Twist

by Tom Grass

  He cut right, bursting across the traffic which streamed down four lanes, looking up as a helicopter crossed heading south-east, the direction Dodge had gone in. He saw the first cop a second after, running south and approaching the naked warrior from the north side of the park. He put on the pace and cut into the herd, pulling off his mask and handing it to a small boy before slowing to a walk and ducking under a cordon and into Santa’s Grotto, guessing correctly that the fat guy must have packed up and gone home already.

  * * *

  Dodge heard the helicopter before he saw it pass over Leicester Square. He had to avoid it or he’d never lose the police car on his tail. He reached the pedestrian zone and veered between two bollards down a narrow passage to the right of the square, using the downhill slope to build his speed, standing on the pedals, looking back as the squad car skidded then wedged itself hard between the concrete posts.

  He pedalled out of the alleyway, rode blind across the street and nearly got flattened by a police motorcyclist on a BMW 1150 GS. It was a heavy bike. Not good for off-road but that didn’t help Dodge much. He was on the road now and the GS came down on him like a great bird, swooping in at him from the right.

  When the road curved left to Trafalgar Square he cut in front of a bus, hopped up onto the kerb and, through a series of swift cuts, made his way through the throng to a left turn that would take him to some steps on the Mall.

  He swerved far out across the road, around a statue of an old general on a horse then came up fast to the top of the steps. There were about twenty, then a platform then another twenty. He scattered a group of skaters whose curses turned to a cheer when the police motorbike appeared out of the side street behind him.

  Racing to the edge of the terrace he took off, landing on the walkway and bouncing once, hitting down a second time then drawing the handlebars up into his chest and pushing down hard on the pedals, lifting the bike up.

  There was no way the cop was following him and he heard the screech as the two hundred and fifty kilo motorbike skidded to a stop at the top of the steps. He turned to see the guy looking down, furious, as Dodge bowed to the skaters before turning and accelerating away.

  * * *

  Sikes was driving more slowly now. He must have aimed his shots well because there were no police cars in pursuit. It was hard to catch a thief in a BMW when your front tyres were blown out. He’d driven hard at the police, sending them scattering, then taken a series of right turns that had led him around the scene of the stand-off and back north up to the point where he guessed he’d find Batesy.

  Batesy had called in from the south side of the Telecom tower having first made for cover, losing his pursuers among the crowds of tourists on Oxford Street before moving up to hide in the private garden in the centre of Portman Square. Three minutes had passed since Sikes had taken his call and told him to head south to the north end of Fitzroy Street where there was an underground NCP car park.

  Which is where Sikes was approaching now, watching Batesy, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world was upon them, hurrying along, relief in his eyes as the car slowed to a stop and the passenger door popped open.

  ‘Oi, mate, we’re clear,’ Sikes said.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. Hop in.’

  Batesy got in and shut the door after him, the car pulling slowly out.

  ‘Sorry about the mask, Bill,’ Batesy said, looking nervously at Sikes as he turned out onto the Marylebone Road heading east towards King’s Cross.

  ‘Nothing to worry about mate, nothing to worry about at all,’ Sikes said, watching the lights go green outside Madame Tussauds.

  * * *

  CCTV footage of the Securicor van played on the monitor. It showed the guards shrouded in smoke opening the back of the van as Sikes stepped into the frame, smashed the shorter guard in the face with the butt of his pistol then yanked Batesy up off the floor by his arm.

  ‘I’ve been over the tapes – all the escape routes, nothing but Prince Harry every which way.’

  The CCTV operator looked up at Bedwin and Brownlow who were stood behind him, back in the basement of New Scotland Yard.

  ‘Go back a second, when he pulls the guy up off the floor …’ Bedwin said.

  Brownlow looked down at the monitor as the technician paused, rewound, then froze the image of the thief in the mask tumbling out of the back of the van, gasping for air. With all the smoke it was hard to see what was going on but Bedwin was nothing if not determined.

  ‘Can you zoom in? There’s something wrong with the angle of the mask,’ she said.

  The technician zoomed in on the mask itself and then it became clear. It was actually sat on the top of his head.

  ‘Look, he’s pushed it back,’ Bedwin said, leaning forwards to touch it, watching Brownlow thinking …

  Hmmm, and who have we here?

  43

  There were two discarded Prince Harry masks on the floor. Twist, Dodge and Red were stood watching Fagin. He was wearing a pair of cotton gloves and he was standing in the corner of the room he called his laboratory but to Twist’s mind it looked more like an operating room. A cold steel table top with the three Hogarths unfurled on it.

  Fagin had already checked the edges where Batesy had cut them free and now he was poring over them with an electronic magnascope, humming, occasionally rising an octave when he found further evidence of their authenticity.

  ‘Good work. Some imperfections but what is perfect after all? There is no such thing,’ he mused, turning to face them, ‘in art … or in crime.’

  He looked behind them as footsteps approached down the corridor.

  ‘Maybe that’s Batesy now,’ he said.

  But it wasn’t. It was a man and his dog. A dog that went everywhere the man went.

  ‘Got them?’ Sikes said, a leather leash taut round his left hand as he strained to maintain balance and keep Bullseye from running amok.

  Fagin cast his hand behind him and nodded.

  ‘Sorted,’ Sikes said, letting Bullseye pull him across the room towards Fagin who often fed him out-of-date sausages to stay on his sweet side.

  ‘You seen Batesy, mate?’ Dodge asked as Sikes passed him, then watched in horror as the punch came from nowhere.

  It was a straight right across the body, slamming into Twist’s jaw, knocking him to the ground. Fagin, Dodge and Red all turned and stared at Sikes. Stunned silence as Twist spat blood and reached up to check that his jaw wasn’t broken.

  ‘Bill?!’ Red said, looking down at Twist, thinking it was the second time he’d been punched and she’d been unable to help him.

  ‘He’s a grass!’ Sikes replied, watching Fagin who was shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘We got the paintings Bill …’ Fagin said.

  ‘Right. So the van just suddenly stops. The guards pile out. They knew what was going down. Same morning he’s popped round the station for a little chat.’

  Dodge was kneeling by Twist, trying to help him up but Sikes pushed past him and grabbed Twist by the hair.

  ‘I didn’t tell them anything!’ Twist said.

  ‘Worked you over good, didn’t they?’ Sikes said, pushing his palm against the bridge of Twist’s nose.

  It brought water to Twist’s eyes but he didn’t scream. He wasn’t going to give Sikes the satisfaction.

  ‘It was the traffic warden—’ he began.

  ‘The traffic warden? You can’t even come up with a decent lie!’

  ‘It’s true!’

  Red opened her mouth to say something but stopped herself. Twist could see that she was completely torn. He turned away from her, appealing to Fagin.

  ‘What I need to know, Twist, is how you hold up under a beating,’ Sikes continued. ‘Bet you fall to pieces, eh? Tell them anything to make them stop …’

  ‘Easy, Bill …’ warned Fagin.

  ‘Only one way to find out. You want some more, boy?’

  Sikes released Twist’s
hair but simultaneously whipped the chain holding Bullseye against the dog’s face catching it on its nose. Its jaws snapped an inch from Twist’s face but as he drew back he felt a weight bearing down on him and he looked up to see Sikes kneeling on his shoulders as he tried to scramble away, then snatching him by the lapels, hoisting him to his feet and hurling him into one of the two straight-backed chairs facing Fagin’s desk.

  ‘Take off his hoodie,’ Sikes said, turning to Dodge who stared back reluctantly, looking at Twist then back at Sikes, before pulling it from Twist’s back, leaving him in his sweat-soaked T-shirt.

  ‘Hold him,’ Sikes said.

  Twist felt Dodge’s hands grip his wrists, pulling them behind the chair. He didn’t struggle. He still felt sick from the punch. There was no way he would make it out of the room before the dog caught him.

  ‘Bill, please …’ Red began, Twist looking up and seeing genuine fear in her eyes as Sikes rounded on her.

  ‘Are you soft on him?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then not. Another. Word.’

  He turned to Dodge whose grip had relaxed.

  ‘Mate …’ Dodge said, appealing to Sikes.

  ‘I said hold him!’ Sikes snapped. ‘Do it or you’re next.’

  Twist felt Dodge’s grip on his wrists tighten.

  ‘Which hand d’ya do your writing with? All those pretty pictures … I’d have clocked it if you were a lefty.’

  Bill took the free chair and pulled it up alongside Twist. Then he grabbed his right hand by the thumb, twisting it back so that Twist had to follow his lead and lay his right arm flat on the chair.

  ‘You make a sound through any of this, we’re gonna know you squealed.’

  ‘We need him, Bill,’ Fagin said, finally.

  ‘Nance can do anything he does,’ Sikes replied, looking at her, challenging her.

  Twist looked from Sikes to Red. She looked desperate. Torn in half.

  ‘He’s faster than me. Better climber too …’ she said.

  ‘I told you to shut up!’ Sikes shouted back at her, turning to Dodge.

  ‘You got him?’

  Twist stared straight up into Sikes’s eyes, maintaining contact as he drew his right fist up, psyching himself up, ready to take the blow and swallow the pain. But the punch wasn’t for him. It was for the dog. A rabbit punch to the nose.

  It went crazy. Its backbone kinked as it lurched up at Sikes’s hand but he held it tight by the collar as it writhed and tugged, its jaws opening and closing, making a high, keening sound, a mixture of rage and pain.

  ‘Right, Bullseye, when I say the word …’

  Red stepped forwards. She couldn’t bear it any more. Twist looked at Sikes’s face. It was the first time he’d seen him look surprised.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You’re making a mistake.’ Red said it like a warning.

  ‘A mistake?’

  ‘The traffic warden hit him. It’s true!’

  Twist couldn’t believe what he was hearing and he felt his fear shift. From what was about to happen to him to what Sikes might do to her if she said what he thought she was about to say.

  ‘And how would you know?’

  ‘I was there!’ she said, steel in her voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We were on our way home. The traffic warden decked him, just like he said.’

  ‘On your way home from where?’

  ‘We … spent the night together.’

  She gulped, wondering how the hell she was going to survive the next five minutes.

  For a moment Bill was open-mouthed, incapable of speech. Then he pulled a gun and Twist saw Red flinch as he handed Bullseye’s leash to Fagin and then passed him the gun. Fagin cast Twist a look of complete confusion, then an apology as he raised the gun, tottering as the beast pulled him off balance.

  ‘He moves, shoot him,’ Sikes said to the old man, then turned, grabbed Red by the hair and dragged her struggling out of Fagin’s laboratory.

  The door slammed shut behind them. Fagin held onto the gun but Twist felt Dodge release his grip on his wrists. They exchanged a horrified look as they heard another door, further down the corridor open, slam shut and lock from the inside.

  * * *

  An early morning jogger had called the fire brigade on his mobile at first light. It was still smouldering when the police called it in half an hour later. The windows were black from the smoke that was billowing out through the window on the driver’s door. The oxygen had ensured that the fire had raged inside the car. The leather seats had burnt up right down to the springs. All the plastic fittings had melted and one small flame still flickered, feeding on what was left of the sponge cushioning of the front passenger seat.

  Brownlow stepped out of the passenger side of his vehicle and nodded to Bedwin. They walked over to the burning wreck together, winding their way through weeds and rubble, the local bobby turning to them, stepping back, deferring to their authority.

  ‘You check the boot yet?’ Brownlow asked him.

  The cop shook his head and Brownlow stepped up to the back of the vehicle, the BMW badge blackened on the boot above the lock. Brownlow turned to the cop who handed him a crowbar and took a step back as he wedged it in by the lock and began to work it hard against the mechanism.

  There was a pop and a hiss of fetid air. Like pork burnt and left to rot. Brownlow covered his mouth and pushed down on the crowbar, his whole weight on it. The boot swung open and Brownlow took a step back as the cop put his hand up to his mouth.

  The shape of a boy’s body was visible immediately. It had carbonised and the arms had shrunk. They were stick thin and had hooked claws for hands. The flesh was gone from the skull. It was shining and black and the mouth was open in a scream.

  He had been roasted alive.

  * * *

  Dodge was pacing up and down, phone clamped to his ear, desperately trying to reach his friend, Fagin still holding the gun on Twist.

  ‘This isn’t like him – he gets withdrawal symptoms if he’s not plugged in,’ Dodge said.

  ‘Maybe he’s lost his phone,’ Fagin replied.

  ‘Not all of them! I’ve got to go back and look for him.’

  The three of them turned towards the door as it opened.

  ‘Nobody’s going anywhere,’ Sikes said, walking into the room, his arm tight around Red’s waist, her eyes downcast, staring at the floor.

  ‘You bastard …’ Twist stood up but felt Dodge’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him back into the chair.

  ‘Don’t do it …’ Dodge warned him.

  Sikes ignored Twist and walked calmly over to the paintings, rolled them up and slotted them back into the art tube. Twist struggled to get past Dodge who was in front of him now, blocking him from reaching Sikes, as Fagin shook his head, lowered the gun and placed it on the desk.

  ‘Look at me, you son of a bitch!’ Twist shouted across at Sikes.

  ‘Twist, no …’ Dodge said.

  ‘Stop, everyone!’ Fagin shouted, raising his arms. ‘Let’s keep this in perspective. We’ve got the first three Hogarths. Result. But the job’s not finished. When Batesy turns up we’ll need to regroup and work out how we’re going to pinch the remaining three from wherever Sotheby’s decide to put them up for auction.’

  Sikes ignored the hubbub from the boys and spoke directly to Fagin.

  ‘Sotheby’s aren’t deciding anything,’ he said, calmly. ‘Rodchenko has had a conversation with the owner of the remaining three pictures. He’s been clear with him. The auction isn’t going to take place in the auction house itself. The vault and the security is too slick. Rodchenko has leant on him. The auction is going to take place in the hotel in the Shard. As for the first three, he wants them tonight. Just to be safe.’

  ‘When do we get paid?’ Fagin asked.

  ‘Half when he gets these,’ Sikes said, holding out his hand for the gun as Fagin passed it to him, ‘and half when he’s got the other th
ree.’

  Fagin didn’t respond.

  ‘Show’s over, Twist,’ Sikes said, pointing it at his chest.

  ‘The Shard, Bill. Think!’ Fagin interjected. ‘With five runners it’s possible. Not with four.’

  He stepped up, not between them but to the side, careful to stay out of the firing line, but it was Dodge who Twist was watching.

  ‘Five? What about Bate—’ Dodge began, staring at Sikes then at Fagin.

  ‘Batesy didn’t make it,’ Sikes said.

  Twist watched Dodge’s face move from shock to horror to blind rage as he took a step forwards, shook his head then launched himself at Sikes.

  ‘You …’

  But Sikes raised the gun. He pointed it at Dodge’s face.

  ‘We do the job. Exactly like we planned it. OK?’ Sikes said, pointing the gun back at Twist. ‘You step out of line again, I’ll kill you.’

  Twist looked at him. He couldn’t think of anyone in his life he’d hated more.

  ‘You can’t kill all of us,’ he said, watching as Sikes hugged Red closer to his side then raised the gun and pointed it at her head.

  ‘I’ll kill you. And then I’ll kill her,’ he replied.

  Twist watched him turn and hustle Red out of the door. Then, as soon as he was gone, Fagin looked from Dodge to Twist and sighed.

  ‘Better listen to what the man says, boys,’ Fagin said. ‘Big day tomorrow …’

  Twist stood to follow Dodge out. He was shaking. When he reached the door he felt an arm on his shoulder.

  ‘Twist,’ Fagin said, ‘I’ve been reviewing the situation and I think you and I ought to have a little chat.’

  44

  There were two men in suits stood outside the building. They were talking into their mobiles and one of them was smoking. They were just ten yards apart, talking to one another on the phones and nobody noticed both of them watching as the security guard stepped out of the glass tower and crossed the road, whistling to himself, telling himself that today was going to be different with the pretty girl who ran the van where he bought his coffee each morning.