Original Skin

by David Mark

  “It’s called a captive-bolt stunner,” Tanner had said beerily as he reached under one of the panels in the back of the van and pulled out an object wrapped in a burlap bag. “Most humane thing there is.”

  Ray had looked the man in his eyes to see if he was taking the piss. “Why you got one of these, lad? You’re meant to be a fucking animal lover.”

  “That’s why,” he’d said, removing the gun from the bag. “You know the places we get called to. You seen animals screaming, boss? Did you know animals can scream? Sometimes you can’t wait for the vet. Just can’t listen. They’d have my warrant card if they knew, but I’m not the only one. Quick blast with this, it’s over.”

  “And you can do that, can you?” Ray had asked. “These dogs aren’t dying, son. They just belong to a cunt who needs to talk.”

  Tanner had laughed off the suggestion he would not be up for whatever was required.

  “They went for a copper, boss. And, besides, it’s you who’ll be pulling the trigger, if it comes to it.”

  Ray feels the stun gun’s weight in his hand. He has absolutely no doubt about his willingness to make good on the threats he is about to make. Can feel bile and venom rising up his chest as they get nearer to the target. Can already see Rourke’s face in his mind’s eye, pleading for his dogs’ lives and giving them chapter and verse . . .

  They move off, quickly, slewing right as Tanner pulls onto one of the quiet side streets and narrowly misses a parked Mercedes.

  “Fucking Italians,” says Ray.

  “German, aren’t they? Mercs.”

  “Dunno.” Ray considers it. Tries to remember whom he is mad at. “Make good cars.”

  Both men are too drunk to be driving. A couple of hours ago, furious at the command from on high that both Ronan and his uncle be released due to lack of evidence and the insinuation that Ray had broken plenty of rules in dealing with the younger prisoner, this had all seemed a superb idea. They had sunk half a dozen pints of dry cider apiece as they celebrated their team’s 5–2 victory over Bridlington. The rest of the lads had called it quits after a pint or two, sloping off home to watch a period drama with the missus or pick up a curry and a six-pack ahead of a night in front of a DVD. Ray and Tanner had shown no such compunction. Ray has nobody to go home to. Dad of three, Tanner merely doesn’t want to go home.

  If asked, neither man would be able to decide accurately which of them had taken credit for their current course of action. The idea was born around teatime, in a pub called the Coach and Horses on the road back from Bridlington. It’s only a short drive from an area known to be popular with swingers and doggers looking to get their kicks, and where an out-of-town businessman was nearly crushed to death while cruising for sex a few nights ago.

  Alan Rourke’s Rottweilers are due to be returned to him tomorrow. His solicitor presented an emergency petition to the city magistrates, who ruled there was insufficient reason to have the animals destroyed. Rourke’s brief said the dogs had never harmed anybody before and were only defending their owner. What’s more, they had been responding to an order to kill given by a third party. The magistrates had taken mere moments to rule that the dogs be returned to their owner from the police-approved kennels where they were being held.

  Ray had told the story to his goalkeeper over their celebratory ciders. Some time later they decided to take the dogs. They drank more alcohol. Talked about gypsy bastards and ginger cunts. And then Tanner had told him about the little tool he kept in the back of the van in case of emergencies. And Ray had risen from the pub table like a monster, teeth clamped and finger already twitching to caress the trigger.

  The van pulls in to Tranby Rise. Behind thick curtains, tasteful lighting and TV screens glow. This middle-class street of bungalows and wind chimes smells of roast-beef dinners and family get-togethers. It is a place for families who all have the same surname. Colin Ray does not like the fact that it is home to Alan Rourke.

  “That one. Like a bloody cartoon house, isn’t it?”

  They park on the road, blocking the driveway and crushing two well-tended bushes that bloom beside the neat lawn.

  The dogs, perhaps sensing themselves near home, double their frenzied barking. Listening to their angry, frothing cries, Ray wonders that they were able to get the dogs in the back of the van without losing important body parts. He had marveled at the way Tanner had corralled the snarling animals into the specialist vehicle, using only a long pole with a slipknot noose, and some well-placed swear words.

  Ray steps down from the vehicle. Arches his back and winces again at a second stab of pain.

  “Tasteless bastard,” he mutters, looking at the large bungalow and the two large Honda four-by-fours parked on the redbrick drive.

  “Bet he’s got chandeliers,” says Tanner, appearing at his side. “They always bloody do.”

  A light comes on beyond the frosted-glass door of Alan Rourke’s home. The door swings inward. Rourke is silhouetted on his step, a can of beer in his hand, wearing only tracksuit trousers and leather slip-on shoes.

  “Them my dogs?” he asks, advancing down the drive. “Jesus, but you’ve got them worked up. That you, Mr. Ray?”

  They have left the vehicle lights on, and the glare of the headlights means Ray and his friend are hard to see. Rourke raises an arm as he approaches and squints his eyes.

  “Mr. Ray? Jesus, I didn’t expect personal service, sir. My brief said to just go pick them up tomorrow meself. My, you’re a grand fella, so you are.”

  Ray runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He feels angry and sick. It is a feeling he is used to. He suffers from stomach ulcers that would be enough of a reason for retirement. He sometimes feels as though his insides are decaying. When he is drunk and melancholy, the gases that belch up into his throat are rank with the taste of corruption. Of the grave.

  “Couldn’t expect you to put yourself out, Mr. Rourke,” says Ray, sneering. “That’s what we’re here for, lad. To serve people like you.”

  Rourke stands in front of them, hand veiling his eyes. He looks from one to the other with a half smile on his face that fades a touch when it is not returned. Both men are looking at him coldly. His excitement at being reunited with his dogs begins to fade.

  “You want to reverse into the drive so you can let the animals straight in the back?” he asks chattily. “May be easiest, eh? They’ll be overexcited, and we don’t want to wake this snooty bunch up, eh?”

  His attempt at making the two men warm to him gets nowhere, so he shrugs. Returns to the sullen unhelpfulness he exhibited throughout his interviews.

  “The lad wrapped up warm, is he?” asks Ray.

  “Ah, Ronan will be out with his pals, sir,” says Rourke. “I’m not his jailer. He’ll be home soon enough, and pleased to see my dogs back safe and sound.”

  Ray hopes that Rourke can smell the beer on their breath. Hopes he can tell how they feel about him. The stun gun is in his pocket, cumbersome but reassuring.

  He turns to Tanner. “Nice night for it, eh, Tanner? Would love to be out for a wander with my pals. Having a drink or two. Packet of fags. Fingering some tart round the back of the skips. Christ, he’s living the life, eh? Must be great coming to stay with Uncle Alan.”

  “Uncle?” asks Tanner, as if they have prepared the exchange.

  “Oh, not his real one. Friend of the family, like. Isn’t that right?”

  Rourke spits. Shrugs. Has heard enough. Wants his dogs.

  “He’s got an uncle, though, hasn’t he? Godfather, or whatever these godless bastards call them.”

  Rourke’s jaw tightens. He sips from his can of beer, then throws it into his garden.

  “Scary bastard, from what I’ve heard,” says Tanner quietly.

  “Aye, he is that. Big man in Ronan’s world, though. Big name.”

  “What was it again, boss?�
��

  Ray cocks his head. Looks skyward. Appears to be thinking. “Italian sounding, I reckon. Can’t bring it to mind. You want to help me out, Mr. Rourke?”

  Rourke considers the pair. Looks back up to the warmth of his own front door.

  “You got any more you want to get off your chest, or can I have my dogs?”

  Ray gives a tight-lipped smile. “That’s the thing, son. That’s the thing.”

  Rourke considers the detective. Looks closely at the fifty-year-old man in his disheveled black raincoat over soft cords and golfing jumper. Looks again at the face that has snarled at him across an interview-room table time and again these past days. There is nothing new about the distaste and contempt he sees in the policeman’s eyes, but tonight, away from the police station and accompanied by the sound of enraged barking, it is an undisguised malevolence.

  “The magistrates—”

  Ray laughs. “You hiding behind the law now, boy? You bomb a police van. You set your dogs on an officer. You spend days making me look a prick . . .”

  “Sir, I told you what I knew, and it was nothing . . .”

  Ray is shaking his head now, getting angrier. He does not know what he truly expected to happen when they arrived.

  “You made me look a prick, lad. But that’s going to change.”

  “Give me my dogs.” Rourke’s voice is rising.

  “I’m going to appeal to your better nature.”

  “My dogs, sir.”

  “I’m going to ask you the same questions I’ve asked you all fucking week . . .”

  “Ask what you like!”

  “And if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to kill your fucking dogs and throw them in the river. And if anybody asks what happened to them, we’ll say it was gypsies.”

  Rourke’s face twitches. He shows teeth. Pushes his hair back from his face. “You okay, girls?” Shouts this last at the side of the van, and is rewarded with a cacophony of barking.

  Ray has had enough. He pulls the gun from his pocket and Rourke instantly backs away.

  “Don’t you worry,” says Ray through a grimace. “It’s not what you think it is. I’m not going to put a bullet in your knee, though God knows I’d fucking love to. No, this is for your little darlings. You seen one before?”

  Rourke is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking in turn at the officers and the weapon in Ray’s hand.

  “Abattoir gun,” Rourke says, his teeth locked.

  “Give the man a prize,” says Ray, his voice high and unhinged. “I think they call them a stunner. They fire a metal bolt several inches into the brain. Render an animal unconscious in a heartbeat, to give you a bit of time to enjoy slitting their throat.”

  “They’re illegal.”

  “I give a fuck?”

  “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

  Ray strokes the gun as if it’s a pet. “I hope you don’t tell me, to be honest. I hope I get to look you in the eye while I run a straight blade across your darlings’ windpipes.”

  Beside him, Tanner shifts. This is ugly. This is more than the game he was expecting. There is something about Ray’s posture, his stance, that is more terrifying than the weapon in his hand.

  “Suppose I’m telling the truth?” says Rourke breathlessly. “Suppose I know nothing?”

  Ray spits. Hawks up something vile from his chest and launches it like a bullet. “Get the back doors open, Tanner. This selfish prick isn’t going to help his doggies.”

  Rourke stares into the officer’s eyes. Tries defiance. “You wouldn’t do it,” he says. “Not really.”

  Ray takes a step toward him. His eyes are only an inch or two from the traveler’s. He says nothing. Just lets Rourke make up his own mind about whether Ray has the balls to make good on his promise.

  “You sick fuck. You sick, sick fucker,” says Rourke desperately, looking to Tanner in the hope that the younger man, at least, is bluffing. “Please, officers. I can’t. This isn’t right. It’s not right . . .”

  “Open the van doors, son.”

  Ray’s voice is cold now. Almost a whisper. He is no longer expecting answers from Rourke. So he is going to kill his dogs.

  For a moment Tanner hesitates. The cold night air is cleansing him of the alcohol that has got him this far. He looks at Colin Ray and realizes what he is doing. Realizes that Ray never expected the man to talk. That he has been brought here to commit murder.

  “Just tell him,” says Tanner, suddenly beseeching. “He’ll do it. Look at him. He’ll fucking kill them both.”

  Rourke’s gaze flits between the two of them. For endless hours this man sat in cold cells and colder interview rooms, refusing to give more than a “No comment” or a “Fuck you.” Here, now, he is crumbling. He seems to be getting smaller under the weight of his indecision. He seems to be trying to decide whether to take a swing or run away. Whether to close his lips or spill his guts.

  “Open the fucking doors, Tanner . . .”

  “Noye,” says Rourke, and the name erupts from his lips like air from a popped balloon. “Giuseppe Noye. Ronan’s godfather.”

  Ray nods. Says nothing more. The look on his face is somewhere between fury and disappointment. The gathering wind plays with the tails of his coat. Takes some of the redness out of his face. He wants to shiver suddenly. Wonders if he is ill or in pain. Takes a cigarette from his pocket, lights it, and hands another to Rourke, who lights it with an expensive Zippo and inhales deeply.

  “Talk, boy. You’ve got to find a lot of words in the next two minutes or I swear I’m going to—”

  “We did time,” says Rourke, gabbling. “Pepe and me. He’s an important man. Not somebody to piss off. A friend.”

  Ray takes a drag on his cigarette. “I’m not gripped with excitement, lad.”

  “Pepe’s done a lot of time. Last stretch was a long one. He made some new contacts. Saw a new line of business. Saw an opportunity.”

  “Contacts?”

  Rourke blows out a cloud of smoke. “Asians,” he says quietly. “Vietnamese.”

  Ray spits. “Bollocks. Your lot don’t work with that lot. And they don’t work with outsiders, neither.”

  “It’s all changed, sir,” says Rourke, staring at the end of his cigarette as if looking for answers in the glowing tip. “Vietnamese may look after some things, but the people who give them their orders are people Pepe has no problems working with. Never used to, anyways.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Pepe’s nephew dotes on him. Ronan. Wanted to be like him his whole life. Wanted to impress him . . .”

  “And?”

  “And Pepe threw some work his way. Asked him to look into this new opportunity for him. He did. Showed a bit of heart. Balls, even. Pepe said he could be the man for these new opportunities.”

  “Are we talking in code, Rourke?”

  “I’m giving you what I can,” he says, bunching his fists.

  “Ronan got in over his head?”

  “He doesn’t think so. He thinks he’s the big man. Ronan’s gone off the rails. These new people Pepe set him up with, they’re bad news. Filled his head with big ideas.”

  “These are the people who run the drugs operation?” asks Ray. “The cannabis factories?”

  Rourke closes his eyes. “They’re big. Bigger than us. Than Pepe. All I know is, Ronan got caught up with people that weren’t good for him. And so Pepe asked me to try and get him out of it. Keep him under my wing. Look out for him.”

  “And you were willing to do that? Take this nutter in?”

  “When Pepe asks, you say yes. You don’t upset him.”

  “And Ronan didn’t want to leave his new mates behind?”

  “He wouldn’t come. Had to get Pepe to reach out to him direct and tell him that he’d gone too far. Th
at he had to come back with me. Ronan agreed in the end. Did as he was asked. But his new mates didn’t give a shit about what Pepe wanted. They said Ronan was part of the operation now. They were going to set fire to the whole bloody campsite. I didn’t know which fucking way to turn. It all got out of hand . . .”

  Ray pulls a face. Rubs the stun gun absentmindedly over his sore ribs. “Doesn’t sound like it was ever in hand. We got him easy enough . . .”

  Rourke grinds out his cigarette with the palm of his hand. “Copper will pay for that, I promise you. You warn him.”

  “Who?”

  “Big guy, so Ronan says. Ginger, Scots fella. Fucking giant, according to Ronan.”

  Ray looks confused. “McAvoy?”

  “Aye. Noye’s taking it personally. He can’t touch the lads who are driving Ronan astray, but he can bloody sort this.”

  Ray turns to Tanner. Gives a tiny shake of his head. Screws up his face, trying to make sense of it.

  “So Pepe tells this kid to go play with villains, then decides they’re too naughty and wants him to come home? Why didn’t he sort it himself?”

  “He doesn’t want the connection ruined,” says Rourke, as if eager to get every last word out of himself while he still can. “But he wants Ronan out of there.”

  “And Ronan’s enjoying himself too much?”

  Rourke looks down. “He’s running wild. I can’t control him. He’s giving orders and people are following them. He’s just a boy and these fuckers are doing what he says. Had one of his heavies hold some Chink woman’s hand in hot oil. Melted it down to the bone. Burned down a house on Bransholme where somebody said there was a little cannabis operation. He’s living in his head. He’s out of it. Threatening us. Threatening fucking coppers. Got his uncle involved now . . .”

  “Did you throw the petrol bomb, Rourke?”

  Rourke stops talking. Looks away.

  “I read his phone when he was having a shower. He’d got a message from his contacts. Told him the warehouse was being watched. Said he wanted a message sent to the coppers outside. I took it on. Called some friends. Cleared the warehouse for him.”