by Graham Smith
‘You’re full of pish, Ivy. You don’t know your boy as well as you think.’ Cameron slams the heel of his palm against the door. ‘Do you hear me? You have no idea what Jake is doing now, but let me tell you, there’s nothing about murder that speaks of moral fibre.’
‘What do you mean murder? What does homicide have to do with anything?’
The American word sits odd in Cameron’s ears when delivered in a thick Glaswegian brogue. He gives it a moment’s thought and remembers how Ivy had always tried to fit in. Her using the local terminology would be natural for someone who’d been out here as long as she had.
‘Jake hasn’t gone back to New York to speak to the police about what happened. He’s gone back to kill the person who shot his girlfriend. He’s going to either get himself killed, or arrested and jailed for murder. I said my goodbyes to him a long time ago, Ivy. It’s about time you got ready to say yours.’
As Cameron lies back on the bed he can hear Ivy’s sobbing recede as she walks away. He lays his head on the pillow and closes his eyes. A part of him knows he should feel cruel for shattering her illusion of Jake. Another, larger part, wishes he’d thought of it sooner as it has shut Ivy up and he can now get some peace to sleep.
63
I make the second call to Alfonse and listen as he gives me a location for Kingston. He’s as succinct as ever with his report, but I feel there’s something nagging at him. He gets to the point and tells me that Mother has been in touch with him, demanding that he tells her where I am, and that he’s to tell me “to return home immediately before I do something stupid”.
I thank him for his help and end the call. He knows me well enough to know I won’t go running just because Mother has told me to come home.
Alfonse has yet to share his opinion on what I’m planning to do. The fact he has held back from telling me, lets me know he at least agrees on some level that a biblical eye-for-an-eye justice should be delivered, rather than one meted out by a court.
It’s a big step, planning to kill someone, and the aiding and abetting of a planned assassination will incur stiff penalties for him should I get caught or be killed. This is why I’m doing everything I can to isolate his involvement from my activities.
His digital searches will be registered on his computer, but he’s more than smart enough to erase them in case anyone should come looking for him as my accomplice.
That mother has found out about my mission is disconcerting to say the least. While she and I may have a tumultuous relationship, we still love and respect one another.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Cameron has told her what my plans are. He’s possessed by a self-interest that makes Mother’s narcissism seem charitable. Plus, I’m confident that she will have relished giving him a piece of her mind.
Thirty years is a long time to store hate, and there are few things Mother likes better than delivering a well-deserved bollocking.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Mother will have heaped abuse and derision on him from first light until last. Mother may well be in her sixth decade, but she’s still got enough fight in her to see her take on far greater targets than Cameron.
In my mind’s eye I can picture them either side of the door. Her, furious and vitriolic as she lambasts him for all his failings; him, aghast and repentant at the hurt he’s caused.
It’s an idea that gives me the greatest of pleasure. There are few people in this world that I hate, but my father tops the list. A day or two having Mother give him a good old-fashioned Glasgow slagging is the least he deserves.
I know my mother though. She’ll go too far. She always does.
Cameron telling her that I’m planning to kill is a sure-fire indicator that she’s already crossed his red line. Alfonse telling me that Mother has just called him advises me that the line has only been crossed in the last few minutes.
It’s a worry I have to shelve. I can’t be thinking about what Mother will say, when I’m storming The King’s castle.
64
The cab drops me a quarter mile from Olly Kingston’s house as I don’t want any witnesses.
His house is a good one. It sits on a good street, in a good neighbourhood. It’s almost a shame I plan to do bad things in it.
I scout the house from the road at first. It has a seven-foot wall – like most of the houses in the street. There’s also a pair of wrought iron, ornamental gates that look strong enough to resist anything less than a bulldozer. A plaque on the wall bears the name of the house.
It isn’t Graceland, so I decide that The King has delusions of grandeur, rather than a love of a certain rock and roll star.
I’d jump up and take a peek over the wall were it not for a fear that the concrete coping stone was layered with broken glass.
A walk past the gates shows the house to be ablaze with lights and the drive littered with expensive cars. There’s a little gatehouse to the right of the opening and I can see a pair of feet and a screen.
A party is not what I was expecting, and the presence of a goon at the gate makes entry a little bit tougher. The gates can be climbed in a matter of seconds, but having someone shouting the alarm will not simplify things.
I dare say I could try and bluff my way in as a late guest, or as an employee of someone attending the party, but those paths are filled with hazards. There’s no telling whether the party is for legitimate or illegal friends and, either way, if I was escorted into the house and the party, I’d be recognised as a stranger as soon as they saw me.
The scar on my face will go against me, should it be a legitimate party, and I’m confident there will be guns pointed at me if The King and his associates have learned what happened at The Elite Club.
I continue my walk until I’m two houses along from The King’s. Neither of his neighbours, nor the houses opposite, have lights on – except external ones.
This gives me hope that the party is a legitimate one, and that his neighbours are on the guest list.
I double back to his nearest neighbour’s house, and peer through their gate. The house looks to be asleep, so I ignore the pain in my ribs from the gorilla’s punch and clamber up the wrought iron framework of the gate. When I reach the top I cast my eyes towards Kingston’s house.
It’s not the house I’m looking at, but the wall surrounding his garden. There’s no glint of reflected light from any glass embedded into the top of the wall. I tell myself to get with the times and stop looking for things that went out of fashion thirty years ago. Any security arrangements Kingston has will be modern ones, backed up by gun-toting henchmen.
I’m listening for the bark of dogs, or the howl of sirens that have been triggered by a hidden alarm. Hearing neither, I creep my way through the bushes until I’m halfway along the wall between this house and Kingston’s.
My next move is to get on the porch and climb slowly onto the veranda rail. As I straighten myself, my eyes are watching for anyone looking out of a window at Kingston’s house.
There’s nothing to see but, until the party reduces itself to the last few guests, I can’t begin to think about crossing the wall.
I climb down and prepare myself for a wait, as I listen for the sounds of people leaving.
As I wait, I put myself through a series of stretches so I’m as supple as a man my age can be. A pulled muscle will almost certainly make the difference between life and death.
I marvel at how steady my hands are, and how controlled my breathing is. I should be a shaking mess, fighting my emotions and the adrenaline that’s pumping its way around my body, but I’m not. The only thing I’m afraid of tonight, is failure.
My anger has robbed me of my instinct for self-preservation. I’m not suicidal; I have a mission to carry out, and I’m not afraid for my well-being so long as the mission is a success.
65
When I hear a series of car doors slamming, followed by the sound of engines purring and the crunching whisper of tyres on fine gravel, I shin up the
first few branches of a tree and peer over the wall.
There’s little sign of life from Kingston’s house. The drapes are pulled and only half of the rooms that were previously illuminated now show lights.
With just a few guests left, I figure I should get myself over the wall before he switches on any electronic security.
I drop from the tree to the ground, and leap up and grab the top of the wall with my hands. It takes a little scrabbling with my feet, but I manage to haul myself up and over the wall.
My feet land in the soft soil of a flowerbed, as I intended, and I pad over to the house’s outer wall, pressing myself flat against the stonework.
A quick check reassures me that I still have all my weapons in place, so I creep towards the rear of the house – taking care to duck below any lit windows. When I near the corner, I inch myself forward so I don’t walk right into someone’s view, and so I can observe each new part of the garden as it is revealed.
There’s a swimming pool, which is lit with underwater lights; while it may be too late in the year for swimming, I guess Kingston has made sure his pool is lit up to impress his guests. Like every other part of the garden, the area around the pool is manicured and sculpted to perfection.
I press forward a little further and see an empty sunroom attached to the back of the house.
As I round the corner, and crawl towards the sunroom on my hands and knees, I adopt caution as a middle name.
A quick bob of my head confirms it’s still empty, so I manoeuvre myself to the door and tease the handle down. The door opens without a sound.
I get inside the sunroom and crouch beneath a rattan couch that sports cream cushions. From here, I can see the sunroom is connected to the house by a hallway, which has openings left and right and runs through the main building.
This is bad. Whichever way I choose I’ll be leaving myself open to an ambush from a minimum of two directions.
On the other hand, should I need them, I’ll have three escape routes.
A more immediate worry is that the door from the sunroom to the hall could be locked. I get up and move towards it with a blend of speed and silence.
This handle is stiffer than the other, but it opens with the faintest of noises when I put a bit more weight behind my hand. Before I step into the hallway, I crane my head left and right while listening for movement.
Of the three doors leading from the hall, only the one to my left has light showing beneath it.
As a precaution against ambush I open the door straight ahead, and the one to my right, but find a large empty lounge and a deserted kitchen that looks more like a showroom than the heart of a home.
With Kingston’s money, it’s probable that he dines out most nights, and for an event like tonight’s he would hire caterers.
I pull both guns from the small of my back and make sure their safety catches are off. I tuck one under my right armpit, while I grasp the door handle, and with a deep exhale I throw the door open and stride into the room.
‘Nobody move.’ My voice is raised, and I have both guns pointing at the men sitting round a large dining table.
One of the men disobeys my command and rises from his seat. As he stands, his right hand dives beneath his jacket. I pull both my triggers twice, and see a spurt of red leap from the side of his neck. As he falls to the floor a thick geyser of arterial blood sprays the guy next to him.
I keep my face stern and try not to show relief that I’ve hit him. I’d aimed at the centre of the guy’s stomach; therefore, I’d missed my target by between fourteen and eighteen inches. Another inch to the right and it would have missed him altogether.
With four bullets gone I have eleven left. A quick head count shows there are six men seated around the table.
The air hangs with expectancy and cigar smoke.
I lay down the gun in my left hand, and cover the men with the one in my right, as I fish the roll of duct tape from my pocket.
‘You.’ I point at the nearest man – a thin streak of nothing with a greasy ponytail – as the roll of tape flies towards him. ‘Bind your buddies. If any of them manage to escape, I’ll shoot you first. Understand?’
He goes to work, and the man I’ve recognised as Kingston slowly rises to his feet with his hands above his head. He looks a little older than he does in the only picture that Alfonse was able to find of him on the internet. His jowls hang lower and there’s less hair surrounding his baldpate.
‘You’ve made a grave mistake, Buster.’
I point one gun at him while keeping the rest of them covered with the other gun in my right hand. ‘Really? I could say the same about you. You are behind the death of someone very dear to me. That’s something I take exception to.’
The calmness I felt earlier is still there and I have to fight my amazement at it. To me, this feels right. I’m here to deliver justice and to make sure Kingston pays for his part in Taylor’s death.
I glance at the men and see that Ponytail has secured three of them and is working on the fourth. Once he’s finished the next guy, he’ll only have Kingston left. My plan is to knock Ponytail out and bind him myself.
I’ll have plenty of time to persuade Kingston to tell me the name of the man who pulled the trigger. I am certain that, while he may have instructed the man to shoot, there is no way he did it himself. To do that would implicate him in ways that are undeniable to law enforcers.
‘FREEZE!’
If the shout doesn’t make me obey, the gun pressed against the back of my neck makes it a no-brainer. I have no option but to allow Ponytail and Kingston to take my weapons from me.
When the gun is removed from my neck, I see a woman whose face is a rigid mask; it’s either Botox, or Kingston’s wife is more than a little miffed with me for getting blood on her carpet.
66
Credit where it’s due, neither Kingston nor his men do anything to harm me as they drag me to an ornamental steel pillar, which supports an ornate staircase, wrap my arms around it and bind my hands with duct tape.
I’d expected a few cheap shots on account of the man I’d killed, but not only are they professional, they’re obedient, and follow Kingston’s quiet commands without question.
They’ve positioned me so that my back is to the room and they have me at their mercy – the only defence I can mount is mule kicks.
A fist slams into my kidneys and sends spasms of pain throughout me.
‘Okay, boys. You all get one punch each, and then we’ll see what Buster has to say for himself.’
It’s not Kingston’s words that scare me, it’s the matter-of-fact tone they’re delivered in. This is all in a day’s work for him. A man has been shot dead at his dining table, by a gun-toting stranger, and he’s speaking in the calm, measured fashion that I used when I met Taylor’s parents for the first time.
Four more blows land on my kidneys, but it’s the final punch that does the most damage. It lands on the back of my head and drives my forehead against the ornamental pillar. I hang on the edge of consciousness with my arms supporting me where the duct tape has snagged on a decorative feature. The sudden halt as I fell was akin to having my arms yanked upwards.
It could be worse. The clock had struck twelve long ago, and there are enough whisky fumes in the air to suggest that these men have all had a good drink. Therefore, they’re not at their peak when it comes to punching. Even if their target is bound and unmissable. Had they been sober, I dare say I’d be on my knees by now.
I force myself to my feet, as much to relieve the ache in my arms as to show defiance.
Two goons turn me so Kingston can see my face.
‘So, Buster. Who are you, and why are you here?’
‘I’m a friend of a friend. I heard you were looking for staff.’
My answer is a shock to me, but there’s no way I plan to tell him the truth.
‘So, instead of applying for a job, like any normal person, you sneak in here and kill one of my associate
s?’
‘He killed himself when he didn’t listen. It’s not my fault you hired a moron.’
There’s a curse, followed by rapid footsteps. I brace myself for the blow, but a word from Kingston is enough to make the aggressor stop.
‘Forgive William. The man you killed was his brother, so it’s only natural he’s rather upset with you.’
I don’t say anything. William may be controlled by Kingston, but there’s no point in pushing him further. Should I say the wrong the thing, William may just ignore his boss and kill me.
‘So then, Buster, do you have a name?’
There an oddness about Kingston calling me Buster, and his polite tones. It’s like he’s either struggling to shake off his roots, or is dumbing himself down so his men don’t feel inadequate at his superior intelligence.
‘Buster is as good a name as any.’
Kingston looks over my shoulder and does the peace sign. ‘William, if you’d do the honours, please?’
Unsure of where the blows will land, I tense my body and make sure my head can’t be knocked against the pillar for a second time. William’s fists collide with my kidneys.
My right kidney has taken more damage than the left one, but I can tell that William is left handed from the power of his punches. It’s a fact that may or may not come in useful.
‘I think William would rather like it if you don’t tell me your name. Do you want to make him happy, or do you want to tell me your name?’
I’ve held on to this minor detail for long enough. While I’m taking a pounding they’re not killing me. The longer I can draw this out, the better my chances are of finding a way to escape, or at least killing Kingston before his goons kill me.