by Owen Mullen
But the sensation didn’t shift.
The Admiral Collingwood rose like a ghost ship in full sail, stately and majestic on the corner. The Admiral was the kind of place my father had drunk in, a no-frills boozer that smelled the way pubs used to smell at opening time – a mix of hops and disinfectant. Danny bought me my first pint in the snug when I was fifteen, him doing the talking while I stayed in the background trying to look older.
In the old days, the barman was an ex-boxer with a million stories about what went on behind the scenes in the fight game. Fantastic tales you couldn’t invent because he already had. If you believed him, he’d rubbed shoulders with the best of them. He was a character, a teller of tall tales, and he drew a following that stood at the bar egging him on. He was a likeable blowhard with the quality great barmen had; on a rainy Tuesday night when you were the only one in the place, he’d drop the act and become a guy you could have a conversation with. Good listener, too. Being deaf in one cauliflower ear probably didn’t help.
One thing about him: he always looked pleased to see you. Not so the dour-faced weedy bloke in a grey cardigan pulling pints now, who turned a passive-hostile expression on me and drained the double whisky I’d asked for from an optic without so much as a word. The Admiral had gone the way of everything I’d come across. Felix stood with his back against the bar, taking in everything and everyone in the room. I couldn’t complain; the guy was keen, anxious to make amends for his mistake during the raid.
‘Orange juice okay for you?’
His face brightened when the barman put the pint I’d ordered in front of him.
I wiped crisps off a table at the back, sat down and opened the statement. The girl at the bank had been anxious to help. Now I understood why. Business had been good while I was away. Albert Anderson might’ve been an evil old fucker but he’d known how to turn a coin. With him out of the picture it had been easy for Danny to take over some of his territory. This was my share. Seven years’ worth. And it was a lot.
I was struggling to get a hold on my new financial status when a blast from the past walked in the door: Vincent Finnegan.
Finnegan and Sean Poland, another Irishman, worked for my brother doing jobs where finesse wasn’t a requirement. They were an odd couple and they stuck together. You bumped into one, you could bet the other wasn’t far away. I hadn’t met either of them since before the trial and remembered Poland as stocky and quiet. More than quiet, deep; the type you’d stay on nodding terms with for a lifetime. Finnegan was the opposite, a swaggering bastard with plenty to say for himself: streetwise, handsome and, like his pal, tough as buggery. In those days he’d been a sharp dresser, spending most of his money on clothes. The snappy image added menace, though he wasn’t short in that department whatever he was wearing. Danny hadn’t employed the paddys for their good looks or social skills. If you were unfortunate enough to have them appear on your doorstep you were in the shit. Today there was no sign of Poland. Finnegan was by himself.
A morning of surprises didn’t prepare me. Vincent Finnegan’s swagger was replaced by a limp, his coat had seen better days and he leaned on a stick. He squeezed in at the end of the bar, ordered a drink and counted change to pay for it into his hand with the deliberation of a backward child. It didn’t take a genius to figure that, physically as well as financially, Vincent had gone down in the world.
We were never friends – his kind didn’t do friends – but he was a familiar face in an alien landscape and once upon a time he’d been a force to be reckoned with. Except, that was then. Today he was a disabled man in middle age, watching the pennies. I’d no idea who Danny had on the payroll these days. Finnegan couldn’t be one of them. Not in this state.
He took a sip of his beer and looked round the bar, but I was beside him before he realised I was there. Up close, the skin on his forehead was dry; dandruff gathered like confetti on his collar. It took him a moment to recognise me. When he did, he tried to shuffle away. I put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.
‘Hi, Vincent. Long time no see.’
He shrank from me, fear in his eyes. A nervous smile appeared and disappeared, then returned as he pretended to be pleased to see me. We shook hands and I said, ‘This your local?’
He was reluctant to commit himself. ‘I come in most days, yeah. When did they let you out?’
‘Yesterday.’
He nodded. ‘Hung over?’
‘Nothing a hair of the dog won’t fix.’
‘Party, was there?’
‘Didn’t fancy it. Gave it a miss.’
Vincent made a face. ‘Then you’re a brave man.’
‘What makes you say that?’
He didn’t reply and changed the subject. ‘Any plans?’
‘Too soon.’
‘Yeah.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘It takes the time it takes.’
‘What about you?’
‘Retired.’
‘You’re kidding, you’re too young. Nobody told me you’d packed it in. Thought you were still working for Danny.’
The mention of my brother’s name brought a change in his expression.
‘Not for a while.’
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Bit of this, bit of that. Getting by.’
He didn’t look like a man who was getting by. I realised it was kinder not to ask too many questions. ‘Listen, I’ll put a word in. Tell him you could do with a tickle.’
He scratched the stubble on his jaw. ‘Rather you stayed out of it, Luke. Danny and me didn’t end well.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There was a… a misunderstanding.’
‘A misunderstanding? What you on about?’
I’d touched a nerve.
‘Leave it, will you?’
Vincent was part of the original team. He and my brother went way back. Being told something had come between them was difficult to believe. Yet something had because Finnegan couldn’t get away from me fast enough. He gulped down his pint and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Good seeing you. Always liked you. I’m fine. Honest. Take care of yourself. And, Luke, watch your back, eh?’
He limped to the door and tried some of his old bravado on for size, gave me a thumbs-up and winked. Jack the Lad to the end.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, kid.’
From what I remembered of Vincent, that gave me plenty of scope.
11
Yvonne smiled a tight, humourless smile and closed the door, her cheeks burning from the humiliation she’d suffered at the hands of Vale. He was a bastard; then again, she’d known that from the beginning. The affair with Danny Glass’s sister wasn’t a shock: a womaniser like Eugene couldn’t keep his cock in his trousers. Yvonne had no problem with that. For both of them it was about uncomplicated sex, pure and simple. Eugene Vale wasn’t husband material, his two divorces spoke eloquently to that. Betrayal didn’t come into it; they’d promised each other nothing. But treating her like something stuck on the bottom of his shoe wasn’t on.
Yvonne realised the conversation meant trouble. Trouble big enough to make Eugene’s prick die in her hand.
His raised voice drifted to the outer office, almost daring her to eavesdrop. Who could resist? She pressed her ear to the space between the frame and the panel. On the other side of the door, Vale was clearly still agitated.
‘This is bad, this is very bad.’
His words set her mind racing, trying to figure out what was going on. ‘Danny isn’t stupid. If he’s made the connection it’s only a matter of time before he puts two and two together and comes up with the right answer. We’re fucked, Nina. We’re fucked. Oh, Christ—’
If Danny had made the connection. What connection?
The old floorboards creaked as he paced the room. ‘We haven’t been greedy. Not really. But stopping now won’t save us. He’ll suss what we’ve been doing. The cash keeps coming in, the numbers will spike. He’ll see the figures, ask himself what’s different,
and bingo!’
Realisation hit Yvonne like a blow, her brain processing what she was hearing: they were stealing. Stealing from Danny Glass.
Jesus Christ Almighty!
A helluva lot of cash passed through the office – she’d seen it with her own eyes. Most people would be tempted to help themselves before remembering who the money belonged to and leaving it where it was. Eugene Vale was a pen-pusher; on his own, he didn’t have the balls for something like this. It had to have been the sister’s idea. It had to have been Nina.
Yvonne wasn’t clever. Her most important assets as a secretary were her tits and her tight little arse. But she was streetwise enough to recognise an opportunity when saw one. This wasn’t the time to make her move; she needed a plan. She plastered on a smile and went through the door. Eugene was behind his desk, head cradled in his hands, shoulders silently shaking, and didn’t acknowledge her even when she put her arms around him and pressed his face between her breasts. Vale fell back in his chair. Yvonne pulled down his zip, then his trousers, and spread his thighs, relishing her new-found power. She had him where she wanted him in more ways than one.
Her fingers found what she was after. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘where were we?’
Danny was right about the neighbourhood: I hardly recognised it. Night after night, lying in the dark in Wandsworth, it was the ordinary stuff I’d missed: buying a paper from the newsagents on the corner, Aldo’s greasy-spoon fry-ups, and sweet and sour pork from the Red Dragon. Everyday experiences, which grew in my mind into towering landmarks of the life I’d left behind. It didn’t occur to me they might not exist. The drive became a search for something to connect with and as the truth that I wasn’t going to find it slowly dawned, a depression even the novelty of the Audi couldn’t shake settled over me: I didn’t belong here any more.
I let Felix off so he could get his own wheels – no way was he coming with me, not where I was going.
Mandy was waiting at the kerb wearing a black and yellow off-the-shoulder print dress, a matching sunhat and the tallest high heels I’d ever seen. Getting into the car, she let me have a good long look at her legs. She took off the hat, pushed the shades up into her hair and sat back in the seat.
‘Big Boys’ toys.’
I thought she was talking about the legs – it took a moment for the penny to drop: she meant the car.
‘Oh, yeah. A present from Danny. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it one way or the other – he’ll make sure I do.’
Mandy started to say something and stopped herself.
I said, ‘Where do you want to go?’
She shook her head slowly and smiled. ‘You’re a nice guy, Luke, you really are.’
The ‘but’ was unmistakable.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Mandy shrugged. ‘I’m just saying you’re nice. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. Except I’m not sure what it means.’
Her reply was unconvincing. ‘Why does it have to mean anything?’
‘Because it does. When a woman tells a man he’s “a nice guy”, she’s saying more than he realises. I’m asking what.’
We pulled up at traffic lights. Two or three of the men crossing in front of us glanced at the car, sparkling in the London sunshine, and the redhead in the passenger seat. One of them unconsciously mouthed his opinion: lucky bastard. He’d get no argument from me.
Mandy’s perfume was in my head – not the cool midnight scent from before, this was sweeter, the smell of summer.
‘I want to know, Mandy.’
‘You already know.’
She put the sunglasses on again so her eyes were hidden. Maybe it made what she wanted to do easier. Before I could react, her lips were on mine and she was kissing me: none of that slow-motion malarkey they do in the movies; the real thing. We broke apart when the car behind us tooted his horn. I had my answer.
We raced hand-in-hand up the stairs to my flat and burst through the door, clinging to each other like castaways staggering from the sea onto a beach. Mandy said, ‘Give me a minute,’ and went into the room, leaving me standing in the hall like a fool. I counted from one to sixty under my breath and abandoned it at forty-two. Not bad, considering. The dress and hat lay on the floor beside her underwear. Only the shoes with the high heels had made it to the bed. Mandy raised a perfectly toned leg in the air and dangled one shoe on her crimson toes, then slowly, deliberately, let it fall, her eyes not leaving mine. Her naked body arched and spread like a feast for a starving man.
I tore off my clothes and let the banquet begin.
My need was great. Hers was greater. Being loved how she wanted to be loved wasn’t something she was used to, and it showed. Time after time, I resisted being drawn into the depths of her. Her response was to quicken her rhythm. Finally, she broke over my body, and we kept going until she was moaning again in my ear and I felt the sting of her nails cutting bloody lines in my back. Eventually, she had all of me in a spasm of mutual joy, which went on and on.
We lay with each other’s sweat drying on us, not talking because there was nothing to say. But in the shared silence, with her heart beating against mine, the knowledge it couldn’t last crowded in, souring my mood.
I sat on the edge of the bed while she ran her fingers along the welts on either side of my spine.
‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself.’
I shook my head. She noticed the change and I sensed her daring herself to speak.
‘Did I disappoint you?’
‘You could never do that. It isn’t possible.’
She disagreed. ‘Everything’s possible, Luke.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘not everything.’
It was late. We were stretched out on the couch where we’d made love again, our arms round each other, watching a rerun of Raiders of the Lost Ark. On the TV, Indy was in the cellar surrounded by vipers slithering over each other, their forked tongues darting in and out of their mouths.
It had been quite a night. Mandy had offered to rustle up something to eat, but my fridge was empty apart from what remained of the lager Danny had left. Turning a famine into a feast took a phone call to the local Indian restaurant. Twenty-five minutes later we were wolfing our way through vegetable samosas, chicken jalfrezi, pilau rice and the biggest naan bread I’d ever seen, washed down with a plonk the Fatherland couldn’t get shot of fast enough, so cold it didn’t taste of anything.
I glanced across at Mandy, happily tearing lumps off the bread. Her face was free of make-up and I caught the girl she’d been before her life got complicated and difficult; there was an innocence and a vulnerability I promised myself I wouldn’t abuse.
We moved on to the lager – almost as tasteless as the wine – and watched back-to-back soaps.
‘Why don’t you like my brother?’
Stupid bloody question; the people who disliked Danny would fill the Albert Hall three times over.
‘He doesn’t like me.’
I let it go and the conversation moved on. But the night was ending on a low note. She gave me the ghost of a kiss on her way out. Her lips brushed my cheek and she was gone.
It was almost two o’clock in the morning. Going to bed would be a waste of time; I wasn’t tired. Danny had bought books to decorate the flat. The cover of the one I picked was cracked, the edges dog-eared; the others would be the same – he’d got them from a charity shop. Reading wasn’t something I’d done a lot of in my life, but in Wandsworth I’d got through two or three crime-fiction novels a week. Then and now, the irony didn’t escape me.
Sixty pages in, the words started to blur on the page. I lay back and closed my eyes; the book had served its purpose. A sound came from somewhere over my shoulder. Instantly, I was on my feet, tiptoeing towards it clutching the wine bottle by the neck, feeling its reassuring weight in my fingers.
The door handle turned. I couldn’t hear anything except my heart thumping in my chest. Was this Anderson having anothe
r go? The bottle wouldn’t be much use against guns; I traded it for the cricket bat – still not good enough, but better.
Without knowing how many of them I was up against, I hesitated. Seconds passed while I steadied myself. Finally, I pulled the door wide open and dived to the floor.
There was nobody there.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs had me running. Outside, the street was deserted apart from parked cars. In one of them I saw the featureless silhouette of a man hunched behind the wheel. When he saw me coming, he started the engine. But he was too slow. I threw the door open and dragged him onto the pavement. The coffee he’d been drinking spilled down the front of his coat and he stared at me, surprise in his eyes and fear on his face.
My fist connected with his nose. In the stillness of the early hours, I heard it break. Like a twig snapping underfoot on the forest floor. He screamed and threw his hands up to protect himself. I hit him again and hauled him to his feet. He was breathing hard, blood bubbling at his nostrils and down into his open mouth.
‘Who’re you working for? Tell me!’
His reply stopped me in my tracks and I let go.
‘Stanford. Stanford sent me.’
The police were on the case: good to know I was safe… my arse. The man wiped his mouth and glared resentment at me.
‘Did you see them?’
‘See who?’
‘Whoever tried to break into my flat?’
He got a tissue from a box in the glove compartment and dabbed his face. ‘You’ve broken my bloody nose.’
He was due an apology. Right at that moment I couldn’t raise one. People didn’t come in silently and uninvited in the middle of the night to say hello.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Since nine o’clock.’
I was in trouble if this guy was the best Oliver Stanford had.
‘Do you want me to check around the back?’