‘Anyone else here?’ Frankie hissed, watching the living-room door and the stairs leading upstairs.
Mo made a horrible little strangling noise.
‘I. Said. Anyone. Else. Fucking. Here?’
If Mo answered yes, then Frankie was planning on getting the fuck out of here. Pronto. Particularly if it was Mo’s monster bodyguard. The same if he’d got some family member here or one of his kids. He wasn’t here to hurt anyone like that. Just Mo. Just to make him talk.
‘No,’ Mo grunted.
‘Right fucking answer.’
Mo’s shoulders tensed, like he was planning a move. Frankie twisted the knife’s blade around so Mo got a good, close feel of it on his neck.
‘Do you know who I f-f-fucking am?’ Mo said.
‘Wrong fucking answer.’ Frankie slammed Mo’s head against the wall. Mo wasn’t going to say shit until he knew Frankie was for real.
Again with the knife. Tight to the right of his carotid artery this time. Close enough to let him know that whoever had a hold of him knew exactly what they were about.
Mo froze.
‘Easy, brother,’ he said. It felt to Frankie like any second he might explode. ‘Don’t do anything you’re gonna regret.’
‘Don’t tell me what to fucking do,’ Frankie told him. ‘You try anything like that again and I’ll slit your fucking throat.’
Mo swallowed. ‘You looking for money, I don’t keep it here. The same goes for drugs.’
‘Tell me about the blue speed,’ Frankie said.
‘The what?’
‘That shit you’ve been peddling. The amps.’
‘I don’t know wh—’
‘Liar.’
Frankie pressed the blade tighter. Any more and Mo would bleed.
‘Who are you?’ said Mo.
‘I’m asking the questions. Now fucking answer.’
‘OK. I had a batch of it. But it’s gone.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t keep fucking accounts.’
What the fuck? Was that meant to be some kind of a fucking joke? Crack. Frankie smacked his head against the wall again.
‘All right, all right, I sold it,’ Mo said.
Bang went Frankie’s last-resort idea about maybe getting hold of some of this gear to test it to help with Kind Regards’ temporary insanity plea.
‘What does it do?’ Frankie asked.
‘What do you mean?’ Mo sounded genuinely confused.
‘Just tell me,’ Frankie snapped.
‘It just . . . it just gets you fucking high . . .’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘What about Jack James?’ Frankie said.
‘Who?’
‘Jack. James.’
‘I don’t know anyone ca—’
‘Liar.’
Frankie let the knife do its work. Just skin deep. Mo gasped. Blood trickled down the blade onto the knuckle of Frankie’s glove.
‘You’re fucking dead,’ Mo hissed.
‘No, wanker. That’s you. The next lie you tell me, I’ll fucking do you.’
‘OK, OK,’ Mo said, ‘he bought some.’
‘Off who?’
‘Mickey. Mickey fucking Flynn.’
OK. The truth. What else did he know?
‘And you reckon it might have been that shit that made him do what he did? Go mental. Go round to that girl’s granny’s house and batter them fucking in?’
‘No. Why would it? It’s just fucking speed.’
So much for the cops’ theory that whatever Jack was on might have led to him making such a fucking mess of the hit.
‘What about memory loss?’ he said.
‘You what?’
‘You heard. Fucking amnesia. Is that one of the side-effects? Can this shit cause that?’
‘No . . . No, I swear it.’
No . . .
‘Please . . . Please, I’ve got kids . . . Please, just let me go . . .’
Scumbag. The crap he’d sold Jack might not have messed him up enough to do what the cops reckoned, but that didn’t change who Mo was. Frankie forced him face down onto the floor. Kneeling on his back, he twisted his head round and gave him a long, good fucking look at the barrel of the pistol as he pushed it against his face.
‘I’m gonna leave now,’ he told him, ‘but you’re gonna stay exactly where you are. You’re gonna count to five hundred, nice and loud. I hear you stop just once, or even fucking stutter, and I’m gonna show you what a crack fucking shot I am. Gottit?’
‘Please,’ Mo said. ‘Yes, please, I understand . . .’
‘Get counting. Now.’
Mo started mumbling under his breath.
‘Louder,’ Frankie snapped.
‘Four, five . . .’ Mo shouted out, his whole body shivering.
Frankie backed up slowly to the door and opened it. He checked outside. All clear. Pocketing the pistol – which he still didn’t have a clue how to load or fire – he walked quickly down the mews towards the road, keying Mo’s nice shiny car boot to bonnet just for good measure.
Rolling up his balaclava from his face and pulling his hood down, he jogged out onto the street, gritting his teeth, his mind buzzing. Because if that gear Mickey had sold Jack hadn’t caused his amnesia, then what the hell had? Or was Jack lying? Had he really not forgotten anything at all?
21
Frankie got back to the Ambassador at just gone ten. He was drenched. Another storm. It had blown up out of nowhere and he’d got caught up in it halfway here after dropping the Capri off in Poland Street.
He peeled off his sodden hoodie and baseball cap and hung them on the door, keeping his gym bag on him with the gun inside. There were only five tables being used. Sheet lightning flashed at the windows.
‘Young Frankenstein, I presume?’ Slim called over from the bar with a grin as another crash of thunder shook the air.
‘Yeah, looks like Halloween’s come early this year,’ Frankie said, walking over to join him.
It was hot, in spite of the rain, and Frankie was gasping for a drink, half from thirst, half just to steady himself after what he’d just put Mo Bishara through. Monsoon weather – that’s what Frankie’s mum would have called this. She’d once gone travelling to India in the ’70s, just before she’d met the old man. ‘Following in the steps of the Beatles,’ she’d always claimed. ‘More like getting stoned off your tits,’ the old man had always joked back with a wink.
‘So what happened to your face?’ asked Slim, pouring Frankie a lager.
‘You what?’
Frankie checked out his reflection in the mirror beneath the optics. Blood. A smear of it. Just below his hairline. How the fuck had he missed that when he’d just cleaned up in the car? Careless. He couldn’t afford to go making mistakes like that. The kind of thing that got you nicked. He licked his forefinger and smeared the blood off.
‘Ketchup. From some chips I had earlier,’ he told Slim.
Slim said nothing. He ran a cloth under the tap and handed it over. Anyone working in bars, they all knew blood when they saw it. Especially round here.
Frankie took a deep swig of his lager and wiped his face clean. He’d already ditched the balaclava, gloves and knife in three separate bins. He needed to hide the pistol now and quick. Just in case Mo had somehow sussed it was him and had called the cops or was planning on paying Frankie a return home visit himself. Frankie doubted it, mind. Mo hadn’t seen his face. Didn’t know him anyway. The only thing that might have given him away was him asking about Jack. Mo might have put two and two together and made Frankie.
He drained his pint. It hadn’t even touched the sides. Didn’t perk him up either. He was too knackered. But he couldn’t crash yet. Being here was giving him a good alibi. He waited for Slim to go for a piss and then wedged his bag into the safe and locked it. He’d tuck it up safely inside his mattress later on.
He had a couple more drinks with Slim over the next half hour, as the rain hammered down outside and Slim talked world politics – something he always had plenty to say about, on account of him being a pisshead insomniac who listened to Radio 4 all night.
Frankie kept one eye on the door, telling himself to stop worrying and that Mo and a bunch of his boys weren’t about to come barging in.
At just gone half-ten – with Israel, Palestine and Colonel Gaddafi now put to rights – Sea Breeze Strinati tipped up with a couple of drenched mates, all three of them a little unsteady on their feet. Slim served them and then wandered off to join them for a few frames, leaving Frankie alone at the bar.
He was in a slump, his adrenaline from earlier all burned off. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mo and what he’d said about that gear. Frankie needed to see Jack and ask him up front again if he really was telling the truth about not remembering. Frankie needed to look him right in the fucking eyes when he did. He’d still be able to tell, wouldn’t he? If Jack was lying? But he wasn’t lying, was he? In which case Frankie had to somehow get to the bottom of what the fuck else might have fried his brain that night?
He called Kind Regards and left another message, telling him to find out when the hell he could see Jack. It couldn’t be soon enough. Then he finished his drink and told himself he wasn’t going to have another. He was in the clear, right? No show from Mo. He half-smiled. Wasn’t likely any bloody arsonists would be popping over either. Hardly their kind of weather, was it, for burning places down?
The club’s front door opened with a bang. What the hell? Frankie felt his muscles tense, as a tall, hooded figure walked in. Shit-a-brick. Had Mo somehow sussed it was him?
But even as he was reaching for his cue from under the counter, he saw that this was no hired thug, more like a junkie, just standing there, shivering and gawping. The last bloody thing he needed, some moon-skinned muppet barging in here with a mind to nick something to pay for their next fix.
‘Get the fuck out,’ he shouted.
They didn’t move. Not a muscle. Just stood there dripping on the carpet as the door banged shut in the wind behind them. Frankie marched forward, slapping the cue with deliberate menace against the palm of his hand.
No reaction. Nothing. He stopped less than three feet from whoever this was. The punters stared, like townsfolk in some fucking spaghetti Western waiting for two gunslingers to draw.
‘Out. Now,’ Frankie said. ‘Before I bloody throw you out.’
The face staring out at him from the hoodie was like a black-and-white photo. Bloodless. Still. For all the good it was doing him, Frankie might as well have been talking to a ghost.
‘Last fucking warning,’ he said.
He took a quick step forward, hoping this would be enough to scare them into flight. No such luck. They didn’t budge. Right, sod this. Frankie walked right up and shoved his face right up into theirs.
Finally: a reaction.
‘You said I could . . .’
Frankie screwed up his face. ‘I said what?’
‘Last night . . .’
What the fuck was this chimp talking about. ‘Take off your hood,’ Frankie told them. ‘Do it now.’
They stepped back, did as they were told. Frankie shook his head. Christ on a bike. It was just a kid. Well, a youth. A teen. Whatever. Couldn’t have been anything north of eighteen. A girl? If he had to bet on it, he’d say so. Hard to tell, though. All skin and bone and short cropped hair sticking up.
But, hang on . . . yeah . . . there was something about her . . . about her eyes . . . He clawed back through his memories from last night, but all he got was fistfuls of Jack Daniels-flavoured fog.
‘You gave me this,’ the girl said. Reaching into her hoodie pocket, she pulled out a tenner. ‘You said if I needed somewhere to go, if the weather turned bad . . .’ Her eyes blazed as she pointed at the rain battering the window.
Fuck-a-duck. Yes. He remembered her then. On his way home. The bundle of cardboard and blankets with two blue eyes in its centre.
Oh, Jesus. What the fuck had he done now?
22
The Patron Saint of Lost Causes.
After Frankie had told the girl she could stay – just for one night, until the storm blew over – that’s what Slim had called him. Or accused him of being, anyhow. Because he obviously thought he was being a total mug.
Her name was ‘Xandra with an X’. That’s pretty much all he’d learned about her since last night. That and the fact she was half-starved, as witnessed by the three cheese and tomato toasties she’d polished off at the bar, much to Slim’s annoyance, who’d pointed out that the cheese had been a superb aged Gouda, fresh from Borough Market, and therefore something to be savoured, not gobbled up like ruddy Cracker Barrel.
‘It smells like socks, but thanks anyway, mate,’ was all Xandra had said.
She was Irish. From Belfast, Frankie reckoned from her accent – something else that had got on Slim’s wick, not because he had any particular prejudice against the Micks, more because he’d lost over a grand on an Irish horse five years ago and had been blaming the useless beast’s country of birth ever since.
From where Frankie was sitting in the living room, he could hear the hum of the water heater and the rattle of pipes. Xandra had slept the night on the sofa and had asked when she’d woken up if she could have a wash. She’d been in there now for nearly two hours. He’d been sitting here for the same time, making a show of watching TV, but really just in case Slim was right about this total stranger robbing him for anything she could get her mitts on the second his back was turned.
He flicked through the channels, but couldn’t concentrate. It was all crap anyway these days. He preferred movies. Old ones. Westerns and war films. The ones he’d grown up watching with his dad. Had a billion VHSs stacked up either side of the box.
The phone rang. He picked it up.
‘Morning, it’s me,’ said Kind Regards.
‘You got word?’ Frankie asked. ‘On when I can see him?’
‘Yeah, and it’ll be soon . . .’
‘How soon?’ Frankie was already up, heading for his room to get his wallet. He’d have to get rid of the girl before going to see Jack. But how? He couldn’t just kick her out.
‘There’s been a delay.’
‘But you said they were charging him. What? Has something happened?’
Frankie stopped walking. His head buzzed. Had someone come forward? Had the witness gone back on what they’d said? Or had the cops turned up some new evidence? Something that pointed to someone who wasn’t Jack?
‘Sorry, Frankie. Nothing like that. It’s to do with where they’re going to put him on remand. Because of overcrowding. Not enough spaces. This country, I tell you, it’s going to the dogs.’
‘Tell me it’s not going to be outside of London . . .’
‘Hopefully not.’
‘When will we know?’
‘Possibly later today. Or tomorrow. I’m doing everything I can, I promise.’
‘It’s all right. I know you are.’
‘Just sit tight, all right? I’ll let you know as soon as it’s sorted.’
‘OK.’ Frankie walked back into the living room and sat down. ‘Any word on the old lady?’ He still couldn’t get her out of his mind.
‘Nothing. No change.’
‘Good. But you’ll still let me know if there is?’
‘The second I hear. And another thing . . .’ Kind Regards said.
‘What?’
‘We’re going to need to put that money down . . . the retainer for the brief . . .’
‘By when?’
‘Well, as soon as . . . Time’s ticking, Frankie. The prosecution, they’re already working on this. We need to be doing the same.’
‘How much?’
Kind Regards told him. Frankie swallowed. Hard.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it and call you ba
ck.’
He put down the phone. Shit. The water heater was still humming, the pipes clanging. The fucking pressure of it all. Bloody hell. He rubbed at his face. He couldn’t stop thinking of Jack as a kid. All those nightmares he’d had. Frankie had used to have to keep the light on for him and tell him stupid stories just to stop him from blubbing and waking up their folks.
Jack being there all alone made Frankie want to puke.
‘Keep it together,’ he told himself.
He clenched his fists. If they were going to trial – unless he somehow stopped that from happening – he had to do everything he could to make sure they piggin’ well won. He flicked through his little black Filofax. He went to ‘S’. For Straight Eddie. The loan shark. Frankie already owed him, but he’d been paying him back regular, so who knew, maybe Eddie might come through for him again?
He’d need some kind of collateral, mind. Proof he could pay the new loan back. He dug out a couple of copies of Exchange & Mart and Auto Trader from the pile next to the sofa. Both had Capris for sale. Going for good money too. With all this Britpop shit going down, it looked like retro was well in. None of them were in as good nick as his either. He tore out the pages with the sales enquiries numbers on them and reached for the phone.
The bathroom door lock clicked. Xandra walked out into the living room, red-faced and dressed in clean jeans and a hoodie and carrying the bag she’d arrived with last night.
Christ, she was skinny. But not junkie skinny, mind. Frankie saw enough of that on the streets round here to tell the difference. She didn’t have that magpie look about her like she’d pilfer anything sparkly and shiny she saw.
He forced a smile. Didn’t want her feeling unwelcome or thinking that him sitting here with a face like a slapped arse had anything to do with her.
‘Feel better?’ he asked.
She certainly looked it. The clothes were down to him. He’d popped round the market earlier that morning while she’d still been asleep and had picked her up some stuff.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ she told him. ‘And look . . .’ she pulled the back of her collar sideways so he could see it ‘. . . they’ve even got real price tags on. Not even from down the charity shop, eh?’
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