The Night the Rich Men Burned

by Malcolm Mackay

  Roy’s pausing, thinking about it. His is a small operation, always has been. There are some who try to go industrial, but that doesn’t work in a marketplace this size. You work in a city with just over a million people in it. That means the number of people who would ever buy from a man like Roy is relatively small. They want something cosy, trustworthy, long-lasting. Industrial doesn’t reassure them. Only way you can sustain industrial is to be national, and Roy’s never wanted that. He’ll stick to his territory. Besides, you go industrial, and you get noticed fast. So he’s always stayed small and that’s always worked for him. One or two people helping him at any one time. No more than that. Right now, only one employee. Could do with a second.

  ‘You know how it works, Arnie. I can’t promise him regular work. Little stuff, now and again. I’ll pay reasonable, I always do. Tell him to come round and see me tomorrow. I’ll talk to him then. If that goes well, if I think he’s up to it, I’ll have something for him. Nothing regular to start, but we’ll see.’

  ‘Thanks, Roy. I do appreciate this.’

  ‘You were lucky with your timing. I’ve only had one fellow helping for the last couple of months. I don’t like using him as much as I do. I’d rather split the workload, safer that way. Draws less attention to each one. Still, I’m not guaranteeing anything until I’ve spoken to him.’

  Arnie’s out of the house. Walking down the street, wishing he had enough money for a car. His poverty embarrasses him. He’s always been a grafter, but he’s had health problems. Lack of circulation in the legs making them painful and bloated. Angina. Damaged lungs too, apparently, you can throw that one onto the list. Lifestyle. That’s what the doctor said. Hard living, Mr Peterkinney, he said smugly. Bastard. He was right, but still a bastard.

  Sixty-three years old and what does he have for all that living? A dead wife, a feckless son and a dependent grandson. No money, no job and no prospects. A small, damp flat, no car and a long walk home on his bad legs. He won’t let this happen to Oliver. His son he did nothing for. But then, his son did fuck-all for himself. Ran off, left his wife and kid. Then the wife ditches Oliver with Arnie when the kid was thirteen. Good kid, but not what Arnie wanted in his life.

  Now trying to do right by the boy. Find him work. Is this doing right by him? Setting him up with Roy Bowles? It’s the last resort. Arnie spent months trying to find Oliver a legit job. Anything legit. The boy did his fair share of looking too. Just nothing out there. So it’s this or Marty Jones. That’s the only reason Arnie can justify this. The devil or the deep blue sea. Time to send Oliver swimming.

  It was a long walk. Tiring and sore. He’s grumpy by the time he puts the key in the flat door and steps inside. Cold inside. Always bloody cold inside. Switching on a light, and standing outside Oliver’s bedroom door. These walls and doors are paper-thin. No privacy. Another good reason to get the boy out of the house. No sound from inside the room. Knocking and opening the door. Switching on the light. Little more than a box room. Not home. Okay, well, he’s a young fellow, can’t tie him to the flat. Out with his mate Glass, no doubt. Having a bit of fun. Fine. Lucky him. Arnie will give him the good news in the morning. For now, he’s going for a long-awaited piss. Narrow little bathroom at the end of the corridor. Then bed. His bedroom larger than Oliver’s, but small, damp and basically furnished. Struggling to sleep. Hoping Oliver isn’t doing anything stupid.

  8

  Didn’t sleep a lot last night. Doesn’t sleep a lot most nights. Too much to think about. Plenty of work to do today. Bavidge has a small house, in a good area. Tidy, plain, predictable. The sort of house that hardly looks lived in. A house whose occupant has no interest in creating a home. He’s a quiet neighbour, polite and well-mannered to all he meets. Occasional relationships. Never anything that lasts. He has too much sense to try to create a long-term relationship. Not with his work. With his lifestyle. That’s just asking for trouble.

  Does get lonely though. One of the reasons he doesn’t much like being at home. Always alone there. He resents the loneliness that closes in on him here. No photos on the walls or mantelpiece. No hints of a hobby. No character. Just emptiness. Better to be out working. Day and night. On the streets, getting the job done. Make the money. Gain the security that comes with success. Then you settle down. Always persuading himself that that’s the plan. That he’ll see it through, and one day settle down with someone. Trying to persuade himself that that’s possible for a person like him. It’s a hard argument to keep having with himself. Cynical reality stamping on hopeless naivety.

  A quick breakfast, and out of the house. Consumed by work. Into the car and deciding on his first port of call. Not Jim Holmes. Someone else can deal with that hopeless bastard. Patterson will get someone to fix his door. Patterson will call him and reassure him that they’re doing all they can. Might calm his girlfriend a bit, hearing from the boss direct. The plan to ignore the kids and focus on bigger things won’t be shared with Holmes. He’s probably still sitting on his arse in front of his couch, doing what his girlfriend tells him.

  His first job is to drive past the house of Potty Cruickshank. Not exactly a job. A hobby, until there’s a plan. Big place. Old townhouse, where old money lives. Gardens too well maintained to be looked after by their owners. Estate cars and four-by-fours. Bavidge has no intention of doing anything to Potty yet. Leave him alone until Patterson decides otherwise. When that time comes, Bavidge will have to be ready.

  For now he’s getting an idea of the man. He’s seen him around. Watched him waddle from the door of a shop to his car one time. Didn’t look intimidating, but Bavidge knew better. The ones who look intimidating aren’t often the ones you should be most afraid of. Big tough muscular guys are not the best fighters. They rely on their muscle. They fight with the confidence of superior size. It’s the little ones, the smart ones. The ones that don’t have limits. The ones that don’t have size to depend on. People like Bavidge. And it’s the ones that come with consequences. Like Potty.

  Bavidge has heard all the stories that get told. As with most people in the business in this city, most of the stories are bullshit. The fantastic criminal tapestry of myth, half-truth and possibilities. A lot of the bullshit is spread by Potty and his people. They know how to build and maintain a reputation. But some of the stories are true. Enough are true to make Potty a very scary man. Enough to make him an exceptionally dangerous target. Patterson didn’t say it, but they both know it. If you’re going to take down Potty Cruickshank, then you have to kill him. Leave nothing standing.

  Won’t be here though. Too many big houses. Too many people walking their dogs and bossing around their gardeners. Too many people wary of threats and on the lookout for strangers. Big front gardens. Long driveway up to the garage. Potty isn’t daft. He’ll have all sorts of security at the house. Every inch down to the road will be covered. That makes the drive past worthwhile. Knowing that if they have to move in a hurry, this isn’t the place you hurry to.

  Turning at the bottom of the street and heading towards the west end. Work to do. There’s a difficult collection that Bavidge knows hasn’t been done yet. Other people are avoiding it. They have tough men collecting for them, but this one has been left simmering on the books too long. Has to be done. If he has to be the person that does it, so be it. Never bothered him much, the difficult work. If the job turns nasty, he turns nasty. If it’s awkward, it’s awkward. So what? You can’t expect to work in this business and have no trouble. Accept that whatever is going to happen will happen, and face it. You either survive or you don’t, and Bavidge isn’t too concerned either way right now.

  The guy’s name is Jamie Stamford. Tough son of a bitch. Works as muscle for Alex MacArthur, which is reason enough to be cautious. Stamford’s young and nasty. Thirty years old. Chucked twenty grand down a hole gambling on anything that moved and a lot of stuff that didn’t. Patterson bought the debt for 50 per cent. Nobody else would touch something that poisonous, which is why it was going
cheap. Hell, the two bookies he bought it from were delighted with 50 per cent. Just getting that much made Patterson their new best friend.

  Finding Stamford isn’t hard. One of Patterson’s men knows the gym he goes to pretty much every day. Wait for him outside. Have a conversation. Got to find the bloody place first. Bavidge isn’t one for gyms. His one impressive feat of agility was body-swerving the whole health and fitness movement. Not that he’s unhealthy. He’s trim because he works a lot and doesn’t eat too much. But the gym? Watching yourself sweat and pant in a big mirror while running on a treadmill like a fucking madman? Running to nowhere. No thanks. More of a metaphor than he wants to stare at all day.

  Took him a while to find the gym, but he did. Stamford’s car is still in the car park. Swanky-looking gym, swanky-looking car. Gym membership won’t be cheap. Neither is the car. For a guy with a twenty-grand debt, he seems to know how to spend money. How to waste it. That’s because he thinks he can get away with it.

  Stamford’s been doing it for years. Gambling like a moron, throwing his money away. Getting into debt, and then hiding behind MacArthur’s skirts. Being MacArthur’s favourite muscle has gotten him off the hook on all sorts of debt. And every time, the debt gets bigger. This twenty-grand debt is the biggest yet. Addiction running further and further out of control. Nobody else wanted to buy it. Nobody else wanted to piss off MacArthur. Patterson basically bought it to make a good impression on the two bookies. But he figures it’s worth trying to pick up.

  Bavidge agrees. You let one thug get away with it and they all think they can. A free run for the stupidity collective. Stamford is an example the collection industry can’t afford to set. So you go and get the money. You make an example of him. If he can’t get off the hook, no one can; that sort of example. If MacArthur decides to get pissy about it, you ask him what he would have done. Shit, if the old man’s dumb enough to have someone like Stamford close to him, that’s his problem. MacArthur knows how it works round here. If you owe money, you bloody well pay it.

  A few people have come and gone from the gym. All looking bronzed and vacant. All getting into their little mid-range sports cars or gaudy four-by-fours. Then Stamford. A bag slung over his shoulder. Wearing shirt and trousers, looking semiformal. Always a guy that likes to dress well. Those clothes won’t have come cheap either.

  Bavidge is out of his car and walking across to Stamford. Intercepting him before he reaches the safety of his car. Black Nissan GT-R, polished to a mirrored shine. Stamford’s seen him coming. Been muscle long enough to know trouble when he sees it. But he’s bigger than Bavidge. Taller, broader, firmer and with a longer reach. All the things he thinks matter. He doesn’t know who Alan Bavidge is. Doesn’t know what he’s done in his life. And his financial management shows that he’s a complacent prick with the judgement of a lemming. So Bavidge isn’t worrying too much.

  ‘Jamie. Good workout?’

  Stamford’s looking at him. Sneering, but with way too much effort to look anything other than dumb. ‘What are you, cop?’

  And Bavidge is laughing. A genuine laugh too. Not just doing it to piss Stamford off. Bavidge looks so much younger when he laughs. He can look so happy. It is hilarious that Stamford thinks Bavidge is a cop. Coming to question or arrest Stamford on his own? Yeah, right. He really is dumb muscle if he can’t tell the difference between a collector and a cop.

  ‘No, I’m not a cop. I just wanted to have a wee chat about some money you owe.’

  ‘I don’t owe any money,’ Stamford’s saying, moving to push past Bavidge to his car. Confident and dismissive and happy that this isn’t a conversation he needs to worry about.

  Lay down a marker. You let him push past you once and he keeps trying to push past you. You let him walk away from this conversation and you never get him back. The key to being a good collector is setting the tone. Do it early. Make sure the person knows who controls this. Make sure they know it’s never going to be them.

  So Bavidge is shoving hard against Stamford. Shoulder to shoulder. Stamford is bigger, but he’s not expecting it. People don’t shove back against him. So when Bavidge does, Stamford stumbles. And now he’s looking at Bavidge. A little bit of disbelief. A lot of anger. Ready to lash out, which is why Bavidge is acting first. He’s done this sort of thing before, you will have gathered.

  ‘You throw a punch and this gets out of control fast,’ Bavidge is saying with a snarl. ‘I’m here to let you know how it’s going to be. You owe exactly twenty thousand, one hundred and forty-two pounds. You are going to pay exactly twenty thousand, one hundred and forty-two pounds. No discounts. No deals. No getting off the hook. No hiding behind your boss like a pussy. We have your debt and we are going to collect. Other people might not collect on you, Stamford, but I will. You’re fuck-all to me. No hiding. However far I have to go to get that money, I will go.’

  Almost doesn’t matter what you say. Chances are Stamford’s heard some variation of this before, and it meant nothing to him then. He’s wriggled off so many similar hooks, the words don’t matter any more. It’s all about tone. You have to sound threatening. You have to sound confident. You can’t afford to sound like you’re out of control. And you can’t afford to sound like you’re trying your hardest. He has to believe that you have several more gears of the tough-bastard routine to go through.

  Stamford’s taking a step back, which is good. Everything he says beyond this point means nothing. Point is, he stepped back. He’s not trying to push through. He’s accepted that Bavidge is controlling this conversation. It ends when Bavidge says it does.

  ‘You don’t know who you’re fucking with, pal.’

  ‘Not a pal. And I do know. Jamie Stamford. Slack-jawed piss ant for Alex MacArthur. Problem gambler. Using his boss to get off the hook. Not any more. This is a big debt and a big problem, Jamie. Twenty grand. You need to pay that money, before it buries you.’

  Can’t make it clearer than that. But with some people, you can never make it clear enough. Stamford is starting to laugh. Not the nervous laugh of someone trying to look strong in a weak position. The complacent laugh of someone who knows their boss is bigger than any collector in the city. Who knows he has enough standing with the boss to expect yet another bailout.

  Kill that complacency. Fast. A punch in the stomach and Stamford is stepping backward. Not a great punch, but he wasn’t expecting it, so it had impact. The second one’s better. Side of the mouth. It’ll definitely bruise, might even loosen a tooth or two. Always leave them something to remember you by. Always leave them with a mark they have to explain to others. Keeps reminding them how serious you are. It’ll bruise Bavidge’s knuckles as well, but he has no one to have to explain that to. Stamford still isn’t down. He’s set his feet well, ready to counter. But this is one of those rare occasions where Stamford is not the more experienced fighter. Bavidge is charging him. Catching him hard with his shoulder, right in the chest. Stamford is down. On his back, instinctively trying to get back to his feet quickly. Ignoring the pain in the back of his head where it hit the concrete to try and get vertical. Always stay on your feet. Golden rule. But Bavidge is on him. He didn’t go down in the charge. That was the point. Now he’s kneeling down. Putting his knee, and all his weight, on the side of Stamford’s neck.

  ‘You want to go running to MacArthur? Fine, you go running to him. I’ll let you up and you can mince off to him now. You can cry into his fucking lap. Tell him what I did to you. Every time you go to him, he thinks less of you. You do get that, don’t you? You understand that every time he has to rescue you, he hates you a wee bit more? The more he has to help, the less he wants to. That’s rule number one. Never beg from your boss. You’ve been doing that a lot, haven’t you, Jamie?’

  ‘Get off me. You’re fucking dead.’

  ‘Sooner or later,’ Bavidge is saying, leaning in closer and lowering his voice, ‘you’re going to have to clean up your own shit. Start with this one. Impress the world by doing your own
dirty work for once. Get my twenty grand. If I don’t have it inside a fortnight, I’m coming back for you.’

  Bavidge is getting up now. Two people have come out of the gym. They’re standing close to the glass door, watching. Both dressed the same, so they must be staff. Must have seen it on the security camera. Bavidge is turning and walking back towards his car. He can hear the scuff of Stamford getting quickly to his feet. Waiting for the idiot to make a charge at him.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ one of the staff is shouting across.

  Bavidge is ignoring them. So is Stamford. Bavidge is at his car. Dropping into the driver’s seat, facing Stamford. He’s beside his car now, angrily throwing his bag into the passenger seat. Watching Bavidge as he drives away. Didn’t go brilliantly. Didn’t go badly. Probably won’t get the money, which is why he’s going to have to pay Stamford another visit. Something else he won’t bother looking forward to.

  9

  There are memories. They’re vague, but they’re definitely there. Some of them might be imaginary. Romanticized, at least. But Oliver Peterkinney can remember a few things about the night before. He remembers them as soon as he wakes up on the floor of Alex Glass’s living room. Yeah, that was a good night. He’s blinking heavily, and then looking around. Nobody there. Just him.

  Ah, that’s what that bang was. The front door. Someone leaving the flat. Who was it? Probably the silent girl. She didn’t say a lot last night, even after the four of them came back to the flat. She seemed happy, at least. Sure as hell relaxed. And they had a good time. He thinks.