by Jack Gatland
‘George Byrne and the Sisters have an arrangement,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why Macca tried to break it.’
But Moses wasn’t listening now. Instead, he was staring through the window at the television. Risking a glance, Ricky saw that the news was now showing a photo of a girl. One he recognised.
Gabby Chapman. Macca's ex-girlfriend.
Moses returned his gaze onto Ricky.
‘I’m not gonna do to you what you did to Dave, ‘cause he was a nonce and deserved a kicking. But I want you to pass a message back to your bosses, yeah?’
‘Y-yeah, sure,’ Ricky stammered, realising there was a chance at getting out of this.
‘You tell Macca that we're coming up to the endgame, I've seen the news and I’m gonna be calling in my chits soon. Get it?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I get it.’ Ricky was nodding now, desperate for these four men to see that he wasn’t a threat, and should be allowed on his way. ‘I’ll tell him.’
‘Good,’ Moses said, looking back to the television in the room as he waved his men off. ‘Let the little white man go, boys. Let him swim home to Daddy.’
Ricky almost breathed out a sigh of relief as he turned to leave, but Moses’ next words froze him to the spot.
‘Wait.’
Ricky turned to see Moses still watching the television. On the screen now was a CSI tent in a forest. Moses seemed to think, making some kind of decision.
‘I’m worried that you didn’t take in the full message.’
‘No, I got it, I swear.’
‘Tell it to me,’ Moses was now staring back at Ricky.
‘You wanted me to tell Macca that you're coming up to an endgame, you've seen the news,’ Ricky paused, trying to remember, ‘and that you’ll be calling in your favours soon.’
‘Chits.’ Moses whispered the word. ‘The term I said to pass was chits. C, H, I, T and S. Chits.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I’ll get it right.’
Moses looked to his men who suddenly surrounded Ricky, grabbing his arms. Moses pulled out a wicked-looking butterfly knife, opening it up.
‘I’m gonna need more than a promise,’ Moses said, using the blade to cut the buttons off Ricky’s shirt, opening it up and exposing Ricky’s pale chest. ‘I’m gonna need your full attention. C—’
Three quick cuts to Ricky’s chest carved a rough ‘C’ on the left. Ricky went to scream in pain, but the third member of Moses’ gang held his hand over Ricky’s mouth, muffling him.
‘H—’ Three more cuts on the chest.
‘I—’ One long slow, carving downwards. By now the blood was flowing down Ricky’s chest and the tears were in his eyes as he tried to free himself.
‘T—’ Two vicious slashes.
‘And S.’ Three final slashes with the butterfly knife and Moses stepped back, observing his handiwork: a rough spelling of CHITS on Ricky’s chest.
‘Let him go,’ Moses said to his men. ‘I think he’ll remember it this time.’
And with that Moses Delcourt and his men walked off, leaving Ricky Johnston slumped against the wall crying in pain while the inhabitants of Raleigh Mews watched the news on television.
7
Fathers
The Jam House, just to the east of the Jewellery Quarter in Birmingham was a bit of an oddity. Nestled into a row of terraced eighteenth century houses on St Paul’s Square, the last thing you expected to find on the other side of the white Georgian door with the two small pillars either side was a three storey jazz and blues club, complete with stages, bars and a busy kitchen that took up three houses worth of the street, book ended either side with a solicitor and the University of Birmingham Jewellery Department. In between these, an arched mews led through into the more exclusive car park while the regular punters and music goers were forced to find parking around St Paul’s Church, an equally Georgian place of worship built around the same time as the buildings that surrounded it on all four sides.
Entering the event venue led you into a large, open area to the right, a mixture of deep, vibrant oak and green and cream painted walls, surrounding a stage and a dance floor. On the left was a well-stocked bar and kitchen, while stairs to the right led you to an upper balcony level where, at the back was a slightly raised VIP section.
And it was here that Macca Byrne sat with his friends, listening to a Blues Band play a live set.
There was a dress code to the Jam Club; no sportswear and no trainers, but Macca didn’t dress like that on a day to day basis anyway, and he was enjoying the music in his usual black attire. His companions however, including Harrison dressed more smart casual than usual, ensuring that they didn’t cause any problems for Macca while he listened to the live music, surrounded by plates of exquisite food. Macca knew though that even if one of them had worn trainers, the bouncers would probably have let them through or found them a pair of shoes to wear, purely because they were with Macca.
And the rules were created to be broken; there was a strict Under-21 policy here, and Macca was two years away from that milestone.
As the band played, Macca leaned back in the chair and watched the other diners in the club. This was the world he wanted to live in; one that was more respectable, that was more refined than the world that he came from. He didn’t want to stay where he was, a gallery of prostitutes and dealers, but that was the portfolio that his dad, George Byrne, didn’t want to touch, and so Macca had been given it, to ‘make his own’ way in the business.
That he’d done very well in his little area was a definite concern to the older people in George’s crew, and Macca knew that he was being watched, that any move he made against his old man would be seen by them way before he made it. In fact, Wesley O’Brien, one of George’s long-term generals, and actually one of Macca’s godfathers had once told Macca, in no uncertain terms that going for the King would leave him dead or exiled, as Macca’s world was full of football players, while George’s world was populated by Chess Masters.
But Macca didn’t need to play chess to understand strategy. Football was full of it.
It was true that Macca was reckless; his handling of Dave Ewan showed that. But Macca knew that the dinosaurs of his dad’s organisation couldn’t see the big picture, couldn’t see the endgame.
They would, though. And soon.
Harrison, wearing a bomber jacket, white shirt and tan chinos leaned over, half-eating an onion ring.
‘Do you think they know yet?’
‘Yeah,’ Macca replied. ‘Ewan will have called the bitch the moment we left, before the ambulance even arrived.’
‘Should we have stopped Ricky going into London?’ Harrison started on his fries now. Macca shrugged.
‘Ricky was always sucking up to dad when he should have been working for me. And hey, what happens in London stays in London,’ he laughed, but then his smile dropped.
Because walking up the stairs, moving through the dining tables towards them was Wesley O’Brien, an expression of utter fury on his face. He wore a camel jacket, grey sweater and black jeans over trainers, and Macca knew that the only reason they had allowed him in was because he was there to pass a message to George’s wayward son.
‘Right, Wes?’ he asked. ‘Grab a chair, we’ve got more food coming.’
‘You need to come with me,’ Wesley ordered, ignoring Macca’s crew. ‘Your dad’s out back. He’s spitting bullets.’
Macca groaned at this. ‘I’ll see him—’
‘You’ll see him now, you cocky little bastard,’ Wesley snapped, noting that some nearby diners had glanced in his direction. ‘What? Piss off and watch the show.’
Macca nodded to his crew and rose. The last thing he wanted was Wesley making a scene, and he'd known that this conversation would be coming. Following Wesley down the stairs and out into the back carpark, Macca noted that George Byrne was alone as he stood beside his silver Range Rover. Usually he was surrounded by more muscle than Stallone, so this wasn't a good sign. That said, he spent his form
er life as a bare knuckle fighter, his frame short and muscled, like a power lifter. If anyone attacked him, he’d most likely snap them like twigs.
‘You little shit,’ George said, storming over to meet Macca. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
‘I need a little more than that, dad,’ Macca couldn’t help the smile. ‘I mean, I’m real busy right now. It could be any number—’
He didn’t finish, as George Byrne viciously backhanded him, rocking Macca’s head back and splitting his lip.
‘Richard Johnston just called in,’ George snapped. ‘He’s in hospital. Moses Delcourt just slashed his chest up, all because of what you did with Dave Ewan.’
‘Dave Ewan was a nonce,’ Macca glared defiantly at his father. ‘He had a teenage boy in his car.’
‘This issue that you have with Moses Delcourt ends now,’ George grabbed Macca by the throat, pulling him close. ‘And you will apologise to the Sisters for escalating it. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ Macca croaked as George Byrne’s hand tightened.
‘You might think you’re ready to replace me, but you’re a child,’ George Byrne hissed into his son’s ear. ‘That junkie bitch weakened you. That priest confuses you. And if you try for me you’d better not miss because son or not, I will bloody well end you.’ He tapped the scar on Macca’s face.
‘I can always give you another one of these.’
And with that George Byrne released his hold on Macca’s neck, pushing him back as he turned and walked back to his Range Rover. Wesley replaced him, passing Macca a tissue for his cut lip.
‘And clean yourself up,’ he said. ‘This is a respectable place. Not for gutter scum like your mates.’
The Range Rover started up and drove out, leaving Macca in the car park. He stared balefully after it as the Range Rover indicated left onto the street and turned out of sight.
Now alone, Macca dabbed at his cut lip, while tracing the faint line of the scar on his face, a wound given to him five years earlier by his dad, a reminder that not mowing the lawn when asked was a punishable offence.
And then he smiled.
‘Check and mate,’ he whispered as he returned to the Jam House and his friends.
Father Barry Lawson lit a candle in the Lady’s Chapel, spoke a silent prayer of thanks and walked out into the nave of Our Lady of the Sea Church, an old place of worship nestled between the new high-rise buildings beside the Thames in Deptford. Now in his early fifties, Father Lawson looked a good decade younger. His hair was still dark brown, with barely a silver hair showing. His beard was trimmed and thick, and his frame was lean and muscled. He was a good-looking man; he knew this because of the messages he received from lonely wives, mistaking his friendly manner as flirtation, and the approving looks that he received when travelling to his other churches in Birmingham and Beachampton. But these compliments and lustful gazes slid off him like water off a duck’s back.
He had no interest in women.
He’d lost that lust a long time ago, through penance and pain.
If you’d looked into Father Barry Lawson’s history, you would have seen a varied career. In his thirties, they had placed him in charge of Saint Etheldreda’s Mission House in Poplar, while also spending a lot of time working with missionaries abroad, often disappearing for months at a time in third world countries. It was outstanding work. It was God’s work.
It was profitable work.
And, while he did this, Father Lawson had also taken up his second residence in Birmingham, and a third, occasional one just outside of Milton Keynes. There were too many churches and not enough priests; many had to ‘double up’ these days. And besides, Saint Etheldreda’s had a secondary Nunnery in Alum Rock, so it had made sense to take on light duties at Saint Wilfred’s Church, in Saltley. Father Lawson took confessions there, and occasional services.
But this had all ended five years ago, when Father Lawson had left Saint Ethelreda’s church in Poplar, moving to Our Lady of the Sea in Deptford, and hopefully a quieter life.
None quieter than what he has now, Father Lawson thought to himself.
The church was still empty; he had recently been playing with the idea of staying open until ten pm to gather in some of the Deptford community who worked long hours, but the middle of the week was always quiet, so he took this opportunity to wander down into the crypt, strolling casually and almost reverently along the passage to the back of the crypt where the mausoleums lined in rows on the walls. There hadn’t been a coffin placed down here in decades, although one stone frontage, proclaiming that the family MARLOWE were buried behind it, seemed to have been shifted recently, a not small amount of car air fresheners hanging around it.
Father Lawson paused beside the stone, stroking it. His hand was calloused, with small dots tattooed onto it. He stared at them for a moment, mesmerised by the patterns; a series of five dots and a second series of three, the latter of which he called his Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
‘Hello, brother,’ he said, softly. ‘It’s been a while. Will you hear my confession?’
The crypt was silent, so Father Lawson pulled out his Rosary Bead; it comprised black acrylic beads, held together with strong, knotted cord. At the end was a silver Christ on his cross. The company that made it had based the design on the Dominicans. They used Type Three Paracord instead of the usual weaker metal parts, and the link that held the cross into place could withstand over three hundred pounds of pulling power.
Father Lawson knew this because he had tested this, immediately after taking it.
‘I know, you can’t take my confession because you’re family. But family doesn’t do what you did. Family doesn’t betray family,’ Father Lawson smiled now. ‘You almost ended your calling a dozen times. Or, rather, my calling. I was better than you, after all. I’ve always been better at this than you.’
There was a faint noise; someone had entered upstairs; most likely a late night parishioner needing guidance. Gathering his composure, Father Lawson patted the stone once more.
‘I’ll catch you later, brother,’ he whispered. ‘It’s time to go see God again. It’s time to apologise to him for what I did.’
He chuckled.
‘But then you’ve probably had to apologise for what you did, too.’
And with that Father Barry Lawson adjusted his dog collar and walked back up the stairs into the nave.
8
Village Life
Declan pulled up to his house (it still felt weird thinking of it that way) and got out of the Audi. Looking around the street, he felt his tensions finally slipping away, as if the sleepy village of Hurley was simply taking them from him. He knew that it was more likely a case of the house being the one he grew up in, a safe place to be in a time of change and confusion than some magical Brigadoon-esque power, but for a moment he stood in the cool evening air, allowing the day to quietly flow away from him.
Looking around, he saw a couple of curtains down the street twitch; people watched his home like a hawk these days, more so since he’d had a stand-off with armed police outside it a few weeks earlier. He’d tried to explain that they weren’t real police, or more likely they were real police, but they’d been convinced to attend his house by a man who wasn’t… But it was just confusing for them. All they knew was that the son of Patrick Walsh had moved into Patrick’s old house, and within a couple of days they had more police cars and blue lights flashing in the village than in probably the last year put together.
Not exactly the easiest of entrances back into the community.
Opening the door, Declan entered the house. He couldn’t explain it, but even after living full time in it for the last couple of weeks, the house still smelled of his father; it was almost as if Patrick was still in the living room, smoking his bloody pipe, even though Declan knew that he only smoked it outside. But then Declan still hadn’t really ventured into the back garden as yet, so maybe the ghost of Patrick Walsh preferred to smoke his ghost tobacc
o in the living room now.
He picked up the letters on the floor, noticing with a slight hint of amusement that the bills may now have been in his name, but they still read MR WALSH, so he didn’t know whether the billing companies were now contacting Declan or Patrick still. He’d called as many as he could find to have the details changed, but there was a lot of red tape involved, and several of the companies had demanded things, from a solicitor’s letter confirming the change of ownership all the way to an actual scan of the death certificate. And to be brutally honest, there wasn’t enough time in the day to do all of this and solve crimes.
Placing the bills on the side table, Declan walked over to the phone, the little red ‘message’ symbol on it currently flashing. Pressing the ‘play’ button, he then moved towards the drinks cabinet as a voice spoke through the speaker. It was Karl Schnitter’s, his mechanic neighbour whose house backed onto his, and an old friend of the family.
‘Declan,’ the voice said, the slight German accent still audible. ‘Karl here. Look, I know you are still moving in and busy, but some of us are raising a glass tonight for dear Patrick in The Olde Bell. I thought you might like to join us. We will be here from eight until around ten.’ The phone beeped to show that it had ended the message as Declan considered it. The last time he’d been in the village pub was when Monroe had offered him a job. It had also been the day of his father’s wake. Declan wasn’t sure if he was up for a drink with the village yet, so instead he turned back to the cabinet and started pouring himself a small whisky. This wasn’t something that he’d done while living in the small apartment in Tottenham, the apartment that he still paid rent on for the next two months because of his three-month exit clause; this was very much a new habit, and Declan knew exactly why he did it.
Patrick Walsh had the same ritual when Declan was growing up, and this was a subconscious way for Declan to feel closer to his father again. That and the fact that his father had always had a great taste in Irish Malts, and the cabinet had been stocked well when he passed away.