Happy Days

by Hurley, Graham

  He came down the steps towards Winter.

  ‘On your feet, mush.’

  Winter began to struggle upright. One of the 6.57, a scrapper of some talent, lent a hand. Winter shook him off.

  ‘What’s the problem, Baz?’

  Mackenzie didn’t answer. The 6.57 marched Winter across the square towards the waiting Bentley. The rear door was already open. At the kerbside Winter hesitated a moment before a push sent him sprawling onto the back seat. Fear, he thought, smells of new leather.

  The car rocked under the weight of bodies piling in. Two of them were sitting on Winter. The car began to move. It seemed to be Mackenzie at the wheel. Winter could hear him on the phone. He hoped to God he wasn’t talking to Marie.

  They were going faster now, picking up speed, then came the sudden lurch of a roundabout and Winter gasped with pain as an elbow caught him in the face.

  ‘Sorry, mush.’ The 6.57 was laughing.

  Winter could smell roll-ups. He thought of trying to negotiate, of trying to calm Mackenzie down, but he knew there was no point. This was what he’d been promising Gehenna since the operation began. The fact that it was him in the firing line rather than Skelley was immaterial. The next half-hour, he knew, would decide his fate. In these moods Bazza never hung around.

  The Covert Ops D/I was still at the street map.

  ‘Fratton Road, sir. Signalling right by St Mary’s church.’

  Suttle was trying to picture the journey, Winter banged up with a bunch of hooligans, Mackenzie for some reason deciding it was time to take a drive. Where were they off to? And what could possibly have sparked this sudden development? According to the D/I, they were now passing the big cemetery beside Kingston Prison. Beyond that lay a short cut to the Eastern Road, which funnelled traffic north onto the motorway.

  ‘They’re bailing out,’ he muttered. ‘Mackenzie’s had enough.’

  He glanced down the table. Willard occupied the seat at the end. He was still watching the election coverage, one ear cocked. Nick Clegg had just acknowledged a disappointing night for the Lib Dems. Life, he said, sometimes takes you by surprise.

  Too fucking right, thought Suttle.

  The Bentley was slowing down, and Winter could hear the gentle tick-tick of the indicator. They turned sharp left, accelerated, braked, then pulled a hard right. Moments later the big car glided to a halt. For a moment no one moved. Then Winter caught the faint tinkle of keys.

  ‘Out.’ It was Mackenzie.

  The weight of bodies on Winter suddenly eased. Doors opened. Then he felt hands tugging at his legs and he found himself dumped on the pavement. He’d caught his hip on the sill of the door on the way out of the car and he reached down, trying to ease the pain. Mackenzie watched him for a moment and then drove his foot in at exactly the same spot. Winter yelped with pain. Mackenzie did it again, telling him not to fucking squinny, then he was across the pavement, keys in his hand, hunting for the lock in the darkness.

  Winter tried to focus. Everything hurt. It looked like a shop of some kind. The pattern on the door looked faintly familiar. Above the display window he could just make out a name. His blood froze. Pompey Reptiles.

  Bazza had the door open. Winter felt himself being dragged inside. Then came that smell again, the smell of the urban swamp, the stench of caged flesh, a hot smell, a smell that promised nothing but pain.

  Mackenzie was screaming for Sanouk. Winter could hear the patter of footsteps overhead. Then the little man was among them, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Mackenzie had lost it completely. He wanted to know why Sanouk hadn’t changed the name of the shop, like he’d told him to. He wanted to know why no one in this fucking world ever did what they were told. And he promised retribution.

  ‘Rope, son. We need a rope. Rope? Fucking rope? Comprende?’

  Sanouk, plainly terrified, disappeared. Seconds later he was back with a length of cord. It looked like the belt from a dressing gown. Mackenzie tossed it to one of the 6.57. Then he found a chair in the corner of the shop and kicked it across the floor.

  ‘Knife? You’ve got a knife?’

  Sanouk disappeared again. When he came back he was carrying a knife. Winter stared at it. It was huge.

  Mackenzie told the 6.57 to cut the cord in two. He wanted Winter tied hand and foot, then secured to the chair. The 6.57 did what he was told. One of his mates helped. Looking into their faces, Winter could sense their uncertainty. They knew about Bazza. They knew what he could do. And they knew, above all, that there was no stopping him.

  It was Suttle who voiced the obvious question.

  ‘How long do we let this run?’ he asked.

  Willard wouldn’t answer. The surveillance team had Pompey Reptiles plotted up. One of the guys had reported the violence on the pavement. They knew Winter was inside, and it was a reasonable assumption that something horrible was about to kick off. Pompey Reptiles was the only clue you’d ever need. Suttle knew how much Winter hated snakes.

  Willard wanted to know whether the Tactical Firearms Unit was at full readiness yet. The TFU liaison D/S had been in the Command Post since mid-afternoon. The last couple of minutes he’d been busy on the emergency frequency, calling in his guys from their holding point at Kingston Crescent.

  ‘Give me five, sir?’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We can go in.’

  Bound to the chair, Winter could see nothing but Mackenzie. By now he’d lost it completely. He bent low, stabbing his finger into Winter’s face. Every accusation, every insult, was flecked with spittle. Winter could do nothing but shut his eyes and wait. When Mackenzie wanted to know more about Marie, more about this fucking fairy-tale affair they were supposed to have had, he simply turned his head away, but every denial, every refusal to reply, simply sparked a deeper anger.

  Finally he seemed to accept there’d be no more from Winter. Not, at least, until he’d learned the error of his ways.

  He turned on Sanouk again. He wanted the biggest snake he’d got. He wanted Sanouk to wrap it around Winter’s throat and talk to it nicely and get it to do something evil. Then he wanted another snake, smaller this time, something venomous, something with loads of attitude. He wanted this snake in a really bad mood. And he wanted it to end up in Winter’s boxers.

  While Sanouk disappeared to find the cage keys, Mackenzie turned on Winter again.

  ‘You hear what I said, mush?’

  Winter nodded.

  ‘And you know why I’m going to stuff it down your kacks?’

  Winter shook his head.

  ‘Because that’s all your todger’s good for, mush. Snake fucking fodder.’

  Winter had given up thinking. What was about to happen was beyond his imagination. He was sure about the surveillance. He knew these guys were good. So what the fuck was happening? How much proof did these people need?

  In Parsons’ office the TFU liaison D/S was bent to his radio. The guys had left Kingston Crescent eight minutes ago. This time of night there shouldn’t be a problem with traffic. Then came a muttered voice on the radio. Something had gone wrong. Suttle knew it.

  ‘Give us a couple more minutes, sir?’ The TFU liaison was looking worried.

  Sanouk had produced a baby boa constrictor. The snake was beautiful, green and yellow markings, sleek, perfectly balanced, and the head swayed from side to side, the tiny forked tongue flicking in and out. The 6.57 had backed away but then one of them took a step forward. He’d always wanted to touch a snake and he’d never had the chance.

  ‘Very valuable.’ Sanouk angled it towards him. ‘Cost much money.’

  The 6.57 reached out a hand. The snake reared away. Winter was trying not to look. Of Mackenzie there was no sign.

  Then, like an eruption, he was back. He grabbed Sanouk. He’d been looking for something and he couldn’t find it. Sanouk nodded and muttered something Winter didn’t catch. Then Mackenzie was gone again.

  The 6.57 was stroking the snake.

  ‘You want
it?’ Sanouk asked. ‘You want hold it?’

  The 6.57 shook his head. Then he nodded at Winter and told Sanouk to put it round his neck, just like the man had said.

  Sanouk obliged. Winter squeezed his eyes shut. The snake felt surprisingly warm against his flesh. He could feel it moving under his chin. Think scarf, he told himself. Think windy day. Think any fucking thing except being here, in this shop, waiting for a boa constrictor to throttle the life out of you.

  Sanouk had reappeared with another snake, much smaller. It was the colour of liquorice. He held it very carefully, his thumb and forefinger under its gullet. The body of the snake lashed around. One of the 6.57 thought it was well pissed off.

  Then Mackenzie was back. He had something in his hand Winter couldn’t see. He wanted to know about Marie again. He wanted to know when this thing of theirs had started. He wanted to know when they’d done it, how many times, how long this fucking piece of shit he’d called a mate had been sniffing around his wife.

  ‘That’s you, mush. You. The guy I fucking trusted. The guy we took down to fucking Cornwall with the kids, for fuck’s sake, the kids. Did you have them too, you paedo? Is there anyone in my family you haven’t fucked?’

  The violence in his face was terrifying. He told Sanouk to get rid of the boa constrictor. Winter felt the pressure on his throat ease. Relieved, he tried to turn his face away, but Mackenzie hit him. Then did it again. And again. Winter felt the bite of knuckles in his face. He could do nothing, absolutely fuck all. His mouth was pouring blood. He blew hard through his nose. More blood. He tried to suck in air, knowing he had to keep his head up, knowing he had to stay conscious for long enough to somehow survive.

  ‘Baz …’ he managed.

  ‘Don’t Baz me, you cunt. You know what this is? You know what happens next?’

  Winter tried to focus. Instead of a snake, he found himself looking at a tube. He squeezed his eyes hard, shook his head, took another look. It was a tube of expanding foam, the kind you use for insulation. The last time he’d seen it was here in this very shop.

  ‘You know what this stuff does, cunt? It expands like fuck then it sets rock hard. And once that’s happened, there’s fuck all you can do. You know about this stuff? Just nod.’

  Winter nodded. He could remember the stickiness on his palm when he’d shaken Sanouk’s tiny hand the first time they’d met. And he remembered how hard it had been to scrape the stuff off afterwards.

  ‘So listen, cunt …’ Mackenzie was back in his face. ‘What happens is this. We forget the snake. We open your mouth. And then I fill it full of this stuff. Comprende? It’s something really special we use for grasses in this city. It gets bigger and bigger inside. It tastes fucking horrible, and after not very long you can’t breathe. Not through your mouth. So by now you’re choking to death, so if we’re kind, and that’s a big if, we squirt a little more up each nostril. And after that, mush, you’re well dead. Yeah? All that make sense? You fucking grass?’

  He stepped back. Sanouk had found the injector that went with the tube of foam. Mackenzie slipped the tube into the barrel, withdrew the nail that capped the nozzle and applied a little pressure. A tiny dribble of foam appeared, getting bigger and bigger on contact with the air. Mackenzie waved it under Winter’s nose. It smelled chemical. It smelled of death.

  ‘One more chance, you fucking grass. Just get it off that fucking chest of yours.’

  ‘What, Baz?’

  ‘Marie, you cunt.’

  In the Command Post the TFU liaison D/S signalled to Willard. The guys had finally arrived. They were ready.

  ‘Where are they exactly?’

  ‘Parked up round the corner, sir. Thirty seconds, max.’

  Willard nodded, taking his time. Suttle checked his watch again. Winter had been inside for more than fifteen minutes. How much time did Gehenna need?

  ‘For fuck’s sake, sir …’ he began.

  Willard ignored him. He told the TFU liaison to go ahead. The D/S was already on the radio.

  ‘Pompey Reptiles,’ he said softly. ‘Number 49.’

  There was a long silence. Suttle tried to imagine the guys piling out of the van and spilling round the corner of the street. On an operation like this there’d be half a dozen of them. One would be carrying the ram to put the door in. They called it the Big Key. On most occasions that would draw a smile from Suttle but not tonight. Winter, he thought. Poor bloody Winter.

  ‘They’re outside the property, sir.’ The TFU liaison again.

  Another pause. Another silence. On the TV the face of David Cameron appeared in close-up – sleek, pink, almost cherubic. Parsons had turned the sound down. Suttle hadn’t a clue what he was saying.

  ‘They’ve done the door, sir. There’s a guy tied to a chair.’ The TFU liaison was looking at Willard. ‘Mackenzie’s got something pointing at his mouth.’

  Willard wanted to know what the something was.

  ‘Hard to say, sir.’

  ‘Who’s the guy in the chair?’

  ‘We think Winter.’

  ‘Is he under threat?’

  ‘Yes, sir, definitely.’

  ‘And is Mackenzie backing off?’

  ‘No, sir. We’ve warned him twice. He’s not having it.’

  Willard was leaning forward in his chair, his body tense. In these situations, operational responsibility lay with the TFU commander on the spot. Only he could take the decision to open fire. Willard told the liaison D/S to wind up the volume on the comms. Then he sat back and closed his eyes. He was smiling.

  A single shot. Then silence.

  Afterwards

  The Portsmouth North election was won by Penny Mordaunt, the Conservative Party candidate, with a 44 per cent share of the vote. She beat the incumbent MP, Labour’s Sarah McCarthy-Fry, by 7,289 votes. Bazza Mackenzie, had he been alive, would have lost his deposit.

  Bazza Mackenzie’s death at the hands of the Tactical Firearms Unit was lead story in the Portsmouth News for a couple of days. The killing sparked remarkably few protests within the city, but the Chief Constable, after consultations with Det Chief Supt Geoff Willard, felt obliged to call in a team of officers from a neighbouring force to conduct an independent inquiry. The results of that inquiry are still pending, but inside sources report no cause for concern on the part of Hampshire Police.

  Marie Mackenzie had nothing to say about her husband’s death in response to enquiries from the News and a variety of other media outlets. She also declined to speak to reporter Gill Reynolds in connection with a special post-election News supplement. Neither would she take calls from Andy Makins, who appeared to be writing a book about her husband’s rise and fall.

  Marie and her immediate family headed the sizeable crowd of mourners who filled the city’s Anglican cathedral for her husband’s funeral. She resisted suggestions that Bazza’s coffin should be paraded through the city in a horse-drawn hearse but consented to decorate it with a single Pompey scarf when half a dozen 6.57 shouldered the coffin on its arrival at the cathedral. More 6.57 formed an honour guard to line Bazza’s path to the south door, and there was an impressive turnout of accountants, solicitors, city councillors and sundry other officials waiting inside. Bazza’s grandson Guy read a poem he’d composed specially for the occasion, and Marie voiced a simple, elegant tribute to the man she said she’d always loved. In good times and bad Bazza had always been her rock. No one could ever replace him.

  Off the record, in response to an enquiry from the 6.57, Marie emphatically denied that she’d ever had a relationship with Paul Winter. Neither did she know where he was. Nor did she ever want to see him again. When Cesar Dobroslaw seized her house, she moved in with her daughter and son-in-law.

  Paul Winter left the country the day after Mackenzie’s death. Thanks to a generous, if discreet, settlement from Hampshire Police, Misty and Trude joined him shortly afterwards. To date, they still occupy a roomy rented house in pinewoods across the bay from Porec. Winter is mulling over whet
her to make an offer for the freehold but is still struggling with Serbo-Croat. To Misty’s astonishment, he’s also developed an interest in fishing. Trude’s mobility is slowly improving. On good days she accompanies Winter to his favourite cove and helps sort out his lures. Misty, though she won’t admit it, is beginning to miss home.

  Det Chief Supt Geoff Willard is now an Assistant Chief Constable with West Midlands Police. He recently acquired the firearms portfolio on behalf of the Association of Chief Police Officers (ACPO).

  Pompey went to Wembley on Saturday, 15 May and gave a spirited account of themselves. Had they not missed a penalty early in the second half they might even have got a result. As it was, they lost to Chelsea 1–0. No shame.

  Two months after the conclusion of Operation Gehenna, with the new coalition government in place, Jimmy Suttle got a phone call from Ulyana, J-J’s partner. She said that J-J still had his father’s ashes and wanted to scatter them from the top of Tennyson Down, Faraday’s favourite walk. Would Suttle and Lizzie be prepared to be part of this last farewell? Suttle said yes.

  They met on a blustery day in mid-July. Tennyson Down is on the Isle of Wight. They took the FastCat to Ryde and caught a bus across the island to Freshwater Bay. From there a stiff walk took them a couple of miles to the very top of the down, marked by a huge granite cross. J-J was carrying his father’s ashes in a plastic container. The wind was blowing in from the sea. They all stood at the top of the cliff, peering down at the churn of the waves below.

  Suttle had brought the eagle poem, but J-J didn’t want him to read it. Instead, he knelt briefly on the springy turf and bowed his head. Then he got to his feet, unscrewed the lid of the container and scattered his father’s ashes. The wind, billowing up from the cliff face, carried most of the thin grey cloud away, but J-J was still finding tiny particles of grainy ash in his pullover on the bus ride back to Ryde.

  Six weeks later Jimmy Suttle got a letter from the Personnel Department at Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. They were happy to inform him that his application for a post with one of the force’s Major Crime Investigation Teams had been successful. Suttle carried the letter back upstairs with a cup of tea for Lizzie and a warmed-up bottle for Grace. Lizzie read the letter and returned it to the envelope.