Copyright © 2016 by Gareth Spark
All rights reserved.
Digital Formatting by Craig Douglas
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintended.
Gareth Spark
Gareth Spark was born in Whitby He began writing the pieces that became his first collection, At the breakwater (Mudfog Press, 2001) in the late 90's. His second collection Ramraid (Skrev Press, 2004) followed soon after. In 2007, he moved to Spain, where he began to write his third collection Rain in a dry land (Mudfog Press, 2008) while working in various bars. His short fiction and poetry appeared in Close to the Bone, Shotgun Honey, Line Zero, Ink, sweat and tears, Out of the Gutter, NAP, Poetry Bus and Deepwater Literary Review, among others. His story American Tan won second place in the GKBC International Short Story competition in 2013. The publication of his first collection of stories Snake Farm (Electraglade Press) followed in 2015. He reviews online for Fjords Review, among others, and is a member of the Zelmer Pulp writing collective.
Chapter One
Marwick lit a cigarette, glanced back at the boat and then walked to the car. Charlie leaned over, unlocked the door. His white hair hung loose around his face. 'So?'
'Still don't like it.'
'He's there.'
'So why don't he answer?'
'Phone's maybe off.'
'I heard it ringing.'
'He's a deaf old bastard,' Charlie said. 'And speaking of age, me back's killing; let's get on with it.'
'Something's not right.'
'You aren't a squaddie no more, boy; there isn't Taliban hiding round every fucking rock.'
'It pays to be cautious. Look at Miller.'
'Miller asked for it.'
'Did he?'
'Of course he fucking did,' Charlie said. The wind whistled from the sea. 'If a man's putting his neck on the line it's got to be worth it.'
'And this is worth it?'
'What's a kilo going for?'
'40 grand, give or take.'
'Then 'ave a think what 25 kilos is gonna bring.'
'Aren't you and Sean a bit old for all this?'
'Sean won't ever hang up his six–guns, mate, me neither. This old dog still has some tricks.'
Charlie opened the door and climbed out. The night was cool and the Mediterranean was a dim blue line beneath a sky like spilled petrol. 'You ignored me and brought it, didn't you?' He said as Marwick passed him.
'Of course I brought it.'
'If they catch you with a shooter…'
'They won't.' Marwick nodded at the boat; the name was dark against the white hull: Verge del Cami. He touched the grip of a Serbian 9mm pistol jammed into a concealed holster in the small of his back. 'I got a bad feeling.'
'Come on.'
'Listen …'
'Stay here if you want.' Charlie squeezed between cables running along the deck, moving sideways. 'I've got business.'
He climbed up onto the boat and yelled, 'Hey!'
Marwick heard a heavy wood hatch slide across one of the companionways, then Charlie complaining at the lack of space, and then, 'Marwick!'
'What?'
'He's fucking dead.'
Marwick drew the weapon, thumbed the safety and dashed to the boat. Charlie grabbed the shoulder of his coat and pulled him up. 'You got the gun, you go first.'
'Where is he?'
'To the left.' Charlie was breathless and his voice was high and frayed. 'The door blew open...in the wind...or I wouldn't have seen the fucker.'
Marwick inched his way inside. He heard nothing but the boat: creaking timber, loose cables, heavy water pushing the hull. Cheap panels lined the small corridor, reflecting the harsh white of a single bulb. A door flapped open to his left and closed again, slowly. It felt like the meat aisle of a supermarket, the same chill and perfume of old blood. Marwick moved forward, listened, and then tapped the door open all the way with his toe. His throat was like sandpaper. There was a tiny shower cubicle in the corner of the square room. He pulled a cord for the light, heart thumping so fast it hurt.
Ben's body was slumped forward, hands fastened by plasticuffs to a towel rail. The edges of the ties cut deeply into his wrists and blood pooled beneath him, glistening and dark. A stained white robe lay loose around his body. 'Jesus Christ.'
'I told you.' It was Charlie. He stood in the doorway and pointed at the body as though Marwick might have missed it.
'Don't touch anything,' the latter said, trying to be calm, professional. 'Where did Sean say the gear was?'
'In the lifebelts.'
'And where are they?' Marwick reached over, killed the light and pulled the door shut. He saw bloody boot prints leading away. 'Where are they?' He asked again.
'On deck somewhere.'
'Get 'em,' Marwick said. 'Take 'em back to the motor.'
'What you gonna do?'
'If he didn't tell 'em bout the belts, they'll be looking all over for the gear. Best bet is that's what they're doing, down there.' He gestured with the pistol towards the footprints and glanced at Charlie. 'Go on then.'
Charlie turned and tripped over the steps. Marwick sighed. The end of the corridor was dark and he waited for his eyes to adjust, watching for movement. He tried the handles of the doors between the bathroom and the end of the hall. The last door was open. He peered around the corner; it was the main cabin. A brass wheel shone faintly in the darkness, and he saw the open sea through broad windows. He patted the wall, found a switch and flicked it, filling the room with a warm light flooding up from smoked glass sconces. The wheelhouse was chaotic: charts lay across the instrument panel; cupboards left open; even the first aid kit had been broken open, contents scattered. He moved into the room, weapon raised and felt a sharp cold across his face. Doors, to his right, open, leading out to the deck and in the same moment he realised where the men were, he heard Charlie shout his name.
Marwick turned and ran back. He slipped in one of the larger bloody footprints and fell to his knees with a curse. There was a sudden high–pitched cry. He stood, tried to control his breathing, and rushed into the night.
He saw one of them straight away: shaved head; bomber jacket; blue jeans, standing on the gangway with the lifebelts over his shoulder. He stared at Marwick with a bored expression. The other man had Charlie. He pushed a sawed–off shotgun tight against the old man's jaw. Dark electricity crackled in his eyes. Marwick switched his aim from one man to the other. Neither displayed alarm. The man on the gangway said something in a language Marwick could not place, addressing his comrade. He looked tired and there were brown bloodstains across the front of his jeans. Tattoos of spiders covered his hands, from the wrists to the fingers.
The other man replied without taking his eyes from Marwick. Tattoos, carrying the lifebelts, walked down to the jetty.
Marwick watched him go. The back of his throat burned and he said to the man holding Charlie. 'I don't know who you are but that gear's ours, bought and paid for. Let him go, bring it back, maybe we can sort this.' His finger lay loose against the trigger. Charlie stared at him. He seemed to struggle for breath.
The man shook his head slowly. A scar ran u
p his cheek and across his left eye, which was dull, probably glass, Marwick noted. There was noise behind him, boots, starting slow, rushing through the vessel, then a blinding flash, and then he knew nothing.
***
Marwick came round sluggishly and glanced at his watch. He'd been out a quarter of an hour. Still alive, he thought, hurting too much to be dead. Blood ran from his scalp where the blow had landed and he staunched the flow with a bandana dug out of his pocket. The air stank of blood and salt and he crawled across to Charlie, who lay across a pool of standing water. Marwick was dizzy, nauseated by the blow. 'Charlie?' He shook the old man's foot and pulled himself upright. Charlie had taken both barrels to the face. Blood ran across the deck. Marwick got to his feet. He couldn't leave Charlie; soon as they ID'd him, they'd head straight to Sean and himself. He hurried. The hot blood seeped between his fingers as he half–dragged, half–carried the body's weight down to the jetty. They were setting him up. He glanced around, searching for the flash of blue that would presage the arrival of the cops; he hadn't much time.
He pushed Charlie into the passenger's seat, took the keys, climbed in, then threw the Citroën into reverse, turning it on the gravel at the roadside and sped away.
Chapter Two
The following night Marwick drove quickly along the road from Sant Carles to Pineda. Bars and restaurants ran along the left while to the right, pale sand stretched into the darkness of the sea. There were no stars, just the sensation of being beneath something, as though a vast screen had closed across the sky, trapping the heat and menaces, making the air boil. He felt sweat run across the corner of his brow and lifted a hand from the slick steering wheel to wipe it away.
He passed a crumbling sandstone tower that stood above Esquirol beach and then lost sight of the sand behind rows of large square hotels and apartment blocks. He turned left and passed a church half–hidden behind a screen of pines, crossed a rail bridge and spun the jeep onto a steep bank that was deep with dust. The house was at the top of the hill, behind a tall fence that circled the property. Marwick killed the engine and sat. The vehicle stank of heated plastic and old cigarettes and he stepped out after a while and walked across to the sun–bleached gates twice his height. The gravel crunched beneath his feet like spilled breakfast cereal. He reached the recessed steel plate of the intercom and pressed the button. 'Yeah?' Sean's voice scratched from the tiny speaker.
'It's me.'
'So it is.'
There was a click and the gates began to open. Marwick climbed back in the car and drove into the compound. Sean's chunky silhouette loomed in the open doorway of the house. Doric columns framed the door. The big man waved a spade–like hand in salute as Marwick parked, climbed from the car and crossed the yard. 'Well, here he is,' Sean said, the words mangled by a gruff, south London accent the years and distance had never tamed. 'Short sleeves an' all, you know, the night breeze can kill a man.'
'A lot of things can.'
Sean was a broad man with thinning hair, a shaggy goatee, and small, vindictive eyes 'How are things at the bar?'
'I didn't think you'd give a damn.'
'I need to take an interest in my legit businesses, to know what's what, in case the cops ever ask.'
'Business is fine.'
Sean ushered him inside, then slammed the door and waddled across the floor in bare feet, leaving a trail of moist footprints.
'Where's Carmen?' Marwick asked, getting straight to the point. 'You didn't tell me she was going away.'
'At her mother's in Gerona.' Sean spoke with an odd, tight voice, walking ahead of Marwick into the living room: leather sofas, a bar of rough stone and cement, tropical fish tank in the corner and deep cream carpets. 'Ever since her old man died the mother–in–law's stayed with Carmen's brother, but now he's vanished and she had to go and look after the old bitch. Unbelievable how she carries on; she must be 500 fucking years old. I got the farm though. Whiskey?'
'That would do the trick,' Marwick said. 'Not run off, has she?'
Sean glared at him. 'Why would she?'
'I could find her if you like.'
Sean poured the drinks in silence and then said. 'Let's talk about something else.'
'You said something about the farm?'
'Already had it knocked to the ground and the new build is up. Carmen said to call it Casa d'Esclaus. Don't know what it means, but it's got a ring to it.' He frowned and sipped from the drink, hovering behind the bar like a waiter at the point of quitting. 'Dipped into London's money again, but we're already so deep in the fucking hole, a little more ain't gonna count. Charlie cost me more than I care to say. Wish I'd shut me ears when he come in with his brilliant idea; cocaine and old fucking friends.'
'Haven't Carmen's family lived on that farm forever?'
'There are no more forevers.'
'You think it was Charlie then? Said the wrong thing to the wrong bloke?'
'Honestly, I knew Charlie most my life, and he was a real black hat back in the day, baddest of the bad, sharp as a scalpel, but these last few years, he'd gone soft; wasn't careful enough, not like you. You're always careful.'
'We were the only ones who knew about the boat, other than Ben, and he had no idea what he was carrying.' Marwick sat on the nearest sofa and stroked his jaw where the new beard itched. 'That leaves the brothers.'
'It was one of our lads.'
'You know that for a fact.'
'I finally got hold of Charlie's mates who sold him the coke. They heard about the drama and the lot of them went into hiding. Charlie, for some reason he took to the grave, thought it best to take someone down with him. That's who set all this up.'
'Then we need to find the fucker.'
'You're going to.'
'Am I?'
'We need that gear back. This gangbangs cost us too much already.' He leaned forward on the bar. 'Marwick, the Stelescus put up half a million Euro for this and I have had to pay them with the money from London because Cezar Stelescu is here and they're over the water. Priorities, you see. I did what I had to.' He rubbed his eyes and said. 'We need to find that coke, and we've got two weeks to do it. That's when the Firm want their money.'
'I'll do what I can.'
'That's all I need to hear.'
'In other news, we might have trouble with Roy Quinn.'
'Oh,' Sean said, flatly.
'He was in the bar last night, made a nuisance of himself.' Marwick sipped from his drink. 'Smashed a few things, grabbed one of the girls, beat up the guy on the door.'
'Little bastard,' Sean said. 'I know I'm his godfather and it was my idea to bring him over, give him some work, but he's a burden I could do without. Thinks he's in a movie. This new breed, they don't care; all they want to do is fuck, get fucked up and throw money. He sees the way you run things down here and wants it for him.'
'Then he's got a lot coming. The way he drops names, you'd think he was something more than a second rate fighter that couldn't stay on his feet. He was with Radu Stelescu. They're always together.'
Sean wiped his forehead with a blue handkerchief. 'Just watch him. I don't want him causing shit, not now.'
***
The sky was black when Marwick left. He gazed down from the hill as he walked to the parked jeep. There was glow like a distant battle in the sky above Pineda, and always the faint tremble of traffic and the sea. Roy Quinn, he thought, 25 years old and he thinks he knows everything; he had taken money from a trio of professional gamblers during his time in the ring and hadn't gone down as intended and he would be dead if Sean hadn't asked the Firm for a favour. That was three men's lives around Roy's neck, not that he cared. Marwick heard him, one night, telling the story to the other doormen, making out that he was too cunning, too dangerous, not built for defeat. Marwick knew how easily it could have gone another way.
It made him miss Charlie even more. Charlie Lynch was of the old school; started out running errands for a mob south of the river. He and Sean worked the
ir way up through the Firm until a bad decision cost them the reputation that was everything. People were hurt and Jack O'Brian, the big man, sent the three of them into exile, set them up so they could launder London's dirty money through the bar and club. Then Charlie chanced across an old friend in Marbella on the run since the 80's who'd gone into smuggling in a big way, the Stelescus appeared, and Marwick watched as Charlie and Sean began to forget they had masters in London .
He climbed into the jeep and waited a moment as the gates opened before him and wondered if it would ever end if there would be a day when he was not completely afraid. Only when you are in the ground, he thought, and that might be sooner rather than later.
Chapter Three
Marwick sent the rest of the staff home. The bar was tidy and had the fresh look of a good joint where the breakfasts could be trusted. He walked through, checking everything a final time and it felt good to have a straight job, to be engaged in something other than sin.
He set the alarm and stepped into the street. A pair of young girls dressed in bikinis and carrying beach towels stood at the crossing. Marwick walked around the building and sat at one of the barrels he and Charlie made into tables their first summer in Spain. The Black Swan Tavern was the first business they bought with London's money. This was where they were supposed to go legit and the only crooked thing they'd do was make the money white, which was not wrong in Marwick's eyes, only a kind of sleight of hand. This was where they were going to carve a beginning and put the blood and smoke behind them. That was before the Stelescu brothers arrived, and Sean's ambition worked at him again. It had changed too quickly and with Charlie's demise, Marwick had lost his only compass.
He lit a cigarette. A car stopped outside and he heard the engine, idling. The supermarket on the far side of the Avenida had closed and he watched a shop clerk hold the door open for her friends as the alarm note sang. She looked and saw him watching, her smile faded, and he turned away and looked to the sea, a thin blue line beyond the misty beach. Cap Sant Pere towered to the east, caught in the glow of the rising moon like a thousand explosions of light and he shook his head as though trying to shake out the memory of the clerk's eyes. She had seen what he was.
Marwick's Reckoning - Gareth Spark Page 1