Did the trick; he let go of the table and crumpled onto the floor. He was saying something about how sorry he was, but even he knew that wasn’t going to help him any. He had grassed up Peter Jamieson, and that had to carry a severe punishment or Jamieson would look weak. He should have been punished as soon as his evidence was used against Jamieson in court, but the organization was too disorganized to do anything about it. But they were always going to remember Kirk. Those who need to be punished don’t get forgotten.
Kirk crawled across the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible. I let him get close to a cupboard door and swung it open, making it clatter off the top of his head and bang shut again. No great damage done, but he needed to know that this wasn’t over yet. I stood over him, placed the toes of my left foot on the edge of his tracksuit bottoms to hold his leg in place, and stamped on his ankle.
The animal scream he let out caught me by surprise. Took me all of half a second to react and kick him hard in the mouth. Harder than I’d meant to: heard the crunch of teeth and a choking sound as one or two made their way down his throat. He did his best to cough them up while I pressed my boot on his stomach to complicate matters.
We were getting towards where we needed to be for this punishment to suffice. Kirk was trying to shuffle backward on his arse, looking to get up onto his knees. I moved beside him, let him get up to his knees with his hands on the fridge-freezer, and then slammed a knee into the back of his neck. His face hit the door of the freezer hard and he slipped sideways. I caught him by the hair, pulling him up onto his feet, but he was desperate to fall over.
I opened the fridge door and failed to get a reaction; Kirk was already at the point where he would accept any punishment that took him closer to the end of the beating. I shoved his head into the fridge and slammed the door as hard as I could. There was an explosion of plastic as the little shelf on the inside of the door shattered against the side of his head. The few items that had been in it went for a fly, dropping out onto the floor when I pulled the door open again.
Kirk’s head took another couple of slams before I let him drop unconscious onto the floor. Looked like there was a little flap of skin ripped open on the side of his head, just beside the hairline. One ear looked chewed. There was blood running out of him from various places. I pushed the fridge door shut and stood looking down at him.
He was a poor soul, and if there were any thoughts running through his tiny mind right now, they would be misguided. This beating was nothing. This was a punishment that needed to be given, because the city needed to see that a punishment would come for anyone who crossed Jamieson. He got this beating, and his scars would show the world that he had gotten it. Kirk would think that this was the end of the matter. The city would think this was the end of the matter. Even the police, who must have expected Kirk to be a target, would think the punishment had been served and the issue was closed. When Kirk finally got himself out of the hospital and went back to his work, he would be happy. He would think he could go back to his normal life, the old one that was free of fear. That was the happiest he would be.
It would all be a lie. This was a temporary punishment. You can’t give the police information that helps put Peter Jamieson in a jail cell and think that a casual beating is as bad as it’s going to get for you. Kirk was a target, and he was going to be killed. I had no doubt about it; the organization would wait for the right moment and hit him. That they hadn’t spotted the right moment yet told me they weren’t running their operation as well as they used to.
The problem was gunmen. Hard to pick up a good one, and God knows Jamieson had had his fingers burnt so badly they blistered. So until they had a permanent gunman, the most they could do to Kirk was have me come round and make an example of him. It was petulant, and in its own way it was a sign of weakness. Told the world that we weren’t the sort of organization who could employ who we wanted any more.
Had its plus points though. It meant that the police and Kirk would take their eye off defence. They would think the job was done so would do nothing to stop it being done again. It would, the organization hoped, make the hit that much easier whenever it did happen.
I couldn’t stop myself from shaking my head as I walked out of that flat. A piss-poor little halfwit like Kirk, thinking his life had just hit rock bottom, not realizing that he still had a grave to fall into. He was an example of what was wrong with the organization. There were some inside it that were doing a good job. Kevin Currie, who I answered to, was making money, organizing, getting things done. Marty Jones, a grubby little pimp and loan shark I had always held in low esteem, had stepped up and was running his business as well as anyone. The rest of them? I don’t know; seemed like they weren’t living up to their potential. Some of them because they weren’t capable, some of them because they were deliberately holding back. People didn’t want to put their head above the parapet until they knew how things would play out.
I drove straight home. I was done for the day as far as I was concerned, and if anything else was required of me then they knew where to find me. I didn’t know who ‘they’ would be from now on. I’d been working for Currie, and I figured it would stay that way, but I was on staff now and that technically made me available to anyone in the organization who wanted me. I could get a call from anyone who wanted to use Nate Colgan’s reputation on a job.
Back in the house, and I sat down and picked up her letter again. Should have thrown it in the bin by then, but I didn’t. Kept thinking about the phone call, all of the things she’d said. I was thinking about that door closing behind her, wondering where she was when she called. I had a picture of her in my mind, sitting in a bedroom somewhere, a man coming in. I didn’t like that picture.
My mobile started ringing. I glanced at the screen and saw Ronnie’s name.
‘How did it go?’ he asked me.
‘Fine. It’s done,’ I told him. Beginning to think I should have taken him with me; there were things he could have learned from it. Things like throwing chairs and fridge doors around so that you don’t waste energy in the fight.
‘Good. Nice one,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to check that all was well.’
I could hear voices behind him, sounding like they were in another room. A woman laughed and there was the mumble of another voice. His girlfriend, his friends.
‘Thanks for calling, Ronnie,’ I said.
Didn’t tell him that his phone call had left me more depressed than I already was. Seemed like everyone else had someone in the background, while I was sitting alone in the house, listening to the silence.
Killed time and went to bed, the least worst option available to me. I hardly slept, but then I hardly ever did. A couple of hours, then awake for an hour, then an hour’s sleep, more time awake, then another hour and a half asleep if I was lucky. Always waking up, always seeing things I didn’t want to see. The only world darker than the one I lived in was the one I slept in.
4
They told her she’d be doing glamorous work. They told her it would be exciting. A girl she knew and trusted said it would be great fun, that she’d make loads of money and meet loads of cool people. She didn’t. Like many others, she was there to be exploited. A pretty young woman, a naive nineteen-year-old. Jess Flowers didn’t stand a chance with men like Elliott Parker.
Parker took her to a party at the club. Not as a favour, or for a night out. This was work. They’d invited Lee Christie to that party, and he was her target. Not a target she wanted, not a job she had any wish to do. But if she didn’t, they would punish her again. As soon as Parker pointed him out, she approached Christie. She was slim, blonde, wide eyes and full lips. He was thirty-six, narrow-eyed and big-toothed. Had a belly he could rest a beer can on for a laugh. If his basic good sense hadn’t been overwhelmed by her beauty, he might have wondered where his luck had come from.
Jess flirted with him, danced close for nearly an hour. When she suggested they go back to her place, the yes
couldn’t jump out of his mouth fast enough. Lee Christie was a man from the industry. A man who should have understood what a set-up looked like. Sometimes, though, it doesn’t matter if something’s too good to be true.
She started on him in the taxi, fondling and kissing. The driver glanced in his mirror and grimaced.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Christie kept telling her, like she might not already know.
They got back to the flat she’d been told to use. Had to pretend that she knew it, that it was hers. Christie wasn’t paying attention, didn’t notice that she seemed unsure about which bedroom to use. He was lost in the enthusiasm of the moment. A moment that came and went quickly. Jess lay underneath him, smelling the cigarettes, booze and desperation on him, until he was done.
‘You are so beautiful,’ he told her again, rolling over and falling quickly asleep.
Jess tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. She lay and listened to the rattling in Christie’s throat as he snorted through the night. She lay and thought about her mistakes. Thought about how the only way out of this situation was to do as they wanted. Whatever the cost. Maybe she drifted off to sleep, briefly. She got less than an hour’s rest though, by the time Christie woke not long after eight.
She pretended to be asleep, although she was more awake than ever. She heard the scratching noise first, a pen on paper. Then she heard him getting dressed and trying to be quiet about it as he snuck out. He was on his best behaviour, not waking the sleeping beauty for fear of upsetting her. When he was gone, she rolled over and read the note he’d left. There was something childish about it, something almost endearing. He told her what a great time he’d had, and that he had to leave for work. He left a number, asking her to call so that they could meet up again. He signed it with his real name.
She already knew that Lee had to be involved in the criminal industry. Elliott Parker wouldn’t have been interested in him if he wasn’t. They were doing this because they were going to try and make money from him. But she felt pity for him. This flat little guy, thinking that she found him attractive. He was pathetic. How could he fall for this?
Jess sat up in bed and thought about running. Throw on some clothes, run out of the flat and down the stairs. Get on a train and get out of Glasgow. Go anywhere – it didn’t matter. The thought of freedom was nice, but false. She had been snared by them; it was a trap she couldn’t break out of that easily. There would be someone watching the flat, watching Lee Christie leave and waiting for her phone call. They were professional, and that’s what people didn’t realize about them when they first turned up in the city.
Jess called Elliott.
‘He’s gone. He left me a note with his phone number on it.’
‘Good,’ Elliott told her. ‘You’ve done really well. You’ve been excellent. I’ll come round right away, pick you up.’
His Birmingham accent was the softest of all the group. There was something suave about him, like he was educated and sophisticated. Elliott had always tried to be nice to Jess, or at least make it seem like he was being nice. That was how it worked. He did his best to seem reasonable, so that when he demanded she do repulsive things, it was harder to say no. But there was something about Elliott Parker. The others, they ignored her, or were unpleasant towards her. The nicer Elliott tried to be, the creepier he became.
Elliott arrived at the flat within a couple of minutes. He had been outside, watching and waiting. He let himself in with his key, smiling contentedly as he watched Jess emerge from the bedroom. She was wearing the short dress she’d been wearing the night before and she looked ruffled. He thought the look suited her.
‘You ready to go?’ he asked her. Pretending she had a choice.
‘Yeah,’ she said, and nodded. Pretending that she wanted the same things they did, afraid of the consequences if she defied them.
He smiled at her. ‘Come on, Jess.’
As they walked out to the car he kept a hand on her back or shoulder. It looked, to any passer-by, like a sign of affection. In truth it was a reminder not to run, that he would always be there. He always did that if they were in public, made sure she didn’t get any ideas. Being nice kept her calm, being close kept her passive.
Elliott drove back to the hotel. Hotel was rather a lofty term for a big house converted into manky rooms and let out to gullible people who didn’t have the time or organizational skills to find something proper. Could have been a nice guest house if it had been well looked after, just down the road from Queen’s Park, so it took real sloth to make it as unwelcoming as it was. They wouldn’t be there long, so none of them cared much.
The bed sheets weren’t clean, for a start, and the bathroom had definitely not been scrubbed since Elliott’s room was last used, no matter what the owner claimed. Elliott had always been picky about these things. Where Dyne and Nasty could put up with little inconveniences on a job, Elliott saw no reason for standards to be so low. He reminded himself it was short term; they’d be moving again in a couple of days for security reasons.
They parked in one of the few parking spots outside the hotel and Elliott led Jess up to her room. They didn’t see anyone, didn’t talk to anyone. He let her go into the room, said goodbye, and pulled the door shut behind him. He locked it, and went downstairs.
They were all in the TV room. Four of them: two muscle, a gunman and the leader of their group. The muscle were nothing, hired help they’d picked up before they came up the road for this gig. They knew them both, Henson and Aldridge, down in Brum, but they weren’t part of the group. They had always used Ricky Saunders for muscle work back in the day, but he was inside. The muscle had no part to play in the conversation Elliott wanted to have. This was for authority only. He nodded for Dyne, the head man, and Nasty, the gunman, to follow him into the kitchen.
‘She do her thing?’ Dyne asked him.
Dyne was looking thin these days, vulnerable. He was using, and that was bad news. Made him take risks, like this whole job. He had a narrow face that was a little too long for the rest of him, brown hair messy on top and clipped at the sides and skin that looked darkly tanned, whatever the weather.
‘She did. The soppy dick left her a love note with his phone number on it. He’s in.’
Dyne nodded, hearing what he wanted to hear. ‘No need to waste time then. We can do it tonight, right?’ He looked at Nasty when he spoke.
‘Sooner the better,’ Nasty said. As much as he was likely to say. He was the most openly hostile to this job.
‘Yeah,’ Dyne said, ‘sooner the better. Tonight then. Get her to call him. Get him round there. See, lads, see? Couldn’t be going better.’ He said it with the sort of ingratiating smile that looked desperate, pleading. Seemed like he was trying to convince himself.
Nasty got up without a word and went back to the TV room. Elliott patted Dyne on the shoulder as he got up and walked past him. It was all right for Dyne – he had his girl with him. It was her who set this job up, and only she was in anything close to familiar territory.
Elliott walked back up the stairs, marvelling at the thinness of the carpet as he went. He unlocked her door and went inside. Jess was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was always sitting on the edge of the bed, looking sad. Never seemed to watch TV. Never did anything other than sit there.
‘You need to make a phone call. Can you do that for me, Jess?’
‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Course you can.’ He smiled, sitting next to her and putting an arm around her shoulder. ‘You’ve been amazing so far, Jess, really amazing.’ He leaned in and kissed her gently on the side of the head. When he straightened, he reached into his pocket and took out his mobile and the note Lee Christie had written for her. ‘Call him; tell him you want to meet him tonight at the same flat.’
He flattened the paper and carefully tapped in the number, handing the phone to her. Elliott leaned in a little, close enough to hear every word.
‘Hello, Lee? It’s Jess, from last night.’
‘Jess,’ he said, loudly and enthusiastically enough for her to move the phone briefly away from her ear. ‘I’m glad you called. Listen, sorry I had to shoot off this morning, but I had work that needed doing and I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful, asleep there.’
She grimaced. Peaceful. This guy was clueless. ‘That’s sweet. Um, would you like to come round again tonight? I’d like that, if you could.’
There was a chuckle from Christie. ‘I’d love that, I would love that. How about I get round there early, say six o’clock?’
‘That’s great,’ Jess said.
‘Great. Well, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you at six.’
‘See you.’
She hung up and Elliott put his arm around her. ‘It won’t be so bad tonight,’ he told her. ‘You won’t have to sleep with that creep. All you have to do is let him into the flat.’
‘That sounds better,’ she said, nodding.
Elliott smiled as he got up from the bed. The smile of a man who knew things she didn’t and revelled in the advantage. She knew then that something worse than sex with Lee Christie was going to happen that night.
Elliott and Nasty took her round to the flat. This time they went in with her and waited. She’d been told it didn’t matter what she wore and that she didn’t need to do her hair because Christie was going to come round anyway. All she had to do was open the door for him and that would be it. Elliott kept repeating that to her. The more he said it, the less reassuring it sounded.
Elliott looked relaxed but Nasty was clearly nervous. He kept going into the bathroom, standing in the doorway looking out into the corridor. The two of them spoke as though Jess wasn’t there.
‘We need to be fast, after. Good chance of getting spotted,’ Nasty said, shaking his head.
Every Night I Dream of Hell Page 3