The Drop

by Howard Linskey

  I was vaguely aware of Gladwell in the car, wittering away to the two Russians or was it to me, or perhaps he was just talking to himself. He was like some excitable child on Christmas morning who had just found out Santa’s been and given him everything he ever wanted.

  Gladwell was in the front passenger seat, Vitaly was in the back with me and one of his men was driving. Gladwell kept shifting about in his seat, he couldn’t keep still and he was turning round to talk to us, ‘did you fucking see it, did you fucking see it?’ he kept asking us, ‘he just stepped up to the plate and bam!’ he banged his hand on the dash board in front of him, ‘I give this guy, this civilian, who’s never so much as punched a bloke in his life probably, a shot at the title, a once-only offer to save his life but he has to kill a bloody legend and does he take that chance? Too fucking right he does! Nooo messing! Bang! Ten seconds I tell him and he waits right till the last one and I was thinking, oh wait a minute, he’s not going to do this thing, then wham,’ he hit the dash board again, ‘he looks Bobby Mahoney in the eye, Bobby Mahoney mind you, king of the whole city, and he slots him, cool as you like. Oh, hello man, you were awesome son! You should be in my crew. Do you want to come and work for me, do you?’ they all laughed like this was a hilarious suggestion, ‘anyone needs slotting, he’s our Top Boy from now on, I’ll get him right on it. Oh yes! You’ve earned this son, you really have. But tell me, for the listeners,’ he held out his hand and angled his fist towards me, as if he was holding a microphone, ‘what’s it like to be the main man, the cock of the fucking north? How does it feel to kill a legend?’ I just stared right back at him because I had absolutely nothing to say to anyone, ‘no? Cat got your tongue, has it? Oh well.’

  The car swung over the Redheugh bridge and followed the one-way system back round in a loop to the railway station. They parked in the short term car park outside. Gladwell, Vitaly and the driver got out and I followed them dumbly. Could it be true? Were they really going to let me go? Surely they wouldn’t just put me on a train like this - but how could they kill me now in front of hundreds of people at a railway station with everything captured on CCTV? Then I remembered the Russian’s little camera phone and Tommy recording Bobby Mahoney’s last moments on it. They were happy to let me go because they knew I couldn’t talk to anyone about this. How could I explain I ended the life of the biggest crime boss in the history of the north east? Even if the police accepted I was forced to do it under duress, there would be a big queue of people with short fuses and long memories, who would never be so understanding. Gladwell knew, as long as he had that clip on his phone he was Bank-of-England-safe, it was his insurance policy. I was in no fit state to even attempt to get it back from his Russian. It was perfect for Tommy. If anybody did try and link him to the disappearance of Bobby Mahoney, if the heat got too intense, he could make sure the powers that be received the footage of me shooting Bobby - then they’d be looking for me all over the country instead of him.

  Letting me go wasn’t such a risk when you thought about it. From their perspective, there was really no one left to come after them now. Even Finney was dead and I’d always thought Finney was invincible. Bullets bounced off Finney, punches had no effect, he’d faced men with knives, guns, machetes and iron bars and come away with barely a scratch. If you took on Finney you ended up dead, or in hospital or a wheelchair. Nothing could stop him. But these Spetsnaz guys managed to bring him down in a night and they weren’t even out of breath.

  The concourse was alive with noise, from the trains arriving and departing, from the chatter of people, from the high-pitched chirrup of the birds circling high above us. I stood under the big, old, metal clock with the Russians, while Tommy went into the ticket office. All around me, people were going about their lives and I watched them dumbly. I was aware of young couples meeting for Friday night dates. One in particular, a boy who met a girl from her train and they embraced, before linking arms then heading off into the city together. I used to be like that, lifetimes ago. They seemed normal, happy, hopeful, inhabiting a world I now realised I had left behind years ago. One which I was finally fully wrenched from tonight, at the exact moment I put a bullet through Bobby Mahoney’s brain.

  I killed him, me, a civilian, not a gangster. I’m not that kind of man, yet I didn’t pause long before squeezing the trigger and sending a round into my boss’ head. How long had it taken? All of ten seconds. I had known Bobby Mahoney since I was a kid, been tied to him for good or bad, in one form or another, for more than two decades, protected him, looked out for him, taken his money and safeguarded his interests - and his daughter loves me, of that I’m sure. Yet how long did it take me to decide to end his life when the choice was put to me? Less even than a minute to betray everything I knew, just so I could stand here like a dummy on a cold station platform. And what did I get for it? Nothing much, just my life.

  I killed a man.

  I killed the man.

  But I didn’t have any choice, did I? I mean, what else could I have done?

  I suppose I could have called out at that point, shouted for help or the police but even in my shocked state I knew that was a really dumb idea. All the cops would be left with was a bit of CCTV footage of me being stabbed and dropped on the ground. They’d issue descriptions of some shaven-headed blokes who’d be back in Moscow before their identikit pictures appeared in the Journal. Even if they didn’t kill me, how could I explain what had happened? The police might not unreasonably deduce I was the real murderer when they received the clip from Vitaly’s phone. So it wasn’t going to happen. They’d won, they’d got me and they knew it.

  All in all, I was astonished to be alive and I was almost pathetically grateful when Gladwell came out of the ticket office holding the long, thin piece of card that represented my freedom. I had to try very hard not to sob again at that point, because I was so relieved, ‘I bought you a first class ticket,’ he told me, ‘a little reward for killing your boss for me. I thought it would be nice to give you one last taste of the high life before you disappear for ever,’ and he smiled at me, ‘you know I almost envy you. You’ve been given a great opportunity. You can start all over again with no shite and no baggage, a clean slate. There’s many a man would kill for that, son. But then I guess you did,’ and he laughed again but suddenly his smile vanished. He leaned forward and told me, ‘just don’t come back, ever, you hear. If you do there will be no mercy from me. There’s nothing here for you now, everybody you ever worked with is dead and, if they’re not, they’ll be working for me when the weekend’s out. I’ll not be hanging around just now though. After all, I’m the man who shot Billy the Kid. I’m off to collect my missus then we’re away home on the late train. I’m going to have a hot bath and a nice meal when I get in. Tomorrow night my lads here will be doing the rounds. There won’t be a joint in the city that won’t know it’s under new ownership by midnight. You got that?’

  I didn’t have the energy to answer him but I managed a nod and he took that as a yes. He stuffed the ticket into my jacket pocket and one of the Russians gave me back my wallet. ‘No credit cards but I left you a tenner in there,’ said Gladwell, ‘let’s see how far that gets you in London eh?’ and he laughed again, ‘put him on the train.’

  The two Russians stood on the platform so they could see me through the window, making sure I didn’t try and get off but there really was no danger of that. They waited until the electric doors hissed then thumped suddenly closed and the train started to pull away before they turned their backs. By then I couldn’t have got off even if I’d wanted to and, believe me, I didn’t want to. Vitaly couldn’t resist lifting his hand in something between a wave and a mock salute.

  It was late. I was all alone in my half of the first class carriage and I was glad of it. I slumped back in the chair and my head lolled to one side as the train went high over the Tyne, crossing the railway bridge, speeding away from the city that had been my home all my life, a place to which I knew I could never
return. I was so tired I could barely muster the energy to hand over my ticket when the conductor walked through. Despite my exhaustion, the relief flooded through me. It wasn’t me in that chair in a lock up with a bullet through my head, it wasn’t me that had been tortured to death for the numbers of Bobby’s bank accounts and it wasn’t me that had been beaten unrecognisable because four ex-Spetsnaz men wanted to prove they were tougher than me. I was grateful for that. I should be grateful. I was grateful, definitely. But something was wrong.

  I wasn’t grateful enough.

  All the way down as far as Durham, I kept telling myself how lucky I’d been. I’d survived a war, a war that had killed all of my comrades. Like Gladwell said, I’d been given a chance to start again, to go legit, live like a normal person. When I arrived in London, a whole new world would open up to me. I could live a life without fear. I had half convinced myself I believed all of this by the time the train pulled into Durham station, the illuminated horizon of its castle and cathedral on the hill telling me that a half hour journey had gone by in an instant, so wrapped up had I been in my thoughts.

  I stayed on the train. One thing I was definitely going to do was stay on the train. Getting off it would be suicide.

  I was worried though. Gladwell had footage that could get me a life sentence should he ever feel like using it. And that was only half of it. What the hell was I going to do in London, realistically? What job was I qualified for and who was going to want to take me on? My business card said I was a sales and marketing director but I wasn’t. I was an ideas man for a gangster and they don’t advertise those posts in the paper. Getting a job like that is about trust and being known by the man who employs you. No one in London knew or gave a fuck about me.

  That idea I used to have about owning a restaurant? I knew nothing about restaurants except how to eat in them. It was a load of shite, a dream no more realistic than the one I’d had about playing for Newcastle when I was a kid. Face facts. It was never going to happen. I was going to be nothing in London, a nobody. The money I’d get from selling my flat wouldn’t get me a cupboard down there. I’d end up pulling pints behind a bar or washing dishes in a hotel. Shit job, shit pay, shit life, might as well be dead, which was something I hadn’t thought about when they were pointing a gun at my head.

  The train pulled away once more and something began to happen to me. Somehow the fear I felt when I thought I was going to be killed or tortured started to recede. It had become more like a distant feeling and was slowly being replaced by something else. Anger.

  We’d been sloppy, we’d taken our eye off the ball, we’d thought we could go on like this forever. Like every top champion that has ever lived, there came a day when we were knocked off our perch by someone else but that wasn’t the only thing burning into my brain. We had been out-thought and out-fought by wee Tommy Gladwell, the unproven, first born son of Arthur Gladwell. I told myself if it had been anybody else, someone more worthy of respect, then I could have accepted it but this just wasn’t right. I knew a bit about Tommy Gladwell and if he ran Newcastle there’d be no hope for anyone. Bobby knew how to be Top Boy. Hell, even I knew how to be Top Boy. I’d watched Bobby do it for years, learned it from him, given him new ideas that helped him to be the successful boss that he so obviously was. Together we knew how to keep order, we helped to keep the city ticking over. His other lieutenants weren’t there to advise him, give him big ideas, work out the strategy and the tactics needed to run an empire. I was the only one who could do that for him. I’d watched him for so long. It was always just a question of judgement. You had to say the right things to the right people at the right time, keep the wheels oiled, control the men who work for you and never give them an excuse to turn against you. Easy, except I still wouldn’t trust anybody from our crew, alive or dead, to do the job after Bobby. There was nobody I could work for without the risk of ending up in prison or the mortuary being way too high. I wouldn’t trust anybody.

  Not one.

  Well, maybe one.

  Jesus, after all, I was the man who really shot Billy the Kid.

  And there was one more thing that clinched it. I’d tried hard not to think about her. I’d told myself there was nothing I could do, no way I could help. It was somebody else’s problem now but I knew that wasn’t going to work. There was no way I could just ignore it. I’d been so damn scared, I wanted to banish any thought that kept me from putting at least three hundred long miles between myself and Vitaly but I couldn’t help myself because I knew I had to help her. Sarah.

  I got off the train at Darlington.

  THIRTY-ONE

  ...................................................

  It was starting to rain. There were some young lads standing around outside the station trying to look hard. I walked straight up to them,

  ‘I’ll give you a tenner for a use of your phone.’ The lad looked at me like I was mental. I stuffed the note into his shirt pocket and I must have looked as if I’d had a very bad night because, without a word, he handed me his mobile. They all eyed me suspiciously, as if I was going to run off with his precious Nokia, ‘don’t worry,’ I told him, ‘you’ll get it back.’ And I turned away as I dialled Palmer.

  ‘Jesus,’ he hissed, ‘where’ve you been? I’ve been ringing you for ages.’

  ‘My phone’s gone but don’t worry about that. Get in your car and drive. I need you to pick me up, now.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘where are you?’

  ‘Standing outside Darlington station.’

  ‘Darlington?’ he asked, ‘what are you doing there?’

  ‘Just get here,’ I snapped, ‘on your way down I need you to make sure I have a car, a phone and a few hundred quid waiting for me when we get back to Newcastle. Get one of your boys to meet you with that outside my brother’s place.’

  ‘No problem,’

  ‘And I want you to bring something with you now.’

  ‘What?’

  I kept my voice low as I told him then I rang off and threw the phone back to the young lad. I walked out of the station and down the ramp, turning the collar of my jacket up against the rain.

  Palmer didn’t say anything when I climbed into the car. There was plenty of time for explanations on the drive back to Newcastle. I waited till we were on the main road before I asked him.

  ‘Did you bring it?’

  ‘Glove compartment.’

  I opened the glove box and took it out, weighed it in my hand but kept it low, out of sight, ‘loaded?’

  “Course,’ then he gave me a look, ‘not taking the piss, but have you ever fired a gun before?’

  ‘Yep,’ I told him casually, not adding how recently.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said.

  I put the Glock back in the glove compartment and closed it.

  ‘I need to tell you what’s been going on,’ I told him, ‘I am going to be relying on you, so you’d better be on your game.’

  ‘Right,’ he said simply. What I liked about Palmer was that he never seemed fazed about anything. It was hard to imagine a jeep through some plate glass doors. He didn’t look like that sort of guy - but then I probably didn’t look like a murderer.

  ‘Tommy Gladwell and his Russians are trying to take over the city tonight,’ I said.

  He nodded sagely, ‘and we are going to stop them?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said resisting the temptation to add, ‘we are going to try.’

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ I told him, ‘you know that Tommy is Arthur’s boy and you know all about Arthur Gladwell?’

  ‘That scussy wee shite. Aye, I’ve heard of him but he doesn’t scare me if that’s what’s worrying you?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I said, ‘it’s just, you’re both from Glasgow so, if that’s going to be a problem, I need to know it now.’

  ‘If it’s a question of loyalty,’ he said, ‘Tommy Gladwell didn’t put food on my table when I was cashiered out of the army. You did.’

>   I wasn’t expecting a big speech and I didn’t get one but what he’d said was good enough for me.

  ‘In any case, Arthur Gladwell is a boil on Glasgow’s arse, always has been. He won’t be winning any popularity contests up there.’

  Palmer had a couple of questions but it didn’t take long to put him in the picture. He’d already tortured most of the story out of grey-hair, whose real name turned out to be Terry apparently, but there was one last piece of the jigsaw that I still didn’t have.

  ‘Did you get that name for me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I did.’

  And when he told me who had been selling us out, I have to say that, for some reason I still can’t fathom, I wasn’t even a bit surprised.

  I’d never been happier to experience the unmistakeable smell of tobacco and stale piss outside the flats, especially when I noticed there was a light on in Our-young-un’s window. I left Palmer in the car to watch my back and wait for his man to show up with the cash, the phones and the car. I went to collect Danny. I didn’t want to hang about. We needed to be gone from there as soon as. I couldn’t afford to be caught in the city by Vitaly and his thugs.

  I was pretty sure Danny would be okay. I couldn’t see why anyone, even someone who had been tailing me for weeks, would consider my bro to be anything other than a washed-up version of his former self. He was obviously a civilian who had nothing to do with any part of Bobby Mahoney’s business but, just to be sure, I had the Glock.