Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  Some kind of celebration was in full swing at the Hotel Neptun. Winter collected his room key from reception, picked his way through a scrum of partying twenty-somethings spilling out of the hotel’s function room and headed for the lift. His room was on the top floor of the three-storey building. He shut the window and pulled the curtains across to soften the noise from downstairs. In the tiny bathroom he cleaned his teeth, rinsed his face and spent a moment or two eyeing his image in the mirror. A couple of years ago an evening like this – especially with Bazza in tow – might have yielded a laugh or two. Now he knew he simply wanted out. He was too old, too battered and – to be honest – just a little nervous. Bazza had a talent for short cuts, but life had a habit of getting even, and Winter didn’t want to be around when their collective luck ran out. No, he told himself. Now is the time to acknowledge the odds and draw the only sane conclusion. He and Bazza had come to the end of the road. What he needed now was deliverance. Back in the bedroom Winter set the alarm, stripped to his boxers and climbed into bed. The party downstairs was as noisy as ever, but thanks to the Chambertin he was asleep within minutes.

  Hours later, he’d no idea when, he surfaced again, trying to remember where he was, trying to put together the grey shapes of the built-in wardrobe and dressing table beyond the foot of the bed. The party was over. Out in the grounds of the hotel he could hear the soft patter of rain. From miles away, through the gap in the curtains, he caught a brief flicker of lightning followed by a low growl of thunder.

  He rolled over, wondering what time it was, peering in the half-darkness at the digital clock. 03.41. He lay back for a moment, listening for the next peal of thunder, then he became aware of another sound, much closer. There were footsteps in the corridor outside. They paused at his door. He heard a low voice, male, followed by a muttered reply. Then came the scraping of a key in the lock. His lock.

  Winter was halfway out of bed, his bare feet on the carpet, when the door eased open. Against the lights of the corridor outside he could see the silhouettes of two men, then a third. They slipped into his room, turned on the light, closed and locked the door behind them. Two of them were big, thick-necked, heavily muscled across the chest and shoulders. The third was smaller, thinner. All three wore ski masks. The ski mask on the little guy carried a Lamborghini logo.

  ‘What the fuck—’

  Winter was trying to get to his feet. One of the bigger guys lifted him bodily by his upper arms, spun him round, then threw him to the floor. Winter, trying not to vomit, could taste Chambertin. Moments later he felt the bite of cable ties around his wrists. Someone had their foot in the small of his back. He tried to lift his head, tried to struggle, but it was hopeless. Whenever he moved, he took a kicking, first his ribs, then his head. His head was exploding. He knew, at all costs, he musn’t succumb to the waves of blackness threatening to engulf him. That way he’d probably end up dead.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he managed.

  Through one half-closed eye he became aware of a face close to his. He wasn’t sure but he thought it was Lamborghini. He tried to focus on the oblong of scarlet Lycra around the mouth. The man’s breath stank. He had thick lips, oddly distinctive, and evil little ferret teeth. Winter tried to turn his head away.

  ‘We have lots of time. Time is not a problem.’ Heavy accent. And a strange high-pitched laugh at the end that told Winter he was probably doomed. These guys were psychos, no doubt about it. Definitely party time.

  ‘Just tell me what you want,’ Winter mumbled.

  Lamborghini had got to his feet again. Winter heard the click of the minibar opening and a rattle of glass. Then came the sigh of bedsprings and a soft fizz as someone settled on the bed and pulled the tab from a can of lager.

  Lamborghini seemed to be in charge. Winter could see his runners, brand-new Nike High-Tops, just like Makins.

  ‘Mr Kubla Khan,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Montenegro. Welcome to Budva. You like it here? You like our country? You like that you can make money from us? That makes you feel good? Taking our money?’

  Winter tried to explain he’d no intention of taking their money. On the contrary, he’d come to give his stake back.

  ‘To who?’

  ‘Kokh. Nikki Kokh.’

  ‘Kokh is a dog. Worse than a dog.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Kokh would screw a donkey if there was money in it.’ He translated the joke for the benefit of his mates. One of them laughed. Then he turned back to Winter. ‘You like Kokh? You think Kokh is OK?’

  ‘I think Kokh screws everyone. You, me, everyone.’

  ‘So why do you do business with this man?’

  ‘Because that’s the way it is.’

  ‘And now you regret it?’

  ‘Now I wish you’d leave me fucking alone.’

  Winter saw the High-Top coming. He tried to turn his head away, but the blow caught him high on his temple above his ear. More pain.

  ‘You think we’re joking, Mr Kubla Khan? Because that would be a mistake. Maybe you should have come as a tourist. We like tourists. We treat tourists like friends. But you’re a businessman. And businessmen are dogs.’

  Winter was wondering whether they had a white Audi 4 × 4 outside. And whether this encounter would go on until they were tired of kicking the shit out of him. One way or another, he knew he had to move the conversation on.

  ‘You want money?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Take it.’

  ‘Thank you. What else have you got for us?’

  ‘Nothing. Money’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘An apology maybe? You want to say sorry? About Kokh? About Kubla Khan?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Whatever?’ Lamborghini didn’t understand.

  ‘Yeah. I’m sorry we put money in. I’m sorry I ever heard of Kubla Khan. Is that OK? Is that enough?’

  The laugh again – soft, weirdly intimate, a small whisper of delight from someone who very definitely liked hurting people. Winter hadn’t a clue what might happen next and knew there was no advantage in trying to guess. The last thirty years had put him in some dodgy situations, but he’d never been as kippered as this. Karl Sparrow, he thought. But worse.

  Someone was at the minibar again. Another finger tugging at a can pull-tag. Winter caught a murmured exchange from the direction of the bed. Then came that same laugh, a gesture of approval.

  ‘Gin or vodka?’ Lamborghini enquired.

  Winter shook his head. The last thing he wanted was a drink.

  ‘Please … choose …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I said choose.’ The ribs this time.

  Winter gasped with pain. ‘Vodka,’ he managed.

  ‘You don’t say please in your country?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Good. Very good. You know something about businessmen? They learn very fast.’

  Winter swallowed hard, fighting the rising gusts of nausea, wondering how on earth he was supposed to drink in a position like this. Then he caught the tiny scrape as someone twisted the top off the miniature and moments later he felt the trickle of liquid as the bottle was upturned over his bare back. After this came another bottle. Then a third. Winter was trying to visualise what it must look like, the spirits running over the whiteness of his flesh. Then came Lamborghini’s question, freezing his blood.

  ‘You mind if we smoke? My friends and I? You mind if we light up?’

  As if to make the point, he crouched low beside Winter’s head again. Winter could see the lighter. It was a Bic. Lamborghini flicked it twice, inches from Winter’s eye.

  ‘You know what happens next? All that booze? You know what we do at Christmas? Before we roast the meat? You know what we use instead of vodka or gin? We use slivowitz, plum brandy, and you know how that works? It burns. In the end it makes the meat crisp. Beautiful smell. Beautiful taste. Happy Christmas, Mr Businessman, eh?’

  Winter turned his head away. He didn’t
want Lamborghini to see the tears in his eyes. This was worse than dying. This was humiliation, total abasement. In a minute or two these animals were going to set him on fire. And watch.

  Nothing happened. No conversation. No more taunts. Winter still had his head turned towards the bed and the window. There came another fork of lightning, much closer this time, the thunder deafening. Winter could see one of the two big guys sitting on the edge of the bed, his huge hands folded over his knees, his eyes flicking back and forth behind the ski mask, a punter with the best seat in the house, waiting to see whether the main attraction measured up.

  Winter stirred, wondering whether his burning flesh would trigger the fire alarms and who would eventually arrive to find his charring body. Over the years, like everyone else in the world, he’d seen news footage of protestors dousing themselves with petrol and then striking a match. There was a terrible fascination in watching a human being engulfed in flame, and he’d always marvelled at their commitment. To bear the pain without flinching – totally immobile, often cross-legged, the way it happened with Buddhist monks – was beyond his imagination. That kind of courage spoke of a belief he simply didn’t have. When the time came, as it surely would, he knew he’d wriggle and howl and scream exactly the way these guys had planned it. They probably had their mobiles ready for the moment he caught fire, and once they legged it would doubtless circulate the pictures to anyone foolish enough to cross the Montenegran mafia. Our country. Our coastline. Your fucking profits.

  There was another clap of thunder, virtually overhead. The entire hotel seemed to shake. Winter began to shiver, knowing he couldn’t take much more of this, all too aware that the waiting – in exactly the way they’d planned it – was probably worse than the event itself. He’d had enough. He wanted it over.

  ‘Do it,’ he said.

  ‘What you say?’

  ‘Do it. Just fucking do it.’

  Lamborghini muttered something he didn’t catch. The guy on the bed nodded and stood up. He stepped out of view and moments later came the tug of a zip and Winter became aware of the guy looming above him. Then he felt the splash of something warm on his bare back. He tried to put a picture to what he was hearing, to what he was feeling, and then he realised the guy was pissing all over him, sluicing away the alcohol from the miniatures. A couple of cans of Heineken at least, Winter thought. Thank God for lager.

  ‘Your lucky night, Mr Businessman.’ It was Lamborghini again. The spotless High-Tops. ‘Next time not so lucky … eh?’

  The big guy had finished. He zipped himself up, gave Winter a playful parting kick and then joined his mates by the door. To Winter’s immense relief they appeared to be getting ready to leave. For a second or two he wondered whether this was simply his imagination playing tricks. Maybe his brain was scrambled. Maybe he’d already burned to death and by some trick of the mind had been spared the agony until later. Maybe this whole thing was some grotesque nightmare. But then Lamborghini was back in his face. He was holding what looked like a scrap of white paper between his forefinger and thumb.

  ‘We leave you this, Mr Businessman. A little present. A little gift. From Montenegro.’

  Winter felt a blade sawing through the cable tie around his wrists. Then, quite suddenly, his hands were free. The blood surged back into the stiffness of his fingers, a hot scalding pain as bad as anything he’d suffered, and he rolled onto his side in time to see his tormentors leaving. Lamborghini was the last through the door. He didn’t look back.

  Winter waited and waited, praying they didn’t have second thoughts and come back to finish him off. The rain was much heavier now, and when he’d locked and bolted the door and finally made it across to the window, the patches of grass visible beneath the security lights were already beginning to flood. For a long moment he watched the darting blue fingers of lightning against the blackness of the surrounding mountains, dazed, trembling, his bare flesh icy cold, and then he pulled himself together, knowing he had to get organised, repair a little of the damage, make a plan.

  Limping towards the bathroom, he noticed the scrap of paper on the carpet. He paused, eyeing it. Bending, even breathing, was incredibly painful. With immense difficulty, he retrieved the paper. It was a bus ticket. For tomorrow. 09.35. To somewhere called Herceg Novi. The message couldn’t have been plainer. Leave.

  Chapter thirteen

  SOUTHSEA: WEDNESDAY, 23 SEPTEMBER 2009

  On those nights when Bazza Mackenzie couldn’t sleep – increasingly common – he’d taken to creeping out of the big double bedroom in the house on Sandown Road and making his way downstairs to the privacy of his den. Marie, who was a light sleeper herself, had been aware of this for weeks but had chosen to say nothing. Like everyone else in the family she’d recognised that something was happening to her husband, that something was changing him. Her daughter, Ezzie, had put it down to the excitements of the coming election, but Marie, who knew Baz best of all, wasn’t so sure. A phrase of Winter’s had stuck in her mind. Paul had said he was becoming unhinged. In some deep and maybe permanent way he’d lost it. What ‘it’ comprised was not clear, but Marie, like Winter himself, was fearful about the consequences. For one thing, her husband had started calling her Ma.

  Marie lost track of how long she spent that night lying in the darkness waiting for Baz’s return. Once, carried on the wind, she caught a distant church bell toll four o’clock. A while afterwards she heard the low rumble of the first of the day’s FastCats powering up for the run across the Solent to Ryde Pier. Finally, when Baz still didn’t appear, she slipped on a dressing gown and went downstairs.

  Mackenzie was sitting at his desk in the den, staring at his PC. When the door opened behind him he didn’t seem the least surprised to see Marie. He gestured at the screen and told her to pull up a chair.

  ‘Fucking extraordinary, Ma,’ he said. ‘The boy’s a genius.’

  ‘You mean this Andy?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Marie sat down. She’d never met Makins but had no doubt about the impact he’d made on her husband. Guys who wanted to sell you their services, said Baz, were ten a penny. Even consultants like Kinder weren’t that hard to lay hands on. But truly special individuals, genuine one-offs, were bloody rare, and in the shape of Andy Makins Baz had found a prime example.

  ‘Here … look.’ Mackenzie scrolled back to the beginning of what looked like a very long email. Marie peered at the subject heading.

  ‘Smoutland?’

  ‘That’s code for Pompey.’

  ‘But why Smout?’

  ‘They’re a family, Ma, three generations, all dysfunctional as fuck, total muppets.’

  The Smouts, Bazza explained, were Pompey born and bred. The oldest couple, Arthur and Marj, had an allotment at the end of Locksway Road. It was the love of their tiny lives and nothing would ever spoil it for them. Not the bastard little scrotes who broke in at night and necked vast quantities of White Lightning and trampled all over their veggies. Not the thieving pikeys who jemmied the lock off their little garden hut and stole their power tools. Not the man from the council who harassed them with letters about late payment for use of the communal stand pipe. Not even the black aphids that laid waste their crop of tomatoes. No, in the world of Arthur and Marj there was room for only one emotion.

  ‘Which is?’ Marie, in spite of herself, was interested.

  ‘Gratitude. They’re grateful, Ma, and you know why? Because life has never given them anything, not a penny, not a single decent break. And so bad news, all the shit and aggravation I’ve just mentioned, is all they expect.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘No, it’s not, it’s funny. And weird. But it gets better.’

  He scrolled on through the email. The middle generation of Smouts was represented by Dave and Jackie. Dave occupied one half of a cell in Winchester Prison after being nicked on a drugs offence. Jackie, bless her heart, visited him every Thursday afternoon, half past three, on the dot.


  ‘In real life, Ma, you get to meet in the visiting room, but Andy wants to go one better. He’s after one of those glass partitions. What Jackie does, she arrives every Thursday with a week’s supply of the News and holds the pages up against the glass, one by one. That way she doesn’t have to say very much, which is fine by Dave, and he gets to stay in touch. Plus we obviously hand-pick the bits of the paper that get the message across.’

  ‘Message?’

  ‘Inbreds stoning the swans on the lake down at Great Salterns. Kids living rough in bus shelters. OAPs treble-locking their doors at night to keep the Kosovans out. Welcome-to-Pompey stuff.’

  ‘This is some kind of film?’

  ‘Video, Ma. Andy’s going to upload it to YouTube. Kind of soapy thing. Lots of episodes, all shot specially.’

  ‘But why someone like Dave?’

  ‘Because he’s just like his dad. Grateful. Humble. Doing his bird the way he should. No complaints. No one to blame but himself. Start watching this stuff and you’ll piss yourself laughing.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘You will, Ma, you will. Because Dave and Jackie have a daughter – and you know what? She’s just the same. Sweet as you like. Takes life on the chin. Grateful as fuck for sweet fuck all.’

  Young Shelley, said Baz, lives in a council flat in Somerstown way up on the tenth floor. The men in her life drift by from time to time, but she’s the one who has to sort out the kids.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three. Tyler, Jordan and Scottie. They’re nippers, tear-aways, totally out of control. In episode one Scottie dumps the family cat out of the window. This girl has fuck-all money, zero prospects, never goes out of an evening, never has a chance to enjoy herself, plus she really loved that cat, but you know what?’