“Oi!” Ray slapped Dash firmly across the chest, glanced meaningfully at me and grimaced an apology, “he hasn’t eaten today. Ali’s got us on a Christmas diet. No food and press-ups every hour.”
“Bigger tits make bigger tips,” Dash – completely oblivious to any offence he might have inadvertently caused – parroted Ali’s slogan.
Caz shook her head at me. “I repeat,” she addressed Ray, “how much, and how soon?”
“Oi!” Ali’s voice echoed above the scratching thumping of the freezer, startling us all and causing Dash to splash Jägermeister on the table. “Are you two gonna be getting behind that bar any time soon? Only Fiona’s had new gels and can’t use the fucking till. Or the optics.”
I turned to the door where my bar manager stood, squat, broad and clearly agitated.
“Or the fucking pumps, to be honest. But since you,” this last addressed to me, “thought she was – what was it? – ‘a good soul,’ I’ve a barmaid what can’t maid a bar and a couple of barmen who’re sitting in here getting shitfaced while their public awaits outside. So, any chance of a hand this century?”
The boys, as one, leapt to their feet and shuffled towards their boss as Caz stared helplessly after them.
At the door, Ray paused and looked back. “We’ll call him,” he said, “tonight. Then his people will call yours. It’ll happen,” he said, pulling his t-shirt over his head as Ali handed him a bottle of baby oil.
And then they were gone, leaving Caz topping up her shot glass and mine and exclaiming, “But I don’t have people, Danny.”
“It’s okay,” I explained, sliding the cough syrup away from her, “the boys’ll sort it out.”
Caz eyed the bottle and her own empty glass and suddenly slumped, the stresses of the past day evident in her face. “Daniel, I think I might need a lie down.”
“My bedroom’s upstairs,” I said, though I knew she was well aware of its location.
“Would it be awfully rude of me…” she began, before I waved the rest of the sentence aside, helped her from her seat and took her up the stairs to my bedroom.
“I’m awfully sorry,” she murmured, as I slipped her Manolos off, “I can’t imagine what’s come over me. It must have been a bad oyster.”
“Caz,” I said, as her head hit the pillow and I lifted her feet up onto the bed, “you’ve not had any oysters today.”
I was about to mention that – as far as I’d seen – she’d had nothing more than two lattes and a third of a bottle of Jägermeister, and faced-down the biggest bully she’d ever known and a blackmailer intent on downing her family; but she started snoring gently so I decided to let her sleep without the lecture, lay the throw over her and, softly closing the door, tiptoed from the room.
It was the tiptoeing that lead to what happened next.
I mean, there was no reason why I couldn’t have just tramped down the stairs and back into my bar. Except, I’d started slinking so I continued and, as I reached the bottom of the stairs and headed towards the rumble of the crowd in the bar and the thumping music sound-tracking them, I passed the parlour, noticed the door – which was usually closed – was half ajar, and heard lowered voices coming from within.
I inched forward, sensing, suddenly, that what was happening inside was not a casual chat.
“You find ‘em,” a voice, gravelly yet familiar, snarled. “You find ‘em, and you bring ‘em to me, or I’ll find you. And Carlton. And then—”
I inched closer to the door, peeking through the gap.
Inside, the bleached-blond thug from yesterday had Ali – rock solid, immutable Ali – held up against the wall, a single hand around her throat, the other hand raised, ready to strike her if she moved.
I kicked the door open.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
The thug flinched, tightened his grip on Ali’s throat a moment, released her, turned towards me and then smiled, the smile growing into a wider grin.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s you.” He glanced back, briefly, at Ali, who was gasping breath back in, glowering at him and running a hand across her neck.
“I said, what’s going on?” I repeated.
“Just having a word,” he said, gesturing behind him at Ali.
“Well you’ve had it,” I said, twisting to see Ali, who was glowering at the back of his head. “Ali, you alright?”
“I’m fine,” she muttered.
“Hey,” he held his hands up, a smile breaking out on his face, “she’s fine.”
“I didn’t ask you,” I answered. “How’d you get in here?”
“Me?” he asked, clearly delaying. “Ali asked me back here for a chat. Didn’t you Ali,” he turned and smiled wolfishly at her.
Ali stared back, the fury in her eyes floating over something else.
“I’ll call you,” she said, her voice catching at the end.
“Yeah,” the bleached blond smiled and reached out a hand to stroke her face; Ali doing her best, and failing, not to flinch at his touch, “you do that.”
“You’ve had your word,” I snarled. “Now, take your hands off my bar manager and get the fuck out of my pub.”
He paused, slowly removed his hand from Ali and turned to me, the look on his face suggesting he was surprised I was actually still here.
“You wanna watch that potty mouth,” he said, the smile dying. “Chat like that’ll land a boy in trouble.”
“You’re barred,” I said, staring him down. “Get the fuck out of my pub and don’t ever come back.”
He snorted. “Else?” he asked, stepping towards me.
I’d dealt with bullies before, had the threat of physical violence hovering over me. I knew better than to shrink from him but it still took all my will to stand firm, such was the pure malevolence seeping from him.
I kept my voice calm, though I felt anything but inside. “Else you’ll have more than me and a woman to deal with,” I said, stepping to one side and opening the door wide.
“That so?” he asked, deliberately moving as close as he could without touching me as he headed towards the door. “Well,” he paused, his face inches from mine, his eyes glittering menacingly, “I’ll bear that in mind.”
And so saying, he left the room.
I pushed the door closed and turned to Ali.
“What the fuck is going on?” I demanded.
“Not now Danny,” she collapsed onto an overstuffed sofa. “You got a brandy or something?”
I walked over to the sideboard and, opening one of the doors, located a bottle of Remy and a tumbler, splashed some of the golden liquid into the glass and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” Ali accepted it and swallowed half the brandy in one mouthful.
I waited. Ali stared intently at the rug before the sofa and mouthed the rest of the brandy.
The silence stretched out, sound-tracked – distantly – by the muted rumble of the crowd in the bar and the steady drumbeat of an old swing beat record on the jukebox.
“I’m waiting,” I said.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said at length.
“Ali, we can’t just not talk about this. What the fuck is going on?”
“You still got the spare room upstairs?” she suddenly asked.
I frowned. “Yeah,” I stammered eventually. “But what’s that got to do with this?”
“Any chance my cousin could stay for a few days?” The pause before the word ‘cousin’ – not much more than a split second – was long enough to tell me that whoever she was asking for was not a cousin.
“Your cousin?” I asked pointedly.
“Yeah,” she said defiantly.
“Wait,” I said, gesturing at the door, “that wasn’t your cousin, was it?”
“Don’t be so fucking stupid,” she snapped. “As if I’d want that toerag anywhere near me.”
“Okay,” I said, “but why’s your cousin need somewhere to stay? Doesn’t he have his own place?”
“He’s been,”
she paused, “away. For a bit. Not sorted out his own place yet.”
“Away,” I asked, “or away away?”
“What d’you mean?” she bristled.
“I mean,” I answered, “has he been overseas or in the nick?”
“No,” Ali answered, turning a furious glare on me, “he has not been in the fucking nick. He just needs somewhere to stay. So, can he stay for a few days, Danny, or not?”
“What’s his name?” I asked, letting her know from the tone of my voice that I believed not a single word of the story I was being told.
“Carlton.”
I knew something was up but if Ali needed a room for her ‘cousin,’ then I wasn’t going to make a thing of it. “Sure,” I said, “how long’s he going to need it for?”
“A few days,” she said. “He’s going away soon.”
“I thought he’d just come back from somewhere?”
“And now,” she said, the tension in her body – now I’d agreed that Carlton could stay – draining away, “he’s going away again. For a long time.” She stood.
“Ali,” I held my hands out, almost beseeching her to hold on, “who was that man? What does he want? And what the hell is going on?”
“It’s complicated, Danny. I’m sorry you had to see that, but it won’t happen again.”
“You don’t need to apologise,” I said, “he was throttling you.”
“It’s alright, Dan,” she said, “I’ll sort it.”
“Let me help,” I pleaded and, in return, I got a deep and long sigh.
“I wish you could.” She crossed the room, opened the door and was just about to leave when she glanced back at me. “Thanks, Danny,” she said.
And was gone.
SIXTEEN
Carlton, when he turned up several hours later, was a tall, rangy mixed-race guy, about, I’d say, nineteen years of age. His hair was cut tight at the sides and styled in a pompadour at the front. His eyes – a mossy green with flecks of brown through them – peeked out shyly from behind a pair of heavy-framed spectacles.
He removed the baseball cap that had been perched on the back of his head and, holding it in one hand, held out the other.
“Hey,” he said quietly, “I’m—”
“Carlton,” Ali jumped in, finishing his sentence for him. “My cousin. Who’s gonna stay for a bit. Carlton, this is Danny.”
I shook his hand. “It’s good to meet you,” I said. “Any cousin of Ali’s,” I said, pausing before the word ‘cousin’ just long enough to make it clear that I didn’t believe the statement for a second, “is welcome here. I’ve put Carlton,” I said to Ali, “in the guest room.”
“C’mon you,” Ali smiled at the blushing Carlton, who stooped to snatch an overstuffed duffle bag from the floor, “I’ll show you upstairs. Thanks again,” she added, nodding stiffly at me and leading the boy from the bar.
“And why, pray tell,” Caz murmured, sidling up beside me, “isn’t cousin Carlton being offered the empty spot in your bedroom?”
I shook my head. “You, my friend, are incorrigible.”
“Well if he’s not your type,” she responded, “do I have permission to engage in manoeuvres?”
I smiled at a punter on the other side of the bar, asked what I could get him and began pouring his pint.
“Like you need to ask permission,” I said to Caz as her phone began buzzing discretely.
“This is she,” Caz said, answering the phone. Raising an eyebrow, she moved away to the rear of the bar, paused, turned back to me and mouthed ‘Fat Larry.’
I moved closer, heard a tinny voice at the end of the line, watched Caz frown, saw her nod in – I thought – agreement and heard her say, “That sounds… acceptable. And you’ll revert to me with findings? Good,” she nodded again, “I look forward to hearing from you.”
She rang off. “Well,” she said after a moment’s silence, “alea est iacta. Let’s just hope Fat Larry can bring the Balthazar Lowe situation to a satisfactory end.”
“So what exactly is he going to do?” I asked, receiving a withering glance in response.
“Daniel, does one ask a magician what exactly they’re going to do; how exactly they’re going to amaze and astound you? No, one doesn’t. And so – for the same reason – I have no idea what, exactly, our levitating friend is going to do or how he’s going to do it. I simply hope he will do it promptly, efficiently and successfully.”
“Everything alright here?” I turned to find Ali eyeing the two of us suspiciously from the doorway.
I smiled. Wider than I should have, perhaps. “All fine, Ali. Absolutely tip top. Why? What makes you even need to ask?”
“Danny,” she fixed me with her sternest glare, “I’m not a total fucking idiot. You’ve just let me move a strange boy into your guest bedroom and avoid answering questions about the shit that’s been happening round here for the past few days, and you just actually used the phrase tip-top. Something’s going on.”
“Ali,” Caz stepped forward, ushering me towards the bar where another punter was waiting to be served, “not everything that happens revolves around you.”
I missed Ali’s response, as the customer on the other side of the bar delivered a drinks order that seemed modelled on The Gettysburg Address and, by the time I looked up, Ali had begun serving another. Ray and Dash were doling out bowls of the turkey chilli or minestrone that were the lunchtime specials as Caz made her way through the crowd delivering pecks on the cheek and greetings to regulars.
The lunchtime rush went on until almost 3:00 p.m. and we were down to a couple of regulars sipping their pints over copies of the Racing Post – Ali wiping tables and Dash refilling the fridges, his brother in the kitchen filling the dishwasher – when the door was flung open and the bleached blond from the day before stormed in.
“You’re barred,” I said as he stood just inside the bar, glaring around.
“Where are they?” he growled at Ali, who looked up spotted him and blanched.
“Jimmy,” she said, “I ain’t got them, and I don’t know who has.”
I came out from behind the bar and moved towards him.
“You lying bitch,” he said, moving menacingly towards her, “you haven’t even looked. I know what you’ve been doing.”
I stepped in front of him, deliberately invading his personal space and blocking his view of Ali. “I said you’re barred,” I repeated, keeping my voice low and steady, locking eyes with his.
“You think I don’t know what you been up to?” he demanded, ignoring me and twisting as though to move around me.
I stuck my right foot out, slamming my right arm bolt out a second later so that, as the foot tripped him, he fell forward, my forearm whacked into his throat, momentarily choking him before curling around his neck as I stepped to the side and behind him so that I now had him in a choke hold.
The blond – muscular and, now I was close up to him, fitter than I’d expected – twisted, pushed himself suddenly upright, slightly unbalancing me, and turned, the head-butt he’d been attempting to deliver going slightly awry as he still managed to slam the crown of his head into my chin with such force that my head was jolted backwards and I momentarily lost my grip on him.
A moment was all he needed. He twisted again and was free. And this time, when I refocussed on him, he was holding a long and very threatening knife out in front of him, and grinning wolfishly.
“I’ve heard about you,” he said to me. “I’d get back behind your bar if I was you and mind my own business, boy.”
“You’re not me,” I said as Ali, hefting an empty beer bottle from one of the tables, edged her way towards him.
“Don’t even try it, sweetheart,” the man, his leathery face twisting into a dismissive scowl, snarled, without even looking her way. He jerked the knife, gesturing with his free hand that she should come and stand with her back to the bar in front of him.
Ali hesitated, eyed the door and put the beer bottle down, as
he said, “You been busy spiriting people away, ain’t you Ali. So busy. Too busy to do a bit of business for me. Cos you’ve never really been that bright, have you, doll? Never really known when your bread’s buttered. But that’s alright, cos we’re here now, ain’t we? Now, why don’t you go get Carlton and we can have a nice little chat?”
The mention of Carlton seemed to work like an electric shock on Ali, who suddenly let out a shriek and, snatching up a drip tray from the bar, swung it at him, the arc of spilled beer making a thin amber rainbow in the air as – seemingly in slow motion – the leather face twisted to one side and collapsed in surprise as said drip tray collided with the side of his head.
Almost simultaneously, his other hand shot out and he lunged forward, grabbing Ali by the throat, eliciting a strangled squawk from her as he yanked her forward, the knife coming up before her terrified eyes, his own eyes – enraged now – staring into hers.
“You silly—” he said, but got no further before Ray – summoned, no doubt, by his brother – smashed the previously considered beer bottle down on his head.
The blond grunted, released Ali, who fell to the floor choking and gasping as the man flailed; one hand on his head, the other waving the blade blindly around as random profanities poured from him.
Dash, his presence now exposed, crouched low, his hands out before him defensively as the blond that Ali had referred to as Jimmy focussed, his lip curling in a sneer. “I’m gonna cut you like a fucking steak,” he said, as he stood and began moving slowly towards Dash.
Dash stood slightly more erect. “You don’t want to do this grandad,” he said slowly. “Why don’t you just take your little wetter, pack your little bags and fuck off back to wherever you came from.”
He got no further as, with a bellow of rage, Jimmy charged at him.
Dash reached behind him, pulling a tea towel from the back pocket of his jeans and stepping quickly to one side, before flicking the towel out and down, watching as it wrapped itself around the blade of the knife.
Then – as Jimmy’s momentum kept him moving forward – Dash yanked the tea towel straight up and, with a flash and a heavy thud as it hit the floor, the blade flew from the man’s hand.
Death Of A Devil Page 10