by Potter, John
Another five steps and she stopped between two gates, the rain resonating off a million different surfaces. She reached up to the gate on her right and on tiptoe peered briefly into the neighbour’s garden. White light suddenly flooded the expanse, exposing garden furniture, a baby slide and a collection of children’s plastic toys. She ducked back down. Nothing happened. No back door pushed open, no shouted voice. Seconds passed and then minutes and then the light blinked off. She turned and stared at Simon’s gate.
She took the handle in one hand and used the palm of the other to push. There was some give but the gate stuck at the base. She shifted her stance and levered it upwards, pushing and turning the handle. It gave a little more. She leaned in with her shoulder, using all her forty-five kilos and the tired wood cracked open. Rusted hinges protested and the gate opened wider. Sarah stepped through into a long narrow garden.
On her left was a small greenhouse of clear plastic panels, distorting light and the shapes within. To her right, open grass ran to the trees at the rear. She turned her attention to the back of the house. She had read you could evade security lights by moving in small increments towards the light, but she had no desire to spend all night doing that in the rain. Instead she poked her head around the greenhouse and ducked immediately back. Nothing happened, no white light. So she popped her head back and took a good look.
A narrow patio stretched the full width of the house, the slabs at the right illuminated by light escaping through curtains and twin patio doors. Set to the left of the doors, a square window obscured her view inside with a roller blind, a pot of utensils and washing liquid between the glass and blind. Above on the first floor a bathroom window and its bubbled glass. To the left the house gave to the garage.
She kept to the left, passing the greenhouse in a crouch, to the back of the garage and a single dirty window. Rising slowly, she used the cuff of the fleece to wipe away grime and rain, and then peered through. She could make out faint outlines that made the space inside seem empty and clean. Tools hung from a wall shared with the house, beneath them sat a work bench. At the far end light seeped from beneath a door, probably the hallway. From somewhere inside, upstairs, she heard a loud bang that made her flinch, sounding like a door slammed by the wind, except there was no wind. Whatever caused the noise doused the light at the end of the garage. She waited through tense seconds, ready to run, her jeans by now wet through, her hair clinging damply to the side of her face.
With little to be seen inside the garage she crouched low and scuttled beneath the kitchen window to the edge of the patio doors. She set herself against the wall and craned sideways, looking through the gap between glass and curtain. Inside was a dining room, a stairway on the right, double doors opposite leading to a living room. She smelt the rich aroma of a neighbour’s takeaway and her stomach rolled with hunger. She moved across to the next door and peered through another narrow gap between the frame and curtain, a thin sliver that allowed her to see more of the dining room. She saw the box on the floor, and squinted, forgetting to breathe. It was a hi-fi box, not a microwave after all.
She wrapped her fingers around the door handle, ready to see if it was locked, when Simon ducked into the dining room and scooted the box to the middle of the room. He leaned over it and did something inside that made the sides fall away. Sarah’s heart skipped a beat and she gasped out loud. A smudge of pink and mousey hair, a small body in a tight foetal curl. The girl appeared asleep, her body limp as Simon lifted her and hoisted her carefully over his shoulder and back into the living room, away from view.
Sarah stayed crouched for several seconds, thinking what to do. There really was only one thing to do now. She stood, turned and saw a vague stocky outline, not much taller than she was. In one hand he held a white bag, a Chinese takeaway it occurred to her. She didn’t see the other hand, coming from the right. She turned straight into it, the force of the blow spinning her around and into the patio doors, her head bouncing with a resonant thonk off the glass and she slid unconscious onto the wet patio floor. Defeated in an instant. Then there was only silence, save for the sound of the rain.
Hakan stood staring at Sarah’s body for long seconds. She was definitely a woman, although he had not been sure initially. The large top she wore made it difficult. It had left him with a moment of dilemma until the gasp, which left him with no choice. They had been lucky this time. Simon was getting careless. Who was she? Nobody local would even dare come into the garden, not his garden. He used his keys to unlock the door, with his free arm scooping up Sarah, using the other hand to pull open the door, the white takeaway bouncing off the frame as he stepped in. He closed the door, scuffed his feet on the mat and called out. ‘Simon!’ His voice was accented, Nordic, with the sound projected from the base of his throat. There was no answer. He repeated, ‘SIMON!’
Simon appeared, standing just beyond the dining room door, wiping his hands on a cloth, his hairline obscured by the frame. His expression annoyed. ‘What?’
Hakan wordlessly carried Sarah into the living room, making Simon step aside. He dropped her onto the sofa. Simon’s eyes following, mouth agape.
‘Jees, where’d you find her?’
‘In the garden watching you, that is where. You have been sloppy, she must have seen.’
‘No way, nobody would around here. Nobody could have anywhere. It went perfectly. Nobody could have seen.’
He leaned over the sofa and looked at Sarah, brushing the damp strands of hair from her face. ‘Hambury went just as expected, Delamere checked out, nobody followed me, nothing happened.’ He moved her head from side to side, examining her face. A realisation dawned.
‘Fuck!’
TWENTY-TWO
Brian’s head ached but all things considered it was worth it. There had been a time when jumping the queue outside a club validated instant retribution. Nowadays the rules dictated bouncers escort troublemakers off site, and if they came back you escorted them away again. Aggression, especially outside MadHatters, was the absolute last recourse.
Which had been Brian’s intention as he walked with Paulo to the queue, to extract three guys jumping the queue. He had even asked nicely three times as per the local police directive. When that had failed he put one of them into an arm lock ready for the short walk across the road. Paulo did the same with one of the others. He deliberately avoided the short stocky one, the one most likely to put up a fight, as per the directive, which dictated you remove the supporting cast and you removed the threat. It sometimes worked and sometimes not. On this occasion it did not. The short stocky one had pushed him, quickly followed by a brief flash of metal.
Technically the push was a punch and Brian knew instantly the knife was little more than a couple of inches long, probably a fishing knife by design, now an accessory for posturing. The kid was holding the damn thing all wrong. That annoyed Brian more than anything, reduced now to disarming idiots with no comprehension of consequences. This, along with the hopelessness he felt of the day, the guilt he felt for Andrea, provoked his reaction.
He twisted the guy he had away, howling, into the street while blocking the incoming knife with his left forearm. Immediately grasping the wrist and snapping it around, opening up the guy’s body as he stepped forward with his weight rolling from heel to ball, using the power through his shoulders and neck to drive his forehead forward. He connected with the bone just above the stocky guy’s left eye. There was blood but no crunch, just a sound not dissimilar to fresh coconuts crashing together. The stocky guy went straight down, a cut freely bleeding above his eye. A reminder not to jump the queue at MadHatters the next time he looked in the mirror. Apart from a few screams that had been it, over in less than two seconds. Brian wiped the blood from his forehead and ten minutes later watched the three forlorn figures climb into a police van.
That had been over an hour ago. Now it was one thirty and most of the overspill had gone home or were already consumed by the thumping bass behind. A burst o
f static filled his ear, then nothing. He pulled out the earplug and gave it a flick, pushing it back in again. Another burst and he made out a voice. ‘Brian…wants…office … Dmitri.’
Which he translated to mean Dmitri would be replacing him outside and he was wanted in the office. Which was not good. He turned and looked into the club, as the massive frame of Dmitri pushed through the double doors towards him.
MadHatters was the building’s second incarnation as a club. Before that it had been Hambury’s one time cinema, which meant it had a lot of stairways and narrow corridors. The walls were painted dark mauve over ancient wallpaper, the floors and stairways covered in the same industrial carpet of dark swirls and curls. The office was the old projection room and the base during business hours of Ali, the club’s owner and only surviving son of first generation Nigerian immigrants.
Brian knew the legends around Ali’s financial standing, the stories of drug running, protection and extortion, internet scams and ongoing investments in the online porn industry, were just myths, mostly of Ali’s creation. They were propagated with the high turnover of staff and compounded by the machete Ali kept on the wall behind his desk, and the long necklace of pickled human ears he kept in his drawer. Brian had known Ali for over a decade, they had served together. He had never seen Ali do anything outright illegal.
He knocked twice and stepped into the office, pushing the heavy door closed behind him. The deep bass of the club faded to a distant thump, the occasional strobe of lighting the only evidence of the masses dancing below. Ali was sitting behind an oak desk wearing a fitted blue suit, waistcoat and white shirt. Taller than any man Brian had known and not carrying that much excess weight. Opposite the desk was a sofa and sat on the sofa was one of the dancers, all lean glistening limbs and a dark fringe cut straight across her forehead. Brian only knew her name was Yana, and that she and Dmitri were seldom apart outside of the club. Ali gestured Brian to a chair, two long steps from the door.
Brian did not move. ‘I’ll stand if you don’t mind boss.’
Ali nodded as he pushed his large frame back into his protesting chair. ‘You OK there Brian?’ His voice was deep and measured.
‘So, so, you know boss.’
‘I do. It’s been a quiet night, everybody hunkered down at home. Nobody likes the rain, do they Brian?’
‘No boss, a lot of bad tempered people out tonight and they don’t like queuing.’
‘They don’t, that’s for sure. And Brian?’
‘Yes boss?’
‘Cut the boss crap will you, I hope you’re not showing off for the good lady here.’
Brian glanced across at the girl. She returned a smile that flashed jade eyes and freckles. Ali’s deep voice pulled him back to the matter in hand.
‘For such a quiet night it’s good to see at least one of my staff has been busy. I hope your head is not too sore, my friend.’
Shifting his weight, Brian leaned back against the door. ‘Holding up, you know.’
Ali nodded. ‘I do.’ He stretched long legs beneath the desk, two parallels tipped with shiny brogue shoes. The fingers of his right hand splayed on the arm of his chair. ‘I assume, Brian, you are going to tell me why you assaulted one of my customers?’
‘They weren’t customers Ali, you know that. They were looking for trouble.’
‘And in you they found what they were looking for, didn’t they?’
Brian nodded towards a row of small screens on the far wall. ‘I did everything I should have, the guy had a knife and used it. You know that, Ali, because you watched it all happen on one of those screens.’
‘I did, Brian, and you know what, I can also watch the whole fucking thing in glorious slow fucking motion replay if I want. That doesn’t change a damn thing, does it?’
‘The guy had a knife.’
‘So what, Brian? These guys are nothing to what you’re used to, you disarm and two of you escort them away. If they keep coming back you escort them away again. Using your head as a blunt instrument, as much as it’s suited to the task, happens a long way down the line. You know that, Brian, why do you keep testing me?’
Brian moved away from the door but could not stand at ease so he shifted back. Ali did not wait for his answer.
‘I have guys standing out there watching you week in week out, wondering why the fuck I don’t fire you! And you know what that kind of wonder breeds Brian?’
‘Indiscipline.’
‘Yes, Brian, it does. Before I know it I have bouncers knocking lumps out of customers and each other and I wave goodbye to my 6 a.m. licence.’ His fist clenched, like a big black mallet but only butted the top of the desk lightly. Collecting his anger.
‘So what’s wrong?’ He looked Brian up and down and then looked him in the eye. ‘You’re looking rougher than normal, you got problems?’
Brian pushed his hands behind his back and leaned against them. ‘Well you know. Life can be tough.’
‘I do know. So what’re you into, nothing that will come back to me I hope?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
‘Well, you know, family stuff. It can get on top of you.’
‘It sure as hell can. Isn’t Andrea down this weekend? Is she OK?’ Concern now in Ali’s voice.
‘She’s good. Still telling me what to do. You know Andrea, ten going on thirty.’ The words caught in his throat, coming out uneven.
The dancer on the sofa looked up at him, reassessing.
‘Look boss, I better get back.’
‘You’ll go back when I’m good and done, Brian. You’re sure there’s nothing wrong with Andrea. Her mother still sucking the life outta you?’
‘No, well, yes. Liz is Liz, vengeance is her game but nothing new. I got a few things I need to sort, is all.’
‘Things, serious?’
‘Ali, are you going to fire me?’
Ali blinked at him, holding on to his answer a beat too long. His lips parted and closed again, he seemed to grow just a little bit smaller.
‘Not this time Brian, but this really is the last time. I’d want you at my side in any fight. You know that, we done that. But we’re not fighting wars, Brian, not anymore. Sort your shit out my friend, find a way. I can’t have you knocking my customers about. If you want to keep burning then fine, but you’re not taking me with you.’ Both men looked across the room at each other, the only sound the distant bass. ‘You got that, Brian?’
Brian nodded, turned and reached for the door.
‘Hold your horses, for fuck’s sake.’ Ali heaved himself out of the chair. ‘Jeesus Brian, come here.’ Ali’s frame filled the room, reaching into his trouser pocket and coming out with a rolled wad of notes. He licked the tips of his fingers, his pink tongue a contrast against the dark skin of his lips. He counted off three notes. Looking at Brian he reconsidered, counted off another two and then held the notes out.
‘Here.’
Brian hesitated, conflicted by pride and need.
‘Take it. Call it a bonus, off the record for old times’ sake. Take Andrea out tomorrow. Get her something nice and maybe even treat yourself, get some new clothes even.’ He grinned. ‘But make sure you let Andrea choose them.’
Brian reached forward. ‘Thanks, Ali.’ He curled the notes into his palm.
‘Now get out of here, get changed and go home. You just used your last life, my friend. Think about what you need to do, not just for this job but in life. We all had to adjust. Now make sure you get Andrea something nice, say hello to her for me will you.’
Brian pulled open the door, taking a last glance at the dancer and then back at Ali.
‘I will,’ he said, and left.
TWENTY-THREE
Brian walked out of town, his heavy boots ringing a hollow echo, around roadworks with lights at a constant red, past untidy rows of terraced cottages and through the leisure centre, jumping across a ditch and wading through long wet grass, finally stepping over
the decrepit barbed-wire fence at the back of his flat.
Inside the flat was clean as it usually was two weekends a month. He left the lights off, trying to shut out Andrea’s attempts at dispelling its bleakness. Reminders of Andrea were everywhere. From her pictures on the walls to the arm covers and cushion she made for the ancient sofa, the mobiles of painted glass hanging from the window. She had tirelessly followed the light, refracted red and green during the summer, the colours shifting across her jubilant face.
Stacked on the carpet beside the sofa were her books, her diary and puzzle book, her pencil case on top. On the sofa his neatly folded sleeping bag and a duvet he used as a mattress. A sheet of paper lay square on the sleeping bag, a picture she had left for him. He could make out shapes and words but dared not go over, not yet.
He would get home at dawn on Sunday mornings and she would be there, sprawled pink cheeked and asleep on that duvet, the sleeping bag either by her feet or on the floor, every light on. She hated sleeping in his bedroom while in the flat alone.
Brian walked through to the kitchenette and retrieved a half bottle of whiskey, rinsing a glass and sitting in his chair, savouring the harsh taste. Andrea would wait for that first mouthful to wash down, as if waiting for some silent signal, raising her head and peering at him through bleary eyes, climbing off the sofa and onto him. Then he would feel the weight of her body as she curled into him, her head on his chest, a few mumbled questions, the draw of breath into and out of small lungs. It was his favourite time. He knew he was not the dad he was supposed to be, knew he fell a long way short. This was a time though, when he could hold his daughter and not worry about it being enough. Her body warm beneath the palm of his hand and so fragile as he stroked the hair from her face, marvelling at her ability to love him regardless. Constantly hopeful and ever trusting.