by Limey Lady
‘I’ve been treated all right. It's not the Ritz, but they've kept me well fed and watered.'
‘No booze or coke?'
Pat winced. He spent years telling himself he could quit the coke whenever he wanted, had actually cut down to next than nothing. Missing the booze had been something else, though.
And the thoughts you had sober! Guilt trips about killings and betrayals!!
‘No,’ he said. ‘I've had to overdose on TV instead. I must have seen every Premier League Year there is going.'
‘Okay,' said Sean. 'Who were runners-up in 1996?'
‘Do you want a fiver on it?'
‘Go on then.'
‘Newcastle.'
‘Are you sure?'
‘Yeah; that's when Kevin Keegan went off on one.'
‘Right,' said Sean, before relapsing into silence.
‘The one thing I have missed,' Pat resumed, 'is a phone. I'm worried sick about Dee. Christ knows what she's thinking.'
‘She thinks you're smuggling booze from France.'
‘What?'
‘I had to tell her something. That was the most innocent excuse I could come up with. Like I said, I've been busy.'
‘When . . .' Pat swallowed. 'When's she expecting me back?'
‘Tomorrow,' Sean held up his mobile, 'assuming this call goes well.'
*****
Alfie had thought about Spenny’s proposal overnight. Now it was dinnertime on Tuesday and he was trudging through thin, melting snow, towards the unofficial but very real designated smoking area behind the metalwork shop.
‘You look like you mean business,’ Kayleigh said as he went around the side of the building. ‘Don't tell me you've picked up the habit.’
He managed a smile. He’d always fancied Kayleigh and had had a couple of steamy clinches with her at discos.
‘I do mean business,’ he said. ‘I'm after that new kid, Spencer. Have you seen him?’
Kayleigh was standing smoking with two other girls.
‘He's round there,’ she said, pointing to the corner of the building. ‘That's why we're round here.’
There were seven others round there as well, hanging on Spenny's every word; wasters the lot of them, in Alfie’s measured opinion.
‘Hello Runner,’ the would-be terrorist said in greeting. ‘Give us a tenner. Then say if you're in or not.’
‘Stick your tenner.’ Alfie surprised himself by laughing. ‘And stick your protection. I can look after myself.’
‘Big mistake,’ said Spenny, grinning evilly. ‘You're not hard enough to look after yourself.’
‘In that case you won't be afraid to go one on one. Twenty quid each, winner takes all.’
All eyes were suddenly on Spenny.
‘Just give me twenty quid, Runner. Save yourself the grief.’
‘You're the one who's getting grief, you fat bastard. Here's my twenty. Let's get it on.’
Alfie passed a crisp twenty to Kayleigh, who'd followed him with her mates. Spenny seemed to weigh up the expectancy in the air before producing four tatty fivers.
‘Look after them for me darling,’ he said. ‘I'll collect in a minute.’
‘My arse,’ Kayleigh replied. ‘You're going down.’
Spenny took a swing and Alfie stepped aside before advancing and landing a right that Iron Mike would have been proud of. Annoyed, Spenny started flailing wildly. Alfie kept dodging and advancing, putting in short, fierce punches of his own, landing most of them, flattening the would-be terrorist’s nose for him.
‘Get him, Alfie!’ Kayleigh cried.
‘Bash him!’ the other girls shrieked.
Alfie avoided a bad-tempered kick and waded in again. He hadn’t wanted to wrestle (Spenny looked to be a strong bastard as well as a fat one) but close quarter punching was fine. His opponent was much too clumsy and far too slow. He was there to be picked off at will.
And Spenny knew it. After taking a couple more crunching rights he decided that it was time to ditch Queensberry rules altogether.
‘Right,’ he snarled. ‘You’ve asked for it.’
The day's blade of choice was a deadly-looking flick knife. He whipped it out smoothly then held it in his right hand, moving as if he knew what he was doing. Suddenly better balanced and almost graceful.
Alfie had rehearsed all sorts of clever lines in preparation for this inevitable moment, sneering in front of Denny's mirror like Dirty Harry. When it came to it all he actually did was pull the gun and point.
The effect on the bystanders was dramatic. As far as Alfie could tell they all vanished in less than a second. Spenny didn't seem anywhere near so reactive. In fact he was petrified.
‘Drop the knife.’
Spenny dropped the knife.
‘Get on your knees.’
Spenny went down fast onto the dirty, slush-covered concrete flags amongst a million sodden fag ends. It was a minor miracle he didn’t fracture his kneecaps. Right then he looked to be on the verge of tears, but Alfie was merciless.
‘Don't ever call me “Runner” again.’ He glanced over his shoulder. Everyone had gone apart from Kayleigh, who was watching wide-eyed. ‘And never call anyone my stepdad. I don't have a dad and I'm never going to have a fucking stepdad. Now piss off, before I rip out your heart and feed it to you.’
Spenny left in a hurry. As Alfie tucked the Glock in his waistband Kayleigh came rushing up.
‘We'd better get out of here fast,’ she said. ‘Someone's sure to split.’
‘Spencer wouldn't dare.’
‘Maybe not, but someone will. I know where we can hide your shooter. If nobody finds it on you then it's just gossip, yeah?’
He laughed: ‘So what's with the “we” business?’
‘I've got your winnings. And I’m going to help you spend the lot. That makes us a “we” for an hour or two at least, doesn’t it?’
*****
’Is that Jason? Hi, it's Sean Dwyer. How's it going?'
Pat, still chained up, watched his childhood mate as he spoke. Sean often maxed out the volume on his phone, so others could hear both sides of important conversations. Today he didn't.
‘Yeah, yeah,' said Sean, rolling his eyes. 'Have you seen the news?'
He listened for what seemed like an hour before speaking again.
‘I hoped it might fit the bill. Is your gaffer happy?’
There was another, even longer silence in which Sean started to grin.
‘Water under the bridge, then,' he said finally. 'Are we still in business?'
The answer to that must have been just one word.
‘Good,' he resumed. 'I've had to can that Ferrari I mentioned. There are plenty of alternatives though. I'll ring towards the end of the week, okay?'
‘Am I off the hook?' Pat wondered, as soon as the mobile was powered down.
‘You'll have to watch your back while Danny's still around. And you'll have some explaining to do to my sister. Apart from that, you're in the clear.'
‘Thank Christ for that.' Pat's sigh was heartfelt. 'I thought I was done.'
‘What?' Sean's eyebrows shot up. If he was pretending to be surprised it was a good act, even for him.
‘Come on, Sean. You have me locked away, chained to a bed, what am I supposed to think?'
‘Do you want me to unfasten you?’
‘It would be nice.’
Sean chuckled and stayed where he was. ‘I wasn't going to sacrifice you,’ he said, ‘you ungrateful twat. After all these years; as if I could!'
Reluctantly, Pat supposed his mate was being sincere. 'Sorry,' he said. 'My mind was wandering, what with everything going wrong and that.' Then, one hundred per cent sincere in his own right: 'I do deserve to be sacrificed anyway. All those kids! I'll have nightmares for the rest of my life.'
‘Serves you right,' said Sean, finally getting off his chair. 'Here,' he tossed some keys onto the bed, 'you do the unchaining. I'm not fucking doing it.'
Pat didn't need a se
cond invitation, although it wasn't as easy as it sounded after almost two days of hardly moving. Sean had left the room and come back by the time he was free and massaging his ankle.
‘Try one of Tinner's beers,' Sean said, passing over a can of chilled Stella before retaking his seat.
‘Has he been drinking these all along?'
‘Probably, but he doesn't have addiction problems, does he?'
‘Neither do I.'
‘Pull the other one.'
‘Where are my shoes?'
‘Planning on going somewhere?'
‘Not yet. I just want to see if they still fit. My ankle's like a balloon. And I need a shit. I haven't had the chance to go since Sunday.'
‘You need a shower too, Paddy. I'm not sure if it's you or your socks . . .' Sean fanned the air, grinning again. 'Something stinks in here. And it's not my aftershave.'
‘Do I get my shoes or what?'
‘Listen Pat, I can't have you running round, topping folk right and centre.'
‘I won't.'
‘Promise you won't hold a grudge against Tinner and Moggs.'
‘That's easy. They've taken a load of crap from me and kept on smiling. I don't hold a grudge.'
‘What about the Filth? Can you handle them when they start asking questions?'
‘I thought I was in the clear?'
‘You never know, do you? And I can't exactly ask the usual contacts. They tend to frown on mass murder. And executions by fire, come to that.’
‘Yes,' Pat said after a pause. 'I can handle them if I stay sober . . . which I will.'
‘Can you stay off the coke?'
‘Not a problem. I've reformed.'
‘Swear on your mum's life.'
‘For Christ's sake . . .'
‘Come on, McGuire, say it.'
‘I swear on Catherine's life.'
‘Okay, that's good enough for me. You're free to go.'
Pat sighed again and drained his can. 'I'm sorry for dropping you in it.'
‘Don't be pathetic. It doesn't suit you.' This time Sean's laugh was rich and warm. 'I owed you anyway. It's going to be a pleasant change having you owing me for a bit.'
‘I'm not fading away into the background, then?'
‘No, but you're not ever carrying a gun again. You're a fucking menace.'
‘Sorry . . .'
‘Never mind sorry, aren't you going to ask me how I did it?'
*****
Sean was back in Christine Keeler mode on his chair. His eyes were shining and he could no longer contain his glee.
‘I did consider Kyle,' he began, 'for obvious reasons. I couldn't make it fit though. Okay, he's mad enough to slaughter an entire family, but who'd give him an important job in the first place? And he'd have been caught in two minutes. It had to be someone more credible.'
He'd been for more cans while Pat had a comfort break and a swift shower. Swigging lager, he continued his story.
‘Obviously, if it wasn't for Jason, we wouldn't have had a problem. We could have sat back and said nothing. But Jason wanted a scapegoat. And as you know, it had to be a very public scapegoat. I couldn't just top someone and say “There, he did it.” I had to convince the whole world. And honest to God, I could not work out how to do that. Here's how tricky it was: consider yourself. How could I hand you in without giving myself away and without giving Jason away?'
‘You did consider handing me in, then?'
‘No. I considered sending you somewhere without an extradition treaty. Fuck knows where. Probably somewhere where the girls wear grass skirts and love rugby players. Whatever . . . But I couldn't make it work. And that's basing my story on the truth. I was beginning to despair, I don't mind admitting it.'
‘Tonga sounds good,' said Pat, 'although I'm not so sure about the extradition treaty.'
‘I didn't get as far as checking treaties. Like I said, it wouldn't work. My brain was all mushy. Then Harry fucking Williamson rang to mock me. Turns out he set it all up. Purely by luck, I hasten to add, not by judgment. He's not clever enough to beat me on purpose.'
Sean had clearly got his confidence back, if not his modesty.
‘How did he set it up?' Pat enquired.
‘He sent me a message about that Lexus. I'm not sure of all the ins and outs, but he knew it was trouble. He can't have known what was going to happen though. The best I can come up with is that he was going to shop us. Maybe he thought there would be a big fuss because of its high-profile owner or something. Anyway, he gave me the big kick up the arse that I needed. After Andy overdosed me with Courvoisier I started to think about Kyle again.'
‘Kyle?'
‘Yeah, I was wondering what he had been saying about us. Had he been passing on details of our movements, something on those lines? I decided that couldn't be the case, because nobody else talks to the bastard apart from me. And I hadn't spoken to him since New Year's Eve. And then I saw the light.'
Sean opened another can. 'Trevor Lockwood,' he said meaningfully. 'He was due for sentencing this week. Five years minimum. Probably more like ten. Kyle wanted to kill him as an example to defaulting debtors. I was still full of festive goodwill and told him to fuck off. But when I thought about it again, in a bit more detail, Lockwood made a perfect scapegoat. Look at him: a guy with massive debts, desperate for money and flaky enough to be mistaken for Leatherjacket. He’s got himself a history with guns and might have had vendettas with gangsters he refuses to name. About to be banged up until the end of time . . .'
‘Also completely innocent,’ said Pat. ‘He'll easily talk his way out of it.'
‘Didn't I say?' Sean laughed. 'He committed suicide last night.'
*****
‘I did consider suicide myself,' Sean resumed, 'but only briefly. When I homed in on Lockwood it seemed like a better idea if he did it instead. So me and Angel went and made the suggestion.'
Pat was still shaking his head. Sean clearly took it to be in admiration rather than disbelief.
‘Don't worry,' he said. 'Angel doesn't know about the Maxwells. There's only you and me in on that secret. As far as Angel's concerned, Lockwood still owes me a few grand . . . which is true, incidentally. I said I wanted him dead because he'd never pay up from Dartmoor or wherever. I also said Kyle wanted to do it, but I reckoned Angel would do a more professional job. That did the trick. Angel would do anything to get one over on Kyle. He was good, too. I wouldn't have believed he had so much self-control if I hadn't seen it for myself.'
‘How did he . . . suggest it?'
‘Not in words. No, not exactly. We grabbed Lockwood when he was on his way out gambling. Angel had already rigged up a noose in his garage. What a tip that was! And it was a big tip, too; we really were spoiled for choice. There was even a nice, handy beam to loop the rope around.’
‘Christ,' said Pat.
‘That's it, really. Angel stood him on this wobbly stool he'd found, I put the noose round his neck and we left him to it. He fell off almost straightaway.'
Pat collected himself. 'Is that what you meant? When you asked Jason if he'd seen the news?'
‘No, the clever bit's still to come. And a stroke of luck I had myself.' Sean took another drink. 'I sent Angel on his way then sneaked back and borrowed Lockwood's keys. Remember the box of ammo? The one you used to load your Glock? I wiped it and left it in his wardrobe, together with an empty magazine. I also cloned plates for that Ferrari we've been watching: Alderley Edge . . . that was the best match. They went under his bed.'
‘So you made it look like Lockwood nicks fancy cars all the time? That he’s got his own press and everything?’
‘That’s exactly what I did.'
‘Where's he supposed to sell them?'
‘Fuck knows. The boys in blue can worry about that. There's no possible link to Jason, though, so he's cool.'
‘What about DNA and powder?'
‘We didn't leave any . . . I sincerely hope. And you burnt your clothes, didn’t you? If we can
do it, so could he.'
‘Bloody hell, Sean, it might just work.'
‘I left a pile of newspapers too, all with last Wednesday night in the headlines. They went on top of his bed. That was more subtle than a suicide note, eh?'