Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  Izzy handed Harry the key to her hired Smart Car, and then reached to take the other key from Harry’s hand. ‘I think, under the circumstances,’ she said, looking at Steve, who still leaning on the back of the chair, ‘it would be better if I were to drive.’

  ‘Noo!’ said Steve, shooting out a hand with surprising speed, to then snatch the key from Harry. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Harry, ‘I think Steve might be more comfortable with this vehicle than you, Izzy.’

  Izzy, who was clearly disgruntled, pouted - purely for effect - and then said, ‘How will we recognise your car?’

  ‘Well, it’s parked next to your Smart Car, and, hopefully, Mollie’s still sitting in it.’ Casting a sidelong glance in Steve’s direction, he then added, ‘I wouldn’t worry though, you won’t have a problem recognising it.’

  ‘Harry?’ said Steve, staring with a look of puzzlement at the key within his hand. ‘This key?’

  ‘Yes, Steve?’ replied Harry, blankly.

  ‘It looks like mine.’

  ‘Yes, Steve.’

  ‘The key to my Mercedes.’

  ‘Yes, Steve.’

  ‘My top-of-the-range Mercedes convertible sports car, which is my pride and joy, and a very rarely driven - except for special occasions.’

  ‘Yes, Steve.’

  ‘You went to my house and stole my car?’ said Steve.

  ‘Borrowed. And it’s a very nice drive, too,’ replied Harry, struggling to suppress a grin.

  ‘How did you get past my state-of-the-art alarm system to get the key?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Harry, looking suitably embarrassed as he gripped both Steve and Izzy’s arms, gently ushering them towards the exit. ‘You may have to get someone to take a look at that. I’m more than happy to pay for the damage.’ As Steve opened his mouth to protest, Harry pulled up short. Still gripping Steve’s upper arm, and now with serious expression upon his face, Harry said, ‘Steve, when this is all over, we need to talk. There are things you need to know about... family stuff.’ Steve studied Harry’s face. Seeing the seriousness, he simply nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Now, you really do need to get out of here,’ said Harry, pushing them away.

  Steve turned to leave.

  Izzy hesitated.

  ‘Harry,’ she said, looking up at him, ‘can we meet up after this is over? Maybe have a drink? Get something to eat?’

  Harry looked down, to see hope in her big blue eyes. She really was an attractive and vivacious young woman. ‘Yeah, that’d be good. I’d like that,’ he said, with an affectionate smile, watching her face light up in response. ‘Maybe go to that pub opposite your place again?’ Izzy nodded enthusiastically. ‘Then maybe get a Donner kebab... with chilli sauce, garlic sauce... oh, and not forgetting the sliced gherkin.’ Harry watched her look of delight change to mild confusion, then recollection, and then finally to realisation, her eyes flying wide, her mouth dropping open. With that, Harry gave her his big lazy grin and a wink of the eye, before turning to disappear into the gloom.

  Izzy watched Harry disappear into the shadows. She was, for once in her life, speechless. Had Harry just said what she thought he’d said? Did it mean what she thought it meant? She suddenly felt giddy with excitement, like a lovestruck teenager. She almost giggled, if it hadn’t been for Steve turning back to grab her arm and drag her away in the opposite direction.

  Harry heard them moving off, away towards the exit to the car park, and safety. He then remembered he’d left his GUNS N’ ROSES, CD in the car’s player - with the volume still set at full blast.

  He smiled.

  He heard a muffled curse as Izzy and Steve almost fell over Eyepatch’s unconscious body.

  ‘Holy shit!’

  Probably Izzy, thought Harry.

  ‘HOLY SHIT! Is that real? This guy must be deformed!’

  Definitely Izzy, thought Harry, his smile broadening.

  CHAPTER 52

  Victor was in a good mood. In fact he was in an exceptionally good mood, and with some impending “business” to take care of, that mood was likely to improve even more. The reason for Victor’s good mood was an unexpected encounter he’d just had with one of the club’s members, an opinionated and garrulous old fool who - having spent quite some time in the Private Members’ bar - had seen fit to tell Victor how to run his own club. The club member, who was also a Sitting Member of Parliament, had expressed his “disquiet” over the “unsettling presence” of Victor’s “body guards”.

  Being the silent partner of the club had been a good investment for Victor in that it was a healthy and legitimate business. Its greatest value, however, was in how he used it to legitimise his other businesses - namely, laundering their proceeds. This was the only reason he tolerated the buffoons and idiots who used the club, that and the fact that some of them occasionally became useful, even profitable, as the offended club member had just discovered.

  Aware that other club members were watching on, Victor had given the offended member a fixed smile, apologised profusely on behalf of his men, and promised to address the matter. He’d then invited the offended member to his private study for a glass of port, which the member had quickly and greedily accepted.

  Victor had been the genial host. He’d poured the man a glass of good quality port, and then told him he had something he might find of interest. With that, he’d turned a television on and then slipped a DVD into its player. The offended member had looked on with curiosity, to then almost choke on his port when images of himself and two of the club’s hostesses appeared on the screen. There could be no disputing the hostesses were ensuring the club member’s ‘needs’ were being ‘met’, but what they were offering was not canapés and champagne, but a service of a far more intimate nature: a service that pushed the boundaries of decency, could be questionable in the eyes of the law, and was likely to be wholly unacceptable to the club member’s family, colleagues and constituents.

  Victor had watched the old fool visibly pale, seen perspiration break out on the man’s forehead and then watched his breathing becoming more laboured as the panic had set in. He’d been saving this particular club member for a rainy day, but never mind - it’d been worth it.

  Victor had informed the Right Honourable Member he could keep the DVD; he had plenty more. He’d also told the Right Honourable Member, that he would be in touch to discuss a donation towards the restoration fund for the swimming pool, and, as one of his constituents, he also had some questions on the government’s policies for border control and immigration that he might like to put to the House for debate. With that, Victor had told the club member to help himself to more port if he wished, then left to attend to other business, reminding himself to send one of his men back to check the old fool hadn’t died of a heart attack. He also hoped his men hadn’t grown impatient and started attending to “business” without him.

  As soon as the Victor went through the door that led to the swimming pool, he knew something was wrong. There was a noise - a noise which grew louder as he approached the pool. The noise was the sound of fighting.

  He passed through the circle of light, past the two inert and hooded figures bound to the plastic chairs, to then stop at the edge of the pool.

  He looked down at the source of the noise to see that both dogs had been released from their tethers and were now attacking each other. For a moment, Victor watched with rapt attention, both fascinated by the dogs’ pure viciousness and ability to ignore pain as they ripped at each other, yet angered that his two prized and very expensive fighting dogs had somehow got free, and that neither of his men where anywhere to be seen.

  He looked up and out into the darkness, straining to see into the furthest corners of the large room, to impatiently call out the names of his men. Other than the dogs fighting, the only other sound he heard was the echo of his own voice. Turning, he took a few steps back towards the prisoners and repeat the process in the opposite direction - to look and to
call out.

  Nothing.

  Jacket tails pushed back by both hands on hips and cursing loudly in Russian, Victor took another step forward, stopping suddenly at the feel of something underfoot. Something soft and wet, and yet something that felt like it had crunched.

  He reached down to pick up the small object, an object slightly smaller than the palm of his hand in which it now lay. He held it up to the light to study it. It was dark, wet and sticky, made darker still by the artificial lighting. Victor’s first thought was that it was autumn leaf mulch, brought in on the boots of the building contractors, until the light caught on something embedded within the mulch. He peered closer at what appeared to be a small speck of glass. A small speck of glass attached to a tiny stick of yellow metal.

  It was a diamond studded earring... and it was still attached to its owner’s ear.

  Victor instinctively looked down to where he’d found it. A few inches away, lay another. His eyes then followed the trail of dark viscous spots that grew in size and number, to become one large pool beneath and around the chair of one of the prisoners.

  Victor quickly looked up and around, checking.

  Nothing.

  Then, with the severed ear still sitting in his palm, he took a step forward to reach out and slowly draw the hood from the prisoner. What he saw sitting before him, was one of his men, Duct tape across his mouth, eyes partially closed and glazed, raw, ragged flesh, slowly weeping and congealing blood where his ears had once been; semiconscious. Victor tossed the severed ear onto the floor, then used the cloth hood to carefully wipe the blood from his hand, before dropping it into the lap of the bleeding man and turning to the second hooded prisoner, his expression resigned and accepting: knowing.

  Through his life, Victor had seen and dealt enough pain and misery to the human body, to make him - or so he thought - immune, but his breath caught in his throat at what he saw. The man who stared back at him was not the man he once knew. He was not the strong, ruthless and faithful lieutenant who had served him so well in recent years. The man sitting before him was a husk, a shell, a zombie. The eye that stared back at him was the eye of a monster. The skin around the socket was blistered and burnt, the white of the eye a deep crimson red from burst blood vessels and capillaries, the centre now opaque. The eye was staring, but unseeing. The young Russian’s mouth was agape, saliva trickling from its corner, mucus from his nose. He was conscious but unaware.

  For the briefest of moments, Victor surprised himself by feeling a sense of sadness, but just as he started to analyse why he should feel that way, his sense of smell set off the alarm bells to his highly tuned survival instinct.

  His head snapped up, eyes quickly scanning. At the same time he took a step back, slipped a hand inside his jacket, to then pull out an automatic handgun. He sniffed the air. He could smell smoke. Cigar smoke. A good quality cigar smoke. ‘Harry?’ he called out. ‘Harry?’ He paused, waiting. ‘I know it’s you, Harry.’ Victor’s head moved slowly from side to side, eyes narrowed, looking for movement, ears straining to hear over the noise of the dogs that were still fighting in the pool behind him. ‘They warned me about you, Harry. They told me to be careful, and not to underestimate you.’

  He waited, his breathing seeming loud in his ears, until he heard a noise over to his left, his head turning quickly, his grip tightening on the gun. He looked, and he listened. Still nothing.

  Starting to feel uneasy, he turned back to face front, only to see Harry standing behind his two men, relaxed, at ease, and with the twitch of an amused smile on his face. In one leather gloved hand, he held the stun-gun, in the other, a smouldering cigar.

  Surprised, Victor visibly flinched, then silently cursed himself for showing fear, knowing that Harry had seen it.

  ‘Hello, Victor,’ said Harry, his smile broadening at Victor’s reaction while taking a small step forward, to then watch Victor take a small step back.

  ‘Why are you here, Harry?’ said Victor, eyes narrowed. ‘Did you forget something?’ he added, sarcastically. Harry returned Victor’s stare, while savouring the cigar. ‘We had a deal, Harry. What happened? You come to take your money back?’ he asked, arms wide, gun still in hand. ‘I thought you had honour, Harry? I thought you followed the villain’s code?’

  ‘I do, Victor,’ replied Harry, peering closely at Eyepatch and Earring with morbid curiosity. ‘I also have principles. You don’t hurt women or involve family,’ he said, as he inspected the end of the stun-gun while taking another casual step forward, matched again by Victor’s casual step backward. ‘I also don’t like people taking liberties,’ he added, as he touched the tip of the gun against the side of Eyepatch’s face.

  Both Harry and Victor looked on as the big Russian’s body shuddered while the gun’s charge surged through him, eliciting no response other than an increased flow of mucus and saliva on the man’s blank features.

  Looking a little disappointed at his victim’s lack of reaction, Harry turned his attention back to Victor.

  ‘Careful, Harry,’ said Victor.

  With weariness in his voice, Harry said, ‘Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age. Maybe it is time for a change.’ For a moment, Harry was lost in thought, staring at Victor, but not really seeing him, gently drawing on the cigar. Then his eyes blinked, refocused, back to the present. ‘Maybe it’s time for some debts to be repaid. To be honoured... Vengeance to be taken, justice to be meted out,’ he said, taking a longer step forward.

  Victor raised his gun to point at Harry’s midriff. ‘This is not how it was supposed to happen, Harry,’ said Victor, shaking his head with regret.

  ‘Nice cigar, by the way,’ said Harry.

  ‘I thought you said you were saving it for a special occasion,’ responded Victor, automatically.

  ‘I have,’ replied Harry, with a broad smile that reached up to his eyes.

  ‘Drop the stun-gun, Harry,’ said Victor, features hardening, grip tightening on his own gun.

  With a look, and a shrug of indifference, Harry tossed the electric stun-gun away, for it to disappear into the darkness with a clatter. ‘Not really my style, anyway,’ he said to Victor, while watching him carefully.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas, Harry. I will shoot you. You know that.’

  Harry gave another shrug. The stakes had changed. The balance of power had shifted. Despite Victor holding the gun, Harry had now become the predator, Victor the prey: and they both knew it. But Harry knew the outcome was going to depend on who had more ‘bottle’.

  ‘I hear you are a good boxer, Harry. A very good boxer.’ Then, with a less than confident smile, ‘Can you out-box a bullet, Harry? Are you that good?’

  Harry estimated the distance between him and Victor was about two metres.

  ‘Distance is too great, Harry,’ said Victor, as if reading Harry’s mind. ‘Judging by your height, I’d say you have a long reach. But not long enough,’ he added, his smile growing in confidence.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about me, Victor.’

  ‘“Know your enemy”, isn’t that what they say, Harry?’

  ‘“Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories”. Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese military general, strategist and philosopher, believed to be the author of The Art of War.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Victor. ‘They didn’t tell me you were intelligent as well as dangerous.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘I read a lot.’ Then, ‘Who’s “they”, Victor? You keep saying, “they”.’

  With a knowing smile and a gentle shake of his head, Victor slipped his freehand into his jacket pocket, to then pull out a packet of cigarettes. Harry watched carefully as the Russian gangster deftly flipped the top, shook one loose, to then raise the packet to his lips and draw it free. He then returned the packet to his pocket, at the same time taking out an expensive Zippo-type lighter, which he struck once, twice, three times, but to no avail. Gripping the cigarette between middle and forefinger, he removed it f
rom his mouth and waved it at Harry, shaking his head more vigorously.

  ‘Nyet! No! Go home, Harry, while you still can. While you’re still able,’ replied Victor.

  Harry’s head dropped, his shoulders slumped, expression resigned. ‘This battle may be won, Victor, but the war is not yet over,’ said Harry.

  Victor waved a hand dismissively, replaced the cigarette back into his mouth, and again struck the lighter. Still to no avail.

  Harry looked up, watched Victor grow more frustrated before angrily tossing the lighter into the darkness.

  Harry checked his own cigar was still alight, before extending his arm and offering it to Victor, taking a step forward as he did so, only for Victor to jerk his gun back up, barrel steady.

  Harry stopped dead mid stride, upper body leaning slightly forward. Victor and Harry held each other’s gaze.

  Seconds passed, the tension high.

  When the shot didn’t come, Harry slowly straightened. Then, equally slowly, reached into his own jacket pocket, to withdraw a cheap gas lighter which he then showed to Victor.

  Victor nodded, twitching his fingers impatiently, indicating Harry throw it over to him. ‘Gently, Harry,’ he warned, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  Harry still had one leg forward of the other, but, instead of stepping back, he gently eased his weight from his front foot to his back foot, while still holding Victor’s gaze, before turning his attention to the lighter, flicking it into life a couple of times, as if checking it still worked. ‘There’s an ancient Italian fighter I know of, who also is considered an expert tactician - at least that’s what he tells me. Unlike me, however, he’s not an exponent of “girly boxing”,’ said Harry, switching his attention back to Victor.

  With a heavy and irritable sigh, Victor asked the question that was expected of him. ‘And what exactly, is “girly boxing”?’

  Harry gave him a small knowing smile as he raised the lighter, indicating he was about to throw it, while tensing his trailing leg at the same time. ‘I was hoping you’d ask me that. It’s what you could call a style of fighting,’ he replied, as he gently threw the lighter towards Victor.