Family

by Owen Mullen

  He bumped the car onto the pavement and killed the engine. It had been a beautiful day in London; the air was still warm. Glass sat behind the wheel, his fists like a boxer loosening up before a fight, conscious of the energy coursing through him. He could have come here earlier – everything had been in place for hours.

  Waiting was better.

  Better than booze. Better than sex. Better than anything.

  Glass took a brown leather bag and a ghetto blaster from the backseat and got out; the CDs, carefully selected before he’d left the King of Mesopotamia, were in his pocket. Marcus was at the door, his hulking figure blocking the dim light from inside. He let his boss pass and followed. Beyond the grey stone floor and the thick wooden pillars running all the way to the roof it was empty; the machinery that had crushed young bodies and left them bleeding and broken, the vats of white phosphorous and the cavernous bins of malt were long gone. Only the rats remained. Out of the corner of his eye, Glass saw one scurry along the foot of the brick wall and tightened his grip on the bag.

  Buffeted and weakened by decades of storms, most of the roof had blown away. Through ragged holes, stars twinkled in the night sky. Glass was too preoccupied to notice.

  He swallowed and tried to sound normal.

  ‘Any problems?’

  Marcus heard the excitement in his voice and understood.

  ‘None.’

  ‘You’re sure nobody saw you?’

  ‘Nobody saw us.’

  Exactly what Danny wanted to hear. This wasn’t about his crew or Jocks from Glasgow or anybody else. This was personal and he’d deal with it in his own way. His fingers tapped the handle of the ghetto blaster.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In the back.’

  ‘Have they said anything?’

  Marcus laughed. ‘Oh, yeah. Plenty. Both singing the same song. “There must be some mistake. We haven’t done anything.”’ He sniggered. ‘You know, the usual.’

  Glass didn’t find it funny. ‘Who else is here apart from you?’

  ‘It’s just me. That’s how you wanted it, wasn’t it?’

  His boss didn’t answer, but the big man was right. That was how he wanted it.

  ‘Show me where they are.’

  Marcus led him through a series of doors in whitewashed walls covered by graffiti with their footsteps echoing around them. The smell of disuse hung in the air. In the rafters a startled bird took flight, swooping and soaring in the confined space, its beating wings a match for Danny Glass’s heart.

  There was nothing in the room except a chair, an extension cable and the prisoners, gagged and tied with duct tape to wooden columns running from the floor to the roof. During the day, light would come through a window high on the wall; the other one at ground level was boarded and probably hadn’t been opened in decades.

  Bob Wallace was unmarked. Jonjo Hart had fared less well; one eye was cut and starting to close. Both men were naked. When they saw Glass, they struggled against their restraints and cried out. Danny Glass set the leather bag and the ghetto blaster on the floor, wild eyes following his every move.

  Marcus said, ‘I’ll be outside. Shout if you need me.’

  Glass assumed he was joking.

  ‘If you hear shouting, ignore it. It won’t be me.’

  The extension cable had a double-socket – it was an old friend. He dragged it from the corner into the middle of the floor and took two CDs from his pocket. Over his shoulder Marcus read the titles: ‘The Very Best of Cream’ and ‘Who’s Next’.

  Danny liked his music.

  ‘Right.’ Glass clapped his hands. ‘You’ve done well. Now, fuck off.’

  On his way to the door, Marcus glanced at Wallace and Hart, white-skinned and petrified. Next time he saw them they’d look very different. Danny was up for a session.

  Poor bastards.

  When they were alone, Glass took off his jacket and hung it over the chair. He unbuttoned his cuffs and carefully rolled the white shirt sleeves back while he examined his captives with cold clear eyes. They fell silent until he bent down, opened the bag and, slowly, deliberately, one by one, brought the contents out. Then they wailed and fought desperately against their fastenings, so terrified that when the skin chafed and broke and bled at their wrists and ankles, they didn’t feel it.

  The reason for their panic was easy to understand. Glass weighed the hammer in his hand – short and heavy. He nodded his approval, looking at his prisoners for theirs. Next came the nails – old and long and with a light rust stain.

  Glass caressed them with his fingers and laid them in a line on the floor.

  ‘Antiques, these. Beautiful. Been saving them for a special occasion. Think yourself lucky.’

  Behind his gag, Jonjo Hart was sick. Vomit filled his mouth, burning and bitter; some of it came down his nose. Danny Glass realised what was happening and kept on about the nails.

  ‘Saw them years ago in a builder’s yard in Peckham. Knew straight away they’d come in useful. Pennies they cost me.’ He shook his head. ‘Not enough respect for the past, nowadays. New this, new that. Everything’s got to be the latest model or it’s no bloody good. Shame, really. Country’s gone to the fucking dogs.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against progress. Far from it.’

  He pulled an electric drill from the depths of the bag, plugged it in and turned it on. The silver bit whirred into life; he patted the handle proudly.

  ‘British craftmanship. None of that Chinese rubbish.’

  Glass connected the ghetto blaster to the extension cable and tapped it with his foot.

  ‘Can’t say the same for this. Junk. Made in Taiwan. Fucking Taiwan. Wouldn’t have bought it if I’d realised.’

  The terrified men listened to his monologue with tears in their eyes.

  He hunkered down and emptied the bag.

  ‘I mean, why don’t we make this stuff? How hard can it be?’

  Wallace hadn’t been responsible for the video – that was Jonjo Hart’s work – but he’d seen it, and when the last item came out, he understood everything.

  Glass placed the punnet of strawberries between them on the ground, incongruent in the dusty room. He lifted a ripe red berry and held it under Jonjo’s nose. ‘Smell that. Wonderful, isn’t it? Kent’s finest. Yesterday they were in the field. Sent somebody down to pick them.’

  Bile churned in Jonjo’s stomach; he shuddered and lost control of his bladder.

  Glass acted as if he hadn’t noticed, plugged in the ghetto blaster and held a CD up in each hand. ‘What do you fancy listening to? Great bands. Up to you.’

  Fear had exhausted the prisoners; they stopped struggling. They were in the presence of a madman.

  Glass said, ‘All right, I’ll choose.’

  He slipped ‘The Very Best of Cream’ into the player and took out a coin, shiny like the drill bit. ‘Who wants to go first?’

  The men moaned. Glass ripped the tape from their mouths and spoke to Wallace.

  ‘Heads or tails, Bob? What’s your pleasure?’

  The policeman didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

  Glass made a face. ‘Not bothered. Okay. We’ll save The Who ’til last and go with Cream. I’ll skip the first track, if you don’t mind. Not one of my favourites.’

  He pressed PLAY.

  Bob Wallace had done well; he’d been brave – braver than Jonjo, who’d been a whimpering mess from the start. It couldn’t last and it didn’t. His screams echoed in the room as Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker rocked into ‘I Feel Free’.

  Glass picked up the hammer and nails and came towards them.

  ‘If you’d wanted The Who you should’ve said.’

  Outside, Marcus waited in the car. His job had been easy. Taking Jonjo was a piece of piss. The other one, even easier. Stanford had betrayed his unsuspecting colleague. Served him on a plate. Soulless bastard. Wallace had been naked and tied before he’d known what was happening. Danny’s instructio
ns weren’t new; they’d done this before – more than once. If you were forced into that building you never came out again. That was the rule. So far, nobody had broken it. Fulton Street was Danny Glass’s private abattoir.

  Sometimes he came and sat for a while, drinking in the energy or whatever it was he did. Weird, but when things got too much, it calmed him down. Marcus remembered bringing him to the abandoned building the day his wife and daughter were killed in the car bomb. Danny hadn’t come out for thirty-six hours. When he’d finally emerged, clothes crumpled, hair all over the place, he’d said three words and got in the car.

  ‘The King Pot.’

  Behind the wheel, Marcus had seen his face in the rear-view mirror. His boss’s skin had been the colour of putty, his eyes sunk into his head, an emptiness in them Marcus hadn’t seen before. From then on, he’d come regularly, always alone, and stayed until his mind and emotions quieted – however long that might take. He kept his thoughts to himself, though he had to be plotting revenge.

  And there was plenty to go round.

  George Ritchie had protected Anderson and done a good job, otherwise – like the two sad bastards inside – he would’ve died an agonising death before his twenty-first birthday.

  For Albert Anderson’s son and heir, perishing in the fire was an easy way out.

  Marcus looked at the night sky, yawned, and lazily checked his watch: ten past two. Danny was taking his time. The big man got out and stretched the tiredness from his legs. Further up the street a black cat arched its back and continued its nocturnal hunt. Marcus pushed the metal door open and went inside. It was dark. Familiar notes drifted towards him and he quickened his step. The room at the end was unlike anything he’d seen: there was blood on the floor, on the walls; everywhere. Wallace and Hart were pinned to the columns, their forearms and feet nailed to the wood. Holes had been drilled at different points in their bodies: both of Hart’s eyes were gone. Strawberries had been forced between his lips; red juice mingled with his blood and dripped from his chin to the floor. In the crimson pool on the slabs, Marcus saw lumps of fruit and small stones. It took seconds for him to realise they were teeth and toes.

  Danny’s white shirt wasn’t white any more. He sensed Marcus there and turned, his face streaked with red, the drill vibrating in his hand. Underneath the blood, Glass smiled like a kid in a toy shop the week before Christmas.

  He said something Marcus couldn’t hear; the music was too loud – The Who classic, ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’. Pete Townsend’s windmill cords crashing against the bricks.

  When it finished, Glass threw his arms around the big man.

  ‘Great to see you. Nearly done.’

  ‘You okay, boss?’

  ‘Never better.’ He wiped sweat from his forehead with his arm. ‘Jonjo didn’t know where Rollie is. He didn’t know where any of them are.’

  ‘How did he get out of the club?’

  ‘Rollie told him to fuck off.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They were leaving to hit the King Pot. He told them it was a crazy idea.’

  ‘You mean the cheeky bastards were coming after us again?’

  ‘Yeah, they were. If it wasn’t for me, we’d all be laying on slabs. Luke’s a dud – always was.’

  ‘What’s with him, boss? He hasn’t been around. Is he out?’

  ‘He’s out when I say he’s out.’

  ‘What about the copper? What about him?’

  ‘Nothing. Cut bits off him and he still didn’t talk. Not even to save his life. Because he’d nothing to tell. That bastard Stanford’s having us at it.’

  Hart was obviously dead. Wallace was barely breathing. Glass grabbed Wallace by the hair and gently slapped his face – the only gentle thing he’d done all night. The eyes, dulled by unimaginable pain, flickered open, closed and opened again. Glass centred the drill in the middle of his brow.

  ‘Think I owe you an apology, Bob. Sorry, mate.’

  He sounded sincere.

  Part IV

  54

  Euston Station was the usual madhouse; people coming and going to their destinations like robots programmed to ignore everything and everyone around them. We stood at the gate staring at the platform where the train from Manchester would arrive. Mandy hadn’t said much all day. Her face had healed well – make-up, skilfully applied, had done the rest. She was nervous, chewing the inside of her mouth, tapping her foot and glancing every few minutes at the Arrivals notifications on the board above her head. Seeing her daughter again was a big deal and she was worried about how it would go. My role was largely passive. I was there and, for the moment at least, that was enough. Mandy was beyond reassuring pep talks.

  She’d insisted on leaving in plenty of time and we were early. With nothing better to do I wandered over to WHSmith, bought an Evening Standard and leafed through it. Near the bottom of page four, a headline reminded me why I’d cut my brother out of my life: LATEST FIRE VICTIM DIES. There was no need to read on but I did: a twenty-five-year-old woman from Tooting had succumbed to her injuries bringing the death toll to one hundred and thirty-eight. No arrests had been made in connection with the blaze and the police had only been able to positively identify fifty-one of the deceased. The last line summed the horror up for anyone who didn’t get what those people had suffered: ‘a senior officer admitted they weren’t expecting the figure to go higher’.

  The newspaper went in the nearest bin.

  Danny had got away with it.

  My mobile buzzed in my pocket: Stanford. I wonder how he got my number.

  ‘I have the information you asked for.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘The first phone’s a burner. The second belongs to a guy called Finnegan. Vincent Finnegan.’

  Vincent must’ve changed his mind about me putting a word in for him with Danny. He’d missed the boat on that one.

  The DCI got what he needed to say in before I could close him down.

  ‘What we were discussing, made your mind up yet?’

  ‘Still thinking about it.’

  Not the answer he was looking for.

  ‘Face it, Luke. It isn’t going to get better.’

  He wasn’t wrong, though he wouldn’t be hearing it from me.

  Mandy was waving at me from across the station.

  ‘As I said, I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘Don’t take too long. If you don’t do it, somebody else will.’

  Over by WHSmith, I saw a face I recognised – a smartly dressed geezer with a sallow complexion and long hair swept behind his ears, pretending to read the front pages of the newspapers on the stand at the front of the shop.

  ‘Your man could do with a refresher course on surveillance.’

  ‘Our man?’

  ‘The one following me. I’ve seen him before. Right now, he’s bringing his knowledge of world events up to speed. Tell him to hide behind something next time.’

  There was a long silence before the detective spoke.

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. We don’t have anybody on you.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since Danny called it off.’

  won’t be needing anything from you any more

  ‘What about Anderson – he’s still out there?’

  ‘Nobody could’ve survived. It burned fast. The building was old. The fire chief estimated it somewhere between 2,500 and 3,000 degrees: incredible temperatures.’

  My voice was low and steady; he wasn’t going to see my fear.

  ‘You’re wrong. Dead wrong.’

  I didn’t hear his reply. I was running.

  The guy realised I was coming for him and dropped his act, headed for the Underground, changed direction and raced towards Eversholt Street. On the concourse, a party of disabled people were between him and me. By the time I got past them, he was gone. Traffic was heavy on Euston Road, the air thick, smelling of diesel. I stood on the pavement impotently balling my fists.
/>   I’d lost him.

  Back at the gate, Mandy wasn’t pleased. Anxiety was getting the better of her. She barked at me, close to tears from the emotional overload.

  ‘Where the hell did you go? I need you here.’

  The lie came easily. ‘Had to make a call. Sorry.’

  ‘The Manchester train’s late.’ She pointed to the noticeboard. ‘Won’t arrive for another twenty minutes.’

  I did my best to calm both our minds. ‘It’ll be fine. Honestly, it will.’

  She exhaled and relaxed. Her whisper disappeared into my shoulder.

  ‘You really think so, Luke?’

  ‘I really think so. Children notice things. We can’t let Amy see her mum’s been crying, can we?’

  ‘I’m freaked out with nerves.’

  ‘Of course. This is your daughter we’re talking about. She doesn’t know it, but she’s a lucky little girl to have you as her mother. Stop worrying. Everything’s good. Everything’s fine.’

  She smiled and pulled herself together. ‘Thanks. I needed to hear that.’

  Mandy believed me. Thank Christ one of us did.

  The train pulled into the station exactly twenty minutes late, which made me wonder why it hadn’t been on time in the first place. A line of carriages stretching as far as I could see rolled slowly to a stop. All the doors opened at once and people poured onto the platform. Mandy stood on tiptoe trying to see over the heads of the crowd. When she saw Amy, she waved. The child started to run, threading a path through the passengers. That was my cue. I stepped back and let them have their moment. My stalker wouldn’t be back – not today, anyway. If somebody else was in on it, they were better at it than he’d been, because I didn’t see them.

  Mandy hunkered down and threw her arms round a mini version of herself: red hair, corn-blue eyes, freckles and perfectly white teeth. The next minute was one long hug. A man stopped beside them: Amy’s father was in his late thirties, tall and good-looking, wearing a tan jacket and a dark-brown scarf artfully draped round him the way Italian men had been doing for decades. I imagined him as every female student’s idea of a university professor – well-read and handsome, prepared to put the age difference aside for the lucky nineteen-year-old in the front row who let him see up her skirt.