Bone Breakers (A Stanton brothers thriller)

by Martin Stanley

  Eric paused a beat. “Actually, give him five hundred.”

  “You’re having a fuckin’ laugh, right?” Derek replied.

  “If I wanted to have a laugh I’d ask you to spell a word longer than two syllables. Give him the cash.”

  The big lad got to his feet with a face like thunder and stormed towards Gerry, whose complexion drained of colour until his cuts and bruises looked like flowers in the snow. He twitched his head from brother to brother, hoping that it was some kind of joke. But if it was Derek didn’t seem to be finding it very funny either. Every step he took in Gerry’s direction seemed like another nail in his coffin lid. Gerry was still too weak to run or fight, so he began to crouch down and wrapped his arms around his head for protection. At the last second, just as Gerry thought he might piss his pants with fear, Derek sneered and threw a bundle at his chest. It bounced off and settled in the wet dirt.

  “Count it your fuckin’ self,” Derek said as he walked away, discreetly pocketing the rest of the money.

  Gerry picked up the damp bundle and studied it open-mouthed. He turned in Eric’s direction and tried to think of something to say. After a few seconds of flapping his mouth silently as he searched for the appropriate words, he managed to croak: “Why?”

  “Because it’ll piss off Don Webber and John Karagounis. Particularly if you’re leaving.”

  Gerry relaxed and started counting off the cash.

  “How much you owe?” Eric asked.

  Gerry sped through the bundle of twenties and said without looking up, “Four grand. Needed cash for a job that fell through. Y’know how it is, right?”

  Eric watched him counting, making sure he didn’t count off a few extra notes. “Yeah, I know how it is.”

  Gerry finished and pocketed the money before handing the over the rest. “An’ you, what’s your chew with Webber an’ his fuckin’ bumboy Karagounis?”

  “Plain old dislike.”

  Gerry grinned at him. “That’s as good a reason as any.”

  “What’re you gonna do now?”

  Gerry exhaled and stared into the distance with a faraway look in his eyes, as if suddenly terrified of making a new life elsewhere. He shook himself out of his trance and said, “Grab me shit an’ leg it. Hope to fuck that nobody catches us. An’ you?”

  Eric smiled. “Me? I’m gonna grab some breakfast.”

  36.

  The taxi pulled in next to a quaint little sandstone hotel and pub. Mark got out of the vehicle, paid the driver with a fifty and told him to keep the change. Not used to such generosity, the driver gave him a look that dripped with suspicion, revved his engine for several seconds and left behind an exhaust plume as he raced away. Mark lit a cigarette and inhaled. He held the smoke in his chest until it ached, until it burned, until it felt like his lungs would burst. Finally he let it all out in one long breath – the smoke, the tension, the stress of the last two days – and watched the cloud float in the air and disappear.

  A few locals – most of them elderly or getting there – ambled past and a few cars moved slowly along on the two main roads that connected Osmotherley with the rest of the north. Like most rural villages, it was quiet at this time of day, not that it was exactly a hive of activity at other times. An elderly couple chatted on a bench and stared at Mark like he was part of an alien species. He paid them no mind as he crossed the road and made his way toward the street corner.

  When he got there he dropped his cigarette on the pavement and ground it out, drawing tuts from the couple. He ignored them and walked towards The Coffee Jar, a small café in a narrow three-storey stone building. Outside the cafe, at a little wooden table and bench sat the Stanton brothers. Both men looked tired. Black stubble stood out against their pallid skin and dark, puffy crescents lay beneath their eyes. They sat in silence, ignoring each other, staring into their cups of coffee. Both of them looked up at the same time as Mark approached.

  “You two look like I feel.”

  “Decrepit and embittered?” Eric said and swigged his drink.

  “Something like that.”

  “Any problems?”

  Mark paused. “Plain sailing,” he said and looked through the café window. “Shall we take this inside?”

  “Like it out here,” Derek said, looking into the dregs at the bottom of his mug.

  “That’s ‘cause you’ve got the only seats,” Mark said. “I don’t fancy standing around with a mug in my hand. Gonna go and order. You want anything?”

  Eric shook his head, but his brother raised his mug. “More coffee.”

  “How’d you like it?”

  “I like my coffee the way I like my women,” Derek said.

  Eric glanced up. “Anally?”

  Derek glared at him. “Go fuck yourself,” he said, wafting the mug at Mark. “White and bitter.”

  Mark hid a smirk behind his hand and walked into the café. It consisted of one low ceilinged room with exposed beams and tables on both sides. He took a seat at a table close to the window and nodded towards a slender, middle-aged waitress at the far end of the room, who returned his acknowledgement. She took his order and drifted off to sort it out.

  Once the waitress had brought the drinks, the Stantons came inside and sat opposite, looking at him expectantly. Mark took two very fat envelopes out of his pocket and slid them across the table, keeping his eye on the waitress. “There’s fourteen in each,” he said, taking another two, thinner envelopes out of his pocket with T and A written on them. “And then there’s three for Thrombo and five for Al, though I’m not sure he’ll be in much shape to spend it.”

  Eric slid the envelope out of sight and into his jacket pocket. “Why? Terry didn’t…”

  Mark shook his head. “Spoke to Al’s lad on the phone this morning. He had a break down last night. I presume that’s how Terry got out and brought in the Karagounis clan. Apparently, Al’s in hospital being evaluated – whatever the fuck that means. I had a feeling he’d crack, but not that badly. How’d it go at Karagounis’ place?”

  The Stanton brothers looked at each other and smiled. “Found some poor bastard who was being tortured around the time Karagounis must’ve taken the call from Terry. Had eight and a half grand in an office safe. Giving a grand of it to Thrombo. Any problem with that?”

  Mark sipped his drink. “Cool with me,” he replied. “You heard anything?”

  Eric pushed a saltshaker across the table with the tip of his finger. “Spoke to his girlfriend earlier. She chewed my fuckin’ ear off over it – he’s in hospital with broken legs, ribs and jaw along with a dislocated shoulder. He’ll live, but his career as a fighter’s probably over.”

  “Poor bastard.”

  “I also gave the guy Karagounis was torturing five hundred and I figure we should give Al and Danny another fifteen hundred for their troubles, especially after his breakdown. I feel bad about that.”

  Mark nodded and said, “Fair enough.” Derek let out a long melodramatic sigh, but finally agreed.

  Eric took a slim bundle of fifties and twenties and passed them across the table to Mark. “Your cut.”

  Mark took the bundle and pocketed it in one smooth movement. The waitress caught sight of him with the money and her eyes became slits, her movements slowing as she studied his rough bearded face. He returned her stare with interest until she lost her composure, wiped the perspiration from her forehead, and sat down with the paper, which she looked at with little interest, turning the pages quickly and huffing every now and again.

  Eric followed his friend’s gaze and craned his head in the direction of the waitress. She noticed them both looking and decided to study the paper more thoroughly, practically burying her face in the pages so they couldn’t see her. Eric eventually grinned and turned back to Mark. “And Tommo, how did that go?”

  Mark was expressionless, still staring at the waitress. “He bought it.”

  Eric studied his empty coffee cup for a second. “Any trouble?”

&
nbsp; “Like I said, plain sailing. It looked like there might’ve been a problem at one point, but I sorted it. He won’t be coming back.”

  “You sure?”

  Mark fixed him with an icy stare. “He’s not coming back.”

  Eric frowned slightly. “Any news about Terry?”

  Mark leaned back. “Hopefully the cunt’ll lose his hand, just like Danny did.”

  “Was Danny pissed about Al?”

  Mark gulped down the last of his coffee. “He didn’t say.” He caught the waitress’ eye and scribbled in the air. She nodded, put the bill on a small metal tray and approached tentatively. She placed the tray at the edge of the table, near Mark, and scuttled back to the safety of her newspaper.

  “Did Bell End make it?” Mark said.

  Eric raised his arms then let them drop. “Fuck knows. D’you even care?”

  “Not really.”

  “What’re you gonna do now?” Eric asked.

  “Go down to London,” Mark answered, looking at the bill. “There’ll be heat from this. Don’t much fancy getting burned by it. You?”

  “Me and the big lad’re gonna go over to Eastern Europe for a while. Cool our heels for a few months; eat some pierogi, some goulash and, if we get lucky, eat some eastern European women, too. We’ll stay away until it’s safe enough to come back.”

  Mark threw far more money down on the table than he needed to, and they left the café. Fine light drizzle drifted in the air like dust and the three men responded by pulling their coats tight. Eric held his hand palm up to the rain and looked over at Mark. “Weather’s turned,” he said. “Could you drop us somewhere?”

  “No can do.”

  He smiled. “Not asking to go as far as Nocandoo; just dropping us in Grangetown’ll be good enough.”

  Mark shrugged. “Dumped the car. Got a taxi.”

  Eric frowned and studied his friend’s face. “Why didn’t you drive?”

  Mark paused. “Wanted to dump the car straight away. Felt nervous carrying all that cash around in a stolen car.”

  Eric’s frown deepened until his eyes disappeared beneath the shadow of his brows. “All the time I’ve known you you’ve never been nervous.”

  “Always a first time.”

  “You don’t do nerves, mate.”

  Mark fixed his eyes on Eric. “You trying to say something?”

  He responded with raised eyebrows. “He bought it.”

  “What?”

  “Earlier, when I asked how things went you said he bought it.”

  Mark pulled a puzzled face. “So?”

  Eric patted his shoulder. “So nothing. Just an interesting turn of phrase is all.”

  “What’s so interesting about it?”

  “Covers a lot of sins,” Eric said.

  Mark’s expression hardened.

  “I mean, for instance, it could be that he’s shit himself and done a runner,” Eric said then paused a beat. “Or if I wanted to get all clever about it, it coulda been a slip.”

  Mark’s face was loose and blank, but something in the eyes told Eric everything he needed to know.

  “I’m smarter than I look, Mark.”

  Mark’s gaze moved up towards the sky. He sighed.

  “Where’d you dump him?” Eric asked.

  Mark locked eyes again. “Nowhere he’ll be found.”

  “And the car?”

  “Likewise.”

  “Feldman.”

  “That a question or a statement?”

  “An observation.”

  Mark glanced at his watch. “There’s probably not much left of either by now.”

  Derek shook the sleeve of his brother’s jacket. “Why’d you even give a shit?”

  Eric glared at him. “Just because, that’s why. Corpses cause trouble, which is why we don’t make ‘em.”

  “Tommo wasn’t buying the blackmail, which made him a danger to Al and his son,” Mark said. “So I made a decision and followed through. If I had a chance to relive it again, I’d make exactly the same decision.”

  Eric gritted his teeth and looked into the distance. An old couple looked left and right for traffic before crossing the road. He fixed his gaze back on Mark. “You better hope Terry isn’t the type for reconciliation. You better hope his family don’t make a fuss.”

  Mark waved his hand dismissively. “Better people than Tommo disappear all the time. They never get found.”

  Eric put his hands in his jacket pockets and hunched against the cold. “This is on you.”

  A smirk twisted Mark’s mouth. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said. “Should Terry ever find out what happened, which is unlikely, feel free to send him south. I’ll be waiting for him.”

  “Sounds permanent?”

  “It is. I’m done with this shithole.”

  “What makes you think the South’s any better?”

  Mark grinned. “It isn’t. It’s just wealthier.”

  Eric smiled back and stuck out his hand. “So long, Mark. I’ll see you around.”

  Mark laughed and shook it. “Fuckin’ hope not, ‘cause if you do it means I’ll be working with you two fuckin’ idiots again.”