Serious People

by Shea, James A.

  “Are you awake yet?” Emma repeated.

  John turned over, hoping this would give her a clear enough signal; he was asleep and unable to be woken but he knew she wouldn’t give up the pursuit.

  Emma gave John a gentle shake. “John, are you awake?”

  John began to open his eyes; he knew when he was beaten. At best, it was still early enough for him to get back to the sleep as soon as Emma finished her conversation, and with this in his mind he started to sit up.

  “Hey you’re awake,” Emma smiled.

  John was now sat up in bed, hoping that this might signal to his girlfriend that he was in need for a coffee. “Yes, it was weird. I was fast asleep and then suddenly I’m awake.”

  Emma was still in her nightie, and it didn’t seem that light. It must still be quite early—he held on to some hope that he could be returning to sleep soon.

  “Go on ask me,” Emma smiled. “Ask me why I’m not angry at you staying out all night with your brothers again.”

  “No, last night was…” John stopped himself from continuing, realising how futile it was to make up a lie for a late night when it appeared there was no need. “I don’t know, why?”

  Emma smiled again. “Ask me why I’m not going into work.”

  “Because; you’ve gone mental?” John replied.

  “No, almost.” Emma beamed back.

  “You’re almost mental?” John retorted.

  Emma smiled. “No.”

  John could tell she was now building up to something.

  “I’m pregnant!”

  John’s mind went blank; what had she just said? He tried to replay her words in his brain, to make more sense of them, but his thought process seemed to have stopped dead.

  “You’re what?” John heard himself say.

  “I’m pregnant,” Emma said, now visibly watching for his reaction.

  John had a millisecond to respond. It was too early to know what his own feelings were, but he knew how he should react and how Emma would expect him to react.

  John jumped up. “That’s fantastic!”

  Emma’s face lit up again. John now began to wonder how long Emma had known this this news for; but instead of dwelling on this grabbed Emma close and hugged her.

  “I think we should spend the day in bed to celebrate,” Emma said, holding him tightly.

  “I think you’re right,” John agreed, grabbing her and throwing her onto the bed.

  This was a lie of course. He couldn’t spend the day in bed. He had to get back to the bar and make sure Billy wasn’t going to do anything stupid.

  As for the news itself, it was too early for John to assess in his own mind whether this was good news or not. There were too many factors to weigh up—so many considerations. Nevertheless, a new baby certainly gave him fresh motivation for cutting away from his family; just so long as he could make sure that his brothers would be safe first.

  Yes, this made sense to him. He would go to the bar one final time and make sure Billy and Nick were alright after last night—that Billy wasn’t making any crazy plans for retribution.

  He would give his brothers one final piece of advice; keep a low profile and wait for all this to blow over. O’Neil would eventually forget about them; it wasn’t like he knew what they had done to Robert Payne.

  After that he would give his Uncle Roy a big hug and thank him for all he’d done. And then he would be gone.

  Gone from them forever.

  The only one of the family who knew where he and Emma lived was Roy and he wouldn’t tell anyone; after all it was he who had been telling him to vanish for weeks. Afterwards, he would throw his mobile phone in a litter bin. It was a worthless piece of rubbish anyway. The bin was the best place for it. He’d be gone and there would be no trace of his old life left.

  He and Emma would have the fresh start they needed. He would begin work at the bank and make a life for the three of them. The three of them that had a nice sound to it—and he was going to be a dad.

  He was going to be a dad; he suddenly felt a thrill of excitement run through him. He was actually pleased about Emma’s news.

  John grabbed hold of Emma and gave her a big kiss. “This is fantastic! I love you so much.”

  Emma smiled and hugged him.

  Chapter Forty - DS Early

  DI Khan was looking around at the paperwork covering her desk with her head in her hands; some police officers were quite happy to be snowed under with paperwork, as it left them with every excuse to avoid going onto the street and get their hands dirty. If Early needed any further proof, he could now definitely see Khan wasn’t one of these.

  “Morning Guv.”

  Khan looked up as DS Early walked into the office. He tried to do his best to hide his pleasure at being told he was on paperwork and filing for the rest of the week.

  He hadn’t always been the type of copper that was most happy when surrounded by paperwork; but Early was now more than comfortable with such a situation. He was sure that anyone who had seen as much shit as he had would be more than comfortable with desk duties.

  “Morning,” Khan said. The venom in her words showed her displeasure at his good mood.

  Early started to press the buttons on the coffee machine to select his drink. “How’s the counterfeit money job going?”

  “The counterfeit case, yes. DS Early, this department should be about chasing down major criminals, the people behind important crimes. The department should not be about following up a fortuitous arrest that leads to some people printing money,” Khan said.

  “Be fair Guv, it was decent collar.”

  “A PC gets called to a department store,” Khan said, looking at the notes in front of her. “A young couple had tried to pay with a fifty-pound note, which lights up the stores counterfeit note detector like a Christmas tree. Instead of arresting the couple on site, the officer asks the store to let them go so he could follow them back to their flat. I reckon he was probably constable of the week for this!”

  “Sounds like good police work to me.”

  “Yes, this is real cutting edge detective work.”

  Khan didn’t reply. Early decided to not bother making conversation with her again. He could quite happily spend the next eight hours or so going through paperwork. He slumped into the seat opposite Khan and picked up a file; he was about to switch on his MP3 player when PC Archer burst into the office.

  “Have you heard about Crystal?” PC Archer asked; her eyes looked as if she had recently been crying.

  “What?” Khan replied.

  “She was stabbed last night,” the young police officer said, her eyes started to well. “Do you think it will have been because she spoke to me?”

  Khan froze—she looked shocked. She quickly looked down at her paperwork, not wanting to make eye contact with PC Archer. Early couldn’t help but find the innocence on display here pathetic.

  “God, what’s the issue?” he shrugged. “Teenagers with drug habits get stabbed all the time, No one should feel bad about this."

  Khan stood up. Her legs looked a little unsteady. “I know who did this.”

  “Well they’ve got to be arrested. They can’t get away with this. This has only happened because she spoke to us!” Archer replied, not able to contain her emotion.

  “I know and that’s what I’m going to do,” Khan assured her, checking the service issued fire arm that was strapped under her jacket.

  Early looked at Khan. “Ma’am, the boss was very clear. You’re to go nowhere near that case.”

  Khan shot a look back at Early. “He doesn’t need to know, does he? And if he comes in to the office, you can tell him that I’m downstairs getting more files on the counterfeit case.”

  “Where the hell are you even going?”

  “Who benefited most out of Crystal’s death? Those bloody psychotic brothers!”

  “You’re going there on your own?” Early asked.

  Khan ignored the old detective and looke
d at Archer. “Someone is going to pay for what happened to Crystal. These people have to learn that there is a consequence to breaking the law!”

  Early looked across at his mobile phone lying on the desk; he had to make the call. There was no point him trying to stop her. He knew this would be deemed the preferred way of him dealing with this issue, but there was no way that Khan was going to be stopped by him now. The call had to be made.

  Chapter Forty One - Mickey the Bag

  Mickey put his bag safely on the ground and took in the view in front of him. It was the first day, since he dyed his hair, that he had braved not wearing a hat. He had made sure to cover his quiff in enough gel to hide any remaining colour though.

  He and Seamus were stood in front of a wreck of a house; it was an end terrace building in a row of equally looking derelict houses. The house had a dramatic lean to it, giving the impression that if the house next to it wasn’t there it might simply fall down.

  “We’re here to see Neil Nails, the lead guitarist,” Seamus said.

  “He’s done well for himself,” Mickey smirked.

  Seamus looked dumbfounded by the location that Fame’s directions had led them to. “This place is a shit hole.”

  Mickey was about to take some delight in telling Seamus that this should be his last reference to shit holes today as Fame was due to arrive any moment. But the sight of Fame’s white limousine driving towards them stole the moment from him.

  Mickey scowled at the car. “Oh good, the fucking Queens arrived."

  Fame stepped out of the back of the car in an audacious black-and-white fur coat that went down to his knees. The outfit was finished off with white snakeskin boots.

  “Jesus Fame, how many zebras had to die to make that?” Mickey said, looking the man up and down.

  “This from the man who looks like he’s bathed his hair in a bowl of rhubarb,” Fame said, walking passed the gangster and towards the house.

  Mickey self-consciously put his hands through his hair; he could see Seamus trying to control the smile on his face. He should give Fame a slap for that.

  But this was almost the last but one of the band and this worthless job would soon be done.

  Fame stopped at the pathway to the house, which was covered in an array of rubbish, looking like it had not been cleaned for years. “I might wait outside—let you boys go in and talk to Neil.”

  Mickey put his arm around Fame and started to walk him up the path. “Oh come now Max. I mean all the time you must have put into this yesterday—all day to find this address—surely you want to see the man you spent so many hours looking for?”

  Mickey dragged Fame to the front of the house; he could now see the door was barely hanging in place. This was the last piece of evidence he needed. He understood what type of building stood in front of them.

  Mickey gave the door a boot and the broken door swung open to reveal the interior. Mickey knew a drug's den when he saw one… the rank smell, the thread bitten carpets, the graffiti on the walls—but above all it was the smell. A chemist would have you believe that heroin didn’t emit a smell. But Mickey had come into these types of locations over the years too many times to know this wasn’t true. Heroin had a smell and it stunk.

  “Neil always had a bit of a problem,” Fame said, carefully looking around the slum.

  Mickey didn’t reply. He was on his guard, and his mind was occupied on preparing a quick mental risk assessment of the present location. A drug infested slum went hand in hand with junkies. And if they’d all stumbled into a place where the junkies had a stash, then they would be ready to defend it with gusto against anyone who walked in. This place was clearly a threatening environment; Mickey gripped his bag.

  “Seamus, check the place out,” Mickey said, instructing his apprentice.

  Seamus nodded and started to cautiously check each room. Mickey hated junkies; it was a simple fact of his career choice that from time to time he came into contact with these people. But he still hated them.

  Mickey would explain to those who questioned the money he made from narcotics, about the parallels between drug suppliers and cigarette and tobacco companies. They all provided a product which had the ability to kill you. Beyond this, it was down to the user of these items to have the self-discipline to use them in sensible doses; he could not be held to account for people who used them in excess.

  Seamus appeared from one of the doorways. “Mick you need to come in here.”

  Mickey walked into what had once been the lounge of the house and saw a partially dressed dreadlocked man lying on a sofa, either asleep or unconscious. The man looked pale, skinny and malnourished. Mickey didn’t need to see the syringe that was hanging between his toes to know he was a junkie.

  “Is he dead?” Seamus asked.

  Mickey looked at the junkie’s body and knew the man was still alive. He had no medical training but had seen enough dead bodies to separate those from the living. And besides—the junkie was clearly breathing.

  “He’s just out of it,” Mickey confirmed.

  Fame walked carefully into the room, trying to protect his expensive boots from any further damage incurred from the dirt and debris that made up the house’s flooring.

  “Oh my God! Neil,” Fame cried out before rushing over to the junkie. “We need to get this man to a hospital!”

  “He’s fine and anyway, he’s got a gig tomorrow,” Mickey said coldly.

  Fame turned back to the gangster, clearly horrified by the statement Mickey had just made. “He can’t play in this condition.”

  Mickey walked up to the sofa and leant over the junkie’s body, giving him a cursory sort of an examination, which ended in a nod. “Yeah he’s fine. I’m sure these fellas play better when they’re in this type of state anyway.”

  Fame grabbed hold of the guitarist’s body in a maternal way, to try and protect his child when confronted with the face of evil. The junkie didn’t even stir from his sleep despite the physical disturbance of being moved. He now looked like he was sleeping in the arms of Fame.

  “I am putting my foot down this time! This man is in no fit state to go anywhere but to a hospital or some kind of rehabilitation hostel,” Fame shouted passionately.

  “Here,” Mickey said, taking his mobile phone out and passing it to Seamus. “There’s a number on this for Ricky the Rat. Call him and tell him we need something to get a junkie up for a few days.”

  Seamus nodded, took the phone and walked out of the room to make the call. Mickey watched the younger man walk out the room, pleased by Seamus’ dutiful acceptance of his instructions. Mickey was concerned that Seamus might have been swayed by Fame’s show of emotion in protecting his ex-musician; but he hadn’t been. It seemed that Fame’s influence on his apprentice was waning.

  Mickey could see in Fame’s face that he had registered this mini defeat and was now faced with having to influence Mickey alone.

  “Mickey we need to get this man into a hostel.” Fame's voice had changed, no longer full of emotion it was now calm and steady. “You know it’s the right thing to do.”

  “No, the right thing to do is to make sure he’s playing his guitar tomorrow night. That’s the right thing for both of us,” Mickey replied.

  “Where’s your compassion? The man’s obviously got a serious problem!” Fame shouted back.

  Mickey smiled as he watched Fame lose his temper through frustration. “My compassion? I wonder how he got into this situation in the first place, Fame?”

  Fame shot a look of disgust back at Mickey. “This isn’t down to me! I’m not the man in this room who makes his money off the back of drugs.”

  Mickey shook his head. “Really Max? Are you sure you didn’t offer the band a few freebies in the early days? Perhaps the odd little bonus after a good show, to help keep them all in a good mood, to get them flying?”

  Fame looked ashamed for a moment and looked away. “Drugs are just a part of our game. Everyone…”

  “S
ave it Max. You pimped this prick into the drug's world. My job is to satisfy the demand of the market; its people like you who create it,” Mickey said, looking down at the slight form of the junkie.

  Fame followed Mickey’s gaze down to the junkie's body. “Well, this might be my opportunity to rectify it—for Neil at least?”

  “After Friday, you can do what you want with the junkie, to try and save your soul. Until then he’s mine,” Mickey smiled.

  “You bastard,” Fame replied.

  A flame of anger flickered inside Mickey. He did not let anyone speak to him like that. And now that they practically had all the members of the band in their clutches, the need for Max Fame was diminishing. He started to tighten his fist.

  “Max, Max, is that you man?” the junkie said, stirring back to life, looking up at the man who was holding him.

  Fame looked down at the junkie. “Neil, how you doing?”

  “I’ve just taken some serious shit man—I'm zoning man,” Neil replied.

  “Good Neil, good,” Fame said, stroking back Neil’s dark dreadlocks in a caring manner. “Hey guess what; I’m getting the band back together again.”

  Nails face seemed to colour slightly. “Cool man, cool, haven’t seen those boys for a long-time man.”

  Mickey didn’t care for the approach Fame was taking. “Can you still play?”

  “I make my guitar sing man. I watch the notes fly to the clouds man, try and catch them out in my mouth,” Neil replied.

  “Shit,” Mickey cursed, annoyed. The man was worse than he thought—he seemed completely wasted by the drugs. “If he can’t play, we can’t include him in the band. I am not taking a useless fucked-up junkie to Mrs. O’Neil’s party.”

  “Some musicians have tender characters,” Fame explained, trying to defend his former client.

  “Oh please,” Mickey replied. “These people aren’t special. They live sheltered lives from the real world and, when they get forced to confront reality, they can’t handle it.”