Dead Men

by Leather, Stephen

  They left through the front door and got back into the car. ‘How did it go?’ asked McEvoy, putting the car into gear and pulling away from the kerb.

  ‘How it always goes,’ said Lynn. ‘Bang, bang, he’s dead. Now get us the hell out of here.’

  McEvoy stamped on the accelerator and the Saab leapt forward.

  Lynn took off his ski mask as McEvoy drove down the hill to the dual carriageway that led to the safety of the Republican Falls Road area of West Belfast. ‘Well done, boys,’ he said. ‘You done me proud.’

  Kinsella had his head down and was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

  ‘It’s okay, Noel. The first time is always hard, no matter what anyone says.’

  ‘I fucked up, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You pulled the trigger, lad, and there’s a lot can’t even do that.’

  Kinsella was trembling and put his head into his hands. McFee opened the glove compartment and handed a bottle of Bushmills whiskey to Dunne. ‘Give the boy a wee dram,’ he said.

  Dunne unscrewed the top and tapped it against Kinsella’s shoulder. ‘Here, lad, this’ll help.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Adrian. I let you down.’

  Dunne put an arm round his shoulders. ‘Like Gerry says, the first time’s the worst. You’ve been blooded now, that’s all that matters. The next time will be easier, trust me.’

  Kinsella nodded gratefully and took the bottle of whiskey. He drank deeply, then coughed as the alcohol burnt into his stomach. ‘I’ll do better next time, lads, I promise,’ he said.

  ‘That’s for sure.’ Lynn laughed.

  Present day

  The barmaid put a pint of John Smith’s and a vodka and tonic in front of the two men and smiled professionally. ‘Can I get you anything else, gents?’ she asked. She was Australian, in her mid-twenties, with a sprinkle of freckles across her upturned nose, and breasts that rippled under her black T-shirt.

  The younger of the two men raised his beer and winked. ‘Your phone number?’

  The barmaid’s eyes hardened, but the smile stayed in place. ‘My boyfriend doesn’t let me give it out,’ she said.

  The older man laughed and slapped the other on the back. ‘She’s got you there, Vince.’

  Vince Clarke took a long pull on his pint and scowled at his drinking companion as the barmaid walked away. ‘Probably a lesbian,’ he said. Clarke’s head was shaved and a pair of Ray-Bans was pushed high on his skull. He was wearing a long black leather coat over a black suit and a thick gold chain hung round his bull neck.

  ‘Yeah, the boyfriend was the clue.’ Dave Hickey sipped his vodka and tonic and chuckled. ‘You never stop trying, do you?’ His hair was close-cropped and, like his companion, he had a pair of expensive sunglasses perched on his head. He wore a sovereign ring on his left hand and a bulky signet ring on the right.

  ‘It’s playing the odds,’ said Clarke. ‘If you ask often enough, you’ll get lucky.’

  ‘Yeah? How often do you get lucky?’

  ‘One in five,’ said Clarke. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Thereabouts. What about you? You’re not married, are you?’

  ‘Who’d have me?’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘No one special.’ He looked at his watch, a gold Breitling with several dials. ‘Where is he, then?’

  ‘He’ll be here when he’s here,’ said Clarke.

  ‘How long have you worked with him?’

  ‘Long enough to know that he’ll be here when he’s here,’ said Clarke. He drained his glass and waved at the barmaid to refill it. ‘You’re a slow drinker, aren’t you, Dave?’

  ‘I’m on spirits,’ said Hickey. ‘If I kept up with you I’d be flat on my back and no use to anyone.’

  ‘All right, lads,’ said a voice from behind them. The two men twisted on their bar stools to face a broad-shouldered man in his mid-thirties. He had a long face with a hooked nose and hair that was receding at the front but grown long at the back and pulled into a ponytail. Peter Paxton was wearing a grey leather jacket over a black polo-neck and blue jeans. ‘You ready for the off?’

  ‘Where are we heading, boss?’ asked Hickey.

  ‘Need to know, Dave,’ said Paxton. He gestured at the door. ‘Come on, the engine’s running.’

  ‘What about this?’ said the barmaid, holding up Clarke’s pint.

  ‘Put it back in the pump, love,’ said Paxton.

  Hickey and Clarke slid off their stools and followed Paxton out of the pub. Clarke tossed the barmaid a twenty-pound note and winked at her. ‘Catch you later, baby,’ he said.

  A Jaguar was waiting at the kerb. Paxton climbed into the front seat while Hickey and Clarke got into the back. Paxton nodded at the driver, a big man with a boxer’s nose. ‘Nice and steady, Eddie,’ he said.

  Eddie Jarvis grunted and eased the Jaguar forward. Paxton said, ‘Nice and steady, Eddie’ to him at least a dozen times a day and had done every day for the two years or so that Jarvis had worked for him. He seemed to find it as funny now as he had the first time he’d said it.

  ‘What’s the story, boss?’ asked Hickey.

  Paxton turned in his seat. ‘You writing a book, Dave?’

  ‘I don’t like riding into the dark, that’s all.’

  ‘We’re going to check that an investment of mine is paying off. Why? You’re not late for an appointment, are you?’

  ‘No rush here,’ said Hickey, settling back in the leather seat.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Paxton.

  They drove across the city, and after half an hour Hickey saw a sign for Stratford, the site of the 2012 Olympics. There were cranes everywhere, and trucks full of building materials packed the roads. Billions of pounds were being poured into the area in anticipation of the sporting event – new buildings were going up, existing houses were being gentrified and restaurants were opening.

  ‘You should all buy places here,’ said Paxton. ‘Prices are going through the roof. I bought six flats as soon as they announced the Olympics were coming here.’

  ‘Where am I going to get that sort of money?’ said Clarke.

  ‘Stop playing the horses for a start,’ said Paxton. ‘Gambling’s a mug’s game.’

  ‘I win more than I lose,’ said Clarke.

  ‘That’s what every punter says. The only people who make money out of gambling are the bookies. Put your money in property instead.’ Paxton pointed at a set of traffic-lights ahead. ‘Hang a left, Eddie. Then pull in, yeah?’ Eddie made the turn, parked the Jaguar at the side of the road and switched off the engine. ‘Right, lads, pin back your ears,’ said Paxton. ‘The guys we’re paying a call on are Algerians, two brothers, Ben and Ali. They’re the key to getting heroin right into London. Problem is, the delivery they were supposed to make didn’t happen and I want to know why.’

  ‘What are they, boss? Algerian Mafia?’ asked Clarke.

  ‘They work at the Eurostar depot at Temple Mills on the edge of the Olympic Park.’

  ‘They’re bringing heroin in on the Eurostar?’ asked Hickey.

  ‘They’re cleaners,’ said Paxton, ‘and part of their job is emptying the toilet holding tanks. They’ve got family at the French end where security’s lax. Their relatives put the gear in the tanks in France and Ben and Ali are supposed to get it out at Temple Mills. Except so far they haven’t done what they’re supposed to do.’

  ‘You want us to get heavy with them?’ asked Hickey.

  ‘You’ve got it in one, Einstein,’ said Paxton. ‘I had the North Pole sewn up for years, so I want to make sure no one gets the jump on me at Temple Mills.’

  ‘I thought Santa Claus had the North Pole sewn up,’ said Hickey.

  Paxton glared at him. ‘The North Pole is the old Eurostar depot near Paddington. We were bringing in dozens of kilos a month and then they decided to move to Stratford. My guys at the North Pole weren’t moved to the new depot but
they introduced me to Ben and Ali. What we’ve got here are just teething problems, and we’re the dentists.’

  Paxton climbed out of the Jaguar and went to the boot. Eddie popped it open. Paxton moved aside a tatty sheepskin jacket to reveal a nylon holdall. He unzipped it, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching and pulled out a sawn-off shotgun. He passed it to Clarke, who hid it under his coat.

  ‘Shooters?’ asked Hickey.

  ‘You are on the ball tonight, aren’t you?’ said Paxton. He took a revolver from the bag and gave it to Hickey. ‘Not a problem, is it?’

  Hickey looked down the barrel of the gun, checked the sights, then flipped out the cylinder. It was fully loaded. ‘No problem here, boss. It’s just that I’m more comfortable with automatics.’

  ‘Automatics jam and they spew cartridges all over the place,’ said Paxton, dismissively. He zipped the bag and closed the boot.

  Hickey slid the gun into the pocket of his jacket. ‘You’re not carrying, boss?’

  ‘There’s no point in having a couple of dogs and barking myself, is there?’ said Paxton. ‘Right, stick with me. I’ll do the talking, you look mean, and only pull the shooters out if I say so.’ He walked down the pavement. Hickey and Clarke hurried after him.

  The Algerians were living in a row of terraced houses, several of which had for-sale signs by the front doors. It was early evening and the street-lamps came on as they headed along the pavement. Three Asian boys with gelled hair and earrings walked towards them, stepping into the road to get past. ‘Bloody suicide-bombers,’ Paxton muttered. ‘Should ship ’em all back to Paki Land.’

  ‘They were probably born here, boss,’ said Clarke.

  ‘Yeah, well, just because a dog’s born in a stable it doesn’t make it a horse,’ said Paxton. He jerked his head at the door they were approaching. The black paint was peeling and the wood was rotting at the bottom. The window frames were also in a bad state, and one of the panes on the upper floor had been broken and patched with a sheet of hardboard. ‘This is it,’ he said. He jabbed at the doorbell, then kept his gloved finger on it until the door opened. They caught a glimpse of a man in his early twenties with a goatee, then the door started to close. Paxton forced it open and the man inside swore. ‘Slam the door on me, would you, you bastard?’ yelled Paxton. He used both hands to push it wide, then Clarke and Hickey followed him into the hallway. The Algerian scrambled for the kitchen but Paxton grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Ben?’ He slammed the man against the wall.

  Hickey closed the door and stood with his back to it. ‘Where’s my fucking drugs, Ben?’ said Paxton. He put his hand round the man’s throat.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ shouted a voice from upstairs.

  A second Algerian was at the top of the stairs, a big man with forearms that bulged in his sweatshirt. He wore a thick gold chain round his neck and a bulky watch.

  Paxton kept his fingers tight round Ben’s throat. ‘Get the hell down here, Ali, and fetch me my drugs or I’ll snap this little shit’s neck.’

  ‘We haven’t got your drugs,’ said Ali. ‘They didn’t arrive.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I heard different,’ said Paxton. He pulled Ben away from the wall, then shoved him backwards down the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘So come down here and we can get things straightened out.’ Ben’s feet scrabbled along the threadbare carpet as Paxton kept him off balance. He tried to speak but, with Paxton’s grip on his neck, could only grunt. Paxton forced him into the kitchen. ‘Check the rest of the house, lads. Make sure there’s no surprises.’

  ‘Will do, boss,’ said Clarke. He kept the sawn-off shotgun pressed to his side as he opened the door to the living room.

  Hickey looked up the stairs at Ali. ‘You’d better do as he says and get down here,’ he said. Ali glared at him. ‘Don’t make me come up there and get you,’ warned Hickey.

  As Clarke stepped into the living room, a third Algerian appeared from behind the door and stabbed at him with a flick-knife. Clarke yelped and staggered back into the hallway, clutching his left arm. The shotgun clattered to the floor. ‘He stabbed me,’ said Clarke, in disbelief. ‘The bastard stabbed me.’

  Hickey ran down the hallway. The Algerian with the flick-knife bent down, reaching for the shotgun with his free hand. Hickey kicked out, his foot catching the man in the chest. The Algerian roared as he fell backwards, arms flailing.

  Clarke slid down the wall, his face ashen. ‘He stabbed me,’ he whispered, his hand pressed to the injury. ‘I can feel the blood,’ he whined. ‘I can feel it running down my arm.’

  The Algerian in the sitting room got to his feet and went into a crouch, the knife darting back and forth. Hickey heard Ali rush down the stairs behind him.

  ‘What the hell’s happening?’ shouted Paxton.

  The Algerian with the knife lunged at Hickey, who stepped back, hands up. Ali reached the bottom of the stairs and charged down the hallway. Hickey fumbled for his revolver but couldn’t get it out of his pocket before Ali slammed into him, shoulder first. Hickey stumbled over Clarke’s legs and staggered against the wall, trying to regain his balance.

  Ali picked up the shotgun. Hickey threw himself towards the man and clamped his right hand over the weapon’s hammer. Ali tried to force his index finger into the trigger guard but Hickey twisted the gun down.

  Again the Algerian with the knife slashed at Hickey, who twisted the shotgun so that Ali was between him and the knife-man. Ali tried to pull the gun away from him, but Hickey tightened his grip round the hammer. So long as he kept his hand on it, the weapon couldn’t be fired.

  Paxton let go of Ben and rushed to the kitchen door. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he roared.

  Hickey pushed Ali towards the Algerian with the knife, then twisted the shotgun free.

  A scraping sound made Paxton turn – in time to see Ben snatching a breadknife from a wooden block. Before he could react Ben thrust it to his neck. Paxton stood still, the serrated blade against his flesh. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Ben,’ he said.

  In the hallway, Hickey levelled the shotgun at Ali’s stomach. ‘Stay where you are or I’ll blow a hole in your gut,’ he said.

  Ali sneered at him. ‘You don’t scare me,’ he said.

  ‘Then you’re as stupid as you look,’ said Hickey. ‘Put your hands on your head.’

  ‘I’m bleeding to death here,’ whimpered Clarke, on the floor.

  ‘You’re fine,’ said Hickey, his eyes locked on Ali’s. ‘If he’d hit an artery you’d be dead already. Just keep pressure on the wound and you’ll be okay.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ said Clarke. ‘You’re not the one who’s been stabbed.’

  ‘Hands on your head, Ali,’ said Hickey, slowly. His finger tightened on the trigger. Ali started to lift his hands but as they got to shoulder height, the Algerian behind him shoved him in the small of the back and Ali staggered forward.

  Ali’s eyes widened in horror as Hickey raised the shotgun. He opened his mouth but before he could say anything Hickey took a step back, reversed the shotgun, and slapped the butt against the side of his head. Ali slumped to the ground. Hickey reversed the shotgun again and levelled the shortened barrel at the Algerian’s groin. ‘Drop the knife or I’ll blow your balls off.’ The knife clattered on the floor and the Algerian raised his hands. ‘Turn around slowly,’ said Hickey. The Algerian did as he was told. As he turned, Hickey hit him on the back of the head with the shotgun and the Algerian fell without a sound.

  ‘I need an ambulance,’ said Clarke.

  ‘If you don’t stop whining, I’ll shoot you myself,’ said Hickey, striding towards the kitchen door.

  Ben had dragged Paxton to the sink, the breadknife pressed to his neck.

  ‘Shoot the prick, why don’t you?’ said Paxton.

  ‘Well, first of all, if I pull the trigger on this, the neighbours are all going to start dialling three nines and there’ll be
an armed-response vehicle outside before you can say, “life sentence”. And, second of all, the shot from this will rip you both apart.’ Hickey put the shotgun on top of the fridge and took the revolver out of his pocket.

  ‘Just get this prick off me!’ said Paxton.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ said Hickey. He weighed the gun in his hand as he stared at Ben. The Algerian’s face was bathed in sweat and a pulse was throbbing in his forehead.

  ‘I’ll kill him,’ said Ben, but his voice was trembling.

  ‘The thing is, Peter, if I shoot him and he doesn’t die right away, he can still slit your throat.’ Hickey pointed the gun at Ben. ‘Drop the knife,’ he said.

  ‘You shoot me and I can still cut him,’ said the Algerian. ‘I’ll slit his throat.’

  ‘Which affects me how exactly?’ said Hickey.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen to yourself,’ said Hickey. ‘I shoot you and you stab him. Where does that leave me?’

  Ben frowned.

  ‘I’ll tell you where it leaves me,’ said Hickey. ‘Standing here with a shit-eating grin on my face while you bleed to death on the floor. So stop being an arsehole and drop the knife.’

  ‘I’ll cut him,’ said the Algerian again, but with less conviction now.

  ‘That’s no skin off my nose, is it?’

  ‘He’s your boss.’

  ‘I’ll get another,’ said Hickey. ‘Bosses are easy to find.’

  ‘Hickey, you are starting to piss me off in a big way,’ said Paxton. ‘Shoot him in the leg.’

  ‘Peter, best thing you can do right now is to keep quiet. If I shoot him in the leg he’ll cut you. If I shoot, I’ll have to shoot to kill, which means blowing his brains out.’

  The Algerian pressed the knife harder against Paxton’s neck. ‘He’s going to cut me,’ said Paxton.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said Hickey. ‘He’s stupid, but he’s not that stupid.’ Hickey walked slowly across the kitchen, his eyes locked on Ben’s.