Their flat was a modest two-bedroom cell in a building designed to keep the ‘have-nots’ locked away. His dad had never had much of an education, working tirelessly from one underpaid job to the next, doing his level best to put food on the table. His mother, despite her honest upbringing, demanded the finer things in life, conducting herself with an etiquette that the Canning Estate had never known before.
She expected them to say their ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’, to wear their Sunday best every week, and to speak in full sentences.
When your entire world was enveloped by cockney rhyming slang, it was difficult. Frank himself had received many a clip round the ear for dropping a well-known phrase at the dinner table.
Manners didn’t cost a penny.
Back then, with money as tight as it was, he wondered if maybe his mother was so strict on the manners for that very reason.
After six years working as a street sweep, his dad finally got a job bouncing at a local bar. Not the biggest man, but pretty nifty with his fists, his dad took to the job well. Pretty soon the money improved along with his hours, and it was only then that Frank’s mum realised he wasn’t bouncing anymore.
He was pushing.
Working the doors at certain nightclubs that were owned by the a few local gangsters, Frank’s dad provided drugs to those wanting more than just a drink.
In the bleak, depressing times of the 1970s, many wanted to disappear for a night. To lose themselves in a binge that would pull them from any type of sensible thought.
It was all going so well, and after two years they finally left the high-rise, the dark corridors and the depressing life that those below the line were forced to toe.
They moved to a small two-bedroom house on a neighbouring street, with enough of a garden for his mum to grow flowers with exotic names and to show them off in beautiful displays on the table.
The money continued to flow.
Eventually he welcomed a sister into the world, who—sadly—would not see beyond six months due to health complications.
Her name was Annabelle.
His dad took it hardest, working longer hours and coming home a wreck, dishevelled and wiry, his eyes darkened and his mouth dry. Even as a kid, Frank could tell that his dad was using the drugs he was supposed to be selling.
It led to arguments.
To violence.
His dad struck his mum one evening when she questioned him regarding their rent money. She told him he was a waste of space and that Annabelle had been lucky she died, so she wouldn’t have to live in a world with him as her dad.
That night, after what witnesses described as a careless drug binge, Frank’s father committed suicide by hurling himself off the Hammersmith flyover.
The fall had broken his spine, and the twenty-tonne lorry that he fell in front of had done the rest. There had hardly been any of him left to cremate.
After that, it was just Frank and his mother.
She tried to make ends meet, but after so many years of demanding to be a kept lady, she couldn’t find enough work to cover the bills. The poverty began to spill back into the house like an overflowing bathtub, and soon they were spending their winter evenings huddled together under as many blankets as possible, the house falling below zero but with no way of heating it.
Eventually his mum found a new man. At first it was the same man for a few times, but then more men began to frequent the house. His mother seemed to have more money too, and with it she brought him a brand new Walkman, to the envy of his friends. Her only demand was that when her gentleman friends came to call, he would go to his room and listen to his tapes until they left.
She didn’t want him to hear.
One day, he came downstairs after a night of listening to his new Bon Jovi tape to find his mum sat at the table, a cigarette in her hand and a thick purple bruise swelling around her right eye.
Her lips were split and bleeding too.
She told him she had walked into the door.
At thirteen years old, he knew better. The kids at school all snickered behind his back about his mother being a whore. About how if he needed money for lunch, they could pay for it by getting his mum to blow them.
He ignored them. He allowed himself to be swept away with his music.
But he knew the truth. His mother had done what she had had to to make ends meet. To put food in his stomach and a roof over his head. He would forever love her and knew that when he grew up and made something of himself, he would pay her back.
He would never get that chance.
The beatings became semi-regular, usually occurring when a man named Malcolm Breaker visited. One evening he put her in hospital with a broken arm and three broken ribs.
Throughout it all, as the world of drugs and prostitution began to slither into their world like a shadow, his mum retained that same etiquette.
They never used rhyming slang. They always dressed their best.
Manners didn’t cost a penny.
Frank had been brought up to say his ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’.
He never got to thank his mum for doing the best she could, as a few days after she was omitted from hospital, Malcolm Breaker beat her to death.
Frank had found her the next morning. She had been punched repeatedly, and by the blood dripping from the nearby lamp and the deep, jagged dent in her skull, had been bludgeoned to death.
Thirteen years old and orphaned.
As he called for the police and ambulance, he held his mum’s body and wept, knowing that he was about to be swept away into the system with little to no chance of escaping.
He promised her he would make something of himself.
He promised he would never forget what she had taught him.
He thanked her one last time.
Manners didn’t cost a penny.
Sat in an expensive leather chair with his legs tucked under the broad mahogany desk, Frank Jackson shook his head with disappointment as he hung up the phone. DS Mayer had promised him that everything would be in hand, that he would be the man for the job.
He had failed.
What should have been a slam dunk was now turning into a car crash of errors. It was meant to be a simple explosion they could pin on ISIS, and the world would thank them for their efforts in protecting the UK.
Now he had a dead policeman, another one they had had to silence, and now a rogue office worker killing two of his men.
Such disappointment.
With a deep sigh, Frank lifted himself from his chair and walked across his well-lit office. His expensive leather shoes clicked across the wood panels as he reached across and buttoned the top button of his blazer. The tailor-made suit was worth over a thousand pounds and fit nicely around his long, toned frame. At just over six foot three, he knew he was imposing, if a little on the light side. Now, rapidly approaching his half century, he knew that his days of being ‘the muscle’ had long since passed. They had passed six years previously, when he took control of the sordid nightlife of London.
He didn’t control the drugs and women who passed through his building. They were part of the wider network.
He provided the safe haven. The place where the law was forbidden. His rapid expansion led to the hostile takeover of three large buildings, all of them gutted and turned into his luxury offerings.
The High-Rises.
Frank knew he had pushed it as far as he could, but with the hierarchy existing within the criminal underworld, there was only so far he could go unchecked. He knew that, but he also knew there would come a time where money wasn’t the prize anymore.
It would be power.
His office sat on the top floor of the High-Rise, one of the four penthouse suites he offered to the higher-paying customer. It still had the familiar layout of the others, but the four-post bed was replaced with a thick desk. Frank walked through the door and took the lift down to the lobby area, where a few gentleman sat on the sofas. One of them was reading a
book. The other was engrossed in his phone, pointlessly trying to line up confectionery for points.
Frank Jackson shook his head, that feeling of disappointment refusing to leave.
To the left was the large desk, where a couple of attractive women would usually greet guests. Where the two men were stationed was the waiting area—a couple of comfortable leather sofas, and a glass table littered with magazines and financial material about the local companies’ seemingly booming business.
To the right was a taller table with a few stools dotted around it. One of them was occupied by Mark Connor.
He was the one who was known as ‘Grant Mitchell’.
Frank had always found their Mitchell Brothers nickname pointless, but it carried weight with it. He had witnessed first-hand Mark and Brian’s loyalty to him, the number of kneecaps that had been shattered or fingers removed due to disrespect.
Frank was under no illusion. He was feared because of his power. The Mitchell Brothers were feared because of their violence. Mark pushed himself off the stall; the fluorescent lights above bounced off his shiny bald head and his massive frame bathed the floor in a mighty shadow.
‘Evening, sir,’ he offered, his thick cockney accent bursting from behind his jagged teeth.
‘Mark.’ He approached confidently. ‘Is he here?’
‘Of course. Shall we?’
‘Let’s.’
Mark told the two other thugs to stay where they were and then led his boss towards the stairwell. He held the door open for his boss, an act of chivalry which was much appreciated, and then he followed through. Frank let him go first as they headed down the brightly lit staircase towards the basement, the white walls displaying the usual fire safety signs most buildings demanded.
Frank was adamant it all had to look legitimate.
He watched his burly companion, appreciating the smart appearance. He didn’t command that they wear suits in his presence, but they all knew he appreciated it. He thought about their loyalty once more and smiled, knowing that once this whole issue with the Marathon was wrapped up, he would ensure they were treated to a night in the High-Rise with no expense spared.
It worked for everyone else. It was how he kept most of the city in his pocket.
‘Mark. I just heard from Mayer.’
‘What does that wanker want?’ Mark instantly held up an apologetic hand. He knew Frank would let him get away with the odd curse word.
‘To apologise and reassure me that everything is in hand.’
‘Is it?’ Mark asked with a smirk as they reached two levels below the ground and he held a large metal door open for his boss.
Frank stopped at the threshold. The room before them was shrouded in darkness.
‘What do you think?’ Frank asked.
‘I think Mayer couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. But we should be able to clear up his mess pretty easily. Brian is already watching the police station.’
‘Do we know who this man is? This Pope chap?’
‘Not much. Mayer says he’s ex-army gone doo-lally. But from what Brian has seen on the CCTV, the man isn’t playing around.’
‘We’ve seen the CCTV?’ Frank asked, readjusting his cufflinks. He always looked immaculate.
‘Yup. Brian’s headed over to the police station now. Mayer is going to get him a pass and whatnot, set him up with some access so we can help with the manhunt.’
‘It’s hardly a manhunt,’ Frank dismissed and then turned his attention to the dark room. ‘Just don’t let it get out of hand. Right, shall we?’
Mark entered the darkness and switched on the lights. Four long beams burst into light in succession, each one buzzing enthusiastically. The walls were a bright white, with see-through plastic sheets taped up, covering every inch. To the right was a small trolley; atop it a number of sharp, perfectly arranged tools as well as a few power tools which were plugged into an extension cable and raring to go.
Hanging from the middle of the ceiling, completely nude but for the masking tape that kept him quiet, was Nathaniel Burridge, a local cocaine dealer who had decided to step on Frank’s toes and put one of his pushers in hospital with a broken nose.
He had stolen over thirteen thousand pounds’ worth of cocaine, as well as four grand in cash.
Frank could see from the gash across the man’s terrified face, the bruising which was beginning to show on his dark skin, and the missing index finger, that Mark had already had a warmup.
Right on cue, Mark wheeled a plastic chair towards the naked man, whose stomach was wet with urine.
Nathaniel was terrified.
Frank walked with extra purpose, exaggerating his grandeur as he took the seat beside the man, draping one leg over the other and regarding him with a polite smile.
The man responded with a muffled cry for mercy and tears streaming from his face.
‘Nathaniel. What you did was very silly. Now, I am going to give you one chance to apologise to me. Otherwise my good friend Mark is going to take you apart, starting with your testicles. Do you understand?’
The man, with his bloodshot eyes wide, nodded frantically, the blood sitting heavy in his skull.
‘Mark, I don’t bluff, do I?’
‘Absolutely not, guv.’
‘Take off his gag.’
Mark leant forward with meaty, scarred fingers and ripped the masking tape from Nathaniel’s face, tearing the stubble clean from his jaw.
‘Mr Jackson, I’m so fucking sorry. I swear, I’ll never do it again. Just please don’t kill me.’
Mark stepped forward, and with a force that made Frank wince, he rattled Nathaniel’s body with a hard right hook before spitting an intimidating warning.
‘Language.’
Nathaniel rocked from the punch, trying his best to catch his breath.
Frank regarded him once more. The street hoodlum was possibly part of a street gang—one which believed in bright clothing and post code division. Frank found it all rather pathetic, wondering why, if they wanted to ‘run the streets’, they didn’t pool their resources and find a way to work together.
‘Thank you, Nathaniel. I accept your apology. However, Mark is going to cut you to pieces now and send it back to your little gang so they know to stay the fuck off my streets.’
‘No, please, I beg you, bruv, please don’t…’
‘Apologies.’ Frank held up a hand. ‘Please excuse my French. Mark, kill him.’
‘Yes, guv. My pleasure.’
Nathaniel screamed once more for help, as Mark ran his hand suggestively over the torture trolley before lifting a set of stainless steel pliers. He snipped them a couple of times, allowing Nathaniel to see what his near future held. As Mark slid his arms into a plastic apron, Frank headed towards the exit. He turned back one final time, at the twitching, naked body and the butcher ready to maim it.
‘Once you have finished here, find that Pope chap. And kill him.’
Mark gave the thumbs-up before turning back to Nathaniel and reaching for his genitals.
Frank headed back up the stairs with the bloodcurdling screams echoing around him like a choir.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Fuck.’
Theo and Amy both looked up as Sam marched back into the room, sliding his phone into his back pocket. His muscular arms stretched the sleeves of his T-shirt, the vein running down the centre like a river. Andy was unconscious; the emergency surgery, despite draining his energy, had been a success. Amy sat vigil next to her husband, holding his hand lovingly. Her eyes were sore, the tears long since dried up and replaced by a harsh redness.
Theo stood, a fresh T-shirt replacing the bloodstains from earlier.
‘Sam, what is it?’
‘That fucker Mayer.’
‘What’s going on?’ Theo asked bluntly, causing Amy to turn.
‘This was an inside job. The Detective Sergeant, acting in charge, he set this whole thing up.’ Sam picked up his black bomber jacket and slid his arms
into the sleeves.
‘Wait, what?’ Theo held his arms up in confusion.
‘I don’t know how or why, but I just called in what happened and Mayer knew about the men in Amy’s flat, the men that were going to kill her—he knew what they were after.’
Amy watched the conversation in shock.
‘And he knows where we are and I don’t think he’s sending people here to give me a medal.’
Theo ran a hand over his head, exhaling deeply as he tried to process the information.
Amy joined them. ‘You think Mayer did this?’
‘He did. Harding. Howell. The bombing. Something didn’t add up.’ Sam patted his jacket and jeans down until he found Amy’s car keys.
‘But why?’
‘Look, right now, we need to move.’ Sam turned to Theo. ‘Theo, I need you to take these two and get them somewhere safe until I get back.’
Theo nodded in agreement, the look of reluctance etched across his war-weary face. ‘You got it, Sam.’
He extended his hand and Sam took it, drawing his old war buddy in for a quick hug. The danger of their situation buzzed around them like a beehive. Sam clapped his friend on the shoulder before turning to Amy.
‘Wake up Andy and help Theo get him somewhere safe.’
Sam picked up the gun he had taken from Amy’s flat, cocking back the chamber to check the live round. He then slipped the cartridge from the handle, the bronze bullets neatly stacked atop each other.
Amy, amidst the panic, reach outed and grabbed his forearm, fear in her eyes. ‘Where are you going?’
Sam slammed the cartridge back, the metal clunking loudly with completion. ‘I’m going to buy us some time.’
Stuffing the gun into the waistband of his jeans, Sam marched across the wood floor before hauling open the door and leaving. Amy watched in silence, shaking slightly as the fear gripped her and treated her like a child’s rattle.
Theo gently reached out a calming hand and rested it on her shoulder. ‘Amy, we need to go.’
They turned and headed to her husband.
Outside, the warm evening greeted Sam eagerly. A gentle breeze danced through the street, sliding through Sam’s hair and tickling his scalp. He marched to the Audi, silently thanking Amy for her indulgence in the unnecessary sports model. The TT Roadster Sport was equipped with an even beefier engine, and as Sam opened the door he looked forward to testing it. Suddenly two figures approached him.
The Night Shift: A high octane thriller that will have you gripped. (Sam Pope Series Book 1) Page 11