Skewered

by Jones, Benedict J

  The underpass was lit by a few dirty strip lights. I looked ahead and couldn’t see anyone. I was half way down the tunnel when they stepped off the far stairs; two of them with their hoods up. Could just be a couple of boys heading to the pub or the gym. They didn’t look like it though, clothes a bit too scruffy. I slipped my hand into the pocket with the pepper spray and risked a look back over my shoulder; two more guys coming off the stairs I had just come down, dressed in the same shit clothes - they looked like a pack of junkies on the hunt. Shit. I walked a little faster towards the two guys in front of me, put a little skip in my step. I needed a couple of seconds before the others caught up.

  “Did Big Time send you?”

  “Who?”

  All the response I needed. The guy had the rheumy eyes of a heavy user and both their clothes were filthy. I had the pepper spray out and let the taller one have a blast in the face. He fell away with one arm clasped over his eyes. The other threw a punch that I skipped back from and then I threw myself into him. He bounced off the wall and slumped. Shouts came from the two guys who were closing in on me. And then I was away, onto the stairs and sprinting.

  I ran across a set of traffic lights and then another, past the old Hartley jam factory. Sprinted up the road until I came to the bus stop where I half hid myself behind the frame. I kept looking down the road as I tried to blink my eyes clear. I must have caught some of the pepper spray. Hell of a night it was turning out to be.

  One of the junkies appeared about a hundred yards back the way I had come from and was looking around. I saw the bus coming behind him and kept myself tight to the frame of the bus stop. The bus seemed to idle at the stop for an age but then the doors hissed shut and it moved off.

  The bus was nearly at the river when the phone rang again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Where you at?”

  “Just coming up on the stop before Tower Bridge.”

  “Good. Get off.”

  I rang the bell and jumped off when the doors opened.

  “Alright I’m off. What now?”

  “Patience, Charlie, patience. Do a right and walk down to Dockhead, there’s a cab office on the left. You’ll be there in about ten minutes. I’ll call you back.”

  I hefted the bag up onto my shoulder and started walking. I felt like I was getting close now. The clock on the Nokia told me that it was just after nine. I took my cigarettes out and sparked one. The run after the subway was still letting me feel it in my legs; they felt as loose as an MP’s morals. I coughed up a lung-full of brown mucus after my first pull but then I started to feel a little better. The area around Dockhead was familiar to me; I’d gone to St. Joseph’s Primary school further up Jamaica Road and then St. Michael’s secondary just around the corner. The phone started ringing again as I reached the cab office, a different number from the last one that had called.

  “Hello?”

  “Charlie, get a cab and take it to North Woolwich, Pier Road, and you’d best be quick. If you’re not at the ferry station by ten then the drop’ll be off, you get me?”

  “How about we just meet up somewhere and crack open a couple of beers, I give you the money and you give me Mr. Singh?”

  Laughter crackled down the line.

  “You’re a funny guy, Charlie, but you’re wasting time. Be there by ten.”

  I stuck my head into the cab office and hollered at the controller.

  “Any cars?”

  The skinny blonde behind the reinforced glass looked up at me.

  “Sorry, love, I’m all out. Fifteen minute wait.”

  I stepped outside and looked for a black cab that might be cruising up from Jamaica Road. Then it hit me. I knew why he wanted me outside the ferry terminal at North Woolwich – last ferry back to Woolwich Arsenal, on the south side. A black cab came down from Tower Bridge. I sucked a chest full off the Benson and stuck my arm out.

  “Ferry terminal in Woolwich please, mate. Extra score in it if you get me there before ten.”

  He flicked the meter on with a grin and took off down the bus lane like only a proper London cabbie could do.

  Fourteen

  Mook walked into the front room.

  “Easy.”

  He said inclining his head to Stanton.

  “Easy, bro. Me and Eamon are gonna go get this money. You keep an eye on the house guest, yeah? I’ve gagged him again so he shouldn’t be any trouble.”

  Stanton had also thrown a handful of pills into Dev Singh’s mouth. The man had been crying like a little bitch over the burns that Stanton had given him. The man in the room didn’t know anything about real pain, not like Stanton did. Mook nodded at Stanton and fired up the X-box.

  “Sure you don’t want me with you?”

  “Nah, cuz, I reckon if he had a tail we shook it off him. I called Elissa and she said no one’s left the house. Course that don’t mean shit but I’ll be scoping it before I go into the drop.”

  Stanton stood and unrolled his parka from around the machete. He pulled the coat on and slid the heavy blade inside.

  “You carrying, E?”

  Eamon took a butterfly knife out of his pocket and held it out for Stanton to inspect.

  “Shi-it! What you couldn’t have gotten something smaller?”

  Eamon laughed along with Mook and Stanton. He guessed the little butterfly knife in his fist did look kind of silly compared to the foot long machete Stanton had in his coat.

  “You want me to grab something else?”

  “Nah, man, you just stay with the car. I’ll handle the pick-up. Speak to you after.”

  Stanton touched fists with Mook as he passed and Eamon followed suit. Mook laughed and thought about his cut of the money. He knew not to mess around with Stanton, had known that since they first met in the children’s home. Stanton was smart and he let Mook do what he wanted, most of the time. He knew that Eamon wouldn’t be with them for much longer. He’d liked Eamon but the kid’s time was almost done. Mook had seen it over and over; Stanton would take someone in and get his claws into them like a meat hook through a pig carcass and then he’d drain every last drop out of them before he cut them loose. Stanton had left a trail of broken people behind him, almost as broken as himself.

  Fifteen

  The cabbie dropped me by the ferry terminal in Woolwich at ten minutes to ten. I paid the fare and gave him the extra twenty I had promised. As he drove away I lit a cigarette and watched the cab’s brake lights as it drifted away into the night like the smoke from my Benson. I leant back against a pillar and waited for the call.

  The phone rang at five to ten. I looked out over the water and could see the ferry on the other side of the river. I answered it and didn’t say a word.

  “Char-lie...” Came the sing song voice down the line. “You there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Where’d you want me now?”

  “See that little coffee stand by the terminal?”

  Shit. My heart dropped and I swallowed hard.

  “Yeah, I see it.”

  “Well you ain’t got time for a coffee so get your arse onto the ferry. Time’s a-ticking. I’ll call you in fifteen minutes.”

  The guy at the other end of the phone, Big Time, sounded manic, like he was on something. My stomach bubbled with that feeling, the one you learn when you’re small, the one that keeps you alive.

  I walked quickly into the terminal on the south side, throwing my cigarette away before I entered. A man in a blue uniform was locking the shutter over the ticket window.

  “No more ferries tonight, mate.”

  “Yeah, I know. My bird’s coming over on this one. Is it alright if I wait here?”

  “Go for it. It’s still a free country – for now anyway even with the bloody Tories in power!” He laughed and vanished into the doorway of the ticket office.

  I dropped the bag onto the floor and wiped my forehead, I was sweating like a paedo in a playground. I stepped close to the wall and looked out through the window of
the terminal. I couldn’t see anyone lurking but that didn’t mean they weren’t watching.

  As the ferry approached the pier I checked myself. Pepper spray was in my pocket, battery filled sock was in the large front pocket of my hoodie and the Nokia was in my right fist. I grabbed up the bag in my left hand and waited for the passengers to appear. There weren’t many, maybe half a dozen or so. I mingled and left the terminal with them. I stopped and looked around, waited for the call. It came almost as soon as I was outside.

  “Hey, Charlie. That bag looks nice and heavy.”

  I glanced side to side but couldn’t see anyone.

  “You know this area?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay. Cross the main road and walk down till you get to John Wilson Street. Do the first left and you’ll see a Sainsbury’s. I’ll call you back when you’re nearer.”

  I slung the bag over my shoulder and started walking. I was tired but knew I needed to stay sharp, took out my cigarettes and lit one – only one left in the box now, a lonely sight.

  John Wilson Street is wide, a main road, small blocks of flats litter the left hand side and the right is a bigger estate of small houses, army barracks further up. I followed the instructions and took the first left. The street sloped down past a small car park, a couple of cars were parked on the top of it and I guessed there was further space under it. In front of me was a bigger multi-story car park, maybe seven levels high. If I wanted a view of the ferry and the approach to the supermarket I’d be up there with a pair of binoculars. I tried to scan the shadows above me on the sly but I couldn’t make anything out in the murk and gloom. The phone vibrated in my pocket a moment before it rang.

  “Yeah?”

  “Turn around.”

  I did as instructed like a performing bear.

  “You see that car park?”

  “Yeah, the little one, I see it.”

  “Well get yourself in there, ground level not on top.”

  The line went dead and I wondered if this was the drop or just a bit more of the run around.

  Surprise, surprise, there were no lights on in the car park and only three or four cars. I had come in through a small doorway and looking around I could see that the main entrance was at the opposite end from where I was standing – a figure stood silhouetted against the orange glare from the street lights.

  The figure started walking towards me so I headed towards him. As we got closer I saw he was wearing a parka with a fur lined hood, the hood cast his face in shadows. He raised his hand.

  “Stop there, yeah.”

  I stopped.

  “Toss that bag over here. Now.”

  I didn’t say a word I just threw the sports bag towards him. It hit the ground and slid to a halt at his feet. He dropped into a crouch over the bag and then looked up at me.

  “You stay where you are, yeah?”

  I nodded slow and deliberately. I wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardise this. The zipper being pulled back sounded louder than it should and I couldn’t help but think back to Jaz pulling down the zipper on my jeans. He ripped open one of the bundles and then looked up at me again. He lifted the bundle out of the light and studied more intently under what light came in from the street lights outside.

  “What the fuck?” He threw the bundle at me and it burst in my face.

  I stumbled back and I saw so much shredded newspaper falling through the air that it was like an explosion in a printing press. I looked from the shredded paper to the figure in the parka.

  “This how you want it to go down, yeah?”

  “No, I mean, the money was there, man. Just stay calm. Let me make a call.”

  My hand went for the phone in my pocket. His hand went into the jacket and the light from the street silhouetted the blade of the machete as he held it out at his side. My hand scrambled for the pepper spray as he came at me. I’d just got the canister loose from my pocket when I saw the first swing coming. I threw myself back and ended up on my arse on the concrete, the spray skittered away under a car. The blade came down and I just managed to pull my legs back. Steel struck concrete with a clang. I scrambled back along the floor and ended up against the wall. The figure closed in.

  “I’m gonna cut you slow, bitch!”

  The blade came around at me and I rose up onto my knees to catch the blade before it got too much momentum. The steel cut into my hand and I screamed. But I didn’t let go, I kept my left hand tight on the cold metal of the blade. My right hand was in the pocket at the front of my hoodie and I managed to drag the sock out. He tried to work the blade loose and I felt it bite deeper into my flesh. I let go and he stumbled back. I moved in and swung. The batteries smashed him in the knee and he barked in pain. I kept swinging and although I felt myself catch air a few times most of the blows hammered against his knee. The blade slashed at me and I jumped back, finally getting back to my feet. I felt the blood dripping from my hand as I watched the machete wielder hopping around in the dark.

  “Thought you were gonna cut me, hop-along?”

  As soon as I said it I regretted it, anger was clouding me, but by that point I just wanted to break the man in two. The figure half turned and I felt his eyes on me. I moved in.

  “Where’s Dev Singh?”

  “Fuck you! I’ll send you a piece of him.”

  He slashed at the air in front of him. I started spinning the weighted sock next to me building up a bit of power. I wanted to land one straight in his face. I swung - and missed. He danced back on one leg and then turned and made a limping dash for the entrance. I threw the sock and felt a jump in my heart when it struck him in the back. He swerved and staggered but he made the entrance. I ran after him. I wasn’t thinking – bare hands against a machete. Smart, Charlie, really smart. I burst out into the fresh air a few seconds after him and saw him collapse against a small, two door, hatchback. He pointed the machete at me and then threw himself into the passenger seat. I stopped and watched the car accelerate away. I stood in the road repeating the letters and numbers of the license plate like a mantra. I could hear the drip-drip of a broken tap, I looked down and saw the road was wet. I needed a hospital.

  Sixteen

  Once he’d tossed the machete onto the back seat Stanton punched the dashboard and grabbed at his knee.

  “Where’s the money?”

  Stanton looked round at Eamon.

  “Just drive.”

  “Come on, man, what happened?”

  Eamon looked away from the road and Stanton backhanded him in the mouth.

  “I told you to drive. So shut the fuck up and drive!”

  After that Eamon kept his eyes on the road and Stanton bit the inside of his mouth to keep from screaming, as much from not having the money as from the fact that his knee felt as though it had exploded. Stanton pulled at his pocket and found the remnants of the bag of pills. He tipped the contents into his mouth and washed it down with a can of lager he took from the glove box.

  “Get me back to the flat.”

  Eamon wanted to ask what Stanton was going to do but his lip still throbbed from the backhand. Something had gone wrong, that much he could work out. But he stayed quiet and kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead. He intended to take Stanton back to the flat, make his excuses and then get back to his mum’s as quick as he could.

  “You’re quiet, boy.”

  Eamon looked at Stanton who was staring at the can of lager that dangled in his fist.

  “I thought you wanted me to shut up and drive?”

  “Yeah, you thinking again?”

  Eamon kept his mouth shut. He just had to get Stanton back to the flat and then go, avoid the others and he might be okay.

  “You think too much, man. You don’t do anything. That’s why you’re nothing – everyone can see that, you know? Especially Elissa, I don’t know why I bothered with you. Pull this shit heap over.”

  The car rolled to a stop just short of a row of small shops. Stanton popped open th
e door and swung himself around before trying to stand. His knee had numbed up and he was able to put his weight on it.

  “Are you getting out here then?” Eamon asked. He was tempted to just press his foot to the accelerator and leave Stanton sitting on his arse in the road. The thought almost made him smile, almost. He fiddled with the key chain hanging from the ignition.

  “Nah, man, you are?”

  Eamon looked up just in time to see Stanton’s fist an instant before it smashed into his nose with a crunch like a body builder’s heel on a packet of bourbon biscuits. Tears welled up in Eamon’s eyes and his nose stung like someone had made him snort seawater. He heard his door open and felt his seatbelt be released before he was dragged out onto the pavement. The pavement felt hard and cold through his clothes. The tears began to clear from his eyes.

  “Stanton please...”

  Stanton hit him again, more or less in the same place he had landed the first blow, while Eamon tried to push him away. Stanton looked around, no one was about. He flipped Eamon over onto his stomach and held him there with his foot on his neck. Stanton bent down and Eamon felt a hand between his legs. The hand was removed and Eamon heard something slice through the air, twice, and then the pain hit him and he started screaming.

  Seventeen

  Man walks into a hospital with a knife wound and says ‘stitch me up’ - the punch line? The nurses call the coppers and the man has to answer some awkward questions. I knew it was going to happen that way but I’d rather it didn’t happen near a botched money drop for a kidnapping. With my record I was a marked man anyway and I didn’t want to make it easy for them.

  I’d taken my vest off from under my hoodie and wrapped it tight around my left hand. Before I got out of there I went back and checked the bag. All the bundles were the same – shredded newspaper. I managed to stumble out onto the main road and make it to a bus stop – no cab driver was going to pick me up. I’d bound the vest tight and although red had blossomed on the white of the fabric it wasn’t dripping, much. Getting on the bus I kept my hand low, jammed inside my hoodie, and found a seat at the back. Every jolt of the bus seemed to jar my hand so I focussed my thoughts on what had just happened; no money in the bag even though I had seen the cash at the house in Blackheath, Dev Singh still in the hands of the kidnappers. There was only one person it could’ve been. I wanted to have a word with Mazza, a serious word.