Games with the Dead

by James Nally

  ‘So you don’t work in TV?’

  ‘I invest in TV projects, if you know what I mean, Pat. Good way of cleaning money.’

  ‘Tania’s an actress looking for a break. If you can help her get that break, I’ll make sure you’re looked after.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  He laughs. ‘I’m not asking you, Donal. Get her that break.’

  ‘Consider it done,’ I say, silently thanking any God out there that I’m in this for just one job before I vanish. Then the gravity of what he just said hits me. I can’t vanish; not so long as Tania can find Fintan. And Pat’s letting me know this.

  Shit.

  He turns into an empty car park and skids to a halt. Shaw, Walsh and Ron Regan are already in a screaming match with a man backed against a wall.

  ‘Come on,’ says Pat and we hop out.

  Pat walks right up to the guy and slashes his throat. The man reels back, eyes bulging, hand clamped to his Adam’s apple, bright red blood pouring through his fingers.

  Shaw turns to me, eyes like glass balls. ‘Wanna be in our gang?’ he spits. I look down to see he’s presenting me with a knife. ‘Finish the fucker off.’

  My mouth falls open. I turn to Bernie. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head. Don’t do it …

  ‘Fuck’s sake, get on with it,’ gasps Pat Regan as the man stumbles back against the wall and begins to slide to the ground.

  ‘Show us you for real,’ shouts Shaw, jabbing the knife at my hand. ‘Cos right now we’re not buying it.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m a businessman, not a thug,’ I say. ‘And I’m not interested in doing business with thugs. Good night.’

  I turn and set off on foot, certain they’ll come after me, hurt me.

  ‘I told you, he’s a cop,’ bellows Shaw. ‘We’ve gotta sort him out now.’

  ‘Leave him,’ barks Bernie, rattled.

  I clench my eyes shut, feel my heart pound in my mouth but refuse to speed up. What I dread most is the sound of a second set of footsteps, despatched to follow me, sort me out. The night air turns into thick, street-light-amber liquid, dragging at my limbs, reducing me to slow motion. My straining ears buzz. Those footsteps sound.

  I make it around the corner and sprint for my life.

  Chapter 52

  Woodberry Housing Estate, North London

  Sunday, July 3, 1994; 04.30

  I bolt all five locks, spring open a Shiraz and pursue wine-based lobotomy with gusto.

  My mobile pings. I click on the message.

  We know you’re a pig.

  Gary’s words from a briefing echo through my head: Imagine what they’d do to a cop?

  I leap to my feet, pace about fast. Shaw must have sent that text. He already levelled the accusation once tonight. My refusal to fillet a total stranger has confirmed it in his mind. He let me escape earlier because they had a Judas drug dealer to sort out. Now they’ve finished with him, Shaw is on his way here to hurt and possibly kill me.

  The landline’s shrill ring snaps my last functioning nerve. I stare at it but don’t pick up. It rings again. And again. I sneak a peek out of the window. Coast clear. Soundlessly I lift the receiver and place it to my ear. Nothing. Then, measured nasal breathing.

  ‘We know who you are,’ hisses a nasal cockney whine I don’t recognise. ‘I’m watching you now.’

  I slam the phone down. That’s it. I’m out.

  Gary takes an age to answer.

  ‘I’m done with this,’ I whisper. ‘Someone knows I’m a cop. I’ve just had a text and a phone call saying so. I’ve got to get away from here now.’

  ‘Calm down, Donal,’ he patronises and I’m sure the fucker’s yawning. ‘Take a deep breath and tell me everything that happened tonight, slowly.’

  I debrief him fully, but fast; because that’s how much I treasure my intact and unflapping nostrils. I wrap up with the chilling twist that Pat Regan’s girlfriend Tania is a colleague of Fintan’s.

  ‘So, it’s not like I can do this one job and disappear into thin air after all, is it Gary? I want out now, before I piss them off any more.’

  Gary hums lowly, giving it all King Solomon. ‘It’ll look more suspicious if you just disappear, Donal. It’s like you’ve failed their test. Now they can trace you, I wouldn’t risk it.’

  ‘What you’re not saying, Gary, is – now they can trace me, I’m fucked. That’s why I don’t want to poke the three bears again. If they do track me down and ask why I’ve made myself scarce, I’ll just repeat what I told them tonight; I don’t want to work with thugs, because I don’t.’

  ‘Before the ultimatum in the car park, did they agree to do business?’

  ‘What? You mean before they decided to dice some poor bastard for kicks? Yes. Yes, they did.’

  ‘Then you’re in, Donal! Top work. They were just coked off their tits by the end. They’ll probably wake up and realise you made the right call. You know what I say, paranoia is a soul eater. They need you more than you need them right now.’

  ‘Seriously, Gary, I’m way out of my depth here. I’m drowning. You must have someone else who can step in.’

  Silence.

  ‘Okay, let me put it another way Gary, if you don’t pull me out right now, I’m doing a runner. You can’t stop me.’

  Gary sniffs. ‘If you do that, I can’t protect you. My bosses will assume you’ve turned, gone native. You’ll have no one, Donal. You’ll be running for the rest of your life. Besides, if you scarper, or I pull you out, we expose Bernie. He’s vouched for you, don’t forget. Now we wouldn’t want to piss him off, would we?’

  Dawn’s breaking outside; harsh reality in here. I’m trapped, just where Gary wants me. I’m beginning to wonder how much of this he’s orchestrated. The coils of my mind rewind, fast, faster, then SNAP! The case stops at Mickey Sheeran and Commander Crossley.

  After a while, it’s impossible to tell who’s handling who … the games they play to get what they want …

  ‘Hang in there for another day, okay?’ urges Gary, adopting his most comforting bedside manner. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow. It’ll look a lot brighter, once you’ve had some kip.’

  ‘Alright,’ I say, but I know I’ll never sleep within these four walls again … at least not voluntarily.

  I take a circuitous walk to Arsenal, checking behind me often. There I find Fintan at his Sunday morning news desk – the kitchen table – chain-smoking and scoop-scoping the days’ papers.

  He pushes an open copy of the Sunday News my way. ‘Judge’s Girl is £100-a-Night Hooker’ screams the front page.

  ‘Classic Sunday paper, pre-roast sleaze,’ announces Fintan, jabbing his finger at Alex Pavlovic’s byline. ‘And a classic Princes of Darkness turnover.’

  I skim through, hoping not to be contaminated by its unabashed tone of relish.

  Twenty-year-old ‘pretty blonde’ Jennifer Garrett had been educated at £30k-a-year Roedean college, worked at Lloyds of London and lived at one of her father’s ‘swanky properties in trendy Marylebone’. She’s turned her back on all that and now ‘touts herself to boozy businessmen at a sleazy Soho cabaret bar.’

  The story concludes with the classic tabloid disclaimer. ‘Back at the hotel room, Jennifer offered full sex for £100. Our reporter made his excuses and left.’

  Fintan leads me into the sitting room, inserts a VHS tape, presses play and provides ball-by-ball commentary. ‘Gerry Woods, all-round surveillance genius, inserted a camera in a bedside lamp. There’s Jennifer looking smoking hot, listing out her terms. Here’s the Prince making his excuses and leaving.’

  Fintan turns to me and waggles his eyebrows. ‘Give it a few minutes. Now who can that be knocking? Why it’s the Prince. We can’t hear him anymore, because he’s removed his radio mic in the hallway, but my bet is he’s now flush with cash and busy revoking those excuses.’

  Suddenly the camera spins, flickers and blacks out. ‘That’s the bedside lamp getting mysteriously knoc
ked over, not the first time the Prince has suffered such misfortune, according to Gerry.’

  He whips out VHS one, slaps in a second.

  ‘But this is the first time I’ve ever found a use for a Corby trouser press. Courtesy of covert camera two, that humping great sea lion is the Prince of Darkness, giving the fragrant Ms Garrett three minutes of joyless, laboured missionary I hope she manages to blank from her mind before she reaches her deathbed.

  ‘As for the Prince, he knows that shagging the mark is a straight red card. He’s too toxic for any other newspapers. So, he’s got to talk to us now, or this video will find its way to our incongruously sanctimonious proprietor.’

  Chapter 53

  Arsenal, North London

  Sunday, July 3, 1994; 12.00

  Gloomy Sunday; no Mam to call, no Matt to cuddle. Tomorrow, he turns twenty-three months. I bet Zoe’s marking this minor milestone today, probably at Sylvia’s. I bet every penny that Chris will be there.

  ‘So Sylvia, Patron Saint of Unshakeable Conviction, how did you find it within your righteous self to so readily forgive the moneyed, titled, upper-class lizard who abandoned your pregnant daughter?’

  It’s been just a week since Zoe decreed me mentally unfit for even visiting rights. If she’s going to cut me out of his life completely, she needs to do better than that. Nothing left to lose, I dial her mobile.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to call you,’ she gabbles.

  I know enough to interpret that as: ‘I’ve made a decision but I haven’t been able to bring myself to break the bad news to you, yet.’

  ‘Work first,’ she says. ‘Whoever held Julie Draper at that shed in Pease Pottage was extremely forensically aware. It’s been virtually wiped clean.’

  I groan. ‘Virtually?’

  ‘There’s no prints or DNA, just clothes fibres, some footprints. Dumped in the scrapyard nearby, they found a couple of empty cans of cellulose paint matching that on the block.’

  ‘Can you text me the exact make of that paint?’ I say, suddenly remembering Pat Regan’s artistic aerosol attack on the man who refused to pay for his spicy pepperoni.

  ‘Of course. What’s got you excited?’

  ‘A substance like that was used in an attack on a drugs dealer last year, and I know the identity of the attackers.’

  ‘Is it these dreadful thugs you’re targeting in Windsor?’ she says, and I swear she’s become posher in the past week. Singed by St. John, perhaps? I let it go.

  ‘The thing is, Zoe, if we can connect Regan and his goons to the Julie Draper kidnap scene, we know they’re already connected to Mickey Sheeran. This could be massive.’

  ‘Just to warn you, the cans came up clean. It’d be purely circumstantial.’

  ‘Well at least it proves it to me.’

  ‘I’m really glad to hear it. But be careful, Donal.’

  ‘It’s nice to have someone worrying about me.’

  ‘I still care for you, Donal, so much. You know that.’

  ‘Consolation prize alert.’

  She just wants to get this over with, so sticks to her script. ‘You’ll always be like a brother to me, and an uncle to Matt.’

  Silence. Deafening, heavily-pregnant silence. Fuck it, I’m not speaking.

  ‘I’ve decided to give Chris another chance.’

  Morrissey’s agonised yowls fill my head. ‘I know it’s over, and it never really began, but in my heart, it was so real …’

  ‘Good,’ I hear myself say, shocked by my composure, more shocked still by an overwhelming feeling of relief. ‘Can I make one final request before I slip out of your life forever?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she says, clearly shocked by my indifference.

  ‘Find out what Chris does for a living, where he gets his money from and why he came back. Oh, and ask him what he would’ve done had you picked me instead of him. If you’re happy with his answers, then you deserve each other and I’m delighted for the three of you.’

  Chapter 54

  Manor House Pub, North London

  Sunday, July 3, 1994; 20.00

  Ron Regan turns up and heads straight to the bar. He’d called earlier, asking for a meet, assuring me he’d be coming alone.

  ‘Bernie doesn’t need to know either,’ he’d said, which troubles me.

  He plants four pints on the table. ‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he rasps. ‘The boys got out of control. They’re under a lot of pressure right now.’

  ‘No disrespect to you, Ron, you seem a straight-up fella, but I can’t be dealing with that. It wrecks my head.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘Look, from now on I’ll make sure we conduct business when business should be conducted, before the pubs open.’

  ‘Listen Ron, I’m not Mary Whitehouse, okay? I don’t mind mixing business with pleasure. But it all got a bit Scarface, wouldn’t you say? I’m not going to stab some lad I don’t even know.’

  ‘They’re wishing they’d made the same decision. The victim, Twomey, is under police guard in hospital. Pizza face has already given a full statement revealing all. The walls are closing in.’

  I turn to Ron. ‘Maybe they wouldn’t be under so much pressure if they didn’t keep hurting people for kicks. They’re not professional.’

  Ron shifts in his seat, cheek muscles twitching. ‘It’s not that. They’ve got a monster deal going down. That’s why they’re on edge.’

  I’m desperate to get out of this whole business. Now, I see my chance. ‘Hang on a minute, Ron. If they’ve got another monster deal going down, then I’m wasting my time here.’

  ‘It’s not E,’ whispers Ron. ‘It’s heroin. If the boys can make this deal happen, they can fuck off to Northern Cyprus, at least for a year or two, until the heat dies down.’

  ‘Christ, how much are they bringing in?’

  ‘100 kilos. But they need your help.’

  I check he’s not joking.

  ‘They’ve got a proposition for you, Donal. If you get on board, you might be able to retire too. They want to run it by you tomorrow morning. Can you come back down to Windsor?’

  ‘Only if it’s on neutral territory, and in public.’

  ‘There’s a pub near the train station called the William the Fourth. Noon. Like I said before, not a word to Bernie.’

  Chapter 55

  Windsor, Berkshire

  Monday, July 4, 1994; 11.00

  I’m so early they could rename the pub the William the Third. But I need time to key myself up, rehearse my messages. I’m hoping they’ll be the last ones I ever have to deliver to these psychos.

  Pat and Ron Regan arrive friendly, Walsh and Shaw hostile. I don’t care; they invited me. If it all goes to plan, they’ll bin me this morning and I can walk away from this kamikaze caper unscathed, physically at least.

  I decide to make my ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech first. ‘You need to understand something, gents. The IRA are in peace talks. As you may or may not know, my father is one of the negotiators. Spooks are doing their damnedest to discredit him. News that I’m running around knifing drug dealers would get me into trouble with people who, with the greatest respect, are far heavier than you.’

  They all nod. Some facts are indisputable; you don’t mess with those Provo loons. Gary came up with that this morning. The next part of my speech is all mine. ‘That makes me toxic right now, so if you choose not to do business with me, I understand.’

  They don’t nod; shit.

  Gary repeatedly pressed home a second point this morning: Don’t tell Bernie about the brown.

  ‘He’ll sniff a massive reward and lose interest in the E. Remember, all we care about is the E. Keep pushing the E.’

  ‘We don’t need your E,’ says Pat Regan.

  ‘Well, sorry to say I’m of no use to you, gents,’ I announce, getting to my feet.

  ‘We need guns.’

  I don’t remember sitting down; I just sort of fell on my arse.

  ‘I’m so
rry?’

  Shaw’s been itching to put it up to me: ‘If you’re who you say you are, you can get us guns.’

  ‘Have I mentioned the peace process? A stack of IRA guns being used for drugs crime in Windsor, the Queen’s home town … I don’t think so.’

  Pat Regan smiles that smile I now recognise as the precursor to a psychotic episode: ‘You get us guns, we buy your E. And we all keep Bernie out of it, because he doesn’t like guns. You don’t get us guns, we send Mr Shaw here round to see your ex and your boy.’

  I freeze.

  Shaw plants some photos on the table. My entire body unfreezes now, and spasms out of sync. I see Zoe and Matt walking out of our flat; Zoe and Matt at the park. Where the hell is Chris? For once, I want him there. His presence would be better than no protection.

  Paranoia is a soul eater. Don’t ever back down … don’t look shocked.

  Fuck, I need Bernie.

  I lean back, away from the photos, and eyeball Shaw. ‘Peace process or not, you harm them, and I’ll get every batshit crazy IRA motherfucker on planet earth to track you down and really fuck you up, you short-arse piece of shit.’

  Shaw’s on his feet. Ron Regan grabs hold of his shoulders. I can’t feel or hear anything now, just an express train screaming between my ears

  ‘We need guns by Thursday morning, latest,’ says Pat, clearly amused.

  ‘You don’t need IRA guns, Pat,’ I protest, sheer rage snuffing out all fear. ‘We’re talking AK-47s here, M16s, stuff designed for massacres …’

  ‘The bigger the better,’ Pat smiles.

  ‘Lead to protect the lead,’ adds Walsh.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I tell Pat, but I’ve lost all sense of what’s going on now, or who I’m supposed to be working for anymore. All I know is; they’ve got me by the balls and there’s no way out.

  Chapter 56

  Windsor, Berkshire

  Monday, July 4, 1994; 11.30

  I brief Gary from the Long Walk, threatening to take a short one right off this project unless he stumps up what I need.