining, craning his neck. He sits back taking a sip. Cunningham’s unfurling from his foetal position, clambering on hands and knees. He’s trying to see straight. He took the full force. The side of his face, numb; reckons he might have nerve damage.

Malkie’s shaking his head again. ‘Always gotta have your say, got a nasty habit of rubbing people up the wrong way. Should watch how you go. I won’t always be around to wipe your arse.’

Cunningham rises to his feet, unsteady, swaying back and forth, holding his head. ‘You’re letting him get away with that. You forgetting who I am, me, your own blood?’

Malkie’s up, moving towards him, his eyes blazing. Squaring up, their heads inches apart. ‘You wanna act like the big man, you better be able to take the consequences and don’t ever tell me what I need to do. Think it’s time you left.’

Frank signals for the minders to slide the bolt back on the door. They all watch as Cunningham skulks away, never once looking back over his shoulder. George watches Malkie’s reaction, his fists clenched tight, his knucklebone white, the skin textured red.

Ron’s refilling the glasses. ‘Well, that could have gone a lot better than it did.’

Malkie’s turning, making his way back to his seat. ‘I want tabs on that bastard, night and day.’

George swills the amber liquid around his tumbler. ‘Put money on it that he knows something.’

Ron takes a sip, considering his response. ‘Nah, come on, no way he’s got the stomach for that.’

Malkie sits down heavy on the seat. ‘Done what I can for that boy...’

George takes a seat. ‘Just say the word, and he’s gone. Plenty out there want to get their hands on him. One phone call... Lot of folk more than happy to do the honours.’

‘He’s blood, George, my nephew – don’t ever forget that.’

George holds his hands out, palms upward to placate Malkie. ‘Way he spoke tonight, that means shit to him. Boy’s got no respect. Never has.’

‘Regardless, he’s family, my family.’

9

Irritating beep of the clock radio, illuminated red digits burning through his eyelids. It’s five thirty am, the start of another day. Today it’s different, a dual anniversary, he’s turning fifty-four, and ten days have elapsed since Walter Browne’s death, still no answers. He reaches out from the comfort of the winter tog duvet, his finger jabs at the OFF button. The monotone beep silenced for another twenty-four hours, the SNOOZE facility redundant.

Sitting up, the quilt falls from his shoulders, the chilled air goosebumps his skin. The place has central heating, but he never uses it. The cold keeps him sharp. In this game that’s what counts. You want to be top of the tree you need work at it, no time to rest. Complacency gets you killed.

Rubbing at his eyes, he’s squinting into the gloom. The dull throbbing sensation at the back of his head, a remnant of the night before. One too many shots of Irish single malt lingering like an unwanted guest.

His feet hit the cold tiles, padding down the hallway toward the bathroom. Naked, like a newborn delivered unto the world. He’s king of the castle, worked hard for his position, he’s not about to roll over for anyone. Any takers will have to prise it from his cold, dead hand. There are plenty of them out there. Waiting, willing his demise, but none of them have what it takes.

He lives alone, finds it better that way, no complications. He doesn’t do relationships. Can’t abide the neediness of others. He’s tried all that. Long time ago now, it didn’t work out.

A man of his position attracts a certain type of woman. The kind who crave status. Do anything to be seen on the arm of the Boss. They’re all the same, clones from the production line, coiffured hair, bee sting lips, all-year-round tan, and silicone tits.

Malkie’s an old hand, a seasoned pro, wise to the ways of the fairer sex. He plays by his own rules. Women aren't a problem, he can have his pick twenty-four seven. Female company just a phone call away. Course, he’s got his favourites. Regulars. No money involved, maybe the occasional gift. A token of appreciation, nothing more. He always goes to their place, never back to his. He keeps it simple, and avoids confusion. Doesn’t want them getting the wrong idea. It’s just sex. Functional, a basic human need. Same as eating and drinking. He’s clear on that.

Mimi knows the score. She’s his steady, the closest she’ll ever be to a girlfriend. As Malkie likes to call her, his regular piece of ass. The two of them have a routine going, it’s like clockwork. She’s the reason he smiles every Monday morning. He visits the parlour before official opening hours, sets him up for the week. She’s a dab hand at releasing the tension. Mimi knows how to work every inch of his body.

They go way back. Was even a time when Mimi thought she might be the one. She wanted to tame him, to domesticate him; she’s long since given up on that. Theirs is an uncomplicated relationship. A business transaction. Mimi doesn’t work the punters, not for the last eighteen years. Malkie never did like to share. He told her to manage it, not to work in it, been that way ever since. They have an understanding; she’s one of the chosen. He makes her feel special, but Mimi’s realistic, Malkie has needs. He’s no different from any other man. Experience has taught her to be content. It has its benefits. She gets a free hand to operate her way, the firm doesn’t interfere, and the rivals keep their distance. No one wants to antagonise Malkie Thompson.

He’s top dog, but it wasn’t always that way. Plenty of twists and turns like a gnarled oak tree along the way. He’s buried a lot of people, good and bad. He doesn’t dwell on it, there’s no point. This life chose him. He had it all set up, an apprenticeship in the Clydebank shipyard like his old man before him. But fate stepped in, his father snatched from life in his prime at just thirty-eight years old.

Emphysema they call it now. Back then, it was just shit on the lungs. No one understood the reasons why, it just happened. Life insurance for people like them was nonexistent. The rent was overdue with the landlord getting heavy; Malkie couldn’t see his own mother and brother put out on the street. He had no choice, had to step up and become a provider. His apprentice wages were never going to cover that. He needed to get creative, to think outside the box, he’s been doing the same ever since.

Sacrifices made, toil etched in sweat and blood. He’s used all his lives now, doesn’t believe in the ever after. He takes comfort in that. Least he won’t burn in the eternal fires. He’s done a lot of bad things. Terrible things, but there are no regrets, dog eat dog. Don’t get to the top in this game by playing Mr. Nice. He’s got blood on his hands, indelible. No amount of scrubbing is changing that now. That’s just the way it is. Conscience doesn’t come in to it. The body count in to double figures, he sleeps like a baby—most of the time, least that’s what he tells himself.

He remembers the first, etched on his brain like a Polaroid, pays a visit when the single malt runs dry. He buries it deep. Still got those saturated colours...

Like anything, more you do it, the easier it gets. Over the years, he’s learnt to compartmentalise it. His world is a detached reality. Just a job. Business, nothing personal. Try telling that to the guy with his molar gripped between the plier jaws.

Rule number one, Malkie lives by it, his code. Don’t let anyone stand in your way. Not family, not friends... Not anything. Rule number two, don’t make excuses. Someone or something fucks up, you sort it out – fast.

He’s been at it for close to thirty years now, a survivor, Malkie has that killer instinct. Least he had. Some say he’s going soft. Too old to lead the firm. It starts with a whisper, then turns to hushed tones. Now there’s open talk. Dissent in the ranks.

10

He’s got one of those walk in walk out wet rooms, tiled slate grey floor and walls. A chrome shower-head protruding from the wall, the pipework hidden from view. Sleek, modern and clean. The list price north of ten grand, he secured a complimentary supply and install. No one turns down Malkie Thompson, reputation his currency.

Malkie stands in the centre underneath the shower-head, closes his eyes, and tilts his head back anticipating the ice-cold water. He draws a sharp intake of breath, puffing his cheeks out, exhaling. He remains fixed. Psyched, panting as though he’s working through labour pains. Frozen droplets waking every pore. Water running down his back, causing his balls to retract in protest. Sleep’s a distant memory, his heart rate up, he’s whistling away, no particular tune, it takes his mind off the cold. It’s all about the focus, and the mental conditioning.

Droplets ricochet from his head and torso. He’s wearing a smile on his face; a couple of hours from now he’ll let Mimi work her magic. He cranks up the temperature, rolls his neck to ease the tension. The steam hangs thick in the air, resembling one of those Turkish bath houses. He tells himself it’s good for his lungs as he hacks up the phlegm; it’s always at its worse first thing in the morning. His hands are outstretched, palms flat against the tiles, the coughing fit audible over the thrust of the water jets.

Now he’s got that tremor in his left hand. He balls his fist, and wedges it into his lower spine. It’s difficult to stand straight. Won’t be long before he needs a chair. The symptoms are getting worse. He’s got to keep fighting it. The dull aching strikes his body from head to toe, pills for this and pills for that, rattling around his body like coins in a slot machine. Be easy enough to end it all, a bottle of single malt, and a handful of sleeping tablets. All he needs to do is lie down and go to sleep, but that’s not his way, early exit’s not an option - too much left undone.

Back in the bedroom, five thirty-eight, taking two minutes extra this morning. Getting sloppy, slowing up old- timer. He won’t stress over it, birthday treat to himself. So he’s got a few aches and pains, and his lungs feel like a fire pit. Shit happens. Deal with it – crack on.

Today’s the day; he’s got an appointment with the consultant, Mr. Khan. He’s paid the extra to go private and he’s planning to make the drive out of town, away from prying eyes. Safer that way. He wants answers. Knows he can’t put it off any longer.

He pulls on his fitted boxers. Malkie keeps it simple, always black or charcoal grey. Moving through to the kitchen, he turns on the DAB radio. Retro vintage styling, a mixture of chrome and teak with a two-inch tuning dial sitting prominent, a throwback to the nineteen fifties design aesthetic.

Malkie always selects the BBC World Service. He’s never been one for breakfast TV. Another American import, a lot of fuss over nothing. He never bought in to it. Fake presenters sitting on sofas making out they’re your best pals. Cold facts that’s all he’s ever needed.

Sitting at the pine table, he lights his first cigarette of the day. His taste buds alive with anticipation. He closes his eyes, and inhales deep, imagining the swirl of black smoke seeping deep into his lungs. He savours the hit, before the cough smacks the life out of him. His throat burning, and his eyes streaming, he stubs it out and reaches for the pack. The branding looks legit, but it sure as hell doesn’t taste like it.

It’s coming back to him now, Frank talking shit about the mark up on counterfeit cigarettes. How they should get in with Bosko’s crew. Take on the distribution, easy money to be made. Malkie shakes his head as he recalls the conversation outline. No way he’s getting in with that. He’s heard the stories, the rat poison and arsenic, Christ knows what other shit they’re putting into the manufacturing process.

He casts the packet aside. Frank and Bosko, Polaks’ united, that bothers him. Frank’s never given him reason to doubt him, but things change. Time moves on. Malkie knows it’s a different era now, people change and loyalties shift. Maybe he’s getting paranoid in his old age, but it’s always there in the background, goes right back to the Vinnie Edwards era, the unspoken rift, it’s always present, lurking beneath the surface. Frank never did come to terms with that...

Back to the bedroom, he opens the closet, and reaches in for the charcoal suit, white shirt ensemble. He owns four suits, seven shirts, and two pairs of brogues, one black, one brown. His suits are handmade, and couriered from London’s Savile Row straight to his door. It’s important to look the part. Malkie wears it like some might wear a uniform; it’s his brand identity.

He moves through to the kitchen. A cup of tea in hand, semi-skimmed milk, no sugar. He needs to keep the waistline trim. Now he’s taking a swig, checking the clock, 6:08am, time he was gone. He reckons George and Frank have something planned. A decent bottle of malt, and some female company lined up, maybe. He can’t let the side down; man of his age still needs to play to the crowd, he’s got the Viagra on standby.

His mind focuses back on the immediacy of his own health; he’s got to see how things pan out today. Whichever way it goes there’s no easy answer. Decisions have to be made. He can’t leave it hanging, there’s too much at risk. If he leaves it to chance, there’ll be a bloodbath. Everything he’s worked for, everything he’s built up, it’s all on the line.

The organisation needs new blood, a new direction. Someone to lead. George and Frank have been with him since the beginning. At their time of life, they don’t need the aggravation. Both have loyalty, but lack ambition. At the end of the day, good lieutenants’ don’t make for a good boss. The firm needs someone with natural ability. They have to have instinct, can’t teach that. Needs to be someone with the vision to realise the transition, to go legit. Malkie’s steered it that way for the past five years, slow and deliberate, careful not to draw attention. Making the bad money good takes time.

The cold truth of it is plain to see, all three of them are getting old. The glory days long gone. They know it. Malkie knows it.

Cards gotta fall where they will, with a little help from the boss.

11

Standing outside he’s analysing the swirl of black and grey clouds drifting ominous in the sky. He raises the chrome Zippo lighter to his cigarette, the hand tremor forcing the flame to dance side to side. He drags a lungful and holds it; at least it tastes better than his breakfast attempt.

The news isn't good. The best prognosis, one year from now he’ll be in a chair. It gets worse; the Parkinson’s is going to mess with his speech and his mind. Losing the ability to think straight that’s what scares him the most.

At least now, he has perspective. Need to act fast.

He’s making his way to the car, checking his watch, 8:15am. He has Mimi on speed dial 7, he selects the number.

She picks up on the third ring.

‘Hey, it’s me. How’s my best girl? Half an hour. That Okay with you?’

‘Sure thing, baby.’

‘You know what today is right?’

‘Malkie...how long we known each other?’

‘You got something nice for me?’

‘Baby, you gotta wait and see.’

‘I’m leaving now.’

He terminates the call.

In the car, he’s checking the rear view mirror of the silver Mercedes-Benz CLS550. He catches his own reflection, noticing that his eyes are dulled, dark rings sitting prominent underneath, life edging away. He chastises his own self-pity, telling himself he has to make those changes. Without further thought, he guns the ignition, the V8 engine roaring into life.

Twenty-five minutes later, he’s parking up in the reserved space marked up for VIPs, it’s all part of Mimi’s personal service.

Malkie sits in the Merc, collecting his thoughts. He never did like the approach to Mimi’s place with its rabbit warren of connecting alleyways. It makes for an easy target. There it is again the paranoia creeping in, tells himself, that’s the least of your problems.

He’s waiting, sitting there, looking out observing the scene. Something isn’t right. He can’t pinpoint it. That same feeling he woke up with, the trepidation. He tells himself it’s because of the prognosis, that it’s just messing with his mind, but there’s no sign of life. He checks the time on the dashboard, the digital display switching to 8:47am. There should be something - this time of morning.

He opens the glove box .38 Smith and Wesson staring back at him. He closes it again leaving it in situ. It is what it is. Can’t keep the lady waiting. He opens the car door, the thought of Mimi’s hands going to work on him getting him hard.

Malkie hauls himself from the driver’s seat, greeted by a spike of pain as it spasms in his lower back and down into his left leg. It takes a moment to right itself. He grips the car door, and pops two paracetamols, crunching them into powder before swallowing them dry. He starts slowly towards the fire escape, reaches the rusting stairwell, and scans the area left to right. He grabs the handrail, turns and takes one last look over his shoulder - all quiet. The blood rush to his groin spurs him on. He reaches the top, uses the elevated viewpoint, can’t be too careful, just one last check. Nothing. He sniggers at his own paranoia, what’d you expect?

He pulls the reinforced steel door open. She’s waiting, been watching him on the CCTV. Five four, petite. Long, straight silky black hair. Bumps in all the right places. She’s got that wry smile on her face, holding out her hand, she pulls him in from the cold. Mimi’s painted her two-inch long fingernails blood red, wearing lipstick to match – just the way he likes it. Big almond eyes and a quiver to her bottom lip, she kisses him long and deep. He takes in her smell, a mixture of expensive sweet perfume and exotic cigarettes. Intoxicated, he wants to hold onto it, and never let it go. He opens his eyes, she’s smiling at him. He’s hooked, her loving – his opium. Lost in the haze, he follows her inside.

Down the corridor, her tiny hand leading him. They go past the business end. A clutch of rooms, sparse, and utilitarian. Empty for now. Give it a couple of hours, and there’ll be a steady flow of sweaty punters grunting and pawing at the merchandise. Mimi’s girls’ grinding, making it pay. Oscar nominees faking ecstasy.

Malkie’s eyes are locked onto Mimi’s contours. She’s gliding, each movement feline. He’s drinking it all in. Seven-inch black heels, the strap goes a little way up her ankle, driving him wild. Smooth caramel legs disappearing into a red, silk floral kimono. She knows how to work it, to put on a show; she’ll parade up and down, build the anticipation.

Up the next flight of stairs, the paracetamol’s kicking in now, numbing the pain. Through a blue fire door marked Private. Inside, she pulls off his jacket, throwing it over the back of an oval wicker chair. The room feels hot and stuffy, as if she’s cranked up the heating. Could be his age. System overload, sudden rush of blood. Fifty-four years old ready to party as if he’s twenty-two.

He has to follow protocol, all part of the game. Can’t rush things. Patience. Savour the moment. Let her do her thing. She pushes him down onto the oval bed. He’s pulling her toward him. Her crotch is level with his face. She’s fighting it - playful. All part of the ritual, a well-rehearsed ballet.

Shimming, the kimono slipping from her shoulders, letting it fall to the bedroom floor. Malkie’s breath coming fast and short, the sight of red lingerie adding to his fire. He’s kissing her neck, working down to the top of her breasts. Purring, she pulls away, keeping him at arms length. She tells him to lie back. He complies, subservient to her command. She lowers herself down; butterfly kisses to his forehead, working her way down his face, then on to his neck. She’s undoing his shirt, kissing his torso, taking it slow.

The inferno’s raging, he wants to take her now. She straddles him, gyrating her hips, her almond eyes locked onto his. Working his zipper, taking time to massage him in the right places. She drops down, and takes him in her mouth. A slow teasing motion, she works him, stops, then pulls away.

He wills himself to take it slow; he’s watching her stroking herself. She’s letting him see as her fingers go to work. ‘This what you want?’

He’s up, trousers wrapped around his ankles. He’s cursing, pulling at them. Kicks off his brogues, the boxers follow. Mimi’s got her back to him, swinging her hips. She knows what he likes. He grabs her from behind, his rough, callused hands mauling at her breasts, he’s sucking the back of her earlobe. Hungry, he works his way round to the side, then down onto her neck. He pushes her to the wall. Her arms braced against it. She pushes back, grinding her ass into his groin, feeling his strength.

Malkie’s transformed to a rabid dog, he’s ripping at her satin red panties, pulling them to the side.

She’s wriggling out of his grasp, discarding the strawberry red thong. ‘You gonna stick it to me now, that what you wanna do?’

She’s faster than him. Back on the bed, she opens her legs, revealing a neat, black Brazilian; she’s stroking herself some more, moaning, her big, brown eyes luring him in. He’s on her, she quivers as he thrusts. A rhythmic motion, their bodies moving in tandem.

Changing position, cowgirl style. Mimi sets the pace. She’s riding him hard, guiding his hands to her thirty-four inch B cups. He’s mauling, tweaking as she grinds. Mimi’s groaning. Easy on the theatrics, Malkie’s no fool. His eyes scrunched tight, praying he can hang in there for a few more beats, gritting his teeth as she builds to the crescendo.

Entwined in the post coital glow, Malkie’s thoughts are clouded.

‘What’s wrong, baby?’

Malkie’s staring at the white, polystyrene ceiling tiles. ‘Nothing.’

Mimi, her head resting on his chest. ‘You can tell me, we friends.’

He’s reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Work stuff, forget about it.’

She’s moving to face him, and looking deep into his eyes. ‘I worry Malkie, for you. What future gonna bring?’

He holds her stare. ‘Future’s what I choose to make it.’

He offers the cigarette pack. She takes them from him, lights one, and passes it back to him, then takes one for herself and places it on the bedside ashtray.

Now she’s sliding down, kissing his torso, making her way below. Her hand massaging him. ‘I know what you need. Mimi always know.’

He’s taking a drag, inhaling deep, content to let her do her thing.

When she’s done, she lies back in his arms, the thud of his heartbeat vibrating through his chest cavity.

They lie in silence, the seconds turning to minutes.

‘You different today, Malkie.’

He gives her a quizzical look. ‘Good or bad?’

‘No good no bad, just different.’

‘Must be my age.’

‘You seem sad. All time we know each other, I never hear you talk this way.’

He leans in and kisses her forehead. ‘They call it Scots’ melancholy, nothing for you to worry about.’

She looks at him, searching for answers she’ll never find. ‘I fix you a drink, birthday treat.’

Before he can answer, she pulls herself away, he watches her lithe, naked body rise from the bed as she vanishes into the adjoining room.

12

His eyes flick open to a cacophony of smashing glass and a muffled scream. Malkie’s brain struggles to dissect reality from the imagined. He’s up, pulling on his boxers’, mid-step diving towards the door. He crashes into the small kitchenette. Sees Mimi slumped in the corner, claret stained hands clutching at her throat. A jagged four-inch gash, her severed vocal cords prominent. There are no words, just a rasping gargle. Her eyes wide and glassy, life ebbing away.

He’s motionless. The reality smashing into him. He rushes to her, holding her tight, he comforts her, tells her it’ll be all right. There are no tears, just anger. He’s squeezing, desperate to hold onto life, to keep the reaper at bay. Impotent... There’s nothing he can do, her body’s limp – and then she’s gone.

A gentle sway as he rocks her like a newborn. He recites it over and over, a mantra of vengeance, ‘I’ll get the bastards who did this.’

The warble ring tone snaps him out of the trance. He uncouples himself from her still warm, but lifeless body, then rests her down on the cold, terracotta tiles.

He picks up the Nokia, clears his throat - readies himself. ‘Yeah?’

‘How’s the whore?’

The voice is young and unfamiliar, still there’s something, he just can’t place it. Names and faces flash through his mind trying to get an ID. Someone he’s had dealings with direct or indirect. Associates, introductions through Frank or George – nothing.

He swallows hard, and levels his tone. ‘When I find you, I promise you this – It’ll be slow... You fucked up big time, pal.’ He disconnects the call.

Something makes him turn. He’s facing the window, looking out across the street below. He casts his eyes over the landscape searching for answers.

He sees the muzzle blast then the bullet shatters the glass. Instinct kicks in, and he throws his body hard left. The burning sensation rips through his right shoulder. He’s falling to the floor, landing hard, impacting his head off the terracotta tile, Mimi’s dead eyes locked with his. He’s gasping and retching, his ragged shoulder an inferno of pain. He inspects the torn flesh, resembles skewered raw meat. A millisecond later he’d have took a slug to the jugular and joined Mimi on the other side.

Time passes; he can’t be sure whether he blacked out or not. The sound of sirens in the distance alerts him to the fact that he can’t get caught at the murder scene. Malkie’s got to move. Less than three minutes before the armed response team will be all over the place. He shuffles along the floor, keeping himself low and out of view below the window. He drags himself with his good arm back to the bedroom, and scoops up his clothes. He pulls on his trousers one handed, biting his bottom lip, and gritting his teeth against the white-hot pain searing down his arm. He slips on his brogues, leaving the laces undone, retrieves his shirt, and drapes his jacket over his shoulders, careful to ease in the tattered broken pulp.

Using a wet wipe, he’s wiping down the door handle; he retrieves the cigarette butt from the ashtray, and the soiled condom from the bedside metal bin. He’s out of time, the squeal of tyres emanating from outside as the first BMW X5 armed response vehicle skids to a halt in the courtyard. The best he can do now is run. Find out who ordered the hit. Get to them before they realise they didn’t finish the job.

Moving out into the main corridor, he’s making for the stairs. Heading down three flights to the basement. He can hear raised voices in the back yard. He’s picking up the pace, ignoring the pain. Malkie just needs to make it to the basement, from there he can disappear onto the street, least that way he’s got a chance.

He dials Frank, come on, pick up, you bastard.

13

He locates the fire door in the corner of the basement, fights his way through the build up of crap that never made it to the dump. Pushes on the bar. Damn thing won’t budge. Looking over his shoulder, the voices are closer now, the cops getting in position. He’s got to keep moving. Malkie shoves his left shoulder into it. The impact sends a sickening vibration through his body, pain receptors almost flooring him. Doubled over, his head spinning, he’s breathing hard, he swallows down the vomit at the back of his throat. He can hear heavy boots clanking off the fire escape. Can’t risk another shoulder barge, he takes a step back, swings his left leg, exhales as his size nine brogue connects, pain ricocheting throughout his body.

The door scrapes open three inches; he pushes on it with his good arm. There’s a blockage on the other side. He manages to force his head through the gap, greeted by the buildup of detritus, a mixture of fast-food cartons and the remains of cardboard and bedding blocking his exit. He pushes harder, it gives a little. The sweat’s dripping from his forehead. He takes a step back, and slams his foot into it.

The cold winter breeze cools his skin. He’s out, checking left then right. No pedestrians. All quiet. He glances at his watch. 10:12am kids and mums safely deposited to school and the morning coffee routine.

Moving away from the three-storey overhang, the phone pressed to his ear – still no answer. He curses under his breath. Kerbside, he’s stepping out into the road. The angry blare of a car horn followed by a quick succession of expletives as motorists swerve to avoid the bloodied walking dead invading their normalcy.

Malkie’s heading for the laundromat, he can be safe there, at least for a short time. It’ll make for a good observation point. He checks his watch again 10:14am. His shoulder’s burning, the blood seeping through his jacket. He needs to lay low. Can’t risk unnecessary attention. The shooter could still be in the area, needs to confirm the kill, got the client’s expectation to fulfil, they’ll be waiting on a call. The gunman won’t be paid till the job’s done. Proof, that’s what he’d want. Anything less doesn’t mean shit. They can’t risk leaving him alive; they know he’ll come for them.

Entering the laundromat, it’s deserted. He turns the Open sign to Closed on the door, and proceeds farther inside. Waiting, cursing himself. No excuses – fucked up. He’s risking a look at his injury, needs to get patched up and grab some fresh clothes. He can’t risk going back to his place, cops bound to be all over his car by now. Only a matter of time before they run his plates and find his piece in the glove box. Then it won’t take long to hone in.

The call connects, Frank in jovial form. ‘Hey, Malkie, the birthday boy...’

‘Cut the shit, Frank, listen, some fucker just tried to take me out. Bastard got to Mimi. Far as they know, I’m dead. I want it to stay that way for a while at least. I’m on Pritchard Street, the Turkish place. Mehmet’s, you know it?’

‘Come on, Mal...fuck off. What is this—birthday prank?’

‘I’m serious, Frank. I’m hit, my right shoulder It’s bleeding like a bastard. Put the word out. And call George. I want this fucker, want who he’s working for, and I want him alive.’

Frank’s silent, processing the information. ‘Shit. I mean, come on... Who’s going to risk… Did you get a look at him?’

‘No. Just... Ah, it’s nothing.’

Frank’s moving from one room to the next, into the study, grabbing his other phone, and scrolling through his text messages, while rummaging the bottom drawer of the grey filing cabinet for his 9 mm. He takes it in hand, and checks the load. ‘I’m on it, we’ll get this bastard. It’s just a matter of time. Sit tight, I’m sending a car for you now. Take you some place safe, then we can figure out our next move.’

Malkie’s tucked away, sitting towards the back of the laundromat, nestled on a bench between two dryers, his eye on the street. He’s breathing deep, easing his jacket off. Rasping voice. ‘Frank.’

‘Yeah, you okay? You don’t sound too good.’

‘Need you to contact Maddox, the Merc’s gonna get towed. SOCOs’ be all over it, swabbing for prints, DNA, whatever else they can pin on me. They’ll tow it to a secured compound someplace. He’ll know. You make sure it gets torched. There’s a piece in the glove compartment, my .38, it needs to disappear, you hear me?’

‘I got it, fuck this is insane. Can’t be local. We’d have known. We’ve got eyes and ears all over. There’d be whispers at street level – something at least.’

Malkie needs him to focus on the present. ‘Frank...Fr.’

‘Who in their right mind would do that to Mimi?’

Something in Frank’s tone, the way he says do that to Mimi, imply to Malkie that perhaps he knows more than he’s letting on. He decides to keep it to himself for now. Malkie’s interrupting, his voice a flat monotone pitch. ‘It’s dangerous to speculate. I know this much, Frank, whoever it is, they’re gonna wish they’d finished it.’

Frank’s moving back in to the other room. ‘I got four of the guys here now, I’ll send one for you. The rest of us can go and jump in the van, and shake down a few of the players down town, see what comes out.’

‘Hold up, Frank. We can’t be starting a war. And send George, not one of your boys. I need to keep this tight, just the three of us.’

‘Whoa, hold on, my lads are kosher, all of ’em.’

‘You ain’t the one with a gapping hole in you right now. We do this my way.’

‘Okay, you want George I’ll send George. Just keep your eye on the street. Don’t move. Sit tight.’

Malkie terminates the call. He watches the building opposite. Still no sign of the cops on the rooftop. He imagines by now they’ll be securing the area out back, checking out the Mercedes. Won’t take long for his name to bounce back. In the meantime, they’ll have the battering ram at the ready, the reinforced steel door should be enough to buy some extra time before the Armed Response Officers bust in with their weapons drawn.

He’s watching the steady stream of commuters, keeping his eye on the lookout for George, sitting and waiting it strikes him that they’re all like clones on autopilot. A solitary cyclist, a middle-aged runner decked out in luminous yellow Hi-Vis vest and lycra leggings, and a young, fashion conscious twenty-something walking her small Pug dog, letting it stop to defecate on the pavement. All of them stuck in their safe little worlds, oblivious to the chaos around them. They got no idea...

The shooter’s out there somewhere. Bound to be frantic by now, the job gone to shit, he’ll be doing his best to blend in. Malkie’s eyes are darting left to right, what would I do? He already knows the answer; don’t let the trail go cold. Pursue the prey. Finish the job.

14

Malkie’s phone vibrates in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts. He checks the caller ID: GEORGE. He picks up. ‘I’m still breathing Georgie Boy, not dead yet.’

George is accelerating down the road, his phone connected via Bluetooth ‘...the fuck’s going on Malkie?’

Malkie closes his eyes as the pain spasms. ‘Frank, fill you in?’

George brakes hard to avoid the paperboy loping across the road, iPod in situ, oblivious to the world around him. The car fishtails. George blares the horn long and loud. He grits his teeth, mouthing ‘arsehole,’ as he rights the car.

Malkie’s confused. ‘Say what?’

‘No, not you, some idiot kid on a board – damned near killed him... Christ knows why he’s not in school this time of morning?’

Malkie attempts to get George back on task. ‘What’d he say?’

George is checking his rear view mirror. The kid on the board is giving him the finger. ‘Who, the kid?’

‘Not the fucking kid, I’m talking about Frank. What’d he say?’

‘Right, yeah. Shit, he said Mimi’s...gone. I mean what the fuck’s going on?’

Malkie’s considering his options. ‘Those his words, his exact words, George, you sure?’

‘Yeah, think so. Shit. I’m sorry, Malkie... Don’t know what to... I know how fond of her you...’

Malkie cuts him short. ‘Aye, all that can wait. Let’s concentrate on the here and now. Where you at?’

‘Just coming up on Pritchard Street, about two minutes out.’ He catches movement in his peripheral vision. ‘The police are already starting to block the approach roads, beginning to flag down cars, by the look of things.’

Malkie’s shifting to the front of the laundromat. ‘I’m good to go. Stay in the car, and keep the motor running. Just open the back door so I can slide in.’

‘Need to get you patched up, Malkie. We best get you to that out of town doctor.’

‘Too risky. Needle and thread and a bottle of the Irish is all I need.’

George is less than a minute away now. ‘You’re a regular Johnny Rambo, well if that’s how you want it?’

Malkie keeps his eye on the street. ‘Way it’s got to be till I get some answers.’

He terminates the call.

15

George is weaving through the traffic. The Lexus LS460 gliding through the gears, the speedo hitting fifty. Malkie’s out of sight, laying across the back seat, his eyes scrunched tight, his hand clutching at his ruined shoulder willing the pain away.

Malkie swallows hard, biting at the inside of his mouth as George hits a pothole. ‘This thing got any booze?’

‘With my Mrs.? Not a chance.’

Malkie nods his head. ‘Thought as much.’

‘Let’s get you to Frank’s place, get that shoulder looked at. I’m sure he’ll have a stash. Keep you going till we can fix you up with some proper meds.’

‘No, not Frank’s.’

George eyes the rear view mirror. ‘What, why not?’

‘They’ll have surveillance by now. We go within two blocks of his place, we’re all getting lifted.’

‘You reckon? Nah. Can’t see it. The police aren’t that switched on, still be running round with their heads up their arses, trying to figure out what the hell went down.’

Malkie winces as the pain spikes. ‘They got the Merc, George. All they gotta do is run the plates through the ANPR. When my name comes up, the warrant will be in place in no time. How long do you think it’d be before they rip through my place and come looking to round the pair of you up?’

‘Best give Frank the nod so he’s prepped.’

‘Frank can look after himself – leave him be.’

George momentarily takes his eyes off the road and gives Malkie a quizzical sideways glance, then fixes his eyes forward and remains silent.

‘Just drive, George, take the east bound carriageway.’

‘Okay.’ George is spying a glance at Malkie, he doesn’t look good, a translucent, sickly pallor to his face. ‘East you say?’

‘That’s what I said.’

Malkie strains his necks, and fixes on the rear view mirror, checking for a tail car. He sees nothing, he rests back down, and closes his eyes trying to block out every little bump and vibration that jars at his shoulder.

Thirty minutes later, they’re pulling up at an abandoned farmhouse set in the middle of scrub land, ramshackle out buildings forming a natural barrier between the single lane farm track and main road.

George is out of the car taking in the scene. ‘You sure about this place?’

‘Renovation project – just waiting on the green light from the planning office.’

‘Arse end of nowhere you ask me.’

‘That’s the idea, solitude. Place to get away from it all.’

George escorts Malkie towards the dilapidated cottage, guiding him by his good arm.

Malkie points to the floor, ‘keys under the cracked slab, just lift it up.’

‘Burglar proof, eh?’ George retrieves the key, opens the door. The stench of damp rot and cat piss attacking his senses.

‘Jesus, something died in here?’

‘Not yet, but that could change.’

George raises his hand to his mouth, and advances into the gloom. ‘This place connected to the mains?’

‘Not for the last fourteen years, at least. There’s a wind-up camping lantern someplace.' Malkie points to the doorway, 'check through there, try the cupboard under the water heater.’

George follows the stench into the connecting room, finding himself in what passes for a kitchen area. Malkie slumps down into a tattered, dusty olive green high-backed armchair. He rests his feet up on a tea chest doubling as a makeshift coffee table then reaches under the shoulder of the jacket, probing fingers inspecting the damage, he eases of the jacket, wincing as fresh spikes of pain awaken.

The ringer tone of George’s mobile forces him to ignore the pain. ‘Leave it.’

George shouts through from the gloom of the kitchen, ‘It’s Frank.’

Malkie shakes his head. ‘I said leave it.’

‘Come on, he needs to know we made it out.’

‘Am I talking a foreign language here?’

George stomps in from the kitchen, lantern in hand. ‘This is bullshit. You think Frank set you up? Come on, that’s bollocks.’

‘Is it? Think about it a second. Who’s got most to gain with me out of the picture?’

George is shaking his head, ‘I reckon the infection’s setting in, addled your fucking brain. You’re not thinking right.’

‘My brain’s fine.’

‘Yeah, so what about me, where do I figure in this conspiracy?’

Malkie ignores the question. ‘That car of yours got a First Aid kit?’

George waits for an answer. Nothing forthcoming. ‘I’ll go check, shall I?’

Malkie hauls himself from the chair, ‘leave the phone.’

George is halfway out the door, he turns and stares, ‘you’re serious?’

‘You heard me.’

He takes two paces back into the reception room, and tosses the phone down onto the tea chest, it skims across the rough surface into Malkie’s left hand. Their eyes connect, Malkie’s icy stare searching for deceit. George holds both his arms out to the side, ‘need to pat me down... Boss?’

Malkie says nothing. George turns, shakes his head, cussing under his breath as he makes his way out to the car.

16

Malkie’s at the window, he uses two fingers to rub a peephole through the decade plus of grime and decay. He can just make out George’s frame busy at the car. He needs to work fast, estimating that he has two minutes at most. He’s moving away from the window, making his way towards the middle of the room. Malkie uses his left arm to reach up to the low-slung wooden beam running the width, wall to wall, he runs his hand over the surface, knows it’s there somewhere. He finds it, slots his index and middle finger in to two pre-drilled holes, pushing them in up to the joint then tugging, he feels it loosen. One more pull, the fake cover comes away. He shakes his fingers free, and drops the cover to the floor. He inserts his hand into the cavity, brushes the detritus aside, a mixture of sawdust and cobweb. There it is, still bound in the original oiled rag. Malkie takes it down and unwraps it. Just as he left it, an unused, clean Walther 9 mm and full clip – ready to go.

George crashes in from the cold, holding the First Aid kit aloft. ‘Weather’s turning. Good news is you’re in luck.’

Malkie points to the tea chest, ‘set it down over there, open it up, lets’ see what we got.’

George complies, he starts working his way through, listing the contents. ‘Tape, gauze, lint, couple of plasters, some padding. Shit out of luck on the needle and thread though.’

Malkie returns to the armchair, the Walther 9 mm hanging loose in his grip.

George observes the weapon, and chooses to ignore its presence. Instead, he starts repacking the kit into the box.

Malkie eases himself back into the chair, resting the Walther on his lap pointing towards George.

George narrows his eyes, and faces Malkie straight on. ‘You think I’m in on it, that what this is?’

‘Insurance, don’t take it personal.’ He places the 9 mm down on the tea chest. ‘Won’t take ’em long now.’

‘Them?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough, Georgie Boy.’

‘So we’re holed up here like Butch and Sundance, and you reckon on making a last stand with one handgun.’

‘You’re not carrying?’

‘Fucksake, when have you known me to carry a piece, Malkie?’

‘Special occasion like this, thought you might have come packing. No bother.’ Malkie’s pointing to the cover on the floor. ‘See that over there, reach up to the beam above it.’

George stands looking up at the modified beam. ‘You really think Frank ordered the hit?’

‘Can’t rule it out, not yet.’ Malkie moves in the chair, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder as he twists round. ‘You see it?’

‘Yeah, bloody big gaping hole.’

‘Go on reach in there, take it slow. Careful now.’

He pushes in both arms, his fingertips finding purchase. He pulls out a plywood box, twelve inches by eight. ‘...the fuck’s this, GI Joe’s toolkit?’ He returns to the tea chest, and rests it down.

‘Wait and see.’

George rubs at the two-day stubble on his chin, his thoughts clouded. ‘Not Frank, doesn’t make sense. Can’t be him.’

Malkie brushes away the cobweb remnants from the box. 'Frank don’t know any other life, he’s institutionalised. Can’t live without it. The thought of going legit scares the shit out of him. What’s he gonna do? Same reason he lords it up over the younger ones. His stories about the old days, most of it bullshit on his part. He can't let go.'

George thinks it over, shifting uncomfortably from side to side. 'I don’t see it.'

Malkie stares straight through him. ‘No, you must have a theory though, who’s your money on?'

George takes a moment to answer, careful to find the right words. 'If it was me, I’d be looking closer to home.’

Malkie narrows his eyes. ‘Cunningham? No way. Out of his league.’

‘Ties in though, you think about it.’

‘With what?’

‘The rumours about him reaching out – making friends. You’re too close to it, Malkie. Need to step back, look at it like an outsider. You do that, that’s when it all starts to fall in to place.’

‘Aye, and there’s no love lost between the two of you, now is there?’

‘It’s not just me thinking that way, ask around.’

'Meaning?'

'Walter Browne.’

‘Ah come on, I’m not buying it, George, he’s a wee shite granted, but this...’

‘Boy’s got ambition; he’s never hid that. More than enough time to brood on it, to make plans. Let’s suppose for a moment that he’s gone and contracted out, done a deal.’

Malkie’s got a disbelieving smile on his face. ‘No way. Cunningham won’t take me on, not after...'

'Come on. No denying he fancies himself as the heir apparent. He wants’ it all. He’s not interested in negotiations, or handovers, or going legit. He's a ponce, flash cars, young impressionable girls, and parties that’s all he’s interested in.’

Malkie rubs at his shoulder. He doesn't dispute the claim; George's rationale has a certain logic to it. ‘Time will tell... Time will tell, George.’

George locks eyes with Malkie, ‘should’ve let me deal...’

Malkie cuts him off mid-flow. ‘Way things are we don’t know shit. So leave it. Okay George. Malkie’s attention diverts to the box. ‘Now let’s open this beauty up – see what we got here.'

George takes a flat head screwdriver sitting atop the mantelpiece. He prises open the lid, his fingertips delve into the mass of white polystyrene balls, he brushes them aside. 'Shit... That what I think it is?' He pulls it out slow, gives Malkie a look, ‘you planning to start a war?’

‘Finish it more like.’

He places the object back into the box, brushes aside the remainder of the packaging to reveal three dark grenades in situ.

Malkie reaches for the lint and gauze, applies it to the wound. 'Pass me that padding there.' He tapes it over the top. ‘Still think I should’ve capped the bastard eh?'

George raises his eyebrows. ‘He's your blood, not mine - it’s your call.'

17

12:33pm he can’t put it off any longer, his prey’s vanished and gone to ground. Time to call it in. He retrieves the pay-as-you-go mobile phone, and inserts a new sim card. He punches in the eleven memorised digits – time for an update.

The recipient picks up on the third bleep.

The gunman keeps it simple, just the bare outline, no names. Nothing to incriminate himself or the client. ‘Wounded, but still running.’

There’s silence at the other end, he keeps tally in his head, reaching four...fi

‘And the woman?’

‘Gone.’

He zeroes out, and starts the count again, one...two...

‘Unexpected... Considering your credentials. You’re in breach of contract. Keep this phone on, and wait for my call.’

The recipient clicks off.

It’s unfamiliar territory, the gunman’s never had a job go this way. Not over yet, he tells himself. Still time to rectify it. Failure’s not an option. The client’s brief was specific, anything but Thompson’s death would be unacceptable. If he fails to deliver on his promise, they’ll come for him. At best, he’s got twenty-four hours.

His choice is stark, even finding Thompson and finishing it won’t be enough. He’s caused them embarrassment; his failure to deliver can’t go unpunished. He could flee, but they’ll come looking, no matter how far away he gets it’ll never be far enough for them to stop. His only remaining option is to showcase. Give them something unusual, something to satiate their blood lust. He needs to get close, the kind of closeness that comes with gutting a man, ramming the blade in through soft tissue and thrusting in an upward motion to maximise the damage. That’s it, that’s what he’s got to do, get close enough to Malkie Thompson to open him up, to get intimate, taste his last stinking dying breath, then to leave him squirming in his own mess, life ebbing away as his eyes dull to the light.

The pay-as-you-go phone’s vibrating in his pocket. He takes it out, the caller ID unknown. His index finger taps at the green telephone icon. He listens, but says nothing.

The voice on the other end of the line reels off an address. ‘Brantock Hill Farm. Last chance, don’t mess it up.’ The line goes dead.

Five, maybe six-seconds at best, that’s all he’s had. Enough for him to analyse the background noise, the sound of heavy traffic. He guesses the caller’s using a motorway services payphone to ensure anonymity.

The gunman takes out his second handset, his personal iPhone; on any other job he’d never contemplate using it, but needs must. He uses the satellite view to scope the area. He identifies the farmhouse and the surrounding scrubland, his eyes scan the grid format, he uses the zoom-in function to locate the entry and exit points. There are a couple of outbuildings obscuring the approach road. Scrolling across the screen, he identifies a single-track road not much wider than a sheep trail approaching from the northwest. He checks the grid reference; it’ll take him within quarter of a mile of the house.

He screenshots the image, and saves it to file. Satisfied, he nods his head. Malkie Thompson—dead man walking. No more mistakes, it ends here.

18

2:54pm. He checks the weather app on his iPhone, forecast indicates heavy rain, he leans forward over the steering wheel and looks up, storm clouds already rolling in. The Land Rover Defender gets him close, but not close enough. He still has a quarter of a mile to cover on foot. He estimates a three to four minute light jog to be enough to get him in position, to get eyes on the target. He knows that by now they’ll be expecting someone to come for them, they’ll be prepped. Could be holed up in the house or any of the outbuildings. The dynamics have evolved, Thompson’s got back up in the form of Mayer or Pattison, they’re both legends. He doubts that Thompson would have gone outside the inner circle. Least that’s what he hopes for. He doesn’t need any further complications. The clocks ticking, he has to get in fast, get it done, and get out.

There’s a little over an hour till dusk. All he can do is play the waiting game. There’s no sense in trying to mount a daylight assault, even in the fading light it would be easy enough to be felled like a wild deer. He contents himself to wait it out; he carries out the drill he’s executed a thousand times before. Doing so brings back memories of the old days; he misses the desert heat, the camaraderie, and the banter. Things were different then; he was part of something, something that mattered. He pushes the thought aside. This is now. He’s a lone wolf. Can’t be looking back, got to stay focused. Those days long gone. He’s a private contractor, Civvy Street his paymaster.

Checking his kit, he unsheathes the hunting knife that’s strapped to his thigh, and draws the twelve-inch blade across his palm. There’s a satisfying sting as the blood surfaces, turning his hand crimson. He squeezes his fist tight, letting the blood run free. Dark red droplets hit the earth, staining the mud a darker tone of brown.

He sharpens the blade against the grey flat stone. Working it up and down, he’s lost in the trance of the blade as the darkened steel scrapes one way then the other. When he’s done he moves onto cleaning the barrel of the Glock 17 Hi Power 9 mm, then he attaches the Tac light, and positions the muzzle of the weapon an inch away from the ground to minimise the light residue, checking the strength of the beam.

3:27pm. He looks at the sky, the light fading fast. Time to get a closer look. Crouching low, he’s moving forward. He covers the ten or twelve yards to the outcrop. Stopping, he takes a look. He can’t afford to rush in. That’s what they want. Just waiting on him to make a mistake, to give away his position. He needs to take it slow. Easier said than done, the adrenalin coursing through his body. He tells himself to regulate it, he breathes deep, in through the nose and out through the mouth. He’s in control; won’t allow his body to dictate the terms.

Not long now, he can taste it. His body’s pumped, primed, and ready. Death is coming. This is it, the reason he exists, to pit himself against a worthy opponent. Addicted to the rush, knows it’s the closest he’s ever going to get to real combat again.

19

Malkie can’t rest, his mind a whirlpool of paranoia, he’s pacing back and forth in the gloom, trying to get a handle on those who could be responsible for the botched hit. He stumbles in the dark, righting himself before George can awaken. Cursing though clenched teeth, shit, agitated at the prospect of just waiting, the first time in his life he’s felt impotent.

He moves to what passes for a window, and risks a peek out through the patchwork of wooden slats and broken pieces of glass. It all looks quiet, like he could just walk out the front door.

Malkie uses the available fading light to inspect the bullet wound to his shoulder. He pulls back the padding and gauze, heat emanating from blackened lacerations of skin, forming a border around the angry red hole. He uses two fingers to probe the injury, grimacing as he connects with the most tender spot. He reaches over to the shoulder blade, searching for an exit wound, there isn’t one, the bullet’s lodged in deep. It’s got to come out before the infection sets in, but that’ll have to wait.

He replaces the gauze, then the padding, and tries rotating the shoulder, the spike of pain catching his breath, forcing him to abandon the attempt mid rotation. He’s glancing over to George, asleep in the high-backed chair. He told him to rest up, Malkie needs him alert. If they’re getting out of this alive George has got to be on his A - game.

They’ll be close by now, he can feel it. His thoughts turn to Frank Mayer, Judas, he never saw it coming. It’s always those who are closest, friends, lovers, those you least expect. He cusses himself, no fucking excuses. He took his eye off the ball, allowed himself to be distracted. Got complacent. Should’ve listened to his own counsel. If the tables were turned, would he have done the same? Skulking round in the shadows. Planning. Weaving the web, it all takes time. Be hard to keep a lid on it. So there’ll be others, confidants, an inner circle of deceit.

He stares back over to George, the question forms... He scrubs it clean from his mind. Not him. The more he thinks about it, Frank turning traitor, that he can buy into. Be a tough sell for anyone trying to convince George. Frank’s got that survivor instinct. He’s seen the end coming and reached out. Had himself a sit down with Cunningham. Should’ve dealt with that little fuck... Another mistake. Family loyalty – don’t mean shit. Blood runs deep – that’s of no interest to Jason Cunningham. So Frank’s laid it out, he’s the King Maker. Carved himself a chunk of autonomous territory. The way he always wanted it.

Whichever slant Malkie puts on it, doesn’t make it taste any better. So now Cunningham’s showed his hand, made his play, and Frank’s in the background letting it fall into place. Got the ability to walk away unscathed if it all goes to shit. Content to let others get dirty. Careful not to get bloodied. He’s smart. Been in the game a long time, and he knows how to play it.

Malkie expected more of Frank; he should’ve had the balls to speak his mind. At least he could respect that. Frank’s no pussy. That’s what doesn’t sit right. The final piece of the jigsaw won’t slot into place no matter how many times it turns. Everything else fits but not that. So if it ain’t Frank, then who?

Malkie’s got a burning sensation in his shoulder running down the length of his arm to his fingertips. His head feels light, giddy almost. He exhales, resting his good arm against the doorframe to support his weight. Not like this, he tells himself, shaking his head clear.

George is moving in the chair. ‘You still pacing?’

‘Thinking, mulling it all over, George.’

‘Thought you wanted to get some sleep?’

‘You felt the busted springs on that thing? No chance. Anyway, I need you sharp, go back to sleep.’

‘From where I’m sitting looks like you’re the one in need of a lie down. Take your own advice. I’ve seen you with that shoulder; padding and gauze aren’t doing shit. It needs proper medical attention, you know it.’

Malkie raises his eyes to the ceiling. ‘It’ll keep. Besides, there’s no doctor within twenty miles of this place.’

‘We can still make it, drive out of here,’ he pauses, squinting through the darkness, ‘we could head south.’

Malkie narrows his eyes against the gloom. ‘South, you say?’

‘Yeah, that’s what I said. We still got friends down there.’

Malkie’s using his left hand, patting himself down for cigarettes. ‘And who might that be?’

George remains silent.

‘Ah, the one that got away.’

‘It is what it is, Malkie.’

Malkie’s brain’s moving through the gears, a strange quizzical bemused look on his face. He takes out the Zippo lighter, the flame illuminating his face. ‘You finally admitting you disobeyed my orders?’

‘I did what I had to do.’

‘And why was that? Come on, don’t matter now, I mean look at us - this place.’

George extracts himself from the chair. ‘Just didn’t sit right with me.’

‘What didn’t?’

‘The whole Cunningham thing. You knew he was the driving force behind the Kosovars, and yet you still went and made an example of Kane.’

Malkie snorts, ‘all these years… Why the fuck didn’t you get it off your chest?’

‘Like you’d have listened.’

Agitated, Malkie’s voice raises to a shouting rant. ‘An example had to be made, and despite what you say, Cunningham and Kane were equal partners. Think I was gonna disappear my own nephew?’

‘Well, if you had, we wouldn’t have this,’ says George, his arms outstretched towards the dilapidated walls of the cottage.

Exasperated, Malkie concedes. ‘No, perhaps you’re right. So how’d you want to play this George, being as I fucked it all up?’

‘We get out of here, now. Head south, gather our strength, then we hit back.’

‘You expecting me to run?’

‘I’m expecting you to live, take vengeance on whoever the fuck ordered the hit.’

‘They already think I’m dead.’

‘So why the hell are we hiding out in this godforsaken shit hole?’

‘Drawing them out, George. We want them to come to us. Then we find out exactly who the paymaster is.’

‘We’re bait?’

‘You got it.’

‘This is bullshit, and you know it.’

Malkie ignores the statement and counters with his own question. ‘Tell me something George, why the interest in Ryan Kane?’

‘Told you, never agreed with your decision.’

‘No, I’m not buying it. This goes deeper.’

George’s eyes narrow, squinting into the fading light. ‘What do you mean?’

Malkie chuckles to himself but says nothing. He takes a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Always had my suspicions, never gave it too much thought, till now.’

‘You got something to say, spit it out.’

‘What d’you tell your wife, George?’

‘About what?’

‘Does she know?’

‘Know what?’

‘I get it now, makes sense. All of it.’

‘The fuck you talking about, Malkie?’

‘You and Billy’s wife. Plain as day. How the fuck did I miss that?’

‘What?’

‘Is that why you’re telling me this now? Admit it. You got a guilty conscience, being eating away at you all this time.’

‘Fuck you, Malkie. You don’t know shit.’

‘Yeah, so why you getting steamed up?’

‘Screw this. You want me to say it loud, okay, fine, he’s my son. There you go, I said it, happy now?’

‘I fucking knew it, all these years, you were banging Billy Kane’s Mrs. Well, least the poor bastard went to his grave none the wiser.’

‘Hey, back the fuck up. Billy was a mate, but he was also a little too handy with his fists. Look, I didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did.’

‘I’m not judging you, George. Surprised that you kept it so well hidden all these years, that’s all.’

‘If I’d left it up to you, he’d be dead.’

‘Maybe so, but what’s done is done, George. Now we move on. Deal with the here and now.’

‘Kane’s our way in, Malkie. Don’t you see? Dead all these years. The last thing Cunningham will expect, is him turning up.’

‘Got it all worked out, George, don’t you. Does he know?’

‘He know’s nothing, and I don’t plan on telling him - least not yet.’

Malkie blows smoke rings from his mouth, disappearing in to the darkness. ‘You always were a sentimentalist George, your Achilles heel, but you already knew that, right?’ Malkie takes a moment to consider the options. ‘Moment we step out that door, we’re as good as dead.’

‘You don’t know that, Malkie.’

‘Come on George, it’s a waiting game, by now they got us located. We just gotta wait it out.’ Malkie picks up one of the dark grenades. ‘Least this way we go out on our terms.’

George shakes his head in disbelief. ‘You’re one stubborn bastard. You might be content to die, holed up in this cat piss stinking shit hole, but I’m getting out - with or without you.’

Malkie cackles, drawing on his cigarette nub. ‘Blaze of glory eh, George?’

He chooses not to reply, Malkie might be resigned to his fate, but George is far from done.

Making his way to the window, his nose pressed to broken pane of glass, the build-up of grime the only adhesive holding it in place. He peers out through the smeared glass. ‘It’s almost dark. Clouds rolling in, looks like a storm’s brewing.’ He turns and faces Malkie, ‘this is it, ideal opportunity. Like I said, no point us both being holed up in here. I can’t see shit. Least out there, I can get a clear shot. Buy us some time.’

20

The rain’s getting heavier, droplets exploding like gunshots upon impact. Mud turning to sludge below his belly. He’s crawling on elbows, his forearms trying to find purchase, boots digging in propelling him onwards towards the target. He’s stopping every few yards, taking his time, reassessing the objective. There’s no sign of life, holed up, gone to ground. They know he’s out there, waiting.

He can’t mess up, his life depends on it.

His objective is simple, take out the muscle, he’ll put money on it being Pattison. The gunman’s got youth on his side, his foe fifteen, sixteen years his senior. He’s experienced, a seasoned pro. Give him his dues; he can’t afford to underestimate him. A lack of respect could prove fatal. If it comes to close quarter’s logic says his speed and agility win out over bulk and mass. Problem is that theory relies on mobility and being out in the open. Could be a different story in a confined or restricted space. He needs to draw them out, both of them. Take aim, pull the trigger. Clinical – textbook finish.

No matter the outcome, his fate is sealed, has been ever since Thompson dodged the kill shot. Should never have taken the job. He went against his own instinct. Lesson for life, never let the client dictate the process.

Moving forward again, his feet slipping in saturated mud, he keeps his head low, the exertion and effort causing him to breathe quick and fast. The rough, uneven ground chaffing through his clothing. Less than thirty feet remaining, before he reaches the back of the house. He stops and listens, just the howl of the wind whipping at the landscape.

He rolls over onto his side, the clouds overhead providing good cover, lessening the risk of moonlight giving away his position. Dusk, no more than five minutes away. He’s tempted to lie there, motionless, time frozen, but the clock’s ticking.

21

The wind-up lantern’s faltering beam of light flickers as George stumbles about in the kitchen’s semi-darkness. ‘Gotta be another way out of here,’ he’s muttering to himself.

‘Forget it, George, the back door’s welded shut with reinforced steel panels. I had them fitted when I bought the place to keep the kids and junkies out. Unless that is, you’ve got an arc welder tucked away that I don’t know about?’

‘Yeah, I’ll just pull it from my arse.’ Shaking his head, George moves to the staircase, and places his foot on the first runner, applying his weight to test its strength.

Malkie’s looking over. ‘Don’t fancy your chances. It’s rotted worse than a matelot’s dick on shore leave. Even if you did manage to get up there, those rafters are just about holding the walls up.’

George crunches his neck side to side and rolls his shoulders to ease the tension. ‘You’d rather wait for them to shoot their way in here?’

‘Whatever’s going down, we just gotta let it play out, then we’ll go after the bastards’, each and every one of them.’

22

Sprinting over open ground, head down into the wind, he reaches the first outbuilding. He stops for a moment, checking for any signs of life. There’s nothing. He’s moving again. Renewed purpose, heading towards the farmhouse. His eyes straining against the fading light.

Slowing up, he reaches for his pistol. Panting, he checks the load. It’s all-good, but he’s feeling the effect of the sprint, needs to build his stamina back up. He tightens his grip and wills himself on. Running the last twelve feet to the edge of the building, he trips, slamming into the outside rear wall. Fuck.

Heartbeat’s pounding in his chest, convinced he’s just given away his position. The only thing he can hear is the blood pounding in his ears. Breathless, he takes a second to compose himself. Resting against the windowless back wall, he proceeds with caution, his weapon drawn. He stops at the disused doorway, steel panels welded into place to keep out the undesirables. He’s listening, straining to hear over the howling wind.

Two-handed grip on the gun, he makes for the front door. He’s out in the open, vulnerable and exposed. This is the danger zone, the prime killing area. No time to think, just act. Be easy enough for Thompson or Pattison to take him out. One bullet - game over.

Voices, he’s sure of it. Not just the wind playing tricks.

He tightens his grip and listens. Nothing, it’s gone again. Was it real or did he imagine it? He can’t tell. No turning back, he risks a look round the corner of the building, dropping low to the ground, hurling himself into a defensive firing position. All clear. He advances, ignoring the sweat that’s stinging his eyes, he needs to stay focused. Can’t afford to mess up now.

Moving forward, he skulks along the front wall. He reaches the patched up window, a mixture of makeshift ply and chipboard. Crouching low beneath the rotted sill, he aims the Glock towards the floor, and activates the TAC-beam. He moves his head up and to the side, squinting into the low light. There it is, voices, definite this time. Game on, he scuttles low, all the way to the door. Two-handed grip on the 9 mm pistol, he slams his boot into the door, making contact just below the lock. The door springs open.

His errant prey located, time to finish it. No prisoners. Time to set the record straight.

He takes cover to the right of the doorframe; confident the stonework will protect him from any bullet. He dives in through the opening, Judo rolls onto his forearm. He swings round, whacks the door shut behind him. His pistol follows in a wild arc, the Glock TAC light illuminating the interior. No target. He continues moving into the gloom, crouching, keeping his centre of gravity wide and low. Last chance.

The creaking of a floorboard behind his right shoulder alerts him to the imminent danger. He turns, but he’s already too late, George is lunging from the shadows, screwdriver held aloft in a dagger motion. He brings it down hard, catching the gunman on the forehead, opening up an aperture of pain. He digs it in deep, and scrapes it down on to the bridge of the nose, creating a satisfying crunching as he punctures through the cartilage.

The gunman screams out, writhing in pain as the blood filters to the back of his throat. Choking, he spits it to the floor. He staggers, wiping the spatter from his eyes, and aims his weapon.

George springs from the gloom, slamming the gunman up against the wall. His bear like grip on his opponent’s wrist, he smashes it once, twice, three times. The gunman won’t relent, he’s hanging on, determined to complete his mission. He knows his grip on the pistol is the only reason he’s still breathing.

Desperation setting in, the gunman drives his knee forward, and brings it up hard. George buckles, but keeps his grip solid. A shot rings out. The bullet slamming into the ceiling. Shards of plaster splinter, and fall like snowflakes.

George is doubled over, his breathing laboured, still managing to hold onto his assailant. The dull ache of pain synchronised with the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach, causing him to spew bile, he blinks his vision clear. The gunman brings his knee up again, then repeats the action over and over until he feels George’s strength wain, forcing his arm down, he turns his wrist. George is blinded by the power of the Glock’s TAC light 6-volt Lithium battery, now he’s staring into the business end of the 9 mm.

The gunman hooks his trigger finger, a smile on his face. He pulls the trigger. Silence... Jammed. Shit.

No written invitation needed. George slams his right palm into the gunman’s chin, snapping his head back. He uses his left hand to smash the weapon free. It drops to floor, George kicks it away, leaving the TAC light’s Xenon beam illuminating the darkened recess. George tilts his head, pulls his assailant towards him, crunching his forehead full force into gunman’s face. He feels his body sag, but George isn’t done yet, he hoists him up, throttles him, follows with a forearm smash, and throws him to the floor. The gunman’s trying to scuttle towards the safety of the shadows, but George stalks him, landing a precision kick to the kidneys. He’s off the ropes, and out of the danger zone. He can take a breather. He swallows down the bile, and leans forward, grabbing the gunman by his fringe, matted with a mixture of blood, sweat, and cartilage.

George is wheezing with the exertion. ‘How many more?’

The gunman’s eyes are glazed over, he has no answer.

George thrusts the flat head screwdriver into the nose cartilage, levering it side to side like a can opener, he increases the pressure. The gunman screams out, his tone resembling a strangled cat. George, his face contorted with rage, spittle flying in all directions. ‘Answer me now... How many?’

The gunman struggles to focus, his claret-stained, broken enamel smile, still defiant, he mumbles, ‘fuck you,’ simultaneously he brings his arm up, and plunges the blade of the hunting knife into George’s side.

George staggers back, clutching at his right side, his eyes bulging in disbelief, a rookie mistake. He stumbles against the tea chest, his breathing short and raspy, head spinning. He can’t pass out – not now.

The gunman’s clutching at his ruined nose, the knife held in his other hand, his eyes switching from the floor to George.

George is trying to focus through the blur, can feel himself slipping into the darkness. Just shapes, that’s all he can see. He’s on the floor, staring up to the ceiling, particles of dust and plaster floating aimlessly above. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his eardrum from the shot, but he can still make out the muffled scraping of floorboard.

The gunman’s searching, trying to locate the Glock, the Xenon beam redundant and smashed. He knows it’s there somewhere. He needs to act fast, Thompson’s lurking in the darkest recess, waiting to strike.

George, his head spinning, don’t black out. Screwdriver in hand, his only defence. Using his elbows and forearms to push himself up.

Fuck it, the gunman’s given up searching for the Glock. Time to go old school. ‘I’m gonna bleed you out.’

George squints into the gloom; he can make out the outline of the figure standing over him. He swipes the air with the screwdriver.

The gunman swats it away like a dead fly, ‘that the best you got old man?’

George lifts his head, his eyes scrunched. ‘Messed your face up real good though didn’t I.’

The gunman’s eyes blaze with malevolent fury as the rage takes control. ‘Should’ve finished it.’ He stands over George, and delivers a succession of punches to his face, turning it crimson. ‘You like that?’ The gunman’s panting and wheezing, struggling to get enough oxygen to his lungs. ‘Wait till you see what else I got.’

The punches continue to rain down. George cries out, the breath dying in his mouth. His nerve endings alive with pain as the gunman jabs the screwdriver deep into his side. ‘Where’s Thompson?’

George squirms, gritting his teeth trying to block the pain, and failing. He tries bringing his arm up to protect himself, the gunman pins it to the floor, and, pushes the flathead deeper into the wound.

‘Come on, don’t go holding out on me now, where is he?’

Out of the nowhere, he feels the cold steel of a handgun barrel jammed up against his temple. ‘I’m right here, pal. Now drop it, and move away real slow.’

23

The gunman relents, leaving the flathead screwdriver embedded in George’s side, he stands and turns to face Malkie, greeted by the Walther 9 mm a fraction of an inch from his face.

‘So you’re Malkie Thompson, you’re supposed to have taken a walk amongst the dead by now.’

‘Aye, well I’m hard to kill, as you’re finding out.’ Keeping his weapon trained on the would-be assassin, he glances down, ‘You okay down there, George?’

George, writhing on the floor, manages to retract the screwdriver from his side. ‘More than this bastard will be.’

Malkie orders the gunman to turn around, and pushes the Walther 9 mm into the centre of the back of his skull. ‘What you waiting for, help him up.’

The gunman reaches down with his left hand, and pulls George to his feet.

George stands, holding his side, the blood oozing between his fingers. He takes a moment to catch his breath. ‘I’ve got plans for you boy.’

Malkie chuckles to himself, ‘Come on now, George, play nice eh.’

Without warning, George snaps his leg forward, whacking the gunman in the groin, he falls to the floor, his hands drop to his crotch area as if to fend off another attack.

Malkie crouches down and leans in close. ‘That’s nothing – you best pace yourself, we’re just getting warmed up.’

George steps back and pulls the tattered cotton material away from the wound, it’s not as bad as he feared, half an inch more could be a whole different story. Still hurts like fuck, he removes his shirt, reaches for the first aid box, and pulls out the remainder of lint, gauze and padding. He takes a deep breath, and squeezes the tube of antiseptic gel into the wound. Gritting his teeth against the white-hot burning sensation as the gel seeps into raw tissue. ‘Jesus, what I wouldn’t do for a drink right now.’

Malkie, doing his best to stand upright, shuffles towards George, and inspects the wound, bending down to retrieve the flathead. ‘Stop complaining, it’s nothing more than a wee scratch.’

George looms over the gunman’s battered carcass. ‘About time this prick got some payback.’

‘Easy George, our friend here’s got some questions that need answering first, then maybe I’ll let you play.’

The gunman, curled in a foetal position, squirming on the floor, knows the end is near. ‘Pair of you, go fuck yourselves.’

Malkie turns to George, ‘still got a lot of fight in him – this one.’

‘I doubt it, he’s nothing more than a gobshite.’ Without warning, George lifts his leg waist height, and delivers a rib-cracking stomp to the chest cavity. The gunman cries out, clawing at the floorboards, trying to scuttle away on his elbows, desperate to find a safe haven.

George is in the zone, ‘...the fuck you going?’ He follows his prey and repeats the motion.

Malkie shoves him off-balance with his left arm, almost toppling him over.

‘What the fuck?’

‘He’s gotta talk, can’t do that if you bust him up, George.’ Malkie comes level with the pulped mess. ‘You and me, we’re gonna have a conversation.’ He turns to George, and levels his tone; ‘You look like shit, go do what you can with that wound before you pass out.’

George knows better than to argue, he removes himself to the comfort of the armchair, and continues the DIY patch up job with the first aid kit. ‘You reckon he’s alone?’

‘Don’t look as though the cavalry’s in any rush to come and get him. One man band eh? With just me and George to keep you company, lucky boy.’

The gunman manoeuvres himself onto hands and knees, and lifts his head, ‘think I’m the last, there’ll be others - count on it.’

Malkie considers the response. ‘Others, George, hear that?Never realised I was in such demand.’ He returns his gaze to his would-be assassin, ‘That what they told you – your employers?’

Still looking for a way out, the gunman’s eyes dart left and right.

Malkie paces the room, the screwdriver held in his left hand, cutting the air like a maestro with a baton. ‘That’s not how I see it.’ He walks towards George. ‘Reckon it’s time our friend here got acquainted.’ He passes the flathead back to George.

‘Pleasure’s all mine.’ George moves in, grabbing the gunman by his hair.

Panic sets in, he’s out of time. ‘Wait, hold it, I got names. Okay… Names.’

‘Hold up, George, he’s got names. Ain’t that what they all say?’

‘Just playing for time, Malkie.’

Malkie leans in close to the captive. ‘You’re gonna die here, in this rat infested hole, and the best of it, no one will ever know. That’s how much your life means. But you can decide how it ends.’

The gunman says nothing, clinging to the hope that he might still make it out.

George chips in, ‘you think they give a shit? You’re wrong. You fucked up, and now they want you dead. You owe them nothing. Tell us what we want to know, and I’ll make it quick.’ George takes the Walther from Malkie and holds it to the failed assassin’s head. ‘Names, that’s all we need.’ George digs the stub nosed 9 mm deeper into the gunman’s skull.

Malkie pushes George aside, vying for space, up close and personal in the captive’s face. ‘Should’ve done your homework. I’ve been around a long time, longer than you’ve been breathing. Think you’re the first? Let me tell you, many have tried, and I’m the one still standing.’

He gives the gunman a minute for the realisation to the hold.

All hope gone. Malkie continues. ‘I know, I get it; you wanted to play at being the big man. Wanted the bragging rights, even though you couldn’t talk about it, but you wanted the satisfaction of knowing when you looked at yourself in the mirror, that it was you who ended Malkie Thompson’s reign. Didn’t go so well for you, that last part, eh?’

The gunman clears the blood from the back of his throat and spits it to the ground. ‘You’ve got no idea how deep this goes, Thompson, you’re deluded, living on borrowed time.’

Malkie takes the Walther from George, grabs the gunman’s hand and slams it down on the tea chest. ‘George get a hold of this.’

George spreads the gunman’s hand flat to the surface, and uses his other arm to secure his victim in place, ignoring the pain as it burns in his side. Malkie presses the 9 mm to the back of the hand and pulls the trigger.

The gunman screams, then passes out. George slaps him to bring him round. Malkie presses the gun to the other hand. ‘Make sure he’s awake, want him to feel this.’

George slaps the gunman harder, bringing him back to full consciousness.

‘You still want to fuck about, big man,’ says Malkie.

The gunman’s panting, trying to combat the pain, the fear taking control as the realisation sets in, one hand ruined, the other soon to follow. His eyes roll about in their sockets before fixing on his executioner.

‘Aye, see me now boy, eh?’ says Malkie. ‘George, stand this fucker up, too easy for him, with a bullet. Want’s to play the big man, let’s accommodate his wishes.’

Malkie keeps the Walther 9 mm trained on the gunman’s chest, George steps in behind, grabbing his neck in a choke hold, dragging him backwards, leaving his legs and feet flailing against splintered floorboards.

Malkie presses the tip of the flathead screwdriver against the gunman’s right temple, and drives it in through the soft tissue, fresh blood emulsions the shaft. He’s careful to keep his actions deliberate and slow. The gunman grits his teeth as he struggles against George’s forearm grip, his screams piercing the cold darkness.

Mimi’s tattered ruined body, etched to Malkie’s cerebral cortex, as he’s lost in the moment, pushing harder on the flathead.

‘Easy there, Malkie, we want some answers, remember? You push that thing any harder you’ll cause a haematoma.’

He relents, and releases the pressure on the handle, stepping back into the gloom, the adrenaline surge causing his hands to shake. He drops the screwdriver to the floor.

The gunman’s eyes resemble loose marbles, rolling round, trying to find a home.

George slaps the gunman hard across the face with the palm of his left hand, trying to bring him round. ‘Who you working for? Give me the fucking names, arsehole.’

Malkie steps forward, his heart still pounding like a jack hammer. He places a hand on George’s shoulder. ‘Leave him be. He’s gone.’

George complies, then turns to Malkie. ‘Now what?’

Malkie smiles. He pads himself down, searching for a cigarette. He finds it, lights up and draws the smoke deep in to his lungs. He takes a moment - savouring the hit. ‘Now we take them down, George. Every last one of them.’

Copyright © 2019 by Mark J. Newman

All rights reserved.

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Mark J. Newman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. This is a work of TOTAL FICTION.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Characters

Malkie Thompson - An ageing crime boss, desperate to hold on to power. On top of his game for over twenty-five years, but change is on the wind. Bleeding out from an attempt on his life, Malkie’s gone to ground.

Deceased gun man - The would-be assassin lies dead at Malkie’s feet, having fudged the hit on the mobsters life.

‘Mimi’ - Malkie’s dead girlfriend, murdered in a botched assassination attempt.

Billy Kane - Deceased. Former Lieutenant in Malkie’s organisation. Committed suicide in prison, at least that’s the official version. Father of Ryan Kane aka Ryan Peterson.

The Murtaghs - Midland based former Irish travellers. After giving up their touring caravans in favour of static homes they’re now making a move into the lucrative drug and people trafficking game. Eager to gain a foothold they’re beginning to encroach on Malkie’s neglected outlying territory.

George Patterson - One of three Lieutenants, perhaps the most trusted and loyal of Malkie’s old guard. With the Firm since the beginning. If anyone can find the truth it’s him.

Frank Mayer - Acts as head of security for Malkie’s business interests. A man of unfulfilled potential, frustrated at the direction the Firm’s heading in. Pragmatic and realistic about the future, he knows change is overdue.

Ronnie Price - Manager of Smith’s nightclub, key associate of Malkie Thompson and long serving trusted member of the Firm. Served eight years in HMP Gartree. Could have got out in the half the time, chose to keep his mouth shut and rode his bang up like a pro.

Jason Cunningham - Malkie’s nephew, ambitious and ruthless. The natural heir apparent, at least in his own eyes. To others he’s little more than a reckless insubordinate that needs to be kept in line.

Kyle Brammall - Ex-soldier and bodyguard. Frank Mayer tried to recruit him to the Firm but his efforts were rebuked. Jason Cunningham recognised his potential and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Jonny Carrick - Pest Controller by day, aka on-call freelance Cleaner for the criminal underworld. A man in charge of his own destiny, or so he thinks.

Paul Selwood - Resident of the notorious Woodridge estate. A drug addict with a preference for heroin and crack, will do anything for his next fix. Rumoured to be a police informer.

Kelly Selwood - Vulnerable adult with learning difficulties. An easy target, pimped out to older men from the age of 12. Fell pregnant, gave birth to Paul Selwood.

‘Charley’ - Working girl from Birmingham, friend and confidante of Kelly Selwood.

‘Omar’ - Pimp. Groomer and supplier of young vulnerable girls to men with dark intentions.

The Brighton Connection

Ryan Kane aka Ryan Peterson - Son of the deceased Billy Kane, one of the Firm’s originals from the Glasgow days. Exiled for the last fourteen years. A gambler and a chancer. He owes Brighton’s infamous Donaldson brothers money that he can’t repay and now they’ve called in the debt.

Gemma Peterson - Ryan’s long suffering wife, mother of his two children, Katie and Dillon. Deep down she knows he’s got secrets. Resigned to the fact he’ll never change, just the way he is.

‘Auntie Susan’ - Sister to Gemma Peterson. Wishes her sister would pack the kids up and leave Ryan Kane.

‘Lorraine’ - Receptionist at Little Fellows play group.

Davy Donaldson - The older of the two brothers, rising star of Brighton’s underworld. Sociopathic tendencies, with a penchant for Italian opera and a taste for theatrics.

Martha Donaldson - Davy’s long suffering alcoholic wife.

‘Karolina’ - Davy’s home help. A former exotic club dancer. Recipient of a face full of glass, courtesy of an over eager client that wanted more than a private dance. Reduced to wet nurse for Martha.

Laura Betts - A naive 19 year old looking for excitement and adventure. Travelled down from the North. Former mistress of Davy, missing presumed dead.

Arabic Businessman/stranger in nightclub. Looking for a one night stand, unaware his intended conquest is the property of the local godfather.

Businessman’s Minder - Slow to identify the possible consequences of his client’s actions, could turn out to be a costly mistake for them both.

Matt Parker - Inexperienced barman at TJs’ Private Member’s Club, preferred drinking hole of the Donaldsons’. A university student, desperate to impress his friends with tales of his involvement with the brothers.

Joe Kennedy - Head barman at TJs’. Been with the organisation for three years. Privy to the dealings that go on inside the club. Enjoys his job, stays healthy by keeping his mouth shut.

Reuben Michaels - GP. Utilised by the Donaldsons’ for special out of hours jobs, when tact and discretion is required.

Thomas (Tommy) Donaldson - Younger and more approachable than his brother. The brains behind the enterprise. Suffocated and hemmed in by Davy’s overbearing and belligerent nature, he wants out.

Craig Willetts - Quick Drop courier firm proprietor. Responsible for employing Ryan Peterson as a driver, a decision he may yet come to regret.

The Eastern European Connection

Stanislav Bosko (Stanek) Former Polish Gang Master, turned fixer for Malkie Thompson. Willing to take on the jobs the Firm would rather distance itself from.

‘Jarek’ - Ex-Polish Army soldier/part time doorman, labourer/warehouseman. Works for Stanek Bosko on an ad-hoc basis. Eager to make enough money to provide for his wife and child. Will do whatever’s required.

‘Pietor’ - Stanek’s nephew. A youth with a liking for pills. Stanek’s eager for him to make his name, go out and prove his worth. Jarek’s not so sure he’s got the right mentality for the job, let alone be trusted.

‘Szymon’ - Jarek’s back up when a two man team is needed to get the job done right. A youth with ambition to make it to the top. Reliable and trustworthy, no questions asked.

Ukrainians’ Thug 1 & 2 - Battle hardened former army conscripts. Having learnt their craft fighting the pro-Russian militias in Eastern Ukraine, now they’re putting their skills to use for the highest bidders looking to contract out.

The Turks

‘Emmet’ - Officially a Kebab Shop proprietor, within the expat community he’s better known for his criminal underworld activities and hosting illegal card games.

‘Firat’ - Kebab shop manager, doubles as extra security for Emmet when the card games are in play.

‘Semih’ - Personal driver and bodyguard for Emmet.

Kitchen staff 1,2 & 3 - Illegal Turkish Cypriot migrants, exploited by Emmet, working excessive hours in return for low pay and lodgings.

‘Tariq’ - 14 year old school boy, who just wants to fit in. Dislikes the way his uncle Emmet belittles his father and treats him like a slave, forcing him to work all hours.

Alfred Jacobson - Jewish pawn shop owner, unlikely friend and associate of Emmet. Makes a tidy profit on the back of the punters willing to trade their jewellery in order to gain a place at Emmet’s table.

The Card Players

‘Candeese’ - Professional business type woman with a taste for expensive designer suits and a weakness for the card table.

‘Asif’ - Semi Retired Asian businessman. Owner of the local Cash and Carry. Occupies his days gambling away his sons inheritance.

Anonymous Player 1 - Vitamin D deficient gambling addict. Spends most of his time playing poker on-line.

Anonymous Player 2 - Middle aged, bespectacled, and socially awkward excuse of a man. Says little, and attends Emmet’s get togethers on a regular basis.

Police Officers

Anonymous Police Officer - Identity unknown, could be undercover, favours clandestine meetings in public locations.

Detective Inspector Stone - A big, burly, proud Lancastrian, part of the Sussex Police Major Crime Squad. His mission in life is to bring down the Donaldsons’.

Prologue

Welcome To The Crime Syndicate

Malkie Thompson’s spent 25 years at the top of his game, but things are changing, and changing fast.

Jason Cunningham, his nephew, wants his crown. Question is how far’s he willing to go? In truth it’s a rhetorical question, Malkie’s got the answer, he’s always had it, damn sure Cunningham will do whatever’s required. He’s taught him well — too well.

To some he’s the natural heir, to others he’s little more than a pariah. Given the chance George Patterson would have offed him in the blink of an eye, but Malkie stopped him, a decision he may yet come to regret.

Malkie’s sent George on his way, no point in them both waiting for the end. By now he’s heading south, least that’s the plan.

Malkie’s sitting, poised, his gun pointing towards the door. Whatever’s coming, he’s ready. One thing’s for sure, ain’t going down without a fight.

His hand’s reaching for the shoulder, dabbing at the wound, from the bullet that was meant to kill. Fresh blood oozing out as fingers prod beneath the makeshift dressing.

There are those that think he’s already dead, and for now he’s content to let them have their day.

His eyes drift to the shadows, the would-be assassin’s corpse lying in situ, as the image of Mimi’s corpse burns ever deeper into his retina, slain by those that would do him wrong.

Word is Jason Cunningham ordered the botched hit, but the question remains, who’s he working with?

Soon they’ll come to realise Malkie Thompson’s far from done.

1

He’s lying there waiting for the inevitable. Too old for this George. He closes his eyes, had a good run, gotta end sometime. He lets his mind drift, welcoming the end.

His eye lids snap open as a fresh spike of pain hits him like a speeding train, fucking razor wire. He reaches down to inspect the damage, a mixture of mud and bloodied lacerated flesh exposing the muscle and sinew. If they don’t get to him first he’s damn sure the infection will finish the job for them. Nature will do the rest. The legend of George Patterson reduced to crow carrion.

Can’t just sit here waiting to die. He rolls over onto his belly, trying to manoeuvre, elbows and forearms acting as leverage, drawing up his good leg in support.

On his feet, chest pumping like a pneumatic drill. His eyes cast skyward, indigo blue filled with shades of cobalt grey. Knows he’ll be easy to spot now. Needs to keep to the tree line. His body soaked to the core, joints stiff. Every fibre aching, screaming defeat. 

Could have ended it back there, crawled out of the mud on his hands and knees. Put himself at their mercy. Knows for sure how that would have ended, him kneeling down, eyes closed, waiting for the bullet to call last orders.

He shakes his head, tells himself it’s just fatigue playing with his mind. Too little sleep over the past few days. Losing track of time, thinking hard to remind himself what day of the week it is. Can’t recall when he last ate, or when he last took a piss. Can’t be good for his bladder, or his prostate. The notion brings a smile to his face, the ageing process wreaking havoc with his body.

His stomach’s rumbling now, sounds like a knackered waste pipe. When did he last eat? Thinks it was some time in the last twelve hours, can’t be sure. More important things to worry about. Got to keep his strength up. If he makes it, there’s a long drive ahead, he needs to be alert, can’t be dozing off at the wheel. George makes a mental note to get himself a clutch of those energy drinks, what is it they call it? They’ve all got weird names these days. Monster, or some stupid shit like that. What kind of name for a drink is that, anyway? Doesn’t matter as long as it keeps him from sleeping at the wheel.  

His eyes cast down to his lower leg, who’s he kidding? He can just about walk. His leg’s burning, an inferno of pain, be lucky if he doesn’t succumb to infection. He wipes at his brow, dizziness and nausea cascading through his body.

Gotta keep moving George. Keep… 

Bile gathering in the rear of his throat, he spits the yellowed substance to the sodden mud. The wind’s getting up, blowing southwards in his direction. He’s got to keep on. Wincing against the pain, he drags himself forwards. The burning surge suffocates the oxygen from his lungs. George bites down on his lip to stifle the groan. 

He casts his eyes across the open field, scanning the horizon. Checking his watch, 7:22am. He’s listening, positive he can hear the burr of the carriageway, early morning commuters scurrying about their business. He trudges on across the open ploughed field, breathless and close to broken.

George stumbles into the service area periphery. He stops and props himself against a large orange recycling container. He takes a moment to scan the scene, blocking out the pain as the gentle breeze whips at his lacerated wounds. 

He’s waiting for the right opportunity, a good samaritan, anything. The state he’s in, looking like an AWOL extra from a zombie flick, be lucky if Mother Teresa stopped to offer help.

Picking up the pace, heading for the red and white livery of the Esso service station, less than fifty metres away. His breathing, laboured and ragged as rapid quick fire palpitations strike like the repetition of a snare drum. He ignores it and presses on.

To his right there’s a disused Little Chef restaurant, a hangover from the late nineties. A hundred metres further down a Premier Inn sits prominent over on the right side of the forecourt. There’s got to be close to a dozen cars, an array of saloons and hatchbacks. His eyes fix on the Jaguar and the Mercedes. 

First, he’s got to get cleaned up and take a proper look at the wound. See what he can do to dress it, doubts he’ll find TCP or any other form of antiseptic. May even have to get creative and opt for the industrial floor cleaning bleach.

Keep moving George. He stays low, sticking inside the perimeter fence, the shrubbery his cover. His eyes flit left then right, got to be a drivers washroom. He checks for security cameras, but sees nothing. He limps across the service road, grimacing with every step. Where’s that bastard door? 

The sound of a foreign dialect brings him to an abrupt halt as a waft of cigarette smoke fills his lungs. George stops dead, his body pressed to the edge of the wall. He inches to the corner and risks a look. Two guys chatting, one small and squat aged around fifty, only five six in height. The other, leaner and taller. George guesses he’s thirty-five or thirty-six, both devouring the last of their cigarettes, readying to move.  George reaches a hand around to the rear of his waistband, pulling out the Browning. No time for niceties, he needs to clean up before boosting a car. He tells himself it’s a precaution, but if it comes down to it, he won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

One, two, three, he strides out from the wall; the 9 mm raised to waist level but they’re already gone. Shit. 

George limps the remaining five steps to the blue steel door, he opens it, sliding in as best he can, careful not to knock his leg. The smell of fresh bleach burns at the back of his oesophagus. A small yellow sign sits prominent on top of terracotta tiles just inside the doorway. It reads: CLEANING IN PROGRESS. 

At the far end of the corridor a grey cleaning caddy’s parked up, nestled between the GENTS and a nondescript store cupboard. George waits a second listening for any telltale signs that the owner is close by. Nothing bar the sound of someone choking the life out of a crappy 80s’ pop song he’s long since forgotten. 

George makes for the GENTS, he stops at the caddy and lifts a bottle of industrial detergent and what passes for a nearly new J-Cloth type rag. Less than ideal, but it’ll do. He pushes on through the door, confronted by a fog of dense humid steam sticking to him like clingfilm. He shuffles in, visibility near zero, he follows the out of tune rendition. Be a mercy killing to silence this guy.

9 mm in hand, his leg grating against uneven tiles, sending a tremor to the pit of his stomach. Cussing under his breath, George does his best to ignore the pain. All the time moving, the Browning sweeping in an arc, his leg playing catchup.  

The would-be Barry Manilow must be taking a break. The only sound now, water pounding off the tiled floor. George snaps his head left to right. His eyes squinting against the wall of fog - nothing. Shivers rack his body from top to toe, threatening shut down. He forces it from his mind. Come on George. He presses on, his jaw clamping down tight onto his tongue, disguising the giveaway rattle. 

 He spots a burgundy sports holdall on the bench. Checks all around before moving towards it. He opens it, working his way through the layers, pulls out a pair of dark blue work jeans, and holds them next to him, a little baggy for his taste but they’ll do. His hands dig deeper, a grey zip up hoody, a pair of dirty old white Nikes’ two sizes too small and wash bag wrapped in a gaudy face towel. He’s in a bad way but still ignores the pair of stained boxer briefs. A man’s got to have standards.  

 His fingertip search of the toiletry bag produces a roll on anti-perspirant, half used toothpaste and brush, some hair product and a pack of condoms that look as though they’ve taken up permanent residence. Shit. No antiseptic or anything that comes close. He re-zips the wash bag and stuffs the contents back into the holdall and makes for the nearest vacant shower cubicle.

Pelting hot water hitting his face, a mixture of blood and sludge running from his eyes, along the crevices before dripping from his chin. Putting his neck forward, scolding droplets going to work on the knots. Fresh pain exploding like a hornet’s sting in his ruined calf, he can’t put it off any longer, time to clean the wound.

George reaches for the discarded lime green shower gel, a non-branded supermarket rip off. He tips it into his hand and applies it to his lower leg. Most of the grime has washed away leaving ragged strips of skin and tender muscle exposed beneath. He clamps his jaw tight and reaches for the industrial cleaning gel. He squeezes a dollop onto two fingers, applies it in rapid sweeping downward movements. There’s a two-second delay before his brain updates the pain ledger.

Head like a rollercoaster, he’s reaching out with both arms to steady himself, nothing to grab on to, he slumps to the terracotta tiles. Catching his breath now, his vision blurred, waiting for the pain to subside to the rhythmic tap tapping of water jets ricocheting off tiles.

As the burning fades, he pulls himself to his feet, towelling off as best he can, he dresses in the ill-fitting clothes, he’s not going to win or even come close in the fashion stakes but at least they’re dry. He shreds the towel into two strips and applies it as a makeshift field dressing, it’ll do for now. 

9 mm in hand, he steps out from the cubicle, time to pay his nearest neighbour a visit. The singing might have stopped, replaced with a jaunty never-ending whistle. So now the guy’s Roger Whittaker. 

He lingers as the sound of the bolt slides back. The occupant steps out. Unsuspecting, naked, moving forward blind, his head shrouded inside a towel. Vulnerable - one hand engaged in rubbing hair dry, the other clutching a small black toiletry bag.

George waits for him to get closer. ‘Hello Sweet-pea.’

Shower guy removes the towel from his head. Confusion in his eyes, unable to comprehend the situation - is this a robbery or some darker intent?  George signals with the Browning, ‘over there,’ pointing him towards the bench area.

As he turns, George whips the butt of the 9 mm against the back of his neck, shower guy falls to the floor. George nudges him with the tip of his Nike trainer, checking he’s not faking it. Satisfied that he’s out cold George reaches for the bag and retrieves the keys and wallet.

Time to move. Outside he presses the remote key fob and listens for the telltale double beep. Hazard lights illuminate identifying the vehicle. It’s neither the Jaguar nor the Mercedes. This time around he’ll settle for the Toyota Land Cruiser.

2

Jarek’s parked up in the black ŠKODA Octavia vRS, the eighteen-inch rims shimmering under the orange glow from the halogen street lamp. He’s not alone, two of his crew are keeping watch. One riding shotgun, the other in the back. Szymon keeps his eyes kerb side. Pietor’s got the jitters, his head snapping left then right. It’s his first outing, and Jarek’s already decided it’ll be his last. He resents having outsiders forced upon him even if he’s related to Stanek Bosko. If Bosko wants feedback, he’ll give it to him straight - the kid won’t make the grade. Pietor’s only nineteen, straight out of school and off the bus from back home. Perhaps a combination of nerves, fatigue and caffeine causing the rush of adrenaline but Jarek knows the truth, the kid’s a pill head, MDMA his preferred drug of choice. 

 Jarek’s got a lot riding on tonight, a real chance to make his mark, an opportunity to cement his place in Bosko’s inner circle. Having Pietor along for the ride was never part of the plan. 

The money’s coming in thick and fast, so good, Jarek’s already booked his flight back to Warsaw at the end of the month. No more scrimping and saving, not like before. Those days are long gone. Bosko was right, this is the land of plenty. The British are soft, too polite. It’s no wonder they’re on the back foot. Not that he’ll shed a tear, they’ll get what they deserve. Their loss, his gain. The money from tonight’s job, a bonus. Enough to book a holiday, not to Poland, screw that. No, got to be somewhere hot, somewhere exotic, maybe the Caribbean. 

Jarek eyes Pietor in the rear-view mirror and wonders how much shit he’s got in his system. ‘Out.’

Pietor returns his stare, his face a blanket of confusion. ‘What?’

‘You heard me, get out.’

Pietor remains still.  

‘You deaf? Wyjdź, teraz.’

‘I don’t understand. What I do wrong?’

Jarek turns to Szymon sitting alongside him in the passenger seat, verbal communication unnecessary – his eyes say it all.

Szymon alights the vehicle, before Pietor can protest further the rear door’s yanked open, without uttering another word Pietor’s wrenched from the back seat, and thrown into the road. 

Szymon’s glowering at him as he writhes on the asphalt. ‘Odpieprz się.’

Jarek glances into the mirror observing the unfolding scene as Pietor scrabbles to his feet, ‘Matka skurwiela.’

Szymon swipes forward grabbing a fistful of Pietor’s hair in his left hand and draws his hammer type fist back ready to unleash fury and redress the insult. Jarek hits the electronic window control, his eyes still fixed on the street view to the front of the car, ‘enough, leave him.’

Szymon’s right fist quivers on the cold night air, he wants to crush Pietor into the ground, but there’s too much at stake. ‘Another time, głowa kutasa.’

Pietor doesn’t need a written invitation as soon as Szymon releases his grip he’s off and away into the darkness.

These past two years Jarek’s been working on and off for Bosko, it’s an arrangement that’s suited them both, but Stanek Bosko is a man of ambition. To the outside world he’s the quiet well-mannered businessman, calm and affable. He’s taken the time to ingratiate himself with the local Godfather Malkie Thompson. Bosko handles the contracts that Thompson’s organisation steer clear from. 

There’s another side to Stanek Bosko, the one he keeps under wraps. Jarek’s heard the hushed mutterings about expansion. He’s gleaned enough to know Malkie Thompson’s on his way out. Seems his nephew Jason Cunningham has grown impatient, he’s reached out to Bosko to help make it happen. It’s a risky move, might even cause a turf war, but the potential prize outweighs the risk. Besides, the thought of giving up the split shift at the meat packing warehouse, for Jarek that day can’t come soon enough. 

Tonight’s job could be problematic, if it goes wrong, things may escalate within the hour. It’s a follow on from the previous week. 

Jarek had made the initial call himself. He turned up unannounced, better to catch people unaware and keep them on the back foot. He played the part of the economic migrant straight off the bus looking for work as a doorman. Jarek walked into an all but empty mid-afternoon bar. The supervisor wasn’t going to argue with the six foot four 250 pound mass standing in front of him. Two minutes later Jarek was sitting down in-front of the manager under the guise of an impromptu interview. 

‘Jarek you say, what is that Polish, Romanian or something?’

‘Polish.’

‘So you’ve worked the doors’ before, back in Poland?’

‘I work lot of different places, but yes, I have experience as doorman.’

‘Well, look, this is how it is, we have nothing at the moment but I can see you work out, and you’ve got the frame and bulk, but the question is can you handle yourself?’

‘Handle myself? I do not understand.’

‘Okay. Let me rephrase that. Have you got any military training or close combat self defence experience?’

‘Polish Army, two years. I teach MMA, running club in Warsaw for nine years.’

The manager took a moment to appraise the information. ‘So what made you come in here, it’s not like we’re advertising for staff at the moment?’

‘I need job, I do good job, you hire me I guarantee you get no trouble.’

The manager narrowed his eyes and leant forward, ‘like I said, no current vacancies. You understand?’ Price slowed his words to maximise the effect, ‘THERE IS NO JOB.’

Jarek mirrored his body language and leant forward, resting his tattooed sleeves on the desk, his eyes cold and dark. ‘You should reconsider. It would be good for you, for the club and business, if you give me job.’

Ronnie Price sat back in his chair, a smile forming at the side of his crooked mouth. The Pole was ballsy, and he liked that. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounded like a threat.’

Jarek stared back, his expression blank. Price remained unfazed. He reached for one of the black business cards with the silver typeface and tossed it across the desk to Jarek. ‘You should have a read of that. Google the name on there, see what it comes up with. Better still, ask around, it’s what we call doing your homework.’

Jarek took it, and read it aloud, ‘SMITH’S NITE CLUB & COCKTAIL BAR.’

Price urged him to read on.

Jarek read aloud, ‘RONNIE PRICE, Manager. HOPWELL ENTERTAINMENT GROUP LTD.’ 

He looked up from the card. ‘So you are Ronnie Price, yes?’

‘That’s exactly who I am.’ Ronnie lurched from sitting to standing in one swift movement, poised and ready, like a viper ready to strike. ‘And I’ll tell you something else son, you’re way out of your league. But come on, this is a wind up right? Malkie sent you in here didn’t he? No wait a second, I’ve got it now, I bet it was Frank. That’s it - he’s well in with you boys isn’t he? Same tribe, and all that.’

Jarek looked on, bemused. ‘I do not understand, I do not know these names.’

Ronnie Price moved within spitting distance of Jarek. ‘No? That’s a pity. I think we’re done here.’

Jarek returned Ronnie’s stare. ‘That is your choice - for me to go?’

‘Damn straight that’s my choice matey.’

‘I wish you to reconsider Mr Price. How do you say in English?  Ah yes, while you still have options.’

Price beamed a malevolent smile as the office door swung open, two heavy set security staff at the ready, gagging for some action.

‘These gentlemen will escort you from the premises, and Jarek, a word of advice, consider your own options.’

Jarek said nothing, just kept his eyes on Price the whole time before turning and letting security think they were escorting him from the site.

Ronnie Price watched as the electronic door closed, then averted his eyes to the security monitors. He followed Jarek’s exit down the corridor then out onto the street. He half expected him to kick off at any moment, but nothing came of it. That unnerved him, there was a self-assured confidence about the Pole. The threat of violence kept in check, just below the surface. He reached for his phone, punched in two digits then stopped. Ronnie told himself he was being stupid, nothing worth bothering Frank with. 

Price returned to the resume he’d been reading before the interruption. He familiarised himself with the detail, his eyes wandering back to the top right of the document, a potential new bar staff recruit. It was a decent picture, blonde, baby blue eyes, tanned, full lips, good potential. His eyes scanned the text, twenty-five-year-old, Paulina Kosharska, hailed from Krakow, already living and working in the UK for two years. Work experience gained in the hotel and hospitality sector. Looking for part time evening work to supplement her daytime supermarket job and online studies. Another Pole, but at least this one was better looking than the man mountain calling himself Jarek.

Jarek stood outside; he took a second to process the information. He approximated that it was fifty metres from the entrance door of the club to Price’s office. The corridor had three internal doors: a stable type door, which he guessed was the ticket office, another door with the words CLOAK ROOM stencilled on to the nameplate and an unmarked door - a holding room for patrons who’d had too much to drink. He recalled four internal security cameras, and three external street cameras. There were two visible security doormen in daylight hours, he guessed this would increase fourfold in the evenings. Perhaps more for the busy nights, Thursday, Friday and Saturdays’. His eyes scanned the details of the flyer. Thursday was Student Night, Friday - Dance and Saturday - Mainstream. 

His instructions had been to scope the place out. He’d followed Bosko’s orders to the letter, he’d make an introduction and put forward the proposal. All he had to show for it was a business card and a conversation with a middle-aged poser who’d treated him like some dumb Polak. Jarek smiled to himself, Ronnie Price would soon learn the error of his own judgement.

The next day Jarek went to the public library and sat at the computer overlooking the park, taking up his usual spot. He was a regular; it had got to the point now that the library assistant kept it vacant for him. Alice, at least that’s what her name badge said. A good-looking girl, five nine, a hundred and ten pounds, straight brown hair. Jarek had taken time to talk with her, flirt a little, but nothing too full on. She was delicate, a fragile English Rose, he liked that look. At first it was a little awkward but now they’d found their rhythm, following the same protocol on each visit. The exchange of pleasantries, her nervous smile, his playful eyes burning into her core, leaning in close, his taste buds dancing to the scent of her perfume, as she wrote his name against the booking slot. His senses ablaze, wondering what it would be like to have her. 

The strange accent brought him back to the present. ‘Usual spot by the window, it’s all yours.’ He put his fantasy on hold and nodded his appreciation before making his way to the seat.

He liked the view, lots of lush green open spaces. The bits of England he’d seen were all like this, even London with its Regent’s Park, big open spaces to relax in and unwind. A world away from the grim overbearing concrete he’d grown up with in Poland. He focused on the group of kids running and screaming with delight, chasing each other, a game of assault course tag, rampaging after one another running up slide chutes the wrong way, jumping off steps onto the cushioned asphalt texture below. Kids playing, not a care in the world, the way it should be. 

Each time he sat there it reminded him of why he’d made the original trek from Poland, leaving his family, his young wife Marta, pregnant with their first child. Jarek had promised himself a long time ago his child would have everything he’d never had. Coming to the UK provided that opportunity, the chance of a better life. The English didn’t know how good they had it. The way Jarek saw it, he worked two jobs. Shitty jobs that no others were prepared to do. He paid his taxes. When he wasn’t working for Simpson at the meat packing warehouse, he was driving a mini-cab, in between fitting in a little extra on the side for Bosko. If it brought in some much needed extra cash, then where was the harm in that? He needed to get established, then he could send for his family, get them out of that crappy post war Soviet era concrete block. 

Jarek keyed in HOPWELL ENTERTAINMENT GROUP, drumming his fingers to the side of the keyboard. He waited for the information to scroll down the screen. Nothing unexpected, his previous knowledge confirmed: Ronnie Price, Manager. 

 He continued to scroll. The page froze two-thirds of the way down. Jarek stared at the name, he mouthed the words out loud: Proprietor Frank Mayer. He knew this name, he was sure this was the same Frank that Bosko had introduced him to, the British-Polish guy. He refreshed the page. Thirty-seconds later his eyes were darting over the précis. Mayer had owned the club since 2009. Previous to that it traded under the name STARLIGHT, it had been the town’s only gay club. Starlight ceased trading in September 2007.  Fire had ravaged the building, no fatalities. Suspected arson but never proven due to lack of evidence. The insurance company had refused to pay out, bankrupting the previous owner. The building remained derelict until 2008, at which point the builders moved in and started work on the renovations. 

Jarek searched again, keying in: FRANK MAYER BUSINESSES. Additional information appeared, this time pictures, links to local newspaper articles. Mayer owned Fightstar, a mixed martial arts club. He also owned Centurion Consulting Services Ltd, a security firm that provided doormen to pubs and clubs and other private venues. Seemed that Mayer liked to diversify and spread the risk. It all made good business sense. Frank Mayer was indeed Stanek Bosko’s Frank.

He continued his search. Turns out Mayer got himself arrested back in 1988 but was later released without charge. Jarek scanned the document, Mayer had been questioned in connection with a residential house fire. Suspected arson, two fatalities, a mother and a daughter. Another name appeared Malcolm Thompson, AKA Malkie Thompson. Arrested, later released without charge.

Jarek stared at the grainy picture, a smiling man - shaking hands with some kind of local dignitary. Jarek didn’t understand the English and all their pomp and ceremony. He squinted his eyes, staring at the face cutting the ribbon declaring the Kings Retreat: Open For Business. Gówno. His worst fear confirmed. Jarek took a deep intake of breath. So it was true, Bosko was going after Malkie Thompson. 

Jarek knew Bosko had big plans; he respected the man but wondered if he was over-stretching himself. Stanek Bosko had left Poland for the UK eleven years previous. He’d started out on the building sites, organising the gangs, and taking his cut. He made his money, then he moved into renting property to the new arrivals, providing work, transport and housing. 

Bosko was a realist, pragmatic to the core. He knew it wouldn’t last forever. He was a victim of his own success. If he wanted to stay in the UK that meant keeping a low profile. Others wanted what he had and given the opportunity they’d take it. London was becoming problematic. As the competition intensified, he had a stark choice, stay and risk a turf war with rival Polish gangs, and even if he beat them that still left the prospect of taking on the Albanians. Or he could leave it all behind and let them settle it. He chose the latter. Better to run and fight another day, at least that way he avoided arrest and deportation, or worse. 

Stanek Bosko cut his losses. He went further north and ended up in the Midlands, not so crowded at the time with others like himself trying to carve out a niche. That’s where he’d first met Frank, who’d then made the introduction to Thompson. It started off with the odd freelance job, nothing too heavy, driving - drop offs and pickups, no questions asked. It evolved from there, Bosko turned nothing down. He was building a business, proving himself to be invaluable to Thompson’s day-to-day dealings.

3

Smith’s Night Club pulls in a decent crowd, the clientele made up of middle-class student types. Family money paying for their education, providing the opportunity to get paralytic on cheap drink.  

The crowd’s wrapped around the block. Girls wearing skimpy tight fitting next to nothings’. Push-up bras providing the doormen with an eyeful of ample cleavage. Tiny spray on micro mini skirts, leaving little to the imagination. The ensemble a guarantee to secure the elusive queue jump pass. 

The inner door opens allowing the pounding hypnotic throb of Dance music to ooze out, travelling on the airwaves enticing the crowd, providing comfort against the cold night air.

Jarek casts his eye up and down the street before his eyes settle on the two bouncers in position on the outer door. The others are out of sight, stationed inside, up the stairs and beyond the inner reinforced steel door. His attention focuses on the phone screen as he taps out the letters. His finger hovers over the send option. He takes one final look, then hits the button: MOVE IN.

Inside the club three young men reach down and remove a single sports training shoe. Each of them retrieve a Swann-Morton scalpel and fix the blade in situ before leaving the bar area, while their female companions sip at their drinks, unaware of what’s about to go down. The men fan out into the crowd, heading for the middle of the dance floor. Strobe lights illuminating their faces, everything slows, heaving bodies reduced to a sequence of stop frame animations.

The heavy bass pumping out of the sound system gets the crowd hyped; a Calvin Harris hypnotic beat with strong female vocals laid over top of the track. ‘Arms in the air,' the DJ commands. The obedient crowd lulled, drugged and trance like - they follow his instruction, the dance floor heaves, sweaty bodies crushed up against each other.

The three men have separated, careful to keep within range, pushing further into the centre of the dance floor. The pulsing track kicks out a staccato succession of drum beats. The dance floor ignites, a mass of bodies moving in tandem. 

Then it begins. 

Onlookers from the gallery immune to the carnage unfolding in the middle of the dance floor, locked into the beat, they bob their heads back and forth, unaware of the unfolding dance-floor scenario. It’s difficult to see as the men push through the crowd jammed in like sardines, slicing and slashing with indiscriminate haste. Bodies slump and fall. The screams go unheard, drowned out by the electronic beat.

One victim makes it to edge of the dance floor, bloodstained and tattered. A throng of female twenty-somethings’ in the outer gallery point to the carnage, some of them act like voyeurs filming it on their smart phones before posting to an array of social media sites, others scream as panic and terror take hold.  

Security radios crackle into life. The supervisors voice shaken, not knowing whether or not they’re dealing with some ISIS inspired terror attack. ‘Two possibly three armed IC1 males in the centre of the dance floor - attacking revellers. Approach with caution. Police and ambulance en route. Repeat, approach with extreme caution.’ Five doormen move to the edge of the dance floor and fight their way through the panicked fleeing crowd of students. 

Jarek’s watching the unfolding scene from outside the club, the faces and reactions of the two bouncers on the outer door are enough to confirm that it’s kicked off inside as they listen in on headsets. 

Jarek gives the order, ‘go now, and be quick. You have two minutes if you’re not back I’m gone.’ He watches as the two muscled Ukrainians bowl across the street. No finesse just brawn. He’s brought them in himself, wanting to put some distance between his own people and what’s about to take place. 

He watches the Ukrainians stride across the road. For the unsuspecting doormen, already rattled by the events unfolding inside the club it’s already too late. No amount of training or experience can prepare them for the onslaught. Battle hardened veterans, their trade learnt as conscripts fighting in the disputed eastern territories against pro-Russian militia. The doormen - lambs to the slaughter. 

Thirty-seconds in, the bouncers lay crumpled. One lying sedentary, the recipient of a succession of spot kicks to the head. Jarek prays he’s not dead, that was never part of the plan. His instructions were clear, incapacitate the doormen, nothing more. Jarek’s eyes focus on the other doorman, he’s moving, trying to pull himself up, slipping in his own blood trail smeared across the floor. 

The Ukrainians circle like wolves, ready to move in for the kill. Jarek sounds the car horn twice and flashes the headlights before igniting the engine. They ignore the obvious intent. Jarek turns to Szymon, trying to keep the panic from his voice. ‘Go now, be quick, before these fools kill them. Go, go.’

It’s time to move, murder was never part of the equation. 

Jarek watches from the car as Szymon jogs over towards them and tries to coax them back to the vehicle, questioning his own logic for bringing them in. Could be the language barrier or maybe it’s their blood lust kicking in. It’s only when the sirens in the distance get louder that they seem prepared to leave their prey pummelled against the foyer tiles.

4

Frank’s parked up on the verge, close to the trees, the only part of the property that the cameras don’t cover. To anyone passing it’ll look like an abandoned vehicle. Frank can’t be worrying about that now. All he’s concerned with is getting in and out quick. He’s no idea what it is he’s walking into, chances are he’ll be making a quick getaway, if he gets out.

He pushes through the thick undergrowth, a mixture of alpine fir trees and oak saplings forming a man-made assault course to the barbed wire perimeter. Frank takes out the cutters and snips through the three strands of thin wire before stepping over the two foot ditch designed to slow down and deter any would be trespassers. Won’t be long before he triggers the motion sensors, but that’s not the point - he knows they’ll be expecting something, just not in the form of Frank Mayer.

He’s made it to the edge of the lawn. Hidden from view behind a laurel bush. Night-scope to his eye, he’s watching the house as the internal lights flicker prior to full illumination. He can’t identify the figure as it crosses from the lounge to the kitchen. Maybe Cunningham’s brought in extra security, hired help to ensure the smooth transition of power. He pans the scope across each of the first-floor windows, looking for any other signs of movement. Cunningham’s in there somewhere, holed up, waiting for the dust to settle. All Frank’s got to do is get him out in the open. Easier said than done as long as he’s got Kyle Brammall in tow.

Brammall acts as Cunningham’s close protection. Frank took it hard when Kyle turned down his own job offer to come and work for him. The idea was to get him to shadow Malkie, giving Frank the opportunity to scale back on his own routine, making way for new blood. If things had worked out this whole scenario might never have happened, but that’s another story. Frank saw Kyle’s potential from the off. There was something about the way he carried himself. When Frank first met him he’d just done eighteen months in the Glasshouse, the Military prison in Colchester. Upon his release he’d received a dishonourable discharge, so getting any legitimate, decent paying job was a nonstarter. Seems none of his tours in Bosnia, Iraq or Afghanistan counted for shit - but that’s the consequence for breaking the jaw of some well connected public school boy officer type. 

Frank made him a generous offer, but Kyle turned it down, said he didn’t want to be obligated to anyone. That’s when Cunningham stepped in, doubled the original offer, he even threw in a rent-free apartment and BMW to sweeten the deal. From that day on Kyle became Jason Cunningham’s live in personal security.

Frank pushes on, telling himself he’s just there to talk. Whatever the outcome he needs to hear it straight from Cunningham’s own mouth. Regardless of what George might think Frank’s still got his doubts whether Jason Cunningham ordered the hit on Malkie.  

Ironic, if Cunningham’s behind it, then there’s little chance of Frank walking out of there. Could be he’s about to deliver himself to his executioner. He’s too big a risk. Cunningham can’t let someone with his gravitas and pedigree pose any kind of future threat, and that’s regardless of any bullshit assurances he might give. Frank’s what they call dyed in the wool, part of the old guard. Loyal to the death, and there’s no way Cunningham’s wearing that. 

Frank pats his Beretta 9 mm holster for reassurance. He’s up close to the window, just below the ledge, he can hear the TV. Sounds like a crappy game show playing. Who watches re-runs of an old game show at this hour? He notes the absence of any human interaction and proceeds to the side gate. Frank reaches over the top of the six-foot frame and tries sliding the bolt. Come on. It’s stuck fast, seems neither Cunningham nor any of his lackeys have heard of using WD40. Frank resists the temptation to apply his boot to the gate on account of the noise and havoc it’ll generate. He doubles back across the driveway, careful not to slip on the shale. He can’t afford to give away his position, still needs the element of surprise.

Frank’s attention is drawn to the security lights. Should have lit up by now. It’s as though Cunningham’s drawing him in under the cover of darkness, lulling him to his death.

He’s inches away from the front door when he hears internal footsteps approaching fast, the sound of someone running down the stairs. He tunes in to the conversation, it’s one-way. Frank recognises Cunningham’s tone, and guesses he’s talking on a mobile phone. The pitch and varying level indicate excitement and stress. Cunningham’s wound up. To be expected, it’s not everyday you try to take out your uncle, mentor and boss. 

Frank slides into position, moving to the side of the front door. Using the fir tree as cover. There’s another voice. Got to be Kyle.

‘… Yeah, two minutes, it’s in the car. I’ll get it now.’

The door unlocks revealing a slither of light from the hallway. Frank readies himself, lowers his stance and breathes in slow through his mouth. Could be his one and only chance. He keeps his eyes fixed on the widening aperture, taking the Beretta from the holster, holding it by the barrel, keeping his fingers and thumb away from the handle. Frank positions it at shoulder height, ready to bring it down like a hammer to an anvil. He’s got one chance to get it right, it’s got to be quick and clean. Frank visualises his target, leans forward ready to strike hard at the back of the neck.

Kyle steps out, his mind preoccupied, he makes straight for the car. Frank lunges forward, shadowed by the tree. Kyle senses movement, he’s turning, but it’s already too late, Frank’s gun arm slicing through the night air, his nine millimetre slamming into the side of Kyle’s jaw, sending him reeling to the ground. It’s not enough, and Frank knows it, he needed a clean shot, not a glancing blow. Kyle is already on his feet. He’s wobbling but coherent as the halogen security light flickers into action illuminating the murderous glare in the whites of his eyes. He’s charging at Frank, hellbent on taking him down. 

Frank re-holsters the Beretta and beckons him closer, ‘come on - let’s see what you got soldier boy.’

Kyle spits blood to the ground, drops his head forward and widens his stance. ‘Thought you’d never show Frank. Bet you wish you got out when you had the chance.’

Frank raises his fists and dips his head. ‘I got a habit of sticking around right to the end.’

Kyle bares his teeth. ‘Some people just don’t know when their time’s up.’

‘You planning on talking shit all night or we going to get this done?’

Kyle nods his head in acknowledgement. ‘Don’t worry Frank, I’ve been waiting a long time for this.’

Frank says nothing in reply, instead he’s lurching forward like a boxer out of his corner. Kyle reciprocates, ready to engage. Frank has the advantage, his opponent’s still none too steady on his feet. Kyle charges like an angry bull ready to lock horns. They connect in a flurry of blocks, holds and deflected shots. 

They disengage, drawing breath. ‘Slowing up old man.’

‘Don’t worry about me, I’m just warming up.’

Kyle counters with a roundhouse kick, catching Frank clean in the temple area, enough to destabilise his balance. He shakes his head, desperate to put the stars out of his vision. Sensing victory, Kyle comes forward again, he slams the palm of his hand into Frank’s mouth, the force pushing up towards his nose. It takes all of Frank’s remaining strength to stop himself from blacking out. Forcing the advantage, Kyle manoeuvres Frank into a choke hold position. ‘Time to put you to sleep Frankie.’  

Frank reaches for the holster, pulls the Beretta free and smashes it into Kyle’s right temple. Game over, Kyle slumps to the ground, he’s out cold.

Frank’s breathing hard, hands on his knees - looking down at Kyle. ‘Never said I’d play fair.’ 

He’s turning quick, checking Cunningham’s still unaware of his presence. The front door’s left ajar. Frank makes his move, closing in on the entrance. He can still hear Cunningham’s voice in the distance. He’s got to be walking and talking, making his way to the back of the house. That’s good, means he’s distracted, should make things a little easier.

Gun in hand, holding it by the grip now, Frank’s taking no chances. He’s creeping in, following the sound. A thudding sound alerts him, Cunningham’s on the rear staircase. He can’t risk following him up the creaking stairs. He’s got to wait for him to come back down. Won’t be long before he realises Kyle never made it back from the car, he’s bound to come looking for him.

Frank gets himself into position, taking up residence in the kitchen, standing to the side of the two meter high chrome effect American style refrigerator. He’s getting set, preparing himself - cracking his neck as it rotates in a circular motion. The situation reminds him of the old days, but this is different. Back then it was all about getting established, going up against the rivals. This is internal, family business. A situation that could have been avoided, but Malkie always was a stubborn bastard. Now they’re hanging on by their fingertips, and none of them can predict who will come out on top. 

 No two ways about it, Malkie should have done the right thing - handed over to Cunningham. Doesn’t matter what anyone else says about it. You can’t let the past dictate the future. That’s what’s got them into this mess.

There’s still hope, Frank’s convinced that he can still salvage the situation, Cunningham just needs to hear him out, and listen to reason. Things didn’t go how he’d hoped they would earlier. He thought Malkie had decided. Maybe he had. Perhaps George helped change his mind after the news of that fourteen-year-old came in. If only Cunningham could kerb his tastes. 

 Frank’s struggling to push the thoughts out of his head. He’s got to stick to the plan. Visions of his own grandkids flood his mind each time he thinks of Cunningham messing around with underage girls. He grips the gun tighter, his finger on the trigger. He exhales and eases off the pressure, last thing he wants now is a negative discharge ricocheting from the tiled floor.

Frank tries to consider Cunningham’s perspective. Passed over and humiliated like that - how would he see things? Asks himself the question, would it be enough for him to betray the Firm, to go after Malkie? 

Cunningham’s shouting for Kyle from the landing, interrupting Frank’s thought process.  

‘Kyle… Kyle where you at. How long’s it take for fuck-sake?’

Cunningham’s moving to the top of the stairs. He’s got a clear line of sight to the front door. He can see it’s open a little way. He moves down the steps, taking it slow. His heart beat quickening, and a bad feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

‘Kyle…’

He proceeds to the bottom riser, then stops. The only sound beside his own voice is the TV from the other room. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight like soldiers on the parade ground. Cunningham wishes he had a weapon to hand. He looks around but there’s nothing, the baseball bat that used to reside behind the front door to ward off unwanted guests has long since disappeared, courtesy of the housekeeper. 

Cunningham guessed they’d come. Wasn’t like he expected them to roll over and play dead. One thing he could count on 100%, the remnants of Malkie’s crew - loyal to the end. He keeps moving, heading down the hallway towards the kitchen. Cunningham reaches the kitchen door, his head snapping back over his shoulder checking for any potential assassin sneaking up from behind.

He pushes down on the handle and the enters the kitchen, his target the wooden knife block on the worktop opposite. He strides over, his hand reaching for the eight-inch blade, he extracts it, assessing the weight in his hand. 

Frank’s stepping out from behind the refrigerator. The Beretta M9 pointing straight at the centre of Cunningham’s back. ‘Leave it. Put it back in the block.’

Cunningham’s spinning around, stabbing the air with the knife. ‘Jesus Frank, you gave me a fright.’

‘The knife, put it down - now.’

 Cunningham eyes the gun. ‘What is this Frank? You come into my home - with a gun, what the fuck is that all about?’

Frank keeps the 9 mm trained on Cunningham. ‘Just a precaution, nothing more.’

Cunningham’s still holding the knife, sizing Frank up, assessing his options. ‘What d’you do with Kyle?’

‘Let’s say he’s taking a nap… But don’t stress over it, he’s OK. For now, at least.’

Cunningham leans back against the worktop, but keeps the knife held tight. ‘Malkie put you up to this?’

‘No. This is me. Just me. No Malkie. No George or Ron.’

Cunningham nods his head. ‘You mind if I take a seat Frank?’

Frank motions agreement with the Beretta. ‘You ever play that game Jason, rock, paper, scissors?’

‘Sure, it’s a kid’s game. It’s been a while, but yeah I know it.’

‘Just so we’re clear, gun beats knife - every time.’

Cunningham bares his teeth. ‘I’ll bear that in mind Frank.’ They lock eyes. ‘I’ll hold on to this, all the same.’

‘As you wish.’

Cunningham takes a seat at the table and places the blade down in front of him. ‘So you’re here to kill me Frank, that what this is?’

‘If I wanted you dead, I’d have already pulled the trigger.’

Cunningham keeps his eyes on Frank. ‘Even so, I’d feel better if you put the gun down. Call it a mutual trust thing.’

‘I’m sure you would, but that’s not happening any time soon.’

Frank’s moving closer, his arm still raised, pulling out a seat, his eyes fixed on Cunningham. ‘Things are a mess Jason, and it’s down to you and me to see what we can do to fix them.’

Cunningham raises his hands, outstretching his palms. ‘And how do we go about that Frank?’

Frank’s resting the barrel of the gun on the table, his grip firm - just in case Cunningham makes a sudden grab or lunges with the blade.

He’s shaking his head. ‘You should have come to me Jason. We could have talked it through. Things were in place until you fucked it up. All you had to do was wait just a little while longer. But you couldn’t, and now we have this…’

Cunningham snorts in derision. ‘What do we have Frank, tell me?’

‘You tried to take Malkie out, trouble is you failed, and now he’s pissed. Ready for all out war.’

Cunningham looks away, towards the floor. ‘You can’t say it was me Frank, you got no proof.’

Frank narrows his stare and leans forward ‘The shooter killed Mimi.’

Cunningham grips the blade a little tighter. ‘Hang on a second Frank, that’s not down to me.’

Frank shakes his head. ‘Okay, so maybe you didn’t pull the trigger, but this has your stink all over it. Now this is how it’s going to be. Each time you bullshit me you get a bullet. Hand, elbow, back of the knee, your choice Jason.’

Cunningham composes himself. ‘That’s what I always liked about you Frank - no fucking around, straight to the point, no negotiation. Whatever needs doing, you go straight to it, you get it done.’

Frank keeps his glare levelled. ’You got that right.’ 

Cunningham leans back in his chair. ‘Come on Frank, you get it. You were there. I got fucked over. Should have been me. My fucking time, and still the stubborn old bastard hangs on. Tell me I’m wrong. Jesus, even George and Ron can see it. And still no one goes against the old codger.’

‘Question is Jason, what did you do about it?’

Cunningham casts his eyes downward, his eyes flit to the blade. ‘I left. You were there, you saw with your own eyes.’

Frank removes the Beretta from the table and points it at Cunningham’s knee. ‘Who are you working with?’

‘You got it all wrong Frank.’

Frank pulls back the hammer on the Beretta and aims the 9 mm at Cunningham’s foot. ‘I forget to mention your toes?’

Cunningham recoils, trying to slide his chair to get out of range. ‘Easy Frank. Shit. Okay, look. Come on you know how it is. Jesus, what the hell’s been going on for the last six months? It’s me, day in and day out, I run the organisation.’

‘Tell you what I think Jason. You wanted to accelerate your ascension to the top, pushed things along to suit your own plans. That’s why you ordered the hit.’

Cunningham doesn‘t deny the accusation but retorts with a question. ‘Say you’re me, what would you do Frank?’

Frank ignores the statement as he tightens his grip on the Beretta. ‘I’ll say it one more time, who you working with?’

‘Come on Frank, you’re a realist, right?’

‘Be easier if you just tell me.’

‘It’s not too late Frank, you want in, you can be part of this, part of the future. All you got to do is say the word.’

Frank’s trigger finger quivers in position. ‘You went against your own blood and mentor. Jesus Christ, Malkie’s been protecting you ever since you and Ryan Kane went it alone, and this is how you repay him?’

‘Come on Frank, let’s not get all misty eyed about the past. Even you can see Malkie’s done. Don’t lie to yourself, I’ve seen that look in your eye. The Firm needs me Frank. I’m the future, I got the contacts and the backing. Fuck, there’s money, a lot more money, new opportunities. You want in? I can make it happen.’ 

Frank leans forward in his seat, his face inches away from Cunningham’s. ‘You’re nothing more than a puppet Jason, and these friends of yours, when they’re done with you, you’ll end up dead. Best you can hope for is a quick death.’

‘You’re wrong Frank. Trouble is you’re no different to Malkie, George and Ron. Stuck in the past - all of you. Times have moved on. You three are like dinosaurs that got left behind. Truth is, I don’t need Malkie anymore, the rules have changed, and guess what I don’t even need to get made, and I don’t need approval from anyone.’

Frank applies more pressure on the Beretta. ‘Whoever pulled the trigger, they didn’t finish the job.’

Cunningham smiles trying to hide his disappointment. ‘Life in the old bastard yet, huh?’

‘Level with me Jason, if you didn’t order the hit who did?’

Cunningham shifts side to side in his seat as he locks eyes with Frank. ‘There’s no shortage of people who want Malkie Thompson’s scalp, but you already know this, right?’

‘No one wants a war Jason, not even Malkie.’

‘Time to pick a side Frank, best make sure you choose well.’

Frank pushes his chair away from the table and rises. ‘Take my advice, leave now. You should go abroad, get some sun, keep a low profile. If you stay - I promise you this Jason, it won’t end well.’

Cunningham looks up at him, his hand tightening around the knife handle as he rises from his own seat. ‘Thanks for the advice Frank, you ever stop to consider it’s you that needs to take some sun?’

Kyle’s hovering on the other side of the kitchen door, he’s picked up the flow of the conversation, weighing up his options, deciding whether to rush in on Frank and disarm him. 

Frank keeps the gun on Cunningham. ‘Looks like soldier boy’s back on parade. Call him in here now.’

Cunningham looks to the door. ‘Kyle get your arse in here, Frank’s just leaving.’

5

Jonny Carrick’s the go-to guy when things get messy. A safe pair of hands when the shit hits the fan. It’s a brand identity he’s worked hard to build. Best of all he’s freelance. What sets him apart from others in the business? It’s simple, Jonny’s a perfectionist, what some might call an artiste.  He’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done, his signature - a hint of flair and panache.

Money’s not a problem, Jonny’s invested his spoils well, besides he can’t stay in this life forever. He’s got a growing number of student house rentals close to the city university campus, always money in bricks and mortar, as his old man used to say. Jonny goes for the derelict lots, those that other would-be investors avoid. Their problems morph into his opportunities. He buys cheap, clears out the vermin himself. On occasion some are bigger than others but after a little physical persuasion most see sense and vacate with immediate effect.

He’s his own man, chooses his jobs well, careful not to draw unnecessary attention from the police, he keeps the Pest Control side of the business ticking over. To the untrained eye that’s enough. He even completes an online tax return each year. Jonny’s registered as a Sole Trader, lessens the potential for complications, staying on the right side of HMRC keeps everybody happy 

For those in the know, he’s the fixer. Worked that way for the last five years, clean and simple, minimum complications. The way he likes it. 

Carrick’s no killer, but Jason Cunningham doesn’t see it that way, he wants Paul Selwood gone. Cunningham’s mind is set - Selwood knows too much, a loose canon he can ill afford to continue to tolerate. No way he can risk Selwood blabbing to the police. The way Cunningham put it, Selwood’s nothing more than a lowlife skaghead. No one cares Jonny. Trust me, just another junkie statistic waiting to happen. No one to mourn his passing, and don’t worry about the police, it’s sorted. They won’t bust a gut to investigate.

Word is Cunningham’s on the up. A man to watch. Carrick figures its better to be in than out. Last thing he needs is to piss off the next boss of the biggest Firm in the city.  Cunningham’s already got the right people on side. The police top brass in his pocket along with the mayor, local councillors, even social workers and community outreach volunteers. Malkie Thompson taught him well, problem is Thompson’s ill, has been for a while now. Cunningham runs the day-to-day operation, and it seems that’s no longer enough. Wants to run things his way, independent of Thompson. 

Jonny Carrick left the meeting a changed man, elevated to the position of gunman. Not what he’d expected when he took the call. He should have trusted his gut and made his excuses. That wasn’t viable, not with Malkie Thompson off the scene. Seems Cunningham’s run the old bastard out of town. At least that’s one version of events; the emerging rumour at street level: Thompson and the remnants of his crew, the likes of Frank Mayer and George Patterson - rounded up, taken to an outlying farm, each receiving a double tap to the head.

Carrick’s holding the gun, feels strange, this cold piece of death in his hand. Turning it around assessing the weight. Small, stubby, and black. Could almost pass for a child’s toy. The serial number’s been ground down, machined smooth. He lets his index finger glide over the metal, anonymous and untraceable. He reads the manufacturer’s name, Browning. A nine-millimetre calibre. One clip loaded, one spare. Carrick unzips his jacket, drops the gun to the inside pocket. He places both hands flat against the ridge of the table. His eyes drift to the blade, he reaches over; unsheathes it from the scabbard. A hunting knife, the survival type, jagged on one side for sawing, the other smooth, razor sharp for slicing.

Carrick’s on new ground, territory unknown - messenger of death. 

Cunningham wants it done a certain way - up close and personal; the body left prominent, out in the open. Exposed to the elements, placed in situ for all to see. Let the maggots’ feast, is what he said. Cunningham’s way of ensuring that any doubters understand Malkie Thompson’s reign is yesterday’s news, over and done with. 

 Carrick’s got to stay onside, ingratiate himself with the New Order. That’s the way it is - no alternative. Cunningham’s boxed him to a corner. If he runs, he can never return. He’ll spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder. Cunningham’s testing him, knows full well Carrick’s always been freelance. Malkie Thompson might have been okay with that, but those days are gone. It‘s a job, and that’s how he’s got to treat it. Not that he wants to bloody his own hand - no coming back from that. The way Cunningham put it, just get it done. No direct threat to his own life but the intent was clear.

 It’ll take some used getting used to. Malkie Thompson’s name synonymous with fear for over twenty years. Hard to believe he’s gone. Cunningham’s always been little more than a ponce in a flash car with a liking for coke and underage girls, the great pretender trading on his family connection.

So now he’s got to put on a show, cement his authority, crush any notion of dissent. Seems like overkill. Thompson was never averse to using violence, more so in the early days, but now Cunningham’s got to go the extra mile. They have to fear him more than they ever did Thompson.

The Woodridge estate lies at the heart of Cunningham’s would be territory. The passing days have seen little resistance to the change in management, save for a few stalwart veterans loyal to the old guard. Would-be chancers, seeking an opportunity to stall or even stop payments.

Malkie’s ailing health enabled Cunningham to seize power; impotent to resist the inevitable. Dog eat dog, Malkie’s own words. Cunningham made for a good student. He’d taken those words deep into his black heart, brooding over them for fourteen years. Back in the day Malkie hadn’t made allowances, Cunningham returned the favour. He saw an opportunity and seized it with both hands. Nothing personal, family didn’t come in to it. Just business, no room for sentiment. The way Cunningham saw it, if it hadn’t have been him, plenty of others lining up on the periphery. 

Wasn’t like Malkie didn’t have options, except his damn ego stopping him from bringing Cunningham back into the fold. Truth is Malkie should have let it go, resign it to ancient history. Put it down to Cunningham’s youthful ambition. End of the day, blood is blood. Like or loathe him, Cunningham’s the natural heir. Not Malkie, he’d rather risk everything than concede. 

By 2004 the Romanian street gangs had established themselves in London and were looking to branch out further north. They sent scouts to Malkie, seeking a mutual business arrangement. They specialised in credit card fraud, estimated back then to be topping double digits into the millions. Malkie didn’t take to foreigners, he never had. Not since Cunningham’s involvement with the Albanians in the 1990’s. That still left a bad taste in his mouth. 

Carrick knew, as did everyone else, Cunningham equalled bad news. With Thompson, you knew where you stood, at least - most of the time. Not the case with Jason Cunningham, he could flip without warning.  

The inevitable change swept across the estate, a shadow of death and depravity seeping into every corner. Cunningham’s tenure invited every form of lowlife. The sixties tower blocks filling with crack heads and heroin addicts. Those so desperate for the next hit they’d sell their own kid. 

Malkie Thompson had always shunned the drug business; an old school gangster that lived by the code, he wanted no part of that trade. Vexed at the missed opportunities Cunningham forged ahead with his own sideline before Malkie had him closed him down. No such restrictions now. With Malkie off the scene the sanctions lifted, opening lucrative niche markets. Plenty of punters out there looking for thrills, free license to fulfil their darkest intentions and Jason Cunningham was more than happy to provide for their needs.

6

Paranoia taking hold, Selwood’s on the move, craning his neck every few steps - convinced he’s being followed. Fighting to control his breathing, the palpitations getting worse, can’t take much more, needs a hit - got to be now. 

The flats come into view in the near distance, only a quarter of a mile to safety. He’s pushing himself on, not much further, one more subway to go. Nirvana, can’t come quick enough. 

Selwood’s problem is simple, he’s seen too much, should have kept his mouth shut, but that’s always been his problem. He never did know when to quit. 

Two hundred metres out, he can smell it, the fetid odour of decay and despair. Woodridge, the place he calls home. Some time in the not too distant past he’d have sprinted those last two hundred metres. Only six years since he left Cedar Grove Academy, seems like a lifetime ago now. That was long before he got into the scene, prior to the immediacy of easy distraction and instant gratification took its hold. All of his teachers said he had promise, the County Trials his gateway to bigger and better things. Trouble was he never listened, made excuses, blamed it on his short attention span. His training schedule best described as lethargic. ADHD enthused the mix, no hope of concentrating at school or home. Fated, only a matter of time before Selwood fell in with a bad crowd, and spiralled downwards. Some might say bad genes, doomed from conception.

His mum Kelly, fresh out of school when she got caught pregnant. Not that she ever went much. Her schooling ceased by the time she hit fourteen. Expelled to the Pupil Referral Unit, she attended for one week before disappearing off the grid.

Kelly never had control of him, too much effort, and she soon tired of going on at him. Wasn’t all her fault, just the way it was. Kelly had the body of a woman, and the mind of a twelve-year-old kid, she made easy prey for the vultures. His father was nothing more than an anonymous donor. Paul Selwood - the end product of a drink and drugs sex initiation. A rite of passage for many young girls on the Woodridge estate. 

Back then Kelly still had her looks. Men twice her age passed her around to gratify their own dark desires in return for a fix. Most punters didn’t live on the estate, they travelled in from the suburbs. She can’t remember their faces but recalls the stinking odour of the room, like something had been left to fester and die. 

A solitary boarded-up window, shafts of light breaking through illuminating the dust as it hung like dark matter. The old mattress, stale with sweat and sex. Ingrained with countless bodily fluids. Never seemed to put them off, regardless they came and paid the toll master. 

Strung out, and numb to the pain she let them do their thing. Most were done in a few minutes, a small mercy, but those that paid a premium price demanded something extra. Kelly was nothing more than a commodity, bought and sold, theirs to do with as they pleased. Left to the mercy of thrill seekers, determined to play out their darkest fantasies. 

A different breed, they didn’t wait in line. If she protested the beatings would start. They seemed to get off on that. A pack of hyenas baying for blood. One time - knocked unconscious, she doesn’t know how long she was out, Kelly came back round gagging, one of them forcing himself into her mouth while the other pounded away from behind.  

She’d never be sure who Selwood’s father was, could have been any of half a dozen from that night or the next. Hazy drug addled days that seemed to tumble into the next without distinction. None of it mattered as long as she got her next fix. 

The cramps and stomach churning sickness worsened as the days turned into weeks. Initially, she thought it was a bout of flu, her immune system shot to bits, because of her heroin dependency. Stood to reason she would be prone to illness. Nothing unusual in that, plenty of junkies get sick all the time. Just coming down off a hit, going longer than usual between scoring can play havoc with the system. Then again, maybe it was a bad batch of product making it to street level. 

She bought from three different dealers to ensure a regular supply, could have been any of them. Never any shortage of customers despite the varying quality of the H. Guaranteed, there’d always be a queue of desperate punters lining up to make a purchase. Some get sick, some of them die, nothing more than the occupational hazard of the addict. 

Looking in the mirror she convinced herself the slight bump was a hernia. No real surprise, the amount of abuse and beatings she’d taken. Weeks passed, and her stomach got bigger. People noticed the change. Charley, a working girl from Birmingham, she knew what to do. 

‘Clock’s ticking girl, can’t afford to mess around, that thing needs sorting and fast. I know you’re scared shitless babe, should have seen me the first time, thirteen years old, proper crapping it I was. Promise you this Kelly, nothing to it, and trust me, better than the alternative. You don’t want Social Services getting involved, prying into your business. Still gotta earn those dollars mate, and trust me, harder to do that with a kid in tow.’ 

That same day they both walked into town, still coming down from the night before. Both Charley and Kelly were accomplished shop lifters, went with the territory. Chocolate, crisps, energy drinks, whatever took their fancy. This time it just happened to be a pregnancy testing kit. 

Easy, 9.30am, one shop assistant. Charley distracted him chatting about how she needed some vaginal cream. The young male blushed crimson and dropped his eyes to the floor as Charley delighted in telling him in great detail the extent of her thrush. Forty minutes later they both sat in her grotty flat, wasn’t much more than a filthy squat come knocking shop they’d secured for themselves, but it was home, and better than walking the streets at all hours. 

She trudged into what passed for the bathroom and used the kit. She sat staring, willing for a negative reading, ten-seconds later her worst fear confirmed - tears welled in her eyes.

Omar, her part-time boyfriend come pimp told her to get it sorted and quick. Few days off and she’d be back to work, earning, and paying off the debt. Omar agreed to give her three days down time to recover, nothing more, and that was because Charley agreed to take on some of Kelly’s more demanding clients, those whose requirements could best be described as niche. Stupid bitch was lucky to get that. Punters waiting. Expectations to be fulfilled. He toyed with the idea of letting her go closer to full term, knowing full well some would pay a premium to take a turn with the girl with the bump. 

In a rare moment of clarity Kelly ran, she got away from the estate, far away from the town. Wasn’t easy, she was brassic, even had to perform on her knees, head rhythmically bobbing up and down just to get the train fare home. Arriving back in the suburbs she dare not go to her parents house. Not in that state. Her father wouldn’t welcome a pregnant junkie. Kelly still had some old contacts in town. People that could sort her out for a few days. Just till she got herself straight. She wondered whether Omar would come looking for her, but he was the least of her problems.

Four and a half months pregnant, she needed a job and a place to stay. Something more permanent. Malkie Thompson’s name was mentioned. She knew of him. Not much better than Omar by all accounts, but what choice did she have?

Selwood’s inside the external door to the flats, doubled over in pain, the cramps more violent and prolonged, but he’s made it. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he peeps back through the thin pane of the security window. Nothing to see, no one following. His jaw hangs slack as he sucks in the air. One fucked up day, for sure. He pukes yellow froth and brown bile onto the stained concrete floor, splattering his newly acquired Adidas trainers.

Got to keep moving, up the first flight of stairs now, one more to go. He stops and listens, can’t hear any footsteps. He continues, his calf muscles burning as the lactic acid takes ownership. Selwood’s face contorts, he grimaces and pushes on taking the steps two at a time, his body screaming for a hit. He hears the low thud, his heart rate quickens as the unmistakable electric hum of the elevator hydraulics wake from slumber. 

Pushing harder, rasps of breath fighting their way into his lungs. His throat’s burning, he’s got to get up there before the elevator doors open onto the landing. Third floor now, and he’s level with the moving hydraulics. It’s slowing, readying itself for the stop even as he prays for it to continue its ascent. Selwood blinks, time slows as if he’s trudging through a vat of treacle. His eyes fix on the orange numerical three as it lights up, simultaneous to the sound of the ping of doors opening. He ignores the pain, and keeps pushing on, trying to stop the panic and terror consuming his entire body. He glances down to the left, the six-inch gap revealing black boots, like a workman’s industrial type. Selwood’s pace quickens to a run, he doesn’t care now, his run turning to a sprint. All he’s got to do is make it to the corner. He closes his eyes, a vision of the one hundred meter finish line, a technicolour memory of school days, but it’ll be his last.

The muffled thud of the silencer claims its victim. Paul Selwood’s lifeless body crashes to the ground, only three metres out from the sanctuary of the reinforced steel door. Shot in the back, the bullet smashing its way through the ribcage, tearing into the heart. He’s dead before he hits the ground. Felled, a moving target on the run. 

The gunman approaches, his hand still trembling, even so it’s a clean kill. A good result, flawless. Except the client has more grotesque expectations, the message has to be clear for all to see. 

Carrick inhales deep, he holds on to it, then lets out an audible sigh as he squats next to the body, wishing he hadn’t as the stench of faeces attack his senses. He fights the urge to gag. Taking shallow breaths he assesses the entry wound before noticing the thick black blood pooling from beneath the carcass. He rises, takes aim and pulls the trigger a second time. Selwood’s body jerks and spasms. The bullet enters the spinal column where the base of the skull sits in prominence.  It’s not over yet, the rest of the performance is pure theatre for maximum effect. He takes out the hunting knife and rolls the body over onto the back, surprised at how awkward and how much effort is required. 

His first kill, but it won’t be his last.

He plunges the blade deep into the eye socket, and scoops it out like ice cream, he throws it to the ground before butchering the other socket. Grim work, but it’s what the client wanted. 

Phone in hand, he takes the shot, attaching the JPEG image to the text message. ‘DONE!’

7

Davy takes the call, his face taut and serious but that’s nothing new. He listens, and grunts in a few places. It’s all over and done within twenty-seconds. He hangs up the phone, his hand rubbing at his beard. Tommy knows the sign, its Davy’s tell, his giveaway, something his brother always does when he’s thinking, mulling over a problem. 

The word’s out, Ryan Peterson’s planning a moonlight flit. That can’t happen, not when he owes them money. Three grand, it’s not a massive amount, but he’s taking liberties, making them look like a right couple of melts.

Tommy takes a deep intake of breath, blows his cheeks out making a popping sound. ‘I say he’s good for it, never paid late or took the piss. He’s not about to start now, not with us.’

Davy looks over at his younger brother, and shakes his head at his naivety, he’s still got a lot to learn. ‘The intel’s good Tommy, he’s taking flight, doing a disappearing act. Chances are if he goes back up north, we’ve lost him. So kiss goodbye to three grand. You might be prepared to let it go, but I’m not. Besides, this isn’t about the money is it?’

‘I’ll talk to him, it’ll be fine, let me handle it my way. Okay?’

Davy’s looking out of the window across the car lot, it’s taken a long time to get to where he is now, and he’s not about to loosen his grip just because his kid brother’s going soft. 

He turns and faces Tommy square on. ‘Rule number one, don’t get too close to the clients. Rule number two, let nothing slide no matter how insignificant you might consider it to be. Rule number three, everyone pays whoever they are, mates included.’

Tommy knows his brother’s right, but still resents being treated like a melt, he’s a partner not an employee. ‘I’ll sort it, and he’s not a mate, an acquaintance, so don’t stress over it. Trust me, it’s all good. I’ll make sure of it.’

Davy remains silent, not a good sign, if experience is anything to go by. He glances over to his sibling, and wonders if he’ll ever make the cut. Tommy begged him to let him join the business. Davy relented and gave him a chance, times of late he wishes he hadn’t. Family always complicates matters; should have gone with his gut instinct. 

Davy’s a loner, best on his own, that’s how it’s always been or at least it was until Tommy came along. Can’t undo the past now, so no point in dwelling on it. They’re bonded by blood, interwoven, a partnership for life. Sometimes he thinks it’s worse than being married, at least with that there’s always a way out.

Davy’s the one who got them to where they are now, it’s his name that commands reverence and respect. He loves Tommy, maybe a little too much. Still feels protective of him. Deep down he knows, Tommy’s too sensitive. A talker not a doer, a diplomat. Situations like this require physical intervention, not a cosy chat.

Family… Who needs it?

Davy breaks silence. ‘So sort it and do it fast. Or they’ll all think they can take liberties. It’s like a virus Tommy. An outbreak. The infection spreads silent and deadly. We have to stamp it out. Understand?’

Tommy’s nodding agreement, he gets it, doesn’t need to be treated like a juvenile. Ryan’s a laugh, someone to wind down with over a game of cards and a drink, perhaps he’s let him get a little too close, but he’s not about to give him a free pass. Tommy knows the score, how Davy reckons he’s too soft, that he can’t stomach the more demanding nature of their business. Seems Davy’s developed selective amnesia, forgetting how it was Tommy getting his hands dirty. He was the one making The Donaldsons a household name, cementing their brand identity in the psyche of the local community. 

Davy’s good for the encore, the showpiece - that’s his thing. Gets to play out his darkest fantasies like something from a Tarantino film. Never misses the chance to make a statement, revels in the opportunity to bring out the macabre toys. Secateurs, his preferred method, extracting information - reinforcing the Donaldson brand. 

The Chicken Bhuna and six pints of Guinness fermenting in Tommy’s lower gut are enough to deal with without having to listen to Davy’s voice droning on, his body’s way of telling him he’s too old to handle any more midweek sessions. Feels as though the hangover’s getting settled in for the long haul, sticking like Araldite adhesive to the back of his skull. Way he’s feeling it could go either way, necessitating a lunge for the sink basin or the toilet bowl. As long as it’s not simultaneous he can deal with it. 

‘Christ’s sake, Davy. Leave it Okay. Peterson’s solid. You heard it from me. He’s not about to bail on us.’ 

‘You sure about that?’ Davy rolls his eyes and shakes his head. ‘I need some air. Two hours Tommy, that’s all you got. You don’t bring him in, I’ll go find him myself.’ He grabs his coat and makes his way to the door, he needs to put some distance between himself and his brother, and give his temper time to settle. 

Tommy watches him leave; willing him to make it all the way out to the car. Davy’s got himself steamed up, ready to go off like a geyser any moment. Ninety-seconds later he pulls off the lot, Pavarotti belting out Nesum Dorma from the state-of-the-art Bang and Olfsen sound system. Soothing him on his forty minute drive home to the leafy suburbs in his silver Alfa Romeo Spider. 

Tommy retrieves his Samsung and dials Ryan Peterson’s number. There’s no answer. Don’t make me look like a dick Ryan. He tries Quick Drop, the courier firm he works for, twenty-seconds later he hangs up. Bastard. Time for a face to face meet, see if he responds to the personal touch.

The journey takes a little over thirty minutes. Tommy’s opted for the black Ford Focus Estate, the car he uses when he wants to blend in. He’s parked up five or six units down from the courier firm, on the opposite side of the road, giving him a clear vantage point. Today he’s Mr Average. Like a cop on a stakeout he’s watching, waiting, taking in the scene. He observes the flow of Citroen Berlingos, the odd Ford Transit and a handful of Peugeot Partner vans, they all come and go. All white, all anonymous, devoid of stencilled liveries and decals. It’s a tidy little operation. He makes a mental note to return once the Ryan Peterson business has been dealt with. 

He’ll make them an offer, the deal of a lifetime. Opportunity to sign up to the premiere security package, twenty percent of the weekly takings in return for the owner’s faculties remaining in good working order. 

On occasion they’ve gone for the double act, when the scenario merits such a performance. Guaranteed winner as even the most stubborn bastard’s resistance crumbles within a few minutes.

Tommy plays the part well, but then again he always excelled in the school drama productions. He’s the cold caller, Mr Hard Sell. If he doesn’t get a result, the duo make the return call. Ten years in the business he’s perfected the craft. He stands tall at six feet and two inches, menacing and silent. Words unnecessary, wearing a bemused smile on his face.

Davy, he’s shorter, five ten, muscular in physique, the result of pounding the free weights two hours a day for the past twenty years. He makes a point of taking his jacket off and rolling his sleeves up, ready for business. 

Clients tend to fall into two categories. There are those that run off at the mouth, verbal diarrhoea cascading as the panic sets in. Some go further losing control of their bodily functions. Then there are those that try to mask it, disguising their fear, maintaining false hope that the Donaldsons won’t hurt them or that someone will come to their aid, but they never do. 

  As the younger brother Tommy defers to Davy, letting him take the lead. Davy’s all about machismo and ritualistic brutality. A macabre showman, revelling in the opportunity to play. Tommy sees it different, more of a necessary evil. He’s never been into the violence, not that he can’t turn it on when he needs to, but he doesn’t get the same kick out of it the way his brother does.  

It’s all part of the journey, soon enough they’ll be legit. Front companies all doing well. Tommy can’t wait, Davy though, that’s a different matter. For him it’s about the notoriety, the buzz and instilling the fear factor. Tommy’s not sure Davy’s ready to make the switch to legit businessman. Can’t see him giving up the macabre tools of the trade. The tools that have cemented their reputation. 

With that in mind Tommy’s made plans. A contingency. He’s got enough money stashed away to go it alone. Davy won’t like it but that’s his problem, have to deal with it when the time comes.

8

It’s not easy being him, the younger sibling to the legendary Davy Donaldson. That’s a lot to live up to. He’s tired of living his life like he’s got a plastic bag tied around his neck suffocating the air from his lungs. Time to cleanse the past, atone for his sins, maybe even meet someone and settle down.

He’s thought about trying to talk it through with his brother, but there’s no point. Davy wouldn’t get it. He loves the life, as for relationships, he’s got himself a proper little harem, a handful of girls that pander to his every whim. For Davy it’s all about physicality, not emotion. He pays for the privilege, not with cash, these aren’t working girls. Some may have a past but that’s rewritten to suit the modern day scenario of being one of his girls. They’re well looked after, lavished with expensive gifts, and taken out to the best restaurants.

They understand what it is they’re getting into. Besides, none of them want to go the way of Laura Betts. It’s been a long time now, but on occasion her name still gets whispered in the shadows. 

Laura, was a nineteen-year-old from the North when she arrived in town, lonely and vulnerable. Nowhere close to sweet and innocent, but she played the part well. Five seven, size eight, platinum blonde with baby blue eyes, bee sting lips and bumps in the right places. What wasn’t to like?  

Davy fell for her big time, even wanted to leave his wife Martha. Truth is he would have if Tommy hadn’t stepped in and made him see sense. Didn’t change the outcome though, Laura became one of Davy’s girls. For a time, outside his marriage, she was the only girl. 

Problem was Laura didn’t play by the rules. She may have looked and acted like a woman but underneath she was nothing more than a kid playing in an adult world. She thought she could suit herself, be independent. That was a big mistake.

 Out on the town, dressed to the nines, figure hugging tight little black dress, her prime assets on display for all to see, Laura was dancing, doing her thing. She pulled in quite a crowd winding her body up and down on the dance-floor, open jawed guys drooling into their beers from the bar. One or two tried their luck, brave after a few drinks, egged on by their boozed up pals. Even tried their best Michael Jackson moves but had neither the speed nor rhythm. Given the brush off they returned to the safety of their beers sweaty and out of breath, a chorus of derision welcoming their return.  

If Laura had gone home at that point that would have been the end. No harm done. Nothing to report back besides some dancing, playing to the crowd, and two muppets trying their luck. Things would have carried on much as they had for the previous six months. But Laura wasn’t ready to go home, she was young, she wanted to be independent, do her own thing. Suffocated by the artificial world Davy had boxed her into, she rebelled. This was her night to be nineteen, and to be free and she would make the best of it.

Laura craved male attention, young or old, it didn’t matter. Women bitched about her and guys were drawn like flies to rotting meat. Her looks empowered her; a fact well known to her since the age of thirteen. After six years playing the game, she’d got it down to a fine art. Men were all the same, lemmings all going over the same cliff one after another.  

Bored with the sweaty boozed up lower league she moved to the private members bar, got herself a drink and sat watching the dance-floor from the gallery. Two sips into her Chardonnay a guy approached. He’s different, stands out, has an air about him, a definite presence. The stranger’s olive skinned, middle aged, and the wrong side of thirty-five, but Laura’s intrigued. He’s confident, decked out in designer labels from head to toe. His hair styled, long on top and cropped at the sides. He stands close enough to her so she can take in the expensive cologne.

 He asks if he can join her, his accent is foreign but she can’t place it. He asks what she’s drinking, she says she’s fine, but he’s already snapping his fingers and ordering an iced bucket of Krug. Laura says she’s with someone. He looks around, sees no one and answers that no man in his right mind would leave such a gorgeous girl like her alone. It’s a crappy line she’s heard a hundred times before but she plays along. 

It’s a game, they’re both seasoned players. He’s a stranger in town looking for company for one night only. She’s a pretty girl out on her own looking for a little excitement, no strings. Nothing more than a casual liaison. Their potential hook-up is reduced to a transaction, paid for in flattery and expensive champagne. She’s not a whore, at least not in the street walking sense, but she has her price. 

The guy’s minted, pulling fifties out of his jacket like its confetti, not a good idea in a place like this but he’s got back up. Ten feet away his Minder, a squat five eight muscular guy, his hair tied back into a bun, scans the area, his eyes flitting left to right every few seconds. He’s far enough away to allow intimacy yet close enough to extract his client if the situation merits such action. The barman’s approaching, ice bucket in hand. The Minder stops him and checks the contents before letting him pass.

 Laura’s reading the guy, he’s a player. Looks kind of Arabic, might even be a real life Sheik. Perhaps she’s landed on her feet. He’s good looking, much better than Davy, with his pock-marked face. This guy’s got a natural style, at ease with himself. Not forced like Davy. She’s weighing up her options.

She netted Davy by playing hard to get. Gave him the tease, the big come on, drove him wild. Laura played it like that for a few weeks until one night Davy called her into the office. They shared a Jack Daniels, he stroked her leg, his hand rising up her thigh. She let him go a little further than the time before. When she got up to leave, he grabbed her wrist. She knew then she wasn’t getting out, the look in his eye said it all. Davy shoved her up against the door, then kissed her, jamming his tongue into her mouth. She felt him go hard as he pushed his weight against her. Laura struggled, feigning resistance, she didn’t want to appear easy. He placed her hand on his crotch, whispering his command in her ear as he kissed her neck.

Afterwards, she departed without a word. Left him standing, pants round ankles, shell-shocked and spent.

From that day on Laura was Davy’s girl. The weeks came and went, Davy set her up in a flat above a vacant shop rental he owned. To the outside world it might have seemed like a love nest, in reality it was little more than a holding cell. Somewhere for Davy to get his rocks off before going home to his wife. 

That was when Tommy stepped in; concerned at how events were panning out, Laura had to be warned off.

At the club things were moving fast. Laura’s exit with the guy and his Minder, all caught on CCTV as they drove away.

 The next day word reached Davy. One of the bar men from TJs’, the private members club where Laura had cosied up to the handsome stranger, thought he would score brownie points by offering the sexed up version of his eye witness account. Bad mistake. He should have done his homework and asked around before he went for a private sit down with Davy Donaldson.

Matt Parker was a twenty-one-year-old university student just trying to earn some extra cash to pay his way. He’d only been at TJs’ two months the night Laura Betts walked into his life. He knew of the Donaldsons through a mixture of snippets garnered from overheard conversations in the bar area and staffroom banter. That should have been enough for him to steer clear, but Matt was attracted to the danger and infamy surrounding the brothers. He also wanted the bragging rights, to stand up in the university bar and boast of his underworld connections. 

He’d flirted with Laura as he her served her a rum and coke, she told him how she needed a night out, and a chance to let her hair down. She spoke of a jealous boyfriend, the type that wouldn’t react well if he knew she was out on her own. That’s not how she’d planned it, a girlfriend had let her down at the eleventh hour, by which time she’d bathed, waxed and applied her make up before squeezing into a size eight dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination.

Matt was pouring Laura her second double, when a colleague whispered in his ear, ‘she’s Davy Donaldson’s girl.’ 

Right up until that point Matt had been thinking if he played it right he might even be the one going home with the pretty blonde by the end of the night. The revelation almost stopped him in his tracks, but he kept his hand steady and continued to pour.

Laura made her way to the dance floor, Matt observed from the bar, noting how every guy focused on her curves as her body synched to the rhythm of the beat.  

The dirt on Laura Betts was a gift from the gods. In truth, Parker wasn’t much more than a naïve kid. He convinced himself that his information was golden, he was mistaken. 

Matt Parker sat in the office relaying the events as Davy busied himself pouring two measures of brandy from the glass decanter. If nothing else he thought he might at least get a small token of appreciation for his trouble. Davy said nothing and kept his face blank the whole time. He sat opposite Parker and offered him the drink.  

Parker took a sip, savouring the heat of the glow as it warmed the back of his throat. That was his last recollection before waking up on the Intensive Care Unit at the Royal Sussex County Hospital. 

There’d been no warning, no sign of aggravation as Davy swung the decanter in a wide arc, smashing it into the side of Parker’s face, knocking him to the floor. No time to react, no time to think, his brain only beginning to process the pain as Davy was on him, fists pounding away like two hungry sledgehammers beating a post into the ground. 

It could have ended there and had it not been for Tommy’s intervention Matt Parker a nineteen-year-old undergraduate would have ceased to exist. The staff, paralysed by the fear of antagonising Davy further, watched in horror, impotent to his wrath, they could do nothing. It had to be family, it had to be Tommy. No one dare call the police, but the head barman, Joe Kennedy, he had the sense to dial Tommy as soon as it kicked off. 

Lucky for Matt Parker, Tommy had been taking a drink in the downstairs bar before heading home for the night. Taking the stairs two at a time he fought his way through the onlookers. His brother was in full flow, trying to reason with him in that kind of rage would never work. Tommy didn’t hesitate, Parker’s life depended on it. He waded in, hurling all his full force, delivered in one snap-kick to Davy’s kidney.

Winded, Davy rolled on to his side clutching at the pain, his eyes a murderous glare. ‘… the fuck’.

Tommy had seconds, ‘back off Davy.’ He looked down upon the bloodied pulp of Matt Parker’s face, the kid was still breathing, but Davy had damn near finished him. ‘Fuck-sake, he’s just a kid.’ Tommy reached down checking for a pulse, two fingers pressed to the side of his neck, present but weak. ‘Jesus, he’s half dead.’ 

Tommy wasn’t sure if Matt Parker would make it, and they couldn’t risk dumping him outside A & E, not with all those security cameras, but the kid needed help, and fast.

Tommy called Reuben Michaels, a trusted GP they used for discreet out of hours jobs. Michaels patched him up as best he could, he told Tommy without hospital treatment the kid could die. There was no choice, Michaels had to take Parker to A&E. His cover story sorted, he’d been driving home from a night out, a battered and bloodied figure had stumbled into his path. He’d stopped, given assistance at the scene, before driving on to the hospital.

Three days later Parker awoke, almost unrecognisable. Nurses said he was lucky to be alive. He didn’t feel that way as he held the mirror to his face, he looked like he’d been hit by a juggernaut. Broken jaw, fractured eye socket, multiple lacerations to the face from glass fragments, and to top it all chances were he’d lose the sight in his left eye.   

The police interviewed him. Prior to his one to one with Davy, Parker had been naive but knew better than to grass on a Donaldson. He kept his mouth shut, wasn’t like he had a choice, with the amount of wire holding his jaw together. He documented his account of the evening. Turned out he’d been jumped by two youths’ on the way home from the club, he’d drank too much at an after hours staff get together, he couldn’t even remember leaving, or the route he’d taken home. The police knew it was bullshit, the CCTV footage wiped from the club cameras, the head of security claiming it had been faulty. The police recorded the details, unless Parker changed his story his case would join the ever growing pile of random opportune muggings.   

 Any right-minded person would have left it there, not Davy. He wanted retribution. Humiliated and mugged off, a man like Davy couldn’t let a tart get the better of him. Reputation is everything.

Like a disobedient dog Laura needed to be conditioned. Then again some dogs are just too unpredictable, the result of bad breeding. Those dogs go on a one-way trip. Laura Betts vanished without a trace. Word is she’s scattered across the country, courtesy of the council refuse collectors and an array of domestic wheelie bins. 

There’s still no word on the Arabic guy or his Minder, the hire car was found abandoned on a desolate country lane outside of town. Blood stains on the upholstery. No witnesses. Or at least no one’s foolish enough to come forward, as yet.

9

Five minutes later, Tommy’s mind bouncing between the past and present. Still no sign of Ryan Peterson. Time for a face-to-face. He crosses the road and walks to the unit.

Tommy recognises the owner from his picture on the company webpage, he’s small and stout, thick around the middle, victim to a sedentary lifestyle. He’s aged around fifty, greying hair swept back off his forehead. The phone’s pressed to his ear, mid conversation answering yes, followed by a pause then a no. Simultaneously, he’s communicating with the couriers, a series of hand gestures and nodding of the head to the huddle of drivers standing in front of him, all impatient to be on their way. He looks agitated, things not going too well, little does he realise his day’s about to get a lot worse.

Tommy waits by the entrance observing the scene, he’s seen enough. He shouts out the name, ‘Craig Willets.’ It’s a statement more than an enquiry. 

Willets glances over towards Tommy, a quizzical look forms on his face, raising his eyes to the heavens, as a disgruntled customer gives him a verbal roasting. 

‘Okay, Okay,’ he’s saying, eager to end the call. ‘Yeah, will do, no worries, yeah, leave it with me, that’s right, definitely, guaranteed, yes, that’s correct, before 9AM tomorrow. Yeah, bye.’ 

The two drivers back away, whatever the burning topic of conversation, it can wait. They recognise Tommy Donaldson, even if Willets doesn’t. Both dip their heads out of respect and scuttle back towards their vans, eager to leave.

‘Sorry about that. Customers, eh?’ Holding out his hand, ‘Craig Willets, how can I help?’

Tommy takes the outstretched hand, squeezing it tight in an enthusiastic grip. He keeps his eyes on Willets the whole time. It’s perhaps a little vigorous, Willets tries not to wince as finger joints mash together. 

‘Nice little operation you got here Craig,’ he’s saying, still crushing the hand.

‘We do all right, yeah, how can I help?’ he says pulling his hand free.

‘Ryan Peterson, he’s one of your drivers right?’ It’s a rhetorical question, Tommy’s testing him. ‘So where can I find him?’

Willets face creases, concern etched across the brow. A flicker of recognition, gone before it forms.

‘You the Police or something?’

Tommy’s eyes never leaving Willets’, ‘the latter.’

Willets pauses, he’s almost there, he knows this face. His heartbeat quickens. ‘We don’t give out that kind of information.’

A humourless smile breaks on Tommy’s face. ‘But he works for you?’

‘Like I said, we don’t give out personal info.’

Tommy’s nodding his head, slow and thoughtful, this is the way it plays out. But today he’s short on time. No time for games. 

He pulls out his business card and holds it out towards Willets. ‘Allow me to introduce myself Mr Willets, my name is Donaldson, Tommy Donaldson. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’

Willets takes the card, his eyes widen. He holds it in both hands, to mask the trembling. He swallows. Jesus, what the hell is Tommy Donaldson doing here? 

He knows all too well who the Donaldsons are, but he can’t dwell on that. The question is how to get rid of Tommy Donaldson right now? How to appease him so he doesn’t make a return visit. He’s aware that his leg is shaking, his body racked with fear. Donaldson observes and smiles. Willets curses himself for appearing weak, knowing he can’t afford to crumble, his life may depend on it. He doesn’t need the aggro. Willets swallows hard, his Adams apple bobbing up and down like a Yo-Yo, digesting the name like a bad medicine he’d rather not sample. He’s racking his brain, asking himself whether Tommy’s the psycho brother or the one who’ll listen to reason?

‘So let me ask you one more time, where do I find Ryan Peterson?’

‘Look, Mr Donaldson,’ he says trying to keep his voice level, doing his utmost to appear assertive. After all this is his business, his employee. He has a duty of care. ‘Ryan is one of my drivers, a damned good one too, I don’t need any trouble here, whatever he’s done, I don’t want to know. This is a legitimate operation, I…’

Tommy holds up a single finger to silence Willets, cutting him off mid sentence. His stare cold and piercing. He can see that the guy’s panicking, but still holding out, giving him the runaround. He’s no time for fuckwits, not today. Davy’s mood has already soured, he needs to find Peterson, and he needs him now. Tommy turns as if he’s about to vacate the premises, lulling Willets into a false sense of security. He spins back extending his arm, flicking a back fist into Willets face.

It’s quick and vicious. Knuckles connecting at full force. No time to react, Willets takes it full pelt, smack straight on the nose. The cartilage crunches then snaps. Broken, it’s already swelling. Blood drips through his cupped hands as the tears well in his eyes. 

The fear’s plain to see. Tommy’s just fucked up his world. He moves in closer grabbing Willets by the throat, shoving him to the wall.

 A solitary courier driver watches from the near distance, powerless to intervene. Neither reckless nor foolish enough to get involved, knowing full well Public Liability Insurance doesn’t extend to antagonising the Donaldsons. 

Tommy’s up close in Willets face. ‘Now listen, I’ve got the hangover from hell. I thought the drive over here with the window down would do the trick but it hasn’t, in fact its made it worse. And I’ve got this nagging sharp pain right here,’ he says pointing above his ear, right-hand side of his skull.  ‘So do yourself a favour, don’t piss me about. Got that?’

 Willets nods agreement. Tommy releases his grip and backs away. Willets slumps down in the chair as it creaks and groans under his weight. He’s dabbing at his ruined nose, trying to stem the flow as claret droplets splatter over paperwork, same time he’s using his free hand to sift though the collection of driver manifests.

Tommy’s watching his every move, checking he’s not going to bolt for the door or be stupid enough to fight back. Wouldn’t be the first time a civilian tried to be a hero, but Tommy can tell, Willets hasn’t got it in him. His body language screams beaten, already humiliated and subdued into compliance.

‘Whatever it is he’s done…  I don’t want to know, it’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Stop your whining, now shut up and find it. I don’t have all day.’

Willets, shaking his head, ‘it’s not here, I don’t know. Swear to G…’

The sentence unfinished as Tommy’s shovel like palm crashes into the side of Willets face almost knocking him from the chair. ‘Quit bleating and keep looking.’

In defence, Willets raises a hand to the side of his face to cushion any further blows as sweat beads form then dance across his receding hairline.  

‘I can phone him, get him on the mobile. You can talk to him direct.’

‘You think I don’t know that already? Why don’t I send him a fucking invitation?’

‘I didn’t mean to cause offence Mr Donaldson. I’ll make the call myself, tell him there’s an urgent delivery that needs picking up.’

‘Just find the manifest, I’ll do the rest.’

‘Right away Mr Donaldson. It must be here somewhere.’

Tommy moves to the window, the remaining drivers have scattered, none of them wanting to witness the wrath of Donaldson. Safer that way, no chance of being called to give evidence, should it go that far.

Tommy rests his elbow on the gunmetal grey filing cabinet. ‘Come on, get a move on.’ Enough is enough, he moves forward, his elbow catches on a jagged corner snagging his jacket. Shit. He pulls it clear, knocking a grubby orange card folder to the floor. Landing at his feet, the contents splayed and scattered. His eye catches the name Peterson, he retrieves the top copy and scans the content.

Without uttering another word Tommy exits the office and makes his way across the yard back to the street towards his car. He checks the time against the manifest’s estimated delivery spots. Got you. He jabs the postcode into the SATNAV, calculating the fastest route.

ETA twelve minutes.

10

Two nine feet high wrought iron electronic gates greet Davy as he arrives home. The camera recognises the car number plate, the gate lock buzzes disengaging the mechanism before swinging open. He edges the Spider forward, the Cotswold stone chipping crunching under its weight. Shifting the gear into second, not too fast, he doesn’t want to damage the paintwork. Davy watches in the rear-view mirror as the gates close behind him. Part of his routine, can’t be too careful, plenty out there that would want to do him harm, given the opportunity. His paranoia in check, he navigates the short winding tree lined drive to the house, a mock Tudor mansion, circa 1991. A gift to his wife, but in reality it’s little more than a cage to keep her in check.  

Martha’s there, drink in hand. A little early in the day for him, but routine for her. She can see he’s troubled, but knows better than to ask. Best to let him work it through by himself. Neither of them want another row. He gives her the customary peck on the cheek and mumbles something about work to catch up on as he retreats to his den. She doesn’t question why he’s home so early in the day. It’s unusual, but that’s his business. Martha knows better than to pry, she gave up on the questioning a long time ago. 

Davy makes his way to the study and closes the door behind him, glad of the solitude. He can’t be doing with Martha’s alcohol fuelled inane questioning. It started a while back, a gin and tonic mid morning, something to break up the day. He couldn’t begrudge her that, must be lonely rattling round in this big house all day. From there, gradual progression, a glass of wine by one thirty turned into an empty bottle come three o’clock. At first he pretended not to notice, but of late it’s hard not to. These days Martha’s half cut by the time he gets home and today it’s a little shy of two in the afternoon, and she’s well on her way to oblivion. Maybe she’ll sleep it off. She’d better, he’s in no mood for her bullshit. Last week he had to give her a slap just to shut her up. Nothing too serious, an open hand across the cheek. She got the message, but now it looks as though the effect has worn off, either that or she doesn’t even remember.

There’s a knock at the door. Martha enters the room, drink in hand. He’s looking at her, times like this he can’t help but despise her. Long gone the days when she used to turn heads. It’s not her fault. After all it’s Davy that’s made her this way, but she’s not a child, she knew what she was getting into when they got together. 

She’s standing there swaying in the doorway, stupid smile on her face. Any minute now she’ll topple, smash her head off the flagstone floor, be a small mercy if she did, save him the job. He makes a mental note to contact the private clinic, time she took some R & R. Chance to dry out, a month should do it. Be easier if Martha disappeared, he’d make it quick, no sense in prolonging it.

‘I need to go out, to get some things,’ she’s saying.

‘What things?’

‘Things. Ladies things.’

‘You’re in no state to drive, Christ how many have you had?’ 

He’s taken to hiding the keys after her last little jaunt ended with her pranging the BMW. Lucky for him, no police involvement. Last thing Davy needs right now is a pissed up wife mouthing off at the cops. She’s a fucking liability.

‘What do you care?’

‘Don’t start Martha, eh. It’s been a shitty day, so don’t make it worse.’

She’s getting worked up, he can’t be dealing with this right now. 

He’s at his desk, searching the drawer for a pen and postage note. ‘Look write down what you need, I’ll get someone to go out.’

‘I want out of this fucking house Davy, you hear me? That’s what I want.’ 

Won’t be long before the tears. 

‘Prisoner in my own home. I need to get out.’

Davy’s making a call, he wants her out of his sight. Karolina, the hired help, she can go fetch. Karolina’s been with them for a few years now. She’s gained his trust, making it to the inner core of the Donaldson household. Her role has adapted since the early days. Six years ago fresh off the coach from Warsaw, bright eyed and full of expectation, she thought she’d made it. Back in the day she danced in one of the clubs until she got carved up one night. 

An over eager punter bottled her when she turned down his advances. A private dance that’s all it was. She always played it by the rules. Karolina was a good girl. Plenty of others that would have done the extras. But he wanted her, the Polish girl, nineteen years old, dark blonde hair, green eyes, C cup and a tight ass. The attraction of the forbidden. Until that point she’d been a good little earner. A face full of glass splinters and scar tissue ended it all. 

Reassigned, Karolina took on the role of home help. A mixture of maid and wet nurse to Davy’s ailing wife. She was lucky, any other girl would have been finished, out on the street. A one-way ticket back to Poland or risk turning tricks in dark alleyways.

Karolina’s on the scene, coaxing Martha away. Davy closes the door and turns the key. Can do without any further interruptions. Sitting in the high backed executive swivel chair at his antique oak desk Davy places his hands flat against the polished surface. He hangs his head forward, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Three-seconds pass, Davy lifts his head, opens his eyes and stares at nothing in particular, thoughts crashing around inside his skull.

He opens the bottom drawer of the desk, it’s empty save for the A4 printer paper that he keeps in there. He takes it out and reaches towards the back of the drawer pulling at the fake wooden divider. It comes free in his hand, he discards it to the floor and removes the clear plastic bag containing the Pay As You Go mobile. An emergency burner phone, clean and unsullied. He inserts a new SIM card, and dials the number from memory. It’s one of a half dozen memorised numbers, the type he can’t risk having on record. Besides that, neither party can afford any connection to the other. 

The phone connects at the other end. Background noise, followed by voices. The hustle and bustle of daily life. ‘Hello,’ the voice is male voice.

Davy speaks. ‘You know who this is?’ 

There’s a short silence. ‘Hold on a second, I’m going outside.’

Davy listens, his impatience growing, a concoction of indescribable muffled noises adding to his irritation, followed by the hum of traffic, a service station perhaps or a busy A Road.

‘Okay, go ahead.’

‘We need to meet, the usual place. One hour,’ 

‘Best make it an hour and a half, I’m not close enough to make it inside the hour.’

Davy curses under his breath, followed by a short silence. ‘Just be there.’ He hangs up the call.

It’s done, the wheels set in motion. He takes the SIM card out and snaps it into two separate pieces before discarding them onto the polished oak table top. Davy sits staring at the broken shards, the thought enters his head, the fragments a metaphor, summing up his relationship with Tommy. 

No going back.

Davy’s sitting to the left of the bar, he’s been there a quarter of an hour, trying to keep his agitation at bay, his pint three-quarters empty. He doesn’t like waiting around. His eyes scan the area for a payphone. Could ask the barman, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself.

He orders another drink, forcing himself to relax, he’s on neutral territory, just a face in the crowd, but he still can’t risk the security cameras picking him out. He pulls the cap further down over his brow. It’s as safe as any place for the likes of Davy Donaldson. Hiding in plain sight, an ordinary bloke having a beer. 

Davy recognises the familiar gait of the figure emerging from the crowd. He checks his watch, his guest, twenty-two minutes overdue. Less than happy. Davy Donaldson doesn’t do waiting around. He’s used to having people at his disposal, he clicks his fingers and they come running. Not this guy. 

The figure stands at the bar next to Davy. They say nothing to one another. Davy finishes his drink, he leaves a tip in the chrome tray for the barman and places a copy of the Daily Mail on the bar, then leaves.

The stranger orders a pint of Stella, retrieves the paper and scans the content. He flicks through to the sports pages - paper clipped to the top of the inside back page he identifies the target, a photograph of Tommy Donaldson. The recognition is instant, he closes the back page, takes a mouthful of beer. The flavour igniting his taste buds, he considers draining the pint, but he’s still on duty. Checks his watch, time to head back to the station.

11

Ryan’s eyes flit back to the monitor, his horse nowhere to be seen. Screwing up the betting slip he makes his way to the door, checking the street before alighting the building. It’s all clear as he scuttles to the works van. His mobile phone’s vibrating in his pocket as he reaches for the handle. He takes it out, the caller ID says it’s Gemma. He’s in two minds whether to answer it or not. Ryan needs time to think, above all he needs a strategy. He ends the call and slides into the drivers seat. His stomach lurches and twists as the thought hits him, what if the Donaldsons make a house call?

His mouth’s arid as he tries to force the images from his mind. The phone’s vibrating again. Ryan stares at the screen. CALLER UNKNOWN. This time he picks up. 

Trying but failing to keep the anxiety from his voice. ‘Hello.’ 

‘You’re a hard man to pin down Ryan.’

He recognises Tommy Donaldson’s matter-of-fact tone from the get go.

‘Tommy, I was just on my way to see you, I….’

Donaldson cuts him short. ‘Glad to hear it. I already visited the yard, met your boss, but enough of that. Thought you should know, Davy’s getting twitchy… And neither of us want that, now do we?’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Stop. Just listen, and take a breath. I’ve got some directions for you.’

‘No need I…’

Tommy interrupts for a second time, ‘Ryan, shut up and listen. Now take down this down.’ 

‘Okay, sure.’

‘You got a pen Ryan?’

‘Yeah, all set.’

‘Good. Be sure to take this down, verbatim. Pick up the A283 running north west out of town, head for Steyning, from there follow the signs for Wiston. Make sure you’re on Water Lane, follow it till the road forks left, that’ll be Hole Road. Ignore it, Water Lane runs straight on into North Lane. Follow that for a mile, or around a mile and a half until you hit the countryside. Look for forest both sides of the road and keep your eyes open for a wooden sign saying Hodgetts’ Lettings, should be on your left. Turn in there and follow the track. You got all that?’

‘Yeah, I got it all down Tommy.’

‘Now it looks like it don’t go nowhere, but stick with it and you’ll come to an old concrete water pumping station right in amongst the tree canopy. Wait there, I’ll come to you.’

‘You got a postcode or something Tommy?’

‘SatNav won’t pick this place up, all you need to do is follow the instructions.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘And Ryan, make sure you’re there at six o’clock, not before and not after.’

‘6pm. Got it.’

There’s a silence before Tommy speaks again. ‘Don’t fuck this up Ryan.’ 

The call ends. Ryan takes a sharp intake of breath, he closes his eyes. Two-seconds pass before he’s making a lunge for the door, retching yellow liquid to the gutter, the spray and spatter hitting the grey cloth interior, a stinking mess in the making. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and hangs his head towards the wheel. Get your shit together.

  He’s dialling Gemma again, trying the house phone before her mobile. Still no answer. He’s racking his brain, Tommy didn’t mention his home, said he’d gone to the yard, not the house. Question is would he go there too? Be the logical thing to do. Strange he didn’t mention it though. Just the fact that Davy was getting twitchy. What the hell does that mean? Christ knows what he’s capable of given the chance. The thought leaves him cold.

Davy’s not right in the head, Ryan’s got to warn Gemma, make sure her and the kids are safe, and out of harms way. He fires the ignition and swerves out into the oncoming traffic to the symphonic blare of car horns. 

Weaving through the traffic to a collective of hand gestures and obscenities Ryan can’t help but smile to himself. The irony of it all. Fourteen years he’s been living in exile looking over his shoulder and this is what it comes to. He’s Ryan Peterson, courier driver with a weakness for the card table and a midweek drink. But the Donaldsons know the truth. He wishes now he’d been straight with Gemma from the start, but he could never risk telling her. Turns out there never was a right time. Ignorance, always the best form of protection he could offer.

Tommy’s got to be toying with him, must realise there’s no way he’s got the money. That last horse fucked it all to hell. The bookie would have been onto Donaldson before Ryan binned the slip. 

Checking his mirrors, there’s nothing out of the ordinary. People, passers-by going about their routine. Just another day on the South coast. He’s got the phone pressed to his ear, still no answer. Not even voice mail. Panic setting in. He’s got to stay calm. She deserves more. So much more. He’s let her down, her and the kids. 

Crashing through the gears, he’s cursing at the traffic, the only thing on his mind is getting to the house. Angry motorists blaring horns, screw them, what do they know? Ryan’s weaving kamikaze style through the slew of cars and vans. His eyes flit back to the mirrors, he can see he’s got a hanger on, Morse Code flashing headlights spelling out TWAT. At least it’s not the police, more of an irate road user foaming like a rabid dog. 

Green light turning to amber. No choice but to run it. He changes down, the gear box screaming in protest. Faster now, hitting forty-five in a thirty zone. The needle still rising. Crimson blur as the wheels cross the line. 

Half a mile to go, he pictures the scene in his head. Gemma and the kids waiting out front, arms outstretched. Happy thoughts. Then it’s gone, replaced by images of the Donaldsons, in situ, waiting in his house. Davy rolling his sleeves up, Gemma sitting, wide eyed and fearful. Kids ushered out of the room, tears welling as they scream Mummy, Mummy. 

He’s got to keep it in check. This is down to him, not them. His ego. His desire to play the big man, or at least to appear that way. You’d have thought fourteen years in exile would have taught him some humility. Not a chance. Malkie Thompson always said it would be his downfall. Looks like he may have been right all along. Malkie fucking Thompson. Ryan still thinks about him every day, payback long over due.

He focuses on the road, weaving in and out of the traffic, horns blaring as more irate drivers give him the finger. The last hanger on bottled it at the cross roads and thought better of it, not to chance his luck. Wise choice, arsehole.

Ryan decelerates using a combination of the gears and the brake to slow the car as he approaches the junction. The last road before his turning, this is it the homeward stretch. There’s a metallic sensation in his mouth, the kind he gets before a migraine kicks in. Waiting for a break in the traffic, he reaches for the glove-box and pops two paracetamol, dry crunching them. The bitter after-taste combating the metallic. His heart’s banging away to its own drum and bass track as the adrenaline takes pole position. He tries to regulate his breathing. Indicating right, he makes the turn. Ryan checks the mirrors, nothing out of the ordinary, no tail. Better still no police. Doesn’t want them involved. He’s not a grass. There are codes, even now with his family’s at risk, he won’t go to the Feds. His mess, he’ll deal with it.  

Fighting the urge to drive by he slows to a stop, ten or twelve houses down from his own, everything looks normal. He’s trying the phone again, still nothing. Maybe the battery’s dead, that’s the best he can hope for. 

Ryan’s out of the van, heading for the alleyway to the side of the terraced block. Eight houses down from his own, it’s all clear. He’s ready, cosh in hand, the one he keeps hidden under the drivers seat. The world’s a dangerous place, and Brighton’s no exception, a man’s entitled to protect himself.

Approaching the back gate, still nothing bar a lone Tomcat patrolling his territory along the line of fencing. Ryan’s advancing, staying close to the perimeter, safe from prying eyes. The cat’s stopped, considering its options. Weighing up whether Ryan poses a threat as he sits grooming himself, idle paws brushing overhead with no particular haste. Ryan presses his face close to the fence slat, peeking through the gap and beyond into the backyard towards the house. 

No obvious signs of movement. He tries the gate, but it’s bolted from the middle locking mechanism. He’s no choice but to scale the tongue and groove arched gate and sprint the nine metre stretch to the back door.  

If the Donaldsons’ are waiting, they’ll spot him within three or four metres. His gut’s screaming trap, but what else can he do? This isn’t about him anymore, all that matters now is getting his wife and kids out of danger.  

He takes one last breath, then reaches up and hoists himself to the top of the structure, scrambling over it and dropping to a crouching position. He scuttles to the side of the old concrete section garage, the one he meant to demolish for the last three years. The Tomcat’s vanished, his only companion a lone crow squawking at him from the next-door neighbour’s chimney stack.

Ryan takes a second to survey the yard, nothing. He tightens his grip on the cosh if they’re lying in wait he’s got seconds to inflict damage. Two hits, and that’s if he’s lucky. 

He reaches the rear window located to the right of the door and slumps low to the ground. Listening, nothing but the hum of traffic on the main road. Ryan tries the back door, it’s locked. He fumbles through his jacket for his key and inserts it into the lock. One twist and he’s in. 

Blood pumping through his ears, the hypnotic beat obscuring any other sound. Nothing seems to be out of place. He’s making his way from the kitchen to the back room, onwards through to the lounge. Normality. Everything as it should be. Kids toys scattered, washing basket ready for the next load sitting in the middle of the floor. Ironing board in situ. A picture of domestic bliss.

He’s up the stairs, tearing through each room like a man possessed. The cosh held out in front screaming for action. He’s breathing hard, panting like a dog caught in the midday heat. One last room remaining, the kids’ bedroom. The door’s closed. He presses his ear to it, the breath caught in his mouth, he dare not exhale as he listens for any sign of life. Hoping to God that they’re not in there, Ryan pushes down on the handle, his action slow and deliberate trying to muffle any squeak that might give him away. It opens two inches before snagging, obstructed from the inside. He pushes his weight against the top half of the door, and forces a hand through, as his shoulder applies more pressure widening the aperture. 

Four inches open up, enough to get his eye to the gap, but still not enough to view the interior. He’s pushing harder. Ryan fights the urge to call out. It seems absurd to remain silent, but there could still be someone lurking in the shadows, hidden from view. He’s fighting the panic, trying to keep his emotions in check. All he wants to do is scream out their names. There’s a bit of give in the door, as it moves half an inch. Ryan forces his mass against the top half of the door. He’s got to see, he’s got to know.

Panic takes over as he slams his shoulder one last time and squeezes one leg through the gap. Pinned between the door jamb and frame, all thoughts of personal safety gone as the handle snags and digs into his gut. 

One more push and he’s in.

Frozen and mute, time standing still. He reaches out, scared to make contact, fearful of the reality of physical touch. His body rigid, mouth dry, he swallows hard against the fistful of barbed wire at the back of his throat. He’s trying to say the name but the words refuse to form. The tears in his eyes obscure his vision, then spill over and run free. He wipes them away. Don’t cry, be a man. No self-pity. Not now.

He reaches down. Contact made. Soft warm skin, a good sign. Relief as the name spills from his mouth. He places his hand to the delicate small shoulder. 

‘Daddy,’ she’s saying like she’s waking from a deep sleep.

He snatches her up into his arms. Holding her close, tears in free-fall.

‘Why are you crying Daddy?’

‘It’s okay darling, I’m here now.’ Clearing his throat he forces himself to ask the question, ‘where’s Mummy?’ His croaked voice box choking back the tears.

 ‘The man, Daddy, he said I should go to sleep. The other man said I had to lie on the bed. He said, count back from ten to one, like at the dentist. He gave me a special tablet, I tried to spit it out, but he held my mouth shut and made me swallow it. I heard Mummy crying when they took her. I pretended to sleep and when they’d gone I got out of bed but I fell down, and then… You were here. Is Mummy okay? Is she?’

He’s squeezing his daughter tighter, never wanting to let go. ‘She’s fine, I promise.’

 ‘Who’s that man? Why did Mummy go with him? Are they your friends daddy?’

 The knot in Ryan’s stomach tightens. ‘Friends, yeah, old friends of daddy’s, playing a joke, being silly. It’s okay sweetie, I’ll get Mummy, everything will be okay, you’ll see.’

She’s looking at him wide eyed, all inquisitive. ‘Where’s Dillon?’ Haven’t you got him yet? She’s wagging her finger at him, ‘Mummy will be cross.’

Confusion takes hold, ‘Dillon?’ 

‘Silly Daddy, he’s at playgroup. Did you forget Daddy, like the time before?’

Ryan’s slumped on the floor, clutching Katie in one arm, her head buried deep into his shoulder. He takes out his mobile and scrolls through his contact list.

He clears his throat and dabs at his eyes. ‘Hi, yes, is that Little Fellows play group?’

‘Yes, Lorraine speaking, how can I help?’

 ‘Great, it’s my son, Dillon Peterson, is he still there? My wife forgot to tell me to pick him up today, you’ve got him, right?’

There’s a prolonged three-second pause at the other end. ‘I’m sorry who is this please?’

‘Yeah sorry, Ryan Peterson, I’m Dillon’s dad. We haven’t spoken before, my wife Gemma she does the school run.’

Another brief silence. ‘Mr Peterson, did you say?’

A churning sensation deep in the pit of Ryan’s stomach causes acid reflux to force its way into his gullet. Katie’s looking at him, her eyes wide with concern. Ryan’s trying to mask his agitation. ‘Yes, I’m Ryan Peterson, Dillon’s father, that’s what I said.’ He swallows the bad taste, forcing it back down.

‘Oh, this is strange, Mrs Peterson arrived twenty or thirty minutes ago to pick up Dillon, with a man,’ she pauses, unsure whether she’s dropped Gemma in the proverbial.

‘I assumed that that was Mr Pe-ter-son,’ the syllables broken into an involuntary staccato effect as the intrigue takes shape in her mind. 

Ryan closes his eyes before speaking. ‘Don’t worry, all I need to know for sure, the time they arrived and when they left.’

She’s checking the book. ‘It appears Dillon signed out to Mrs Peterson at three forty.’

Ryan’s trying to hold it together, his head spinning with questions. ‘Can you tell me what this guy looked like, was he tall or short, what colour was his hair. Did he say anything?’

‘Well, I’m not sure I can give out that kind of information. Data Protection, Mr Peterson. I’ve said too much already. I mean how do I know that you are in fact whom you claim to be?’

‘Thanks, for nothing.’

‘I hope I haven’t…’

Too late, Ryan’s ended the call, already planning his next move. First, he needs to get Katie to a safe place. He hoists her up into his arms and forces a smile on to his face. 

‘Time to go play Katie.’

‘Where are we going Daddy?’

‘Auntie Susan’s.’

‘Auntie Su Su, yes,’ she says jigging around in his arms.

‘Okay, okay, we need to be quick, so grab a few toys.’

‘What about Mummy and Dillon, they’re coming too aren’t they?’

‘Yeah, they’re coming, I promise. I need to get them when I drop you off, I’ll bring them back to Auntie Susan’s. I’ll even grab a pizza so we can all eat together. Sound good?’

‘Yes.’ Katie’s gathering her things, grabbing toys, stuffing them into her cerise pink backpack. 

Ryan’s standing close to the window, scanning the street. He can’t make a move until he gets Katie to a place of safety. It’s too risky to take the van. They’re bound to be close, waiting and watching, he needs a change of vehicle. Doesn’t want them knowing how to get to Susan’s. Best to do it in plain sight. Catch a bus, get off in a crowded street. Easier to meld in to the crowd that way. He figures if he’s harder to follow, he’s harder to isolate, which makes him harder to kill.

12

He’s dropping his daughter at Susan’s house, the conversation is forced and deliberate, for the child’s sake. He leaves the detail scant and vague, trying to reassure her that everything’s fine. Spinning a line about a row, just another domestic, nothing serious. Money troubles, the usual family stuff. It sounds plausible, he’s even buying it himself. Going into detail, the way Gemma stormed out mid argument, said she was going stay with a friend, that she needed space, some me time. Time to get her head together. 

Susan’s harder to convince. She’s sceptical, part of her nature - looking at him like, yeah, heard it all before Ryan. It’s written all over her face, how the hell did my sister ever get involved with a loser like you? He knows it well, the same expression fixed to Gemma’s face - a concrete mask of disappointment. 

Ryan’s told Katie not to mention daddy’s friends, he’s buying time, no way she can keep a secret. She’ll be covering her mouth as the words come tumbling out. Susan’s no fool, she’ll pick her way through it, piece it together like Columbo, and draw her own conclusions. Either way, it’ll be the same outcome - condemnation. Best he can hope for right now is that she doesn’t call the police.

He’s on the doorstep, keeping his emotions in check. Susan’s eyes’ boring into him, seeking the truth. She knows its bullshit. They’re both acting, playing their parts. Got to keep up appearances for Katie, protect her from the truth, even if her dad is an arsehole. 

Ryan’s tearing himself away, kissing his daughter on the head, he knows it could be for the last time. He scoops her up, holds her tight. ‘Back soon, you be good for Auntie Susan now, okay?’ 

He’s thanking Susan, his hand clasped around hers, she’s not buying it. ‘Just bring them back’. Smiling for Katie’s sake. Susan knows the deal, but it’s easier not to ask. She’s heard the stories from Gemma, a glass of wine freeing up the tongue. Words tumbling out, explaining Ryan’s early life, the one he glosses over. His connection to the midlands, and the crowd he fell in with, the spiralling debts and his flight south in search of a fresh start.

Ryan’s pacing towards Susan’s Audi A4, she’s promised to lend it him provided he brings it back in one piece. It’s seen better days, a dented wing and a busted mirror the latest adornments, courtesy of Susan’s assertive driving technique. He’s checking his street market fake Tag Heuer timepiece, he’s got two hours remaining minus the commute to the rendezvous. Ninety minutes to find three grand. He starts the engine, puts it into first, a quick wave of the hand and he’s out of there.

Wipers on full speed, he whacks the air con up to the maximum to stop the glass from steaming up. It’s shitty weather, just what he can do without. His phone chirps into life on the passenger seat beside him. Ryan glances down at the caller ID but fails to recognise it. Heart palpitations catch his breath. No time to pull over, he’s got to keep going. One hand on the wheel, his eyes straining against the driving rain as it bounces off the windscreen. He picks up. The call connects, there’s nothing but silence. He speaks first. ‘Tommy, that you? I’m coming in now, put my wife on the phone. Tommy, you listening? Put Gemma on…’

He’s straining his ear over the noise of the rain hitting the car and the background noise of the open line, it sounds industrial like a bus depot or a lorry-park. The seconds pass. ‘Tommy, you there?’ The line disconnects. Shit.

He checks the rear-view mirror, last thing he needs right now is to get pulled for using his phone. Whatever happens he’s got to establish contact. The carriageway’s clear. Ryan slows the car, bumping it off-road and onto the grass verge.

He hits redial. Come on come on.

The automated voice service kicks in, ‘INCOMING CALLS TO THIS NUMBER ARE BLOCKED, PLEASE CHECK AND DIAL AGAIN.’

Ryan punches the dashboard, his frustration boiling over into a tirade of obscenities. He rests both arms on the steering wheel and hangs his head forward in an attempt to gain clarity. He’s no good to Gemma and Dillon like this. 

The phone vibrates on the seat next to him. He snatches it, ‘Don’t piss me around.’

‘My sentiments exactly.’ 

Ryan doesn’t recognise the voice, two-seconds later it dawns on him.

‘Davy, listen I already spoke with Tommy, it’s all sorted, the meet at 6pm. Everything, it’s all good.’

‘Doing deals behind my back is he? I’ll be having words with that brother of mine.’

‘No no. Davy, you got it all wrong. I’ve got the money, it’s all there, ready and waiting. We need to meet face to face. This has all got out of hand. A misunderstanding, that’s all it is.’

Seconds pass, the phone remains silent, save for the muffled background noises as the handset is relinquished from one recipient to another.

‘Ryan… Is that… You?’

The voice is croaky and tired, but the recognition instant. He swallows hard, trying to stave off the emotion. 

‘Baby… Oh Jesus. I’m sorry, are you okay, where’s Dill…?’

Before she can answer the phone’s snatched from her. 

‘They’re good, the Missus and the boy. Now if you want to keep it that way, you better stop fucking around, because if you don’t… Have no doubt in your mind Peterson - I will hurt them, and Ryan, I’ll take it slow - you can count on that.’

Ryan swallows down on the barrel of rage building inside his chest. ‘You’ve crossed the line Davy, going after my wife and kid, that’s bang out of order. You know it and I know it. Christ’s sake, even your kid brother thinks you’ve lost it.’

‘Yeah… What can I say? Tommy never did have the stomach for the more demanding nature of the business, but you let me worry about that. Make sure you’re there with the money. No excuses.’ 

Ryan’s head’s a maelstrom of emotion, his brain can’t function, all he wants is Gemma and Dillon by his side. ‘You know what Davy, I got a better idea. Let’s stop fucking around. Why don’t you and me just get this thing done now?You just say where and when, I’m there.’

‘Now there’s me thinking a man in your position would be thankful for the extra time.’ Davy checks his watch, ‘I make it 4:02pm. Means you’ve still got the best part of two hours. The way I’m hearing it, that last horse of yours bombed out on the final length. So being a sporting man we’ll stick with Tommy’s original six o’clock meet and in the meantime I’ve got little wifey to keep me occupied.’ The phone clicks off.

 George drops the gear to third as he approaches the bend in the road, he’s been tailing Ryan since the woman’s house where he dropped the kid off. Looks like he’s borrowed her car, some piece of shit late 1980s Audi. He still can’t piece it together in his head, his instinct’s telling him Ryan’s in some kind of trouble. No surprises there, seems to follow him like a fly to shit, then again it always did. Some things never change.  

Rounding the corner, he sees the car sitting on the verge. Hard to say whether he’s crashed or parked up, the road’s deserted with no obvious sign of a collision. George dabs the breaks as he drives past trying to get a closer peek. He sees the body slumped forward, the head resting on arms against the steering wheel. He slows to a stop, hits the Hazard Warning light and exits the car.

The phone activates, Ryan picks up before the second warble completes. ‘What?’

The signal’s intermittent, breaking up, the voice shrouded in static. 

‘You’re breaking up, say again…’

Ryan notices the orange blur of the hazard lights flashing through the rain ricocheting off the windscreen, then the strange gait of the approaching figure. What the hell does this guy want?

George, head down, advancing into the wind and rain, the pain worsening as he drags himself forward. He ignores it, and presses on towards the car, his jaw clamped tight against the rising agony. He’s got to stay strong, everything depends on this. Whatever happens he’s got to bring Ryan in. He risks lifting his head to glance at the driver, can see he’s on the phone. He’s betting on Ryan not recognising him after all this time, at least not from a distance. 

Almost there, six feet separating them. Ryan’s still got the phone pressed to his ear. George makes for the passenger door on the inside verge. He knocks on the window, the occupant ignores him. George tries again, this time the window retracts a little.

‘What do you want mate - you lost? Kind of busy here, taking an important call.’

George keeps his head slung low, careful to obscure his identity. ‘Sorry, it’s my leg, gashed it open, can’t stop the bleeding. You got a medical kit or anything I can tie around it until I can get to a doctor?’ 

Ryan’s caught off guard, still got the static break up in his ear, he can’t decipher it, he reaches for the glove box with one hand keeping the phone to his ear with the other. He opens it, fingertips probing inside, his eyes fixed on the stranger propped up against the side of the car. ‘Sorry mate, noth…’

George leans his hand against the roof of the car, the other reaching for the Browning tucked into the back of his waistband. He pulls the 9 mm and points it through the gap in the window.

‘Open the fucking door.’

The voice is familiar, but Ryan can’t place it. He complies and releases the locking mechanism. The stranger keeps the gun trained on his chest and slides into the front passenger seat.

 It’s like the last fourteen years melting away to nothing. Ryan’s brain’s playing catch up trying to process the information. ‘Geo… Patterson. What the…?’

Trying to get comfortable George manoeuvres himself, keeping the 9 mm aimed at Ryan for the duration. ‘Not lost my looks, eh? Wasn’t sure you’d recognise me after all this time. Now hang up the phone.’

‘I can’t do that.’

George prods the Browning into the side of Ryan’s ribcage an inch below his armpit. ‘You don’t have a choice.’

‘You working for them now, that what this is?’

‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about Ryan.’

‘Ah Jesus Christ George, they got my wife and kid, so don’t bullshit me.’

George’s face is a blank mask. ‘Put the phone down.’

‘Freelancing for the Donaldsons’? Thought you were better than that George.

George releases the pressure on his grip a little and sits back, the gun still trained on Ryan’s chest. ‘I don’t have time for the Jackanory, and I don’t know any fucking Donaldsons. Now put the phone down.’ 

 Ryan locks eyes with George. ‘I do that and they’re as good as dead.’

‘You’re forgetting I’m the one holding the gun. You’re no good to anyone with a hole in your chest.’

‘What do you want George? I mean, fourteen years and now you turn up.’

 George places the muzzle of the 9 mm to Ryan’s temple. ‘That’s just the way it is. Now I’m not gonna say it again.’

Ryan complies, he ends the call but keeps the phone in hand. ‘So what now, you going to shoot me at the roadside or do it someplace out of sight?’

‘I’m not here to kill you, least - not yet. I’m giving you an opportunity. Chance to put things right. Consider it a way out of whatever shit you got yourself into this time.’

Ryan shakes his head and laughs. ‘Am I hearing this right? Unbelievable.’

‘Listen dickhead, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need to be. You think if Malkie wanted you dead, he’d send me? No way - don’t flatter yourself, and don’t go getting any delusions of grandeur.’

‘You expect me to buy into this bullshit? What do you want George?’

‘You’re coming back with me.’

‘What… Are you mad?’

George whips the barrel of the 9 mm across Ryan’s cheekbone.

‘I’m not asking. Now use your head. You’re supposed to be the one with the brains after all.’

Ryan raises his hand to his face, pulling his fingers away checking for blood. ‘What the hell you do that for?’

George ignores the question. ‘Who the fuck are these Donaldsons anyway?’

‘Trust me, you don’t want to know. Let’s just say they’re bad news - leave it at that.’

George shakes his head. ‘Same old shit. Let me guess, a gambling debt. Card game, right?’

‘Something like that.’

‘How much?’

‘Three grand.’

‘You’re telling me, they’re holding your family for a lousy three grand?’

‘Yeah, that’s what I said. The older brother, Davy - he’s taken it personal, like an affront to his manhood or something. He’s messed up. Gets off on hurting people. The other one, Tommy - he’s not too bad, but he’s shit scared of his brother.’

‘So you’ve got their money?’

‘Course I haven’t got it. But I can lay my hands on it.’

‘Still playing the wide boy Ryan, eh? Except this time the stakes are a little higher.’

‘I said I can get the money.’

‘It’s not me you’ve got to convince, but go on amuse me, where you gonna get it?’

‘Card game, flat above the kebab shop on the high street. They trust me. I can get a seat at the table…’

‘And what are you planning to do, play a hand and hope to God you get lucky?’

‘No, don’t be stupid George. I’m taking it - all of it.’

‘You reckon?’

‘I don’t have time to dick around with this George.’

‘Let me get this straight in my head, so you think you’re gonna walk in there, grab a seat, play a hand - money on the table, and you’re just going to do some teenage smash and grab routine and leg it out of there.’

‘Something like that.’

‘You won’t get six feet out of the room before they’re on you. They’ve got security right?’

‘Two guys as muscle, they look the part but that’s about it. No firearms, pickaxe handle and a taser gun, that’s it.’

‘That’s still 1500 volts, broken ribs and smashed limbs. So how much we talking?’

‘This afternoon, it’s a warm up for the main event but still looking at well over ten grand in the pot.’

‘Enough to cover your debt?’

‘Yeah, and plenty more on top, but the Donaldsons, they’ll want compensation, so I need to make a decent gesture.’

‘That’s if they don’t take your kneecaps first you mean.’

‘Tommy’s all right, he’ll listen to reason.’

‘And this other brother, Darren?’

‘Davy - no way. He’ll want to make an example of me.’

‘He’ll hurt your wife and kiddie, regardless?’

‘Perhaps. He’ll do something for sure - no doubt about that, but he’ll want me to watch.’

    George scratches his head with the muzzle of the Browning. ‘I’m sorry. I got no choice Ryan. I gotta take you in. Orders from Malkie. You’re needed back home.’

Ryan turns his attention from the rain bouncing off the car bonnet and fixes George with an icy stare. ‘This is my home, has been for the last fourteen years. The only way you’re getting me back up there is in a body bag, so you may as well get it over with now.’

George contemplates the scenario for a moment. ‘Yeah, okay. I get it. You can be one stubborn bastard, you know that?’

Ryan continues to stare at George but says nothing.

  ‘Let’s say I help you out, that would mean you owe me a personal favour, right? Nothing to do with Malkie, between the two of us - no one else.’ 

Ryan bites at the inside of his cheek, already knowing where the conversation is heading. Reluctant to agree to anything, but it’s his best option. He nods agreement.

 George offers his hand, the 9 mm held steady in the other, aimed at Ryan’s centre mass. Contract sealed, George continues. ‘So this is how it’ll pan out. You do what you’ve got to do to get the money. Then we drive out to the Donaldsons. We negotiate, sweeten the deal, double the take, offer them six grand for their trouble, assure them you’re done with the whole gambling thing and that you’ll cause them no more grief or embarrassment. Make it clear to them that you’re leaving town but keep it vague, no details. We make the exchange, you get your family back, and we drop them some place safe. After that, you and I head north - to Malkie.’

‘You make it sound easy.’

‘I never said it would be easy, I’m talking best-case scenario. If it all goes to shit, we may have to adapt to the situation.’

Ryan looks away, his attention focusing on the rain blurring the window. ‘Why now George, after all this time?’

George rubs at his leg, massaging the pain. ‘Malkie’s not in the best of health, and that’s all I can say.’

‘He’s dying?’

‘None of us are getting any younger, put it this way, the organisation needs new blood.’

‘Why me George?’

‘Enough of the questions. We’ve agreed - shook on it. Now let’s concentrate on the here and now - getting your wife and kid back.’

 ‘Tell me.’

‘George raises his eyes skyward. ‘I’d forgot what a persistent pain in the arse you can be. Okay, fuck it, one word - Cunningham. Happy now?’

‘Jason Cunningham?’ 

‘The very same. Let’s call him a man of ambition - yet to be fulfilled.’

Ryan considers the proposition. ‘And where do I fit in?’

A wide grin breaks out on George’s face. ‘Do what you do best, get close Ryan. You’re the last one he’ll expect after all this time.’

Ryan fires the ignition ready for the off. ‘This is madness George, I’ve got to get my family. I don’t have time for this.’

‘We’ve got an agreement Ryan, the two of us, no Malkie.’

‘I’m done with all that shit, I’m out.’

‘It don’t work like that, none of us get to choose, you can’t walk away. You’re a lifetime member Ryan, same as me.’

‘Answer me one thing, how did you find me?’

George locks eyes with Ryan. ‘Never lost you, kept tabs on you over the years.’

‘Ah come on this is insane.’

‘You want your family back? This is how it’s got to be.’ 

Ryan puts his head in his hands. ‘Jesus Christ, what a fucking mess.’

George raises the gun and jabs it into Ryan’s neck. ‘I’m done with babysitting. You want to start over? A fresh start, this is it. Consider it a new beginning, for you, your wife and the kids. A chance to get even. Set it straight. You don’t want that? Fine. We finish it here. I put a bullet in you and I walk away. You can bleed out knowing you left your family to the Donaldsons.’

Ryan bounces his head off the steering wheel. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck it.’

‘What are you a child, you feel better now?’

‘You planning on screwing me over George?’

‘You think I’d come all this way?’

‘I can’t think straight, I don’t…’

‘Trust me, I’m not.’

‘How do I know for sure?’

‘Because it was me who got you out. I told Malkie you’d done a runner - vanished. Listen Ryan I got no personal reason for wanting you dead but this situation leaves everything hanging in the balance. No way I’m sitting back and letting Cunningham destroy everything.’

‘What’s he like now?’

‘Who?’

‘Cunningham.’

‘Same little shit he always was. Except now he’s got back up.’

‘Back up?’

‘Yeah, he’s done a deal. It’s the only way he’s got any hope of taking over from Malkie.’

‘Who?’

‘Take your pick. Could be one of many. You got the Birmingham crews, they’re not much more than kids on scooters, make their money mugging and dealing but they’re not afraid of going inside and doing a stretch. See it as a badge of honour. This could be a step up for them. Chance to join the premier league.’

Ryan nods his understanding.

George continues. ‘Let’s not forget the Murtaghs. One generation removed from Irish travelling stock. Could be that they’ve grown tired of tarmacking drives and laying patios. Moving on, carving out a little niche dealing crack cocaine and amphetamines. That’s before we consider where the real money comes from.’

‘Yeah, and where’s that coming from George?’

‘People trafficking. Young girls for the most part. They move them between the clans, ply them with alcohol and Weed. Transport them from one camp to the next.’

‘So what, they’re sex workers?’

‘Pretty much. All from similar backgrounds, problem kids. The sort the schools’ can’t handle and Social Services can’t keep track of.’

‘Not much different down here George, except it’s the Donaldsons rather than gypsies controlling the skin trade.’

‘No, that’s not the best of it Ryan, the big money, that’s with the foreign workers. Free labour, domestic slaves. That’s where they’re cashing in big time.’

‘Seems like Malkie missed a trick.’

‘May-be-so. Now if I were a betting man, I’d put all my money on Bosko’s outfit.’

‘Who the fuck’s Bosko?’

‘A Pole. Malkie’s been using him for jobs on and off over the years. He started out as a gang-master bringing in the illegals for the construction game. Branched out into providing seasonal migrant workers for the fields, picking fruit and veg, back breaking shit that no one else wanted to do.’

’Sounds like he saw an opportunity, can’t fault him on that George.’

‘Yeah… Well, Frank brought him in. No surprises there - he’s almost family.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Frank’s half Polak - what, you never knew?’

‘Why would I?’

‘Thought it was common knowledge, I guess not.’

‘Ever consider you might be looking in the wrong place George. I mean it could be Frank, making it seem like it’s down to Cunningham?’

‘Yeah, I had the same notion for a while, but it makes no sense, not after all this time. Frank could have made his play years ago. Why wait till now when he’s got no reason to?’

‘Not even if he thinks Malkie’s going soft?’

George considers it for a moment. ‘You trying to raise doubts in my head Ryan? Don’t think anything you’re saying now hasn’t run through my brain a thousand times over. No way this is Frank, we’ve been through too much shit over the years. Trust me, this is down to Cunningham. He’s wanted this so bad for fourteen years. When Malkie didn’t hand him the reigns, he ordered the hit. Simple as that.’

‘You serious? I can’t see Malkie would consider making him the boss?’

‘Only in Cunningham’s head. Trust me when I say this, no one in the Firm will follow him. Christ, you know what he’s like. Can’t have an animal like him taking charge of the organisation. Now Bosko’s crew, they’re not so fussy. Going into partnership with Cunningham serves their purpose and when they’re done with him, he’ll disappear. But he doesn’t see that, he’s got his mind set on being top dog, he can’t see the bigger picture.’

Ryan places both hands to his face and rubs at his eyes. ‘I can’t get my head round any of this George. Malkie Thompson wanted me dead, and now he wants me back to deal with Cunningham?’

‘Don’t take it personal. Cunningham’s his blood, he’s family. You made for a convenient scapegoat that’s all. Cunningham had his wings clipped, got busted down to zero, but kept his head down, least he made out he did. Turns out he’s been making plans, biding his time. You took the fall. Malkie wanted you dealt with, no come backs. Instead I ran you out. Gave you a chance. It never sat right with me, Cunningham lording it up while they exiled you. And believe me when I say, none of it went down well with the others. The thing is Ryan, you and Cunningham came damned close to dismantling the Firm.’

‘And see where it got me.’

‘Listen, I gave Billy Kane my word, I’d look out for you. That’s why I got you out and that’s why I’m here now.’

‘So what happens once Cunningham’s off the scene?’

‘Happy days Ryan, everything’s squared off, and that my friend places you in prime position to step up - if you want it. At the end of the day even Malkie realises he can’t hold on forever.’

‘And what about Gemma and my kids?’

‘Once the dust settles, that’s up to you - it’s your family.’

 ‘She knows nothing about the past, all I’ve ever told her is that I had a couple of debts…’

‘That’s your business Ryan, but things are different now. Another six to nine months, everything will be legit, but first we gotta deal with Cunningham.’

‘What about these backers, you expecting them to just fall by the wayside?’

‘You’ve got to remember Stanek Bosko’s a businessman, he’s a survivor, he’ll climb back in his box once he sees Cunningham’s out of the picture.’

‘And then what, wait for him to rebuild?’

‘Bosko’s no more than an attack dog, keep him on a leash, well fed and he’ll be compliant.’

‘So what, you want to offer him a deal?’

‘Either that or you inherit a war without end, and none of us want that. Safer to keep him onside, might be of some use. Besides, we got the info on his extended family - living in Krakow, wouldn’t take much to send him a personal message if he ever dared to step out of line in the future.’

‘You’re positive this is all down to Cunningham, nothing to do with Frank?’ 

‘Quit with the Frank theory.’

‘Where’s he at right now George?’

‘Holed up on Malkie’s orders.’

‘And Ron?’

George shrugs his shoulders. ‘Ron don’t have it in him to take on the Firm.’

‘And what about you George, you using me as a pawn in some bigger game plan?’

‘Mr Paranoia, listen, trust me on this, Cunningham ordered the hit. I should have dealt with him years ago but he’s Malkie’s nephew. Blood is blood George, that’s what he said. Warned me off, so I left it alone, and now here we are.’

The phone rings.

Ryan looks to George. ‘I need to take this.’

George nods his head, but keeps the 9 mm trained at waist level.

The phone signal’s intermittent, as if the caller’s travelling through a tunnel, coming in and out of range. ‘Who is this, Davy… Tommy that you?’

‘I.’S. OM. Y DID YO. JUS.. AY D. VY?’ 

‘Say again, I didn’t catch that.’

The connection goes silent.

‘Shit.’ Ryan slams the handset against the dash.

George breathes through the rising pain in his leg. ‘They’ll call back.’

‘How can you be so sure? What if they’re watching right now? That’s my wife and kid they’ve got.’

‘Relax. Like I said, they’ll phone back.’

‘You in on this George, some kind of Davy Donaldson elaborate mind fuck?’ 

George asserts his grip on the Browning. ‘Don’t let that imagination of yours run riot.’

‘I got three decent things George, my wife, and my two kids - that’s it.’

‘And we’ll go get them.’

Ryan juts his head forward in George’s direction. ‘Screw me over on this, and I swear to God I’ll kill you.’

‘I don’t doubt it, not even for a second. Now save that anger and channel it.’

‘Explain one thing George, how the hell am I supposed to get close to Cunningham, anyway?’

‘Don’t you see, that’s the beauty of it? As far as he’s concerned you’re already dead. You’re a ghost Ryan - back from the grave. So this is how you play it. Return from exile, you want to start over. You’re gonna need a job. You got word Malkie’s off the scene, and that’s why you’ve waited all these years, biding your time, waiting for the right opportunity.’ 

‘Thought you said he wasn’t dead?’

‘He’s not, but Cunningham can’t be certain. Malkie took a bullet to the shoulder. He’s okay, moaning and groaning like an old bastard but he’s safe - for now.’ 

Ryan closes his eyes. ‘How the hell did I get into this?’

13

If George wanted Ryan Kane on board that meant playing along. First - get his wife and kid back, even though the prospect of taking on another outfit filled him with dread. It was another distraction he could do without. Whichever way it played out, the truth was staring him in the face - Cunningham and Bosko needed sorting and fast. Each hour away from Malkie struck another proverbial nail in the coffin, not just for Malkie Thompson but for the entire organisation. 

George was certain of one thing if Cunningham succeeded he wouldn’t have to worry too much about his own future. No one could argue that there was ever any love lost between the two, and no way Cunningham would leave George Patterson to see out his retirement tending to his roses. 

Breaking it down to its base elements - it was about survival. George was here as much for himself as he was for Malkie and whether Ryan Kane realised it, he was the key to restoring equilibrium. With Ryan in position as Malkie’s successor they’d appease those who doubted whether the Firm could continue. Of that George was in no doubt, except now it would continue under new management. He likened it to a premiership football team, long overdue a change of management and tactics.

First there was the small matter of dealing with the Donaldson brothers. He’d lied when he said he hadn’t heard of them, wasn’t much they didn’t have dealings with south of Swindon. Their growing reputation ensured that those that mattered in the criminal fraternity paid close attention as did the agents of the National Crime Agency. 

Davy Donaldson had the contacts and the backing to become England’s next undisputed drug overlord. Many had grown tired of dealing with the Essex gangs, their terms of business and tariffs becoming evermore extortionate. For many the Donaldsons were the only viable option for restoring the balance. Besides that Davy had made no secret of his desire to go head to head with the Southend outfits, and if that meant taking the war to them, so be it.   

Ten years in the making and the Donaldsons had worked hard to cement their reputation. In the early days it was Davy, the older of the two carving out a niche, first acting as muscle for other firms, before moving in and taking over. His means and methods more extreme than his predecessors meant any resistance soon evaporated. Since then Tommy had joined his brother, seen by many as the more balanced of the two. To the outside world the brothers presented as an unbreakable force, behind closed doors there was an intense rivalry. It had always been that way, ingrained in their DNA.

It was a headache George could do without. He needed Ryan, and that put him on a direct collision course with the Donaldsons. They already had his wife and kid, so weren’t about to play nice because George Patterson was in tow.

George’s knowledge of the brothers was sketchy, but he’d heard enough to realise they were both dangerous individuals. A view which his conversations with Ryan had only reinforced. 

Davy sounded like a younger version of Malkie, bordering on psychotic - when the mood took him. George had dealt with plenty of adversaries over the years, some more capable than others. Nine times out of ten it never ended well. The last thing George needed right now was to escalate tension. The Firm could ill afford to be fighting a war on two fronts. With that in mind he’d be calling on his skills of tact and diplomacy to reach a mutual agreement and if that didn’t work, well…

His main priority was to extract Ryan’s family unharmed. That’s where the money came in. George wasn’t in the mindset to enter a Dutch auction, they either accepted the terms or they didn’t. Whatever happened, he couldn’t risk the Donaldsons coming after Ryan or his family. It ended here and now. 

George’s plan was simplistic - separate the brothers, use one against the other to gain leverage. Tommy was his way in. 

He watched as Ryan flitted across the road, dodging the oncoming traffic, angry drivers blaring their horns and giving hand-gestures out of the window as he danced between cars - advancing towards the safety of the kerbside before jogging to Emmet’s kebab shop entrance. 

From the outside, the premises presented to the unsuspecting world as any other fast-food joint. Nine feet high plate-glass windows sitting atop a low level three course slate grey tiled wall. The orange neon effect signage shorting out as the second M in Emmet’s flickered on and off.

 He could see the CLOSED sign facing outwards onto the street. It was still early in the day for anyone to place an order, but there’d be a skeleton staff on-site preparing for opening time. George shut his eyes imagining the scene. If Ryan’s judgement was to be trusted that meant dealing with three kitchen staff - they’d be out back doing the prep, pots, pans, food from the freezer. That left the unforeseen, whatever Emmet used as security. The thought nagged at him causing a sharp pain to stab at the back of his eye, least it took his mind off his leg for the moment.

George checked the clip on his Browning 9 mm. Firearms were always a last resort, but he felt reassured by its heft and bulk as he turned it over in his grip. In a career spanning something close to forty years it had become his favoured go to weapon of choice. A partner for life, confident in its handling, and his own ability as a shooter, so far it had never let him down and without tempting fate he saw no reason why that should change now. If all went to plan the 9 mm was there as a deterrent, nothing more, bitter experience had taught him that there was no point in carrying a piece unless the owner was prepared to use lethal force. It boiled down to a simple choice between life and death. Hesitate and you were dead. Besides, for George it wasn’t a fashion accessory. No point in packing heat if it was reduced to an impotent lump of cold steel. All things considered, going up against a mob of angry Turks on their own patch, he was glad to put his trust and confidence in the precision engineering of his Browning 9 mm.

Movement inside the shop caught his eye. A thick set guy, two hundred plus pounds - mid thirties, stepped out from behind the counter and approached the external door, then unlocked it. George observed the mannerisms as a brief exchange of words took place, it all seemed friendly enough. So far so good.

Ryan entered the premises then disappeared out of sight. 

Game on. George set his watch, fifteen minutes tops - that was it. If Ryan wasn’t out by then he was going in. He said a silent prayer, hoping that Ryan had got it right. If he’d miscalculated, they were both in deep shite. Events would deteriorate in the blink of an eye, leaving George’s widow collecting body parts for the months to come and for Ryan’s family - well, that didn’t bear thinking about.

The Turks George had dealt always preferred blades and cleavers to guns but George was going in blind, no idea who this Emmet was, or to whom he was connected. According to Ryan he was a local businessman making extra cash hosting illegal card games. To sweeten the deal, he kept the local constabulary onside by bunging them an envelope of used notes. In George’s experience, things were never that simple.

He continued to observe from the car as Ryan managed to blag his way in. The Turk patted him down. Standard procedure for anyone trying to gain entry to the invite only game. Not that Firat was checking for weapons, more a case of ensuring no wires or video recording equipment made it inside.

Firat had a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Didn’t expect to see you back so soon, not after last time.’ He took out his phone, opened his notes app and scrolled through the list of names.

Ryan held out his hands and shrugged his shoulders. ‘You know how it is, can’t keep a good man down for long.’

Firat looked up from his screen. ‘I must check with Emmet, special invitation only and I don’t see your name on the list.’

‘Come on. I’m a regular, friend of the family and all that.’

Firat eyed him, he said nothing. Seconds passed, he nodded his head and smiled. ‘Even so… Okay, wait here - I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Good man - I’ll make sure there’s a nice little bottle of something special for you next time I’m passing.’

Firat glanced back over his shoulder checking for anyone close enough to hear the conversation. ‘Ryan, I’m Muslim. We don’t drink - it’s forbidden in the Koran.’

‘Oh yeah, sorry mate. No disrespect, but didn’t I see you down at Freddie’s the other week with that blonde - Jack D in hand?’

Firat turned on the bottom riser of the stairs. ‘Ssh - keep it down, okay man - you want me to talk to Emmet or not?’

 ‘I’m pissing around, that’s all.’

Firat gave him a look, one that said, another word and I’ll slit your throat, then continued up the stairs taking two at a time.

Ryan waited out of sight in the grey dour corridor at the back of the shop. He listened as people worked in the kitchen with the occasional roar of laughter as what sounded like pots and pans clanged to the floor. He could make out two voices in conversation, not that he could understand it, but he presumed they were speaking Turkish. Then there was a third voice - drowned out for the most part but still audible, three potential problems.

Less than ninety-seconds later Firat returned, jutting his head to the side as he instructed Ryan to continue up the steep staircase to the living quarters above. 

Ryan tapped Firat on the shoulder to show his gratitude before ascending the stairs. He entered the open plan apartment, his eyes focusing on the kitchen come living space with a huge mahogany table taking centre stage in the middle of the room. Three gaudy lilac shaded doors led off from the main room. From memory he recalled that the door to the far left housed what passed for a toilet. The other two were little more than glorified storage come junk rooms.

   The room contained four bodies milling around - busying themselves with drinks in the far corner. They gave Ryan a cursory glance before continuing chatting and smoking their cigarettes. He recognised two out of the four. They were regulars - much like himself, except they didn’t owe the Donaldsons like he did. He dipped his head in acknowledgement. One of the four reciprocated the greeting before returning to the conversation, the others ignored him. 

Emmet was seated at the table, Ryan waited to be summoned over. He tuned his ear to the group conversation - same old shit, nothing of note. Normal stuff - Brexit, family stuff, gripes about kids at university costing an arm and leg, each bitching about their respective partner. Banter and false pleasantries in the lead up to the main event where each would do their utmost to fleece the other.

He recognised another face looking at him from across the table. The owner was stocky and muscular - looked like he spent most of his time in the gym, either that or he was popping too many steroids for breakfast each day. He was on the short side, five eight, a hundred and eighty pounds. Wore his hair tight at the sides, a grade zero skin blend laid over with a buzz cut on top. Judging by his olive skin Ryan guessed he was of Turkish origin, muscle for Emmet. The proximity of his body coupled with the mannerisms and gestures between the two suggested there may be more to their story. 

His name was Semih, and he was lethal in a confined space. Last time around Ryan had witnessed him eject a punter who’d accused another player of cheating. He never even uttered a word, he grabbed the guy from his seat by his shirt collar and threw him down the stairs before removing him via the rear fire-door. He’d returned within two minutes, his expression blank, his white shirt accommodating fresh crimson flecks.

That’s all it had taken, nothing more than a nod from Emmet, and the guy had been robbed of his take and bashed up pretty good. Ryan knew there was a good reason Emmet’s get togethers were so popular, not only did they attract some of the highest midweek stakes but no one had ever dared to rip off the Turks. Punters wanted safety and security - and they didn’t want to get busted by the police either. Emmet had it all in hand. Besides, who’d be crazy enough to rip him off? Everyone knew the Turks were a close knit family, go against one - you went against all. That alone would be enough to deter most. Emmet’s reputation was such that even the likes of Tommy Donaldson frequented the odd game. 

 Semih approached and frisked Ryan, double checking that Firat had done a decent job on the door. He turned and nodded to Emmet, who beckoned Ryan forward with a flick of the hand.

‘Ryan, I thought you’d be licking your wounds after last time but who am I to come between a man and his passion.’

Ryan wanted to smash that smug look off his face. He looked down to the floor before his eyes flitted back to Emmet. ‘Reckon I’m due a change in luck.’

Emmet said nothing in reply, he rubbed at the two days worth of white stubble on his chin. ‘What are you offering, I don’t see any cash, unless your personal banker is on his way over here right now with a briefcase full of used notes?’ He laughed at his own joke, the other guests sniggering from across the room. 

Ryan nodded but remained focused. Emmet already had the answer, but wanted to hear it said out loud. 

‘No banker. All I’m asking for is a chance to put things right. Start over. You never had a bad run Emmet? Come on man, you know what it's like. Can’t last forever, right?’

Emmet took a sip from the small white cup, the aroma of fresh Turkish coffee filling the air. ‘I think maybe lady luck has left you high and dry this time my friend. I hear Tommy Donaldson is out looking for you. Perhaps I should call him.’ Emmet reached into his pocket and made a show of pulling out his mobile phone.

Ryan moved forward, his first instinct was to make a grab for the phone. Semih bristled, but remained steady. If Emmet gave him the nod, it would all be over.

Sensing his presence Ryan took a pace backwards allowing time to compose himself. ‘All I’m looking for is an in. I’ll make good. So come on Emmet, what d’ya say?’

Emmet scratched at his whiskers, considering Ryan’s predicament for a moment. ‘You’ve got nothing to offer, why should I let you join the game when these good people have paid a premium price to be here today?’

‘Come on Emmet, you can trust me, you’ll get your money - stump me the cash, your terms. Whatever you like - it's fine.’

Emmet slouched back in his chair. ‘You must be hurting real bad Ryan to turn up here, and make an offer like that. In fact if I recall, isn’t that what you told Tommy Donaldson, and now he’s out scouring the streets looking for you.’

Time was edging away, Ryan had to act fast if his plan had any chance of working, ‘So give me a chance, come on.’

Emmet took another sip of coffee.  ‘And how are you planning on repaying the debt when you lose Ryan? You’re not in a position to pay me and the Donaldsons. Ask yourself this my friend, do you want me coming after you, when you have two brothers to contend with already?’

Ryan leant in closer. ‘That won’t happen, I’ve got a good feeling about this, it’s my time. Come on - I need this.’

 Emmet’s gaze flicked from Ryan to Semih, standing poised - ready for the order. ‘Perhaps you think I am soft, that you can make me wait for my money, and that the Donaldsons are more important than me. Yes, is this not the case?’

Ryan kept an eye on Emmet, aware that Semih loomed less than two paces away - well within striking distance. ‘Emmet, I respect you, no way I’d try to put one over on you. I need a chance - that’s all. Let me play one hand that’s all I’m asking for.’

Emmet lit a cigarette and took a long drag before muttering something in Turkish. Semih appeared to relax a little but remained vigilant. Emmet pointed to the eight by six flag festooned on the wall behind the drinks cabinet. ‘You recognise it?’

 Ryan turned. ‘Turkish Flag?’

‘Correct, the national emblem of my country, which the UK refuses to let into the EU. So people like me, we are outsiders, unwelcome visitors. Tolerated, but never accepted. I had to buy my way into this country, travel with the filth and vermin to get a chance at a new life.’

‘Hey Emmet, all I’m trying to do is get into a card game. I don’t give a shit about politics or the EU.’

‘The question is what do you have to trade Ryan? You’ve got nothing to offer. No money to buy your way in. You English do not understand how to barter.’ Emmet’s mind was made up. ‘Go now - leave.’

‘You’ll get your money. You know me. How many times I got to say it?’

Emmet drained the last of his Turkish coffee. ‘So you expect me to let you join, for free, why because we are acquainted, because you have lost money at this table before?’

Ryan turned, checking that Semih was still in situ over by the wall. ‘You want me to give it to you straight Emmet? Okay. I need this win. That’s it, no bullshit. So how about it?’

Emmet shook his head and took another pull on his cigarette. ‘You come here, stand before me, yet you offer nothing. You insult me, and yet you plead like a petulant child. What do you want, pity? Are you not a grown man? Perhaps I should let Semih show you what it is to be a man.’

Ryan glanced back, this time Semih blew back a kiss, flexing his powerful weightlifter arms and cracking his bulldog neck from side to side like a prizefighter warming up for the main event. Ryan didn’t fancy his chances if he had to go up against the Turk one on one. 

 ‘I’ll give you what I got.’ Ryan pulled at his gold wedding band and placed it on the table. ‘Cost me over two grand, that’s got to secure me a seat at the table at least?’

Emmet reached forward, picked up the ring and held it to his eye for a closer inspection. ‘Forever Yours, very touching, what else do you have?’

‘What else do you need?’

‘You tell me Ryan, why don’t you get creative? Think outside the box - Isn’t that the American phrase? Now what was it I read the other day? Yes, I remember now - Blue Sky Thinking.’

‘You want me to beg Emmet, is that it?’

Emmet remained silent, Semih took a step forward. Ryan checked his watch, he needed to act fast, or the plan was about to unravel.

‘Okay here’s the keys to my car. Might not be much to look at, but even at auction it’ll fetch a grand - no problem.’ He placed the keys to Susan’s battered old Audi on the table.

Emmet instructed Semih to glance out of the window. 

George sat outside watching the scene from across the road in the boosted Toyota Land Cruiser. He observed movement at the top window as the net curtain drew back to reveal a thick set muscled guy scanning the street.  

Semih peered out on to the street below. ‘No Audi boss.’

Ryan had to act fast, George could misread the situation and take it as a sign to come steaming in through the front door. ‘You can’t see it from up here, I’m parked around the corner.’

Emmet waved Semih away from the window. ‘Leave it.’ His attention focused on Ryan. ‘You just bought yourself a seat. You play one hand - if you lose, you’re gone and you owe me more than this shit. We have a deal, yes?’

‘Count me in.’ 

Both men shook hands. Ryan tried to relinquish but Emmet held his grip firm. ‘Remember this, you don’t pay I’ll send Semih and Firat to pay a house call to your lovely wife - Turkish hospitality.’

Ryan pulled his hand wrenching it free. ‘We getting this game started or what?’

Emmet poured himself another steaming black miniature coffee. ‘Perhaps I should call Tommy Donaldson, to let him know you’re here. A courtesy call.’

Ryan looked at him, his expression cold and hard. He didn’t have time to dick around any longer. ‘Thought we had a deal.’

‘Relax, I am yanking your chain.’ He noticed Ryan’s chunky gold bracelet. ‘Looks expensive, why don’t you add it to the pot? Let’s call it collateral.’ 

‘We already agreed terms, we shook hands.’

‘That is true, but I have yet to see the Audi which you claim to have arrived in, so I’d feel better about our agreement with the additional item.’

Ryan took off the bracelet and placed it on the table. ‘That’s two grand alone sitting right there.’

Emmet leaned forward and picked it up, assessing its weight in his hand. ‘Maybe, maybe not. You should have considered that before you walked in here today. Could have pawned it. Should have taken it to the old Jew, Alfred Jacobson, down in the old town. He’d have given you a good price.’

  ‘I didn’t come here for a sermon Emmet.’

Emmet smiled, nodding his head. ‘Of course, you are a man of action. I’ll make the introductions.’ He summoned the four guests to the table with a wave of the hand. Semih took up position at the top of the stairs, observing the scene.

14

George checked his watch, seven minutes had passed since Ryan disappeared inside the shop, that left eight minutes remaining. He was getting twitchy. A police patrol car, a Vauxhall Insignia had passed twice. The first time he’d pretended to be messing with the radio. The second, he’d held his phone to his ear as if in conversation. They’d slowed down but seemed more interested in the gang of teenagers gathering on the other side of the road. Thank God for local hoodies and dealers. George prepped the Browning, safety off, and kept it hibernating under the newspaper on the front passenger seat. Convinced that if they made a third pass, they’d have already ran the Land Cruiser’s plates. 

Nice and easy George, keep it calm. Easy to think it, less so to put it into action. George allowed his thoughts to dwell on Malkie. How the hell was he hoping to make it out of that derelict farmhouse, anyway? Unless he was counting on Frank. Something Ryan had said earlier about Frank being involved had struck a nerve. He’d tried pushing the notion from his mind, but still it lingered. Could Frank be working with Cunningham, the mastermind pulling the strings behind the scenes? 

George couldn’t make it fit no matter how many times he turned it over in his mind. Either that or he was just too damn close to it. He and Frank had a history, way back in the early days perhaps even a rivalry but that was old news. Or at least he’d thought it was. No way Frank’s was behind this. But that left Bosko, which led back to Frank. Bosko was a Polak and Frank was half Polish on his mother’s side, he spoke the language, knew the customs, understood the culture and it was Frank that had recommended Bosko come for a sit down with Malkie.

 George forced himself to concentrate on the here and now, and that meant negotiating with the Donaldsons. If he stood any chance of getting Ryan back home, he’d want assurances his family were safe and out of reach. 

After that they could deal with Cunningham, Bosko and, if required - Frank. 

The twinge in his lower leg caused him to wince, he’d been sitting for far too long, his leg seizing up. Time he was moving.  He glanced down to see fresh blood seeping through the makeshift dressing. He dabbed two fingers against the wound - bad move, he bit down on his lower lip suppressing a tirade of obscenities as the pain hit. George did what he could to distract himself, breathing through the pain, exhaling - pushing it away. 

He checked his watch against the car’s analogue timer - nine minutes in, six remaining. His hand moved to the grip of the 9 mm as he sat watching the shopfront, his finger caressing the trigger.

Ryan took a seat at the table. His eyes flitted across each of the faces from left to right, he recognised two of the four. The old Asian guy was a businessman from the other side of town. He recalled his name was Asif. He ran a Cash & Carry, but these days his sons took care of the day-to-day business, allowing him the time to indulge in his liking for illicit gambling. Not that he was in any rush to tell them he was spending their inheritance. He’d worked for over fifty years, a widow for the last twenty - this was his time and he’d do as he liked.

The woman had a stern exterior, wore it like a mask, she appeared uncomfortable and uptight, as though she didn’t want to be there. Perhaps she thought she was slumming it, frittering away the overdraft on the off-chance she might get lucky. She reminded him of a teacher he used to have twenty years previous. She’d never took the time to smile either. He guessed she was mid to late thirties - but the lines and crows-feet around her eyes made her appear more like she’d already hit forty. 

She introduced herself as Candeese but failed to elaborate further. Going by the grey suit, designer shoes and handbag, she was a professional with a habit for burning through money. Strip away the expensive accessories and she was no different to the others - an addict looking for the next fix. 

The other face belonged to a stranger, a gangly youth. He looked more like an overgrown student than a card-player. Ryan estimated he was somewhere in his late twenties, hard to tell with his greasy lank hair, pock-marked face and black rings under his eyes. Then it hit him, this was a guy more akin to playing online poker, a professional with a serious Vitamin D deficiency.

Player four was a shrew like man, bespectacled, aged around fifty with a greyish unhealthy pallor. Untidy thin wisps of hair stretched from one ear reaching topside of his skull and cascading down the other. Ryan got the impression he’d apologise for his own existence given the chance. Their shared moment, fleeting as they locked eyes. Feeling Ryan’s gaze upon him he cast his eyes downward towards the table.

Emmet’s voice interrupted Ryan’s observations. ‘Shall we begin?’

The other players extracted their cash wads and added them to the stash of jewellery and car keys in the middle of the table. Ryan made a mental assessment, he estimated £16K in cash, plus whatever Emmet would put in, and that was just for starters. 

Tenth minute moving into the eleventh George was out of the car, dodging the traffic, and making his way to Emmet’s front door. He stopped at Chauhan’s Mini-mart next door to the Kebab shop. He risked a look through the window as he pretended to peruse the groceries, a mixture of mangoes and water melons. The place looked empty - devoid of all movement. 

George double checked the time. Come on, come on Ryan. He walked from underneath Chauhan’s canopy limping as he moved. He stopped at the door, ready to enter. 

Emmet dealt the cards, Ryan checked his watch. Twelve minutes had elapsed since leaving the car to sitting down at the table, meaning George would be on the move. 

The first hand dealt, Ryan checked his cards. He scanned the faces of his opponents looking for any sign of a hint or glimpse. Nothing. Accomplished players, their faces a blank mask. Seemed his luck hadn’t changed.

He tilted his neck forwards and backwards, before rolling it side to side, trying to ease the tension, all the time blowing the air from his lungs. 

Two cards later he folded. ‘I’m out.’

Ryan turned his cards over and placed them face up on the table. He’d lost it all. Each of the others showed their hand. Emmet smiled as he collected the winnings from the first hand, seemed lady luck was on his side today. ‘I’m a sporting man, double or quits anyone?’ 

The other players extracted cash wad bundles then added their stake to the pot. 

The attention turned to Ryan. ‘Said I’m out, you got everything.’ He gestured towards the middle of the table. ‘It’s all right there.’  

Emmet glanced at Semih, he was still in position at the top of the stairwell incase anyone tried to leave.

Ryan got up from the table. ‘I got to take a piss.’ 

Emmet watched him, his eyes flitting to Semih, instructing him to be ready. He opened a new deck of cards, shuffled the pack, cut the deck and dealt the hand.

Ryan splashed cold water on his face. He caught a look at himself in the mirror. He’d seen better days. The first part of the plan had gone pretty smooth. Now it was the time to ramp it up a notch. He sat on the toilet seat and rubbed at his face. He got up and turned to face the window. They’d barred it - no way out. 

He stood on top of the plastic toilet seat and reached up towards the cistern, sliding the lid to the left, trying not to make any noise in the process. He feigned a cough to disguise the scraping noise as brittle plastic on plastic meshed together. Ryan had to stand on tip toes to reach his arm down inside, his finger tips probing for the package. He found nothing. His heart hammered in his chest. He’d been set up, mugged off by a kid. 

Ryan pulled the lid right off and placed it on the floor, he delved his hand down deep on the other side of the ball cock and lever. Come on, it’s got to be here.

Semih hammered twice on the door. ‘You needed back now, hurry or I kick the door in.’

‘I’m coming - Jesus Christ, a man can’t even take a leak now?’

Ryan’s finger tips brushed against something, then it was gone.

Another thump on the middle of the door. ‘Emmet says you must come now.’

‘Fuck-sake, said I’m coming, all right.’

His fingers found purchase, he grabbed hold and retrieved the bubble wrapped package. 

Ryan stepped down, unwrapped the package, and replaced the lid. He made a point of flushing the cistern and running the water as though he were washing his hands. He opened the package and hid the wrapping at the bottom of the stainless steel bin, then he held it in his hand, four inches by an inch diameter. It didn’t look much as he turned it around, he held it up reading the tiny instructions imprinted on the side. It was no use, they were in French. He broke the security seal and secreted the small cylinder on his person - dropping it down into his boxer shorts. Ryan unbolted the lock and stepped out into the room to make his way back to the game.

He didn’t get far, Semih was standing guard twelve inches from the door. He held out a hand then frisked Ryan starting at the shoulders and working his way down to the ankles.

‘Wait here.’

Ryan complied as Semih nudged the toilet door open and inspected the scene. Satisfied, he allowed Ryan to proceed back towards the table.

 Emmet observed him, a curious look on his face. ‘I was beginning to think you’d tried to tunnel your way out Ryan. So have you made a call to your Banker, you back in?’

Ryan undid the hasp on his watch and placed it on the table.

Emmet looked on, bemused. ‘What’s this, trying to buy your way in with a fake Rolex?’

‘Not a Rolex, it’s a Tag Heuer, special edition and it’s not a fake. That’s real life Swiss precision Emmet.’ He coughed, an irritating dry rasp, he rubbed at his throat. ‘I need to get a glass of water.’ He got up from the table.

Emmet held the watch, checking for inconsistencies in the design, he could find nothing.

Ryan took water from the cooler, taking small sips, trying to ease the coughing, it had the opposite effect - he was choking. He placed the plastic cup down and tried to clear his throat, spluttering onto the back of his hand. Leaning forward, his back to the table, coughing and retching he reached down into his pants and extracted the small cylinder. He turned, half expecting Semih to be on him. He was close-by, but his attention focused on the table. Still hacking, Ryan cupped his hand to his mouth, hunched over he shuffled towards the muscled Turk. 

Semih glanced over to him and gave him a sneer that said, don’t come any closer. Ryan kept going forward, his splutter worsening. Semih held out his arm trying to prevent Ryan from getting any nearer. Coughing, Ryan grabbed his wrist, raised his right arm and pressed his finger down hard on the nozzle of the pepper spray. Semih didn’t have time to react, the tip of the nozzle four inches from his face, he screamed like a newborn as the spray entered his eyes, his arms flaying around. Blinded - powerless to fight back. 

 Ryan batted his arms away and snapped his leg out, his kick directed to the groin. He caught Semih off balance, applied a gentle push, enough to send him toppling down the stairs.

 George kicked the door open as the bouncer took a tumble down the steep narrow staircase. He limped in, weapon drawn. Firat appeared from down the corridor, coming from the kitchen.

George held the gun steady. ‘Hold it right there my friend.’

Seeing the 9 mm pointed at his head Firat raised his hands.

‘On the floor - now.’

Firat complied and lay belly down, flat to the floor.

‘Call the others out here.’

Firat was playing for time. ‘Others?’

George stamped on his neck with his good leg. ‘Don't piss me around, call them in here now.’

Firat shouted in Turkish for the kitchen staff to come through. 

George watched the door but kept the Browning pointed at Firat’s head. ‘Don’t try anything stupid.’

They came in, the first a younger and thinner version of the two that followed, their familial DNA strand clear to see. George made each of them kneel, before forcing them to lie down, hands on the back of their heads. He lined each one up head to toe behind the counter, forming a human centipede.

Satisfied, George called up to Ryan, ‘you okay up there?’

Ryan had a hand to the back of Emmet’s neck, forcing his head in a downward motion towards the table, the other grasping the mace, threatening to empty the contents into his face. ‘Almost done.’

‘Well, get a move on, my new friends down here don’t much like laying face down on the floor.’

Emmet struggled against Ryan’s grip. ‘You want a taste of this?’ Ryan jammed the nozzle against Emmet’s mouth. ‘What, you don’t want to show me those teeth?’ 

The Asian shopkeeper and the business woman looked on in horror, frozen to the spot. Their hands held to their faces - as if that would offer any protection. Ryan turned to them. ‘What, you think I should leave him be, you feel sorry for him? You want some instead?’ They turned their faces away, scrunching their eyes tight, praying he wouldn’t make good on the threat. The scrawny guy sat staring, a bemused look on his face like none of it was happening. The student type with the Vitamin D deficiency went to bolt for the stairs. Ryan turned on him. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. My friend downstairs might just shoot you dead, he gets nervous when people try to run.’ Vitamin D returned to his seat without protest. 

Ryan relaxed his grip on Emmet. ‘Bag it up.’

Emmet’s neck and face flushed scarlet as Ryan let go and moved round the table. He was trying to remain calm but Ryan could see his temper sizzling millimetres below the surface. He’d want to get even, his pride demanding retribution. Ryan had done the unthinkable, attacked and robbed him on his own turf. Emmet bagged the money and handed it to Ryan. ‘Take it but remember this - you are a dead man, you and your family.’

‘Is that right?’ Without warning Ryan smashed his left fist into Emmet’s jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Ryan stood over him. The group of players tensed, fearing the worst. Ryan turned to them. ‘Don’t fucking move - not one of you.’ He reached down and grabbed Emmet by the shirt collar. ‘Think you can get away with that? You dare to threaten my family - you piece of shit.’ Ryan struck another left, the impact leaving Emmet’s cheekbone a tone of purplish blue.

Ryan left him to scrabble on the floor. Emmet pulled himself back to the table, manoeuvring his bulk into the seat.

Ryan gave the four players the dead eye. ‘Anyone else want to add anything?’ They all remained silent.

 Emmet reached for his cigarettes, he took one and tried to light it. His hand shaking, Candeese leant over the table, took it from him and lit it then handed it back.

Emmet nodded his gratitude and took a long hard drag, inhaling deep. ‘Let me tell you this, you will wish the Donaldsons were your only problem. All this will seem like child’s-play, nothing more.’

Ryan stopped counting the money and locked eyes with Emmet. ‘I’d have thought you’d have got it by now, seems not. Just can’t leave it alone.’

 Emmet took another drag, the nicotine hit giving him a new found confidence. ‘You come here and dishonour me, in my own house, in front of friends. I will not forget this. I promise, you steal from me, you steal from all of my family. We are as one. They will hunt you down. It’s only a matter of time…’

Ryan resumed counting the cash. ‘Save it Emmet. In fact, why don’t we cut with the bullshit altogether. Truth is you’ve had a good run, been taking all of our money - ripping us off. Cheated us out of winnings. So consider this payback. About time you got a dose of your own medicine. I reckon it's long overdue.’

  Regaining his composure Emmet took another drag on the cigarette. ‘Where will you go, who will you turn to? It’s not like the Donaldsons will give up. Even you should know, you can’t hide forever.’

George kept the Browning on the head of the human centipede, his eyes flitting over to the street, Ryan was taking too long. ‘You done with the jabbering up there? Come on let’s go.’

Ryan ignored the jibe and scooped up the watch, bracelet and retrieved his wedding band. ‘Want my advice Emmet? Forget about me, live out your days.’

His attention turned to the four players. He kept the spray at waist height ready for any sudden moves.  ‘Put your phones in the bag - now.’

Each of them complied without hesitation. Ryan turned his gaze back to Emmet. ‘You too.’

Emmet handed over his iPhone but said nothing.

George was getting antsy, the police patrol car circuiting for a third time, he was surmising they’d been tipped off. ‘Fuck sake Ryan. What you doing up there, organising a date?’

‘Grab their phones George, each one of them.’

‘Right.’ George took a step closer to the nearest body and jabbed it with his leg. ‘You heard the man. What you waiting for? Phones now. Take them out, nice and slow. Come on move it. Hold them up where I can see them.’

Not wanting to get shot, each of the men complied. None of the kitchen hands got paid enough to take a bullet. 

Firat felt compelled to act, his family honour at stake, betrayed by Ryan, he should have known better than to trust a Kuffar. The old guy standing in front of him was injured, his leg dripping fresh blood to the floor. Firat’s brain said he could take him, but his body refused to comply, unconvinced as it remained welded to the floor.

  Anticipating Firat’s mood George took a step closer, ‘Don’t even think about it big man.’ Firat buried his face against the cold concrete floor and closed his eyes as the barrel of the Browning pressed against the top of his skull.

Satisfied, George moved amongst them taking each of their phones, all the time keeping the 9 mm inches from their heads as he smashed the phones against the wall.

  Ryan backed away from the table towards the stairs, he turned and ran down the steps jumping over Semih’s twisted bulk as he squirmed around on the floor.

George glanced over to him then back to the bodies sprawled out in front of him. ‘Nice of you to join us. You all done with the kiss and make up time?’

Ryan gave him a look but ignored the comment. ‘You got their phones?’

George pointed to the smashed plastic casings scattered across the floor. Ryan made a point of stamping on each one, rendering them beyond repair.

George’s eyes focussed on the bag. ‘That what I’m hoping it is?’

Ryan nodded. ‘Time we were gone.’

Back in the car Ryan let out a nervous laugh as he threw the money bag in the footwell. ‘We did it George, didn’t I tell you it would work?’

George gave him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t get a liking for it.’

 ‘Didn’t I say the kid would come good?’

‘Yeah, the kid did okay. Won’t take them long to realise it was him though.’

‘He’ll be fine. All he’s got to do is act normal. I told him, go to work. Treat it like any other day. He knows the plan.’

‘Let’s hope so - for the kids sake.’

 ‘You reckon Emmet will blame his fifteen-year-old nephew?’

 ‘You’re the one that knows him, not me.’

‘No way. If Emmet suspects anyone it’ll be Firat.’

‘Think he’ll kill him?’

‘Emmet doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. He’ll leave that to Semih. Besides, what do I care? He’s on Emmet’s payroll. They ripped me off George - that’s how I got into this mess. Right now all I want to do is get Gemma and Dillon back, nothing more.’

George looked across to him, and nodded his head, ‘so let’s go do this.’ He gunned the engine and set off for the rendezvous with the Donaldsons. 

Tariq had bought the can of mace from the internet, protection for when he walked home from school. He’d had it for over a month and kept it hidden in the bottom of his bag. Next time those Year 11 arseholes wanted to goad him, calling him Paki-boy, they’d get it full on in the face, and if it blinded them, that was their problem. Wasn’t like he’d started it but he’d make damn sure no one else tried to get up in his face. Tariq was done with taking shit from idiots at school or anyone else, and that included his uncle Emmet. 

What did he know anyway? He was an old-man stuck in the 1960s’. He didn’t get it, he didn’t understand what it was like out on the street. Emmet had grown up somewhere in the back-end of Turkey, and from what his dad had told him it was little more than a desert, close to the Syrian border. The only reason he knew was because the village had featured on a recent news article, it was the place where people flowed over the border trying to escape the war. 

Emmet understood nothing, he was out of touch. An old Turk living in the past trying to hold on to his precious traditions and culture. None of it meant shit. He hadn’t even been back in all the years he’d lived in England. 

  His uncle treated everyone around him like he owned them, always telling his dad that he should be grateful for getting him out of Turkey. Tariq knew the truth, and that’s what counted. His dad had left the village in fear of his life, burned out of house and home all because uncle Emmet had brought shame on the entire family. He’d been caught with another man, he’d denied it of course, but the truth didn’t lie. 

Emmet was a hypocrite, always spouting shit about family, honour, respect and tradition. The truth of it was that he’d cost his own family their home and every penny they’d ever earned.  

 Tariq didn’t like being treated like a nobody. Emmet was a slave driver, wanting him there every night after school, taking orders over the phone, prepping the kitchen, helping with deliveries - all for less than the minimum wage. So when Ryan Peterson had called earlier and offered him the chance to make some quick and easy money, he’d jumped at it. Ryan had recommended the mace to deter the schoolyard bullies, unaware it might just save his own life.

Firat helped Semih to his feet, then poured cold water from the Evian bottle into his crimson red eye sockets. Emmet looked on. ‘You two were supposed to have checked everyone. That’s why I split you up, one on the door, the other on the stairs. How the hell did he get a pepper spray past both of you?’

Neither of them could answer.

Emmet continued his rant. ‘Firat, who was that other Kuffar downstairs? I heard his voice - you must have seen his face.’

Firat shrugged his shoulders.

Emmet strode towards him.‘Answer me you fool.’

‘I can’t say, don’t know. Never seen him before, he spoke kind of funny, Irish I… Could have been Scottish.’

Emmet grabbed Firat and shoved him against the wall. ‘I want answers, and I want them found, do you hear me?’ He calmed down and moved away smoothing his thinning white hair to his scalp.

Firat swallowed hard and dropped his eyes to the floor. ‘It will be done - I guarantee it.’ He returned to Semih and continued to bathe his eyes in the cooling water. 

Semih squinted through swollen red slits and swatted the water bottle away. ‘I will find them both, and trust me I will make them wish their mothers had never brought them into this world.’ 

Battered and bruised he pulled himself to his feet. He felt all around his ribs, wincing as he pressed the lower right side. He suspected the bottom two were cracked. 

His hand delved into his jean pocket as he pulled out an iPhone 6s. The screen had splintered from the impact of the fall. He pressed the power button, it flickered on and off. Five-seconds later it booted up. Semih passed it to Emmet. ‘They forgot about this one.’

Emmet said nothing as he took it from him, he made his way back up the stairs. Once in the bedroom that doubled as a makeshift office/storage room, he closed the door behind him and went to the gun metal grey filing cabinet in the far corner. He opened the third drawer down, reached into the back and pulled out a 2010 faux leather burgundy diary. He opened the back cover to the contacts page, his eyes scoured the hand written scrawl. Eighth line down from the top there it was in blue biro, the letters DD.

He punched in the eleven digit number and waited for the call to connect.

15

Davy hangs up the phone, watching as Tommy alights the car and approaches the unit. He waits until he enters, allowing him time to pour a coffee from the TASSIMO system in the far corner of the office. 

Tommy slumps down into the brown leather armchair in the middle of the room and takes a hit on the Americano.

Davy stands, hands on his hips, an eerie silence between them. ‘Taste good?’

‘Yeah, sure does. You want one?’

He shakes his head. ‘Seems your friend Peterson’s got himself a new playmate.’

Tommy slurps another hit of coffee. ‘What?’

‘That was Emmet on the phone, says Ryan Peterson ripped him off.’

Tommy places the coffee cup down on the floor. ‘You sure it was him? I mean he’s on his way to the meet.’

 Davy’s preoccupied peering out the window over the lot, he ignores the comment. ‘With a can of mace. Ballsy move, didn’t think he had it in him.’

‘So where is he now? What did Emmet say?’

‘They’re gone, him and his accomplice.’

Tommy’s up on his feet. ‘Who was the other guy?’

‘Never saw him, he stayed out of sight downstairs, kept the kitchen staff at gunpoint while Peterson cleared the table.’

‘Fuck. How much did he get?’

‘Enough for Emmet to sound pissed.’

Tommy advances towards Davy and grabs at his shoulder. ‘Should never have gone after his family, didn’t I say that all along?’

Davy’s eyes flit to the hand then back to Tommy as the adrenaline surges through his body. Tommy removes it and backs away to his coffee. 

‘Relax, this adds a little spice to the mix, that’s all. Let him come and bring his new friend. Remember, we’re the ones holding the cards. Now Peterson’s showed his hand, that makes it more interesting. He doesn’t realise it yet but hijacking Emmet’s game quadrupled his debt. Emmet’s on our patch. We got to show we don’t stand for that. Can’t have the likes of Ryan Peterson stealing from those under our protection, you get that right?’

Tommy answers the question with his own. ‘So what about his wife and kid?’

‘Time to man up little brother.’

Tommy takes a step to block Davy’s path. ‘We agreed, they were just leverage, enough to get him out in the open…’

Davy looks him dead in the eye. ‘You had the chance to take care of this your way and…’

Tommy cuts in. ‘No harm comes to his family. You listening Davy? It’s not happening.’

Davy smiles, and turns away shaking his head. He advances towards the window, staring out into the yard. He sniggers as he turns around pinpointing Tommy with an icy stare. ‘You don’t want any part in it… That’s fine. You let me worry about them.’ 

He steps forward, Tommy stands his ground and tenses himself, expecting the worst. Davy takes his brother’s face in his hands and squeezes his cheek the way he used to when they were kids. ‘I’ve always had your back haven’t I?’ 

‘Yeah, I know that, but…’

Davy cuts him off cold. ‘Fuck sake Tommy, it’s all in hand. So, just leave it be.’

Tommy swallows hard as Davy loosens his double handed grip on his face. ‘Women and kids Davy - we’re better than that, remember?’

Davy exhales and raises his eyes to an imaginary God. ‘You don’t get it do you Tom?’

‘I understand it better than you think. We don’t need to go down this road.’ 

‘Jesus Christ Tommy will you just stop and listen to yourself? I sometimes wonder if we’re even related. Tell me something, did my real brother get switched at birth or what?’ 

Tommy’s scratching at his scalp, the way he does when the anxiety kicks in. ‘I want no part in this.’

‘You want to walk away, there it is, door’s open. Go on, no one’s stopping you.’

Tommy grabs his car keys and makes for the exit.

Davy takes a seat behind the desk and leans back in the high-backed chair. He calls out, ‘care to divulge what it is you plan on doing?’

Tommy stops. ‘I’ll wait for him. Ryan’s no fool, he knows he can’t run forever. By the time I’ve finished with him he’ll pay up - no question. Trust me, he’ll know never to cross us again.’ 

 ‘Just like that. Nothing to it. Piece of cake, and I suppose in your head, you’re thinking that’ll be the end of it?’

Tommy gives his brother a curious look, tilting his head to one side. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your actions Tom. This bullshit mindset of yours. It’s about to fuck everything up. We need a show of force. Otherwise, every other muppet out there will think they’ve got a free pass. They’ll all be taking liberties.’

Tommy raises his eyes to the ceiling. ‘There are no others, everyone pays. And you’re right, this is on me. I let him get too close. I fucked up, all right. But don’t worry I’m sorting it - my way.’

‘So you say, but tell me, just so there’s no confusion, who appointed you decision maker?’

‘I did Davy, because you’ve lost it. Your head ain’t where it should be. Risking everything we’ve built up for a lousy three grand debt, what the fuck is all that about?’

Davy stands and moves to block Tommy’s exit. ‘You telling me how to do things now Tom?’

Tommy shoves his way past Davy - heading for the door. Davy grabs his brother and launches him into the wall. Getting up close in his face, his head cocked to one side, his eye squinting. ‘This is my show Tommy - never forget that. Ryan’s got to pay, and I don’t mean a shitty three grand. We’re way past that now. That’s how it is. The wife and kid, they belong to me, and when I’m done perhaps I’ll let you have what’s left.’

Tommy extricates himself from Davy’s grip. He balls his fists, holding it centimetres from Davy’s face, suspended on the air like a hover fly waiting to strike its target.

‘You want to hit me Tom? Do it. Go on, what are you waiting for?’

Tommy retracts his fist and steps up into Davy’s face, their noses almost touching. ‘No more games, no more bullshit, let’s get this over with.’

Davy stands his ground, smiles. ‘Okay Tom, you want to play the big man, fine. So let’s go finish this.’

16

Ryan’s checking the Sat Nav. ‘Still twenty minutes out from Wiston. We’ll go off the notes from there to the rendezvous point in the woods.’

George is hanging onto the interior roof handle, wishing he’d opted to keep the boosted car a little while longer. ‘You mean try to decipher that handwritten scrawl of yours?’ 

Ryan presses down on the accelerator, the speedo tipping 60mph as he throws Susan’s ageing Audi A4 into the next bend. His thoughts revolving, how the hell did he end up getting mixed up with the Donaldsons? Must be bad Karma. Pointless blaming history on bad life choices, no one ever forced his hand. The blame lies with him and him alone. 

He turns to George. ‘So tell me about the old man. I must have selective memory or something. All I remember is him not being around much, and when he was, he was drunk. Spent most of his time in the pub. Least that’s how I see it.’ 

George shifts his weight, trying to get comfortable in his seat. ‘He liked a drink…’

Ryan continues but keeps his eyes on the road. ‘He’d stagger home at God knows when, hammer on the door till she let him in.’

‘Yeah well…’

‘She always cooked him a dinner. Saved it for him on the off chance he might roll in at any moment. Didn’t mean shit, most times he’d throw it at the wall, then the slanging match would start. His way of warming up before he beat up on her.’

Ryan looks to George, a sense of irony in his voice. ‘Happy childhood memories.’

George remains silent, his eyes focused on the narrow lane, considering his response. ‘He wasn’t all bad, don’t think otherwise. Sure he had his problems with the booze, and I can’t defend him for slapping his wife around but the Billy K I knew, what can I say… He was a character, a smooth talker with an eye for the ladies, a good craic as the Irish would say.’

‘So what happened with him and Malkie?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The prison visits, stopped almost overnight, I overheard mum talking on the phone with someone, wayback.’

George pauses before answering. ‘Malkie had to distance himself, Billy was due in court. Too risky for Malkie or any of us to make a visit. No point in dressing it up. Not now, not after all this time. That’s just how it was.’

Ryan nods his head in agreement. ‘And then Billy topped himself.’

George takes a long slow intake of breath. ‘Yeah… That’s how it was. What can I say? I’m sorry, but that don’t count for much, I know. A fucked up situation Ryan, no other explanation. His death took us all by shock. Never expected that of Billy K, but who can know the mindset of a man facing another ten years inside?’

Ryan mulls it all over, but remains silent, keeping his focus on the camber of the road. ‘There it is up ahead, that wooden sign Hodgetts’ Lettings, we’re here, that’s the place.’

17

Gemma wipes the tears from the corner of her eyes. She looks down at Dillon, her sweet baby boy. He looks so much like his father. She can’t believe it's come to this. She tries to convince herself that it’s all some big mistake, a mixup, but the nagging thought at the back of her mind won’t let up. Ryan’s brought this down upon them. Whatever the outcome, she can’t forgive him for that. He’s endangered them all, and for what? Some lousy bet or a game of cards. She’s always known what Ryan was like from the beginning, at first it was tolerable, but not now. Ryan’s weak, he can’t say no. Gambling, women, drink, he’s done it all, put the whole family through hell. Not any more. Not after this. She’s done.

Davy’s advancing down the steps at a pace, the steel staircase clanking underfoot announcing his arrival. The stench of damp desperation filling his lungs, just the way he likes it. Both feet planted on the bottom riser, he hits the light switch. The strip lighting humming and buzzing into life, clicking on one after the other in succession. 

Now he’s walking down the narrow lit corridor, the green hue from the strip lighting adding to the cold ambience. He reaches a steel door, it’s double bolted top and bottom with a chunky four inch padlock in situ. Resembling a jailer come to free the inmate, he’s searching through the cluster of keys. 

Davy puts his weight behind the door and heaves back, his eyes confronted by nothing but darkness. He stands silent, staring into the abyss. Listening, there’s nothing save for the sound of dripping water. He breathes in deep and slow, savouring the moment as the fetid odour of human faeces takes hold. There it is, a soft whimper, followed by a child’s sniffle. The sound of fear. 

His left hand fumbles along the wall for the twelve by eight inch steel unit, he opens the panel and flicks the switch - the room illuminates. He’s already got them fixed in his sights, huddled in the corner, the furthest place from the door, they’re wrapped in each other’s arms, mother protecting her cub. Clinging to hope like a ragged piece of cloth blowing on the wind.

He stands motionless, watching - waiting. Giving them time for their eyes to adjust to the lighting. Each action deliberate and calculated to prolong their agony. His mind darts to Ryan Peterson - not knowing their fate, his lip curls at the side breaking into a wide cruel smile. 

He closes his eyes, hangs his head and raises his arms out to the side, like a scene from the Crucifixion. This is their one and only chance to escape. ‘Go,’ he shouts.

 Mother looks to son, she sees the blinding fear in his eyes. Confused and untrusting of the unexpected opportunity, she moves, but the child remains rigid. 

Davy counts the seconds in his head, mouthing the words, one, two, three, four… It’s no use, he can’t contain it any longer. At first it starts off as a snigger, caught somewhere at the back of his throat, it gets louder - his laughter filling the chamber. ‘Well, no one can say Davy Donaldson didn’t give you a chance Mrs Peterson.’ 

They’ve failed, choosing to cling to each other like driftwood on a turbulent sea.

18

Tommy’s waiting outside. He checks his watch, five minutes to go. He keeps his eye on the track. 

Ryan kills the lights on the Audi as he exits onto the potholed dirt track. The overgrown vegetation scraping the car’s bodywork on either side tells him it’s nothing more than a little-used service road. Can’t risk taking the A4 any closer, from here on in he’ll take it on foot.

‘George, wait here. If I’m not out in the next twenty minutes, you better come looking. Gemma and Dillon - they take priority.’

‘What about the money?’

Ryan counts out six grand, then takes another four bundles. ‘10K, that’s seven more than I owe. Keep the rest here George - you may need it to cut a deal if things turn bad.’

They shake hands. 

George retrieves the 9 mm. ‘Here take the gun, use it as insurance if nothing else.’

Ryan’s eyes fix on the Browning, for a moment he’s tempted. ‘Can’t take the risk. If I go in armed, it’ll give Davy the excuse he’s looking for. No, you hold onto it George. You may need it if I don’t make it out.’

‘Go get ’em. I got your back.’ George watches from the car as Ryan breaks into a light jog along the single track lane. 

Ryan picks up the pace as his lungs burn in protest, cussing himself for his lack of fitness, should never have let that gym membership slide. 

Best he can hope for now is Tommy’s on the scene, a calming influence to quell Davy’s temper. At least give him long enough to get his wife and kid out of there. Beyond that he doesn’t give a shit. As long as he knows they’re both safe, he’ll take what’s coming.

He rounds the corner and drops to the ground. His eyes focus on the unmarked white transit van blocking the lane, the engine silent. He scuttles along the edge of the hedgerow, twenty-seconds later he’s reaching the van. He yanks open the rear door - empty. Ryan climbs through into the back, searching for something, anything to give him hope they’re still alive. 

He finds the remnants of some black gaffer tape and white nylon rope, scattered across the van’s dented and rusting floor, the type available in any DIY store. His eyes scour the floor and wall panels for traces of blood, the fading light forcing his pupils to dilate. Nothing of note, a good sign. At least he hopes it is. Ryan disembarks, he’s pulling the rear door to a close, trying to avoid the squeak when the spare wheel catches his attention. Glancing over his shoulder, checking the scene, he scurries back inside, detaches the wheel from its housing and seizes the brace. Ryan wields it, slicing through the air, a new confidence and sense of purpose filling his being.

He stays low to the ground, the brace in his right hand, ready to strike, money held in his left. He’s making ground, picking up the pace.

‘Drop the bag, and the weapon, do it now.’

He stops dead, four metres from the transit. His eyes scanning the undergrowth, can’t see a thing but he recognises the voice.

Ryan straightens up. ‘No need to hide Tommy. I got the money. Straight swap, Gemma and Dillon for the cash.’

‘Do it now, drop the bag and the brace Ryan. Turn around and kneel on the ground, put your hands on your head.’

Ryan continues to scan the terrain. Nothing. He complies and drops to the ground.

Tommy steps out into the open. He’s unarmed, no gun, no visible knife.

Ryan cusses under his breath, fuck. ‘You’re not carrying?’

‘Should I be? I told Davy having your family was enough of a deterrent, don’t make me regret it.’

Ryan fixes Tommy in his sights. Emotions raging. He’s got seconds to act, he could rush him, knock him to the ground. Use him to trade for Gemma and Dillon. Common sense winning over instinct - too much at risk. First, he’s got to get closer to Davy, his family may be hidden, secreted anywhere. 

He needs proof of life.

Ryan tries to regulate his heartbeat, breathing in deep and slow to calm himself. ‘So what now?’

Tommy ignores the question, grabs the bag and picks up the brace. He opens the bag and counts the cash. ‘10K.’

‘Call it compensation, a good will gesture. All I want is my family.’

Tommy locks eyes with him. ‘That was quite a stunt you pulled, the card game I mean. Impressive. Didn’t know your skill set extended to smash and grab raids. Problem is Emmet’s one of ours, and we look after our own.’

‘I did what I had to do. You telling me, you wouldn’t have done the same in my position?’

Tommy ignores the question. ‘Let’s go. Move.’

Ryan’s up on his feet. ‘There’s more where that came from. You told me you wanted out, this is your chance Tommy. Help me get Gemma and my boy. I’ll see to it you walk away.’

Tommy stops dead in his tracks. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Come on Tom, we shared a few beers, you said Davy was out of control, that you were just biding your time, building up a nest egg so you could start over.’

Tommy steps towards Ryan, getting up in his face. ‘You best keep that mouth of yours shut tight if you want to see your wife and kid again, now move.’

Ryan stands fast. ‘You happy to have this on your conscience. He’ll kill them, but you already knew, right?’

‘Shut up and walk.’

Ryan doesn’t move, his feet welded to the ground. ‘No. Not until you look me in the eye and tell me you can live with this each day for the rest of your life. Can you do that Tommy, have their deaths etched to your retina? You’re no killer. It’ll be there when you go to bed, when you open your eyes, it’ll be their image that haunts you. That’s the reality. A mother and child, their blood on your hands Tommy.’

 Tommy’s eyes drop as he appears to consider the proposition. 

Ryan sees the inner conflict raging within. ‘It’s not too late, help me stop him, point me in the right direction. Get me close, that’s all I’m asking. Take the money Tommy and walk away. Start over. I got no beef with you. I know its Davy, this whole fucked up scenario is on him. I get it.’ 

Tommy’s eyes narrow to slits. His voice little more than a hoarse whisper. ‘It’s out of my hands. Now move it.’

19

George can’t just sit and wait as the minutes tick away, he’s got to get in there. Ryan needs another pair of eyes even if he doesn’t realise it yet. 

Decision made he leaves the car, gun in one hand, his mobile in the other acting as a searchlight. He starts off down the lane following Ryan’s tracks.

Five minutes later he enters the unit by the side door, he can see the figure standing - his back to the door. He raises the Browning and takes aim. ‘Turn around dickhead, but take it slow.’

Tommy rotates. ‘You must be George - thought you’d never show. Ryan said to expect you.’

‘So which one are you, Tweedle Dum or Tweedle Dee?’

‘That’s not nice George, now we want to keep this amicable, for the sake of the civilians if nothing else?’

‘Where’s Ryan?’

Tommy points towards the narrow passageway leading off to George’s right. ‘He went that way.’

‘You didn’t answer my question, but I’m guessing you're Tommy.’

‘You got me on that one, guilty as charged,’ he says raising his hands, palms outstretched.

George keeps the 9 mm trained dead centre of Tommy’s face. ‘So this brother of yours, he plans on killing the wife and kid?’

Tommy shrugs his shoulders. ‘What do you want me to say, is he capable of killing? Sure. Woman and a kid? Let’s put it this way, I wouldn’t bet against it.’

George moves closer. ‘Maybe I’ll take you as collateral.’

Tommy laughs. ‘Trust me, Davy won’t bargain for my life. Right now he’d put a bullet in me himself given the opportunity.’

George shoves the muzzle of the 9 mm into Tommy’s forehead. ‘That being the case, I might save him the hassle. Anything happens to them, I’ll start with your ankles, work up to your kneecaps, finish at your elbows, then I’ll leave you for the rats.’

‘Go ahead George, you want to do it, pull the trigger. I’m past caring. Davy’s his own man. Nothing I can…’

The sentence is left unfinished as George retracts the 9 mm, flips it over in his hand and whacks the handle of the Browning into Tommy’s jawline. He slumps to the ground unconscious. ‘Don’t be going anywhere, we’re not done yet.’

He backs away towards the passageway, he’s only a few metres in when he hears the gut wrenching scream of a female. George picks up the pace, cussing as he hobbles along. His 9 mm held out in front of him cutting through the shadows.

20

Ryan’s hiding in the darkness, the scream was close. He’s got to be quick. He skulks through the shadows following the echo. His heart beat thundering in his chest, this is it, no going back - all or nothing.

Another scream, he stops. The sound coming from his left this time. He follows it. The atmosphere cooler, the smell of dank, fetid water strong on the air. He advances at a slower pace, listening with intent. Whimpering to his right stops him in his tracks. He backs up a little, turning, listening. It’s there again, he’s definite for sure. He calls out, his voice a hoarse whisper of emotion. ‘Dillon… Gemma?’

Silence. He waits, counting to three in his head, seconds feel like half-hour intervals. He tries again. ‘Dillon?’ this time louder. One, two, three, four…

‘Da…’ sniffling turning to full-blown sobbing, ‘Daddy - is that you?’

Ryan’s heart skips a beat, he feels light-headed, the relief surging through his body igniting the senses. ‘I’m here Dil… I’m coming, hold on.’

‘Daddy?’ More crying follows. ‘I want to go home.’

Ryan squints into the darkness. ‘Dil…?’ 

The response louder this time. ‘Here Daddy, quick… The man…’

Ryan presses on. His eyes straining against the veil of blackness. ‘Keep talking Dillon, I’ll find you buddy.’

He reaches an opening where the tunnel widens out from the bottleneck, and calls out into the dark, ‘Dillon… Where are you?’

Further down the dark labyrinth Davy knows he’s short on time, as the echo of voices carry down the tunnel into the chamber. For him this is the best part, the waiting, anticipating the unknown.

His attention turns to Gemma. She’s standing in front of him, physically weakened by the trauma. He can see the malice in her eyes, the hatred driving her on. Given the chance, she’d slit his throat. If he thought she’d be easy to break, he was wrong. Her resolve unwavering. He smiles, relishing the challenge, enhancing the thrill and excitement. The thought sending a tremor of arousal through his body. 

Ryan’s arms are out in-front, pawing at the darkness. ‘Dillon, come on follow my voice, come to Daddy, it’s okay, we’re going home.’

A shallow cry to his left makes him backtrack. ‘Dillon where are you?’

Silence - he’s got to be close. Scared witless. Ryan holds his breath, he closes his eyes and concentrates, blocking everything from his mind. He’s here somewhere, cold and petrified, a little kid alone in the shadows. He’s not coming out voluntarily, too fearful. Ryan crouches, his hands reaching out three hundred and sixty degrees. His right hand brushes something. Then it’s gone, his hand scrabbles to find purchase. ‘Dillon, is that you?’

He stops all movement and listens. It’s there, slow and definite, breath - choking back the tears. Ryan reaches forward into the darkness. ‘Dillon it's Daddy, come on, Mummy’s waiting.’

‘Mummy?’ The voice is shallow and weak but it’s Dillon’s. 

Ryan opens his eyes scanning the blanket of darkness. ‘Come on Dillon - come out, come on, time to go home.’

From his left a tiny hand reaches out and brushes the side of his face. The emotion and relief is too much. He reaches out and pulls the hand towards him. The tears in free-fall once again.

Advancing further into the tunnels, George is cutting his way through the gloom. The scream sounded a way off. At first he was positive of the direction, but now he’s not so sure, the labyrinth of tunnels playing tricks with the sound waves. 

Davy’s holding the flashlight close to her face. ‘Not long now.’

He wants Ryan close, better still, close enough to smell her fear but impotent to act. There’ll be no last chance intervention, no fairytale ending for the Petersons. Ryan’s got to witness her demise first hand. Davy wants to break him, render him helpless and pathetic. He’s got to beg. Plead for him to stop. The kid can wait, it’s not like he can go anywhere. He ran off into the dark, but he won’t last long down here on his own. 

Ryan weaves his way back topside through the maze of tunnels. ‘Close your eyes Dillon - it’s bright out there, got to let the light in nice and slow or else it will hurt your eyes. Okay?’

He’s got Dillon to the entrance, the light streaming in through the crack of the door. ‘Wait here and don’t move. I’ll go and get Mummy. Stay out of sight but wait for me, I’ll be back. I promise.’

Dillon nods his head but holds onto Ryan’s leg, not wanting to let go.

Ryan prises him off. ‘Come on mate, It’ll be okay.’ He looks round for somewhere for Dillon to hide. ‘Here look, wait over there. Just like hide and seek.’ Ryan picks him up and deposits him behind a metal stillage. ‘Remember you only come out when you see me or mummy.’

Dillon crouches behind the container. It’s heartbreaking for Ryan to leave him. The relief at getting him back almost too much to bear. There’s no time to dwell on that. He wipes a tear from his eye. Dillon rushes out from behind the stillage. Ryan scoops him up in his arms. He’s trying to hold it together for the kid’s sake, at least that’s what he’s telling himself.

‘Don’t go Daddy, please don’t leave. I’m scared Da… Please…’

He fights back the tears, his voice choked with emotion. ‘I’ve got to get mummy, be brave for me. Come on you can do this.’ Ryan deposits him out of sight for a second time. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ 

He turns and disappears into the shadows.

21

George - hovering in the shadows, poised, his breathing slow and deliberate. Gotcha you bastard.

Davy’s expecting Ryan, he’s killed the lights, heightened senses, ready to play.

Davy calls out. ‘Thought you’d never make it. I’ve saved the best till last, all for you. My special treat, call it a gift.’

Davy flicks the switch, there’s a buzz and crackle as the strip lighting illuminates the room.

George tries to shield his eyes as best he can - he’s caught out in the open, a rabbit in the headlights, gun in hand.

‘Well, you’re not Ryan, so I’m guessing your Emmet’s mystery gunman. Now drop it.’

George hesitates, he could shoot, but he’d be doing it blind, hoping for the best. He could hit Gemma, or he could hit nothing.

‘Do it now or she dies.’

George throws the Browning down in front of him.

‘Good. Now get down on your knees.’

‘Why don’t you come over here and make me?’

‘You want me to bring the kid out here, make you watch as I choke the life out of him?’

‘You’re one sick bastard, and I’m gonna enjoy watching Ryan rip the shit out of you.’ George lowers himself grimacing against the burning sensation in his leg.

Davy approaches, picks up the Browning and jams it into the back of George’s skull. ‘Now lie flat to the floor old man.’

Against his better instincts George complies.

‘So where is he?’

George raises his head from the floor. ‘Don’t worry he’s coming, you can count on it.’

Davy’s mouth breaks into a wide grin. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ He admires the weapon. ‘Browning Hi-Power, an excellent choice.’ His finger caresses the trigger. ‘You had a decent run, for an old timer. No one can deny you that.’

George turns his head to the side, he opens his mouth to speak as the heat from the yellow and white flare illuminates his face. The bullet enters 2 cm above his left eye socket, punching through the central cortex, before obliterating the other side of his skull.

Gun in hand Davy returns to the light switch. He looks over to Gemma, the tears streaming down her face. ‘One down, one to go, but don’t fret my sweet, we’ll have some fun once your hubby puts in an appearance.’

Without another word he shuts down the lights and waits in the darkness.

Gemma’s seated in the centre of the room, gagged and shackled to Davy’s modified eBay dentist’s chair. Relishing the memory of seeing her discomfort, restrained, her eyes damp with fear, causes him to salivate. He’s fighting the urge to begin but not until Ryan shows up. He’s got to see, to bear witness to Davy’s dark desires.

Ryan enters the killing room, confronted by silence, he’s aware of the drop in temperature. He stops dead in his tracks. There’s nothing, save for an uneasy feeling. This is the place. He senses Gemma’s presence. He squints his eyes against the darkness and whispers her name. ‘Gemma…’

He keeps moving, crouching as he goes. His head snapping left to right. Ryan knows she’s here, he can feel it. His foot hits something - he stumbles, he’s falling. Instinct kicks in as Ryan puts his hands out in-front, a reaction to cushion the impending impact of the fall. He goes down hard, the vibration causing sharp pains to shoot from his wrists, up through his arms, coming to rest in his shoulder sockets. Ryan curses under his breath shit, as he pulls himself to his feet.

He’s still off balance as the strip lighting illuminates the room. Ryan shields his eyes. He squints to minimise the glare, allowing his retina to focus, that’s when he realises the bulk lying at his feet is George’s corpse.

Davy’s voice snaps him from momentary disbelief. ‘Nice of you to join us. Had me worried for a moment, thought I’d be starting without you.’

Ryan keeps his arm up to shadow his eyes. ‘I’ve got your money, its topside. Tommy’s got it. He’s waiting by the entrance. All you got to do is phone him. He’ll confirm it.’

‘Ryan, Ryan, Ryan you disappoint me, this isn’t about the money. You think I’d go to all this trouble for three grand? And besides, no phone signal down here.’

‘Look Davy, let her go. This is about you and me. She’s innocent. You can’t hold her to account for my stupidity. I get it. You think I’ve been taking the piss. You need to show me the error of my ways. You gotta show them all, no one messes with the Donaldsons. So come on, you and me. One on one. Let’s see what you’ve got Davy.’

Davy ignores the attempt to goad him, and keeps the gun on Ryan as he walks towards Gemma. He jabs the 9 mm into her cheek. ‘What do you think Ryan - quite the artist wouldn’t you agree?’ He says showing off the angry red and purple bruises to her face. ‘She’s a fighter this one. I bet she’s a real handful in the bedroom, maybe I’ll get her to put on a show.’

Ryan clenches his jaw, his hands balling to fists. Nothing he’d like better right now than to smash Davy Donaldson into next week. He’s fighting the impulse, knows he can’t risk lunging at him, he’d be dead before he got anywhere close.

Davy’s got a quizzical look on his face, like he’s trying to work something out. Ryan sees the gun moving a fraction from side to side, at first he thinks Davy’s wavering, before the realisation hits him.

‘Left or right, it’s your choice?’

Ryan tries to reason with him. ‘Let her go, come on we can…’

Without further interaction Davy pulls the trigger, the bullet enters Ryan’s leg at the top of the shinbone a fraction below the right kneecap, ripping through muscle and tendons before exiting.

Ryan falls to the floor writhing in agony.

Davy chuckles to himself, pleased with his handiwork as he advances towards his felled prey.

Gemma fights against the restraints but her efforts are all in vain, if she’s going to survive she’s got to conserve her energy, not for Ryan’s sake but for her child.

Davy’s bulk looms over Ryan as he inspects the mangled leg, prodding it with the Browning. Ryan tries to scrabble away, his hands trying to find purchase on the dusty concrete screed. He screams out in pain as Davy jams the 9 mm muzzle into shattered bone. He’s never experienced this level of pain, his senses in overload as he fights the simultaneous urge to vomit and to black out.

‘Now that’s better, just wanted to make you comfortable - like your friend here. You haven’t said hello Ryan, you’re not forgetting your manners?’

Ryan’s squirming on the floor, sweat cascading down his forehead and into his eyes. Shaking as his body approaches shutdown. He locks eyes with Gemma, he can see the utter terror and desperation on her face. He mouths the words, ‘S.O.R.R.Y’.

Davy closes in for the kill. He raises the gun to Ryan’s temple, his finger teases the trigger.

Ryan closes his eyes and prays for the end. ‘Make it quick.’

Davy leans in close to his ear. ‘No no, not yet. ’

Ryan’s eyes snap open as Davy’s fingers probe the wound, his thumb and index digit gouging deeper, pressing down to the splintered bone.

There’s no escape, all Ryan can do is cry out in pain before blacking out.

Davy’s slapping his face, bringing him back round. ‘Come on Ryan, that’s it. Time to play. You’re gonna love this.’ He returns to Gemma shackled to the chair.

‘You ready Ryan, come on, stay with me. It’s all for you.’

Davy places his hands on Gemma’s shoulders and moves them down onto her chest. ‘Oh sweet Jesus, this one’s got a good rack. I can see why you chose her.’

Ryan’s clawing his way across the floor. ‘Leave her be you bastard.’

Davy’s laughing, tormenting him. ‘That’s it Ryan, come on, you can do it, come on.’

Davy leans in close to her ear, whispering what he’ll do her. He nibbles on her ear lobe. His hands ripping her blouse open, exposing her breasts.

‘Don’t give up Ryan - yes, that’s it come on, all the way…’

He’s less than three feet away from the chair. Each agonising scrape of his shattered leg against the floor sapping his strength. His glare fixed on Davy, switching to Gemma - willing her to hang on. They both know the true reality, the situation helpless. Ryan grinds his teeth in rage and pulls himself forward, shearing the skin from his elbows, powerless to intervene as he edges closer.

Gemma’s struggling against the restraints, shaking her head side to side, doing whatever she can to fight back. Davy’s lost in the moment, consumed by his lust for vengeance.

The first blow connects dead centre to his right ear and jawline, knocking him to the floor. He’s still conscious as the end of the wheel brace shatters his nose and embeds itself in the centre of his face, long enough to see the look in Tommy’s eye - his rage untethered.

Tommy stands over Davy’s corpse, his chest heaving from the exertion. He drops the brace and falls to his knees.

Gemma’s fighting against the restraints.

Ryan’s inching forward, his hand reaching out to touch Gemma’s foot. They’re both still alive, there’s got to be hope.

Tommy wipes away the remnant of a single tear, he’s searching Davy’s pockets looking for the keys to the lock. He finds them, takes a moment to compose himself before standing. Saying nothing he unlocks Gemma from the chair, and exits the room in a trancelike state without acknowledging Ryan.

Gemma spits the gag from her mouth and tumbles from the chair onto the floor in-front of her husband. She scrambles in the dust towards his face. Ryan’s eyes are closed, still breathing, but only just. ‘Ryan, Ry… Wake up, don’t you die on me.’ Her attention focuses on his leg, and the dark pool of blood saturating his jeans. It's up to her now to get them out. She’s inches from his face, when realisation slams into her like a freight train. ‘Dillon.’

She slaps Ryan hard around the face. ‘Wake up. Where’s Dillon? Where is he… Where’s my son?’

There’s no response, even as she shakes him like a rag-doll. ‘Wake up you stupid bastard.’ Tears of rage stream down her face as the hysteria of knowing her child is alone, lost and scared takes hold.

She’s a mother without hope, consumed by grief until she realises that the handgun must still be somewhere in the room. Gemma returns to Davy’s corpse and searches it. There’s no trace. She looks down at him, sees the bloodied wheel brace and extracts it from his face. Convinces herself that Tommy has the gun - he’s going after Dillon. She’s got to stop him, whatever it takes.

Her eyes focus on Ryan lying there - useless and pathetic, for all she knows he could already be dead. She checks one last time, his breathing shallow and erratic. She grabs him by the hair and pulls his head from the floor, her teeth grinding together, eyes full of malice. ‘Where’s Dillon, where did you leave him, tell me?’

Ryan’s eyes open, a little foggy at first. He realises he’s looking into Gemma’s face. His mouth forms a weak smile. He closes his eyes.

Gemma smashes the wheel brace down onto his left kneecap. ‘Don’t you dare smile at me, useless prick. Where’s my son?’

Ryan squirms on the floor as pain and disbelief fight for ascendency, both hands wrapped around his ruined knee. ‘Jesus, what are you doing?’

Gemma stands over him, the brace yearning for a second taste.

Ryan extends his arm reaching out to Gemma. ‘Listen. Stop. Stop.’

Gemma remains still, her cold eyes burning into Ryan.

‘Come on, get me out of here. Look at me, I need a doctor.’

Gemma remains silent and brings the brace down hard for a second time. Cold steel to her voice. ‘Tell me.’

Ryan’s arms flay around, sapped of energy, impotent to defend himself he tries to push her away but doesn’t have the strength. Gemma raises the wheel brace above her head. He’s screaming at her, ‘he’s safe, don’t do it.’

Gemma’s eyes, cold and black, ‘where?’

Ryan’s trying to catch his breath. ‘Hiding by the entrance, there’s a metal stillage.’

Gemma lowers the brace to her side and moves away.

Ryan swallows hard, his hands reaching down to his shattered leg. ‘Where are going? Get back here… Gemma.’

She turns and levels him with her ice cold stare. ‘It’s you that got us to this point, not me. None of this is on me. Remember that.’

Ryan raises his arm. ‘Jesus Christ, help me up and we’ll go get him.’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean no? Don’t be stupid. Give me your hand.’

‘I’m better on my own Ryan, realised that a long time ago. You’re nothing but a hinderance. Me and the kids, we don’t need you.’

‘You don’t need me? So you think you can go up against the likes of Donaldson on your own, with a fucking wheel brace?’ Ryan holds out his hand imploring her to take it.

Gemma ignores it. ‘You’re pathetic. I should’ve…’

Ryan interrupts her mid-flow. ‘Should have what, never got involved with me? You’re right, but now isn’t the time for any of that. We need to find Dillon.’

Gemma turns to leave. ‘That’s what I intend to do Ryan.’

Realisation sets in, Ryan tries to keep the panic from his voice. ‘Don’t you leave me, get back here. Come back right now. Gemma… Gem…’

She reaches the entrance. ‘If you’re lucky, I might tell the police where they can find you.’

Gemma disappears into the darkness leaving Ryan to writhe in pain, two corpses for company, unsure whether she’ll ever see him again or if she even cares.

Epilogue

Two Days Later

Ryan awoke handcuffed to the hospital bed. He scanned the room, his eyes fixing on the uniformed armed police officer standing guard outside the door.

He tried to sit up, using his elbows as leverage, relenting as the pain spiked when he jarred his leg against the bedrail. The bullet, courtesy of Davy Donaldson. Events were a little foggy, but he remembered tripping over George, not realising at first he was dead. Ryan felt genuine remorse for getting him involved, but then again it was George who’d come looking for him, gun in hand.

He closed his eyes, unable to process all the information in one go, it was too much. He knew as the word got back to Malkie Thompson—if he was still alive, that he’d be the one held accountable for George’s demise.

For now, he need not worry about that. The more pressing matter arrived in the form of the burly Lancastrian DI Stone, peering in through the window, impatient to commence his questioning.

The door opened, the detective stood looking in at Ryan, vending machine coffee cup in hand. He took a small sip, savouring the kick. A smile formed at the side of his mouth. ‘Glad to see you made it. Awake I mean. I’ve got some questions Mr Peterson.’ He took out his notebook. ‘Or would that be Mr Kane?’

Ryan kept his silence, preferring to close his eyes and wish it all away.

Stone crossed the threshold entering the room. ‘Shall we get to it?’

Ryan’s eyelids snapped open. Still groggy from the effect of the morphine drip, he struggled to focus on the DI. His eyes glazed as Stone continued with his monotone police drawl.

Ryan’s thoughts turned to Gemma and the kids. Where the hell was she? Was she okay, did she have the kids? So many questions raging through his mind, so many variables, except one. Why the hell had she left him?

Then there was the question of the money. Did she have all, part of it or any of it? What of Tommy Donaldson? Was he still out there, or had he gone to ground, waiting for the right opportunity to strike back?

Ryan didn’t have the answers, but he knew one thing, he was no better than a corpse in waiting as long as he lay shackled to the hospital bed. Whatever happened, he had to get out.

Stone continued his rhetoric, reading from his notebook, ‘… found at the scene of a double homicide, gunshot wound to the leg, 9 mm calibre. Same match for the yet to be identified deceased male, gunshot wound to the head. Second male found with multiple head wounds, believed to result from blunt force trauma.’

He looked up from his notes. ‘I’d say now would be a good time to start talking Mr Kane.’

Ryan closed his eyes, considering his options. ‘Am I under arrest? Didn’t hear you read me my rights unless I’ve got amnesia. Come to think of it Officer, I don’t remember a damn thing.’

Stone nodded his head. ‘Okay. Have it your way. Just trying to help. Thought you might want to have a little chat before we got into all the formalities.’

Ryan sniggered but said nothing.

Stone perched himself on the end of the bed. ‘End of the day, it’s your choice, your funeral.’

Ryan blew the air from his cheeks and focused on the armed guard outside the door. ‘No comment.’

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About the Author

Mark J. Newman is a UK based Crime/Thriller writer. He lives in the Midlands and enjoys taking his dogs for long walks, allowing his mind to wander to the dark side, dreaming up gritty crime thrillers for readers to enjoy.

He uses his own and others experiences to help craft his stories. Having previously worked as a police photographer and a prison tutor he has a tome of stories just waiting to put out there.

His stories are a successful mixture, combining fact and fiction, allowing Newman to delve into the world of both the investigator and the perpetrator, to deliver fast paced edge of the seat genre fiction.

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PAID IN FULL (sample extract)

A Standalone Crime Thriller

Chapter 1

The dead-eyed stranger matches his stare. His lips are numb, a crackling sensation inside his head adding to the fuzzy sensation running from his neck, into his shoulder, reaching down his arm, and ending at his fingertips. He probes the inside of his mouth with his tongue. The taste is metallic—aluminium, or at least the way he imagines it to be. He swallows it down, the dull aching at the back of his head a constant reminder of his mortality.

He closes his eyes, trying to focus as he repeats the mantra, reciting his name, age, and address. Next, he’ll take some pills and go back to bed—wishing it all away like a bad dream. If only it were that simple.

Chapter 2

He logs the details into his phone, a diary entry for when he no longer has the capacity to recall the basics. The time when it all turns to shit, his life playing out like a scene from Memento where the lead role, Leonard, tattoos his body to record details of his life before he loses his mind in its entirety.

He’s checking the time now; still got ninety minutes waiting time. He doesn’t want to appear too eager—bordering on desperate. Better to leave it to the last minute, cut it fine. He hates waiting rooms. The smell, the décor, the people—everything. The worst thing is now he’s part of it, another statistic waiting to happen.

A splinter, a fragment—call it what you will, he knows it’s there, like trying to remember the finer details through the fug of a persistent hangover. That’s what his life’s become. It was just another stupid argument, came out of nowhere, blowing in like a storm. There’s been a lot of that lately, pressure of the job, modern life, and just about anything else he can take a stab at. If she’d just fucking listened that would’ve been the end of it, but no, as always—she was right. There was a time when things like that wouldn’t have mattered, not even registered, but not any more.

She should know by now, they’ve been together long enough, but that’s her all over, she always did like to push his buttons—provoking the reaction, craving the showdown. Well, this time she got it.

Two words that’s all it took. Forget the build-up, those two little words I’m leaving. There’s no coming back from that—turn the next page.

He’s moving to the car now, time he was on his way. He can’t put it off any longer. He needs to know—good or bad. Then he can plan. Garrett’s always been the strategist; it’s what he gets paid for.

He sticks the car in reverse just as his mobile starts chirping away, he resists the temptation to pick it up just as the hands-free connection kicks in. ‘I’m on my way now, I’ll see you there, bye.’

Garrett doesn’t want to be alone, not for this one. At least he knows he can rely on her, unlike his wife.

Chapter 3

Garrett’s staring at the time on the digital display, he’s still early. For the moment, he’s content to sit and wait, his thoughts like storm clouds whirling, gathering momentum. He can’t be doing with the inquisitive looks. That can all wait. He takes a deep breath, sucking in the diesel fumes and the detritus, the pollution of modern urban life. He tastes it, rolling it round his mouth like a connoisseur. It sticks to the back of his throat, burning when he breathes in deep.

It’s all down to the final verdict. It could go either way, condemned man or sentence quashed.

His phone’s beeping a text alert—she’s there. Waiting inside. No more delays—he’s going in.

Stepping away from the car, he’s looking at the sky, grey and ominous. He keeps mulling it over in his mind. It has to be this way. The wheels set in motion a long time ago. No opportunity to bail on this one. 

He walks towards reception, his heartbeat hammering in his chest. With each step he’s resisting the urge to turn and run. He can’t deny the truth—no better than a dead man walking. Truth always wins out in the end.

One way or another he realises he’s been running all his life. A fugitive on the run, and now he’s handing himself in, hoping for a lighter sentence.

Nothing he can do now except hope for the best and plan for the worst. It’s all down to fate. The gods having their way, toying with him.

Garrett passes by the smokers, slung together like limpets sucking the life out of the dog-ends. One final drag before they go in, putting off the inevitable. He considers joining them, the camaraderie of outcasts. He decides against it, can’t take the risk of pissing her off. Not today.

He tells himself to keep moving. The automatic doors parting with a slow swoosh like waves before him. His eyes scanning the signs, a confusing melee of red, green, and blue fonts merging into one as his eyes struggle to focus. Now he’s making his way down the long, wide corridor to the junction, the smell of fresh disinfectant hanging heavy on the air. He’s ignoring the looks, not that he can see them, but he can feel them. Tunnel vision—that’s the only way, blanking them out, eyes straight ahead.

The hammering sensation in his chest catches his breath. He feels lightheaded, as if he’s about to faint. Garrett reaches out with his arm to steady himself against the mint green wall, and looks down at his feet, feeling as though he’s walking on sponge. He needs to stop, his vision blurring, everything around him turning to a Monet painting. The ground feels as if it’s coming up to meet him head on to swallow him up whole. He can’t breathe—shit, panic attack. He’s looking round, willing himself not to black out. Not here, not in public—he’s still got some dignity. After all, he doesn’t need the attention. Garrett just wants to blend in, to be anonymous—normal, just like everyone else. He’s crouching, breathing deep, telling himself he just needs a minute.

You can do this, he says, willing himself to be strong. He’s straightening up, ignoring the looks, and moving forward. Garrett reaches the junction, turns right. Down the corridor to the end, he turns left then follows the narrow corridor. One hundred yards down, he takes a right. You have now reached your destination.

She’s there, awkward and out of place, pacing up and down in between the rows of waiting patients. The anxiety’s written all over her face. She’s chewing at her gum, and then he remembers her text, the fact that she’s back on the patches and the nicotine gum, desperate to quit. The way she looks right now, he wouldn’t bet against her smoking her way through a pack of twenty before the day is done. He notes that she looks a little older, but even so she’s a striking woman—still good for her age.

They embrace as she fights back the tears, telling herself not here, not now. It’s been over a year since they last met up in person, there’s so much to say and so little time, but nothing can change their bond, not even this.

They sit in silence—waiting. Hands clasped like lovers on a date. Garrett glances around. Storing the information away. The door’s opening, there’s a guy coming out, he has that same look. Garrett knows that look. He’s resigned to it—exclusive members club—invitation only. This is it. He’s next in line. He scans the room one more time. They’re all the same, avoiding eye contact, trying to put off the inevitable by staring off into space—pretending it’s not happening.

Garrett doesn’t hear his name on first call. She squeezes his hand, he looks at her, her eyes imploring him to make the first move. 

Show time, he’s up and out of his seat, a little too fast as he struggles to manoeuvre his jellified legs one in front of the other towards the consultation room.  

She’s leading him, like a toddler taking his hand. There’s no way out. He’s got to face up to it. The door clicks shut behind him, he’s trapped, caught in the snare.

Chapter 4

He sits letting the news sink in, his eyes closed, scrunching the pupils till it hurts as stars dance across his eyelids. It’s just him and the noise, like the tinnitus pitch of a TV of old drilling down to his core.

The drone of the consultant’s voice has slowed like an old seventy-eight record stuck on the go-slow. ‘Mr Garrett… can you hear me?’

Garrett, cold-eyed stare—catatonic.

‘I need to know that you fully understand the diagnosis and its implications.’ The consultant’s words seeping through like syrup, the awakening cold and numb.

First he notices the décor, sparse and business-like. Some might call it professional, or utilitarian. The designer favouring the Northern European, Scandinavian influence, straight out of the IKEA catalogue, the glass topped desk with white, cylindrical legs and matching chairs. The effect is sparse and cold, the aesthetic nondescript, creating a consultation room devoid of character. It’s nothing more than an afterthought tacked on to the side of the ward—hollow and soulless.

His eyes flicker a note of recognition. Autumn rays, like bullet holes piercing the venetian blind, texturised shadows dance across bland, magnolia walls.

‘I get it, just don’t understand… why me?’

‘I’m sorry Mr Garrett… that I can’t answer, but I can say that with radio therapy life may well be prolonged by as much as six months to a year.’ He pauses, his eyes narrow, looking for sincerity. ‘There is no definite time frame.’

‘And without it?’

The consultant, Mr. Aziz, a tall, slim business-like third generation British Asian, early fifties, pauses then smiles. Aziz tries to look comforting, like a kindly old uncle. He makes a point of removing his oval-shaped, carbon fibre designer spectacles, cleaning the lenses on his flamboyant, Tweetie Pie cartoon character tie. He’s playing for time, waiting for the right words to form in his mouth.

‘Mr Garrett, you have a Stage 3a inoperable brain tumour. You may live three weeks or possibly six months. God willing—even longer, but the headaches, the nausea, and mood swings, they’ll all become progressively worse—that’s a given.’

Helen squeezes his hand, he’d zoned out, forgetting she was there. Garrett averts his eyes from Aziz to Helen, seeing the tears well up in her hazel eyes. He knows she’s scared, every fibre of his body feels her pain.

He looks straight at her, his eyes piercing her soul, Garrett forces a smile. He needs to be strong, knowing he has to face it straight on, man up. He squeezes her hand, and nods as if to say it will be all right. But it won’t, it can’t be. The final outcome is inevitable. It’s just a matter of time.

Garrett looks from Helen back to Aziz, and catches the sideways glance. That’s the second time. He chooses to ignore it, pretending not to notice. He reminds himself that she’s a big girl now and she needs to fend for herself, after all, he won’t be around forever.

‘What about work?’

Caught off guard a moment earlier, Aziz fumbles through his notes, ‘And your profession is?’

‘Corporate Analyst.’ 

Aziz affixes his glasses in situ and eyes Garrett, attempting to get the measure of the man sitting before him. He recalls from standing and shaking his hand when he entered the room that he is of reasonable height, around six feet tall, weighing in around approximately twelve stone. An ordinary guy. Outwardly healthy, with an athletic, wiry physique. In good shape for a man of thirty-nine. 

Thirty years experience have taught him that looks can be deceiving. It’s only two weeks since Ronald Johnson’s diagnosis. In the guise of the Grim Reaper, Aziz had delivered the fatal blow on the Tuesday. Johnson had appeared to take the news in his stride. It was, after all, treatable, unlike Garrett’s diagnosis. Friday of the same week, Johnson was found dead. He’d given up, no energy for the fight. Aziz didn’t blame him. At least not initially. Some patients just didn’t have it in them. The blame and glimmer of self-doubt—that came later. Three days later, in fact, after the initial Post Mortem had found that Johnson had OD’d on a mixture of paracetamol and vodka. 

Then there was the note. Which in turn led to the on-going investigation. Aziz had been formally notified that he might have to appear before The Board, but at this stage in the proceedings he was free to continue working. The note, which they weren’t at liberty to discuss, was the reason for the enquiry. Nice of them though, he thought, to let him continue, until such time that they decided differently.

Aziz closes his eyes, pushing the recriminations aside. He buries them deep. He needs to focus on the present—Martin Garrett is a fighter.

‘Mr. Garrett…’ He stops, meticulous in the choice of wording. ‘How can I put this? You need to get your house in order, as it were. Particularly if you choose not to have the radiotherapy treatment offered.’ Aziz pauses, and looks straight at Helen. Demure is the word that springs to mind, dark hair and porcelain skin.

He continues, not daring to let his thoughts wander further. ‘It’s your call. There may be other aspects of your personal life,’ Aziz lingers on the word personal, his eyes boring into Helen, ‘… that take precedent over work commitments.’

Garrett inhales sharply and straightens himself out of the chair. Projecting his body upward in one fluid movement. No sign of weakness, not that of a condemned man. He thrusts his hand out towards Aziz. Gripping it, he thanks him for the diagnosis and candid summary.

He turns to Helen, ‘come on, let’s get out of here.’

Outside, he looks up at the bright, powder blue, cloudless sky, the air is crisp. He breathes it in long and deep. Winter’s just around the corner. He wonders if he’ll be around to see it. Helen’s light and gentle touch to the shoulder brings him back to the present. 

‘I know you’re scared, and I’ve known you long enough to realise that you’re too damned stubborn to admit it or ask for help, but the offer’s there. This new assignment, it can wait.’

Ignoring her offer, Garrett forces a weak smile. ‘Saw him checking you out back there. Should’ve planted one on him.’

‘More important things to deal with, don’t you think, Martin?’ She’s the only one who ever calls him by his first name. To everyone else, he’s just plain old Garrett, even to his wife, but there’s something comforting in the way she says Martin.

Lines crease his face. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing, really I do, and thanks for today. It’s just something I need to get my head round, work it out for myself, you know?’

Helen nods agreement, no use in flogging a dead horse. She wants to say more, but can’t find the right words. Not quite sure how to go about it, she decides to blurt it out. ‘It’s not really my business but… You really should let Maria know.’

Garrett seems to consider it for a moment, before shaking his head. His mind is made up. ‘For what? It won’t change a thing.’

The last flicker of hope vanishes from her eyes. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ She’s about to add some infinite wisdom as the bleep of a text message diverts her attention. She mouths a silent apology S O R R Y, as she’s interrupted by an immediate second annoying text.

‘You’re popular,’ says Garrett, reaching into his jacket pocket to check his own messages.

Helen glances at the screen, her brow ceasing. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I need to go. Call me, I mean it, any changes—I want to know straight away.’

‘Go... Go on. We’ll speak soon.’ It’s just a formality, and they both know it. Later, she’ll be boarding a flight, off to God knows where—another foreign assignment.

They embrace; she can’t look him in the eye. Fearing he’ll see straight through her, it’s important that she remains strong for him. Secretly, he’s glad of it. He can’t handle an emotional outbreak, not now. Definitely not in broad daylight in the middle of a public car park.

She’s moving away, looking back over her shoulder, waving at him like some enthusiastic lunatic. They both feel it, caught under the black cloak of death. He wonders if they’ll ever meet up again, maybe in a different life.

Garrett watches her go. Seconds later, she’s out of sight, swallowed by the mass of cars.

Now it’s just him, on his Jack Jones, against the world.

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