by Andy Remic
‘I see you need more time to think it over,’ Volos said.
‘Fuck you! Go to Hell!’
‘Hell? Why, Mr Callaghan, we are already there.’ With a crackling sound he wrenched the baseball bat in two pieces and dropped the shards of splintered weapon on the bed. ‘We will meet again soon, Callaghan. I want you to think about what I told you. What I patiently explained. I want you to consider your future; your options; your life.’
Callaghan peered from behind his arms. Swallowed. Hard. Met Volos’s unblinking stare; then watched as Volos produced his razor and unfolded the blade.
‘I suggest you don’t inform the police. This meeting is between you and I. Our connection. And if, for example, you were to happy chat to DI Bronagh about my proposition then I...’ he twisted his cut–throat razor. The blade gleamed. ‘… Ahh well. I have my code. My rules. A strict conduct, you could say. Sometimes, however, there are things one must do no matter how unpleasant. You understand me, Mr Callaghan?’
Cal nodded. He could not speak.
‘One last thing.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Sweet dreams, Mr Callaghan. Have very sweet dreams.’
And Volos was gone, leaving only an acid stench lingering in Callaghan’s mouth, his throat, his lungs. He rolled onto his side. Tears streamed down his face. And in a strange way, despite no physical intrusion, he felt utterly and totally raped.
Callaghan could not sleep.
Shakily, he stepped into the shower to wash off the stench of sweat and piss, and the perceived aroma of the acid of Mr Volos; then he pulled on DKNY jeans, a black jumper and Cat boots. He stepped warily into the corridor, wondering what he might find.
Murder? Mutilation? An ocean of blood?
McGuinness was halfway down the corridor slumped in the embrace of a Chesterfield two–seater, reading The Sun. He looked up as Callaghan appeared.
‘McGuinness?’ Cal was shocked. Surprised.
McGuinness frowned. ‘You OK Callaghan? You look a bit shaky.’
Cal shook his head. ‘No no, I’m fine. Just need a drink.’
‘It’s 4 AM, man!’
‘And your point is?’
McGuinness shrugged, folded his newspaper and followed Callaghan into the lift. As the portal closed and numbers scrolled across the display, Cal looked sideways at the big Irishman.
‘You got a gun?’
‘Yes, Mr Callaghan. I have a gun. Are you expecting trouble?’
‘Trouble seems to be my middle fucking name.’
The Marriott hotel bar was near empty, containing only a few hardcore drinkers: businessmen released from wife–shackles, a young couple enjoying a two day binge of hedonism, three lads on an all–night drinking session that was probably a covert Stag–mission. Cal ordered a triple whisky, then told the young barman to leave the bottle.
McGuinness refused a drink with the obligatory ‘On duty’, and retired to a quiet corner to continue his read. Callaghan sat at the bar on a high stool, elbows against the lacquered surface, bottle before him like a talisman. Around him, the presence of people soothed him. Relaxed him. Brought him – and his raging heart – down to Earth with a bump.
The whisky tasted good.
Like a dying man’s last request.
Weariness flooded Callaghan; the whisky made his mind swirl and he suddenly felt himself laughing – in spirit, if not in body – and falling falling as toxic fumes hijacked his system, alcohol honey raged through his blood. It feels so good, he thought. So good he might... die.
Sleep claimed him at the bar.
Callaghan awoke from nightmare with a scream bubbling at the back of his throat. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he turned, scream dying as reality – of sorts – flooded back.
‘You OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. In fact, you look like concentrated shit.’
Callaghan took a deep breath and stared hard at McGuinness. He rubbed his temples with nicotine fingers. ‘Yeah. Thanks. Fine. You OK if I step outside for a smoke?’
‘Sure.’
‘Still OK for me to use my mobile?’
‘No problem. It’s bugged anyway.’
Callaghan nodded, eased himself woodenly from the stool, stiff from an unusual and cramped sleeping position. He glanced up at the clock above the bar. 9.07 AM. He nodded, coming to a decision. He walked through the hotel lobby, busy now with guests checking out, unbalanced luggage trolleys filled with suitcases and American accents cutting harshly through demure English babble.
Cal moved outside, crossed the block–paved walkway and leant against the black iron rails, looking down onto the Thames. Water lapped against the concrete quay, and to his right a few boats rode the undulating waters.
Cal lit a Marlboro. He dialled Jimmy’s number.
‘Hello?’
‘Jim, it’s Callaghan.’
Jim yawned. ‘How’s it going, bro’? You sleep OK?’
‘I’ve had better. Hey, you remember you said you wanted a ride on my GSXR?’
‘I don’t believe I said that.’
‘Yeah you did, Jim. Remember?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Go on.’
‘I’m feeling a bit enclosed, with everything that’s happened. I feel the need to blast out a few cobwebs. You want to come for a spin? Only for a couple of hours?’
‘Sure. Meet you at 10? At the lock–up?’
‘Yeah. Thanks Jimmy.’
‘No worries, lad.’
The two men stood on a deserted road beside what Callaghan liked to call a Dog Burger Van, helmets balanced on the parked up Suzy GSXR Thou, hands cupped around cups of steaming coffee.
A short way back – a couple of hundred metres – the unmarked Volvo cop car had pulled in at the kerb. Two fat policemen sat reading papers, occasionally glancing over at Callaghan and Jim.
Jimmy looked down at the bike. ‘Beautiful machine,’ he said, sipping his coffee as a few remnants of late autumn leaves swirled around his boots. ‘A shame the seat is a razor. My arse is killing me, mate. You could have warned me!’
‘Jimmy, listen, I’m in the shit.’
‘I’ve never heard that one before!’ He was grinning, but the grin died when he saw the look on Callaghan’s face.
‘I had a visitor last night.’
‘A young lady?’
‘No. It was Volos.’
‘You’re shitting me?’ He stared at Callaghan. ‘OK, you’re not shitting me. How did he find you? What did he want? Actually, what did your police escort have to say?’
Callaghan explained the hazy events of the previous night. He included as much as he could remember, ending with the breaking of the baseball bat and the warning to enjoy sweet dreams. When he finished, he stumbled into silence and glanced nervously over at the policemen. They had produced donuts and were in the process of spilling sugar down tweed jackets.
‘I need help, Jimmy. I can’t go to the police. Volos will slit my throat.’ He shivered. ‘Or really cut me up, like he did to those poor fuckers we found. Shit Jimmy, what the hell did I do to deserve this? I thought my life was plodding along so well...’
‘First, how did Volos get past McGuinness?’
Callaghan shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’
Jimmy moved to the Dog Burger Van and ordered fresh coffee, then returned and gazed down at the race bike, admiring the white and black fairings and TOKICO brake units. He nodded. ‘Hmm. He must have slipped past when McGuinness went for a piss. Or when the blob caught forty winks. You know what these lazy police bastards are like, sleeping on duty, or visiting whores.’
‘You really don’t like the police, do you?’
Jimmy smiled wryly. ‘Aye. Wouldn’t piss on ‘em, mate. The other thing I don’t like is this baseball bat business. That would take one superbly powerful motherfucker. What was Volos built like? Tyson? Geoff Capes? Did he have a torso like Schwarzenegger?’
‘He was big,’ said Cal slowly. ‘Although he didn’t seem overly–muscled. However, I
was too busy focusing on the cut–throat razor he was dangling in front of my nose.’
‘Probably high on crack. Right. So, what I prescribe is a little bit of help from Uncle Jimmy.’
‘Thanks Jim.’
‘Ahh, don’t mention it laddie. If this guy really is a big motherfucker, we definitely need to break out the guns. You got anything?’
‘Why would I have a gun?’
‘Just checking. Some of you southern poofs do tool up, you know.’ He rubbed his stubbled chin with the sound of a car on gravel. ‘Let me talk to a few people.’
‘I thought your phones were tapped? And your mobile was being monitored?’
Jimmy grinned like a school–kid. ‘Aye. But I’ve got these.’ He palmed two slim–line black Nokias and handed one to Callaghan, putting the other back inside his pocket. ‘They’re not registered, just PAY–AS–YOU–GO so we can’t be monitored or traced by these privacy invading scumbag police. OK?’ He slapped Cal on the back. ‘The minute you get a call off Volos, let me know and we’ll go and give him some rough Glasgow justice. Fuck the police, they’ll end up getting you killed. You leave this one to Uncle Jimmy.’
‘You’d really do this for me, Jim?’
‘Aye lad. You’re a good mate. Can’t see you weeping and wailing in misery now, can I?’
‘Thanks. I owe you. I owe you my life, for a start. Or, at least, a few drinks...’
‘Hey, well, now you mention it – you can start by standing me a few beers, and we’ll see where your foolish gratitude takes you.’
They didn’t have long to wait. The message arrived in The Jolly Carter as the two men were sinking pints of Greene King. The barmaid, a hefty but short woman with heavily curled blonde ringlets and a face like a bulldog, shouted abrasively and none–too–friendly, ‘Is there a Mr Callaghan in the bar area?’
Cal moved to the public telephone, nodding his thanks, and received a scowl from the awesomely curly Mrs Bulldog. He took the receiver from the publican’s sausage fingers.
‘Yeah, Callaghan here?’
‘You sleep well, Mr Callaghan?’
‘Very fucking funny. And in response, have you managed to commit any acts of incest, torture or murder recently, Mr Volos?’
‘That’s more like it! Nice to hear a bit of fire still burns in the old boy. OK, here’s what you’re going to do. Lose the police – I’m sure there are a thousand back exits from that wonderful hotel in which you reside. Take the M11 towards Cambridge. To the north east is a place called Ely. Lovely and sleepy, real quaint. Ely has a cathedral, a considerable work of architectural splendour. Enter the cathedral through beautiful oak doors, keep straight ahead and at the far end of the main hall, on the left you’ll find the exquisite Lady Chapel, built to honour The Virgin Mary, bless her cotton socks. I will meet you there. Tonight. 7 PM. Then I will explain what I want you to do.’
Cal paused to light a Marlboro. Some of the previous night’s fear had drained away; to be replaced by anger... and a slow–burning, bitter fury.
‘I’ve got a question for you, Volos.’
‘Yes?’
‘What happens if I don’t show? What happens if I tell you to stick your pathetic, unnecessary meeting up your narcissistic and exaggerated fucking arsehole?’
‘Ahh, Mr Callaghan. So crass. So vulgar. So human. Well, allow me to respond: in that kind of hypothetical situation, I would point out that the other night I visited a remarkable night–spot in Soho called Wonderland. There, I saw all manner of debauched and secular activity, including the parading of one Mia, a fine lady of Mexican descent. I watched with interest as Mia cavorted, oozed, greased and danced about her supporting chrome pole. It was quite a sight, I assure you. I became – how can I explain? – I became quite aroused.’
‘OK,’ choked Callaghan.
‘One day, I may have to introduce myself to this young lady. Although I find I am not well received by women; I think this may have something to do with the teeth. They can be so very sharp when I bite ripe, succulent flesh.’
‘You’ve made your point, Volos.’
‘7 PM. Don’t be late.’
The phone went dead. Callaghan turned. Jimmy stood behind him, pint in hand, Marlboro between his lips, smoke stinging squinting eyes. His face was a snarl of contempt.
‘That him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We got a meet?’
‘Oh yes. And If I don’t turn up, the bastard promised to introduce himself to Mia. I’m not quite sure what his aim would be; but something along the lines of a razor–sharp gutting would probably be on the cards, I’m sure.’
‘OK,’ nodded Jimmy. ‘Well, in that case he’s just signed his own death warrant. I won’t hold back, Callaghan. This maggot is playing games with you; he’s messing with your head. And what will the police do? Arrest him? Question him? Let him out after 48 hours? No, fuck that and our pathetic ineffectual judiciary. Cal, we’ve got to do this ourselves. We’ve got to put him down.’
‘You mean... kill him? I can’t do that, Jimmy.’
‘Well, not necessarily kill him. But fuck him up. And fuck him up bad. Dirty little bastard can’t do much leaping and cavorting if he’s got two smashed knee–caps now, can he?’
Callaghan nodded. He had broken into a cold sweat. It was turning out to be a really shit week.
‘Here’s what we’ll do.’ Jimmy sipped his beer, mind spinning up like an accelerating turbine. ‘You give me your Porsche keys. Bastards have still got my Merc impounded – “forensic examination” my arse. I’ll meet you outside the Britannia International around 3 ‘o clock. If you think you might be spotted just nip inside. Bar overlooks the Thames. Really comfy. I’ll meet you there.’
‘What do you plan now?’
Jimmy grinned, a humourless baring of fangs. He handed his helmet to Cal. ‘I’m going to slip the police; right here, right now – out the back of this pub.’
‘Be careful.’
‘Yeah. Right. Then I’m going to see a man about a sledgehammer.’
The afternoon was dull and grey threatening a winter storm. Huge towering snow–clouds dominated the sky, bleak and foreboding. The world promised London a savage winter.
Cal’s yellow Porsche 911 GT3 pulled into the small drop–off bay before the International, and Cal appeared, easing warily through gold–edged revolving doors and jogging down the steps. He checked left and right, but could see no signs of the police.
‘We good?’ said Jimmy.
‘We’re good. I lost them. Let’s do it.’
The Porsche’s engine roared and the machine fired like a bullet from the bay, skimming past offices and a long line of private quayside houses.
Heading out of London the traffic was heavy but constantly moving, and not yet inhibited by the bustle of the school–run. The two men had managed to just skim inside that particular nightmare.
The Porsche growled along like a predator in the fast lane of the M11, Jimmy keeping the car in check – reeled in – at a steady 80 mph. Any faster and they might get pulled by traffic cops; last thing a man needed after slipping Met Police baby–sitters.
Callaghan sat, staring out of the window at the overtaken traffic and the motorway embankments beyond. Occasionally fields and hedges would flash by. It all looked so rural, so simple, so green. And that had been Callaghan’s life until only a few days ago – green. Yeah, so there had been risks; what with Sophie’s dodgy Romanian husband; Mia’s tantrums and threats with a bread knife if Callaghan ever strayed; and the constant hazard of a rock–star trying to break his nose after being photographed with his pants down in a public toilet highlighting less than average flopping tackle. And then there was the occasionally badly rhymed poem from his favourite poetically–challenged stalker...
But, what the hell happened? he thought.
Just what the hell happened to my life?
Murder. Mutilation. Implication. More death–threats. A razor–wielding lunatic in his fucking bedroom.
Police interviews. Motorbike chases. Guns. Sophie shooting an assassin in the head...
Callaghan shivered. And now this. A rendezvous with a madman.
Still, he had Jimmy as backup. Hell, he had Jimmy as his lifeline. He looked over at the grizzled man. Tough Glaswegian son–of–a–bitch. Rugged, compact, hard–as–nails, biceps like tempered steel.
Thanks Jimmy, he thought; genuinely.
Thanks a million.
At Junction 9 they peeled from the M11, took the A11, A14, and finally the A142 towards Ely. During the final leg of the journey the skies grew dark and a light sprinkling of snow started to pepper the countryside. In minutes, the fall grew thick and before long the world was dusted with a rime of icing sugar. Jimmy reduced their speed; 911s were not the most adept vehicles at ploughing snow.
They drove Ely’s quaint streets, past houses and cottages built from aged brick and stone. They passed the towering cathedral at a crawl, tyres spinning, and with Callaghan peering for any signs of Volos at the arched entrance with its wrought black iron gates. Jimmy cruised the Porsche for a few hundred metres, and they parked at Barton Square under a line of snow–laden trees beside an old red telephone box. Both men climbed from the car. From the narrow space behind the front seats Jimmy pulled a long green canvas bag with a shoulder–strap.
‘That the hammer?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Yeah. A leg–breaker.’
‘You OK with this?’
Jimmy nodded, eyes gleaming. ‘No problem, mate.’
‘We’re early,’ said Cal, as the Porsche’s lights flickered to signify the vehicle was locked and alarmed. He glanced around, but Barton Square was deserted; spooky, almost, in the half–light of falling snow.
‘Good. We can get the jump on the bastard.’
They left footprints through the light fall, headed past The Fountain public house with a welcome glow of warm lights, and on towards the cathedral which towered over them during the approach. Ely itself was quiet and seemed almost subdued by the snowfall – which grew increasingly heavy as the two men walked. Laughter came from one side, where a group of school children were having an energetic snowball fight.