Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  Doyle smiled and immediately wished that he hadn’t. “We all trusted him. None of us could ever have dreamed that he’d do this. He was very plausible. That’s why he was so good. He took us all in. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he hadn’t cooked all that shit up with Kurtis Robinson, as well. I wondered if he had done it all on his own, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I did. You could be right again, I suppose. You are a wise man, Francis. But all that’s in the past. Now, thanks to you, we’re a happy little team once more.”

  Doyle couldn’t tell if he was being serious and changed the subject, hurriedly. “But what do you think he was doing with Micky Johnston? Two visits in as many days. That’s a bit much. Don’t you think?”

  “He must have been trying to get him to talk. For the lovely Miss Ashworth. That would explain the parcel he took him. Money, payment in advance for services to be rendered. It’s got to be” Bellini was certain. It was the only thing that could explain it. “Don’t worry. You’ve got no problems there, Frank.” He reassured, implicitly drawing a veil over who had instructed Doyle to pull the trigger. “He’s had his chance to talk months ago and I knew he wouldn’t take it. He didn’t have the balls then and he hasn’t got them now. He’s just trying to pocket a bit of cash for himself. He’ll give them nothing in return.” Neither of them remembered or chose to remember that Stavros had said that it was Micky who had phoned Tommy, not the other way around, and that Tommy had seemed genuinely surprised to hear from him. Bellini was thinking about the bigger picture nowadays, he no longer focused much on detail, and Francis Doyle was generally more comfortable when all the thinking was left to someone else.

  “So you think it was money in the package? The one Tommy handed over to him” Doyle questioned him, knowing that he was covering old ground but he wanted to make absolutely certain that there could be nothing more insidious afoot.

  “Johnston’ll take their money, won’t he? He’s always been good at that. He’ll string them along for as long as possible and then, when the cash is all spent on cheap whores and cheaper booze, he’ll suffer from selective amnesia. He’ll be too scared to go out of his front door once he hears about the sad demise of poor, unfortunate little Tommy. And I want him to hear, Frank. I want everyone to hear. I want it on the national bloody news. I’m serious.” Doyle could see that it was. “No-one fucks with Don Bellini and gets away with it.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just keep an eye on him today. Wherever he goes, you’re ten paces behind. Keep it normal. Make it subtle, if you can, don’t let him know you’re there, I don’t want you to scare him off. But make damn sure that he does nothing to compromise us. Don’t hit him. Not yet. Call me on my mobile tonight. At ten o’clock. I’ll have your instructions ready for you then. We’ll take care of him tomorrow. We won’t leave it any later than that.”

  To both Bellini and Doyle, Tommy Windsor was no more than a dirty, cheap little Judas, betraying his friends with the bitter sting of a kiss, for thirty pieces of silver and immunity from prosecution. Had they known the truth, they would have been more concerned. Even Bellini might have worried.

  “Frank, you’ve done very well. I’m very proud of you. You handled things well, professionally, just like I would have done.” He added “Thank you” almost as an afterthought and was suddenly dismissive as if he regretted having to say it, to admit that he was even slightly beholden to anyone at all. In reality, though, it was his primal desires, his deepest needs, that began to rise up through his subconscious and hit the surface like a geyser suddenly spouting its blisteringly hot sputum high into the air, that made him seek solitude. “Off you go now and keep that little bastard under close tabs. Oh, and leave a note on the desk outside that I’m not to be disturbed.”

  Doyle nodded and silently made his exit. Before the door had even closed Bellini had started to roll up the sleeve of his striped City shirt and was feeling blindly in his desk draw for the comfort of his syringe and for the blessed release it afforded him.

  * * *

  It proved to be a quiet day for Francis Doyle. Tommy didn’t seem to have much to do, Bellini certainly hadn’t summoned him, and he didn’t surface before eleven thirty. Doyle had waited patiently outside his flat, checking interestedly every time the front door opened or shut as the house’s various occupants went about their lawful or not so lawful business. After that, there was good hour and half waiting outside the Blind Dog while Tommy was inside enjoying its liquid hospitality and a decent helping of shepherd’s pie. From there he finally went into the Mount of Venus and, ten minutes later Doyle was able, at last to come in out of the cold for the first time since the early morning. But still there was nothing doing. Bellini hadn’t been seen all day. Thank god it was one of his quiet days. Everyone was grateful and one or two of the lads voiced the opinion openly. After an hour gainfully studying the racing form, Nate and the one or two others who had reported in, made their carefully considered selections and Tommy volunteered to venture out and place their bets on the last race of the day at Kempton Park.

  “I’ll come with you, Tommy. I could do with stretching my legs.” It would be easier to go with him openly than to have to tail him, Doyle thought.

  “Sure, Frank. It’ll be nice to have a bit of company. I didn’t know you were into the horses.” Doyle shook his head. He had never had enough money to be able to afford charitable donations to the bookmakers’ benevolent fund.

  The pair casually strolled the short walk, no more than a couple of blocks to the nearest office of Ladbroke’s. There was still a chill in the air. It seemed to be lingering this year. It matched the mood in south London. Doyle wondered if it really could be due to the global warming. He had seen some poncy scientist on telly say that because of global warming, ironically England could get colder rather than hotter. It was something to do with half of Greenland melting and diverting the Gulf Stream. That’s what he thought the man had said but he couldn’t really be sure. He tried to explain to Tommy but failed miserably. He hadn’t understood it himself and he had turned over to watch the Bill half way through instead. That would teach him for watching Channel 4. They’ve never been the same since they got rid of that red triangle, years ago, the one which told you that a film might be worth watching. What’s it to me anyway, he thought. If it’s true, he’d buy another jumper. He unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and casually threw the wrapper onto the pavement. He didn’t think to offer a piece to Tommy.

  They passed the blackened window of the bookies. It was a place on the margins of society astheywould like it to be. The moral minority, so keen on dictating and forcing their own standards on everyone. It was as if its corrupting influence has to be masked, obscured from the sight of an easily shocked society by opaque glass, Second World War blackout paint and shabby paintings of what Doyle believed to be horses, greyhounds and men in gaudy nineteen seventies style football kits. As they opened the door they were hit by a thick blue plume of tobacco smoke and the heat of betrayed anticipation. Doyle spluttered and could feel himself beginning to perspire with the sudden increase in temperature. He wasn’t used to this, he only smoked when he was in prison. He didn’t like to smoke, he never enjoyed it, but it was written somewhere, deep within the small print of the penal code that you had to. Tommy thrust him the scrawled note he had made back in Bellini’s office, with the unintelligible names of over bred and under priced equine stock and he handed over a small wad of cash.

  “You write out the slips, mate. I need a Jimmy” he explained and headed towards the dark recesses of the corner of the room.

  Doyle took what was offered quietly. He didn’t like to admit that he did not know how to write out a betting slip and took his place at the small counter that ran around the wall to look for inspiration. He found none and turned his gaze instead to the wide variety of life assembled there; the long term unemployed desperately celebrating giro day by giving as much of their benefit as possible to the bookmaker
rather than to their wives and kids; the lads from the nearby offices who had popped out un-noticed to place a quick bet and relieve the awful tedium of their soul numbing routine; the elderly lady and her shopping trolley investing a pound or two from her pension on a Yankee that had no hope of ever coming off; a local publican, flush with his takings, betting far too much and occasionally winning; a young man disinterestedly feeding the insatiable mouth of a fruit machine, oblivious to the expectant chatter of the punters and the bank of T.V.’s each telling a different story of triumph and disaster. Doyle didn’t like this place much. He could see that the owners had clearly spent quite a considerable sum on the décor, trying to shake off their somewhat seedy image. There were nice chairs and a coffee table on which to put your indeterminable drink from the vending machine. There was even a potted plant. Or Doyle thought that it was probably a potted plant. The room was spacious but somehow it managed to seem crowded even when it wasn’t. It had probably been quite nice when it had first been done up, he thought. For the first day or so.

  For Tommy, of course, all this was a familiar sight. He had spent more time in places like this that he cared to remember. He thought back to his dad illegally sneaking him in for a quick look round when he was kid before making him stand outside with a Coke while he watched the races live on a Saturday afternoon. Places like this brought back good memories to him, warm memories of a happy childhood but he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of sentiment as he walked through the door marked toilets. He had business to attend to.

  The gents was on his right and the little used, but statutorily required ladies was on his left. He walked straight past both and rapped on the ‘Private’ sign of a functional, white painted panel door.

  “Come in.” The voice was weak and effeminate. It was totally out of place coming from the man sitting at the desk. He was big, and looked as though he knew how to handle himself and indeed, not least because of his voice, he had had to do so on numerous occasions. His was a weather beaten face, lined with experience, good as well as bad. He had seen a lot of life, the seedy side and a good deal of laughter too. This room, like the main one was smoky and too hot.

  “Hello, Charlie. You got it for me?”

  “Course I have, Tom.” Charlie pulled a small brown paper bag from the drawer of his desk and handed it to Tommy who deposited it deep into the recesses of his jacket. “Take the weight off your feet. Have a drink?”

  “I can’t. I’ve got company outside. I’m just paying a visit to your loos now.”

  Charlie took the ten twenty pound notes that were offered to him and slid it trustingly into his trouser pocket without examining them. After all, Tommy had one of those faces you knew that you could trust.

  ““Enough said. Just as a matter of interest, what do you want it for, Tommy?”

  “Kinky sex games, Charlie, what else?” he said with a smile playing on his lips and a twinkle in his eye. Their always seemed to be a child like sense of mischief about Tommy and as he smiled, Charlie laughed back. You’d never get a straight answer out of him, either. It was probably best that way.

  “I wouldn’t put that past you” Charlie said good naturedly and this time it was Tommy’s turn to laugh.

  “Look, I’ve got to dash. I’ll see you around. And thanks a lot for this.”

  On his way out, he pushed open the door to the gents, just to make sure Doyle wasn’t in there. He wasn’t and moving back through into the business area he saw him, standing motionless, surveying all before him as if it were a work in Tate Modern. Tommy thought for a second, perhaps it could be. If Tracy Emin had put together the assemblage of vagabonds, misfits and the hopeful, Charles Saatchi could probably be talked into paying a hundred thousand or so for it.

  “Are we all sorted, Frank?”

  “I thought I’d leave it for you.” Doyle refused to admit that he was out of his depth.

  “Oh, right. No worries.” Tommy took back the hand written note presaging the future prosperity of the Bellini’s inner circle and wrote out four individual betting slips. “Are you not going to have a flutter then, Frank? Rock of Ages, that’s who I’m on. It’s worth a tenner each way. It’ll cleft for me.” Doyle shook his head. “A fiver, then?”

  “I’m not a gambling man. You know that.”

  “You’re never going to get rich with that attitude, Francis.” Doyle suspected that he was probably right.

  Tommy took the slips to the counter at the back of the room. He asked for the odds on two of the horses and took them. The teller duly stamped them and he handed over the cash. The two men once again braved the cold and made their way back to the rear entrance of the Mount of Venus.

  There was rising excitement as they watched the race on the fourteen inch portable in the outer office. Even Doyle could feel the tension. The picture on the small set was none too clear but Nate could see well enough that Peaceful Dove was more than three lengths ahead and was stretching out with only the final flight of hurdles left to clear. By the time she crossed the finish line he was shouting louder than the commentator.

  “Yes! Thirty quid at seven to one! Yes! Yes! Yes! Come to daddy! The drinks are on me tonight boys!” His excitement had got the better of him for a moment.

  “For Christ’s sake, Nate, keep it down. Bellini’s still in there.” Tommy had brought him back to the real world – he killed the young man’s euphoric sense of joy with the mere mention of their lord and master’s name. Nate wisely became suddenly taciturn. “You don’t want him to take you off the job do you?” Tommy tousled his hair playfully, like a favourite uncle, to show that there were no hard feelings and Nate smiled once again thinking of his windfall. Two hundred and ten quid, he calculated. Very nice too.

  “You had a tip, didn’t you? And you didn’t let us in on it. Jammy bugger.”

  “It’s just skill, Tommy, a gift I’ve been given. Didn’t you know, I’m a golden child! I just can’t lose.”

  “Yeah, not much, King Midas” Tommy said ironically as he tore up his own slip and tossed it vaguely towards the general direction of the bin.

  “Right” Nate said as he rose to his feet. “I’m off to get my wages from Ladbroke’s, then who’s for a beer? My shout.”

  “Not me, mate” Tommy replied. “There’s nothing doing here so I’m going to get off home early.”

  No-one even thought to ask Francis Doyle if he felt like a drink and no-one noticed as he reached for his coat and slipped silently out, following Tommy until he was sure that he was picking up his car. Unseen, he ducked around the corner and opened up the B.M.W. That morning, Bellini had left the keys with him, he knew that he would need them. He waited for Tommy’s Mondeo to pass by and slipped out into the traffic two cars behind. Doyle didn’t like driving much, he worried about his bad eye. He wasn’t even sure if he was he safe to drive, at all and avoided it wherever possible. He made an exception for this car, though; he liked driving the B.M.W. It wasn’t a new motor. It wasn’t even luxurious, not like Bellini’s flash new Jag, although it was plenty good enough. He thought, because it was white it wouldn’t have looked out of place at a wedding, not if you decked it out with a ribbon or two. But even the association with weddings didn’t dampen his enthusiasm for it. It was a shame that it was German. Doyle didn’t like the Germans, not that he could ever remember actually meeting one. But he liked their car. With its sports suspension, it would hold the road like a limpet and at pace it cornered like a rally car. If you put your foot hard down, you could accelerate your way out of virtually any trouble. That was if you were pushing it but Doyle had no need to today. Tommy, it seemed, was heading back to his flat just like he had said. Doyle was relieved, he had had visions of having to follow him at high speeds all across London. But instead, he just following sedately behind the Mondeo. As he drove, he ran his hands around the leather of the large steering wheel, now worn smooth by years of use, taking pleasure in every easy gear change he made with the small, close ratioed stick. He was almost so
rry when Tommy pulled into his road, abandoned his car and ran purposefully up the steps to the front door of the large Victorian house, where he rented a small flat on the second floor.

  Doyle parked the B.M.W. a little way down the street, facing the same way as Tommy’s car and he made sure that he had a clear view of Tommy’s front door. He desperately felt the need to urinate but that would have to wait until it was properly dark and there were no passers by to take offence and call the police. Always provided, that was, that Tommy was settled in for the night.

  He was. Or so it seemed. Eventually Doyle had been forced to get out of the car and take a pee against its near side wheel arch. It seemed like sacrilege to Doyle, almost like he was defiling something sacred and he hoped that no-one had seen. But soon he was back in the car. He had been sitting in the same position for hours. God knows he felt stiff. He felt that if he moved, bits of him might fall off. He hoped that, if they did, they were not bits he regularly used. He didn’t want to get out again and take a walk around to ease the cramp that was starting to bite sharply into his right leg, so he tried to move it as best as he could where he sat. He had to be ready, he knew that, alert and waiting. Besides, if he was up and walking around when and if Tommy came out, there was a greater chance of being spotted. It was bad enough being in a white car, a white car that Tommy knew and who’s number plate he’d recognize. But that couldn’t be helped. He’d have to stay back. Be careful and give him plenty of room. At least, it was dark now, he thought. That would help. Most people would have been bored to the point of insanity. Sitting hour, after endless unchanging hour, staring with an intense unbroken gaze at an old green door with flaking paint on the opposite side of the road, some way in the distance. He watched a few people occasionally enter, a few leave. But the man he wanted, his quarry, never moved. Doyle, though, wasn’t bored. His brain seemed to just switch off, be set to standby mode in the way you only do to T.V. sets in hotel rooms.