The Price

by Kerry Kaya

  Leading the way, Fletch drove Billy, Stevie, and Spencer in his car. He turned the car onto a private road. Up ahead was an abandoned warehouse. Lit up like Battersea Power Station, the soon-to-be demolished building was a death trap.

  The upper levels were no longer accessible, and the leaking roof, previously robbed of all its lead, was in serious need of repair, not that it made much of a difference to the party-goers, who made their way inside the venue amid a heady strum of music blaring out.

  He pulled the car over and switched off the engine. “See them,” Fletch said, as he nodded his head toward two young men standing at the entrance doors. “They organise the raves. Now, I’ve checked them out and they are fuck all for us to worry about. Public school kids with mockney accents, and too much dough to flash around. You know the type, born with silver spoons in their mouths, thinking they can make a quick buck.”

  At this, Billy raised his eyebrows. “Not on my manor they fucking can’t.” He continued watching them. For all intent and purposes, the situation was turning out to be even easier than he’d imagined. He climbed out of the car; in his hand he held an iron bar. “And what about the heavies? How many do you reckon are in there?”

  Sucking his teeth, Fletch looked around him as he waited for the rest of Billy’s firm to climb out of their cars. “Ten tops. We can easily take them; it’ll be a piece of piss.”

  Nodding his head, Billy didn’t doubt that for a second. He waited for his men to regroup, flicked his cigarette butt to the floor, then swaggered forward. He clasped his fingers tightly around the iron bar, eager to get stuck in, and even more eager to take what he was owed.

  * * *

  Edward Johnson didn’t have a care in the world. You name it, he had it—a brand-new gleaming Porsche with private number plates, a penthouse apartment that he was renting in Mayfair, a series of beautiful women draping themselves all over him, and enough cash in his back pocket to ensure that he maintained his lavish lifestyle. He was fast on his way to making his first million, and it was safe to say that life was better than good—life was fantastic.

  With dirty blonde hair tied back into a low ponytail, he was a good-looking man. Dressed in a pair of denim jeans and a faded acid house T-shirt, he blended into the crowd, masking his public-school roots. Standing on the doors to the warehouse, he was mentally calculating how much money he and his business partner, Michael Moore, had made that night, when he felt Michael nudge him with his elbow. He turned his head to glance over his shoulder, and for a brief moment, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end.

  As a promoter, he had known from day one that putting on the illegal raves would come with a huge risk. The risk being that not only could they be closed down if the old bill caught up with them, but even more worryingly, he could end up being carted off for a night in the cells, and then prison, in that order. The very thought was enough to bring him out in a cold sweat. Still, the lure of wealth, flashy cars, and stunning women hanging off of his arm, was too much of an opportunity for him to miss out on.

  He studied the group of men as they approached. They didn’t look like old bill as he’d first feared, and feeling his body relax, a wide grin spread across his face.

  “Evening, fellas.” He spoke with a mockney accent, disguising his clipped tones.

  The situation escalated so quickly that Edward didn’t even have time to think, let alone react. His arms were pinned to his sides and an iron bar was waved in front of his face.

  “You’re on my manor,” a gruff voice growled.

  Edward cowered backwards, his eyes blinking rapidly. “I …,” he stammered.

  “Don’t start stuttering and fucking muttering,” Billy growled. “You’re on my fucking turf, and now you owe me, big time.”

  Glancing inside the venue, hoping and praying that backup would promptly arrive to sort these thugs out, Edward turned on the charm and flashed a wide smile, showing perfect white teeth that had cost his parents thousands of pounds in dentistry fees.

  “Come on, fellas, there’s no need to be like this, is there?” He opened out his hands. “It’s all about the love nowadays, lads.”

  “Is this prick for real?” Billy turned his head to look at Fletch. “You’re on my fucking patch,” he roared.

  The wrought iron bar that hit Edward full-on in the face had broken his nose, and as he staggered backwards, blood exploded from his nostrils. He began to scream.

  “My nose!” Gone was the mockney accent, and in its place, the clipped tones he spoke with were thick and nasally. “You’ve broke my nose.”

  As quick as a flash, Billy lifted the iron bar and swung it forward a second time, this time landing against Edward’s full, fleshy lips. A loud crack could be heard, as the teeth Edward was so proud of snapped and splintered, before crumbling to pieces.

  Amid Edward’s screams for help, Billy stepped closer. “That’s just for starters. Pay up before I do you some serious fucking damage, starting with your kneecaps.”

  * * *

  Fletch glanced inside the venue, fully expecting George Bannerman’s heavies to rush outside and intervene. He flicked his head toward his brother and Stevie.

  “Take the dough; take the fucking lot.”

  Underneath his watchful eye, they shoved handfuls of cash into several carrier bags.

  “Where are the pills?” he asked.

  Unable to focus on anything other than the pain coming from his broken nose and shattered teeth, Edward swung his head to the right.

  “I don’t deal with the pills,” he lisped, his eyes barely focusing, as blood poured from his face.

  At this, Fletch laughed. “Don’t give me that old bollocks.” He turned to look at Edward’s business partner, so far unscathed by Billy’s wrath. “Where are the pills? And don’t even think about trying to mug me off.”

  Without hesitating, Michael pointed his finger inside the venue. Unlike his friend, Edward, he was rather attached to his face the way it was, thank you very much.

  “See, it’s not so hard, is it?” He watched Billy slam his fist forward and felt neither pity, nor remorse. They had given the man ample opportunity to tell them where the merchandise was, and he, like the stupid fool he was, had chosen not to do so.

  “So,” Billy said, “from now on, we take a percentage of whatever you earn.” He gave a small grin. “Think of it as a partnership.”

  Edward dutifully nodded his head. Even he could see that he had no other choice, but to agree to whatever it was they wanted. His life was depending on it.

  Fletch jerked his head to the side, indicating for Billy’s firm to follow him inside the venue. “You three stay there,” he instructed Keith, Stevie, and Spencer. “And if that posh twat starts getting lairy, lamp him one.”

  * * *

  Ever since Albie’s disappearance, Pete Smith had stepped up as George Bannerman’s number two, a role that he took very seriously. It was nearing four in the morning, and he swung his car onto the private road. Up ahead was the warehouse, and his intention was to collect the cash they had made from the Ecstasy tablets, and then pass it across to his boss later on that morning, after he’d had a few more hours of extra kip and a decent cooked breakfast.

  He parked the car, climbed out, and made his way toward the building. As he neared closer, he took in Edward’s obvious facial injuries and narrowed his eyes.

  “What’s gone on here?” he asked, his voice raised so he could be heard above the blaring music.

  Slumped on a chair, Edward’s battered and blood-smeared face was held between his hands, and he gave frightened sobs between each pain-filled breath that he took.

  “He needs an ambulance,” Michael exclaimed. He glared toward the heavies, who had refused to help his friend in any way, shape, or form.

  “No ambulances.” The last thing they needed was the old bill to turn up and investigate what had gone on.

  “But he needs medical attention,” Michael protested. He took his mobile ph
one from out of his jacket pocket and began to tap in a series of digits.

  “I said, no fucking ambulances,” Pete roared.

  He snatched the device out of the man’s hand, dropped it to the floor, and then proceeded to stamp on it with his heavy boot. With his meaty fists clenched and poised, ready to attack, he took a menacing step closer.

  “If you’re that bothered about him, then drive him to the nearest hospital yourself, but I’m telling you now, if you even think about calling anyone, then you’re gonna end up looking worse than he does. Do you get my drift? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Michael’s hands trembled and he nodded his head. He helped Edward up to his feet, all the while, cursing the day he had involved himself with his friend’s get-rich-quick scheme. The agreement they had had with George Bannerman had all been well and good, whilst the money was rolling in, and now this was the upshot of working with known criminals. Not only was his friend scarred for life, but his own life was in danger to boot.

  “I’ll take him myself,” he said, his voice quivering. Quietly, he led Edward away. More than anything, he was thankful just to get away from the terrifying situation.

  Watching the two men leave, Pete turned his attention back to the heavies. “Now, will someone tell me what the fuck has gone on here?” He took in their shame-faced glances and inwardly groaned. “Where’s the merchandise? Where’s the dosh?” Even as he asked the question, he knew what the answer would be, and he felt his heart sink to his boots. “Don’t tell me it’s gone?” he asked. Glancing inside the venue, a wave of panic swept over him.

  The heavies nodded their heads.

  “What? All of it?” Pete roared.

  Again, they nodded their heads. “It was King and his firm. We didn’t stand a chance against them,” they protested. “They turned up mob-handed. What could we have done to stop them?”

  Stabbing his finger forward, fury rippled through him, and he breathed heavily through his flared nostrils. “Mob-handed?” he spat. “Are you gonna be the one to tell Bannerman that, eh?”

  Their silence told him everything he needed to know. George Bannerman wasn’t the type of man to be crossed, and it would be fair to say that he was going to go absolutely mental when he found out that not only the cash, but the E’s he had stumped up a small fortune to pay for were gone. “He’s gonna go apeshit,” Pete yelled, as he stormed back to his car. “Fucking apeshit.”

  * * *

  There was at least thirty-thousand pounds in used notes spread across Billy’s dining table, and several large polythene bags, filled to the brim with tiny white pills.

  He placed the money into piles and handed them out amongst his firm. “A good night’s work, eh, lads?” He grinned. Turning to look at Fletch, his grin grew wider. “This is your cut, mate.” He held out a large carrier bag stuffed with used notes. “Who said that crime doesn’t pay, eh?” he chuckled.

  Fletch’s eyes lit up. Without even counting the money, he knew the final sum would run into the thousands.

  “Here, and take these with you when you go. Put them in the safe house for me.” Billy lowered his voice as he passed across the bags containing the Ecstasy tablets. “Make sure that they’re stored safe and that no one can get their hands on them.”

  “Yeah, I will do.”

  Billy was thoughtful, and slinging his arm around Fletch’s shoulders so he could speak privately in the younger man’s ear, he lowered his voice. “I’m gonna take off for a bit, just until the dust settles with Bannerman, and I suggest you do the same, mate.”

  “Take off? Take off where?” Fletch raised his eyebrows.

  “The villa in Marbella. I’ve already got a flight booked; I head out early tomorrow morning.”

  To say that Fletch was shocked was an understatement. His mouth fell open as he followed Billy out of the dining room. “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “I don’t know.” He glanced down at the carrier bag. “You’ve got enough dough there to splash out on a five-star hotel for a week or two. Think of it as a little holiday,” he grinned and gave a wink. “A well-earned rest.”

  “Holiday? But I don’t even have a passport.”

  At this, Billy laughed. “Fuck me, no passport, no driving license, and no bank account? You’re like a fucking ghost, mate. As far as the powers that be are concerned, you don’t even exist.”

  “It ain’t funny, Bill, where am I meant to go?”

  “I dunno.” Billy made to walk away, unconcerned by his protégée’s predicament.

  Fletch swallowed deeply. “And what about Mrs. King? Will she be going with you?”

  “Nah.” Billy shook his head. “It’s safer that she stays here. In fact, one of you lot can check up on her, make sure that she’s okay.”

  Fletch’s heart leapt. There would be only one person checking up on his boss’s wife, and that would be him. “I’ll do it. I’ll stay behind and check that she is all right. I can make sure that there’ve been no comebacks or anything. I mean, it’s not as though I can go anywhere else, is it?”

  “Good man.” Billy slapped him on the back and grinned. “I knew I could count on you.”

  Returning the smile, Fletch averted his eyes. Even though a slither of guilt ran through his veins, it wasn’t enough to keep him away from Susan.

  * * *

  Pete Smith’s premonition could not have been more correct. George’s fury was not only unnerving, it was downright scary. He had screamed, hollered, and roared for what felt like hours.

  “I’ll fucking kill him,” he spat. “I’ll tear his head clean off of his fucking shoulders.”

  Warily, Pete watched his boss pace up and down the length of the sitting room. More than once, he had needed to duck down, in order to dodge the pieces of furniture that flew past his head. He was almost too afraid to speak. Gathering up the courage, he cleared his throat and tensed his body, waiting in anticipation for George’s next outburst.

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “What do we do?” George spat back, his voice taking on an incredulous tone. “What we always fucking do, you, you useless cunt’s fuck up, and I, as per fucking usual, will try to salvage something from the situation.”

  Pete swallowed deeply. “So,” he asked, taking a step backwards in a bid to create a reasonable distance between them, “do you have a plan?”

  “Do I have a plan?” At this, George leapt forward and swung out his heavy fist, feeling nothing but satisfaction as he felt his knuckles land upon the side of Pete’s jaw. “A fucking plan?” he roared. “What, so you useless pricks can fuck that up as well?”

  “Sorry, George.” Laying in a crumpled heap on the floor, Pete was seeing stars.

  Shaking out the tension in his hand, George desperately tried to think. What he wanted to do was take back his merchandise and then kill King, stone dead. First thing’s first though. He needed to know of King’s whereabouts, and there was only one man who could tell him that. He pulled Pete to his feet.

  “Get out there now and find that no-good rat, Hatton. Drag him in here by his fucking hair if you have to,” he growled. “If I find out he had a hand in any of this, I’m gonna muller the fucking life out of him.”

  Chapter 6

  Reaching out her arm, Susan caressed Fletch’s bare back, her fingertips tracing along the length of his spine.

  He looked over his shoulder and gave her a warm smile. “I have to leave soon, Suze,” he said apologetically.

  “Why?” She shuffled along the unmade bed and pressed herself closer to him. “Billy won’t be back from Marbella until early tomorrow morning. We’ve got hours to go yet.” She cocked her head to one side and seductively twirled a strand of blonde hair around her finger. “Come back to bed,” she purred.

  “I can’t, darling. I need to go and look for Spence. I need to check that he’s okay.”

  The corners of Susan’s lips turned down and she lowered her head. It wasn’t often that Billy went abroad witho
ut her, and if truth were told, she was dreading his return.

  “Hey.” Running his thumb underneath her chin, Fletch tipped Susan’s head up to meet his. “I’m sorry, babe,” he sighed, “it’s just Spence, you know.”

  “Why do you worry about him so much?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, swallowing down the usual sense of guilt he felt.

  “I know he’s your younger brother, but he isn’t a child anymore, Fletch. He doesn’t need you as much as you think he does …”

  “It’s more than that.” Fletch interrupted her, his tone a lot harsher than he’d intended. “I owe him.”

  “You owe him?” She pulled the cotton sheet around her and frowned. “I don’t understand. How do you owe him?”

  “He’s …” He paused, trying to find the right words. “… He needs me.” He ran his hand through his dark hair, feeling embarrassed. “He’s not quite right, is he?”

  “You mean he’s a bit slow?”

  “No,” Fletch shook his head vigorously. “He’s not slow. He was never slow.”

  Susan gave him a sad smile. They all knew that Spencer wasn’t quite right, or as her husband had not-so-kindly pointed out, Spencer Fletcher wasn’t the full ticket. Two sandwiches short of a picnic being his favourite put-down.

  “He hasn’t always been like this,” he said defensively.

  “What do you mean?” Susan narrowed her eyes.

  “It was me.” Fletch turned to face her and gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “It was all my fault.”

  “But how? I don’t understand?”

  He closed his eyes tight and swallowed deeply. “When we were kids …” He stopped himself from speaking, unsure if he was doing the right thing by baring his soul. He’d never told anyone the truth about Spencer before. It had always remained an unspoken family secret. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”