by Conrad Jones
As George arrived, he could see that Candy wasn’t there. Someone was. A streetlight cast a watery yellow light over the area beneath it. He could see the skinny female form of one of Candy’s workmates. She called herself Zara, or Kara or Tara or something similar. Her real name was Norma. She had only been on the scene a few months. George liked her. He liked most of them, if the truth be told. Most of them were simply trying to keep their heads above water. They weren’t cut out for fulltime employment. Most couldn’t fill out an application form. There was the odd one who was smart and chose to work the streets because it paid better than Tesco did but on the whole, the majority had no other option. Addiction was an expensive illness. He realised the potential of making friends with them and he had befriended as many working girls as he could, buying them coffee and cigarettes, sometimes giving them money if they were short of a fix. Most of them were addicts and addicts were a great source of information. He had lost count of how many dealers he had fingered to the Drug Squad off the back of listening to their chitchat. They gravitated towards him because he was like them, on the streets, grafting for a living in the gutters, outcasts shunned by society. Zara saw him coming and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke at him as he neared.
“Fucking hell,” she said rolling her eyes skywards. She stuck her tongue out.
“I wouldn’t put that back in your mouth,” George said, shaking his head.
“Look what the wind has blown in. Fancy a blow job, mister?”
“Will you take your teeth out?”
“Cheeky bastard.” She frowned but her eyes smiled. “That will be a tenner more.”
“I can’t afford you.”
“Damn right you can’t.”
“How’s business?” George grinned.
“What the fuck do you care?” she said, looking him up and down. She sneered at him and then a smile lit up her face. Opening her arms, she hugged him. “Only joking, gorgeous George,” she said. “How are you?”
“I’m okay.” He squeezed her and picked her up, turning her around in a spin. “How’s my favourite tart?”
“Hey, you cheeky bugger!” She laughed.
“Where’s your sidekick?” he asked, putting her down.
“Why do you always ask about her?”
“She’s cheaper than you.”
“You get what you pay for,” she giggled. “She is blowing some guy in the mill. She hates going in there but this fucking weather is killing us.”
“It is killing me too. How long has she been gone?”
“Too long,” she said, turning towards the derelict mill. “You could have brought me a coffee.”
“Sorry. I’ll bring you one tomorrow.”
The sound of wood creaking came from above. George looked up into the darkness. Raindrops spiralled down on his face, glinting in the streetlight. He heard a thump and a moan coming from the upper floors. A shadow appeared far above him. It hurtled towards him, gaining shape and colour as it entered the circle of yellow light. He grabbed Zara’s arm and pulled her backwards. They fell as one and landed sitting in a deep puddle. The object hit the floor. A sickening splat echoed up the street, sounding like a thick steak being slapped on a wooden table and he found himself staring at a red leather handbag.
“Jesus, I’m soaked!” George gasped. “I nearly shit myself.”
“You arse! My knickers are soaked.”
“What knickers?”
“Shut up, you imbecile.” Tara looked at the bag. “That is Candy’s bag.”
“Well, it didn’t fall itself. How do we get into the mill?” George said standing. He pulled Zara to her feet. “She must be in trouble.”
“My arse is soaking wet!” Zara brushed at her behind. George picked up the bag. His fingers felt a sticky liquid on it. He looked at it under the yellow light. It was covered in dark smudges. He stared at his hands and sniffed his fingertips. “What the fuck is that?” she asked.
“Blood.”
“Fucking hell!”
“How do I get in there?”
“Round the back, come on!” Zara ran towards the corner. “I’ll show you. Follow me.”
George took off after her. She moved quickly for a woman in heels. The sound of her shoes clicking on the pavement echoed down the street. She veered left and disappeared through a wooden hoarding. The gap was narrow, the edges sharp. George followed her and scraped his face. He felt a trickle of blood run down his cheek. On the other side was rubble strewn waste ground. He had to pick his footing carefully, his progress slowed dramatically. Zara was twenty metres ahead of him as they approached the looming structure and he could no longer see her. The sound of her footsteps echoed from the darkness and he could smell her perfume on the breeze. He focused on where his feet were landing and followed as fast as he could.
“Hurry up!” she shouted as she disappeared through a gaping black hole in the brickwork. A metal window cover creaked as she moved it. He heard it clang as it fell back into place. “Candy, where are you?” He heard her calling.
He reached the window and pulled at the metal sheet. It didn’t budge. Moving it to the left, it groaned against the bricks. The metal bit into the soft flesh of his palms. A gap opened but it wasn’t wide enough to climb through. He pulled the sheet to the right and it swung open. The dank air inside was repulsive. It stopped him in his tracks for a moment. The darkness took on a different grade, deeper, almost liquid. He could barely see his hand in front of him. Zara’s footsteps had slowed but he could hear them to his right. He moved that way and picked up a rectangle of light ahead. She was using her mobile as a torch.
“Candy!” she shouted. A muffled cry came from above. Dust and grit fell from the floorboards above, showering him. He closed his eyes and rubbed at them with the back of his hands. “She’s upstairs,” Zara hissed. “Hurry up for fuck’s sake!”
George caught up and stopped next to her. “Show me the way,” he said panting. She took off and he followed blindly, trusting her knowledge of the traps and falls inside the mill.
“Up here,” she called as they approached a dilapidated staircase. “Stay against the wall!” The light from her phone illuminated a few metres ahead of them. “Candy!” Cobwebs glistened like silver curtains at the top of the stairs. Dust floated like snowflakes towards them. Zara reached the top and darted to her left. George reached the landing and caught his right foot on the last step. He tripped and staggered a few paces, trying desperately to stay upright. “Candy!” He heard her shout from behind him. Her phone glowed. “Hurry up, George! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, I just can’t fucking see in the dark,” he gasped.
“Candy!” Zara stopped and waited for a sound. “Where are you?”
They crept forward using the phone to light their way. The sound of scurrying vermin came from all around, left, right, front and behind. George listened intently, trying to block the sound of the rats out. He waited for a more significant noise to guide them. “Candy!” he called.
“Candy!” Zara called.
“Where would she normally go?”
“What do you mean?”
“With a punter,” George explained. “Where would she take them in here?”
“No more than ten yards from the entrance.”
“What was she doing up here then?”
“Fuck knows.”
“Candy!” he called again.
Footsteps above. Thump, thump, thump, thump. Left to right above him. Dust and dirt rained down again.
“Upstairs!” she said, grabbing his hand. “Come on!”
They ran to the next staircase and navigated it slowly. Steps were missing here and there. The darkness seemed to intensify, reaching out to swallow them up. They reached the top hand in hand and she shone the torch around. The floorboards to their left were missing, only the beams remained.
“Candy,” George called. His voice echoed from the walls and came back to them. “Where the
fuck is she?”
“I’m here.”
George turned around quickly.
“Are you okay?” He reached out and placed his hands on her shoulders. She looked at him with a narrow smile on her face. “We were worried about you.”
Candy’s hand flashed in front of his face. He felt a stinging sensation along his neck. She stepped back as arterial spray jetted from his throat. He instinctively put his hands to his neck to try to stop his life force from spilling out but the pressure was too powerful. He dropped to his knees as his blood sprayed between his fingers. Zara laughed behind him. Darkness began to descend and her face began to fade. Candy stared at him, emotionless. Her lips moved, ‘Die you fucking grass,’ she said as he died.
24
Big Ron
The sign on the gate read, ‘Mason Brothers Security’. Patrick pressed the buzzer and waited. Moody clouds were gathering again, threatening to release their load on the already saturated city. It had been a busy morning. Thanks to Clint, Ron Mason had finally made contact and offered a sit down meeting to discuss the heist. Henry had insisted that they meet immediately and then he had gone walkabouts, missing for three hours. When he had returned, they rushed across the city to where Ron Mason ran his security business. Big Ron knew that the police would be watching his premises and had smuggled himself in the back way. The industrial unit was a fortress, metal shutters on the windows and razor wire atop the fences. The Irishmen waited for the gates to open and drove into the car park slowly. As they pulled to a halt in a bay marked ‘customers’, the gates closed behind them. Patrick switched off the engine and opened the door.
“Let’s get this thing sorted,” Patrick sighed.
Henry put his hand on his arm and stopped him from climbing out.
“Don’t say anything in there unless I ask you a question. I want you to let me do all the talking, understand?”
“Are you kidding me?” Patrick frowned. “I am not a snot-nosed teenager, Henry. I set up this deal.”
“You did set it up but you didn’t do your homework and when you didn’t do your homework, then you fucked up this deal, Patrick. You arranged a deal with your fingers crossed and your head stuck up your arse,” Henry said staring into his eyes. “That is not the same thing as setting up a deal at all. Either keep quiet or stay in the car.”
“This guy is in the same position as us,” Patrick protested. “We were all fucked over by the same people. It is my neck on the line. I want to...”
“Shut the fuck up!” Henry snapped. “We don’t have time for you to whinge. What you want is irrelevant.” Henry raised his index finger. “Our objective has changed. The General has been very specific about what we are here to achieve. I am not here to make friends. I am here to collect payment and nothing else.”
“I don’t understand. I thought we...”
“Don’t think, Patrick. It’s dangerous. Look where it got us the last time.” Henry opened his door and climbed out. “For your own sake, do as I ask or stay in the car.” Patrick followed him reluctantly and slammed the driver’s door shut. CCTV cameras turned and followed them. The warehouse door opened and Rickets appeared, scowling. Another two men lurked behind him, threatening and intimidating. Henry looked from one to other, defiantly. “I’m guessing you’re the monkeys. Where is the organ grinder?” He grinned. “Take me to your leader.”
“Funny fucker, eh?” Rickets smiled coldly and gestured with his head. They stepped inside and followed him. The warehouse was cold. A dozen vans bearing the company logo stood idle. Men in security uniforms were coming and going. Engines were started and exhaust fumes tainted the air. Jet sprays hissed as some of the fleet was being cleaned. Rickets led them down a long corridor to a door marked ‘office’. He knocked twice and opened it, stepping back to let the Irishmen in. Big Ron Mason sat behind his desk, standing as they walked in. He nodded and offered his spade-like hand in greeting. The office was warm and welcoming, white painted walls and a slate grey carpet gave it a professional look. There was a tense atmosphere in the air.
“Ron Mason.”
“I’m Henry.”
“Patrick.”
“Sit down, gentlemen,” Big Ron growled, his accent thick. “Apologies for the delay in making contact but I needed to know who did what. We were all ripped off, you lost your skipper and I lost my brother and my cousins.”
“Any news of them?” Henry asked cordially.
“Not yet. I am not holding my breath on seeing them alive again.”
“Hope for the best but plan for the worst.”
“Something like that.”
“They made a bloody mess of things, so they did.”
“They did and I want the bastards that did that.”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Henry spoke gently. “Truly we are.”
“That’s appreciated.” Ron nodded, uncomfortable with Henry’s politeness. “Anyway, you’re here now. I hope we can put things right between us.”
“Of course we can. We’re reasonable men. We understand your initial reluctance to talk. Of course we do.”
“Obviously, I wanted to find out what happened and who was responsible first. I had to be sure in my own mind before I started pointing the finger at anyone.”
“Of course you did. We understand all that.” He paused and smiled. “Do you know who did what?” Henry asked calmly.
“We think we do, yes,” Big Ron said, glancing at Rickets. He nodded his huge head confidently and a smile touched the corner of his lips. “Rickets had a little chat with one of our Russian friends last night.” Rickets closed the door and stood with his arms folded. His chest seemed to inflate with pride. The Irishmen glanced at him and then at each other.
“An informer?” Henry asked.
“No.”
“An employee of the firm that hit us?”
“Yes.”
“Was he taken under duress?” Henry asked, shaking his head.
“Yes.” Ron frowned. His eyes narrowed. “What difference does that make?”
“It makes a big difference.”
“Why does it?” Ron sat back. The chair creaked under his weight.
“In my experience it makes a huge difference to the quality of the information.” Henry held up his hand in a calming gesture. “It is a proven fact that information gained under duress is unreliable. Volunteered information is always more reliable.”
“Why would he volunteer the information?” Ron snapped. “That is the whole point. No one was volunteering any fucking information. That is why we took him.”
“And I understand that, of course. Was he tortured?”
“Of course he was.” Ron shrugged, irritated. “What do you think we did, have a chat over tea and biscuits?”
“How far up the organisation is he?”
“Was he,” Rickets corrected him and grinned.
“Apologies, my mistake. Was he?” Henry shrugged.
“He worked the doors at their clubs.”
“He was a bouncer?” Henry sighed. “Not exactly the font of all knowledge was he?”
“They’re tight that lot,” Ron intervened. “The grapevine never fails. Sooner or later everything filters down to the troops.” The Irishmen exchanged glances but remained quiet. “He told Rickets that he had heard on the grapevine that the Russians had a hand in the hit.”
“A hand in it? What does that mean, exactly?”
“From my point of view, it means that they did it!”
“That doesn’t sound conclusive to me. Did he say that the Karpovs killed your brother or not?” Henry turned to look at Rickets.
“Not exactly in those words.” Rickets flushed. “He didn’t actually admit that it was the Karpovs.”
“But?”
“He works for the Karpovs, he’s bound to say that isn’t he. After a little persuasion, he admitted Russian involvement but he wouldn’t give up his boss. He was loyal to the end, wasn’t he, Rickets?”
“Let’
s just say that he didn’t give it up easily.” Rickets grinned coldly.
“Information gained from torture is rarely reliable,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t act on it alone. I would want more than that.”
“You weren’t there were you?” Ron was trying to stay calm. “You two were playing with yourselves in a nice warm hotel room while Rickets put his neck on the line to get this information.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be questioning your man’s ability at all.” Henry raised both palms and shook his head. “Heaven forbid that I would come here and criticise your employees.”
“Heaven forbid,” Ron repeated, sarcasm heavy in his voice. His eyes flickered to Rickets, who was grinning and shaking his head.
“I am merely questioning the quality of the information that you have, nothing more than that.”
“I am happy with it.”
“I can see that.” Henry nodded slowly. “And that concerns me.”
“Listen, Henry. I have worked with Rickets for a long time,” Ron said. “If he is happy with it then I am too.”
“Okay. It is your funeral.” Henry shrugged. “So you are convinced that you know who took your drugs?”
“Absolutely,” Ron said. He didn’t look as convinced as he said he was. “No doubt about it. They killed my brother and I’m going to come down on them like a ton of bricks.”
“Good,” Henry said. “Good for you. Look, the bottom line is that you are clear that you know who took your shipment?”
“Yes. We do.” Ron frowned. He detected something in Henry’s tone had changed.
“Then you will have no problem paying us what you owe us.” He sat back and smiled widely. “For the drugs, that is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We did our part. We delivered the goods to the place that was agreed between Patrick and your brother. We need to be paid for the goods.”
“Are you having a giraffe?”
“You ordered a shipment. It was delivered.”
“A shipment, which was stolen, remember?”
“It was delivered safe and sound. What happened once it arrived is your problem,” Henry said straight-faced. His tone was no longer friendly. It was cold and sharp. “We need payment for the goods.”