The Tale of the Wolf (The Kenino Wolf Series)

by Cyrus Chainey

  ‘I told them … told them. My stupid big mouth.’ He started slapping himself.

  ‘Told who?’ Michael was half-crazed.

  ‘Frazer. I told Frazer about Baba.’

  ‘Scott Frazer?’

  He nodded. Tears ran from his eyes, streaks of white cleaning the dirt on his face.

  ‘Why? Michael, why did they want him dead?’

  ‘Because of Tom Jones.’ He started laughing, a true crazy man laugh. ‘Tom Jones ... Tom Jones.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Start from the beginning. What was Longy involved in?’

  ‘Baba is the Prophet ... Tom Jones is God.’ He looked at me wildly. He was lost in some turbulent thoughts; I needed to move more slowly.

  ‘When was the last time you ate?’ I was trying a different tack. Michael was out there somewhere and needed reigning back in. He shrugged. ‘Curt, go get him some chips would ya?’ Curtis nodded.

  I sat down on the floor in front of him. ‘Curtis has gone to get you some chips Michael okay?’

  He nodded. He was truly broken, shattered, human wreckage, but I needed him to explain. Tell me what was going on. Curtis came back with the chips and Michael attacked them wildly, wolfing them down with barely a chew. I took the gun from him and gave it to Bosley.

  ‘Better?’ He nodded. ‘Good, now start from the beginning. Tell me what’s going on.’ I was moving softly. It was hard. He was consumed by fear and guilt. ‘Don’t worry about Frazer. Bosley got him, didn’t you, Bosley?’ Bosley smiled compassionately and nodded.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They want me dead. I deserve to be dead for what I did.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I told them Baba was the prophet.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Wolfy.’ He grabbed my lapels.

  ‘Yes Michael. It's me, Wolfy, you know me.’

  ‘Baba is the Prophet.’

  Michael seemed to be alternating between moments of clarity and madness. He'd obviously had a breakdown.

  ‘Michael what does that mean?’ I was going gentle. It was easy to see how fragile his mind had become.

  ‘Tom Jones is God.’

  ‘Michael … What are you talking about?’

  ‘Baba is the Prophet ... Tom Jones is God’

  Michael was meant to be the key, the one that would answer all my questions. But he'd fallen so far, he'd just become a babbling loon.

  ‘Baba is the Prophet ... Tom Jones is God.’ He said it again. He kept repeating it with even more sincerity. I grabbed him and shook him.

  ‘Michael. I don't understand. ’

  ‘Church of Tom … Shush.’ He whispered putting his fingers to his lips.

  ‘I don't know what that means.’

  ‘I might,’ Bosley said contritely.

  ‘Really?’ I said looking at Bosley.

  Bosley shifted uneasily on his feet. ‘There's a church of Tom Jones in Clapham.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It's a church dedicated to Tom Jones. They believe his music is divinely inspired and will lead to salvation.’

  ‘How exactly do you know this?’

  ‘I like Tom Jones.’ Bosley looked more shifty than I'd ever seen him.

  ‘Are you a member?’ I smirked.

  ‘I almost joined.’ He looked down, ashamed of himself. ‘There is nothing wrong with Tom Jones. Tom Jones is great.’

  ‘Tom Jones is God … Baba is the Prophet.’ It was Michael again.

  ‘Michael, shut up! Bosley speak more. I told you Longy left behind a Tom Jones action figure. Why didn't you mention this church before?’

  Bosley looked dodgy. ‘I didn't make the connection until just now.’

  ‘You think this church of Tom has something to do with Longy's death?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I take it you know where we can find this church?’ He nodded.

  ‘Baba is the Prophet ... Kruchenko wants the priest.’ Michael again.

  ‘What did you just say? ’

  ‘Baba is the Prophet.’

  ‘The other bit.’

  ‘Tom Jones is God.’

  ‘He said Kruchenko wants the priest.’ Tabatha said looking straight at me. ‘Didn't Frazer say he worked for Kruchenko?’

  ‘Kruchenko wants the priest. Shush.’ Michael again.

  ‘He did,’ I replied. ‘Bosley we need to go to this church, and find this priest.’

  ‘Baba is the Prophet ... Tom Jones is God.’

  ‘Michael, shut up!’

  ‘They hold a service three times a week. They've got one on today. It's going to be starting in a bit,’ Bosley said.

  ‘Baba is the Prophet.’

  ‘Michael, would you please shut up!’

  ‘What do we do about him?’ There was pity in Bosley's eyes as he said it.

  ‘We'll go see this church and then I'll take him to his sister’s.’

  Bosley nodded. All of us felt pity for Michael. The guilt had crushed him, and as much as I'd wanted to get the answers from him. I knew that what he'd said was as good as we were going to get.

  Thursday 2:00 p.m.

  We parked up round the back of Clapham Junction. The service was being held in Clapham Grand; an old theatre just opposite the train station. We all got out of the car except Michael who I told to stay. Bosley had driven his own car and came walking across.

  ‘I'm not comfortable with what we're doing. We have no right to just burst in and question people,’ he said.

  ‘True,’ I replied. ‘That's why I'd thought we could just sneak in and have a look.

  ‘That's not what I meant.’

  ‘But that's what we're doing.’ I was being cautious. I had no idea what we were walking into and, in fairness, we had only the ramblings of a madman to go on. But as that was all I had, that was all I was using.

  We crept up the back stairs, me leading, Tabatha behind followed by Curtis and lastly Bosley, who was mumbling something about breaking the law. The theatre was a fair size: 400 seats split over three levels, with two balcony circles. We hid in the top circle right at the centre, overlooking the stage. Beneath us was definitely the church of Tom Jones. There were at least fifty people in Black PVC jumpsuits, all wearing gold medallions, with fake chest wigs. The nationalities were as diverse as can be expected, as were the sexes. There were women down there dressed identically to their male counterparts, including chest wigs.

  I looked at Bosley. ‘You were going to join this?’

  ‘There's nothing wrong with Tom Jones,’ he returned defensively.

  ‘Bosley this is far too far.’ I was laughing. ‘How close did you get? Did you get the jumpsuit?’

  He looked down. I was creasing up.

  ‘Something's happening,’ Curtis stated. He was right something was happening. The throng below us was moving in to position in front of the stage.

  ‘Which one is the priest?’ I asked, directing my question at Bosley.

  ‘He's not there … This is just the congregation.’

  Music started playing, ‘Delilah’ by Tom Jones. Two figures walked out on to the stage: an old middle-aged white man standing next to a scrawny looking character. The scrawny guy had the larger medallion, and like the rest of the brethren was dressed in the de rigeur jumpsuit. I looked at Tabatha and then at Curtis.

  ‘That's the priest,’ said Bosley.

  ‘That's Colin,’ said Tabatha. And it was Colin; Colin the shifty conniving weasel was the head of the Church of Tom Jones.

  ‘You know him?’ Bosley looked dumbfounded.

  ‘That's the fucker that stole our diamonds,’ Curtis blurted out. I gave him such a look.

  ‘What diamonds?’ Bosley said staring straight at me.

  ‘It's a long story and I'll tell you another day,’ I replied quickly. ‘Is he definitely the priest?’

  ‘He's not the one I remember. Maybe he's new.’ Bosley was looking at me suspiciously. I made
a mental note to slap Curtis very hard when we got out.

  The service began. Colin walked up to the centre of the stage and began his service.

  ‘My fellow Jonesians, my beloved brethren. We, the true believers, the truly chosen, have a destiny. Ours is the light. Ours is the true way. We, the Jonesians, must destroy the Tomsians.’

  With the words ‘Tomsians’ an aggrieved mumbling passed across the congregation. ‘For too long we have allowed their falsehoods to stand unchallenged. Now is the time, now is the moment when the true Church shall rise up and crush the imposters. Go forth, my brethren, and find the heretics. Dig out their hiding place. Find the rock under which they dwell, so that we, the Jonesians, can crush them underfoot, and stand alone as the true church of the resplendent.’

  The crowd started cheering. I started laughing.

  ‘Who are the Tomsians?’ I whispered to Bosley.

  ‘I don't know.’

  ‘What do you mean you don't know? Aren't these your people?’ I said, taking the piss.

  ‘What diamonds?’ Bosley returned cutting me short. I slung Curtis a murderous gaze. He lowered his eyes in contrition.

  ‘That's not important, what's important is who the Tomsians are and why these fruitcakes are going to war against them.’

  ‘The Tomsians are obviously a rival sect,’ Bosley returned, glaring suspiciously at me.

  ‘You mean there's another church? There's two lots of nutters?’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘Do you know where they live?’

  ‘No, and neither do they,’ he said, pointing to the mob below, that was cheering and stamping their feet in some mad war dance.

  ‘Oh shit. It's Michael.’ Tabatha had spotted Michael walking towards us.

  ‘Get your head down.’ I said waving at him. He was standing out in the open where the mob below could easily see him.

  He walked straight up to the edge of the balcony. I grabbed Michael's arm trying to pull him down. Instead of him coming down I sort of went up. So up in fact that I was staring straight at Colin, to whom, for some inexplicable reason, I gave a little wave. He smiled as he saw me and then at the top of his voice shouted. ‘Tomsians ... kill them!’ The mob responded to his cry and scattered beneath us.

  ‘We're in the shit now. Everybody ... run.’ I gave Colin the finger and dragging Michael, with Curtis, Bosley and Tabatha behind me, flew down the back stairs. We could hear the mad mob shouting, ‘Death to the Tomsians! ’ We burst out of the doors and ran to our cars. Bosley ran to his, while Tabatha, Curtis, Michael and I ran to Betsy. The mob burst out of the front of the theatre and charged towards us. I saw Bosley pull off. We jumped in Betsy. Tabatha turned the engine. The mob was on us now, smashing at Betsy with their medallions.

  ‘Drive for fuck’s sake!’ I screamed at her.

  Tabatha slammed Betsy in to gear and floored it. Fake Tom Jones bounced off the bonnet and rolled over the roof. One of them swung his medallion and it smashed Betsy’s back windscreen. He'd damaged my beloved car, hurt Betsy. We were free though. Tabatha had got us away. I saw Colin standing outside the theatre smiling as we went speeding past.

  ‘Tom Jones is God,’ Michael proclaimed calmly from the back seat.

  ‘Thanks for that … Drive to Leon's. He needs to go to his sister,’ I said to Tabatha.

  We drove Michael round to Leon’s. Marisol was now surgically attached to Boom-Boom and Boom-Boom was working.

  There was much cursing and swearing when she first saw him, but even she couldn’t avoid feeling pity for her brother once she realised the state he was in, and how much he’d already suffered under the weight of his own guilt. We left Marisol to tend to Michael and drove off into the night. She thanked me for finding him. I didn’t mention Bosley, although he deserved the credit. Things were complicated enough.

  I gave Bosley a quick call once we were back in Betsy, to make sure he was alive. He said he was fine and was going to dig around for the Tomsians, I asked if he wanted our help but he said he was safer alone.

  Thursday 8:00 p.m.

  We drove down towards The Hanging Man. I needed a drink and a think. Things we're now more complicated than ever. I'd put so much weight behind Michael being the solution, and he'd turned out to be less than helpful. I knew Longy's killer, and the man that had ordered his killing, but I had no idea why. The Tom Jones loonies were part of it, but I didn't have a clue how they fitted in. I needed to take a minute, step back and review. I was more determined than ever to find out why all of this had happened.

  We sat down in one of the booths, and Geronimo brought over three beers.

  ‘Okay people, we need to think.’ I said sipping the beer. ‘This is what we know. The Beggar worked for Nikita Kruchenko.’

  ‘And Frazer,’ Tabatha cut in.

  ‘Yep. Frazer also works for Kruchenko,’ I concurred

  ‘Kruchenko wants the priest,’ Curtis added.

  ‘Our diamonds have been stolen,’ Tabatha put in bluntly. I gave Curtis a punch in the arm.

  ‘Ow! What did you do that for?’

  ‘That was for telling Bosley about the diamonds. I meant to do it earlier but I forgot.’

  Curtis mumbled something under his breath.

  ‘Colin is the priest,’ I said.

  ‘Colin's got the diamonds,’ Tabatha announced, emphasising her one train of thought.

  ‘Colin's got an army,’ Curtis added, rubbing his arm.

  ‘The question is … is Colin the priest that Kruchenko wants? And why does Kruchenko want the priest? And who do the Russians work for?’

  ‘And how do we get the diamonds back?’ Tabatha said, making sure that that question wasn't forgotten.

  ‘And who is Kruchenko?.’ Curtis asked.

  ‘He works for Magenta Devine.’ Tommy had appeared behind us.

  ‘Hey Tommy,’ I said greeting him ‘Who's Magenta Devine?’

  He took a seat next to Tabatha, looking more serious than I'd ever seen him.

  ‘She's a very dangerous woman,’ he continued. ‘I’ve got that information you asked for. It was extremely difficult.’

  I’d completely forgotten about asking Tommy to look into our allegedly missing treasure pot. Tommy looked worried, reluctant to speak.

  ‘Spit it out, Tommy.’

  He took a deep breath and then nodded.

  ‘Firstly, there’s no butler called Colin.’

  ‘I guessed that.’

  ‘That’s the good news.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yeah, compared to what I’m about to tell you.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ I didn’t even know what was coming, and I was worried. Tommy didn’t really do jokes.

  ‘The house is owned by Magenta Devine.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t. She’s a lot higher up the food chain than you are.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘This is no laughing matter, Wolfy. Magenta Devine, or Lady Web as she’s sometimes called, runs an international blackmailing syndicate. She’s extremely dangerous. Captains of industry, politicians, police commissioners, judges … she targets the highest and the most powerful in their particular profession, and then puts them under her thumb. You don’t have to answer, but this wouldn’t have to do with £20 million in diamonds that was stolen from her home, would it? Because, if it does, you are in a lot of trouble, my friend.’

  ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes. I suggest you find somewhere very remote and go hide there. Sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Wolfy. Good luck’

  ‘Cheers, Tommy. Later.’ Tommy got up and left us to it.

  I looked at Tabatha and Curtis. We all had the same expression.

  ‘We’re going to be killed for rocks we don’t have.’ Curtis brought his pessimism out to play again.

  ‘Shut up, Curtis!’ Tabatha directed. ‘What do we do, babes?’

  ‘Get another drink,’ I smiled. Tabatha was
happier. She thought I had a scheme to save us. I didn’t! I was going to get drunk. Well, what else was there to do when you’d robbed one of the most powerful and dangerous people in the country?

  Friday 2:00 a.m.

  I was well into many beers when the phone rang. It was two in the morning and Tabatha and Curtis had realised long ago my cunning plan, and had decided to join me down Alcohol Alley. There was much cursing of butlers and swearing going on. Geronimo, when we explained what was happening, had kindly decided to supply us with as much alcohol as we could consume for free. Even Tommy, the eternal tightwad, bought us a drink and even said he’d let me off the tab.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’ Tabatha said, noticing my obliviousness to the ringing.

  I looked down at it. ‘It’s Muzzi. What does he want? Doesn’t he know we’re doomed?’

  ‘Maybe he’s got another settee on his roof,’ Curtis slurred drunkenly.

  ‘Well he can get it down himself. I don’t know why he keeps asking me. It’s not like I put them up there.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’ Tabatha slurred.

  ‘If I do that, I’ll have to hear what he wants. And things are frankly bad enough already.’ The gallows humour was in full force.

  ‘He’s persistent.’

  ‘Yes he is, Curtis, my friend. Should we reward his persistence or should we leave him swinging?’

  ‘Just answer it, babes.’

  ‘Oh okay Tabs.’ I pressed the button. ‘Dead man walking, how can I help?’

  ‘Eh ... Wolfy, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Muzzi, what’s up? I’m busy drinking myself into a stupor with the love of my life and a dreadlocked doily-maker.’

  ‘You're a doily boy!’ Tabatha said laughing at Curtis.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with doilies.’

  ‘There is.’ I chirped in. ‘You’re a big nancy.’

  ‘No, I’m not. It’s good for stress.’

  ‘It’s good for a laugh.’ Tabatha returned.

  ‘Wolfy ... Wolfy.’ It was Muzzi. He was still on the phone.

  ‘Oh hello, Muzzi. Let’s ask Muzzi a sober opinion. Muzzi, Curtis makes doilies: funny or not?’