Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  When the doctors finally signed his discharge documents, it was to Carole’s house, he could no longer think of it as their house, that the ambulance took him. It was only temporary she told him, he had to understand that and things wouldn’t be easy for either of them. He’d have to live downstairs until his leg was able to support the prosthetic limb and with her hand she wouldn’t be able to help him out physically to any great extent. Money was tight, too, but there was nothing unusual in that. It was a battle Carole had faced throughout her married life. She was now back at work, which helped. Of course, with her hand her manager had had to arrange to move her out of the typing pool and onto the factory floor, with a consequent reduction in wages, but it was good for her to be back to a semblance of her old life.

  Micky had had one hell of a fight with those bastards at the D.S.S. to claim any benefits for himself. At first it didn’t seem that he existed, he wasn’t on their computer database, which they took as the only positive proof of intelligent life. He had never been what you might call a regular contributor to the National Insurance fund. But in the end, after more than one visit to the house to ensure that he wasn’t just another disembodied voice trying to make a fraudulent claim, and many threats and much screaming in return, he eventually received a giro which Carole was able to encash for him at the nearest Post Office. It wasn’t much but with what they had between them, they wouldn’t starve and the council was receiving the rent regularly enough to keep them almost happy.

  He’d had his first fittings for the artificial leg before he left St. Thomas’ Hospital. When he saw the limb for the first time it re-opened all the floodgates of his emotions and the tears began to flow incessantly. But this was merely the residue of his fears and self loathing. He was over the worst of them by this time. And although it hurt with a rare, deep pain, a pain so exquisite that he sometimes had to give vent to it and scream at the top of his voice, the amount of time he could spend on his new leg gradually increased with practice as did his mobility. By now he had been able to abandon the stick and was walking well enough to make his way, with a slow, stiff legged limp, out of the house on occasions and down to the paper shop or to the pub. Things were progressing, as the doctors liked to say, as well as could be expected. He could buy the Sunday papers once more and now he was able to look throughout them without having to get Carole to vet them first to make sure that there were no graphic pictures of African landmine victims to, without warning, at the turn of a page, force him to confront the reality of his injury. He could look at his fellow patients in the physiotherapy sessions without feeling the need to avert his gaze. What had been to Micky Johnston, his acceptance of his leg had finally started to be blessed with the casual, unthinking acceptance of the commonplace, the everyday. Like Don Bellini he too had grown and become something more, something greater than he had been before. He still did not know how he was going to get to Bellini, he had heard rumours that he had lost the plot. That he was running out of control. He half expected that someone else would get to him before he was ready to and that worried him. It worried him a lot – it had to be him. He needed to be the one to exact his own retribution. But, for Doyle, his plan was already forming. He owed Doyle. He owed him big time. It wasn’t just for himself, it was for Carole, too. And the new Micky Johnston, unlike the old version, would always settle his debts.

  He was dozing on his chair with the incessant, comforting drone of daytime T.V. that had become his constant companion when he heard the piercing, metallic ring of the front door bell. He looked down at his watch. It was already 3.30. He was half an hour later. Never mind, it didn’t matter much, they still had plenty of time. Carole wouldn’t be back from work for a good couple of hours yet.

  He rose from the chair, still gingerly. The screaming pain of the early days had transformed itself into a muted dull ache but, even so, Johnston, had learned to take even simple activities, like rising from a chair, cautiously. He made his way to the door with a rolling, almost nautical gait, swaying slightly, like a drunken man in a strong wind. His movements were deliberate and mechanical. They would improve with practice. This he had been told although he wasn’t quite sure that he believed it. He opened the door and welcomed his visitor warmly.

  “Good to see you, Tommy. Thanks for coming. I don’t get too many visitors these days.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Micky. You doing alright?” Tommy was careful not to say how well he looked.

  “I’m getting by. You know how it is. Come in and sit down.” Micky returned to his chair and slumped back into it, easing himself down as gently as he could. He didn’t bother turning off the T.V. and seemed to keep casting an occasional glance at it as they spoke, as if he was worried about missing whatever banal trivia might appear next. Tommy sat facing him, on the old faded blue velour sofa which had seen better days long before Carole had bought it and now sat resplendent in its faded luxury with various odd coloured patches on the arms where the material had worn through.

  “I was surprised to hear from you” Tommy admitted.

  “You haven’t said anything about it to Bellini, have you? Or Doyle?” Johnston looked for reassurance.

  “No, of course not. I told you I wouldn’t. It wouldn’t have been a good idea for me to mention your name. Not the way things are at the moment.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard things are getting bad. I’ve still got one or two friends left.” In reality he had none. “It’s true then. Bellini’s out of his tree?”

  “Half way down at the very least. It’s all over the manor. Common knowledge. Kurtis Robinson – you know him? Well, he went to do him just before Christmas but Frank Doyle took his head off. I tell you, Micky, it’s all getting out of hand.”

  “That’s why I wanted to see you, Tommy. I’m worried. As far as I was concerned this whole business was all over.” Micky was well rehearsed, he had gone over this conversation a thousand times in his head, rehearsing it with the same attention to detail that Antony Sher might give to a lead at the R.S.C. “He got the money back and I was taught a lesson. Well and truly. It was all in the past to me. But now. God knows what Bellini might do.”

  “There’s nothing I can do to help you, Mick. I’m on the fucking line myself. Every day. If he hears I’ve even been here, he’ll go ape shit. The man’s beyond paranoid.”

  “Don’t give me that crap, Tommy. I don’t want much from you. Just a favour. Only a little one – it won’t put you out. I need you to get me a gun. Bullets, too. I don’t care what sort as long as it shoots.”

  “What the fuck are you planning, Micky? Don’t be stupid. You can’t take on Bellini.”

  “Whose being stupid now? Of course I can’t take him on. I’m not planning anything like that” he lied. “I know I couldn’t stand up to him. What could I do in this state? For God’s sake I’m a fucking cripple, man.” He banged the palm of hand down hard on his artificial leg and it there was a hollow ring as the carbon fibre resonated as if to amplify his words. “And you were involved in this as much as Bellini and Doyle. Don’t try to deny it, I’m not stupid. You owe me, Tommy. All I want is an insurance policy. Self defence. Just in case they try to finish me off for good. Carole’s scared. She’s really, really frightened. And so am I. Who’s to say he won’t just come round, pay us a little visit. From what I’ve heard, that’s his style nowadays. Or his pet monkey Doyle, he’d shoot his own grandmother if Bellini told him to.”

  Tommy conceded the point but he was still far from sure. He had no wish to put himself on the line for this little scumbag. “I don’t know, Micky” he said, with an overt reluctance.

  “It’d be a terrible shame if Bellini were to hear that you’d been paying me social visits, wouldn’t it? I don’t suppose he’d be too happy.” Blackmail seemed to suit Johnston. Perhaps he had missed his vocation in life.

  What a little bastard, Tommy thought. He knew that he shouldn’t have come. He should have just hung up when he heard who it was on the other end of the
phone. But he had been too soft. “OK. OK. I suppose I can sort you out with something but it won’t be cheap.”

  “Don’t try that on me, Tommy. You know I haven’t got any money. And you owe me, remember. You can lay your hands on a gun easily enough. They’re not exactly in short supply at the Mount of Venus, are they. And from what I’ve heard, Doyle’s got a fucking arsenal at his place. Borrow one from him.” Johnston liked the sound of that. It would be very apt.

  “Oh yeah, that’d be a good idea, wouldn’t it?” Tommy said ironically.

  Micky laughed. Just a little. “You’ll find me something, Tommy. Doesn’t matter what. Anything will do, just so long as it shoots straight. I know you can do it. I’ve got every faith in you.”

  Tommy wished that he didn’t have. “Alright. Alright. I’ll see what I can do.” He knew that laying his hands on a gun wouldn’t be a problem and he would make sure nothing would lead back to him. And what if Micky was mad enough to have a go at Bellini? In the best case, the stupid little fuckwit might get lucky and kill him. Tommy felt that his life would a whole lot easier and a damn sight safer then. In the worst case, Bellini would take him out. Or Doyle. Or he’d do it himself if he had to. In any case nothing could come back to haunt him. No-one knew Johnston had even been in touch with him and the shooters that he could get hold of were not the sort that could be traced. He probably really did want it just in case Bellini turned psycho on him. It wasn’t outside the bounds of possibility.

  “Well done.” Johnston continued, pleased with his fait accompli. Now, how about a nice cup of tea?”

  “No thanks,” Tommy retorted harshly harshly, “I’ve spent long enough here already. I’ll let myself out.”

  “Tommy,” Johnston summoned him back coaxingly just as he was opening the door. “I need it tomorrow. No later. Carole’s out from half eight. Bring it round any time after that.”

  What a cheeky bastard, thought Tommy as he slammed Micky’s front door a little harder than was necessary and opened his car door with the remote control key from across the pavement. He started up his Mondeo, indicated left and pulled away from the kerb. Sometimes it seemed that the whole bloody world was giving him instructions.

  Some fifty yards further up the road, behind Tommy, a second car started its engine and pulled out into the traffic, keeping a discreet distance behind. The man at the wheel of the ageing, anonymous white B.M.W. 3 series coupe, which served, in effect, as Bellini’s pool car, had known exactly where to go. Francis Doyle had been to Cumberland Road before. He had seen him clearly. You couldn’t mistake Tommy’s obscenely red hair. The report had been right then. Bellini would owe Stavros a nice drink but he doubted if the debt would ever be settled. That sort of good practice had died out, ages ago now, it seemed. It had been simple chance. Nothing more than that. But it is chances that can change history. And this was the sort of chance that the tenuous thread of men’s lives hang upon. Tommy had been alone in the pub that lunchtime, he had got there early, the others hadn’t arrived yet. As far as he could remember, he hadn’t even said Micky’s name. He didn’t think he had, but he must have done. The call to his mobile had been so unexpected that it just came out in surprise; “Micky Johnston? I didn’t expect to hear from you” that sort of thing. But Stavros was a sneaky little bastard. He wasn’t the sort to miss a trick, especially if he thought that it would stir up a little trouble and perhaps raise a little cash. He’d kept his ears wide open and had taken everything in; putting two and two together and coming up, quite correctly for once, with four. One of Bellini’s best boys was meeting up with Micky Johnston. That’s a turn up for the books. There’d have to be something in that. A few shekels perhaps. He’d rushed to Doyle, who, for once in his life played it cool. No point in telling Bellini and getting Tommy killed. Not yet, there might be nothing in it. In the reliability stakes, Stavros was hardly Reuters News Agency. Besides, if he thought about it, he almost quite liked Tommy, but then, most people did. He didn’t want it to be true. But if it was true, why?, Doyle thought. Tea and sympathy, perhaps? Tommy was a nice bloke but that was hardly his style. And he surely must have known that it wouldn’t matter to Bellini. Tommy was enmeshed in a wicked game, a dangerous game, a game of chance in which the odds were stacked heavily against him. But like the true gambler, he kept on playing regardless.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s a mixed up, messed up, buggered up world when you can’t tell the police from the criminals.

  Charlotte Ashworth sat on a bench outside the café on the south western corner of the Serpentine. It was nearly mid-day and although the lake was grey and uninviting as she waited, the sun had finally broken through the cloud and Hyde Park had, at last, started to look a little more hospitable. He was late. She had been here, at the same time for the last three days and had became increasingly worried as her expected contact each time failed to arrive. She watched as a groundsman on the opposite bank of the lake drove his powerful tractor mower across the grass like a rally car, turning far too sharply and accelerating as fast as his vehicle would allow. The noise of the tractor carried across the stillness of the lake, above the chatter of children and elderly couples sedately strolling, hand in hand. She tried to let her mind wander, just for a moment to escape the brutal realities of twenty first century London. She imagined the Regency beaus and dandies parading along Rotten Row running behind her. She imagined herself as the object of their grand passions and heaving desires. She tried for a moment to imagine but failed. That wasn’t her, dressed up in bonnet and crinolines at the constant beck and call of some second rate Mr. Darcy. No, she’d do better to think what she would do to the little shit when he finally turned up. Pull him out, that’s what, if she had any sense. Ashworth didn’t know what was going on but she knew that something was wrong. That much was becoming increasingly obvious and she certainly didn’t like it. She was supposed to be the one in charge and here he was running around like some loose canon, breaking contacts and not filing reports. Those that he did file told her nothing, absolutely nothing. She would crucify the little bastard, she thought. There was no way the glittering star of her career was going down the pan for him or anybody else. She didn’t know the half of it. It wasn’t her fault. Not really. OK maybe she had given him too much of a free rein but that was the nature of the beast on jobs like this. You had to trust the man on the ground, he was the one in amongst the action – after all he had to think on his feet, improvize and act for himself. He wasn’t in a position where he could come running to her every time he encountered a problem, even if he had the inclination. But what would happen if the trust that she put in him was misplaced?

  Silently, a young man sat down beside her. He was tall, dressed casually in sand coloured cargo pants and a blue bomber jacket. He could be spotted at two hundred yards by the great shock of his ginger hair. It was so violent that you could call it, without too much exaggeration, orange. In his childhood, his mother had insisted that it be kept short, shaved close to the scalp. That had always rankled with him, he was proud of the distinctiveness of his hair, it made him stand out, made him special and now he wore it long. Today its natural curls were pulled back into an unkempt pony tail.

  “Where the hell have you been, Tommy? Why no word? You know the rules.” Ashworth started aggressively, as she meant to go on. She was angry with him and made no attempts to hide it. Tommy knew that he was late but he couldn’t tell her about the package he had had to drop off to Micky Johnston in Cumberland Avenue earlier that morning.

  “And you know as well as I do that the rules can’t apply when you’re in undercover, not when you’re as deep in as me. The rule book has to go out of the window, if you want to stay alive. If they want me to run errands, I run errands. If they want me to babysit someone. I’ve got to do it. That’s why I haven’t been able to make the rendezvous for the last few days. Ma’am.” Her title was added pointedly as an afterthought and there was more than a hint of sarcasm in the way it he spat it out. A
shworth could tell. Its formality seemed strangely incongruent to both their situation and their conversation.

  Detective Sergeant Tommy Windsor had come to Ashworth’s squad especially for this job. He was a good man. His record proved that and every one of his former colleagues that she had spoken to gave him a glowing report. He had no family and had successfully completed all the training. That’s why he volunteered for the job. He also had a recommendation from her boss, Chief Superintendent Goodwin, to back him up. Everyone agreed that he had been the right man for the job. But he’d had ten monthsin situnow, nearly a year to get noticed by doing a few menial jobs on the periphery of the firm. After this time, any trained copper worth his salt should have been able to get close to Bellini. But Tommy hadn’t been able to get a sniff of anything at all. For all he could prove to Ashworth, Bellini might be the legitimate pillar of society that he always claimed to be. All Tommy had been able to produce was rumour and conjecture. Not much more than hearsay. Definitely nothing that they could use to put him away for more than a few months at best, maybe not even that with the quality of his lawyers, and that was not the purpose of this operation. She wanted, no needed, Bellini to go away for good. Of course, Ashworth knew only what Tommy told her, his official line, what his reports said. But she wasn’t stupid. Tommy wasn’t her only source of information about Bellini and her informants had started using Tommy’s name with increasing regularity. Nothing concrete, of course. There rarely was around Bellini, that was always the problem. But she had heard enough to make her start to worry. And Tommy’s reports that had always been on her desk dead on time were now starting to drift in late and, latterly, on occasions not at all. Their appointments were made and broken without word. Her initial concerns were beginning to develop into something more deep seated. If she’d known half the reality of the situation, she’d have known that she was finished in the Force, that Tommy Windsor had flushed her fast-track, gilded career down the toilet of his own ambition. It had started out that way, at least.