by Keith Nixon
He saw it all: the brash Yank, charming in a way but dangerous, consigned by army order to a strange country, seeking to impress with a bloodstained power brought from the mountains. Jane, the poverty-stricken runaway, frail in body and heart, who thought she’d found an escape in that power, only to have it devour her completely.
Strathclyde had stood by the bloodied porcelain of her beauty in the St. Jude’s Morgue. A girl without a chance, but who the hell has a chance, he thought. The world is on the rampage and death rides it without check.
Night had slipped over the city like a blanket of smoke when the call came. The Kit Kat Club, Soho; gunfire reported. The locals had the road cut off, but the assailant had thus far not attempted to leave the premises.
“In a time when men and women are dying nightly by the hundred”, Strathclyde yelled to Constable Roberts as they drove through the dark streets, “that might seem small beer, but we can serve justice here, shed a little light in the dark, prove all need not be madness.” He gripped an old Webley revolver, a weapon he hadn’t used since the last war but one that he’d kept in order, as though it was the shrine of an old God held in guilty reverence, just in case.
The Constable looked sideways at the Detective, a smile playing on his thin lips. “Whatever you say Guv’nor, whatever you say.”
***
John Lee, earlier that evening, jacked a car left outside a closed movie theatre and drove it into the bomb-ravaged heart of the city. He had lost his old forged ID and, of course, if he was stopped that would be the end of the business, but the police, the Air Raid Wardens, the Home Guard, were all too busy with the iron heavy circumstance of war to pay much attention. A dirty boy outta West Virginia steering a battered jalopy for the darkened lights of Soho ranked somewhere around the level of a buzzing wasp.
He’d never used a Sten gun before, but he knew they were as unreliable as they were abundant; prone to jam and not given much to accuracy, not that it would count much anyhow. He remembered the day he and his older brother Francis plugged a pair of wise guys trying to muscle in on their ‘shine business. Seemed a lifetime ago when they burst into the McLennan store and caught those boys at the counter eating their breakfast and how he and Frank blazed away with a shotgun and Thompson respectively until them boys was like hamburger meat and herringbone cloth. He was 15 years old, first man he killed and far from the last. That was how Frank showed him to deal with guys like Joe Grech; hit ‘em hard and with all you got in you, and keep on going ‘til they’re bone and bad memories, only be sure you hit ‘em first.
That was your mistake, letting that greaser live after all the shit-talk over Jane, letting him talk like that when you should have plugged the son of a bitch and his damn brother too. You would have once, but she wouldn’t have it, and look what it got her. Must have followed you, boy, must have trailed you in that blackout figuring to kill you in the raid and got scared or run off after he stuck that little girl. Left you alive John Lee and that’ll be the biggest mistake he ever made.
John Lee lit a cigarette. He’d parked at the road end. The club was off to the left. A darkened neon sign showing a black and white cartoon of a cat hovered in the dark like the ghost of something. He opened the door just as the sirens started, like Gabriel’s horn blowing in the sooty air foreshadowing the Lord’s anger. He threw the sacking in the street. The gun was heavy in his arms. He walked hard to the door where a slick haired gorilla in a tight tuxedo loitered in the gloom.
“Oi...” the man started.
John Lee raised the machine gun and three 9mm rounds ripped into the big guy’s chest.
He stepped over the pooling dark as the first explosions crunched against the night’s bones, kicked the door wide and went on in.
***
The dead men lay in the centre of the dance floor as though they were sardines in a tin. Strathclyde looked down at their open eyes, silk shirts and Saville Row suits wet with blood. Tommy Grech sat on the bandstand steps. “It was some bloody Yank,” he said.
“I’d worked so much out by myself.” Strathclyde crouched behind an overturned roulette wheel, pistol drawn, peering through smoke filtered through broken lights hanging from the roof. “Where is he?”
“Come in shooting ‘e did, like bloody Al Capone.” Tommy groaned in pain. “Shot me finger off, me fuckin’ finger.”
“Where is he?”
“I didn’t see,” the brother said, “wounded, wasn’t I?”
A door kicked open at the top of a staircase on the far side of the club and Joe Grech shouted, “Who is it?”
“Strathclyde, I’m a policeman.”
“Bastard’s over your side somewhere.”
“There’s nobody here, I assure you, come on out.” Then he asked, “Are you armed?”
“I am. I was in ‘ere when he comes in and there’s a pistol in ‘ere I keep for, well, sentimental reasons.”
Strathclyde looked round the dancehall. A dead woman lay in a black and silver dress beneath a shattered table. “Surrender your weapon and come out, it’s the American we want. He killed a girl.”
“You hear that, Yank? You got the wrong man.”
“He’s gone,” Strathclyde said, “come on out.”
A pause; brick crumbled from bullet holes in the wall, a broken one-armed-bandit dispensed pennies with dull, robotic tenacity, men yelled outside as the air-raid warning screamed into the dark.
“Very well,” Joe Grech shouted. He was a small, dark man, balding, with gun grey hair and a neat moustache. He threw an automatic pistol out onto the top step and walked into the red-lamp glow.
Strathclyde felt the iron tethers of his shoulders relax and when the gun blasts came, they shattered through him like a storm of nails.
John Lee was at the back of the hall amid a host of bodies, bloodied, his eyes white and wide against the clotted scarlet smeared across his face. The police officer turned. Another two rounds punched through him and he fell. He saw Constable Roberts cut down in a dark flash of meat and fire and Grech, stumbling for his abandoned pistol.
“Stay right where you are,” John Lee yelled. He stood, weapon trained steadily. He was drenched in gore from the bodies among which he had hidden. “I want to hear you say you did it.”
“I never,” Grech began.
Dixon, walking slowly across the littered hall, blew a hole in the other man’s shoulder. He fell with a porcine squeal.
“Admit you killed that little girl, you say it now, say it and say her name.”
Bombs fell outside. The earth palpated under the black steel shake of death’s hooves. John Lee was level with Grech now. His hands were steady. “Say it.”
The Maltese raised his palms before his face as though they could stop lead. “I never did it, I’d never do anything to ‘er, she was me favourite and I loved ‘er like you’d never understand. I don’t deserve this, I don’t, I don’t deserve this.”
John Lee sighted down the barrel of the weapon. “We’ll see.”
Then it was as if a ball of ice hit his shoulder, that cold stinging impact, and his grip became muddy and loose. He turned.
Strathclyde had the Webley in his fist. He fired again and hit the American in the chest.
John Lee dropped the steel of the gun. He looked surprised more than anything, surprised the narrative had not written itself in the form he’d conceived. Surprised in a way he should never have been, at the ease with which things go another way.
He crumpled into the confetti littering the hall and coughed blood across his chin.
An explosion outside shook dust from the ceiling and Grech, on his feet now, limped over to the Yank, knelt, and whispered something in his ear. Strathclyde watched John Lee’s boot heels hit against the floor as he tried to rise, once, twice, groaning and blood bubbling. He rose an inch from the floor then fell back. His heels worked a couple of times more, and then they stopped and lay still in the dirt.
Grech kicked the Sten gun away and walked, hands in
pockets, to where Strathclyde lay bleeding. When he spoke, it was with authority. “You’ll live, Copper. Here’s the cavalry now, late, as always.”
A handful of blue-uniformed police armed with wooden truncheons filed cautiously into the club and began to attend to the wounded. One picked the machine gun from the floor, holding it between finger and thumb, as though it was diseased.
“What did you say to him?” Strathclyde coughed the words out.
Grech turned and looked back at John Lee Dixon. “I told ‘im what ‘e wanted to hear.”
SINGING FROM THE SAME SHEET
Tess Makovesky
Eddie Monack. They called him The Monk, behind his back. Partly the name, partly the spreading bald patch the exact same shape and size as a medieval tonsure. Mostly because he spent his Sundays singing hymns in a loud and tuneless voice in his local church, as though he was a good and holy man.
Monday mornings he was straight back to work, though, and there was nothing good or holy about what he did. ‘Looking after people’, he liked to call it, but there wasn’t much care involved. Or only the kind that cared about its own ends, about making the most money in the least amount of time. The kind that says ‘pay up and we won’t actually break your other leg’.
I’d heard the name before, and the frightened whisperings, mostly from the guy’s victims. I get to meet quite a few of those in my line of work. But the first time I really took notice was when the boss called me in.
“This Monk character. Got a bit out of hand. If you know what I mean.”
I knew. The boss has to be careful. Can’t say too much in case it gets back to him. There’d be an outcry, if people found out what we get up to. Police, the media, decent folk shocked to the core. And quite right too. A few more details might be helpful, though. It’s always nice to know what you’re letting yourself in for. “What’s he done?”
“Threatened Maggie and the children.”
I blinked. That really was serious. Maggie may only be the boss’s housekeeper but he loves her like a – well, I nearly said wife, but that would be inappropriate. Let’s just leave it that he loves her. “Why would he do that?”
The boss sighed. “It’s all rather unfortunate. Maggie’s eldest son, Dean, got the Monk’s daughter, in the family way, and now that unregenerate rogue is demanding Maggie pays the maintenance. She’s only a housekeeper, for heaven’s sake, while he’s a millionaire. She said she couldn’t pay, but he’s adamant. Said he’ll burn their house down with her and the other children inside if she doesn’t toe the line.” Just for a second his self–possession deserted him; his eyes watered and I saw through his calm to the anguish beneath.
“Want me to deal with him?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
And that was that.
***
A couple of days later I had the chance to see the Monk at work. Unlike most gang bosses who get old enough, fat enough or rich enough to hang up their knuckle–dusters and knives, Eddie still liked to do his dirty work himself. Almost always involving the sort of violence that brings the bile back up your throat, and almost always at night.
My phone rang at three: someone hysterical, whispers interrupted by sobs. Could I come to the off–licence on Clarence Road. Could I make it fast. I dressed and got there as quickly as I could, but it’s an out–of–the–way spot and the weather slowed me down. I could hear the screams from the road outside. Propping my bike against a handy rail, I tore off my helmet and ran. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Eddie was wielding a baseball bat, while two of his boys looked on. The store’s owner Naz was curled into a ball, arms wrapped round a bloodied head, while the rest of his family cowered behind the counter–top. I had a brief impression of eyes and swore. That bastard. Even Naz’s kids were there. And all the time that hefty arm rose and fell, rose and fell, while Eddie panted, sweat pouring down his face and his lips twisted into a leer. Clearly, he enjoyed his work. So much so he hadn’t even noticed me.
I cleared my throat. “Don’t you think that’s enough?”
He glanced round, startled, the arm poised mid–air. Then recognition caught up with his face. “You! What the fuck are you doing here? I’m busy.”
“So I see.”
He reacted to the sarcasm, swinging his whole body round and using the bat to point at me. “I don’t care who you are, you don’t take that fucking tone with me.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Are you threatening me, Mr Monack? Because I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”
He paused, then deflated a bit, like someone letting air out of a balloon. “No, no, nothing like that. This is a private matter, that’s all. A little argument between friends.” His smile was hideous and far too full of teeth.
“Well, your little argument seems to be getting out of hand. Dead men can’t pay up, you know.”
For a moment I thought I’d gone too far, that his rage would overcome the natural caution he felt. But then my words hit home. “I think I’ve made my point. This is what happens when you mess me around.” He dropped the bat, wiped his hands on a handkerchief, gestured to his boys, and waddled out.
The minute he’d gone, all hell let loose. Children surged wailing from behind the counter–top. Naz’s wife came running, dropped to her knees and cradled his bleeding head. From the back premises came the sound of frantic, barking dogs.
“They locked the dogs in the kitchen so they couldn’t protect Dad.” A figure appeared at my side, a small void of calm in the chaotic whirl. It was Meena, Naz’s eldest daughter: nineteen, studying medicine, and the closest thing to temptation I knew.
“It was you that called me earlier?”
She nodded.
“I thought I recognised the voice.”
Her lips twisted in a sort–of smile. “I’m surprised you could tell. I was very upset.”
There wasn’t much I could say, or do. It was over, for now, but the Monk would be back if Naz failed to toe the line again. “Look, phone for an ambulance, will you? Your Dad needs some help. I’d do it myself but... well, you know. The explanations get awkward.”
She smiled. “I’ll do it right away. And... thank you, sir.” She grabbed my sleeve, held onto it, just as I turned away. It rode up my arm and her eyes went wide as it revealed the inky network of tattoos.
“The sign of a colourful past,” I said, and tugged my sleeve back down. It’s my way of describing the hell of six years spent in a Moscow jail, at least when I’m in company that’s reasonably polite.
“I understand,” she said, and I knew she did – far more than I could ever say.
***
Even after that little demonstration of evil, I still hoped. After all, it was out in the open now. I’d watched him at work, and he’d watched me watching him. It wasn’t likely that he’d show remorse, but at the very least I hoped he’d stop pretending to be a good man. No such luck. The very next Sunday he was back in church, roaring out the hymns, kneeling to take communion as though he had nothing to hide. As an act of sheer hypocrisy it would take some beating. Almost as much as his victims, I thought with a twisted smile. Clearly, there was no hope for the man. Clearly, I would need to get involved myself. It was time to take protection away from the protection racket. It was time to protect the victims from the Monk.
It took me a week to prepare. There were people to see and deals to be done, money to change hands and favours to call in. A whole day wasted on the streets, trying to track where Eddie was going to be. I needed somewhere neutral I could tackle him. I could hardly just march up to his front door and expect to be let in. Not even my profession allows me that, and besides, he doesn’t have a front door on the street like the rest of us. He has gates, and a long winding drive through conifer–dotted grounds. Never believe that crime doesn’t pay. It pays all right, just not in ways I like or understand.
In the end the problem solved itself. My mobile rang after dark one night; when I answered it was Maggie’s
eldest himself. “Yeah, it’s Dean. Could do with a hand over here, mate, if it’s not too much bother. We’ve had some bad news.”
“Here as in your Mum’s house?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
“For now.”
I forgave him the ‘mate’. That ‘bad news’ was a code arranged, last–minute, with the boss. Monk was either on his way or already there, and however laid back Dean might sound he was laying square eggs as the saying went. You just don’t like to show the fear when you’re as young as him.
My bicycle isn’t the fastest thing on two wheels but I pumped my legs and got across the city as though there was a rocket up my arse. Outside Maggie’s I found a handy bush to stash the bike, then stashed myself behind a wall. All seemed quiet enough: no shouts, no screams, no ghastly sound of breaking bones or bursting flesh. Just the patter of warm drizzle on the leaves, and in the distance a mewling cat. The day’s heat clung to me, like the memory of a lover’s embrace. It was oddly arousing but I shook it off. I couldn’t lose focus. I had a job to do. I risked returning Dean’s call.
“Still okay in there?”
“We’ve been better, but yeah.”
“Any sign of him yet?”
“Nope. Gotta go, Mum’s starting to freak.”
I let him go. Maggie had an angina attack last year; the last thing she needed was to be facing this alone. I waited in the shadows, fingers twitching for the comfort of a cigarette. I gave up years ago, but the craving never really goes away, especially at times of stress. And I was stressed all right. I’m just older than Dean and better at hiding it.
Finally I heard a car approach, too fast on too few wheels, shattering the suburban quiet. That would be Eddie. He never did anything by halves. Sure enough, peering round the wall where I’d propped myself, I saw his vulgar set of wheels – a 1970s Bentley customised to hell and back and re–sprayed gold. You could see it coming in thick fog, never mind under a street light at close to midnight on a summer’s night. It couldn’t be anyone else.