by Robert White
At that moment, he was met by Richard Valance in full flight. Bird lifted his elbow and smashed it into the man’s jaw. The guy staggered and as Bird passed him, he swung the pickaxe handle in a downward arc, catching the guy in the right knee.
The bouncer fell to the floor, writhing in pain.
Jamie was powering up the steps to the foyer. The second doorman took one look at him and turned on his heels.
They were inside.
Running at full pelt, they barged into customers, sending people flying, glass breaking, people screaming.
Left turn.
More people, more shouts. Another bouncer, a big tall brute of a man.
Jamie headbutted him flush on the bridge of his nose and he went down.
Sensing something serious was happening, the DJ pulled the plug. This caused even greater panic and Jamie and Bird had to fight their way through a crowd determined to exit the club. It was like swimming upstream, but they were prepared for it.
Like a pair of rugby players locking up for a scrum, they powered forward heads down, thrusting, unstoppable.
Within thirty seconds of leaving the old tired Granada, they stood at the entrance to the VIP area of Toast, the town’s “number one music and entertainment venue”.
Tonight, there was to be a very different form of theatre.
The lone doorman standing guard at the VIP room was a pale, blonde guy with a ponytail.
Bird raised his cleaver and the guy sprinted off toward the exit, his blonde locks bouncing behind him.
“Let’s go do this,” shouted Jamie over the cacophony.
The pair burst into the tight space that was the VIP room.
Chesterfield sofas and plush armchairs only acted as obstacles, barring their way, preventing access to their targets.
Jamie kicked them aside, opening a path to their ultimate goal.
Frankie Verdi was sitting in a corner, head back, eyes closed. A skinny woman with red hair, kneeling in front of him, her head bobbing up and down at his crotch.
Eddie saw them first. He bawled at Frankie to get his shit together, but Verdi seemed too out of it to care.
Several other women who were scattered about the room started to scream and push toward the door.
Eddie picked up a stool and threw it at Bird.
The big Aussie simply batted it away and strode over toward the sharp-dressed gangster.
Eddie picked up a second stool, this time holding onto it, using it as a shield to protect himself from Bird’s cleaver.
It was never going to be enough. Valance brought up his right foot, and simply kicked the stool from Eddie’s hands.
Williams’ eyes flashed with fear, but he knew he had no choice but to try and fight his way past the monster of a man in front of him. Dropping his head, he went for Bird with everything he had.
Valance swung the cleaver and caught Eddie, slicing open his shoulder. Williams tried desperately to get in close to his attacker and throw some punches into his torso, maybe grab the cleaver. Valance shrugged off the blows and raised the axe again, this time burying the weapon deep into Williams’ back.
Eddie cried out as Bird shoved him back against the wall, to give him room to attack. Williams staggered, blood soaking through his suit jacket from the first blows. Bird took his time, calm, calculated. He knew exactly what he wanted to do and with his fourth strike, opened a massive wound in Eddie’s neck.
Williams fell backwards and slid down the wall to the floor, holding his throat, blood pouring through his fingers, and painting a grotesque mural behind him.
He looked about, confused, almost childlike.
Finally, he seemed to notice the masked man who was brandishing the cleaver high above his head, ready to strike the final blow.
Eddie held up a bloody hand. “No Mister… no… please don’t,” he pleaded.
Valance brought down the axe and lodged it in Eddie’s skull.
Williams teetered for a second, then fell forwards onto his face, the cleaver buried in his head.
“I’ll leave that with you,” said Bird. “Let’s call it a present from Laurie, shall we?”
Frankie cowered in the corner. Jamie towered over him, menacingly brandishing two claw hammers.
“Look, lads, c… come on,” stammered Verdi. “I’ve got cash, p… plenty of cash, in the safe, I’ll open it for you. Must be twenty-five grand. What d’you say eh?”
Jamie didn’t speak. He pulled two long strips of cotton sheet from his coveralls. Bird grabbed Verdi and threw him to the floor.
“What? What the fuck you doing?” he wailed.
In seconds he was bound, hands and feet.
Jamie and Bird took an arm each and powered Frank through the half-empty club. Customers were still doing their best to escape without any help or direction, all the door staff left standing had long since saved themselves. The punters were so intent on making their own getaway, they didn’t even notice Frank being dragged out of his own door, kicking, screaming and pleading for his life.
Bird opened the boot of the Granada and Verdi was pushed inside.
As Jamie slammed the lid, their entry and exit had taken just one minute and eleven seconds.
Both men removed their masks and slipped into the car.
Jamie drove steadily away.
Bird began to wriggle from his bloodstained coveralls. They joined his equally claret-covered gloves and the two balaclavas in a black bin liner on the back seat. He pulled a pack of baby wipes from the glovebox, wiped his hands and face and turned to Jamie.
“Will I do?” he said.
Jamie nodded and pulled the Granada to the side of the road. “Pretty as a fucking picture Birdman.”
Valance took Jamie’s hand. “Was good knowing you Strange Brew.”
And with that, he was gone, strolling back toward the club, just to see what the fuss was all about, why all the cops were there.
Then of course, he would eat, Indian maybe, a cold beer or two, then find his hotel, get a good kip. After all, Manchester to Sydney is a long flight.
Jamie, however, drove on. Nice and steady. Frankie banging about in the boot, making threats. He turned left into New Hall Lane, keeping to thirty. Several cop cars with their lights flashing and sirens wailing flew by him in the opposite direction. Too late.
Jamie turned up the radio to drown out Frankie’s tirade of abuse.
Then it was the M6 southbound. One junction. Left onto the M61, one junction. Left again and onto the A road. Half a mile, turn right and start to climb.
The air was fresher near the summit of Rivington Pike. The muggy, feverish ether of the town in high summer replaced by a cooler, cleaner, calmer atmosphere.
Jamie peered over the edge of the precipice where Laurie had lost her life. The night silent, except for the bangs and the muffled abuse emanating from the car behind him.
“I wish I could have been here for you,” he whispered to the night. “But this is the best I can do for you now.”
Jamie turned and strode to the car.
He popped the boot, and for the first time, Frankie Verdi got a look at his attacker. He instantly flew into a manic rage, flailing about in the confined space of the boot, banging his head against the bodywork.
“Fucking soldier boy,” he screamed. “It had to be you eh?”
Jamie had heard enough. He leaned into the boot, grabbed at the ties that held Frankie’s legs and with one swift pull, released them.
Verdi immediately lashed out with his feet.
Jamie, despite his great size, was quick and light on his feet. He simply stepped away and let Frank thrash about some more.
Eventually, unable to gain enough purchase to release himself from to boot, Verdi stopped his squirming and lay still, breathing hard and sweating. One loose leg dangling over
the lip of the boot.
Jamie wandered closer, so he could see Frankie’s face.
“One Dog,” he said flatly. “That’s what you are now, eh Frank? One Dog. With Tony and Eddie gone. Doesn’t have the same ring eh?”
Verdi screwed up his face. “Tony? Tony too? You fuckin’ killed Tony?”
“Actually, it was my old man who finished him off. I mean, he would have burnt to death had Harry not caved his scull in with a hammer. Act of mercy it was.”
Frankie’s eyes flashed. Jamie wasn’t impressed. “Your fault that Frank. It was you who sent him, wasn’t it? It was you who guided him to his death. Sent him to burn down our house, with me and my dad inside. You wanted me dead, but you didn’t have the bottle yourself, so you sent your halfwit mate to do it.”
Jamie leaned into the car and grabbed Frank by the lapels. In one powerful move, he lifted him bodily from the boot and stood him on his feet.
Frankie looked about him.
Jamie smiled. “Ah! The light comes on. You know where you are Frank eh? This is the place ain’t it? The place where you told Tony and Eddie to bring my Laurie.”
Verdi snorted. “Your Laurie? She was never your Laurie. She couldn’t wait to run to me the second you left town, to climb in my bed. She was mine, and no one…”
Jamie slapped Frankie so hard, it echoed off the cliff walls below. Verdi hit the floor, cracking his head.
Blowing hard, he rolled himself onto his face. Slowly, he managed to get into a kneeling position. He spat blood from his mouth and managed a sick smile.
“You think I killed your childhood sweetheart, don’t you? Your first fuck? Well you got it all wrong soldier boy. The stupid bitch topped herself. She was drunk, as usual, and she killed herself. Ask the fucking coppers. Ask anyone.”
Jamie pulled Verdi to his feet. He was desperate to untie him, to fight him, to smash his face to pulp, but that couldn’t happen.
Not yet.
“Oh, but I did ask, Frankie. I asked a lot of people. You see, I know you sent Tony and Eddie up here to kill Laurie, and I know why you did it too. I know you found out that Laurie had been to see me in Walton, and I know you gave her a beating for it. What you don’t know Frank, is she went to see my father too, she wanted to warn him about you, about what you might do. She told him, she wanted to leave your nasty little clutches, but she was too scared of what you might do to her.”
Jamie pointed. “Now, let me tell you how things went from there. Something happened in the club that night, and I’m guessing, that as I have a solicitor’s letter on my mantle at home, telling me I just inherited thirty-five grand, that you found out Laurie was squirreling money away.”
Frank spat some more claret. “She was a thieving bitch, and that money is mine.”
“Correct so far then Frank?”
Verdi snorted and turned his head away. Jamie grabbed his chin, forcing him to look into his face.
“So, you make sure Laurie is drunk and you have her taken up here. Tony and Eddie force her into the driver’s seat, just where we are standing right now Frank. They set the car off in first gear and it trundles over to the ledge there. Trouble is, neither of your two chums are that bright, and the car gets stuck. So, the dimwits push the car over, leaving their prints all over the boot.”
Frank shook his head free. “It’s a nice fairy tale soldier boy, but if that’s the case, why weren’t they banged up for it?”
“Because both Eddie and Tony had access to the car before that night.”
Frankie laughed. “So, the prints prove nothing, soldier boy. You got nothing. The cops got nothing. So… fuck you.”
Jamie just managed to stop himself from inflicting more damage.
“Officially, I agree… but unofficially… well… the cops got tired Frank. They got tired of you and your gang, and finally, they let things slip. They let it slip about the wiped CCTV tapes from the club and your gaff. They let it slip that Laurie’s blood was found on the passenger seat and glovebox. Consistent with her being “beaten in that situ”. They let it slip about Tony and Eddie’s prints being fresh, two palms each, either side of the boot, consistent with the vehicle being pushed by the two men, they said.
“And you know the worst thing Frank? She didn’t die straight away. She hung there, upside down slowly fading away. That beautiful, intelligent woman that you murdered. They let that slip too, you piece of shit.”
Frankie glared. “Oh, I get it. So now, the big brave soldier boy is going to top me with my hands tied.”
Jamie shook his head.
“Oh no Frank, I’m going to untie you. Because I’m not like you, I’m going to give you a chance. A chance to fight me here, in this place. Fair and square. Whoever wins, drives the car away. The loser ends up like Laurie, at the bottom of this cliff.”
Jamie stepped forward, pulled on Frankie’s ties, and the cotton strip fell to the ground releasing his hands.
Frankie instantly moved to his left, placing Jamie’s back to the ravine.
He felt his jacket pockets and couldn’t believe his luck. In all the excitement, Jamie had never thought to search him.
Verdi slipped his hands into his black jacket. When they reappeared, both fists boasted Frank’s trademark, brass knuckle dusters.
Jamie was bigger and stronger than Frankie, but with his trusty weapons on his fists, Frank believed he could take the soldier boy. Take him and throw him down the cliff to join that thieving slag he was so fond of.
“You’re a fool, soldier boy. You should have thrown me over when you had the chance.”
Frank threw a right. A real haymaker, a one-punch wonder, but Jamie was too quick for him. He read the punch a mile away and slipped it, countering with a straight left, leaning in, all sixteen stone of him behind it.
He caught Frank on the chin, not clean, a glancing blow, enough to send him staggering backwards, struggling to keep his balance on the uneven ground.
“You’ll need more that a pair of dusters Frank,” spat Jamie and threw a massive clubbing right hook to Frankie’s temple.
Again, Frank managed to avoid the full force of the punch. Bending at the waist. As he came up, he threw an uppercut of his own. Two stones lighter than his opponent, the blow from his fist alone would not have done the amount of damage he needed. But with the brass dusters, it was a whole new ball game. Frank caught Jamie on his cheek. The age-old fighting weapon tearing into his face, slicing his skin open down to the bone.
It was Jamie’s turn to falter, his standing foot slipping on the gravel, he almost went down. Frankie steamed in for the kill, sensing his moment, but Jamie put space between them.
Step back. Step left.
He needed a second or two to clear his head. Once again Frankie missed with big swinging punches.
Verdi was starting to blow. The drugs, the booze the lifestyle, starting to show in seconds. “I’m gonna knock your head off soldier boy,” he panted.
Jamie feigned a left, dropped his right shoulder and swung a huge shot into Verdi’s gut. Frank doubled up and dropped to his knees.
“You don’t look much to me Frank. All mouth… You scared of heights son? ’Cos you’re going over.”
Jamie stepped in, pulled back his right, determined to finish Verdi. Ready to smash his massive fist into his smug face.
Frank had other ideas. He grabbed a rock from the ground with his right hand and threw it with all his might toward Jamie, the stone smashing into his left eye.
Jamie felt suddenly sick. He staggered, out of control. Bright stars appeared in his peripheral vision as he sucked in lungful after lungful of the cold air, trying to clear his head.
Verdi pounced, driving his shoulder into Jamie’s midriff, pushing him ever backward toward the cliff edge.
Jamie was off balance and disorientated. Frank was on top of him now, slamming
punch after punch into his already damaged face. The dusters tearing his flesh. Jamie knew he was close to unconsciousness. He was also close to the cliff edge. So close, his head was in mid-air.
From somewhere, he found some strength and gripped Verdi by the throat. Finding the larynx with his thumb he dug in with everything he had.
Frankie instantly stopped punching and grabbed Jamie’s hand. He couldn’t breathe.
Jamie was back in control.
Frankie was forced to roll off his foe, his only way of releasing himself from the vice-like grip that cut off his air. As he rolled to his left, he arced one final punch into Jamie’s face with his right hand, a devastating blow.
Frank was free again.
He pulled himself to his knees, exhausted, his throat on fire. Blood poured from his nose, it was all he could do to take a single breath.
Jamie lay on his back breathing hard, eyes open but motionless.
Frank scrambled over to Jamie’s feet and began to lift them.
“Right you fucker,” he screamed.
Verdi hadn’t the strength to push Jamie over, but he sure as hell could pivot him. Just like Eddie and Tony had done with Laurie’s car.
Frankie laughed manically, hysteria overtaking his senses. “Who’s the winner now eh soldier boy? Who’s the fuckin’ winner?”
Verdi knew once he got Jamie’s feet to shoulder height and leaned in, he could get him over.
“Come on, you fucker, over you go. Just like your thieving bitch.”
Jamie drew back his right foot, and slammed it into Frank’s face. Verdi staggered backward, one step, two, then faltered and finally fell.
Jamie had so much blood in his eyes he could barely see. He forced himself to his feet. Frank rolled over, desperate to regain his own footing but his feet couldn’t find the leverage and he slipped again. Like a drunk on a greasy bar-room floor.
With a massive hand, Jamie grabbed Frank by the collar and began to drag him to the edge.
Frank twisted and turned. He flailed his arms in attempt to throw punches, but he was spent. He had nothing left.
They reached the edge.
Jamie took a deep breath, bent his knees and picked Frank up, forcing him to stand and face him one last time.