Faces

by Martina Cole

  Michael indicated his agreement as Danny knew he would. ‘He’s a dead man either way, you know that, don’t you?’

  Michael grinned. ‘It had crossed my mind. No matter what happens, we have to take him out anyway, Danny. He is too fucking lairy by half.’

  Danny laughed, his handsome face belying his real personality. His smile made him look like a real person, like someone who could actually share a joke with you, or cheer someone up with nothing more than his grin and a few choice words. He looked so amiable, so normal, it was uncanny. Michael loved him like a brother, more than a brother in fact; he had no feelings for his real younger brother whatsoever. In fact, he thought he was a tosser, he was honest enough to admit that he didn’t even think about him at all most of the time. Danny Boy though, filled his mind up on a daily basis. Other than Carole and his children he was the first thing he thought about when he opened his eyes and was the last thing he thought about as he dropped off to sleep. Now, after everything else, they were about to go to war, with the Turks no less. But even Michael knew that this was a necessary evil, knew that even if they were wrong. A warning would not go amiss anyway, because everyone would hear about it sooner rather than later. This man, Ali Fahri, had come to the wrong place at the wrong time. He had, it seemed, much too high an opinion of himself. He clearly thought that all this was some kind of jolly jape. A forerunner to his taking from them everything they had grafted for. The last thing he needed now was a poxy eejit on his conscience, and he had the feeling that is exactly where this man would end up if he wasn’t careful.

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  Danny Boy opened his arms wide, his handsome face a picture of abject disbelief. ‘Well, what do you fucking think? Louie always gets the Full Monty before he opens his trap. Bless him.’

  ‘Actually, Danny, I think we should deliver him up to the Williamses and let them deal with him, don’t you?’

  Danny nodded sadly. He had been looking forward to a tear-up. But he was philosophical about it all. They were the wronged party, and it wouldn’t hurt to show willing. All they really had to do was show their faces. Whether it was them or it wasn’t them, they had to be taken out anyway. Kill two birds with one stone.

  Arnold was already at the block of flats in Hackney when he saw the lights of a car come round the corner: he knew it was Michael because the lights were expensive, they were the lights of his Mercedes. In the darkness, as they drove towards him, they looked like devil’s eyes. As Michael pulled up he walked to him, and settled himself in the front seat. ‘You all right?’

  Michael nodded. He still felt uneasy since their conversation. And they both felt the tension between them. ‘Yeah, you? You OK?’

  Arnold ran his hands through his dreads slowly, a sure sign he was agitated. ‘Look, Michael, can we forget I ever said anything? I was out of order, and who would take that liar’s word on anything. A Filth with a grudge: not the most compelling argument, eh?’ He laughed easily, as did Michael.

  ‘Let it go, will you? It’s forgotten about. Now, have you seen Ali or any of his counterparts arrive here in the last half hour?’

  Arnold felt a great wave of relief at his words. He had been living in mortal fear of Danny Boy hearing about his accusations; he couldn’t sleep with the worry of it. What had he been thinking about when he had said those things? Even if they were true, and he still felt there was a good chance of that, it was not his place to bring it to anyone’s attention.

  ‘He’s inside, been there all night. He’s got a great big fucker with him, I’m assuming he’s some kind of minder. Other than that, there’s just his bird and a kid.’

  Michael nodded. Just then Danny Boy arrived in a black Range Rover: he stepped out of the driver’s side and looked, for all the world, like a man on a night out. He was grinning like a stoner and, when Eli Williams and two of his brothers finally emerged from the back of the Range Rover, joints in hand, and machetes hidden inside their coats, Danny Boy started to laugh again.

  Arnold knew the Williams brothers well, and they all greeted each other amicably; it was a cold night and their breath was visible as they spoke.

  ‘He’s definitely in there, I take it?’

  Michael nodded his assent. ‘As far as we know, yeah. Unless he’s gone on the trot through the back door.’

  Eli grinned, he was really looking forward to this. The robbery had been bad enough, but to think it had been perpetrated by a fucking no-neck Turk was unconscionable as far as he was concerned. It was a piss-take, and the sooner he sorted it out, the better for everyone concerned. He wanted his money back.

  The lobby of the tower block was dark, not that unusual in this area as the lights were often broken deliberately for the muggers’ benefit. As they approached the lifts they were all relaxed. In fact, this night had almost taken on a party atmosphere. Eli and his two brothers, a set of twins called Hector and Dexter, went first. Danny Boy didn’t mind, he was only there as an observer anyway, to prove his complete ignorance of any kind of skulduggery. But he wanted to make his mark. Wanted to get his point across about the way things worked in London. How, without his permission, Ali shouldn’t even have taken a fucking piss against a wall on his manor without his express say-so, let alone anything else. And by the time this lot had finished with him, he would be lucky if he ended up pissing in a clear plastic bag. That is, if he survived this meeting of course.

  As the lift hit the twelfth floor they got out and let out their breaths, all unwilling to breathe in the stench of urine and Florizel disinfectant that was peculiar to lifts in high-rise flats. It amazed Danny Boy that the very people who relied on these lifts to convey them to their abodes were the very people who pissed in them in the first place. Even a fucking dog didn’t shit in its own bed, so what did that say about the people who lived here? The teenagers who used these lifts as a fucking urinal should be castrated, and would be, if he had to live here. The stench was disgusting, and that women and their children had to live with it on a daily basis really bothered him. It concerned him because he felt that everyone had the right to breathe fresh air, so he was going to make it his personal crusade to see these lifts became piss-free in the future.

  The landing was in darkness; even these lights had been removed or, more to the point, destroyed. Danny Boy wondered at the mentality of people who thought that this way of living was normal, was in some way acceptable. The men here should be making it safe for the local women while, at the same time, ensuring an unfriendly environment for outsiders. Sighing with displeasure, he led the way down to the end of the balcony then, grinning once more, he looked at the three Williams brothers as he kicked the designated door open with a flourish.

  No one in the neighbouring flats bothered to come outside to see what was happening, as Danny Boy and the others had already sussed out might be the case. Visits like this were par for the course in these flats, they were sure. As they all bundled inside the doorway, Danny saw the man he assumed was the Turk’s bodyguard stepping aside quickly. There was no way he was getting in the middle of this lot, and who could blame him? He was a big lump though, and Danny and the others could only think that he knew a lot more than they did, because he was not indicating that he was scared of them in the slightest. He just walked away from the flat quickly and quietly. Danny shouted out to him loudly and with a smile in his voice, ‘Oi, fatboy, the lifts stink of piss, just a word to the wise.’ They all laughed at him. Opening the front room door, they saw Fahri standing on the balcony, a look of terror on his face, and a young baby held tightly against his chest.

  Danny Boy held up his arms and stopped the Williams brothers in their tracks. They had their machetes out, and were desperate to spill this man’s blood.

  ‘Give me the baby, mate.’

  Fahri shook his head violently. ‘You fucking want me, then you take her as well.’

  He was almost gloating, honestly believing that the child he held would stop this lot from wiping the floor with
him. Danny stepped back and motioned Eli to take the floor.

  ‘Where’s my fucking money, you thieving cunt?’ Eli was speaking quietly, but with a seriousness that should have alerted the man he was talking to of his rapidly deteriorating temper. His brothers were already searching the flat, pulling the furniture to pieces, and looking for their money or weapons. They were not disappointed; they dragged the sofa out from against the wall and found a stack of money piled behind it. It was theirs; it still had their personal bands around it, there was thousands there, and it had not been touched. The sofa was really old, scruffy and smelly in a deep-green Dralon, the remainder of its old fringing still running along the bottom, with shiny, greasy armrests due to the ingrained dirt all over it. The whole place was filthy, from the worn carpet that was almost bare in places to the black fingermarks around the light switches. This was an old ruse for people who wanted to be on the missing list; the place was a council sub-let. A junkie had obviously been a tenant at some time; there were blood spatters on the walls from amateur druggies taking their first hits, and burn marks that were everywhere from the more experienced junkies who kept their blood in their veins or their syringes, frightened of losing any of it in case they lost the smack as well. Whoever had been given the original tenancy now resided somewhere else, but was happily using the rent they were paid as a standby until their giro arrived. It happened all the time, and was the staple home for a lot of people, especially those who didn’t want to be found. On the rougher council estates flats like these were commonplace. They were the norm; they were the reason so many people managed to disappear.

  Ali saw the looks of disgust on their faces at the way he was living, his pride kicked in, and he felt the shame at his situation. That he had been found out, that he had a serious capture by people who were not exactly friends of his was bad enough, but to be found in this hovel went against the grain. He was someone, he was better than this, and he knew it. He had money, he had prestige, and he also had an in-built self-destruct button that kept him from realising his full potential. He was also a typical Turk; he saw the girl he was with as nothing more than a bed partner. The child she had delivered him was nothing more than a tool to keep her by his side. He had children all over the place; they were his way of possessing the person for eternity. A child gave him an edge, it was a way of leaving his mark on the women he bedded. Used. He hated that he had been caught out like this, as if this was really him and how he lived, instead of just a hang-out, a hiding place. He felt a deep and abiding shame at his predicament. That these people were looking down on him, instead of respecting him for his past glories was embarrassing; he didn’t want to be remembered like this, remembered for living like a fucking animal. In Turkey he lived like a king.

  Ali held the child tightly to his breast. She was his bargaining tool, his own personal ransom. His angry and hateful persona was to the fore and he was shouting at the top of his voice, unable to take on board what had happened to him; what was going to happen to him now they had tracked him down.

  ‘Go on, get out of my home, you fucking black bastards . . . I will kill you all . . . You don’t fucking scare me . . . I mean it, Danny Boy, you know the fucking score ... I’ll jump and take this fucking baby with me.’ He was talking fast, talking bollocks, his open face and his balding head were shiny with the sheen of nervous sweat. He knew his minder had left him out in the open, had stepped away from him and his problems; was saving himself. He knew in his gut he was already a dead man, but he was still willing to try and bargain for his life. He had survived prison, and he had survived solitary. He could survive this.

  As they looked at him in disgust, a girl arrived back at the flat. Seeing her front door lying in her hallway, she guessed that there was some kind of upset going on, and her first instinct was to protect her baby. Her child. She ran into the front room, throwing the kebabs she had just purchased on to a small wooden coffee table. She saw the men there and knew immediately that this was a serious situation. She knew that her Ali boy was in deep shit; she had visited him and enjoyed the conjugal visits, had used her pregnancy as a bluff for his getting out of that place. She’d seen them making a good life for themselves and the baby they had created. Now, she saw her dreams dissolving before her eyes. This lot meant business.

  The men stared at her, no one was expecting her and they were all wondering what on earth she was doing with this piece of shit, a man old enough to be her father. A man who would use his own child as a bargaining chip. The cold night air had sobered them up, made them realise exactly what they were dealing with. It was a depressing thought. She was a small-boned girl with heavily bleached blond hair, and even heavier make-up, thickly applied to cover the numerous acne scars on her cheeks. Her blusher was so prominent that it made her look like an extra on Trumpton. She was very young, and the men were shocked at her arrival. In fact, they were seriously fucked off because they were only interested in him. No one else. They wanted her to take her baby and go. Fuck off out of it. Then, suddenly, she gave a loud and piercing shriek. It went through each of their heads like a butcher’s migraine and Danny Boy, who was really getting annoyed now, stormed out on to the balcony and snatching the baby from the man’s arms roughly thrust it towards the girl.

  ‘Fuck off. Take your baby and fuck off. He was threatening to throw it off the fucking balcony. If I see your face here again tonight, then I’ll do it for him.’

  The baby started screaming now, and the girl, who was not a fool, didn’t need telling twice. She wanted out of this place and she wanted to leave it in one piece.

  Ali Fahri watched as the girl hurriedly left the flat, the kebabs, forgotten about, were still lying on the table in their numerous wrappings. The aroma of the meat was finally escaping into the atmosphere around them, making the room smell almost habitable. The twins were once more tearing the place apart, looking for the rest of the money they had lost, and the weapons that had been used against them. Neither of them wanted any part of Ali Fahri and his imminent demise. They were quite happy to let Eli deal with that part of the evening’s entertainment; for all their big talk, they understood now just how precarious life could become if you didn’t keep your wits about you. How, overnight, a person’s whole world could collapse. That was definitely food for thought.

  Ali had been a serious contender in his day, and yet he had been reduced to this, to holding his own child as equity. It was a real eye-opener all right.

  Eli walked purposefully towards the man on the small balcony. Ali was tiny in comparison to him, did not look like he could really do any damage to anyone without a gun, or a weapon of some description. Eli felt his own size, felt his superior strength. He saw the fear in his antagonist’s eyes and enjoyed it. Embraced it, felt the power that he had over this man, this man who had caused him fucking untold aggravation. Who had the audacity to think Eli was so fucking weak he could be robbed and intimidated and not retaliate. Who was such a cunt he would fucking allow this piece of shite to put a gun in his face while his child was in his arms. A child that he would die for, unlike this cunt in front of him, who would have killed his own flesh and blood to get out of a situation that he had caused in the first place. A situation that he had executed without a moment’s thought for what the consequences might be.

  As Eli raised the machete above his head he saw Ali put up his arms instinctively, attempting to protect his face, his head; it was this simple action, along with the use of his own child as protection, that made Eli feel even angrier than he did. Ali didn’t even have the guts to try and fight him, to try and remove the weapon from his hands. He wasn’t going to go down fighting, instead, he was trying to protect himself like a fucking woman would against a man who was obviously her superior in power, strength and, more importantly, intellect. He smashed the machete down with as much brute force as he could muster, and watched with morbid fascination as it severed the man’s right hand from his wrist. He watched as the errant limb dropped onto the floor
with a dull thud, and the blood started to pump out everywhere. Ali was looking at his severed hand in utter amazement, as if it belonged to someone else, the shock of the attack making him mute. The sight of his own hand on the filthy floor of the balcony was almost unbelievable. Then the pain set in. The awful feeling as his blood was pumped from his body was suddenly all too real. With each beat of his heart he felt it spurting out everywhere, felt the pain as if he was being milked by an invisible hand. People were now watching the drama unfold. Other balconies around them were now lit up, lights were going on all over the place. Ali’s final humiliation was now a public spectacle. ‘You bastards . . . you fucking black bastards.’

  ‘That’s a bit racist ain’t it, Ali? What about us, the white bastards?’

  Even Eli laughed at that and Ali was in desperate tears at the casualness of the words. ‘You are all bastards . . .’ His voice was loud, and full of hatred and accusation. He dropped to his knees then, feeling the slippery stickiness of his own blood as it was sucked into the material of his trousers. It was everywhere, all over him, the pumping of his own heart making a deep puddle all around him, causing him to skid heavily onto his elbows as he tried to stand himself up. It was a living nightmare; he was nearly in tears as he saw his own hand lying there in the filth and dirt. And the full force of his predicament hit him when he heard the shouts from the other flats; a chorus of jeers to egg his enemies on to even greater violence and he heard a cacophony of insults from complete strangers who assumed he had to be the one in the wrong. Who were enjoying seeing him laid so low. But Danny Boy and the others were uninterested in the drama they had created. They just wanted it sorted and over with, once and for all. None of them even contemplated that someone might call the police. It simply wasn’t going to happen. No one would be that fucking stupid; if these men were willing to do this to the Turk the general consensus was what else were they capable of? Especially to a grass. And the Turk wasn’t worth the aggravation anyway. Danny Boy knew that their identities were already being discussed, and this would just be another urban legend, exaggerated and embroidered by all these people who were pleased just to be a part of it. Another tale of his violence to add to all the others. The knowledge saddened him in many ways, even as he was pleased about it. The savagery of the attack would keep the Filth at bay. Every one of them knew that.