by Gem Jackson
“Fuck Tem, when did you become the introspective type? You haven’t even had a drink.”
“Yeah, I have.”
“What? When?”
“Hip flask.” She rooted around in her jacket pocket and retrieved a small, plain silver hip flask. She offered it to Tariq.
“Scotch?” he asked, waving away the offer.
“Of course.”
“How did you get it through security?”
“Oh, come on. You saw it. That wasn’t security. I’m sure they saw it. I don’t think this is the sort of place where they confiscate this sort of thing,” she said waving the flask around for emphasis. She took a swig.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Tariq. “Or maybe you’re wrong. Does it change anything we’re doing here?”
“No.”
“Then cheer the fuck up please because you’re even more of a pain in the ass when you’re miserable.”
“Fair play.” Tem nodded to herself as Tariq settled back into his seat. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the lighter crashing onto the surface of Ceres at over a thousand miles per hour.
Chapter 12 – Anton
It didn’t matter how far across the Solar System Anton travelled whenever he moved from Junction back onto Ceres itself, it was as if he had never been away. Ceres was home. Anton hated that. It wasn’t the home he would have chosen. In fact, he had chosen a different home, far away in the Highlands of Scotland. But as much as he might fight it, this was the place his bones knew. This was the place he breathed easiest, and long absences did nothing to change that.
Getting to Patel before the agents had been lucky. Patel knew what was best for him and wouldn’t risk his position for a couple of foreign agents. There was no love lost between APSA and Ceres so the chances of Long and Abbas getting any meaningful information during their stay was minimal.
The next time he would see them would be at the meal in the evening at the French place on top of the Cadex building. The restaurant was spectacular, but it was located in the densest area of Ceres. Given that neither agent had been before, finding the restaurant wouldn’t be easy. Ceres was a labyrinth of passageways, corridors, metro lines, lifts and paternosters. He could count on this to cushion the time he had to set things in motion.
As he walked through the city, he could hear Ramis bumbling behind him, struggling to keep up. At first it was frustrating having the sluggish lump shadow him around the Aggressive. Yet before long a plan for the young man had crystallised. With the right preparation, he might become a very useful tool. Useful enough to justify bringing him down to the surface.
They walked on. Every so often they turned down a passageway and Anton would be surprised to find it had been refurbished; fresh lights, fresh cladding, even fresh T-circuitry at points. That made him strangely bitter. He still took a child-like pleasure, as did most Cereleans, in loping along the corridors where gravity was at its weakest, floating gracefully through the air. When such spots were repaired it felt as if someone had stolen one of life's small pleasures. These were the exceptions, however. For the most part, Ceres was exactly as he had described to Long and Abbas. Shit.
Eventually the Nag’s Head pub hove into view. It was an unassuming unit along the wide avenue-corridor that made up the Scotch Way. An arterial thoroughfare, the Scotch Way extended three stories into the air and lay three times the width of an ordinary Ceres passageway. The high-def screens that made up the ceiling far above did a good job of impersonating a genuine overcast Scottish sky and for years as he was growing up, Anton would have sworn that even the real thing couldn’t be better. Yet, now he had seen the real thing, the illusion was utterly defeated.
They stepped into the stream of tourists and locals drifting along the thoroughfare, surfing the eddies and streams of the crowd, first one way, then the other, until he reached the Nag’s Head on the other side. He pulled the heavy door open by the long brass handle and walked inside. As usual, the pub was heaving with bodies. Sweat hung over the heads of the crowd as groups throbbed and stumbled. A band was playing on the low stage towards the near side of the bar so Anton made his way to to the other end. With accustomed skill, he eased his way to the front of the bar and caught the eye of one of the bartenders.
“Hey. Pal. Tell the boss I’m here” he said, straining his voice above the roar of the mingled music and crowd.
“What? Who are you? Do you want a drink?” The barman cocked his ear, ready for Anton’s response.
“Just tell the fucking boss I’m here, okay? The man is here. Do you understand? The man.” Anton looked into the corner of the ceiling, directly at the less-than-discreet camera, bared his teeth in an imitation smile and pointed both index fingers at his face.
At this point another member of staff swept over. Anton recognised her; she had been around for a couple of years. She ushered the young man out of the way and leaned across towards Anton. Her accent sent a small shiver up Anton’s spine. Scottish with a distinct Cerelean twang.
“Go right up, boss. I’ve let ‘em know your here. Can I get you a drink?”
“Aye, go on, love. I’ll get a Blackstar. One for my friend too, if you don’t mind?” he said, nodding at Ramis.
“Here you go,” she passed two dark, cold bottles to Anton, “on the house of course.”
“Of course.” Anton smiled and accepted the drink. Make the most of this, he thought, it might be the last one you get for a good, long while. “Ramis, you stay here. I’ve got some business upstairs. Don’t get into any trouble. I mean it.”
“You’re telling me to stay here and have a drink? That I can do, boss.”
Anton left the bar and headed for the stairs, past the heavily armed bouncers lounging either side, making way for him as they continued their own conversation.
“Fellas.” Anton acknowledged them with a nod and bounced up the stairs, swigging from the Blackstar as he went.
He strode into the first floor of the Nag’s Head and froze mid-swig. Without taking the bottle from his lips, he gazed slowly around the dark, open space above the pub. This was where 15th Street business had been run since he had raised the gang up to its present, heady heights. They were the dominant group on Ceres; Anton had made sure of that. It had been years since he had played a significant role in the gang’s day to day business. He made a point of visiting every few months to show his face and collect his cut, but aside from that, they looked after themselves.
For the past few years, the upper floor of the Nag’s Head had been luxurious; real leather couches and polished oak floorboards. They represented the wealth and achievements of the gang. As a young man Anton had engineered income from hundreds of sources. Nothing was off limits: drugs, smuggling, prostitution, slavery, body part acquisition. In the belt, everything was for sale.
The floorboards creaked underfoot as he rocked backwards on his heels. He had been away for longer than usual—a little over a year—and the place was a mess. Hopefully, it wasn’t a reflection of the state of business.
“What the fuck has happened here?” he muttered under his breath. There were forty or fifty people milling around the open-plan room. Some leaned against the walls, some sprawled across chairs and sofas, and others lay prone upon the floor, oblivious to their surroundings. Music drowned out the human noise and filled Anton’s head. There were at least two tracks playing over each other; a thumping electronic beat and an old blues standard. One wall was filled with a large screen showing repeat boxing and sumo, streamed from Earth god knows when. Another screen filled the adjacent part of the room with the arrhythmic stuttering light show that was Fuck, Fuck, Thump! It looked like season three.
Presiding over it all was an unfamiliar figure, sat at the boss’s desk. They were surrounded by cronies, most of whom Anton recognised. The figure was shaven headed, muscular without being bulky, and obviously agitated. Very agitated. Crucially, this figure was not Lester. Anton had expected Lester.
“What the not inconsiderable fuck ha
s happened here?” asked Anton. “I’ve seen abattoirs with more class than this place. And where’s Lester? I didn’t sign off on any change of management.” He strode purposefully towards the figure. The others around the desk, Anton realised, were all staring at him. They looked on edge too. Unpredictable. Anton picked out one of the cronies he knew well. Fenton. Late twenties. Smart. Violent. Dependable.
“It’s the Man!” shouted the unknown figure. “Come on everyone, give a big welcome to the Man! Let’s make him feel at home.” The man behind the desk got to his feet and gestured for the others to clap and get involved. Nobody moved a muscle. Or broke eye contact.
“So, I presume you’re the boss now? What happened to Lester?” asked Anton.
“What happened to Lester? Lester the fester, fucking infester tester, what the lock and what the stock has happened to the Man’s besty Lesty?”
“Lester was finished,” interjected one of the cronies. Anton turned and, with some relief, noted that it was Fenton. “We lost a few patches to the Kurla Six. Lester wasn’t doing enough. Syke has made things better.”
“Syke? You’re Syke then? The new big boss man?” Anton looked at Syke who bowed his head low and crashed backwards back into his chair. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Syke. I guess we’ll be doing business together now?”
“I guess we will,” said Syke.
“You know who I am?” asked Anton.
“Oh yes,” said Syke, “you’re the Man.”
“Which man?”
“You’re the Man. The Man Who Can.” Syke grinned broadly and rolled his shoulders. “I know all about you.”
“Right. Good.” Anton reappraised the situation. He looked around the room again. “So, given that I’m the Man Who Can, could we have a chat? Somewhere a bit more private?”
“There is no private, Mr Man,” said Syke, “this is where we do business.”
“Still, I’d prefer it if we could move into the office.” Anton gestured behind Syke, towards a battered door.
“The office? I fuck, fart and feed in that place back there. And I don’t know you well enough for any of those things.”
Anton sighed. This wasn’t going anywhere fast. He hadn’t the time to break this one in properly. He just hoped he was smarter than he looked.
“Fine. Whatever. I need something to happen. I need to make sure a couple of friends of mine don’t leave this city. And I don’t care how it happens. Can you do that for me?”
“Friends? Which friends are these, Man Who Can? You don’t mean the two high level intelligence agents who just disembarked from that hefty as fuck planet killer of a warship? You don’t mean those friends, do you? Because, if you do, that’s not going to work for us. And I say this with a lot of fucking respect for what you’ve done. I fucking respect you. I do.” Syke closed his eyes for a second. “But I can’t help you with that.”
“Okay,” Anton cleared his throat, “I’m not sure you appreciate the dynamic here. Let’s go into the office and clear this up? I think we can, you know, reach and arrangement.”
“No. We can’t. No office. No arrangement. No fucking beating the shit out of any hornets' nests. No arguments. Walk away Mr Man Who Can while you’re a man who can still walk.”
They held each other's gaze. Anton exhaled slowly and laughed to himself.
“You’re,” he wagged a finger at Syke, “you’re not going to be persuaded on this, are you? Well, that’s a shame. That is a real shame. Fine.” He turned towards Fenton. “It’s Fenton, isn’t it? We’ve met before. We’ve spoken in fact, haven’t we?” Before Fenton could answer, Syke was on his feet leaning across the desk, seething with anger, sinewy muscles straining beneath his skin.
“Are you fucking serious? I meant it, you know. Out of respect for what you’ve done for us, I’m letting you walk out of here old man. But if you’re going to talk, you talk to me. Not him. Me.”
“No,” said Anton, “we’re done. You’re done. I need this to happen. So you’re done.”
“Hold him,” commanded Syke. In a second, three of Syke’s coterie gripped Anton, holding him firmly in place.
“Fenton,” Anton continued, “do you think we could go into the office?”
“Fenton,” Syke shouted over Anton, “shoot this motherfucker.” Fenton took out a handgun and pointed it at Anton’s face. Anton nodded admiringly at the weapon. It was a beast, a real cannon.
“That, young man, is a mighty fine weapon you have there. Oh, and don’t shoot it by the way,” said Anton, “we still need to talk.”
“Begging won’t help you, old man,” said Syke.
Anton scowled at him. “Do you mind? I’m saving your life, pal. He was about to shoot you in the head.”
Fenton swivelled the gun away from Anton and pointed it instead towards Syke, who held an expression like a man who thought he was safely in a bunker only to find the door has been locked from the outside.
“The Man has asked you to have a conversation with him in the office. I think you should do it, boss.”
“You fucking sly cunt,” muttered Syke.
Anton shrugged his away from his captors and followed Fenton and Syke into the office.
Anton stepped into the office and his shoulders dropped. “Not here too? What the royal fuck have you been doing?” He walked around the small room sweeping detritus off one surface after another. Syke and Fenton waited uneasily just inside the room.
“You got me in here. Well done, big man. Now what do you want?” asked Syke.
“Are these peaches? Is this a tin of peaches?” Anton picked up a tin of McAvoy’s Peachy Perfects from the heavy oak desk and thoughtfully weighed their heft in his hands.
“So I like peaches.”
“You like peaches? Of course, that’s fine. You turn the Nag’s Head into a crack-den, you give me shit when I ask you to do something and you’ve fucking ruined this place,” Anton kicked an empty can. “But you like peaches, so that’s okay.”
Whatever retort Syke has intended was cut short as Anton leapt forward and smashed the tin, edge first, into his face a dozen times in quick succession. Anton always adhered to the philosophy that if it’s worth hitting, then it’s worth hitting hard and if it’s worth hitting once, it’s worth hitting over and over again. At some point Syke fell backwards onto the floor and Anton found himself sat across his chest, breathing heavily and spattered with blood. He heaved himself to his feet and turned to Fenton who stood, unflinching, in front of the door.
“Fuck me, I’ve been itching to do that since I walked in,” said Anton. He wiped an arm across his forehead and checked his sleeve for blood. There was a lot. He would have to lose the jacket. He looked down. Probably the shirt too. Below him, Syke moaned something. Anton carefully placed the ruined tin of peaches back onto the desk.
“Right, lad, have you got a knife?” asked Anton. He looked at Fenton expectantly, who took a second to focus properly again. He was a professional, at least. He’d do. Fenton was one of dozens of gang members Anton had blackmailed, threatened and cajoled into loyalty pacts. They all knew that if Anton were to die, and they were involved, someone else would be there to kill them and their families.
“What?”
“A knife, have you got a knife?” repeated Anton.
“Aye, sure. I’ve got a knife,” said Fenton, eyes fixed on Syke who had twisted onto his stomach and was crawling towards the door.”
“Good. Now be a lad and put this one out of his misery, would you?” Anton gestured towards Syke. “You want to be the boss, right? You can’t be the boss if someone else put the knife in. Those are the rules sunshine.”
“Aye, sure. The boss.” Fenton nodded decisively before kneeling down and gripping Syke by the hair. Despite the resistance Syke presented, it took only a second for Fenton to pull out his knife and slide it expertly into Syke’s left eye. He held it in as Syke spasmed and strained beneath him until he was sure the job was done.
“I’m impressed.
Horrified and impressed. That was nice work. You’re making some excellent choices. How’s your ma, by the way? Is she still over in Billingham?”
“Aye, she is,” said Fenton warily.
“I’m only making conversation. Now, who’s out there that you don’t trust?”
“What do you mean, who don’t I trust?” Fenton furrowed his eyebrows. It was all moving rather quickly, Anton would be the first to admit that, but he was working against the clock.
“I mean,” explained Anton, “is there anyone in that shit-stained palace out there who might get angry about you knifing to death peachy piss-face here? Three of us just walked into this room and only two are going to walk out. In my experience, that’s likely to cause problems. It’s better that we, you know, nip it in the bud, as it were. Fix the situation in advance.”
“There’s two out there. Two who would cause trouble.”
“What do they look like?” asked Anton.
“Dowan. He’s the big fucker in the green jacket. Can’t miss him. Then there’s MacLeish. He’s wearing glasses. They were two of the ones holding you,” said Fenton.
“Fine. Just the two?”
“Just the two.”
“Good. Now, pass me that cannon of yours. I’ll be back in a moment.” Anton took the handgun from Fenton and walked back into the main hallway. Anton spotted Dowan and MacLeish in the huddle around Syke’s desk. They all stood as they saw Anton re-enter the room.
“Dowan. MacLeish. Syke wants you two in there now,” barked Anton. They looked at each other quizzically. Anton took a moment to check behind them and gauge who else might be hit. Possibly a junkie or two at the far end of the room. Nothing too concerning.
He raised the gun and fired two shots at each man, hitting them both square in the chest. Someone else pulled a weapon so Anton gunned them down too. Panic erupted and bodies began fleeing down the stairs. Two of the bouncers appeared. They hesitated when they saw it was Anton holding the gun.
“There’s been a change of management,” he shouted. “We ask for your patience and forbearance during this time.” Still lots of panic. No more guns appeared. Anton addressed the remains of Syke’s coterie and the bouncers collectively. “Your new boss, Fenton, is in there. He’s going to want a word in a moment, so I’d stick around if I were you. This though,” Anton waved the gun around to indicate the room in general, “whatever this is, it ends now. Clear every fucker out of here who doesn’t belong and for the love of Christ turn that racket off. If you’ve got any questions, direct them to Dowan and MacLeish.”