Crossing the Line

by Solomon Carter

  Eleven

  The noise beyond was smashing, shouting, gunfire too. It sounded like rage. Like magnified thunder. After the thunder came the deadest silence. Eva moved to her right, creeping along the long central island of steel cupboards and drawers that divided the kitchen floor tiles in half. She peered around the edge of the counter and found the edge of the sofa, and a heap of a body. She saw the leather heels of Marka’s ultra-expensive shoes and a patch of bright scarlet blood blooming wide on the carpet, but the heap still moved – she saw the flash of his silver gun, and a bright explosion of the barrel. She pulled her head back, heard a bang, a ricochet behind her, and then the skin opened up just above her temple, blood leaked down her face. Eva threw herself back across the floor, and slapped her hand to the wound in shock. She felt a warm trickle pass between her fingers, but the wound was shallow, just a nick. It all happened in less than ten seconds. And now she was trapped. From the space beyond them she heard the crash. The noise was coming from the corridors beyond the fallen Marka. The thunder was in the room with them now. She hesitated, since the noise meant either rescue or execution, and then she threw herself the other way, diving to the left of the kitchen island, and watched through the gap in the corner of the white leather sofa arrangement. She saw two broad figures in sharp suits overfilled with muscle and fat. The suits were not in the same league as those of the Russians. One of the men had brassy red hair; the other had a dark flat top and a tattoo on his neck. Bad Boy Brian’s men had made it. The Irish brogue broke through the silence, totally incongruent with this world of wealth and death. “Would you look at this fucking place? This is something else, it’s like a fucking James Bond movie in here,” said one of them.

  Marka had his back to them. Lying on the ground he struggled, desperately trying to turn his shoulder and aim. Before he could move far enough, the redheaded brute kicked through Marka’s forearm with a huge leg swing like he was kicking a rugby conversion. There was a snap and a groan of pain mixed into a gurgling wheeze.

  “Hey, we should have done a house swap, you and me, eh? The bastard is welcome to Basildon anytime.”

  “Two minutes. Then we clear the place out.”

  “Two minutes, what can I do in two minutes?”

  “In two minutes, the police will lock this whole building down. Too many yuppies live here. You want prison or do you want a ride home?”

  The redhead man grunted resentfully then ran off back to the corridors, and there was a sound of smashing furniture, glass, whatever. The other man, the one Eva recognised from Dagenham, from the casino and the office meeting in Upminster, bent down and seized Marka under the arms, and heaved him up so they were face-to-face.

  “Look at you now, big man. Who the hell are ya?”

  “Who dares…?” he wheezed.

  “I dare, you arse. You may be a big shot in Moscow, brother, but here you were a pissbag who needed bursting. Brian Gillespie’s just burst your bubble.”

  “The gypsy? I will wipe him out. All of you. The gangs are moving… already set…”

  “Shut it now, Rasputin. You’re done. Nothing’s going to happen unless we want it to happen.”

  The Russian coughed and spat a great glob of red spit into the big man’s face. “Well done, Rasputin. Famous last words.” The big man held the limp body up and pummelled the shorter man in the neck, unloading three times with full strength. Eva buried her face as she heard the groans, the snap, then heard the thud as the man hit the floor. The other man returned, carrying a black holdall. “Two minutes.”

  The first man shouted, “You hear that darling? Time’s up. If you’re still alive, come out now.” Eva stayed silent. “Look, here, miss. If you don’t come out, I can’t help you. The old bill are going to lock this place down, and you won’t get off scot-free. You cut him up bad. Look what you did to him. That could be manslaughter, woman.” Eva bit her lip and thought about it. The

  Travellers were just as likely to kill her as help her. She had served her purpose. “Make your mind up now. We’ll get you out. We just fixed all your problems, didn’t we?” She had killed people. She had nearly killed Marka, and she had now witnessed his murder. If Gillespie’s men or any remaining Russians saw her, she could be killed, and if the police looked at things the wrong way, she got life. She didn’t like either option. Either way, the case wasn’t yet closed.

  “I’m coming!” she yelled, her heart thudding. She stood up from behind the counter, and looked at the wide boys with their guns and the holdall.

  The big man with the flat top stared and grinned from ear to ear. The other man’s mouth turned into a thick circle and he muttered, “Sweet Jesus. Now that’s a sight for sore eyes.” Eva held a hand to her head, and slipped a short chopping knife into the top of her skirt under the guise of straightening herself out.

  “Well, are you going to kill me?”

  “No, darling. You’re too good to waste.”

  “Okay. Throw me a jacket and let’s go.” She pointed to the corner of the sofa where the Russian’s henchmen had dumped her belongings. She watched as they threw it to her, hopeful the contents of her inside jacket pocket would stay unnoticed, and stay inside the pocket. The gun was long gone, but her jacket would still offer her some dignity, amongst other things. She put it on and fastened its two buttons so most of her chest and body were hidden, but both men made no attempt to hide their stares. A moment later, they were striding out of the scene of the apartment. Eva took one last look back and saw Victor Marka’s head twisted at an odd angle on his body, and the whole right half of his chest covered in blood. Now she would have to survive what was coming next. Brian Gillespie had just made a move of such startling audacity, Eva could hardly believe it. Marka was on another level altogether to Brian Gillespie. Yet Gillespie had done the unthinkable. Marka was dead. And potentially, Gillespie was now the largest kingpin outside of the international syndicates. If he wanted to do so, Gillespie now had the chance to rule in the vacuum left by Marka’s demise. The way was clear, for now. There were many questions left to answer. The first and foremost of which was keenly on Eva’s mind; now that Marka was dead, would Gillespie let her survive? Forget the police and Victor Marka. This was Gillespie’s game. If things went against her, Eva knew she could be long dead before the police ever decided Eva Roberts was a suspect in the death of Victor Marka.

  Twelve

  The laundrette had been an easy touch for a man badly in need of a makeover. Okay, the plastic surgery would have to wait, but at least Dan had gotten the chance to ditch the garms. A young man who looked like a student wore one of those blazers which had been all the rage for the last couple of years, the ones with the elbow pads and narrow lapels. The young guy was busy unloading a giant tumble dryer when Dan approached him in the unstaffed laundrette. First off, the young man jumped and shrank away from him, but Dan was used to that from a year on the street so was not offended. For at least the last year the whole world had shrunk away from Dan’s advances, because people shrank when a hobo approached. Even the liberal looking ones, the kind ones who bought the Big Issue to salve their consciences, they didn’t physically shrink away, but something in their eyes said everything. So in the laundrette Dan tried again, to engage the twenty-something in conversation. And when that didn’t work, he pulled out the screwed up bundle of notes he had in his pocket.

  “How much for your jacket, son?”

  These new garms didn’t include any decent labels, but Dan was happy enough. For forty quid he’d been able to toss his bloody shirt and borrowed jacket in the bin. He wasn’t sure if a navy blazer with brown suede elbow patches was quite his thing – it definitely didn’t go with his black eyes – but he wasn’t overly sad about his new getup. As he walked on, Dan wondered on his next move. Survival had been good, but survival without Eva wasn’t an option. She had given him life. No matter what she had said about choosing life, he wasn’t going to repay her by allowing her to die. It was more than out of the questio
n. He had no physical option, no mental or spiritual obligation other than to chase her down to the ends of the earth. So to go forward he would have to go back. Ridiculous in most people’s eyes, but there was no other way. The gangsters at Elmo’s Minicabs would have some knowledge of Marka’s haunts, especially as they were pretending to be on the same team. And besides, there was the double-cross. If anyone knew all of the details he needed to be filled in on, it would be the guys at Elmo’s. There was some money left in his pocket, but not a lot. He needed to move quickly. He needed more money than he had. Walking for twenty minutes he came up on the roads alongside Clapham Common. He walked with purpose, so as not to be a victim of some mugger or goon in search of easy prey - the city was full of them. He looked around sharply, keenly across the Common and around the streets. He saw something of a deal maker at a bench by a phone box opposite a Southern Fried Chicken outlet with a blue and red sign. There was a young hoodie and a friend sitting and chatting, pretending not to act like they were big, hard gangsters while all the time showing they wanted the whole world to know it. Dan walked into the chicken house and ordered the cheapest deal, a one piece of chicken and chips deal and a can of coke. The Middle Eastern guy behind the counter hardly batted an eyelid at Dan’s face or his ruined hand. This chicken establishment had clearly seen it all before. Then Dan stood beside the fruit machine staring out, past the two gang types on the bench, watching a couple of their silly deals and cash changing hands. Dan knew this kind of deal was happening on high streets across London right now. The police could never hope to keep up. It was little wonder these guys were being so blasé. Dan waited the full amount of time it took to munch his chicken and drink his coke, then he stepped outside, walked across the road in front of a white van and a horn-honking taxi, then he was up the kerb and in their faces.

  “What d’you want?”

  “Looks like he wants another beating,” said the other, laughing. Before he was up out of the seat, Dan palmed him in the face and knocked him back. The other one drew something sharp. Dan tutted and chopped his hand down on the raising arm and punched him hard in the face, breaking his nose. The other stood, but without clear intent, shocked by the severity of his friend’s treatment. Two punches in the face later, and number two was sprawled across number one’s lap. Dan emptied their pockets of everything he needed – a small wad of cash and two mobile phones. It turned out one of them didn’t have a pin-code. He dumped the second phone and all other wallet contents in a roadside drain as he ran across the common down towards the other end of the area, in the direction of Clapham North tube station. He knew Eva’s number. He dialled it. A second later, it came up call rejected. He tried again, and the same thing happened. Then he tried a text.

  It’s Dan. Where are you? I’m coming.

  The reply came as a business card buzzing through on the screen. It said “Jess.”

  Dan grinned and looking both ways before he dived into Clapham North station, he pressed the contact details for Jess and the image of a phone ringing popped up on his screen.

  “Hello?” said a cagey female voice Dan had come to know well in a short space of time.

  “Jess. It’s Dan. Where are you?”

  She wasn’t far. While staying vigilant in case he got jumped by a gang boy seeking revenge, Dan walked out of the tube station and made his way hastily through the residential streets back towards Brixton central. He gave a wide berth to the large McDonalds on the corner of the busy Brixton crossroads, guessing gang boys could be gorging their high little brains on greasy calories while scoping the streets for a fashionably dressed zombie. It was late; the sky was midnight blue and filled with orange street lamp haze, while the world on the ground was frenetic. Jess was sitting in the downstairs café bar of the Ritzy cinema across the street from McDonalds. He tapped on the window to get her attention, as a couple of predatory men at the bar behind her pretended not to notice, just no-account muppets after an easy lay. He knew the type. In days before Eva, he had been one himself. He didn’t go into the cinema building; he waited for Jess to come outside. When she did, Dan and Jess nodded at each other, a quick silent greeting, and then it was back on with the job at hand.

  “What do you think - about Eva?” said Jess, her eyes stressed and pleading.

  “She’s far tougher than I gave her credit for. Marka’s a cruel bastard, but he wouldn’t top Eva straight away. Any red blooded male wouldn’t do that.”

  The silence between them now spoke of the alternatives. “She’s strong,” said Jess, just to kill the silence.

  “And so are you,” said Dan.

  “Eh?”

  “Yep. Eva thinks so, and here you are again, ready to give it another go. You’re one of us, Jess. Eva was like you. Hungry, determined, and clever.”

  Jess didn’t say a word. Her lips stayed straight, but her face shone in the half light as they walked. They turned into the mouth of Cold Harbour Lane, the long serpentine road which led to Elmo’s Minicabs. Outside one of the grimy bars, a couple of battered Toyota taxis had already pulled up, the drivers talking to one another to pass the time. “Excuse me,” said Dan. “The Hobgoblin at Herne Hill, please.” One of the drivers, who looked Indian or Turkish or something in-between nodded, and opened the back door to his car. They got in. Twenty seconds later they were flying down the Cold Harbour Lane in a streak of horrendously driven speed.

  “How are we going to do this?” said Jess.

  “However it comes.”

  Jess shrugged. “They won’t expect us. They won’t let us go down into the basement, will they?”

  “No. So we force them.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Threats, bribes, whatever. We’re going to find out where they took her, and that’s it.”

  “You’re making it sound too easy. It won’t be like that.”

  “It has to be. The hardest bit is yet to come.”

  Jess paid the driver a fiver and told him to keep the change, which he seemed vague about in the first place. As the cab did a U-turn, they made for the Hobgoblin a hundred yards down the main drag from Elmo’s Minicabs on the corner. As soon as their driver was out of sight, they crossed the road and walked straight into Elmo’s narrow office. Dan was all heartbeat and adrenalin, grinning at the sheer audacity of what they were going to do. Bring it on. Bring it ON. The black and the Middle Eastern men sat listening to the buzzes and crackles of the cab radio. The Middle Eastern man saw them coming first and called to his colleague. Neither of them seemed shocked by the reappearance of the smashed up man. They seemed barely interested.

  “Yes?” said the African man.

  “We’re going down there.”

  “What for?” he replied, impassive.

  Jess leaned in, and replied with equal dispassion, “You know what.”

  The man said nothing, but shook his head a little with disapproval. Then a strange thing happened. He pressed a button, the door buzzed and it released. Dan didn’t like it.

  “It’s open.”

  Dan nodded and tried to sound brash. “Thank you, my man.”

  They walked into the half-light and the pungent smell of marijuana once more and headed down, taking a few seconds to prepare. The same rough and ready bunch of people seemed to be around from what Dan could see from up the stairs. Malingerers, addicts, drunks and gamblers, all schmoozing in the name of pretending it was okay to live like vermin in a Brixton piss pit. Of course this was the best way to live. The only way. They were all messed up - dens like this one only served messed up people.

  Dan clocked the man he knew as Remy at the first gambling table. Remy was still playing dumb, keeping up a poker face with his eyes tunnelling towards his cards and the few people around him. Dan stared, but no dice, Remy wasn’t up for playing stare-outs. Dan saved his energy. It wasn’t the time. Dan led the way and walked straight to the door at the end of the room. Here were the youths in sports jackets, the ski or mountaineering type but with big bold colo
urs and stupid logos. They were wearing baseball caps too. Dan’s spider sense started tingling as one of the young men, a face underneath a red baseball cap with tired, stony eyes, leaned over into his airspace and started talking at him loudly.

  “What you want, fella?” It was a white man doing an impression of a London black gangster. He had heard it all before, seen it all before, but down here, in context, it signalled danger.

  “I want to see Damon. Mainly because I want to see Gillespie.”

  “Who’s Damon?”

  “Who’s you?” said Dan.

  “You’ve got an attitude. Is that how you got those pretty eyes of yours?”

  “No. I got them because I kill people and some of them don’t like it. Now, clear off. I need to see the people behind that door.”

  “You got an appointment?”

  “Are you the receptionist? You’ve got a long neck, boy. Reel it in.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that. You get me?”

  The young man was in his twenties, but as far as Dan was concerned he was talking the patois of a Peckham schoolboy. Dan saw the boy’s hand quick slide into his jacket, but Dan was quicker still. He moved, telegraphing a fake punch with his shoulder, so the young man stepped back, and Dan shoved him back, using the youngster’s wrong-footed stance against him. The young man fell on his backside, his hat falling off and exposing some mussed up hair. The others around him laughed, half-goofy on the brandy and whatever else they had consumed. The young man now looked like a boy and furiously grabbed his hat.