I Want Him Dead

by Anthony Masters

  Joe Barrington was hardly ideal as a candidate, but then McMarn no longer had many options open to him. If Barrington could hold Sears off for a while, he was sure that he could build up a London business that would have some clout, and in the end might be powerful enough to see off his moralizing enemies.

  Joe Barrington walked slowly back to the flat. It was in a new block called Riverdale and he knew he couldn’t afford the rent much longer, however frugal he had been with the Candy Man’s money. He had been hoping that Sean Hutton, an old friend, would have needed a driver for a payroll job in Dagenham, but in the end Joe had been passed over for a younger and fitter man and he was beginning to realize that being out of action for so long had made him potentially unreliable, no longer sharp, possibly even over the hill for the work he had specialized in.

  Over the last year he had not managed to hold down a straight job. The chauffeuring had ended in a row with a TV executive who found Joe’s time-keeping a problem, and the Aston Martin garage had sent him packing for driving customers’ cars too fast and, in one case, grazing a rear wing. No big deal, he thought, but he always responded aggressively to criticism, destroying any clemency that might have been available to him.

  “Let’s face it,” Carla had said, in a rare moment of aggravated honesty, “you just can’t hold down a job, can you? Not one that’s not bent anyway.” That was the nearest she had ever come to mentioning his “other” work.

  Joe turned in at the sleek, polished marble entrance to Riverdale with McMarn’s words ringing in his ears. “I want you to waste somebody. To waste somebody.”

  Becoming the Candy Man’s hit-man, with no hope of reward and with the threat hanging over Timothy, had been such a shock that its ripples kept spreading inside him, making Joe alternately rage and despair. To be dependent on Eamonn to find a way out for him was a further irony.

  As he entered the stainless-steel lift and began to glide up to the sixteenth floor, he remembered first seeing his brother’s face when Joe had eventually been allowed to visit him in the burns unit of St Thomas’s. He had almost been sick at what he had seen and Eamonn had caught the look of disgust in his eyes.

  “Am I that bad then?”

  “No.” He had hastily tried to reassure his brother with all the bogus zeal of a deeply shocked fourteen-year-old.

  “You tried to get me.”

  “I couldn’t get in.”

  “But you tried.”

  Eamonn had been sitting up in bed, his features hardly recognizable. Just a dense mass of raw tissue. Joe could hardly bear to look.

  “I’ll do the same for you one day, Joe.”

  But what could his brother do? Was he blindly hoping he might come up with a brainwave? McMarn had the same power over Timothy as his mam had had over Eamonn.

  As Joe opened the door of the lift, he saw McMarn’s minder standing there.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, his face glistening with the junkie sweat. “Let’s go for a drive.”

  The Candy Man had despatched Leslie Ryland to brief Barrington and was pleased, as always, to be alone in the flat. He was still all too aware that he had employed an amateur, but he had no other choice. Somehow, Barrington would have to be got up to scratch, although he doubted Ryland was the man to do it. McMarn knew he was stuck with a couple of bummers — a far cry from his more powerful days in the north. To try and evade the depressing thoughts, he took shelter, once again, in the distant past.

  Like Eamonn Coyd, McMarn did not have rosy memories of his childhood. He was the largely unwanted only son of a powerful mother and an absentee father who had owned a huge gin palace of a pub in south London, with a flat above as a rough and ready home, smelling of the downstairs world of beer and food and disinfectant.

  Joan McMarn had been a tall, statuesque and hard-bitten Irishwoman, who had built up The Eagle as the social centre of Balham. It was a world that ran to her rules and she would tolerate neither drunkenness nor rowdiness. If any scenes did break out, however, Joan would deal with them herself. She had ultimate authority and became a tough universal aunt to whom men and women alike came with their troubles. She had little time for the child she had borne, the result of a rare sexual encounter with the husband that she had little time for either.

  Harry McMarn, a Scot, was by physical contrast markedly small and thin with a curiously flat head. They were indeed the “odd” couple, and were known by the regulars at The Eagle as Mother Mac and Flat Top. The nicknames stuck, so much so that McMarn could hardly remember their real names. Although Mother Mac was always too busy to take much interest in her son, they were alike in temperament and she was proud of his boxing, calling him her “bruiser” from a young age. Stocky and wide shouldered, with a powerful frame, he was no shrinking violet, later boxing for the local youth club. He would have been ready to inherit The Eagle if Fergus Quinton had not intervened, ostensibly visiting to inspect the pub’s architecture for a magazine and finding time to inspect Michael McMarn as well.

  What Mother Mac never knew was that her son, at sixteen, was far more interested in boys than girls, and although his encounters had been limited, he knew his feelings were unlikely to change. He had not been ashamed or guilty because he had never felt part of a real family. Rather than yearning to share his mother’s power, he now saw her as an unengaging bully who had long-since decided that men were a waste of space. His prematurely aged father avoided her as much as he could, spending most of his time on the bowling green.

  The arrival of Fergus Quinton was a revelation to McMarn, and for the first time he wondered if there could be life after Balham. Certainly Quinton seemed to think so when he singled him out, watching him box and later feeling his muscles and other parts in the privacy of a public toilet. Later still, he offered him a “continental holiday”.

  Quite why Mother Mac and Flat Top didn’t see through Quinton’s patronage was difficult to understand, but McMarn thought it must have been something to do with his personality, which was as big as his mother’s. Fortunately, rather than clashing, they rather admired each other’s style.

  Tall, rangy and athletic, with the demeanour of a sporting vicar and the frank, fearless gaze of a “good pal”, Quinton had devoted his life to a labyrinth of pederasty in as many countries as he had travelled, ostensibly specializing in the renovation of Gothic architecture.

  Michael McMarn’s first continental holiday, Quinton promised his parents, was to come to a climax at a world soccer festival in Barcelona. By some fast talking, he managed to convince Mother Mac and Flat Top that when his own marriage ended in divorce, he had lost custody of his son and wanted to indulge another youngster with some first-class soccer — a passion he had allegedly shared with “Jonathan”. In return for Michael McMarn’s company, Quinton offered Mother Mac finance to pay for much needed renovations at The Eagle. If there was any unease at all, this was soon forgotten in her gratitude at the offer, and any further qualms were laid to rest by Fergus Quinton’s formidable reputation.

  Had they known how formidable his real reputation was, Mother Mac and Flat Top would have been considerably disturbed, but the young Michael McMarn was soon well satisfied by the change in his fortunes; even at sixteen, he was able to realize that the rewards of being a rich man’s companion were rather better than those of eventually becoming landlord of The Eagle.

  As McMarn gazed out into the enclosed space of his cage of an apartment, he realized that twenty-four years of Quinton seemed to have passed as quickly as twenty-four hours in a day, and the ensuing years of slowly becoming the Candy Man now seemed like an eternity. Sometimes he wished he had stuck with his inheritance and remained in the south London culture he had spurned to live in Europe and, later, so much more squalidly, in Glasgow. Instead of being the muscle-bound host of The Eagle, he now had to settle for a price on his head and the narrowing down of his world to mere survival.

  When McMarn had lost his physical attraction for Fergus Quinton he had beco
me his procurer, understanding his tastes to the most intimate degree and therefore becoming an essential talent scout. The rest of his task was part servant, part personal assistant, and despite his lack of education, his reputation as “rough trade” partner, McMarn lasted his tenure, educating himself in art and furniture and design and style, growing to appreciate and love the aesthetic life that hid the dark world below.

  But when Quinton suddenly died of a coronary in his early sixties, the real, savage disappointment over the will became paramount in Michael McMarn’s life. His parents had also died, happy in the knowledge that their son was companion to a rich and famous man, firmly shutting out all rumour and implication. The Eagle had long since been sold and he had nothing but his miserly annuity. For a while he had brooded in a small apartment in Florence, only a block away from the hotel where he had lived with Fergus Quinton and a few kilometres from the grandiose cemetery where he had been so ornately buried.

  What happened next had been largely accidental. Drifting through the strata of Florentine pederast society, McMarn came across a Scotsman who suggested he should come to Glasgow as manager of Hell’s Gate. At first he had resisted the idea, guessing that the paedophile world might be that much more squalid out of the sun, but the sure and certain knowledge that he was under funded and fast becoming middle-aged eventually forced McMarn to take on the job of pimp to an ever-increasing number of “private” members. With Quinton he had been procurer to a gentleman; at Hell’s Gate he harvested rent-boys for animals.

  “You’re enough to make a man vomit,” Sears, the Glaswegian gangster, had told him. “You’re walking shite, McMarn, so you fucking walk over the border.”

  McMarn had been able to ignore his threats until Tommy died.

  Later, in London, Sears had eventually caught up with him, and when he had discovered McMarn was continuing his business, albeit on a less ambitious level, he had sentenced him to death — a dictate that made his companion, Leslie Ryland, singularly gloomy, knowing that he, too, would also be targeted.

  McMarn suspected Sears would give one of his drug couriers the task of executioner. They regularly travelled south to pick up quantities of high-grade cocaine, and the journey could, no doubt, be made doubly viable. Leslie Ryland ran a small trade in the substance himself and most of the rent-boys used it. This insider knowledge was McMarn’s only card.

  As his eyes roved over his treasured possessions — the wrestling cherubs from Venice, the medieval landscape from Tuscany, the little icon from Prague — McMarn wondered how long he could realistically expect to repel borders. Amateur against amateur was one thing, but if Sears used a professional then McMarn’s life expectancy would be limited. He thought again of Tommy — his own much cherished cherub. Perhaps Tommy was better off dead, the way things were.

  He slowly rose to his feet, rheumatic pain searching him out. Where was Michael McMarn, the boy-wonder boxer? Could that stocky youth have ever become this dewlapped old man? He had no moral qualms himself about his trade in young flesh, for it was so linked to his own desires that it was all one glorious obsession — just as it had been in Fergus Quinton’s day.

  The Candy Man stalked a twilit world of perversion and his appetite had never diminished. It was his raison d’être, but any plans to retire graciously to Algiers where there might lurk the expectation of another, safer Tommy, was on hold because McMarn was as obsessed with regaining power as he was obsessed with boys.

  “You’re a loser,” Leslie had pronounced only yesterday, pressing him yet again to cut and run, but McMarn had ignored him.

  “Barrington’s got potential,” he had insisted.

  “He’s an air-head.”

  “But handy in an area which you’ve got no experience of. He knows how to fire a gun.” McMarn had been determinedly optimistic.

  “You need your own personal Lone Ranger?”

  “So do you.”

  McMarn often wondered if Sears might penetrate his inner fortress. Suppose he bribed Leslie to kill him? Were the tapes a safe enough precaution? They were, after all, only to be played in the event of his death from unnatural causes. Surely that was insurance enough.

  “You’ll start a massacre,” Leslie had told him.

  “We need to show some muscle.” McMarn had been determined to remain at least superficially buoyant. “I used to have a lot of that until age stole it away. Now I need someone else’s.” McMarn sighed. Leslie Ryland seemed incapable of optimism. His background of children’s homes made him live for the day, which had often been a useful means of containing him in the past. But not now.

  “They won’t be warned off so easily,” Leslie had insisted.

  “Sears won’t go on bothering us if someone gets blown away. It’s called damage limitation. You might remember that.”

  “The Candy Man can’t go on for ever,” Leslie had said, hoping to unsettle the old man, but McMarn had clung determinedly to the guerrilla warfare.

  Chapter 4

  As Anne Lucas walked over Wimbledon Common the words repeated themselves over and over again. “Do you know anyone who would kill my husband?” The phrase seemed banal, echoing mockingly in her mind, underlining her “condition”, as her mother called her breakdown.

  “If you won’t see anyone, dear, it’ll only get worse. Men are animals. They go rutting. Like your father. Now Paul. You’ve got to be realistic. You’ve got Peter to think about. You can’t go to pieces like this.”

  But she had. She had cracked into pieces like old china, china which should have been preserved. The more Anne tried to feel martyred, the more she felt like a lonely child. I’m on my own, she told herself. All on my own. She was pathetic, hiding in her world of booze, emotions absurdly awry, unable to get a grip on herself and ending up in bathos.

  Rutting? She had a sudden image of her father and Paul, stamping their feet, cleaving the dead leaves, scraping at the rancid mud below, rubbing themselves against the rough bark of an oak, their penises swelling.

  “You look happy,” said a voice. Sally Grant came up in a tracksuit. They knew each other vaguely. Sally was a researcher for Carlton and Anne had occasionally phoned her up, picking at her knowledge. She knew nothing of Paul’s departure.

  Yes, thought Anne. I’m as happy as Larry. “It’s been such a lovely day, hasn’t it?” she said, anxious to get rid of her.

  “Crisp,” said Sally. “That’s what they say when it’s fucking cold, don’t they?” they fell into step together.

  “Don’t let me spoil your run.”

  “I’m glad of an excuse to stop. I saw your old man in a tracksuit the other day. How’s work?”

  “I’m writing a new piece for The Guardian. Conditions in prison, that kind of thing.”

  “Proper little campaigner, aren’t you?” Sally grinned to take the sting out of her words and for the first time Anne wondered if she was jealous and if she was, why hadn’t she noticed it before? She had of course been somewhat preoccupied lately. I want my husband dead, she said in her mind as if she was saying it to Sally. Would she still reply proper little campaigner, aren’t you?

  “Oh well, it keeps the wolf from the door.”

  “How’s Paul’s new company?”

  “Early days.”

  “I hear his mother finally left him a bomb.”

  “Every little helps.”

  “Be careful about this common,” said Sally. “You shouldn’t be on your own.”

  “Neither should you.”

  “They reckon they’ve got Rachel Nickell’s killer at last. Second time lucky, eh?”

  I’m here though, thought Anne. A killer in embryo. “It was a horrible case, wasn’t it?”

  “That child.” Sally shuddered. “He was only two and he watched it all. How’s he going to grow up?”

  “God knows.”

  They walked on contemplatively for a while until they came to the pond.

  “There’s ice,” said Sally. “Too thin for skating though.”


  “I hope kids don’t get out on it.”

  “It’ll be dark after school.” Sally paused, seemingly reluctant to get on with her run. Anne wished she would. She wanted to be alone, to try and grasp the reality of what she had said to Coyd. At the moment her startling request still had a dream-like quality.

  “Oh well — better get on.” Sally didn’t move. “I’ve got to go and talk to a man about a chip-fryer.”

  “Consumer?”

  “That Watch Dog shit. God, it pisses me off. If only I could do something different for a change.” She began to run, her breath cloudy in the cold air. “What’s the betting he’ll demonstrate his skills —”

  Could Eamonn Coyd do the same, wondered Anne.

  She went home, drank two double whiskies and lay on her bed, wanting to blot it all out, to sleep and wake refreshed so she could consider the situation again, but the past clawed at her, as it often did, only strengthening her resolve.

  She closed her eyes, watching her father helping to build the sea wall, while her sisters sat in deck chairs, staring ahead unseeingly, their thoughts occupied by the dance at the hotel tonight and the possibility of boys.

  At twelve, Anne wasn’t interested; she was just pleased to have her father to herself. Maybe she should have been a boy. She was good at beach cricket, at other ball games, at being energetic. All these qualities her father loved. He had a sedentary wife, two ostensibly sedentary daughters, so Anne and her father shared the light and revelled in it.