by Ted Tayler
Annie kicked off her shoes and closed the distance between them. She wrapped her arms around him, and her teeth pulled on his lower lip. She turned around, and lifted her hair from her neck, inviting him to unzip the red sheath dress. It dropped to her feet, and she faced him in only a white thong. Phoenix had to admit, she was something else.
“Take me upstairs, Frankie,” she said.
There was no escape. Phoenix carried her upstairs and tossed her onto the bed. There would be no foreplay, no conversation, no afterglow. He wanted to screw this woman until she couldn’t take any more. He knew he must remain detached, and cold. He must maintain the Frankie persona he’d adopted. It was the only way he could cope with having sex with another woman.
Phoenix lowered his hand to his zip, but she pushed it away. His erection was evident, and Annie wanted to feel him, taste him. She eased his trousers and pants over his hips. When his member sprung free she gasped.
“Holy cow,” Annie cried. “I’ve won the lottery.”
Phoenix couldn’t let her have her way. He flipped her onto her back and moved up her body, planting feathery kisses on her thighs and her stomach. He kissed Annie hard, holding her hands above her head.
His hand moved to a breast, squeezing the nipple hard. Phoenix ripped the thong with his strong fingers. Annie moaned as he settled between her thighs. He pumped his fingers into her wet folds, hard and deep. He steadied his breathing. Phoenix knew he was in danger of enjoying this far too much. He hated himself for having to act out this charade.
Phoenix rescued a condom from the bedside table drawer. He had prepared for the possibility he couldn’t keep her at arm’s length, thank goodness. She begged him to be inside her, her hands gripped his buttocks, clamping him on top of her again, his hardness pressing against her welcoming body.
He ground into her with an urgency that shocked him. His strokes were hard and powerful. Their bodies thrashed together on the bed. Phoenix watched Annie’s breasts as they shuddered on her chest, her powerful legs locked around his waist.
Phoenix closed his eyes and kept thrusting until Annie cried out with the intensity of her orgasm.
“Oh, Frankie,” she cried, “you are amazing.”
Phoenix was ready to explode. As he heard Annie cry out Frankie’s name he found his release. He wasn’t there; it was his body, but she didn’t have his heart or his soul. That belonged to Athena. Annie clung to him, ready to go again. Phoenix rolled away from her.
“Another long day tomorrow,” he sighed, “let’s have that glass of wine, and then we can finish watching that film I started before you arrived.”
“What were you watching,” she said, curling up on the bed.
“Man of Steel,” he said, slipping on his clothes.
“I think I saw him just now,” Annie said. She had no clothes upstairs, not with her ripped thong on the floor, so she walked downstairs naked, and slipped into her dress. When Phoenix returned from the kitchen with two glasses of white wine, she lay on the sofa.
“Will you zip me up, or should I stay ready for more?”
Phoenix zipped her up, picked up the remote and started the film. Annie rested her head on his shoulder, and they watched in silence. Phoenix hoped she wasn’t planning to burn the place down because he’d knocked her back.
“I’ll be in the pub tomorrow,” Annie said, as the credits rolled, “I’ll bring spare underwear, and a nightie. Tonight’s appetiser has given me a taste. I want to spend the night with you tomorrow.”
“Time for you to leave,” he said, kissing her hard, “tomorrow it is. I’m not going anywhere.” It seemed Annie was satisfied for now, at least. She found her shoes, put them on and walked to the door.
“Phil was in a funny mood tonight,” she said, changing the subject, “he can’t find his nephews, They’re always in trouble. The cops picked them up a week or so back, but we found too many witnesses placing them somewhere else, so they let them go.”
“Did they do it?” asked Phoenix.
“I expect so,” laughed Annie, “but nobody’s seen them for a day or two.”
“Youngsters, are they? They’re on a bender or shacked up with girls.”
“Out of their heads on smack, more like it,” said Annie, “a mug’s game that is. I hope Phil finds them tomorrow though, he’s doing my head in, with his moaning.”
“See you tomorrow night,” said Phoenix. He stood by the door until Annie drove away.
Good luck finding the Mullen twins, he thought, as he returned upstairs to change the bedclothes. As he loaded the dirty washing into the machine, he wondered where Henry found a spare patch of ground in the pet cemetery. It was getting mighty crowded.
Phoenix headed upstairs to bed. He wasn’t convinced his conscience was entirely clear. He had been right. Annie Dwyer was something else, but tomorrow was another day, and the Dwyer gang were in for a big surprise.
Wednesday 23rd July 2014
Phoenix knew it would be a long day. He woke early and made his usual eight o’clock check-in to Giles. His list took him to Byker this morning. In the east of the city, Byker suffered the social problems common to other inner-city urban housing areas, including juvenile crime and vandalism. Turnover of tenancies was high. Families in employment moved out. Shops stood empty and abandoned. One in three of the estate’s adult inhabitants was unemployed.
The only good thing about today’s route was it took him to the opposite side of the city and the main haunts of the Dwyer gang. Phoenix aimed to avoid contact with anyone except the people he needed to visit.
Things started well. Although Byker had more signs of poverty than yesterday’s route, the people were cheery enough. They appeared to have accepted their lot, shrugged their shoulders and got on with life as best they could. The payments were small, and the money rolled in. By lunchtime, Phoenix had almost two hundred of the four hundred and fifty pounds due.
Phoenix couldn’t dismiss his thoughts of Annie Dwyer, or what lay in store this evening. He rationalised what he did last night. It was for the greater good. Olympus would get the desired result. Dwyer’s gang would be arrested, the loan-sharking operation dismantled, and many lives the better for it. Intimidation, threats, and violence would stop.
Time stood still as the afternoon dragged. He reached his final doorstep at four fifteen. Phoenix needed to collect eleven pounds from a reluctant middle-aged biker. His accent was as broad as the River Tyne, and Phoenix weathered a volley of abuse before the cash got thrown at him. As the door slammed in his face, Phoenix offered a prayer of thanks. No more houses to visit.
Phoenix walked to the car, double-checked the money against the book, and confirmed the figure. The cash and the collection book, with its lists of names and addresses, would add to the other intelligence he gathered. Phoenix planned to travel south by train after delivering the whole package to a police station en route.
It was too risky to return to the safe house until the police operation concluded. Mick hadn’t given specific times, but Phoenix knew the Dwyers arrived at the pub by six. If they were due to deliver their takings, then collectors like Benny Giggs and Alan Telfer stayed in the bar until they received their commission.
Phoenix calculated he could drive back under cover of darkness. He headed out of Byker and made for South Shields. He read somewhere Ocean Beach had a lot to offer. All he needed was a restaurant and a place to sit and watch the sunset.
The sun had disappeared by ten to nine. The last few sips of his glass of wine followed seconds later. A leisurely drive back to the safe house took Phoenix forty minutes. As he got near to the pub, he noticed lights on, but the car park lay empty, and the place looked deserted. As he passed he saw the pub door shut, and it now wore a ‘Police-Do Not Cross’ sticker.
It was always wise to be careful. Phoenix slowed as he approached the driveway to the safe house, it was empty. He appeared to be in the clear, yet he did a detour to check for anyone following him. When he was satisfied there
wasn’t, he made his way back. He gathered together the items for the police, and after donning latex gloves wiped everything clean.
It was after ten now, and if he wanted to be away early in the morning, he needed to get to bed. He sent one last phone message to the local Olympus team leader. He told him he was returning to Bath. They could collect the saloon car from the railway station.
Phoenix was awakened at one o’clock. Someone had activated the alarm. The flashing light told him that. There were no bells or sirens; the agents didn’t want the intruder to know they were aware of their arrival.
Phoenix pulled on his trousers and grabbed his Sig-Sauer P226 with its carbon-fibre suppressor. Then he hurried downstairs, slid the weapon under a multi-coloured cushion on the sofa and sat facing the kitchen.
Whoever was outside reckoned without the house being owned by Olympus. They had three problems. First, the silent alarm had also been triggered in the home of the local team leader. Four agents were on their way. Arrival time, ten minutes. Second, even with a weighty battering ram, it would take too long to keep the element of surprise. Third, Phoenix was armed and cheesed off at having his beauty sleep disturbed.
The door gave way at last, and a figure emerged from the kitchen doorway. He wielded a baseball bat. Phoenix called out, “Lights.” His would-be assailant blinked in the sudden brightness.
“Voice command, Alan,” he said, “clever, isn’t it?”
“I turned up twenty minutes late tonight,” Telfer snarled, “and your lot had raided the pub. I managed to get clear. When I called my mates, they never answered. I drove to their place, and the cops had just taken them away. I should have known you’d be a copper. Sniffing around Annie, conning her into thinking you were something special.”
“I’m no copper,” said Phoenix, lying back on the sofa with his hands spread across the back, “and Annie came on to me, not the other way around.”
“I sat outside last night when she was in here,” Telfer continued, “I told you in the pub, she was my woman. It’s time you got taught a lesson.”
Telfer moved towards Phoenix with the baseball bat raised.
His eyes opened wide as he saw the gun. Phoenix whipped it out from under the cushion.
“Wrong again, Telfer,” said Phoenix, and shot him in the heart.
The thug dropped to his knees and pitched forward. His head landed by Phoenix’s feet.
“Revenge comes in many colours,” said Phoenix, patting the cushion.
The front doorbell rang three minutes later.
“You made good time,” Phoenix said.
“Less traffic than in the daytime,” said the team leader.
“One body to go, and you can have the carpet cleaned at your leisure. The back door might need replacing. Our friend here hacked at it for ages.”
“No problem. We’ll secure the door, dispose of the body, and collect the car in the morning. Anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” said Phoenix. “Was the pub raid a success?”
“The police lifted Phil and Annie Dwyer, plus five others at the pub. The co-ordinated raids across Tyne and Wear recovered a massive amount of cash, and they made eight further arrests.”
“Terrific news,” said Phoenix. He would shed no tears for Annie Dwyer, or her brother. Olympus had to hope they got their just desserts when the case came to trial.
“We’ll let you get back to bed then, Phoenix,” said the team leader ten minutes later, “goodnight,”
Thursday, 24th July 2014
“I dropped everything I gathered into the Central Police Station,” Phoenix said, “for the attention of Mick, the barman, and his superiors. That should find its way to the right people.”
“I’m so pleased, darling,” said Athena, “what time will you be home?”
“Can someone collect me from the station at around half-past two? I bought a supersaver off-peak ticket to reduce costs.”
“You’re incorrigible,” sighed his wife. “See you later. I must dash. The morning meeting is due to start.”
Phoenix rang off and looked up and down the platform. It was crowded, but he spotted no familiar or threatening faces. The train pulled in, and he got on board. He stowed his kit bag in plain sight. He wanted no one to wander off with it. Phoenix settled in for the five-hour journey.
*****
At nine o’clock every weekday morning, Hugo Hanigan had been used to talking with his senior gang leader. He liked to feel he kept his finger on the pulse. Tommy O’Riordan told him what he needed to know even if he sometimes kept back a few misdemeanours his men committed. Those chats filled in the time nicely until he went across to the Grid’s private bank. That was where he carried out his real business.
This morning, he was alone. He hadn’t seen Seamus McConnell for weeks now. No great loss as the lummox was only good for telling him the basics of what happened on the ground. Colleen O’Riordan had sent him packing and assumed control of her late husband’s men.
Hugo found her brother, Sean Walsh easier to manipulate. He was not as bright as Tommy, but he always appeared to be loyal to the cause. Until the last few occasions, he had been in his penthouse. Hugo had been taken aback by the suggestion that a new outfit might be responsible for the losses the Grid suffered in May. It wasn’t until Tommy died that Hugo wondered over Sean and his conniving sister.
Sean hinted at an outfit unconnected to the Grid, maybe not even connected to the criminal fraternity. Hugo had laughed at that suggestion until his security guys had been blown to bits. Maybe Sean had been involved in the suspicious deaths from the beginning?
Colleen sent Sean and his family abroad after Tommy’s death. That didn’t feel right to Hugo. Sean would have wanted to attend his brother-in-law’s funeral. Why was he living on the other side of the world?
Hugo needed someone he could trust. Things were still progressing well for the Grid’s finances, but these bewildering deaths kept wounding them. Two mornings ago, news reached him at the bank that the Mighty Quinn had been murdered. Hugo didn’t have any time for Quinn. He had been ‘old school’, a criminal who followed in the footsteps of the Kray, and Richardson families.
Times had changed. Men like him ran things these days. Highly intelligent, sophisticated men who dealt in billions on global markets. The parochial villain who lived by his wits and his knuckle-dustered fists was history. Only one thing bothered Hugo about Quinn’s murder. Was it related to the other losses the Grid suffered or was it a changing of the guard gangs often experience? Had a younger man decided Quinn was past it and removed him. Or was Sean Walsh exercising his influence from afar?
If Tommy was still alive, he could have discussed it with him over a Jameson’s. Hugo slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. No, it had started to unravel when Tommy murdered Michael Devlin. True, the man was a grass, but O’Riordan should have ordered a hit, and let one of his lesser goons earn a big payday.
It had been downhill from there. The more Hugo wondered about Sean Walsh, the more sense it made that he was tied into the conspiracy. It seemed lunacy when he put forward McConnell’s name to become his second in command. In hindsight, it could have been a calculated move. McConnell would never be acceptable to him as a leader once Sean had left the country. The other gang members thought it ludicrous, but when Sean’s sister Colleen told them she’s taking control, they fell in line like a well-drilled platoon of soldiers.
There it was; the sticking point. The thing that antagonised Hugo. Colleen O’Riordan had taken control of her late husband’s gang like a natural. She had them working harder and more efficiently for the Grid, and her ruthless elimination of Conor Key in her first few days in charge had quashed any thoughts of resistance.
Hugo knew he should call Colleen and invite her over. He had her number but was still trying to learn where she had moved after selling Tommy’s house. She was moving far too fast for Hugo’s liking. Did she and her brother have designs on Quinn’s borough? Might they bot
h have been behind his killing? These were questions he had no answer to, and if he invited Colleen up to his apartment, she wouldn’t help him out. She was a sly one; always had been since he first bumped into her on the streets of Dublin, aged five.
Hugo grasped the nettle. He called her.
“Colleen, how are you?” he asked, more cheerily than he felt.
“Oh, I’m fine, Hugo,” replied Colleen, “this is a surprise.”
“I think it’s time we buried the hatchet, don’t you? I wanted to congratulate you on the sterling job you’ve done since taking control. Can you come up and see me?”
Colleen thought for a second or two. She needed to get the image of a hatchet buried in Hugo’s skull from her mind before she answered.
“I could drop in one morning next week, Hugo, say Friday, if that suits? What time is convenient?”
“We’ll say ten o’clock, shall we?” said Hugo. “I need to be at the Glencairn by noon.”
“I won’t delay you, Hugo, don’t fret,” said Colleen, “until next Friday then.”
Hugo stared at the huge picture window. That went better than he expected even if she pushed the meeting back as far as she dared. What was she up to?
In her penthouse, Colleen thought how unusual it was, for the fly to approach the spider. Her web lay ready, and Hugo would be trapped in it before he realised.
“Time for a glass of champagne, to celebrate,” she said.
“Whatever you say, boss,” replied her young assassin. He fetched the bottle from the ice bucket, skilfully removed the cork, and delivered it to the table, together with two champagne flutes.
“Death to our enemies,” said Colleen.
“Just say the word,” replied her young assassin.
*****
Phoenix arrived at Bath Spa station at a quarter to three. The Olympus transport waited to take him back to Larcombe. He threw his kit bag in the boot.