by K E Coles
‘It’s all we’ve got,’ Art said, ‘for the time being.’
Behind the altar, graffiti tags and obscenities competed with what remained of painted saints, heavenly cherubs, and angels, their gold leaf decoration flaked and stained.
‘Paint over that,’ Art said, ‘but keep the angels.’ His lip curled. ‘Let them watch.’
Nico pushed aside a bedraggled, heavy curtain into the vestry – a small, oblong room, lighter than the church.
Leo and the smaller of the two ‘bouncers’ were sitting, eating chips, on a massive, oak desk in the centre of the room. Leo looked up as they came in. Bouncer jumped to his feet and shrank into the corner, quietly folding the paper around his remaining chips.
‘Why aren’t you working?’ Art said.
Leo wiped his greasy mouth on the back of his hand. ‘It’s lunch, isn’t it?’
‘Lunch?’ Art snorted, eyes wide. ‘You think you have lunch break?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Get back to work – and you Malki.’
Malki, head down, put his chips in the half-full, black bin bag on the floor. He sidled past Spicer.
Leo jumped off the table and flung his chips in too. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he muttered.
The smell of the chips mingled with the dead-bird stench. Spicer moved back a pace, nearly tripped into a dilapidated cupboard that lined one wall.
‘We had a tail,’ Nico said. ‘Somebody’s squealed.’
‘Squealed?’ Leo said. ‘No shit.’
The vestry may have been lighter than the church, but it smelled even worse.
Art glanced around the room, frowned. ‘Where’s Umar?’
Leo shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Somewhere around.’
Art opened a door in the wall, peered into the darkness. ‘What’s this?’
‘Store cupboard?’ Leo shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘Anything in there?’
‘Don’t know, do I?’ Leo said. ‘Can’t see. Too dark.’
‘Bring torches next time.’
Nico touched the black hollow in the centre of the desk with his finger. It looked as if someone had lit a fire in it – charred and dusty. He rubbed the black ash, sniffed it, pursed his lips.
Malki edged towards the main body of the church, pushing his sweeping brush ahead of him.
‘Malki?’ Art said.
Malki flinched, turned, head down.
‘You know where Umar is?’
Malki licked his lips.
‘Well?’
‘He’s . . .’ Malki shuffled his feet, glanced up at Art, looked down again.
‘He’s what?’ Nico took a step towards him.
Malki shrank back. ‘Gone home.’
‘He’s what?’ Nico laughed.
‘He was pissed off - cleaning up this shit-hole.’
Leo bounced, excited. ‘There’s your squealer.’
Nico shoved him. ‘You’re a dickhead, Leo.’
Art’s eyes narrowed. ‘Someone squealed.’
‘Maybe it was him,’ Ruby said, ‘although he’d have to be even more of an idiot than Leo.’
‘Hey!’ Leo protested.
‘Joke,’ she said, but nobody laughed.
Art’s phone rang. He held it to his ear. ‘Papa.’ He wandered outside.
‘Well, get moving, then.’ Nico shoved Leo. ‘Show us what you’ve done, cos it don’t look like much to me.’
Leo pointed out two black bags of rubbish by the vestry door, and a pile of sweepings in the middle of the nave.
‘Is that it?’
‘There’s only two of us,’ Leo said. ‘Maybe you’d like to get your hands dirty.’
‘Ruby and Spice here can help you.’
Ruby’s eyes widened. ‘That’s a footie’s job.’
‘It’s your job,’ Nico said. ‘You do what I tell you. If I tell you to clean the bogs, that’s what you do.’
‘Oh, for . . .’
Art interrupted. ‘I have to go to Brighton for a few days, maybe longer.’
‘Brilliant,’ Nico said. ‘Leave all the crap to us.’
‘They’re sending a team of inspectors into the home,’ Art said. ‘They want to close it down.’
Ruby’s head snapped around. ‘No way.’
Close the home where Pitt turned kids into monsters? Sounded like good news to Spicer. Then he could just walk away from all this, go back . . . to what? He had nothing.
‘I’m going,’ Art said, ‘to make sure the inspectors see exactly what they should.’ He held his right hand out to Ruby. ‘I’ll take the Audi.’
She scowled as she wrestled the key from her pocket.
Art’s fake smile flashed and was gone. ‘While I’m away,’ he said, ‘find something on every one on that inquiry. I’ll leave a list in your room.’
Nico nodded. ‘Will do. Shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘We need them . . .’ Art pressed his thumb against the wall until the nail turned white. ‘. . . like that.’
They spent an hour or so sweeping and cleaning, then Nico clapped his hands. ‘Right, Spicer, I have a job for you.’
Ruby’s mouth dropped open.
Nico headed over to Leo and Malki, who were standing on stepladders, brushing the windows. ‘Keys to the Fiesta.’
‘What?’ Leo looked down, a cobweb hanging from his hair.
‘Requisitioned.’
‘What about us?’
‘Public transport, mate,’ Nico said, with a grin. ‘Heard of it?’
Ruby laughed.
Nico shot her a glance. ‘Ruby here’s gonna stay and supervise.’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Ruby said.
Spicer resisted the temptation to smile, or even look at her. One up, though – yess!
The Fiesta smelled of Leo’s rollies. Ash covered the dashboard and the carpet.
Nico brushed the driver’s seat before climbing in.
‘Think public transport’s cleaner,’ Spicer said.
‘No think about it.’ Nico swung the car out into the traffic. He parked a street away from the house. ‘Let’s see if our tail’s survived.’
No white BMW was parked in their street. No occupied cars at all.
‘Guess Art’s right,’ Nico said. ‘Cops would have a new motor sorted by now for sure.’
They headed straight upstairs to Nico’s room. He opened the door. ‘Welcome to my domain.’
Spicer expected a bed, wardrobe, whatever, but instead, a bank of twelve monitors lined one wall, each showing a different interior. Offices, bedrooms, bathrooms, most of them empty. Nico picked up a remote, and every screen went blank. He went over to a desk, scribbled something on a post-it note, handed it to Spicer. On it was written an address in Essex.
‘Skinny old guy with a ginger moustache,’ Nico said. ‘Name’s Naden.’
‘Right.’
‘Tell him Nic sent you. Tell him we want something on Paterson.’
‘Right.’
‘If he starts bleating about friendship or duty or some other shit, hand him this.’ Nico handed him a slim package that weighed virtually nothing.
‘What is it?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘Right.’ Spicer swallowed. At least it wasn’t a gun.
Nico handed him a car key. ‘There’s a Volvo out the back. Take that. You do drive, yeah?’
‘Yeah, just never had a car.’
‘No way.’ Nico smiled. ‘What kind of car d’you want?’
‘Don’t know.’ Having a car had never seemed a possibility.
‘You’re one of us now, man.’ Nico slapped him on the back. ‘You can have a car. You can have anything you want.’
What I want, Spicer thought, is to see every one of you banged up. You can keep the car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE SPICER
Spicer hadn’t driven since the day he passed his test. He kangarooed up the road, glad Ruby wasn’t there to mock. The first few times he hit the brake, he almost winded himself on the steering wheel, but by the
time he reached his destination, he’d got the hang of it.
He turned into Crawshay Avenue – tree-lined, respectable, middle class suburbia. He pulled in alongside one of the larger, detached houses, set back from the road. Whatever Naden did, it paid pretty well.
Spicer pressed on the doorbell. No reply. He pushed again, his left hand sweaty on the package in his pocket.
A woman’s voice came from behind him, accompanied by a high-pitched, irritating bark. A thin, elderly woman stood at the end of the drive, her tiny, white dog beside her.
Yap, yap ‘. . . garden.’ Yap, yap ‘. . . expect,’ she said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Major Terrence.’ She shouted. ‘He’ll be in the garden.’
‘Right,’ Spicer said. ‘Thank you.’ He checked the number on the door. Definitely right. He went to the side of the house and shouted hello, aware of the woman watching.
The perfectly manicured garden appeared to be empty. To the right, stood a large greenhouse. Spicer drew closer, saw someone, crouched over flowerpots on a shelf.
‘Mr Naden?’ Spicer said.
The guy straightened up – sparse, ginger hair, cut in a military-style short back and sides, moustache. He looked about sixty-five, maybe older, but stood upright, shoulders back, chest puffed out.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Everything about him spoke of authority, including the public school accent.
‘Nic sent me.’
Naden looked past Spicer, down the garden. ‘And?’
‘We want something on Paterson.’
‘On Ian?’ Naden shook his head. ‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid. Now, if you don’t mind . . .’ He pushed past Spicer, and headed towards the house.
Spicer followed, through white-painted French windows into a square living room furnished in a sparse, masculine style – all leather furniture and dark wood. The kind of room where a stag’s head wouldn’t look out of place.
Naden turned. ‘I’ll tell you once. Get out of my house, before I call the police.’
Spicer would have liked nothing more than to leave the old guy be. ‘Can’t do that, sorry.’
Naden backed towards the fireplace. ‘Find someone else to do your dirty work. I want nothing to do with it.’
Spicer drew the package from his pocket, held it out. ‘He said to give you this.’
Naden stared. His face paled, took on a grey tinge. An old man, after all, behind the bluster.
‘Are you all right?’ The last thing Spicer wanted was this OAP pegging out on him.
Naden swallowed, took the package. ‘Is – is this what I think it is?’
His reaction piqued Spicer’s curiosity. ‘And what would that be?’
Naden glanced up at a pair of crossed swords hanging above the fireplace. Spicer wondered if he’d use them. He looked desperate enough - eyes protruding, artery pulsing in his neck. He glanced back at Spicer, assessing him, weighing his options perhaps.
Don’t do it, old man. Spicer flexed his fingers, stared back. Don’t do it. Don’t push me.
Sweat beaded Naden’s clammy skin. ‘This is the - the only copy?’
‘Afraid not.’ He couldn’t help feeling for the old guy. Whatever was in the package couldn’t be that bad, surely. ‘Listen, just give him what he wants, okay? Because you really don’t want to mess with this lot.’
Naden nodded. ‘And you’ll destroy any other copies?’
‘Yeah,’ Spicer lied. ‘Course we will.’
Naden turned away. Was that a sob? What could the old guy have done to make him so afraid? Naden turned, eyes red-rimmed and watery. ‘Listen.’ His voice shook as much as his hands. He licked his lips. ‘Can you promise this,’ he waved the package, ‘won’t get out?’
‘I . . .’ For pity’s sake. Had he gone undercover for this, to frighten sick old men?
‘It got out of hand,’ Naden said, his voice wavering. ‘It was meant to be a party – just a party.’
‘Party?’ Spicer felt as if he’d swallowed a bucket load of ice. He cleared his throat. ‘Where was this?’
Naden slumped into a chair. The package fell into his lap. He covered his face with his hands, and sobbed.
Spicer stared. ‘It was Brighton, wasn’t it? Those kids?’
The smallest of nods.
‘You were there.’ Spicer snatched the package from his lap, tore it open. A DVD. The DVD. He wanted to run away, hide in the corner, wanted someone to come and take it all away, but it was there, in his hand – hated, evil. He dropped it, watched it skitter across the polished oak floor.
‘What happened?’ Spicer said.
The old man’s red, pleading eyes filled him with disgust.
‘My sister was there.’ The words sounded calm, reasonable, but inside, Spicer itched to string the miserable wretch up by his balls. He’d do it, too, if he didn’t get his answer. ‘You’d better tell me.’
‘I can’t.’ Naden shook his head. ‘I can’t.’ His voice broke.
‘D’you want to watch it?’ Spicer said. ‘Me and you, together?’
Naden shook his head, shrank small in the armchair.
Spicer leaned over him. ‘What did you do?’ Stay calm, he told himself, and you’ve got them, got them all.
But the pathetic wimp just cowered, one arm over his head. The dark red, weak lip quivered beneath the moustache.
‘My sister was fucking murdered.’ Spicer grabbed Naden’s lapels, hauled him to his feet. ‘What happened?’ He was so close, his spittle sprayed Naden’s face. ‘You fucking . . . Just fucking tell me.’
Naden’s skin turned mottled, purple and red. His eyes bulged. He gasped for air.
Spicer shook him, roared in his face – wordless, animal fury.
Naden’s hands flailed uselessly. His eyelids flickered. Eyeballs rolled back into his head, as his knees buckled.
Spicer took his weight. ‘Don’t you pass out on me, you bastard.’ He slapped his face, hard, once, twice. ‘You fucking coward, wake up.’
No response.
Spicer’s arms ached. The skinny old git was surprisingly heavy. ‘You’re not getting out of this,’ Spicer yelled. He lowered Naden to the floor, knelt beside him, felt for a pulse. Nothing. Shit! He felt for the centre of the breastbone. Shit! One hand on top of the other, he pressed the heels of his hands down, pumped thirty compressions.
‘Don’t you dare.’ Spicer’s foamy white spittle speckled Naden’s grey skin. ‘Don’t you dare die on me.’
Spicer took a breath, held it in his mouth, stared at the face in front of him. A disgusting, old, depraved pervert.
He bent low, whispered in Naden’s ear, ‘Okay, go to hell, you bastard. Go to hell and burn for all eternity.’
He sat back on his heels, and caught his breath. His gaze drifted to the discarded DVD. Dread gnawed at his stomach, twisted, churned inside him. He could leave it unwatched, send it to Jim, let him live the nightmare. This gnawing would only get worse though, that he knew. The unknown was always worse, wasn’t it? Imagination created unspeakable horrors. Nothing could be as bad as the stuff inside his head.
There didn’t appear to be a computer of any sort in the living room. He stood, wandered out into the hallway, checked the other rooms. No PC, not even a laptop. Naden was a dinosaur, it seemed. The TV then. Everyone had a DVD player, even dinosaurs.
Sure enough, there it was. Spicer took the disc out of its case. He stared at it, wondered if he could live with the flashbacks, the images haunting his every waking moment, every nightmare, for the rest of his life.
He put it back in the case, back in his pocket, and headed for the door. But if they found it, Nico or one of the others, it would disappear. He took it out of his pocket, laid it next to the TV. The police could find it, watch it, catch the bastards involved.
Except that wouldn’t happen. The disc would vanish, never surface again. Even if a decent copper picked it up, he’d probably end up dead.
There was no alternative. He shoved it into
the machine, turned it on, pressed play, without thinking – the only way he could do it. The bucket load of ice formed one solid block inside him, so he couldn’t bend, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
He stared at the blank, blue screen, and waited. Nothing. No data. His lungs screamed for air. He took a huge breath. Still nothing. He took the disc out, wiped it on his jeans, tried again. No data. A blank DVD.
Spicer laughed aloud. Perhaps it was lack of oxygen from holding his breath for so long, or the relief of not having to see what his sister went through, but he felt delirious. His head swam as he made his way to the door. He staggered into the doorpost, laughed, lurched into the hallway.
The car wouldn’t go straight, kept veering towards oncoming traffic, then veering the other way, and hitting the kerb. Lights flashed, horns blared. He should have stopped, but didn’t much care what happened. A near miss with a car full of kids shocked him out of it. The woman driver’s terrified eyes pierced whatever was fogging Spicer’s brain. He pulled into a lay-by, alongside a playing field, got out of the car. He walked, then jogged until he built up a sweat. Heavy, grey clouds blocked out the sun. He broke into a run – faster, faster – felt his blood moving, felt alive, powerful. Fat raindrops hit the path, smack, smack, smack. He ran until his legs seized up, and his chest hurt. He sat on a bench, lifted his face to the sky, let the rain wash him. It seeped between his closed eyelids, between his lips. It tasted of London – of soot and dust, and whatever other shit was in the air.
Calm, happy, he walked back to the car, dripped over the leather seats, over the steering wheel.
He called Jim.
‘Where the hell are you?’ Jim yelled, before he’d had time to say anything.
‘In London.’
‘London?’ Jim said. ‘What the . . ?’
‘I told your man,’ Spicer said. ‘Told him we were moving.’
‘What man?’
‘The guy you had tailing us.’ Even as he said it, he knew he’d got it wrong.
He heard Jim inhale, exhale, as if he was counting to ten. ‘Whoever he was, he’s not one of mine. Christ!’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’ll have to reorganise the safe house then, won’t I? Not a lot of point in having it in Gloucester.’