by Owen Mullen
Been there, done that.
Not any more. This would put him on the map.
He leaned into the boot and gathered the cruellest and most important pieces of the plan, cradling them in his arms like a baby. Yet Danny Glass hadn’t paused. Destroying your rivals was one thing. Wilfully killing innocent bystanders unlucky enough to get in the crossfire was another.
Beyond heartless.
Cold metal pressed against his chest, glinting dully in the night light. Norrie forgot the rain and gave an approving nod; Glass had done well. This was exactly what he’d had in mind. The chain was heavy. So was the padlock to go with it. He sprung the lock and put the key in his pocket. It had served its purpose. It would never be used again.
Norrie was sweating. Just as well the other three weren’t here to see him. He was the boss. There to make sure everybody did their job. Fergie and Lexie wouldn’t be a problem but Sharon was beginning to crack and they hadn’t even started. Fear was a contagion. If she freaked out, Danny Glass would hold him responsible.
The fire door opened, flooding the alley with light. He breathed a sigh of relief, passed everything inside, wiped his hands on his jacket and headed back to the car.
So far so good.
George Ritchie was unhappy. He’d broken his rule and he was angry with himself. In the Bayswater pub, a third pint sat on the table in front of him, a futile protest nobody would ever know about. Except he knew and that was all that mattered. Ritchie hadn’t wanted the beer – might not even drink it – but he was tired of pretending.
In fact, he was tired of a lot of things, especially the never-ending task of saving Anderson from himself. Rollie was a dick. Worse. An ungrateful dick, blind to the advice that had kept him in the game after Luke Glass ended his father’s miserable existence.
Albert had taken stupidity to new heights. Arrogant like his idiot son, the old man had been unaware of his many limitations. That was dangerous. Although, he’d been smart enough to hire him. And smart enough, more often than not, to heed his advice. In the end, he’d travelled on his own opinion, murdered Danny Glass’s wife and child and paid the price.
Dozens of people had turned out to see Albert off. More if you included the plainclothes detectives hovering between the headstones in the distance, photographing the faces of everyone there. Or, maybe they had just been making sure the fat bastard was really dead. Ritchie had been next to a sobbing Rollie as the casket was lowered into the ground.
It had been cold that morning. Beside him the teenager had shivered. He had been pale, ravaged with grief, struggling to come to terms with his father’s sudden demise. How he’d survive without him had to have been on his mind. As Albert’s spawn his genes were against him from the moment he came out of his mother’s belly. Inevitably, he couldn’t be anything other than a fucking fool.
Seeing Rollie and his nephew smirking, believing the video could be used against Glass without bringing on the mother of retaliations, had finally brought home the uselessness of what Ritchie had spent too much of his life trying to do.
Even Albert, balloon that he’d been, would’ve figured that out.
He sipped the froth on his pint, absently watching the television screen, considering whether to stay or go home to the flat in Moscow Road. Living like a hermit was something else he was done with. When the brothers made their move – and George Ritchie had no doubt they would – there wouldn’t be much left.
Tonight, tomorrow night; next week or month. The timing wasn’t important. Late or soon, a reckoning was coming.
Meanwhile, in a pub where nobody knew his name, Ritchie was confronting his own failures, too many to remember. He hadn’t forgotten them. He was in limbo. The best he could say about himself was that he was a survivor.
A survivor waiting for the hammer to fall.
35
Harry the barman put his head round the door. ‘Just chucking the last of them out, Danny. Most were all right about it. Got a few grumbles as you’d expect from freeloading buggers getting settled in for a session. On the house, of course. One cheeky bastard actually complained. Wanted to make something of it. Felix kicked his arse out into the street.’
‘Well done, Harry. Are the boys behaving themselves?’
‘Yeah. Bored stiff and asking where you are.’
‘Tell them we’ll be down soon.’
‘Shall I set you up with a large one?’
‘Nice offer. Not tonight. Have one yourself.’
‘Thanks, boss, I will.’
Danny turned to me and Marcus. ‘Give it another half-hour before we make our move.’
Marcus said, ‘When are you going to let the troops in on it? They have to be wondering what’s going on.’
Danny snapped at him. ‘They’re not paid to wonder. They’re paid to do what I tell them.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Yeah but nothing. They’ll know when I want them to know, right?’
Danny was on edge. Unfortunately, it had become par for the course with him. I sided with Marcus. ‘It’s a fair point. They’ve been hanging around all night drinking orange juice. Be good to put them in the picture. Give them time to psych themselves up.’
My brother stared as if he couldn’t believe I’d spoken, the corner of his mouth turning down in a sneer. ‘You want some too, do you? Okay, that can be arranged.’
‘I’m only thinking about keeping everybody in the loop.’
‘And that’s the problem. Too many bastards thinking. Too many jumped-up fuckers…’ He moved towards me, rage etched on his face.
‘You’re starting to believe the hype, little brother. Telling yourself you’re more important than you really are. Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you missing for… what was it… seven years? We did all right, even if I say so myself.’ He hammered his fist on the desk. ‘And I do fucking say so!’
Marcus had a sharper understanding of how the game was played; he stayed quiet and let the storm blow on by. When Danny had cut him down to size, he’d accepted the rebuke and left it alone. Not me. Where Marcus saw the boss, I saw my brother and assumed that gave me an advantage. Wrong, again. True once upon a time, maybe, not now.
He wasn’t done with me. ‘You seem to have forgotten a few things.’
‘I haven’t forgotten anything, I—’
‘You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.’
He was so close to me he blocked out the light in the room. From deep inside him a fury had been unleashed, which had nothing to do with suggesting he bring the crew up to speed.
Danny backed away and lowered his voice, readying to give his favourite sob story an airing.
‘Christ knows, I haven’t asked for much. A bit of loyalty. Not a lot, considering. You’re forgetting how it was.’ Danny tapped his chest to make his point. ‘How hard it was for me.’
He was off on one.
‘I could’ve walked away. Let the Social have the two of you. Maybe I should’ve, for all the good it’s done. Not what I did, little bro. Not what I did.’
His voice cracked under the weight of my ingratitude; he blinked tears away. ‘You needed me. End of.’
A moving performance. Except I’d heard the speech more times recently than I could count. Nina was right. Whenever it looked like I was pulling away from him, out it had come in all its gut-wrenching glory. Sad.
Pathetic, actually.
It didn’t get easier to listen to, because it was true – he’d done everything he claimed and more. And I’d been repaying him ever since.
Danny pointed a trembling finger at me. ‘You’re an ingrate. Get out. Get out!’
I backed towards the door. ‘Why’re you so angry? All I did was make a suggestion.’
He came towards me again. Marcus reacted quickly and put himself between us.
‘Boss, not now. Leave it.’
Saliva bubbled at the corners of Danny’s mouth, underneath his shirt his chest rose and fell. He stared as if he didn�
�t recognise me, his eyes black jade against his ashen face. Then, the fury faded and he got hold of himself.
‘No, little brother, no. That isn’t all. You fucking know it isn’t.’
Mandy couldn’t remember where she was or how she’d got there. She was dizzy; her vision was blurred. She tried to clear her head and couldn’t. Images floated behind her eyes, hazy and distant, fragments from a bad dream she was trapped in and unable to escape: staggering, almost falling; grinning men standing aside to let her pass, their eyes bright with lust and contempt; the hand on her shoulder helping her outside into the cool night air. And all the time his voice whispering in her ear that everything was all right.
He took her to a dark place. She stumbled, one of her high heels broke off, and he dragged her to her feet. His breath was on her neck, his hands inside her blouse, squeezing her nipples. A button popped, then another, the material ripped and rough concrete dug into her back. Mandy turned her face away from the unwanted kisses.
‘What’s the matter? You like it, don’t you? A woman like you? ’Course you do.’
She pleaded with him through her confusion. ‘Stop. Please stop.’
He hit her hard, tore the rest of the blouse away and laughed. ‘Stop? I haven’t even started, girl.’
36
Paula spotted the Scots girls they’d chatted with moving quickly through the crowd towards the door. One of them stopped to take a last look. Paula wondered if something had gone wrong. In the queue she’d been happy, laughing and joking, winding up the men. Now, her expression was strained and unnatural in the strobe lighting. Paula nudged Tina and both girls waved. Sheila didn’t notice and left.
‘A pity for them to leave so early after coming all the way from Aberdeen.’
Tina said, ‘Maybe she’s had an argument with her fiancé. Maybe the wedding’s off.’
‘Could be. He didn’t seem her type, did he? Sometimes being in a relationship isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Worth remembering…’
Someone crashed into Paula, spilling her drink over her new dress. Damn! It had cost a whole week’s wages. Now it was ruined. She spun round, ready to let the stupid drunk have it. The blood disappeared from her cheeks: a woman on all fours was howling like an animal, her screams the most chilling sound she’d ever heard, while yellow tendrils licked the clothes from her back. Her chiffon blouse seemed almost to melt, the heat searing the flesh beneath, blistering and blackening it in seconds. Her partner frantically tried to help and bent forward. His hair caught fire. He dropped to his knees in agony, beating his head with his hands, his cries drowned by the music. Another couple panicked, tried to run and tripped over the burning man.
The nightmare in the Picasso Club had begun.
Paula couldn’t believe what was happening: flames rose through dense smoke like special effects from a disaster movie; people were yelling, fighting with each other to reach an exit while a section of the crowd danced on, unaware. Three glasses of wine and the techno and house music the DJ was playing were enough to slow Tina’s reaction until she saw her friend’s expression.
Paula’s voice was hoarse with dread. ‘We have to get out of here.’
Tina stared, unable to move, as the horror of what was happening sank in. Paula grabbed her hand. Tina moved to search for her bag.
‘Forget it, there’s no time.’
A man on fire from head to foot crawled towards them.
‘Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ, no!’
‘Don’t look! Don’t look at him!’
Too late. Her friend lost it, whimpering, ‘I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!’
Paula slapped her hard. ‘Get a grip or we’ll both die!’
The girls pushed towards the front door – Paula leading, Tina close behind – to where Sheila had been – could it really only be a minute ago? A guy ran by, his shirt torn and his neck bleeding; he was crying. He said something they couldn’t hear.
Paula caught his arm. ‘What’re you saying?’
His mouth opened and closed – no words came. She took his shoulders and looked into his smooth face, the face of a boy, no older than fourteen or fifteen – too young to even be here. His eyes were wild and wet with tears. Whatever he’d witnessed, his fear was greater than her own.
‘What the hell did you say? Tell me!’
He shook his head and pointed to the front door. ‘Can’t get through the fire. We’re trapped.’
She loosened her grip and watched him race into the smoke. Tina started to follow him. Paula stopped her.
‘But he knows where he’s going.’
‘He doesn’t, Tina. He doesn’t know anything. Where are the toilets in this place?’
‘At the back.’
‘Is there a window?’
‘Yes.’
‘How big is it?’
‘I’ve never noticed.’
A guy staggered in front of them, hands clutching at his throat; he sank to the ground. Smoke had created almost zero visibility, adding to the pandemonium.
Paula shouted in Tina’s ear. ‘Pull your dress up over your face. The fumes might be toxic.’
They ducked down and ran until they reached the toilet and fell inside. Paula scrambled to her feet and locked them in. For the moment, they were safe. The small bathroom was only large enough for two or three people at a time. A line of narrow iron bars cemented into the window frame, designed to keep people from sneaking their friends in without paying, made escape impossible. Paula pulled off her dress and threw it in the sink. Ironically, somebody hadn’t bothered to turn the tap off.
‘Wet your dress and put it over your nose and mouth.’
Tina did as she was told.
Paula said, ‘Is there another exit on the far side?’
‘I can’t remember. Maybe.’
‘Think, Tina, think.’
‘Yes… yes, you’re right, there is.’
‘We have to reach it.’
‘Wouldn’t it be safer to stay here ’til somebody rescues us?’
Dark whispers of smoke drifting under the door answered her question. Soon, there would be no air – they’d suffocate. Paula saw false hope flicker in her friend’s eyes. It broke her heart to kill it. This was no time for lies: the truth was all she had.
‘If we do, we might as well give up.’
The girls hugged each other – water dripped on the floor. Tina said, ‘I love you, Paula.’
‘I love you, too. Now let’s go.’
They came out into hell, holding onto each other like the frightened children they were, stumbling forward. The sodden garments were no match for the super-heated air. Under their clothes their skin shrivelled. Breathing was painful, almost impossible. Acrid smoke made their eyes weep uncontrollably and Tina remembered the tap wastefully spilling water into the sink. After only a few steps they lost their sense of direction, bumping and being bumped, knowing that if they didn’t stay on their feet it was over. Bottles behind the bar exploded like gunshots, showering shards of glass everywhere. Tina ducked, lost her footing and fell. Paula thrust out a hand, pulled her up and they went on.
Through the smoke they could make out the DJ dropped over his decks. Flames licked his arms: he was dead. From behind his booth a gang of men kicked and punched their way forward. The man Tina had pointed out when they were in the queue was in the middle of them. The callous violence of his henchmen, brutal though it was, paled in comparison to the panic-stricken crowd at the front door clawing at each other, jumping on top of people desperately searching for an escape from the deathtrap the Picasso Club had become.
The men turned and went back. The two girls skirted the madness and followed. As they reached a door, it started to close. Tina got her hands on the frame but couldn’t stop it. Inside, Anderson shouted, ‘Get that fucking thing shut!’
The guy looked at them without regret, knowing he was condemning them to death.
Tina said, ‘Please. Please.’
Rollie scream
ed, ‘Now!’
The guy prised Tina’s fingers loose and closed the door.
Paula pressed her dress against her mouth and pointed to an exit sign glowing through the smoke. They moved towards it. Others had seen it, too: a woman, her head and face horribly disfigured, dug into Tina’s arm hard enough to break the skin in an effort to get in front of her. Tina struggled to free herself and was thrown to the floor, again. Someone landed on top of her, then another, and another, burying her: a boot broke her nose; a heel punctured her cheek and blood ran into her mouth. Under the weight, her ribs cracked, pierced her lungs and she suffocated. Paula had no choice, she had to save herself – the exit was her last chance. She dragged herself towards the mob of people hammering at the closed door. Someone was screaming, ‘Go back! You must go back! It’s padlocked!’
Paula was exhausted and overwhelmed by the noise and the heat; she couldn’t go on much longer. A voice in her head told her to lie down and accept whatever came. She pressed herself against the wall and jumped back; it was red hot. She spoke to herself to keep her fear at bay. ‘The fire people will be here any minute. They’ll get the door open. It’ll be okay.’
Empty words. Less believable with every passing second. There were no alarm bells, no sound of rescue, only the anguished cries of the dying. She sank to the floor, tears running down her face. Where there had been music, all she could hear was wailing.
Above her the ceiling groaned and buckled and cracked, throwing out sparks. Then it roared and collapsed. Paula saw it falling towards her and called out for her mum.