A Matter Of Blood (The Dog-Faced Gods Trilogy)

by Sarah Pinborough

  ‘Don’t worry, son, I’ll live,’ he says. ‘Now sort that one out for me. Like the son I never had.’ His hand doesn’t even shake as he takes a long swallow from a bottle of brandy. Cass wants a drink more now than he’s ever done in his life. His mouth is screaming for it, but Brian doesn’t part with the bottle. His hand doesn’t feel like his own as he slowly pulls out the gun from where it’s tucked into his jeans. He wonders how he can buy more time.

  It’s a fuck-up from the moment his mobile rings at 5 a.m. and he hears George say, ‘Get up. We’ve got a problem. Picking you up in five. Bring your wallet.’

  No, he thinks, as his brain races and Brian and George and the boys stare at him and wait. That wasn’t the fuck-up moment. At that point, shit-scared as he was, he’d known what to do. His hands were shaking and sweating, but he’d quickly switched the sims and dialled his connect while struggling to pull on his trousers.

  The connect didn’t answer. That was the fuck-up point. He should have been there. Cass had cursed into the answer phone. ‘Bring your wallet’ was not good; that was code. Bring your gun. He spat out a message after the beep, though he wasn’t sure how much sense he made. He’d known this moment was coming. He’d felt it building. Everyone got tested to see what they were made of, and there was no way Charlie Sutton would be treated any different, no matter who his uncle was. Charlie was always going be tested, if only because Brian liked him so much. He’d already fucking told the connect as much. Much good that’d done him.

  He’d rung another number even as he waved down the waiting car. His London SO10 co-ordinator’s phone was turned off. Cass had been almost crying in frustration as he took the heavy gun from the back of the wardrobe and dug out the clip from the drawer by his bedside. He checked the bullets. All present and correct. He should have put the original sim back in the phone, just in case, but he was going to have to take the risk and leave the other in. If the connect managed to get his shit together in time he’d need to be able to track the phone to locate Cass. He turned it to silent and hoped for the best. He dry-heaved a couple of times, then pulled out a cigarette to calm his nerves before leaving the flat. Didn’t want the boys to see him shaking. He was smoking hard as he got in the car.

  He didn’t know that the connect had been drinking on duty after a fight with his girlfriend. He’d passed out. Things had been quiet on the Freeman case and he’d got slack. It had never happened before, he swore that. And his SO10 boss had been curled up in bed with a pretty young thing named Nicholas. He’d turned off his phone so his wife wouldn’t be able to interrupt his pleasure. Like the connect, he claimed it had only been for an hour, two at most. Things had been quiet. It was just plain bad luck that it all kicked off while those two rare moments of dereliction of duty collided - luck, or fate, or choices made by people who were too far away from the action. Whatever it was, these things would save Cass’s career, if not those of the men who should have been by their phones . . . his career, if not his soul.

  No one had spoken in the car as it raced through the quiet early morning streets. No one ever talked on the move. You never knew who was listening. But Cass only had to look at George’s face to know this was deep shit. Mac was at the door of the snooker hall to let them in. He was a skinny guy, Brummy born and bred, and Brian had invested in his hall and bought him new tables, given the place a shiny new make-over. All he asked for in return - as well as the obvious cut of the profits - was the occasional use of the space at the back.

  Mac had looked like he’d rather be anywhere than here, and Cass silently sympathised as he followed George through the empty maze of tables towards the room behind the bar. Andy and Jez had been standing guard in the corridor. They’d pointed George in the direction of the storeroom. All tooled up, Cass thought, and when he caught the flash of metal as they followed them into the room and took their places by the door he shuddered inwardly. He’d been right.

  Bile rises up in his chest. It burns like hell. He is standing here looking at Brian and the poor beaten boy tied to a chair in front of him, and he knows without doubt that this is a fuck-up of the first order. It is the mother of all fuck-ups. And it’s all happening too quickly. There’s an unfamiliar man slumped in the corner. Dreadlocks cover his face and blood covers his chest. The only way he’s ever going to move again is if someone hauls his corpse out of here.

  ‘Fucking Yardies,’ George mutters. The man in the corner doesn’t react. The boy in the chair is shaking.

  Cass licks his lips. He must buy more time. ‘What the fuck happened?’ he asks.

  Brian winces. ‘Fuckers come up from London and think they can do us over on a deal. Like they think we’re fucking born yesterday.’ He glares at the boy in the chair. ‘Fucking learned now, haven’t you? Your dad should have just stayed on the fucking boat, you black bastard.’

  Cass can see the fear in the boy’s eyes. He’s sobbing, and sweat shines on his dark forehead as he twists in the chair. He’s fifteen, at the oldest . . . Cass hopes he’s fifteen, but something tells him the kid is just a boy really, no more than fourteen, thirteen even. He’s got dreads, like his dad, but they’re almost fuzzy, still growing in. He’s not old enough to be a player yet - well, not tough enough, at any rate. The bile burns and he swallows it down.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Cass asks.

  ‘All fucking night,’ Brian sniffs. ‘Tell you something, these bastards will take some pain before they talk.’ He laughs, and George and the others join in. It’s not a happy sound.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ He can’t bring himself to laugh with them. His mouth is too dry, and he knows that if he tries, he’ll look nervous and guilty; he’ll be Cass, not Charlie. And this fuck-up is bad enough without adding to it.

  ‘Lad like you needs your beauty sleep. We had it all under control.’ He sips from the brandy again, and the humour goes out of his dark eyes. ‘Now, though . . . thought you might like to do the honours for me, Charlie. Time to take the step up to the next level.’

  ‘You want me to shoot him?’ Cass sounds dumb and he knows it. He can’t seem to stop himself saying, ‘He’s just a kid.’ Time ticks slowly, though his heart is pounding nineteen to the dozen. He wonders if the fucking connect has picked up his message yet. He wonders if police cars are even now racing here. He wonders how much longer he can drag this shit out.

  It’s George who laughs this time. ‘Fuck me, boy, are you a fucking retard or what?’

  He opens his mouth to answer, but it’s Brian who defends him.

  ‘Leave him alone, George. He’s a good kid. He’s just not that bright in the mornings. Late night, was it, Charlie?’

  Cass nods. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘It’s been a long night for all of us,’ Brian says, sounding sympathetic. ‘Look, son, it’s not pretty, but it’s the only messages these Yardie bastards understand. His dad was the stupid fucker that brought him here.’ The boy in the chair moans, but Brian doesn’t even notice, just carries on, ‘Let’s get this thing done, so we can clean this place up and all go home. I need a fucking doctor to get this bastard bullet out of my shoulder.’

  Cass feels all eyes on him. The turning world stops. He thinks of Kate, fast asleep at home in London. She has no idea how much he loves her. He thinks of the rule book, and how all that training has come to fuck-all because there are some situations you just can’t prepare for.

  Finally, he pulls the gun out from where it’s tucked into his belt. He’s sweating all over now, and the metal is warm where it’s been lying against his skin. The room is silent except for the boy’s low sobs and his own breathing, fast and raw, like he’s running even though he’s standing still. He looks at the kid, all snot and tears and grey-black skin. He’s shaking so hard with every sob that even if he was trying to say something, it’s incomprehensible.

  For a moment Cass wonders if the boy had ever thought, even for a moment, that it might end like this when his dad asked him to come along. H
ad he felt like a hard man? Was he planning to go back and brag to his mates on whatever stinking estate they came from? Or was he just a kid, thinking his dad was just a regular guy, like all the other kids’ dads? Cass wonders a lot of things, not least: what the boy would think if he knew a copper was holding his life in his hands.

  Cass raises his arm. It feels like he and this kid are alone, separate from the rest of the room. This moment is theirs, and theirs alone. He moves the slide back and hears it click into place. That surprises him a little, because his fingers are sweating so much he can barely grip the weapon.

  ‘Please, please . . .’ There’s nothing of Trenchtown in the kid’s accent; he’s London through and through. ‘Please don’t - Please . . .’ Cass finds the words hard to decipher through the hitching, panicked voice, though he gets the sentiment. That’s coming through loud and clear.

  ‘Came in here, all Jack-the-fucking-lad. Not so brave now, is he?’ George snorts. Cass hears him and wonders if he’s talking about the poor Yardie kid or him. The Yardie, of course. He wonders if Charlie is slipping away on the outside as much as he is on the inside. He’s running out of time. He swallows hard. This is a different rule book now.

  ‘Charlie?’ Brian’s voice isn’t so soft now. ‘How can I trust you if you don’t do this, Charlie?’ Cass can hear danger, loud and clear. Brian Freeman has vouched for him. He’s taken him under his wing. If Cass doesn’t do this thing, then at the very best he’s out, but Brian will feel like a mug, so who knows how far he’ll go? He’ll start to look into Charlie Sutton’s imaginary life, and Cass knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Brian will figure the set-up out, and then he’ll come after Cass with all he’s got. And Cass won’t die quickly, not like this boy. Cass knows this, because he knows Brian.

  All this has run through Cass’s fevered head in a heartbeat. The police aren’t coming, he knows that now, and there is no way he can shoot George and Jez and Andy before one of them has filled him full of holes. He can see goosebumps rising on the back of his hand. This is survival, pure and simple. Him or the Yardie kid, fuck the police, fuck everything outside. There is only this decision: whose life is more important?

  He looks into the eyes of the boy in the chair. They haven’t changed; the kid is still terrified; his eyes are pleading with Cass to save him. He might be speaking, but Cass can’t hear him. The boy has no Glow, that’s what he’s thinking now. He doesn’t know where that contemptuous thought comes from, or what the hell it means, but he thinks it anyway. He has no Glow. Somehow that seems important, but it’s the thought that follows that is the decision-maker: I value my life more than his. I am more important. It’s cold and clinical, and it calms his heart.

  He pulls the trigger. He doesn’t even shut his eyes.

  The noise fills the room and in the echo Cass is lost. The boy is no longer recognisable.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Charlie,’ Brian breathes, ‘you shot him in the fucking face! That’s fucking disgusting!’

  The eyes that had been staring so desperately at him are gone, replaced by a hollow, shiny red cavern. Small fragments of bone are protruding here and there from the mess framed by soft, fuzzy dreadlocks. After a moment the body slumps forward. Time ticks out in the drip of blood. Cass slowly lowers the gun.

  He’s still staring at the body when the door bursts open.

  Mac stares at the wreck in the chair for a moment, then looks around. He has a more urgent fear. ‘Fucking coppers!’ he shouts. ‘Outside!’

  Cass thinks he should laugh, but he can’t bring himself to move. One squeeze of his finger and his life has changed irrevocably. He can almost feel his insides rotting. He drops the gun.

  It’s several seconds before he realises George has his arm.

  ‘Take Brian and get out the back! Charlie! Mate, we need you! Go!’

  Gunshots ring out and now he looks up. He expects George to have no face either, but George is alive and sweating and hauling his brother onto his feet and leaning him on Cass. And then he’s gone, leading the way. Brian is heavy, and he’s wounded. Cass has to half-drag him to the back, where he leans him against the wall so he can open the fire-escape door. Despite his confidence, it’s obvious Brian’s lost a lot of blood. He is very weak.

  ‘Why the fuck didn’t you go to the fucking doctor’s, Brian?’ Cass finds he cares. He’s a little surprised at that.

  ‘Business before pleasure, son.’ Brian coughs out a weak laugh.

  Dawn is turning into morning as they half-jog, half-stumble into the parking lot. Cass expects to see armed police everywhere, but for the moment they are alone. They are halfway to the wall when the first car screeches in and policemen start screaming at them to get down on the ground, hands on heads, chuck away your weapons. Brian grips him hard, pulling him in by the neck and holding him so close that their noses are almost touching. Cass can smell brandy and sickness on him.

  ‘Run, Charlie,’ Brian whispers. He pushes Cass away, and immediately crumples to the floor. ‘Run, Charlie!’ he says again.

  And Cass does. The obligatory shots are fired amidst the calls for him to stop, but he knows they won’t hit him. As he scrambles over the wall, he takes a minute to glance back. Brian is grinning under the three plain-clothes who are pinning his damaged body down. On the other side, Cass hits the ground and starts running. Tears stream down his face, and he can’t bring himself to stop.

  Cass thought it was sirens that woke him. He sat upright in the dark and turned this way and that, his heart pounding fiercely, looking for the blue flashing lights to burst through the curtains. There was nothing but the grey early morning light creeping around the edges of the heavy material . . . and the steady hum of his vibrating phone. Who the hell would be calling him so early? Claire. Had they found another body, or got a break in the case?

  He pulled the handset free from its charger and frowned. There was no name on the screen, and the number didn’t look familiar. When he answered there was nothing at first except for a faint buzzing.

  ‘Hello?’ he repeated. Maybe it was a bad line.

  The buzzing smoothed into soft breathing.

  ‘Were you asleep?’ The voice was smooth, easy on the ear.

  ‘If so, I’m sorry. I don’t sleep so well these days and the mornings are always so beautiful I hate to miss them.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I didn’t see you on the news. It was supposed to be you. I thought I had that all sorted out.’

  Cass’s skin tingled. The man was talking about the press conference.

  ‘I asked who you were.’

  ‘You know who I am.’ A weary sigh filled Cass’s head, and the other end seemed to buzz for a moment before it faded. He felt wide awake.

  ‘Are you Mr Bright?’

  ‘Oh, he’d love that.’ The caller’s laugh was dry, melodic, and somehow ancient. ‘Even he might smile at that thought.’

  ‘You know him?’

  Again the sigh. ‘He looks for me, I watch him. I couldn’t resist playing with him.’

  Cass hadn’t even turned on the bedside lamp. He was locked into the phone call. Sleep and the dreams of the night had fallen away and his brain felt like it was on fire. He wished he had a pen and paper handy, but made notes in his mind instead. Not Bright - but knows him - at least knows of him.

  ‘Do you believe that life is sacred, Cassius Jones?’

  Every hair on Cass’s body stood upright. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe once, a long time ago. Some lives, anyway.’ There was that slightest edge of humour that made Cass wonder if he was being mocked slightly. ‘But you know what I think now; I’ve spelled it out clearly enough.’

  ‘Nothing is sacred?’

  ‘It would appear that way.’

  ‘Anyone who heard the press conference could have that information.’ Cass kept his own voice light and conversational. ‘Tell me something no one outside the investigation would know.’

  The man tutted. ‘So untrusti
ng. Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t.’ He sighed again, and this time there was something in that sound that made Cass shudder. ‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ he continued, and this time there was almost sadness in the voice. ‘That was nothing to do with me. Or us. No one would hurt family.’

  Us? Family? ‘Tell me who you are.’

  ‘I am the Man of Flies.’

  Cass’s breath hitched. No one knew about the fly eggs. His gut screamed at him that this was their man; this was the killer they were hunting. He had thought so right from the opening of the conversation, but this gave him proof, here was something he could take back to the brass. If they’d let him in the bloody building, of course.

  ‘Don’t trust them, Cassius Jones. They have their own agenda.’

  ‘Who?’ Cass glued the voice to his memory. It was almost completely free of any hint of accent, and it tickled his ears like sandpaper against wood. It was strange and compelling.

  ‘Don’t spoil the game. One thing at a time.’ Somewhere in the background Cass thought he heard birds. Whoever he was, he was outside. ‘Think of it as a series of tests. Testing people is so interesting, don’t you think? They’re so often found wanting. They prize nothing other than themselves.’ The buzzing overwhelmed his voice for a moment and Cass flinched. What was that? A bad line? It sounded more like insects flying around the handset . . . Flies, he thought. It sounds like flies.

  ‘Is that why nothing is sacred?’ he asked when the noise had faded.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  And then the caller was gone.

  Cass grabbed his cigarettes and ran downstairs, rummaging through the kitchen drawers until he found a pen and a notepad. He brought up the number and saved it, and wrote it on the pad, followed by everything the caller had said. Who was it that he shouldn’t trust? And what had he meant about Christian’s death, that it was nothing to do with him? Not just him, them. Was he saying that someone had driven Christian to do what he did? Or was there a more sinister hint that maybe Christian and his family had been murdered? Someone had certainly planted that evidence against him. The question now was: did they kill his brother and his family as well?