by Owen Mullen
37
Danny’s crew stood in the King Pot nursing soft drinks like they’d done all night, watching the drama on the TV screen high on the wall. No one spoke; they were too stunned. They’d been ready to give Anderson a Friday night surprise he wouldn’t forget – payback for the humiliation of the YouTube video. If their boss hadn’t got pissed, they’d probably have been in the middle of it.
The sound was down. Nobody asked for it to be turned up. Violence was an accepted part of living for these guys; they were comfortable with it and had all done terrible things. But some were also family men with teenagers – lying about their age to blag their way into places like the Picasso Club was the highlight of their week. A few fingered their mobiles, itching to call home, needing to satisfy themselves their son or daughter was safe.
Felix lowered his eyes and turned away, unable to stomach any more. In that moment, I liked him. At the end of the bar, Marcus gazed, unblinking, at the disaster being played out in colour on the television screen, now and then sipping his orange juice. His expression was emotionless.
And I knew.
I took the steps two at a time, my heart beating so hard I could hear it. Danny was behind his desk, leaning back with his eyes closed, listening to the Yardbirds’ ‘For Your Love’ and tapping to the beat as if he hadn’t a care in the world. When he saw it was me, he went into his act, slurring for my benefit.
I shouted, ‘You bastard! You filthy low-life bastard!’
He didn’t ask what I was talking about.
‘Spectacular, is it? Plenty of smoke?’
My throat went dry. My brother – the one who’d protected me after our father drank himself to death – was insane.
‘Innocent kids with their whole lives in front of them will die in agony because of you.’
I dragged him over the desk, wanting to kill him for what he’d done. He stared at me and I saw the same emptiness I’d seen in Marcus. He didn’t try to defend himself and I pushed him away like the loathsome creature he was.
‘You planned it and used me and everybody else to set yourself up with a cast-iron alibi in the process.’ I slow-handclapped him. ‘Well done. Well done, Danny. You’ve outdone my expectations of you and, Christ knows, they weren’t high.’
His voice was low and even, no denial or justification in it.
‘Rollie isn’t laughing now, is he?’
Not a question. A statement of fact.
He saw my horrified expression and stabbed a stubby finger at me, his face twisted in a snarl. ‘Hear me now, quote me later: nobody mugs off Danny Glass.’
‘Yeah, I hear you. Now you hear me, you sick fuck. I’m out. Get it? You’re on your own. Team fucking Glass has left the building. And call off Felix. I won’t be needing anything from you any more.’
I didn’t bother closing the door. His pet policeman met me at the bottom of the stairs, how he felt written all over his face. Behind him, Danny’s men weren’t sure what to do.
‘Is your crazy brother up there?’
In his brilliant blue eyes, I saw anger and revulsion to match my own.
‘Brother? I don’t have a brother.’
George Ritchie was drinking Chivas Regal without tasting it, his eyes fixed on the TV screen on the wall, willing the gnawing in his guts to ease. Ritchie was at a crossroads. In his mind he went over the years in the city where he was still a stranger – from stepping off the Newcastle train at Euston, until his sister’s boy went against him with that damned video.
Wasted years. Because again, stupidity had won.
He knew what he should do. Why hesitate?
He ignored the bell for last orders and drained his whisky. The pub was emptying: a strawberry-blonde gripped the arm of the man with her on their way to the door, both of them the worse for wear; three younger guys finished their drinks and carried on with a dispute about football without missing a beat while the barman cleared their glasses, calling to the stragglers the same question he asked at this time every night.
‘Haven’t you got homes to go to?’
To Ritchie, he spoke quietly, ‘Let’s be having you, sir,’ and wiped the table with a cloth. Over his shoulder the television cut into the programme with a flashing headline.
BREAKING NEWS – SOUTH LONDON CLUB INFERNO
Images of firemen hosing water into a blaze filled the screen as clouds of smoke and tongues of flames reached for the starless sky. He’d warned them and here it was – worse than even he could’ve imagined. Innocent kids dying unspeakable deaths because his nephew wanted to impress a moron.
What was there to think about? The decision was made.
Out in the street, he walked to the flat in Moscow Road for the last time, sure he wasn’t being followed. Bigger things were going off tonight. Monstrous things Ritchie wanted no part of. On Queensway, he took the SIM card from his phone and dropped it in a bin. Tomorrow he’d be on the Newcastle train. If he regretted leaving, it didn’t show.
38
Fergie set a brisk pace ahead of the women towards Norrie and the car. The pretence at being together had served its usefulness and was no longer needed. He felt relieved. They’d done what they came to do and, since leaving the burning club, hadn’t spoken, each lost in their own thoughts. Sharon visibly struggled to keep a hold on herself. Violence wasn’t new to her – she’d been on both sides of it. This was different. This was murder. Mass murder. When she’d been approached about the job, Sharon had understood exactly what she was being asked to do and had said she was all right about it. Now the deed was done she was far from that.
On the journey down, to please Lexie, helped in part by the line of coke they’d snorted in her Shawlands flat, she’d played silly girly games guaranteed to irritate Norrie. Lexie didn’t like Norrie. Even if they had some crack it wouldn’t be happening again. Not while the screams of people trapped behind the doors she’d padlocked filled her head.
The names of the girls in the queue escaped her, but she’d liked them. Liked their confidence, their energy. Behind the clumsily applied make-up, they were fresh and feisty and ready to take on the world; children playing at being adults. In those eager faces she’d caught a glimpse of her younger self from a time before too many wrong turns brought her to this.
Wouldn’t look so fresh now.
Sharon forced the images of their charred bodies away and worked to keep up with the others.
Lexie lit a cigarette and passed it to her. In Cornton Vale, Lexie’d had a reputation as a vicious bitch who didn’t take shit from anybody. Sharon hadn’t asked and the other woman hadn’t told her why she’d befriended her. Even Lexie, cold and mean as she was supposed to be, needed someone to hold her when the lights went out and the walls closed in.
Their heels echoed on the wet pavement and if she was suffocating with guilt, it didn’t show. Or maybe it did. Before the fag came her way, Sharon noticed a tremble in the fingers holding it. She coughed into her other hand and avoided eye contact.
Lexie considered herself lucky because, long before the roof collapsed to let the poisoned clouds escape, she was in the car heading north.
For Fergie, it was the taste of petrol in his mouth and on his tongue. Underneath the music, it had sloshed unnoticed from the bottom of their bags as the girls had circled the club, cutting through the dancers, leaving a trail of death behind them. He’d waited for them, sizing up the bouncer at the door dressed in a tuxedo, ridiculous in the tatty surroundings.
Fergie had said, ‘Bloody warm in here. Aren’t you roasted in that thing?’
The bouncer had replied with a question. ‘Haven’t seen you in here before. Have I?’
Fergie had cupped his hand to his ear and spoken over the music; up close he could smell the guy’s aftershave. ‘First time I’ve been.’
‘Where’re you from?’
It wouldn’t hurt to tell him.
‘Scotland.’
The bouncer had nodded as if this information were signific
ant ‘Yeah? My old mum was Scottish. Where?’
‘Glasgow.’
‘Tough city.’
Fergie had smiled and shaken his head.
‘That’s what they say…’
The man would hardly have felt the blade which would end his life: an easier death than most tonight. He’d fallen against Fergie, his fingers impotently clawing at him. Fergie had cradled his head and lowered him gently to the ground. Blood had spread across the white shirt and he’d stepped away, careful not to get any of it on his jacket.
Sharon had checked behind her and nodded to Fergie. She hadn’t waited for him to fire up the lighter: it was better not to see. Fergie had held it in his hand, studying the blue flame, imagining the mayhem it would create.
Lexie had shouted, ‘The street’s clear. For fuck’s sake, do it!’
He’d dropped it into the liquid shimmering in the lights and closed the door behind him.
Part III
39
I was alone in the flat, still unable to believe the horror of what Danny had done. My first thought when my mobile rang was that it was him, on to try to sweet-talk me into making peace. A non-starter. His Glass-boys-against-the-world chat was played out. I let it ring a couple of times before answering. Pretending to be drunk wouldn’t be necessary – he’d be well away – and I expected the kind of maudlin apology that was his stock-in-trade with me. It wasn’t going to work.
‘Got nothing to say to you. Not now. Not ever. As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t got a brother.’
On the other end of the line I heard him breathe.
‘Do you understand? You, me, and all that “Team Glass” shit. It’s over.’
Nothing.
‘Come on. Haven’t you done enough damage? Stop fucking about.’
Only two people had my number: Danny and Mandy. I didn’t recognise the caller ID.
The breathing was a gentle breeze in my ear, unhurried and even.
I lost it completely. ‘You’re sick, do you know that? You need help.’
Silence.
‘Who the fuck is this? Who the fu—? Anderson, is this you?’
I threw the phone away, rattled and angry. It landed on the couch in front of the fire. I went after it and pressed redial to hear a recorded voice tell me the number I was calling was unobtainable. Fear crawled in my belly. My fingers searched for the reassurance of the gun. I checked the door was locked, turned out the lights, and listened. From the window, the road outside was quiet apart from my police shadow parked fifty yards away. Light from the streetlamps splashed the pavement and a black cat picked its way carefully along the wall on the other side, hunting for whatever it could find.
Someone was playing mind games with me.
Normally, I’d have assumed it was kids having a laugh or some drunk with a wrong number and not given the call a second thought. But, added to the door handle turning and the feeling someone had been watching me since I came out of prison, it was impossible not to be spooked. Xanax was an option. Instead, I poured a whisky, considered waking up my policeman pal and decided against it – they already had me down as a nutter.
I searched for a scrap of reality to cling to. Something to convince me I wasn’t losing it. The reasoning part of my brain reminded me that coming out of prison is a freaky experience: everything is different; the world has moved on.
All very good. Only my gut didn’t agree.
Since I’d come out of prison, it had been madness. Making sense of it wasn’t easy and tonight Danny’s gloating admission about the fire hit me harder than anything since Cheryl and Rebecca died. With them, there had been a way to give the rage a voice – and Albert had gone off a high-rise. But there was no angry response to dull this, no action with the power to redress the thing he’d done in our name.
I’d known him better and longer than anybody on the planet. What he was capable of wasn’t news to me, or, at least, it shouldn’t have been, because I’d seen it: when he was no more than a teenage thug, beating the defenceless Indian to death outside his shop. Over the years, I’d somehow managed to convince myself the inhumanity in his eyes that afternoon had been a one-off and gone along with his ‘Team Glass’ myth.
The awful scene in his office when the text and video had come through filled my brain: Danny’s face, bloated with rage; the dulled sound of his skull hitting the wall, oblivious to the pain; and me wrestling him to the floor, holding on ’til the fever was spent and he was lying quietly in my arms. The strong older brother was more fragile than I’d known, a step away – maybe less – from total mental collapse. Witnessing a human being disintegrate emotionally was the worst thing I’d ever seen.
Not an excuse for what he’d done tonight. Not even close.
Before the YouTube video he’d been a cruel man; after it, he became a monster.
The fire would be all over the TV News.
I wouldn’t be watching.
Not sticking to what I’d agreed with myself during those nights in Wandsworth prison when all I could think about was Cheryl and Rebecca was the biggest error I could’ve made. Once again, I’d let Danny talk me into doing what I didn’t want to do with his Team Glass bollocks.
The cash he’d casually tossed on the table in the pub, the bank account, the car – all of it, even Mandy – were no more than shiny objects designed to distract and make me forget why I’d decided I was out. I’d always loved him. He was my brother. But I didn’t kid myself he was any better than Albert or Rollie. The business they were in was a dirty business, and anyone foolish enough to get involved ended up with blood on their hands.
His tame policeman had found that out the hard way. And what I’d seen on his face as he’d passed me on the office stairs tonight had mirrored what I felt. He’d sworn he’d been in the dark about Anderson’s attack on the King Pot. Then, I wasn’t sure I believed him. I believed him now, all right. Danny had taken all of us – me, him and Anderson – by surprise. Nobody could’ve predicted my brother would do what he’d done. It was too awful to even consider.
Everything I’d wanted for myself had turned to shit. If Anderson had only waited ’til I’d quit Team Glass before making his move, life would be very different.
I resisted the option to fill a tumbler with whisky and drink until the bottle was empty or I passed out – whichever came first. Too easy. I deserved to suffer. Maybe it was some sense the night wasn’t over. So instead, I made coffee and sat in the lounge, trying not to picture the hellish scene inside the Picasso Club, cursing myself for the idiot I’d always been where my brother was concerned. The minute the video had gone out on YouTube I should’ve realised there would be a push-back from Danny unlike anything I was able to imagine.
A knock on the door startled me, jangling my already frayed nerves. The sound came again, louder, demanding. My first thought was that Rollie Anderson had come to finish his vendetta. I picked up my old cricket bat, feeling the heaviness of its spine in my palm, and flung open the door.
It wasn’t Rollie.
He saw the bat in the air above my head and blurted out his explanation before I brained him.
‘This address was all I could get out of her. She said a name, over and over. Luke. That you?’
‘That’s me. Who the hell’re you?’
‘The taxi driver who took her to the pub.’ He shook his head. ‘I warned her it was no place for a woman on her own. Wouldn’t let my wife go near it during the day, never mind at night.’
His arm was round Mandy’s waist, holding her upright. Her head lolled to one side and her mouth was open: the cream blouse she’d been wearing hung in tatters, exposing her breasts, and there was a red welt on her cheek and bruises at her eyes where somebody had hit her. She was unconscious.
I lowered the bat and went to her.
‘Found her lying on the pavement fifty yards from where I’d dropped her off earlier. She’d dragged herself out of an alley. Swear to God I thought she was dead. Reckon she’s been
given a Mickey.’
Drugging women to have sex with them was beyond my understanding. Pervs who did it deserved to have their balls cut off, dipped in chocolate, and fed to them on a spoon.
‘Which pub was she in?’
‘The Shark’s Mouth. D’you know it?’
‘Not yet, but I will.’
We got Mandy inside and onto the bed. The driver had done his Good Samaritan bit and was anxious to get away. I thanked him and held out one of Danny’s fifty-pound notes. ‘For your trouble.’
He turned it away. ‘No, thanks, mate. I’ve got daughters – three of them – young enough to do what they’re told, thank God. Still, you can’t help worrying, can you? Maybe I should’ve taken her to hospital.’
‘You did the right thing. By the way, did you call me ten minutes ago?’
He didn’t know what I was talking about.
‘Not me, mate.’
At the door he handed me his card. ‘If you need help sorting the bastard out, give me a call.’
The driver was an ordinary guy who probably worked eighty hours a week to get by. I appreciated his offer though I wouldn’t be taking him up on it. What had to be done was a pleasure I wouldn’t be sharing with anybody.
When he’d gone, I sat on the edge of the bed and held Mandy’s hand. Her pulse was slow, her breathing deep and even like a child’s. Red hair fell across her pale face and I allowed myself to imagine she was sleeping. Then my finger drew the strands aside and uncovered the welts underneath, already changing colour, darkening to purple, yellowing at the edges, and the anger in me raged.
My knowledge of Rohypnol, or whatever he’d slipped into her drink, was limited to what I’d heard in Wandsworth. Cons called them ‘roofies’ and told stories they considered funny about how effective they were mixed with alcohol. Men with sisters and wives and daughters on the outside didn’t laugh.