Scar Tissue

by Ollie Ollerton

  Biscuits made a money sign with his fingers. ‘I fucking well wanted on board, didn’t I?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  Biscuits looked taken aback. ‘Well, you, for one. You didn’t.’

  Abbott shrugged. ‘Oh, come on, it was just a glint in his eye back then. How was I supposed to know the road was paved with gold? Plus, I had other shit going on.’

  Like seeing a boy dying in a street. And then being chased away by the guilt.

  ‘Yeah, well, it got real fucking serious. Stone used my name. He used Badger’s name, and he used yours, for that matter. As far as Farlowe were concerned, they were getting four heads, not just one. Bit of smoke and mirrors there, mate. Fact is, I was as much the reason they wanted us lot as Stone was. Just that he was the figurehead, so of course he felt differently. He wanted it all for himself, which is why he fucked off to live it up in the Green Zone, and I was stuck babysitting Mahlouthi.’

  ‘Sounds like you might have wanted him dead,’ said Abbott and immediately regretted it, wishing he could put the words back into his mouth, and instantly he stitched on a smile to try and pass it off as a joke.

  ‘Get you, Miss fucking Marple,’ said Biscuits, but he grinned and, thankfully, the moment passed.

  ‘What about Mowles?’ said Abbott quickly.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Did he go onboard with Stone?’

  Burton pulled a sour face. ‘Far as I know, Badger stayed tight with Stone. He left about the same time, is all I can say.’

  ‘The same, more or less.’

  And now he’s dead, thought Abbott. And so is Stone.

  He found himself regretting having holstered his Sig and he brought his hands to his hips, feeling the little finger of his right hand brushing the butt of the gun. Burton noticed the movement, too, and perhaps it was Abbott’s imagination, but he seemed to tense with the AK.

  ‘Did you go to the funeral?’ asked Abbott.

  ‘Fingers? I wouldn’t even know if there was one. Look, mate, there was no love lost. Fingers was never exactly the life and soul, was he? You know how just having him around put you on edge? Like he’d always see the bad side of everything? You’d be having a laugh and he’d bring you down by moaning about some shit. Anyway …’ he gave a short shake of his head as if wanting to dismiss the thought of Stone. ‘Does all this have anything to do with the reason for you sneaking around Mahlouthi’s villa?’

  ‘It’s Nathan,’ explained Abbott. ‘That’s all. I’m here looking for Nathan.’

  ‘Didn’t occur to you to knock on the door? Omar told me you followed him from the prison.’

  ‘Omar. That’s the little kid, is it?’

  ‘Currently making his way home with a pocketful of money courtesy of Mahlouthi. And Omar tells me that you were a bit pissed last night. Didn’t want to speak to him then. Next, you’re chasing him through the city streets.’

  ‘Sorry. What can I say? Indecisive.’

  ‘And then I catch you creeping around when you’ve been practically invited to pay us a visit and you’re behaving as though we’re the ones acting suspiciously. If I wasn’t so pleased to see you, I might get offended.’

  ‘Well don’t be. I was being careful, that’s all. It’s all about finding Nath, mate that’s all I’m here for.’

  ‘Well, I wish I could help you. But, like I say, I haven’t heard anything.’ He paused. ‘I think we both know a man who would have done, though, eh?’ he said, and used the barrel of the AK to point along the corridor and in the direction of Mahlouthi’s quarters.

  They had moved off and were nearly at the door when Abbott’s phone rang and he took the call, holding up an apologetic finger to Burton and turning his back to raise the phone to his ear.

  ‘Cuckoo?’ he said.

  ‘How are things?’

  ‘Bit busy.’ Abbott threw a look over at Burton who stood with his legs planted slightly apart, the AK in the crook of his elbow pointing skyward. ‘Can you make this quick?’

  ‘Sure. The quick version is that I found who partnered Mowles on the day of the jump.’

  ‘Right,’ Abbott eyes flicked once again to Burton, ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was questioned after the accident and allowed to go. Mexican authorities were probably glad he wasn’t kicking up a fuss about it all, trying to sue their arse.’

  ‘Name,’ said Abbott simply.

  ‘It was your mate Biscuits.’

  CHAPTER 39

  Abbott finished the call. His senses ratcheted up, approaching high alert as he joined Burton once more.

  ‘Who was that, then?’ asked Burton, with what Abbott thought was a note of forced lightness.

  ‘Just a guy doing some digging for me.’

  ‘Land ops, eh? Anything to report?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Burton flashed him a look that was just sour enough for Abbott to wonder if he’d seen a glimpse of Burton’s real feelings, lurking beneath all that jollity. ‘Still a closed book, aren’t you, Abbott? Christ knows how I got landed with you and Stone. A right couple of shut-ins. If it hadn’t been for Badger …’

  The two eyed each other. A new wariness had crept in between them. Abbott’s mind was racing. Why would Burton affect not to know about Mowles when the lie was so easily exposed? One thing was for sure, nothing was certain right now. Something occurred to him. ‘I haven’t seen any staff yet,’ he said. They had reached the pool area and he had a memory of seeing Mahlouthi’s wives sunning themselves. ‘None of the wives either.’

  ‘The last of them left the other day,’ said Burton.

  ‘So that’s it?’ said Abbott.

  ‘You remember Tommy?’ said Burton. ‘Did you and him overlap? I forget.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember Tommy,’ said Abbott. By now his suspicions were working overtime. Like how come Burton seemed to have so little memory of Abbott at the villa?

  ‘So, yeah, Tommy’s still here. But apart from me, Tommy and now you – oh, and occasionally Omar – that’s it.’

  ‘Why?’ said Abbott. ‘What happened?’

  By now they’d climbed the steps into Mahlouthi’s quarters, threaded their way through what looked like an ocean of ornate scatter cushions and crossed to the rear. Here was Mahlouthi’s office. Burton knocked, calling, ‘Moof, our guest is here. I’m sure you’d like a word.’

  ‘Come,’ replied Mahlouthi from inside.

  ‘Let him tell you,’ said Burton to Abbott, and in they went.

  CHAPTER 40

  Poor old Tommy must have been working like a dog, because Mahlouthi’s suit remained pressed, his shirt was a crisp white, his spectacles still the height of fashion. In short, he was the same as Abbott remembered, as if untouched by the chaos of war and the equal chaos of peacetime. Perhaps his only concession to changing times was the fact that he did not wear his customary tie.

  Between Abbott and Burton there had been wariness, caution, a sense of unfinished business and things beneath the surface. But that was nothing compared to the atmosphere between Mahlouthi and Abbott.

  The big man tried to hide it, of course. He stood, came out from behind his desk in order to envelop Abbott in an all-too-familiar bear hug, but when he broke away, he immediately scuttled back. Mahlouthi’s desk was big enough to make a pool table feel inadequate, but right now it acted as a handy barrier between him and Abbott, who had entered his office like a bad dream.

  And as he stood there, Abbott realised that his first impression of Mahlouthi – that he hadn’t changed – wasn’t in fact accurate. He was nervy, ill at ease. In this light the absence of his usual tie assumed new meaning. Something was up. And it wasn’t just Abbott being here. Something else.

  ‘Have you told him?’ Mahlouthi spoke to Burton but kept his eyes on Abbott.

  Burton shook his head no.

  ‘Did my boy tell you last night?’ This question was directed at Abbott.

  ‘Omar?’

  Mahlouthi nodded.

&n
bsp; ‘Whatever it was, no, he didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I wished you would have joined me last night.’

  ‘I was indisposed. If it was important, then maybe a bit more meat on the bones would have helped.’

  Mahlouthi rolled his eyes. Then, reaching for his phone, he jabbed at some buttons and slid it across the tabletop to Abbott.

  Displayed was a text message. Just two words. You’re next.

  ‘You didn’t tell me this,’ Abbott said to Burton.

  Burton shrugged, no biggie, and Abbott felt his suspicions flare a little more.

  ‘I get this message and the same day discover that you are back in Baghdad,’ said Mahlouthi.

  ‘Abbott’s boy is missing,’ said Burton to Mahlouthi, who blanched at the news. At the same time, something passed between him and Abbott. Both were thinking the same thing. Both were seeing a motive.

  ‘Your boy, he was called –’ but Mahlouthi could not summon the name.

  ‘He is Nathan,’ replied Abbott and gave Mahlouthi a potted version of the story.

  ‘I can help you find him,’ said Mahlouthi, when he had finished.

  ‘Can you?’ said Abbott doubtfully. Only the greenery outside retained its former glory, and that was irrigated. Everything else about Mahlouthi spoke of a man who was – let’s say diminished. Surely that had to extend to his famed network of ‘contacts’ as well?

  ‘I still have influence,’ said Mahlouthi, as though reading his mind. ‘To the outside world,’ he twirled his finger above his head to illustrate, ‘everything about Mahlouthi is business as usual. And if Mahlouthi wants information he gets it.’

  There. There it was. A little of the old fire.

  ‘I have a request in return, though,’ he added.

  Of course he did.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You transfer your lodgings from the Al Mansour hotel to the Mahlouthi Villa.’

  ‘No.’ The word was out of his mouth before Abbott knew it. More of an instinct, a knee-jerk reflex, a gasp of pain at a prodded wound than a considered response. ‘No, I’m not …’ Coming back here.

  At the same time, Burton was letting out a sigh. ‘Things are fine, Moof. I don’t need an extra guy.’

  Mahlouthi brandished the phone. ‘You didn’t, past tense. Things have changed.’

  ‘Well, it’s funny you should say that, actually,’ said Burton. ‘But there’s something else you should know. Badger’s dead.’

  Again, Mahlouthi paled. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yeah, dead, Moof. It’s the opposite of alive.’

  Mahlouthi shot Burton a distracted look then returned his attention to Abbott. ‘How?’

  ‘Skydiving accident,’ offered Abbott, giving Mahlouthi what details he knew.

  All the details, that was, apart from one. And as he spoke, his eye went from Mahlouthi, whose mouth worked up and down, his bright white teeth looking faintly ridiculous when paired with his obvious shock, to Burton, and he saw nothing there to suggest his old comrade was hiding something. Was it possible that Cuckoo’s information was false? Or perhaps – and this seemed more likely – that somebody had been impersonating Burton, using his name on the jump log? Still, he held back from confronting Burton with what he knew. It was like a piece of the puzzle lost in the living room. He just needed to find that one bit of the jigsaw …

  And, yes, here was the best place to start looking for it.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he told Mahlouthi, who grinned in return.

  ‘I’m not sharing the pay. Is that clear?’ snapped Burton. ‘I remain chief of security.’

  ‘Your pay is safe,’ said Mahlouthi. Abbott shrugged, not wanting to get roped into an argument. Not really having a dog in this fight, deciding to wait it out until the pair of them were finished. At last they had, and Mahlouthi, more relaxed now, said to Abbott, ‘I gather you’re still a fan of the hard stuff, Abbott.’ He’d obviously heard about last night. Or perhaps it simply showed. Abbott wasn’t complaining. The main thing was that Mahlouthi stood and walked to a sideboard, an escapee from the 1970s complete with coasters, soda siphon and a selection of cut-glass carafes, all of which, though eye-wateringly expensive, managed to look flea-market cheap, and began to dole out drinks.

  It took him some time. Mahlouthi may have been many things but a drinks waiter was not one of them and if you didn’t already know that he’d recently laid off most of his staff, then you did now. Abbott took his glass, having prompted Mahlouthi for ice, and the three of them sat drinking, not exactly friends, not even especially relaxed in each other’s company. But together, reunited after almost a year apart.

  Abbott had to reflect – and maybe this was just the booze talking, the whiskey reaching inside him with massaging fingers – that it wasn’t too bad at all, really. He wondered if the other two thought the same as him: that once there had been five, now there were just three.

  ‘Tommy will see to it that your belongings are transferred from the Al Mansour hotel to here,’ explained Mahlouthi, and Abbott cringed inside. Only he knew the devastation he had left in his hotel room, the tell-tale empties, not to mention the mini-armoury hidden in the well of the room’s wardrobe.

  ‘Just my overnight bag and laptop,’ he said. ‘I’ll be going back to my room in due course.’

  * * *

  Later, Tommy arrived, and he led Abbott out of the office and to his room. Abbott wondered about the topic of conversation between Mahlouthi and Burton when he left, reminding himself that although he was now a house guest, he was still very much the outsider in this dynamic. After all, he’d let them down by disappearing off to Singapore. They were bound to treat him with a level of distrust.

  Following in Tommy’s wake, he found they were taking a few twists and turns, but he knew where they were going. Sure enough, it was his old room, complete with his belongings which had been transferred from the hotel. As Tommy withdrew, he sat, wishing that he had been offered some of Mahlouthi’s stash to take for his room.

  Something occurred to him. The room had a fitted wardrobe, and in a cubbyhole inside was a half-bottle of vodka. He’d left it there when he was last a resident.

  He recovered it, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, almost like a prisoner having outwitted his captors, and he sat on the bed, sipping, letting the vodka keep the whiskey company.

  Next, he reached for his laptop, placing it on the desk, opening it, checking his emails to find that Cuckoo had been in touch, a message titled ‘Skydiving accident’.

  There was no text in the body of the email, just a movie file that Abbott double-clicked on, expecting, no, hoping, that it was footage of the accident.

  It was. This was footage from the body cam of Mowles’s diving partner that day, and, right away, Abbott began to suspect that it had been doctored. For a start, in his experience, they tended to start the cam as they approached the drop zone. They’d include conversation, the skydivers hyping each other up.

  On this one, however, that section of the trip had been chopped off, and the footage began mid-air. Was that because somebody didn’t want those involved being identified?

  He watched. The footage was from whoever was Mowles’s partner. All that was visible of the cameraman was his arms, the fabric of his dive suit rippling. He saw Mowles a short distance away, lay flat in the air arms spread, falling but floating, and grinning – a grin that Abbott remembered well, that held no foresight of the horror that was just seconds away that suddenly faded as Mowles attempted to deploy his chute.

  At the same time, the cameraman must have deployed his, and suddenly there was no sign of Mowles as his rate of dropping accelerated and the cameraman decelerated.

  That was the last of Mowles: a grin that became a grimace, a last flash of terror-stricken eyes. Abbott watched it again and there was something about it, something that struck him, that he couldn’t quite place until he watched it again and this time instead of kee
ping his attention focused on Mowles, he looked more carefully at what was visible of the cameraman.

  Specifically, a finger. To be more precise, a missing finger.

  So it wasn’t Burton who was the second parachutist that day – it was Stone.

  Stone had killed Mowles. And then …

  Then what?

  CHAPTER 41

  Abbott fired off an email to Cuckoo, then took his discovery to Burton, who was in his room. He knocked, then burst in with the question: ‘Was there a body found?’

  ‘You what?’ Burton stood in the middle of the room in his pants, swaying slightly, looking like he wanted to be outraged that Abbott had burst in, but also intrigued.

  ‘Stone and his “drowning accident”,’ explained Abbott. ‘They ruled out murder, didn’t they?’

  Burton nodded.

  ‘So they must have found a body?’ pressed Abbott.

  ‘Not as far as I know, mate, no.’ Burton was still disorientated so Abbott filled him in, complete with the tale of how it had been Burton’s name on the jump log, not Stone’s.

  ‘So all afternoon you thought that it was me who killed Badger?’ said Burton. Still in his pants, he’d taken a seat on the edge of the bed, scratching his balls thoughtfully. ‘And you didn’t fucking say anything?’ There was a look on his face that was somewhere between amused and genuinely upset and affronted.

  ‘I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t believe it,’ said Abbott.

  Burton looked taken aback. Abbott could have sworn he saw his eyes swim. ‘You mean that?’ said Burton. ‘You really couldn’t believe it of me?’

  ‘No,’ said Abbott. In reality, he’d been keeping an open mind, but what the hell.

  Burton looked sheepishly pleased. ‘So what’s your thinking, then?’ He was drunk and slightly slurring his words. Abbott always found it vaguely surprising when other people were more drunk than he was. The evil drinking guy who lived inside took it as a challenge.

  ‘I’m beginning to think that our mate Fingers faked his own death,’ replied Abbott thoughtfully. His mind was going to Nathan, putting Nathan’s disappearance together with the killing of Mowles, the maybe-staged-death of Stone, putting it with the address in the Kadhimiya district and a boy who lay dying in the dirt. Who said the final word, ‘Dad.’