by David Mark
Open the door to my floor with a kick, and stomp on.
Everything slows. I can smell burning hair.
Seven, six, five ….
My door opens inwards, and a figure steps out.
And I find myself smiling. Trying to make friends.
Tracksuit. Beard. Glasses. Scowl.
Gun held in a hand that could crush a baby’s head.
Doing as I’m told. Stepping into my flat. Stepping out of myself.
Hearing the door close behind me with a click.
37
“Sir, … sir, please, just a moment ….look, have you seen this? The juvenile record? This is important, sir. Please, just listen, I’m not telling you how to do your job but this must be worth your time...”
Doug Roper smiles at his eager sergeant, holding the manila file, eyes wide with excitement and clothes damp from his quick run through the rain.
“I’m on it, sunbeam,” says Roper, softly. “You’d be surprised how long this department managed to cope before you arrived. I thought I was pretty specific about what I wanted you to spend your time on…”
McAvoy seems too worked up to stop himself. He blunders on, clutching the folder like a shield.
“It was just a feeling, Sir. I saw the report about the Vauxhall in the car park, and I know a mechanic from my rugby club, sir, and I gave him a bell and asked him who I would call to find out if anybody has ordered spare parts from this area for a Vauxhall in the past 12 months, and I worked the computer, and a name comes up that I recognise and I started digging sir, and well…”
“Good work, sergeant. But we’re way ahead of you.”
“We’ve got to have him in,” says McAvoy, standing there in his brown suit and white shirt and dull tie and ginger side-parting. Sensible shoes and a cheap watch.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, sergeant,” says Roper, leaning against the wall of the police interview room in the depths of the court building. He’s just about out of patience with the new lad. Just about ready to feed him to the wolves. “Enthusiasm is a real asset. So is knowing how to read the signs. Look into my eyes, you big daft bastard. Read the fucking signs.”
McAvoy arrived moments ago, panting and out of breath, ready to shoot his load and asked for a moment of his time. Roper, a bit sick of Flora trying to film him without him being prepared for it, was happy to step out of the police quarters of the court building and into a discreet advocates’ interview room.
McAvoy stops. Takes a breath. Up close, he really is a hell of a size, though Roper has no doubt that he could put him on his backside and keep him there. He’s taken down bigger.
McAvoy holds his gaze. Narrows his eyes. “Did you know about this? About his past?” There might be something accusing in his voice. Doug doesn’t care either way.
“I know everything, son. Now you just leave it to me.”
“But people could be in danger! He drives an old Vauxhall. His sister was girlfriend to one of the victims! The murder weapon’s still missing. Have you seen the psychiatric report? Even the Butterworth case has some gaps he might be able to plug. We have to have him in!”
“The Butterworth case is solved.”
“With respect, sir, I’ve been worrying about some aspects of this for some time. I didn’t want to speak up until I was sure but there are so many grey areas…”
“I spoke to Owen last night. It’s in hand.”
“Sir, I have to formally protest…”
“Protest away, son. But keep your fucking mouth shut.”
He stands there for a minute, cheeks opening and closing like gills, torn between making a fuss and doing what he’s told.
Then he turns away, dropping the file on the padded chair next to Roper. “Sorry sir,” he mumbles. “Just enthusiastic.”
“You’ll go far,” says Roper, smiling.
38
Shove in the back, and into the living room. Ducking as I do so to avoid the gleaming Samurai sword that’s still embedded in the doorframe. I’m suddenly embarrassed about the state of the place.
There’s a man in a suit on my sofa, drinking an orange and cranberry J20. It’s a good, chocolate-brown suit, but I can’t tell if he wears it well, because he’s sitting down, with one leg on the floor, and one stretched out on the cushions. He’s wearing a shoulder holster, over a grey shirt. No tie. Delicate gold chain on his neck, with a medallion of some kind. He’s maybe 40. Large, wide face and a slightly flattened nose. Three days’ stubble. Scar in his eyebrow. Smiling.
A silver gun on the cushion next to him. A copy of the Daily Express in his lap. Seems a bit right wing for the Eastern Bloc, but I don’t like to pre-judge.
And there’s my sister. Kerry. Not moving; pancaked on the hard-wood floor. Skinny legs poking out the end of my coat. One sleeve rolled up. Eyes half-closed, mouth wide open. Laying on her front, but twisted, so she’s looking at the door. Reminds me of a dead pigeon that’s been left by a cat as a treat for its owner.
She’s breathing heavily. But breathing nonetheless.
“You write this?” he asks, brandishing the paper. His accent is thick. Russian-sounding. He’s the man from the phonecall.
I’m looking at him, then back at Kerry, and hearing the big man from the hallway breathe behind me, and I’m feeling as if I’ve spent an hour in a dentist’s waiting room, grumbling about the delay, and then been told I’m definitely next, and suddenly don’t want to be.
“What?”
“You write this?” He asks, again, infinitely patient.
I start to babble, my thoughts a swirl, my fingers shaking. “Oh, the Express? They carried it, have they? Haven’t seen it yet. Probably used some of my copy, yeah.”
He nods. Looks again at the page 15 lead, illustrated with a picture of poor, smiling Ella. “Sounds a nasty bastard,” he says, with some authority. “Killing a young girl in her wedding dress. I have daughters. They mean everything to me. There should be no trial for this man. They should let the girl’s father in a room with him. Cut his head off one day at a time. See how long it takes. You have seen this man. This Cadbury? Does he seem like a murderer? Like a man capable of this?”
I force myself to look at him. To get a hold of myself.
“I see a lot of murderers,” I say, softly. “They all look capable of it, because when you look at them for the first time, you’ve already been told they’re a murder suspect. It changes your perception. It plants a seed in your head. That’s why pictures of paedophiles always look like pictures of paedophiles.”
He nods. Pulls a face that suggests he’s interested. He puts the newspaper down, and then places his bottle on top of it, so as not to leave a ring on the floor. Then he stands up. He’s a little taller than me, but there’s a paunch, a faint middle-aged spread across the middle. He wears his belt tight to cover it, but I can tell the buckle will imprint on his flesh, and that he goes to sleep at night with Levi’s written backwards on his gut.
He steps forward and extends his hand. The gun is still behind him, near the broken TV. The newspaper award, the giant Pegasus, has been pulled out of the wreckage and is sitting on the floor by the kitchen, next to my bedroom door.
“My name is Petruso.”
A thousand witty retorts line up in my mind, but I just say: “Owen”, and shake his hand.
He nods. Sighs. Gives me a look that suggests this is all out of his control, and looks over my shoulder at the bearded bear behind me. He gives a nod.
A fist slams into my right kidney.
I’ve never felt pain like it. I cry out, and all the air leaves my body in a rush. I’m already falling to one knee as another blow connects with my left shoulder. There’s noise like somebody chopping through steak on a wooden block, and I’m done. Falling onto the floor. Wanting to roll into a ball, but I can’t seem to get my legs up. Everything is tingling. I’m numb, but it still hurts.
The bear rolls me onto my back with his trainer. He’s got a face on him like he’s just been
sick in his mouth.
And it’s all about to come my way.
He pushes the trainer up under my jaw and stands on my Adams apple. I’m gasping and gagging, struggling without strength; a puppy trying to swim up a waterfall. He’s putting on just enough pressure to make it hurt, to render me useless. He’s done it before.
Suddenly I don’t care how I look. I don’t give a shit that I’m losing the fight, or looking a fucking mug, or failing to help my sister. I don’t remember the gun. Jess. The reasons why I am here.
The pressure eases for a moment, and his colossal fist slams into my chest. I half expect it to go straight through, to skewer me to the floor. I imagine his frustration as he tries to stand up and finds his progress impeded by a dead reporter on his wrist.
I’m clutching at my chest, coughing, snottering, as his hands go through my pockets. It only takes a moment, and I feel the gun being pulled firmly from my waistband.
Through the haze and the tears, I see him throw the gun across the room and I turn my head to follow its path. Petruso catches it, and looks at the handle. He slides out the clip and counts the bullets. He looks down at me, flapping on the floor like a goldfish on dry land.
The hands are on me again and I’m dragged into a sitting position, propped against the sofa. I feel the skin on my back shredding as I’m pulled over the broken glass and dented picture frames.
I’ve got my eyes shut. Screwed up tight. Too witless to be scared. Too overwhelmed to get angry.
Petruso is in front of me, crouching down. His face is inches from mine, and I can smell cigarettes and fruit juice, and see the specks of whatever he had for lunch between his bottom teeth. I can smell the damp on his jacket from the rainstorm outside. I can see the dark beneath his eyes, faint lines in his forehead that will become wrinkles when he speaks.
He takes a handful of my hair and points my face at where Kerry lies.
“This is your sister, yes?”
I nod and let my head loll onto my chest. I leave it there.
“That is a yes? Good, we have the right girl. It must pain you to see what she is. I think that perhaps she was a pretty girl, once. I think that perhaps, she was a clever, good girl. But the drugs, Mr Lee. They get inside you and they stay there, and they devour you, change you, rot you and make you ugly. I have seen it. I have seen strong, powerful men, transformed into frail old women by the shit they stick in their veins. It is a shame for many. But it is not a shame for me, or for the man who enables people like Kerry to take her daily rocket to outer space. It makes him rich. Makes me rich. I am not as rich as Mr Petrovsky, but I am still young.”
Petruso stops himself after he says the name. I half expect him to genuflect. It’s as if he’s said the Lord’s Prayer backwards in church and doesn’t want to turn round in case God and the Devil are about to hit him with a double clothesline.
I look up and open my eyes. They’re heavy and everything hurts, but I’m paying attention. I want to know.
“You see, Mr Lee, I do not expect you to understand. You are not a part of this little world of ours. You are a decent man, a man who goes to work and pays the bills and flicks the channels looking for somebody to wank over while their girlfriend is out. You are an ordinary man, Mr Lee. And Mr Petrovsky is extraordinary. He has vision. He has respect. He has loyalty. And he has no problem with having people thinly sliced from the feet up. I do not call him my friend. I do not call him my employer. He is simply the man who says how things are. And he says that if you have killed our associate, then you must die.”
I cough and try to speak but the pain in my back turns the words to a hiss of pain.
“Now I must make a decision, Mr Lee. I must decide if the creature snivelling on his back before me is capable of killing a man like Prescott. A man whom Mr Petrovsky has used time and time again, with impeccable success, to eliminate those who have chosen to stand in the way of his happiness. And I do not see that, Mr Lee. I do not see how you could do this thing.”
“Nobody ever does,” I say, spitting out the words in a spray.
I shuffle back against the sofa and sit up a little straighter. I’m starting to feel myself creeping back into my body. The monsters are testing the windows and giving the doors a gentle kick, as they look for a way in.
He stands up, and I hear his knees clicking.
“So, Mr Lee …”
“Call me Owen,” I say, and manage to twist my grimace into a bloody smile.
Petruso smiles and snorts through his nose. He lights a cigarette, then drops it on the floor near my hand, as though he’s feeding a dog a titbit. I take it, and inhale.
“Owen, then. Owen, I am in your shit-tip of a home, watching you cry, and I am being forced to breathe in the stench of your broken sister, because Mr Petrovsky has told me to be. He is the only man who tells me what to do. You, have many. You have rules. I do not believe you killed our associate. However, you have his gun. The police suspect you were involved. Your car was parked at the woods where this thing happened. I have seen from your rather comical actions at the press conference that you have a temper like my own. And so I am here, to ask you, like a man, to tell me the truth.”
I suck an inch off the cigarette. I smile, and choose my words carefully. “Fuck. Off.”
Petruso shakes his head, a little smile on his face. “I admire you, Owen. You are being very, English. Very Northern. Very stupid. You can show me the size of your testicles all you want, but I will still cut them off.”
I try to think of some witty retort. Nothing comes. “You don’t need an excuse to touch me, pal. You only have to ask.”
Petruso lets out a slow breath, as though releasing the fluff from a dandelion clock.
Shrugs.
Looks past me.
Looks down at Kerry.
And picks up my gun.
Grabbing Kerry by the hair. Pulling her upwards as though yanking a turnip from hard earth. Her eyes remain closed, her face motionless, but her legs take her weight as Petruso stands her up in front of him and presses the barrel of my gun to the back of her neck.
“Did you kill my associate?”
I test the water by jumping in. “Fuck you.”
Petruso pulls her face close in to his mouth and sniffs her cheek, his mouth against her ear. Slowly, as if launching a paper-boat at the water’s edge, he pushes her into the bear’s grasp. He catches her before she falls. Something passes between animal and master. Unbidden. Wordless. Passionless. The bear tears her dress at the neck and pushes my coat from her shoulders. They puddle around legs that look like twigs stripped of bark. She stands there, naked and barely conscious.
The bear spins her back to Petruso, who hugs her in tight. He peers over her shoulder, her eyes still closed, and looks down at her body.
And he slides his gun through the ravaged crook of her arm, rubs it across her chest and then moves it down her body.
“Your sister’s boyfriend stole from us, Mr Lee. He took our drugs to sell, and did not sell them. He used them. He was beaten for this, but we forgave him, because he was a man who could occasionally be useful. Then he got arrested. He was stupid, and he got caught. And he made a deal. A policeman friend of Mr Petrovsky’s informed us that we were going to be betrayed. That Beatle was a dishonourable man. A rat. He was going to wear a tape recorder when we did business. So my associate was called. And he arranged to meet this piece of shit at a quiet, dark place. And he brought drugs and money as bait. Now they are both dead. The police think that you did it, or at least, they are starting to. I am starting to as well. Now, you will talk to me. You will tell me the truth, Mr Lee.”
Kerry’s eyes open, then close again, and she gives herself back to the world behind those eyelids.
“I will kill you,” I say, say it so quietly I can feel the words on my lips like a kiss. “I will be the man that ends your life.”
Petruso does’t speak. He simply kicks her legs apart with the outside of his right boot.
“I am not enjoying this, Mr Lee.”
I hear my own heart beating. I hear my blood roaring in my head.
“Yes,” I say, breathing hard. “Yes, I killed him. I went for a walk in the woods and he was busy shooting somebody. Then he tried to shoot me. So I bashed his fucking brains in and took his gun and his money and his drugs. Who wouldn’t have done that? Who would have acted differently? Would you? You’d have called the police would you? Done the decent thing …?”
Petruso holds up a hand to silence me and puts the gun back against Kerry’s head. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You killed him?”
“I had to...”
“And you have his money?”
“I don’t even know what’s there.” I look at him hard, hoping to see some spark of humanity, something I can bargain with. “Leave Kerry be,” I say, pleading. “She’s no threat. Leave her be...”
Petruso looks at the bear.
“His money. Now.” Petruso’s tone is flat. Emotionless.
“Bedroom,” I say, quietly “In the bed.”
The bear turns and walks into the bedroom.
“I will kill you first,” says Petruso. “As a courtesy.”
“Don’t do this...” I say. “It doesn’t have to be this way...”
The big man re-emerges, shrugging. He says something in a language I don’t understand. Petruso looks puzzled, giving his associate more of his attention. Kerry opens her eyes, looks at me, then slams her head backwards into her captor’s nose; blood exploding like a firework.
And I’m moving. Moving towards the big man. Reaching down as I go, and scooping my winged Pegasus from the floor. Swinging it upwards with all the force of all my rage. It connects with the side of the Bear’s jaw and I feel his head break, and hear it again as he slams against the wall.
I turn to face Petruso, hurl the Pegasus and it thumps into his chest, splintering ribs. As he falls he puts his foot on one of my toy cars, and his leg slides out to one side, snapping at the knee. It sticks out at 45 degree angle, grotesquely bent, and he screams in pain as he writhes on the floor.