by Rachel Lynch
The appeal for the young woman with red hair was becoming more prominent in the news, and it made him nervous. He racked his brains for reassurance that he’d cleaned up properly. Nobody swam in Barrow Dock anymore; only the odd fishing boat went anywhere near the shallows on its way in to unpack a few mackerel or bass caught off Walney. Like most of Britain’s docks, the place had died long ago.
In the middle of the night, though, when irrational fears took hold, he wasn’t so sure. The bodies might move; they might come loose, away from the belts he’d strapped around them, or they might come alive and fucking swim up to the surface. After he’d sweated his way through another nightmare, he believed anything was possible. He also knew that at some point he’d have to go back to his old flat. He’d thought he’d tidied up before he left, but a thought kept niggling away at him: Nush had kept a small stash of clothes at the bottom of his wardrobe that he’d completely forgotten about.
He was needed for another job tonight, but he felt like death. Curtis would pick him up at nine p.m. apparently. He had no idea what was expected of him, but judging by the last time, it wouldn’t be good. He laughed at the irony: he’d slit a woman’s throat, and yet here he was wondering if Marko and his men had limits.
He knew the answer already.
He questioned whether he had his own limits and what it would take for him to say no to Marko, but that hurt his head and he went to the cupboard and got out a bottle of vodka. It would anaesthetise him a little; take the edge off, in his mother’s words.
He lay on the small, uncomfortable sofa, and flicked around the TV, desperate for distraction; something to make the image of blood spurting forcefully onto the plastic sheeting go away. The images mingled with the meaty pulp that was all that was left of Kevin Cottrell after he’d pummelled him with the piece of rusty iron.
MasterChef Australia did the trick. There were two chicks in particular who caught his eye, and he became engaged in their struggle not to be eliminated. The food looked good too, but he wished the girls wore skimpier tops. After the programme finished, he searched around to see if he could get more on playback. He found what he was looking for and settled back to follow Tania from Queensland and Laura from Tasmania battle it out to the final.
Five hours later, he was asleep on the sofa when the door buzzed. He woke with a start and looked at his watch: just after nine p.m. He stood up and realised that his trousers were undone: Laura from Tasmania needed a good seeing-to, and she’d been the focus of a rather gratifying dream. The pleasure didn’t last long before another wave of nausea gripped him.
The door buzzed again. He fastened his flies, put the vodka away and went to the door. It was Curtis. He always made Darren uncomfortably nervous. The guy was huge – over six foot five, with hands that resembled bunches of bananas. But it wasn’t just his size; it was also his composure. Darren had witnessed how much damage he could cause.
They didn’t shake hands.
‘You’ll need a coat, it’s fucking freezing,’ said the big man. The advice was a rare occurrence.
Between Curtis and Sasha, Darren thought it highly unlikely that he’d ever refuse to do anything Marko asked of him, and that thought depressed him. He was no longer in charge of his own destiny, but then he guessed he never really had been anyway. At least this way he had some sort of protection from the meanest bastard in Cumbria – if he didn’t screw up, of course.
He grabbed his coat and went to the bathroom to splash cold water over his face. His guts were still churning. As he went to turn off the TV, an item on the news caught his attention. He stopped, frozen. Facing him on the screen was a photo of himself. The cops wanted to talk to him. Darren couldn’t move and Curtis walked over to see what the problem was.
‘Oops. Looks like you need to impress Marko even more now,’ was all he said.
Darren closed his eyes. Curtis was right.
They left the flat and Darren followed Curtis to a dark van. It was a Ford and suitably anonymous. His pulse quickened and he wondered when he’d be let into the plan for the evening.
‘You been working for Marko long?’ he asked as they drove, trying to make simple conversation to calm his nerves and get rid of the sinking feeling in his tumultuous gut. In reply he received a long stare. He watched the road anxiously for what seemed like minutes as Curtis continued to look at him.
‘The road…’ he said eventually, pointing through the windscreen.
Curtis smiled and looked back to the dark lane ahead. There was no one else about.
They travelled south and hit traffic on the A6. After ten minutes, they turned off onto a minor road. Not for the first time, working for Marko, Darren wondered whether he was being taken somewhere remote because he’d come to the end of his usefulness. His hands were clammy. Now that the cops were after him, surely Marko wouldn’t want the hassle.
Curtis turned into a long driveway and stopped outside what looked like an old farmhouse. Light shone behind the windows. Questions raced through Darren’s head and he couldn’t help himself asking Curtis what they were doing there.
‘Simple job tonight, pal. You’ve seen a dog fight before?’
Darren calmed a little. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Well tonight it’s not dogs, just people, and our job is to make sure the lads stay in the ring.’
‘Lads?’
‘The guys fighting, you fucking idiot.’
‘How do we do that?’ Darren asked.
Curtis looked at him as if he was educationally challenged, but it was a genuine question. Darren wanted to make sure he didn’t make a mistake. It could be a simple case of asking them to stay in, or, if force was needed, how much to impose. He was excited about the prospect of watching illegal fighting; it would be messy but breathtaking. He was a big fan of Thrill Kill, Sony’s unreleased video game depicting so much sexual violence that even an 18 certificate didn’t cut it. Copies had leaked anyway, and made their way onto the illegal market. Darren had always wondered if people fought like that for real; he figured that if someone had dreamt it up in a game, then it must exist somewhere, because humans were sick like that.
‘Why do they need our help? Don’t they want to win?’ he asked.
Curtis smiled at him, but it wasn’t a pleasant or jovial smile; it was piercing, challenging and disarming all at the same time. Darren wondered how many people the big man had hurt on Marko’s behalf.
‘They don’t want to be here,’ Curtis said.
‘Oh.’ Now Darren understood.
Curtis jumped out of the van and Darren followed suit. The big man went to the back and took out a bag. ‘Come on then, Marko said you’d be a virgin.’
Darren didn’t care for the term, but it was true: he’d never seen men forced to fight one another, and he guessed they’d need to use a fair amount of force to keep them at it.
They went around the back of the building, where two of Curtis’s brothers were guarding the door. They moved aside and Darren followed Curtis into a kitchen. Curtis slammed the bag onto the table and unzipped it. Inside was the sort of stash of weapons that might be hauled in by Mexican police after a drugs shootout. There were knives, hammers, axes, a machete and even a couple of guns.
Darren had never handled a gun.
‘Take your pick,’ Curtis said. ‘Some of the fighters are easy to control; occasionally you get one who thinks he can get past you. It’s our job to make sure none of them leave before they’re finished. None of them speak English; this is our language tonight.’ He winked, gesturing to the weapons.
Darren wondered why Marko had chosen him for the job. It was glaringly obvious why he’d chosen Curtis, but Darren was ten stone wet through. Still, a man with a weapon in a position of command would tip any balance against an unarmed man vastly outnumbered and scared. It was another test.
He looked at the weapons. He avoided the guns. Curtis took a long ugly knife, some knuckledusters and an axe. Darren decided to do the same. It felt strange p
acking so much metal. He didn’t believe he could do this. It was highly likely that if he tried to control a fighter maddened by rage and fear, he could easily have the weapons turned on him. He wished he’d brought some vodka.
As if he could read his thoughts, Curtis opened a kitchen cupboard, where a bottle of whisky sat on a shelf.
‘Virgins usually need a little help,’ he said.
Darren reached for the bottle gratefully and glugged several mouthfuls. His nerves began to subside, but his guts continued to churn and he hoped he didn’t shit himself whilst trying to appear dominant.
‘Come on,’ said Curtis, and Darren followed him into a dimly lit room that had been set up like a ring. A few men sat at tables, while others stood around talking loudly. Smoke hovered in the air and bottles of whisky were laid out. A man Darren didn’t recognise coughed and said, ‘Two minutes, gents, please.’ The men who were standing took their seats and joked excitedly with one another.
Curtis’s brothers now entered, each holding a naked man. Darren stared at them. They weren’t athletic in any way; both were middle-aged and flabby around their middles. Both looked terrified. Their dicks and balls flopped around hilariously and Darren watched, fascinated by the spectacle. An excited hum elevated the noise level as men placed last-minute bets based on what they saw.
Silence settled in the room and the man who seemed to be organising proceedings slammed a gavel down on a table. The spectators began shouting and the men were shoved together. Straight away, one of them tried to run. Curtis slammed a fist into his belly and he collapsed on the floor, howling in an unrecognisable tongue. Curtis showed the other man a knife and he understood; he went to the guy on the floor and began to hit him.
Instinct kicked in and the guy on the floor started to defend himself. Flesh wobbled as the two men dived towards each other, punching and kicking. The room heated up and Darren felt his pulse racing with anticipation.
One of the fighters fell out of the ring and Curtis took out a hammer and raised it above his head. The man scrambled back into the arena to resume the fight.
Time ticked by and one of the men seemed to be tiring. It was time to help them out. Curtis threw the stronger man a long stick with bits sticking out of it. The man whacked his opponent with it, and blood spewed out of his mouth. Sensing victory, the stronger man took his chance and rained down blows on the other fighter, who was now motionless on the floor. The spectators shouted and spit came out of their mouths. It was better than Thrill Kill any day.
Curtis moved towards the victor, who was panting on the floor; he helped him up and took him from the room. The body of the other man was carried out, then the ring was tidied up for the next fight.
More bets were placed, and Darren wondered how many fights were scheduled for tonight. He also wondered about these men who were here enjoying the show. They had money, that was clear, and they looked ordinary enough. He couldn’t imagine where Marko found them. You didn’t go advertising such events in the paper.
‘How many more?’ he asked Curtis when he returned to the room.
‘Two,’ he replied.
Darren held onto his weapons and hoped none of the fighters came in his direction.
The second fight was worse because the men were pretty fit, but the third one was brutal. The fighters were evenly matched and the bout lasted twenty minutes until Curtis threw the stronger one a knife and he plunged it into his adversary time and time again. Darren was astounded at how quickly the men were willing to slaughter each other when faced with defeat and certain death. It turned them into animals. In his mind, this willingness to diminish themselves so rapidly justified their abuse. He never stopped to consider what he would do given the same options, and clearly neither did the spectators; the show was too good to ruin with philosophy. Instead they demanded more blood, shouting, swapping money and slapping each other on the back.
Again the body of the loser was carried away, and Darren wondered where they went. More importantly, though, he wanted to know what happened to the victors.
At midnight, he got his answer. All three men were tied up and gagged in the back of Curtis’s van, ready to be taken to Darren’s apartment, where he would guard them until the next round of fights. If they caused any problems, Curtis said, Darren had Marko’s direct blessing to impose restraint.
Darren kept his weapons.
Chapter 31
Kelly parked in the central parking area near the Co-op in Ambleside. She walked down Rothay Road, past the Thwaite Hotel, which looked abandoned and neglected, and on to the Troutbeck Guest House. Ambleside was busy, and tourists meandered maddeningly on and off the pavements in front of her.
The guest house was in full breakfast swing. A man was sitting at reception and looked up when Kelly approached.
‘How may I help you?’ he asked politely; his name badge read: George, Reception. It was the same design and colour as Anushka’s.
Kelly introduced herself, and George was more than happy to help. The general manager, Mrs Joliffe, wasn’t available again, as was becoming her habit. Kelly already had her number, which she had been calling without success, and George suggested that she try Christine Day for an address, given that she now owned the place.
Kelly showed George the photo of Anushka.
‘Ah, everybody knows her, they call her Nush. She was a live wire, that’s for sure. Couldn’t stick at the job; you know the type, think they’re above that kind of work.’
‘Yes, I was informed she’d been sacked.’
‘I don’t know anything about that. In trouble, is she?’
‘We just need to speak to her with some urgency, and she seems to have disappeared. What about him?’ She brought out the photo of Darren.
‘He looks familiar, but I can’t be sure,’ George said.
‘Can you have another look? His name’s Darren Beckett, and this photo’s about four years old, so he may have changed a fair bit.’
George took the photo and studied it closely.
‘There was a man here the other day, loitering about the staff rooms on the second floor. He was much older than in this photograph, though, perhaps forty. He was very dirty and looked like a down-and-out, whereas this fella looks so… healthy. Although he did say he was looking for Nush, and claimed she was his girlfriend. I can’t see it myself. Nush thought of herself as a bit classy, if you like.’
‘Thank you, George. Are there any other staff about? I know the breakfast staff are busy, but perhaps some cleaners or porters who I could speak to? I’d also like to see where Anushka was staying.’
He showed her to Anushka’s room before leaving to see if there were any staff members free to speak to her. The room was bare except for three single beds and two wardrobes. It was a sparse existence indeed. Kelly opened a few drawers, but the place had been cleaned out. Wherever Anushka had gone, it had been planned.
After interviewing three more staff members – all of whom knew Nush but not where she’d gone – she left the photograph of Darren, along with photos of the ring and the Rolex watch, with reception, and left the hotel to visit Mrs Cork, Anna’s mother, who lived a mile away from the hotel.
‘It’s been three days and she’s never not come home before. She has friends, of course, and sometimes stays over, but she always tells me.’ Mrs Cork wrung her hands and her brow was deeply furrowed. Kelly doubted she’d slept in the last two days.
‘So when was the last time you saw her, Mrs Cork?’
‘She came home very upset, saying the police had closed the hotel. She was worried about her job, you see. She’s always found it difficult to find work. She… can’t read very well. It’s hard you know; everyone expects it now that everything is computerised.’
‘So you found her the job cleaning at the hotel?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how did you come across that?’
‘Mr Day, of course. He was a family friend. Very sad what happened.’ Mrs Cork looked away.
Funny, thought Kelly, how so many people held Colin Day in high esteem, given what she knew about him. But that could all change very soon.
‘Do you think finding Mr Day’s body like that has perhaps affected your daughter more than you realised and she needs some space?’ she asked.
‘Well, she was very shaken,’ Mrs Cork said.
‘So, when she came home from work for the last time, what did she do? Did she go out?’
‘She went to her room and then, about five, she said she needed to go and buy cigarettes. I never approved, but what can you do?’
Kelly herself was an erratic smoker, but she fully understood the need when the craving took hold. She tried to limit her intake, but sometimes it crept up. She nodded.
‘And did she return?’
‘No.’ Mrs Cork looked away and her anguish took hold of her once again.
‘What was her relationship with Kevin Cottrell, the hotel manager?’
‘Who?’
‘The manager who was on duty the morning Anna found Mr Day; his name is Kevin Cottrell.’
‘Oh. Anna never mentioned him. I asked her about work colleagues but she was always very unwilling to give details, so I didn’t push.’
‘Did Anna ever talk about Mr Day?’
‘No, not that I can remember. We saw him in town one day and I reminded her to thank him for getting her a job.’
‘And how did Mr Day seem?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did they seem to know one another? Was it awkward? How was Anna’s behaviour?’
Mrs Cork thought about the question.
‘I suppose he was pleased to see her. Now that I think back, they were quite friendly. He said she was doing a fabulous job. I didn’t think about it at the time. Do you think it’s important?’