THE NIGHT SHIFT
ROBERT ENRIGHT
For my Mum.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
‘Not guilty. You are free to go.’
Chris Morton smiled smugly as he stood up, the verdict a wild case of injustice. He could hear the victim and her family weeping on one of the benches behind him, surrounding by the murmurs of the disgusted witnesses. The judge had hesitated before slamming her gavel down upon the wood, her disgust at the justice system evident on her face. The jury, meekly making their way to their own exit, refused to make eye contact with him. He stared at them all, basking in their nervous twitching.
He had gotten away with it.
His lawyer, his name of little consequence, ran a hand through his thinner hair and then offered it to him. Chris sneered, knowing that the sleazy man had gotten him off on a technicality.
The woman was intoxicated due to excessive drinking. That was what he had presented to the jury, with her toxicity reports showing she had just over the required amount to be considered inebriated. That and an unfortunate sexual escapade at university which had ended up online had not only caused her family to weep with shame, but it had also planted a seed of doubt in the jury’s mind.
There was no doubt in Chris’s mind.
He had raped Catriona Crouch.
And he had gotten away with it.
His ill-fitting suit sat over his podgy frame, his gut pressing the buttons of his shirt apart like an open crisp packet. His bald head was shiny with sweat and he grinned a yellow, jagged smile as if he were warning off potential car parking.
His lawyer scrambled to collect his papers before scurrying down the courtroom, eager to dodge the family of the victim and the inevitable angry press.
Chris didn’t care.
He was a free man.
As he turned, he caught Catriona’s eye, her anger overwhelmed by fear, which caused Chris to twitch with excitement. Before he could smile any further, he noticed Mark Connor sat a few benches back. The man screamed East-End gangster, his shaved head sitting atop a stocky frame that was clad in a leather jacket. His knuckles were well sanded from years of bare-knuckle boxing and debt collecting.
He worked for Frank Jackson.
As did Chris.
Swallowing nervously, Chris tried to button his blazer, the material struggling across the gut that spilled over his belt. Working for Frank Jackson had been the best thing to ever happen to him. Years had been wasted on construction sites and bouncing nightclubs. It was the consequence of dropping out of school early and diving headfirst into a life of drugs. After years of breaking the law just to get his next fix, Mr Jackson had dragged him from it and allowed him to break the law for a living.
Chris was a pusher. Dressed up to be a high-level security guard in one of Mr Jackson’s strip clubs right next to Upton Park station, Chris would ensure that the ‘higher clientele’ had constant access to the best ‘product’. Where Mr Jackson got the product, Chris wasn’t too sure. But asking questions was beyond comprehension. Many of Chris’s co-workers and similar subordinates in the other families had gone missing for asking the wrong question.
Or for crimes such as his. Seeing Mark Connor wasn’t a good sign for Chris, as it meant Mr Jackson wanted to see him. Chris knew, from being one of the men called to arms, that when someone in Mr Jackson’s crew stepped out of line, there were violent repercussions. Mr Jackson wouldn’t let this crime go unpunished.
His reputation wouldn’t allow it.
Mr Jackson was known as ‘the Gent’. His reputation for excruciating violence was only preceded by his strict code of conduct. An untucked shirt, a stray curse word, and you would find your pay docked or fingers broken.
Raping a young woman; Chris suddenly didn’t feel like such a big man anymore. With a nervous smile he approached Mark, who rose from his seat like an exploding volcano.
‘Hello, Mark.’
‘Chris.’ Mark’s voice was as powerful as his tree-like arms. A silver chain hung around his neck, overlapping the collar of his blue shirt. ‘Follow me.’
Chris obliged, following the hulking man through the courtroom towards the exit, each step rocking the benches. The courtroom had emptied, apart from a few members of the family, who stared daggers at him. Beyond that, a couple of reporters finished their notes and lastly, just by the door, a young man with short brown hair and a strong jaw was staring rigidly ahead. Chris managed to make eye contact with him as he passed, the man’s brown-eyed stare catching him off guard.
It was as if the man knew him.
Shaking it off, Chris pushed his way through the doors and into a stream of activity. Reporters had huddled around the failed legal team, asking them their true thoughts of the British justice system. Whilst they answered diplomatically, Chris flashed them his rotten grin.
A firm hand clamped onto his shoulder like a Rottweiler and led him towards the exit.
‘This way,’ Mark’s voice boomed, hatred lacing each word.
Eventually they pushed through the doors of Southwark Crown Court and into the London sunshine. Instantly, the busy roads roared to life, the sound of the never-ending traffic bouncing off the buildings that shot towards the blue sky like rocket ships. The sun bounced off every window, the city twinkling majestically.
At the bottom of the concrete steps was a black Range Rover, which would undoubtedly have Brian Stack in the driver seat. Brian, like Mark, was one of Mr Jackson’s most trusted advisor. And like Mark, he was bald and brutish too.
They were affectionately known as ‘the Mitchell Brothers’, on account of being follically challenged East-End hard men.
Except these two didn’t just act tough.
Every story that hung around the East End like a rising fog was true.
Mark approached the car first, pulling open the back door and arching his neck towards the seat. Chris offered a weak smile and entered, sliding across the smooth, white leather seats. A bucket was positioned in the footwell, causing him to place his feet either side. Mark got in next to him.
The door slammed shut.
They joined the traffic.
Mark swung a vicious punch that crushed Chris’s stomach.
He arched forward in pain, his lunch instantly jetting ou
t of his mouth and into the bin, which suddenly made a lot of sense. The pain was sickening and Chris struggled for breath, the fear shaking his body.
Was this how Catriona had felt when he had pinned her against the barrels in the nightclub warehouse?
‘He better not get any sick on my floor, son,’ Brian stated, indicating and turning onto the road that cut through Bermondsey.
‘Don’t you worry,’ Mark assured. ‘If he does, he’ll be cleaning it up with broken fingers.’
The Mitchell Brothers laughed and Chris squirmed uncomfortably. After a few moments, he felt his breath slowly returning to him. Mark stared out the window, letting the silence sit terrifyingly between them like a third wheel. As they approached Canada Water Station, Chris let out a small sigh of relief, as they were heading back to his.
His mind started racing, wondering how much money he could pull together and how quickly he could disappear. He knew a few people who might be able to help him, but it would be tricky.
He had never been the most reliable or friendly.
The idea of all his chickens coming home to roost began to ironically mock him, until Brian made a sharp turn, cutting off a passing car and shooting down a main road to the sound of a furious car horn.
Mark chuckled. ‘Mr Jackson thought it would be best if you stayed in one of his facilities this evening.’ He turned, flashing a gold-tooth-dominated grin. ‘Just so he knows where you are.’
Chris sank in his chair, his flabby gut straining against the seat belt. He wanted to be home, where he could drink or smoke a spliff—maybe even arrange for a prostitute to celebrate his freedom, provided that Marco hadn’t cut him off after sending one too many of them back with a bruise or two. Now, as they cut through Peckham towards one of Mr Jackson’s ‘High-Rises’, he could only think about the soul-destroying wait before he was punished.
‘You’re pretty quiet,’ Brian noted. ‘Mark, why don’t you see if he’s okay?’
‘Good idea, Brian.’ Mark turned his massive frame, his leather jacket squeaking against the seats. ‘Chris, what is bothering your fat self?’
‘Fuck you.’
He immediately regretted it.
Mark raised his eyebrows mockingly. ‘Well that wasn’t very nice, was it Brian?’
‘No it wasn’t.’ Brian flashed an enthusiastic grin in the rear-view mirror. ‘What do manners cost again?’
‘I believe they’re free.’ Mark turned back to Chris, staring threateningly. ‘What does Mr Jackson always say about manners, Chris?’
Chris swallowed hard, bracing himself for the incoming pain. His words stuttered from his unwashed mouth.
‘M-m-manners don’t cost a penny.’
‘Correct.’
Another clubbing blow, this one catching him dead centre of his diaphragm. Trying desperately to breathe, Chris wheezed like a punctured airbed. Mark sat back, flexing his meaty fingers from their fist, and watched as Peckham slowly dissolved into Dulwich and they cut through the beautiful park. As the leaves rustled on their branches, families and dog-walkers filled the streets. Chris, taking sharp, careful breaths, envied their freedom.
His own was turning into a nightmare.
Brian slowly brought the car to a stop outside a large, six-storey building. The brickwork was new, giving off a slick, white sheen. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated each floor, many with their curtains drawn. A gazebo reached out above the entrance like a protruding lower lip. The glass automatic doors were framed by beautiful plants.
It looked like a private hotel, where only London’s elite were invited.
In reality it was a haven for criminals to escape, to live, and to indulge. Many of the clients were well-respected, established figures that not only helped shape the city, but also ran it. Mr Jackson, with his courteous manner and his insistence on class, was doing his level best to bring an element of decorum to the criminal underworld—despite what went on behind the doors once they closed.
This was where you came when you wanted to really be yourself.
‘Right. Fuck off,’ Mark said as they came to a stop.
‘Language,’ Brian insisted.
‘Apologies.’ Mark turned to Chris. ‘Go and check in. Then stay there until we come to you. Mr Jackson still isn’t sure whether he wants to see you in person yet.’
‘Look, I’m so sorry.’ Chris began to cry, his pathetic tears running over his acne scars.
‘Now, now. Don’t beg.’ Mark smirked. ‘You’ll have plenty of time for that.’
Chris reluctantly left the car, trudging through the door which slid open, giving way to the marble entranceway. At the desk, a nameless blond lady welcomed him, handing him a key and telling him the room with which he had been accommodated. The security guard, who made the Mitchell Brothers look like Smurfs, glared at him as he ambled to the lift. Up to the fourth floor and he walked down the warmly decorated hallway. Each room would be occupied, with scenarios playing out that would see many people arrested.
Vile sex acts.
Horrifying violence.
The High Street.
With an abject sigh of resignation, Chris slid the card into the lock above the handle, pushed open the door, and stepped into the room. A massive bed welcomed him, opposite a beautiful oak cabinet. Above, mounted on the white walls, was a fifty-inch TV, with surround sound speakers clinging to the ceiling corners like spider webs. The bathroom housed a lavish bath and walk-in shower, with a sink built into the marble unit.
Very classy.
He would never have been able to afford this in a million years.
A letter was lying on the bed, his name scrawled across it in beautiful handwriting. He opened the envelope and retrieved the thick paper and began to read.
Chris.
Please take this evening to relax. I will be there to see you tomorrow.
Mr Jackson.
Along with the letter, the envelope contained a small card with an escort services number as well as a bag of cocaine. Chris knew what was coming. He had seen it before. He would likely take a beating, with Mark undoubtedly chuckling as he knocked seven shades of shit out of him. He’d be relegated to some menial job for a while, like cleaning out the wanking booths in Mr Jackson’s gentlemen’s clubs.
And he would likely be kept away from women for the next few years.
All of that sounded a lot better than the alternative. He wasn’t quite ready to be fitted for his concrete boots just yet.
As the afternoon faded to a glorious, warm evening that was framed by a pink sky, Chris found himself slithering across the bed, waiting impatiently for a knock on the door. The bag of blow was half empty, a few lines of it already beating his brain into a frenzy like a pro boxer on a punching bag. He was lying in just his boxer shorts, his grotesque, sweaty body jiggling as he scrambled across the sheets to the mini bar. Eagerly draining his seventh bottle of beer, he was doing his level best to forget about what awaited him the following day.
Tonight was going to be about him.
He wanted to feel powerful again, like he did when he had Catriona held against the barrel, thrusting against her as she wept for him to stop.
He had demanded a brunette from the escort service, and he hoped to hell she was as liberal as he was going to be.
He also wondered if she could take a punch.
Shooting another line up his nose, his eyes widened with excitement as knuckles rapped against the door.
She was there.
With an erection building in his shorts and a lifetime of inadequacy bubbling inside his drug-addled body, he bounded across the room, ready to unload on this poor, unsuspecting hooker.
He opened the door with a smile.
He caught a glimpse of the metal bat as it swung directly into his face.
Everything went black.
CHAPTER TWO
Earlier that morning, Samuel Pope was lying on his bed, the covers kicked to the surrounding floor, waiting for his alarm to go off. As the sun be
gan to creep through the gaps in his blinds, followed by the first tweets from the early birds, he watched as the minutes changed on the digital clock that sat atop his bed side table.
Next to it was a half-drunken glass of water, his watch, and the recent novel he had been reading: To Kill a Mockingbird. Underneath the book was the folded photograph.
Wearing just his shorts, his toned body lay alone on the double bed, the rest of the room decorated with a metal rail for his shirts and trousers, a small chest of drawers for his underwear and T-shirts, and a wash basket.
The room lacked a woman’s touch.
His entire life had for the last three years.
Thinking about that moment caused him to sit up in frustration, his body telling him once again that he had slept barely a wink. As he pushed himself out of his bed, the clock hit five a.m. and he slammed a hand on top before it could begin its irritating chirping. He wished he could reach out his window and do the same to the birds. Sat with both legs draped over the side of the bed, he reached a scarred hand out to his mobile phone, clicked the button for his voicemail, and waited for the monotone lady to introduce his message.
‘Hey Dad.’ He smiled as his son’s voice raced to meet his ears. ‘I miss you. Mum says you are going to be away for a while. I understand, but I wanted to see you. I have some new books to read with you. I’ll speak to you soon, Dad. I love you.’
The message ended and he leant forward, one hand reaching up and rubbing his eyes, the gentle moistness of tears seeping through.
He missed his son.
He missed his wife.
With a deep sigh, he looked at the meaty book that adorned his bedside table, knowing he would have to force himself through it to make good on his promise to his son.
His Jamie.
He walked through the hallway of his adequate two-bedroom flat, the walls bare and empty, holding no memories or secrets.
If his walls could talk, they would have nothing to say.
He relieved himself in the modest white bathroom before trudging back to the spare room, which was empty, save for a weight bench and a punch bag. Forty-five minutes later he emerged, sweating heavily, and the boxing bag swinging like a rack of meat headed for slaughter. After showering, he combed his short, brown hair into a side parting and then shaved, removing the stubble that had sprouted up like unwanted weeds. As the steam from the mirror cleared, he saw himself.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 1