by J. D. Weston
He turned to the pub manager.
“Mike?”
Northern Mike looked up from the body at their feet.
“Boss?” he replied.
“Get this bleeding carpet cleaned up. Not a trace. Understood?”
Northern Mike nodded, but he looked hesitant.
John placed a reassuring hand on Mike’s shoulder, just as his phone vibrated in his pocket. The number was blocked and the small screen read ‘Unknown Caller,’ but he didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know who it was.
He hit the green button to answer the call and waited for the familiar gravelly voice.
“Checkmate,” said Dixon.
“How did it go?” asked Melody. “Did you find it?”
“Yeah, I did,” replied Harvey.
“So are you coming back to Reg’s place? We’re going out for dinner tonight. The wedding is in two days and they want to say thanks.”
“Yeah, I’ll be back,” said Harvey. He switched the lights off, pulled the car to the side of the road and watched as the man in the hat disappeared through a doorway beside some shops.
“Okay, but don’t be too long,” said Melody. “This means a lot to them.”
“I’ll be back soon,” said Harvey. “I’m just finishing something.”
He disconnected the call, turned the car off and waited. As if on cue, a few light raindrops dotted the windscreen. The street lights ahead magnified and fragmented the light but Harvey’s eyes remained fixed on the doors. A light flicked on in a first-floor window and a figure passed across the frame but too fast for Harvey to see who it was. A few minutes later, the light flicked off.
Ahead of where Harvey had parked, on the opposite side of the road, a black BMW pulled over outside the doors Harvey was watching. The lights flicked off and the plume of smoke faded into the night. A van pulled into the street behind the car; for a brief moment, its headlights washed across it and silhouetted two men sitting in the front.
A flash of lightning lit the sky in Harvey’s rear-view mirror. The light patter of rain on the car’s bodywork grew into heavy drumming as the downpour began and the windscreen was obscured. Harvey turned on the ignition and cracked the car’s electric window, but in the narrow field of view, all he saw was the door. It was closing. He flicked the windscreen wipers on to see the struggle of the two men forcing someone into the back of the BMW.
Harvey reached for the door handle, but it was too late. The BMW doors slammed, the engine fired up, and the headlights lit the street as the driver planted his foot to the floor and sped out of the parking spot. Harvey bent down out of sight, started the engine of Melody’s little sports car, dipped the clutch, and found first gear. By the time the BMW had shot past, Harvey was accelerating out of his parking spot in the opposite direction. In his mirror, he saw the BMW turn left on the highway, so Harvey dropped into second, lifted the clutch and let the gearbox slow the car to make the turn. As soon as the car nosed out of the bend, Harvey slammed down the accelerator. It had been years since he’d been in the neighbourhood but he knew the streets well.
At the first crossroads, Harvey wrenched the wheel to the right. The highway was at the end of the street; he was only halfway down it when the BMW flashed past, faster than the other cars on the road. Harvey slid onto the highway, nosing between two cars and upsetting the driver behind. The BMW was four hundred yards in front. The highway was the main artery into the City of London and traffic was monitored. Harvey settled in and focused on the rear lights of the BMW in front.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and Melody’s number flashed up. He put the phone away, checked his mirrors and closed the distance between him and the BMW.
The lights of the Limehouse Link tunnel loomed ahead, bright like a portal in the night. The BMW entered it, followed thirty seconds later by Harvey in Melody’s little Mazda. A van and a taxi travelled side by side at the same pace to avoid the speed cameras in the tunnel. But the BMW was moving fast, not slowing for the cameras. Harvey eased the Mazda behind the taxi in a signal that he wanted to pass. But the taxi driver entered a power game and held fast. Aware of the bright lights illuminating Melody’s very identifiable car, Harvey hung back behind the van but watched the BMW through the long, sweeping bends until, at last, the end of the tunnel was in sight. The car broke free into the rain and the darkness.
By the time the taxi, the van and Harvey left the tunnel, the BMW was nowhere to be seen.
Rain pelted the car once more. Canary Wharf and the Isle of Dogs were on Harvey’s right. Another road merged at the tunnel exit. All Harvey could see were dozens of taillights of the cars ahead, magnified and distorted by the rain, and unidentifiable in the dark. The taxi eventually moved into the next lane and Harvey accelerated past him.
Half a mile in front, Harvey knew there was a junction, where the BMW would be lost for sure. Before that was a slip road off to the left; a few cars in the left-hand lane were taking it. Harvey studied the tail lights but recognised none as the BMW. He kept looking at the cars as he drove onto the slip road and rose up onto an overpass, but saw nothing.
He slowed for the junction, scouring the cars that peeled off and the others that waited for a gap. But again, he saw nothing. He joined a group of cars three lanes wide and three cars back from the roundabout. He pulled to a stop. While everyone else was looking right for a gap, Harvey looked left, and came face to face with the driver of the BMW. He feigned disinterest, saw a space in the traffic, waited for the BMW to join the flow, and then slipped in behind it.
The BMW had slowed down, a move that Harvey presumed was to avoid being stopped by the police with a kidnapped man in the back. It turned onto East India Dock Road, matched the speed of the traffic and remained inconspicuous until it turned off Prince Regent Lane, where the driver found the maze of back streets and opened up the engine.
To follow them directly in Melody’s little convertible would have been too obvious. Knowing the streets well, Harvey took the next left and caught up to them as the driver parked outside the Golden Ring Pub. Plaistow had been Harvey’s stomping ground when he and Julios had worked for Harvey’s foster father, John Cartwright. The only time Harvey had ever been in the Golden Ring was to find a man who owed John money.
They’d waited in the car park. It was rare that Harvey and Julios would talk while they stalked their prey. There was never much to be said, and Julios’ ethos was to remain focused at all times. It was a testament to the length of his career. Until the end. And then it was Harvey who had been distracted.
Harvey drove past the pub, turned into a side street, killed the lights, and switched off the engine. He got out of the car, leaving the doors unlocked to avoid the flash of the indicators, and edged to the end of the road, out of sight. The muffle of men's voices followed. Then the dull thud of body blows and accompanying groans were the only sounds Harvey heard above the rain splashing in the puddles and hitting the roofs of parked cars. He watched from afar as one of the two men held the door of the pub open. The other marched the kidnapped guy inside at gunpoint.
To pull a gun in the open street, regardless of the time of night and torrential rain, was a brave move. Either things had changed since Harvey had worked the area or these men ran the neighbourhood. Harvey presumed the latter, which would mean there would be more men.
The phone in his pocket vibrated. It was Melody. It had to be. She was the only person who ever called him. He ignored the call, pulled his jacket around him, and marched across the street. He looked both ways, but the road was quiet and nobody had seen him.
He stepped into the Golden Ring.
“Sit down,” said the man with the silver hair. He was dressed well in an expensive-looking shirt, smart trousers and shiny shoes. A nice watch peeked from his cuff and he sat relaxed in an armchair beside the fire as if he owned the place.
Tyler checked around the room. Although the bar next door sent a hum of activity through the adjoining door, the room Tyler had be
en brought into was empty, save for the two men who had picked him up, and the old man in the chair.
“I’d rather stand,” said Tyler. “This won’t take long, will it?”
“It’ll take as long as I want it to take, and it’ll be quicker if you do as you’re told,” said the man. “So sit down.” He held out a hand, offering the chair opposite him. “Mick, get the boy a drink, will you? What do you want, son?”
“I don’t drink,” said Tyler, unable to meet the man’s eyes.
“Another one that doesn’t bleeding drink. What is with you people?”
Sensing the question was rhetorical, Tyler remained silent. He studied the intricate patterns of the old carpet at his feet.
“Let me introduce myself,” said the old man. “You can call me John.” He held out his hand once more, this time for Tyler to shake. Short, fat, ringed fingers gripped Tyler’s hand with a positive strength. The shake was barely perceptible; John allowed the squeeze to do the talking.
“Look, John,” said Tyler, “I haven't done nothing wrong. I don't know who you are, but honestly, I haven’t done anything.”
“I know, son. I know.” John raised his hand. “Don’t worry. You’re not in any kind of trouble.”
“So what am I doing here?” asked Tyler. “This bloke shoved a gun in my face.” He jerked his thumb at Mick who placed a bottle of sparkling water on the table in front of him.
“No harm done, Tyler,” said John. “I’m sure it was all meant in good spirit.” He eyed the man he’d called Mick and nodded. It was a slight movement, enough to reassure his subordinate that he’d done the right thing.
“How’s your mum, Tyler? I hear she’s ill.”
“What? How do you know about-”
“Look,” said John, his face twisted as if he’d had enough of the back and forth, “let's clear up any ambiguity, shall we? Then perhaps we can move onto business.”
“Business?” asked Tyler.
“I’m a very well-known man, and a very well-known man knows lots of people. It’s my business to be in the know. So anything I know about you shouldn’t come as a surprise. Now, I know that your old mum is sick, and I asked how she was.”
“Today was a good day,” Tyler replied.
“A good day? Well that’s something,” said John. “Tell me what a bad day looks like.”
Tyler felt his throat close and his eyes bulge as the memories showed themselves to him alone.
“Delirious. Incontinent. Passing blood, vomiting blood, and pained to the point of pulling her own hair out of her head and clawing at her skin to get to the pain.” He paused. “Shall I go on?”
John held his gaze, his expression serious. Regardless of the surroundings, he seemed somehow empathetic.
“That’s a lot for a boy your age to deal with.”
“I’m not a boy and I’m dealing with it the best I can.”
“That’s admirable,” said John, with an accompanying smile. “I hear you’re a boxer?”
Tyler nodded. “Yeah. I’m supposed to be there now. My trainer won’t be happy. He’s giving me extra time in the ring.”
“Personal attention from Old Man McGee?” said John. “You are privileged.”
“You know him?”
John laughed. “Yeah. Anyone who’s anyone in this world knows the old man. Does he still have that big guy mopping up after him?”
“Lloyd? Yeah, he’s still there. Look, is this going to take long? I don’t want-”
“I know. You don't the old man to think you’ve skipped a training session and wasted his time. That’s okay. We can take care of the old man for you. I’ll tell him you’re with me.”
“No,” said Tyler, a little brash. “It should come from me. Are we done?”
“No, Tyler, we are not done. I’ll get Mick here to drop you at the arches when we’re finished. How does that sound?”
It was only then that Tyler turned to look at Mick and recognised him as the man from the gym the previous night. He turned again and eyed the man by the door. It was both of them.
“What do you want with me, John?”
“Simple,” said John. He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, then collected his brandy from the small table between them. “I want to put you in the ring, son.”
“I can’t do it,” replied Tyler. “The old man-”
“Yeah, yeah. The old man said you can’t fight for anyone else or he’ll stop training you. So what? From what I hear, you don't need him anymore anyway. Look at the bleeding size of you.”
“I can’t let him down.”
John listened and nodded.
“So much honour. But so little brains,” he said. Then he sat back with his glass of brandy and took a sip without removing his eyes from Tyler’s. “What if I told you that the winnings would get your mum private medical attention? No more of this waiting around for some old fart on the National Health Service to procrastinate and worry about making a decision. You could afford to let the professionals look after her.”
“I can’t do it,” said Tyler. “The old man-”
“Sod the old man, Tyler. Think about your poor old mum. Delirious, you said. In so much pain she’s clawing at her own skin. You could stop that, Tyler. Look at me when I’m talking to you, son.”
Tyler looked up from the floor. He felt his eyes redden.
“Don't be ashamed, Tyler. Be proud of who you are.” John took a sip of his brandy. “She’s dying, isn’t she?”
A single tear rolled down Tyler’s cheek. He bit his bottom lip.
“Let it go, Tyler,” said John. “I’m giving you the chance to stop it, son. No-one knows how long she has left, do they?”
Tyler shook his head. At the same time, the door opened and a man entered. Tyler glanced up to see who it was, but tears fogged his vision. He let his head drop back down. His silent tears fell to the floor. John leaned forwards and spoke quietly.
“So here’s your chance to make her last days as nice as possible.”
7
Blood
“Sorry, mate, this bar is shut. You’ll have to go next door,” said Jack, who was leaning on the bar with a pint.
The man let the door swing closed behind him, looked around the room, and let his gaze fall on Tyler, who was wiping his eyes.
“It’s a bit noisy for me next door,” replied the man. He took three strides towards the bar where he stood with his back to John and Tyler, and with Mick and Jack to his right.
“I said the bar is closed, sunshine,” said Jack. “You’ll need to go next door to get a drink.”
“And I said it’s a bit too noisy for me next door,” replied the man.
John grinned at Jack’s failed attempt to impress him. He glanced back at John, embarrassed by the lack of fear he’d instilled into the man.
“Listen, pal, you’ve got five seconds to get out or-”
“Or what?” said the man. He turned to face Jack, but his stance wasn’t threatening. In fact, it was as casual as if he was waiting at a bar for a beer.
John sipped at his brandy and admired the man’s control.
“That’s five seconds. The way I see it, it’s you who has options. You can either try to throw me out in the pouring rain.” He held his arms up as if he was waiting for Jack to make a move, then dropped them to his sides and rolled his neck from side to side. “Or you can shut up and leave me to dry off.”
The two men stared each other down. The anger was clear in Jack's eyes, but still, the stranger remained unmoved. Northern Mike appeared through the service door that linked to the two bars. He glanced at the stranger and at John.
“Another brandy, John?” he called out, ignoring the standoff between Jack and the man.
“Why not?” John replied. “And can you get our friend here a drink and a towel or something please, Mike?”
A towel landed on the bar beside the stranger, then Mike’s face appeared beside him.
“What can I get you, mate?”
he asked.
“Water’s fine,” came the reply.
A bottle of sparkling water was placed beside the towel. Mike brought the brandy to John’s table.
“Mick, do me a favour. Take Jack for a walk in the rain. He looks like he could do with cooling off.”
“I don’t need a-” began Jack.
“Jack, go for a walk,” said John. “Mick, go with him.”
A look of contempt flashed across Mick’s face. He pulled his coat on and threw Jack's to him, a little harder than necessary.
When the door swung closed and the sound of the rain was quietened, the stranger turned and leaned on the bar. He nodded once at Northern Mike, then cracked the lid off the water bottle. In the mirror behind the optics, John found the stranger staring at him.
“Can I go now?” asked Tyler.
John broke the stare and addressed Tyler.
“So you’re going to do it?”
“Can you make it so that the old man doesn’t find out about it?” replied Tyler. “He’s been good to me, and, well-”
“Listen, son. You leave the old man to me. Meet me here tomorrow night. Six o’clock. Bring your gear. We’ll get you in the ring and see what you’re made of.”
“And can I ask what I get?” said Tyler. “I mean, if I win. What’s the pay-out?”
“What if I said fifty grand?” replied John, taking another sip of his third or fourth brandy.
The eyebrows on Tyler’s face rose, showing bright red lines in the backs of his eyes.
“Is that enough?” asked John.
“I’m in,” replied Tyler. He leaned across the table to shake John’s hand. A smile of hope spread across his face. He sat back in his seat, cracked the water bottle with shaky hands and took a long mouthful. But then a thought hit him. His expression changed to curiosity. “Do I need to sign anything? Are there insurance papers I need to sign? I had to do that before, for my last fight.”