by Robert White
“You’re all ex-army ain’t yer?”
Rick poured water into a teapot; I opened the fridge for milk. We both made the brews in silence before Rick handed Sellers her cup.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a sip and setting it down on the worktop. “Now, Mr Forrest. From your last comments, I take it you served?”
“16th Air Assault.”
“Impressive,” said Sellers. “A Pathfinder?”
“What if I was?”
“I see. So… Kosovo, Sierra Leone, Macedonia?”
“Spot on Ma’am.”
“Afghanistan?”
Forrest shook his head. “I was discharged before my unit were posted there.”
“Discharged?”
“Medical,” said Forrest. “I lost the plot for a while.”
I knew how the boy felt.
“How long have you been in Civvy Street then?” she asked.
Forrest shrugged. “Four years, just over.”
“And now you’re a doorman?”
“I done all sorts, Ma’am. Labouring, warehousing, even tried telesales.”
“Not for you then?”
Forrest shook his head. “I did alright for a while, but Lucy, my missus, well, she’d had enough. My moods, the depression, things weren’t too good between us and she eventually kicked me out. I slept rough for a bit, until one night, two blokes tried to turn me over and I dropped ‘em both. I got nicked and did some time.”
“Oh dear.”
“Actually, in one sense, it did me good. I got diagnosed with PTSD and got some help from the prison quacks.”
“I sense a big ‘but’ coming.”
Forrest turned down his mouth. “Well, you meet all sorts in those places, eh?”
“I can imagine.”
Forrest shook his head.
“I don’t think you can, but anyway. I was introduced to this face in Strangeways, big hitter… actually ran a business from the jail. A security company.”
I tossed Forrest’s SIA licence over to Sellers. She caught it.
“Big C Securities,” she read.
“That’s what it says on the tin.”
“And you work for them directly?”
“Me and dozens of others. They run over half the doors in Manchester, but they’ve fingers in lots of pies, some legit, some not.”
“And they gave you your brief tonight?”
“I’m wearing the badge, aren’t I? Word was your boy owed a face from Burnage five large and he’d as much as told the bloke to stick it up his arse. All I knew was he was due in the Flatty and that the two boys were going to pay him a visit. I had a drink in it, ten percent.”
“And you weren’t to get in their way?”
“That’s about it.”
Sellers nodded, stood and walked out of the kitchen. I heard her talking with Lauren in the front room, then moments later she returned with a battery powered hammer drill in her hand.
She sat back down in front of Forrest, checked the chuck on the drill was tight and squeezed the trigger. The high pitched sound of the tool rotating even made me wince. It was like the worst dentist nightmare you could imagine.
“You are fucking nuts,” said Forrest, eyes wide and suddenly much less confident.
Sellers blipped the trigger again for good measure. The drill screamed.
“Nuts? No… You see, Michael,” she said. “People are often incredibly naïve when it comes to military officers, those of higher rank. For some ungodly reason, they have it in their heads that we are somehow more forgiving, or less ruthless than those who, shall I say, are further down the pecking order. This is not so. Even your associates that shot poor Sean Ryan tonight would probably baulk at drilling into your kneecaps. It takes a certain kind of human being to inflict that degree of agony and still feel absolutely nothing. So…”
She looked up at me, and then to Rick. I’d never seen anyone so calm.
“Stand on his feet, chaps,” she said. “I don’t want him kicking me in the lady garden.”
“Ms North, if you please,” she shouted.
Still in the living room, Lauren turned up whatever she was watching on the TV.
“Right,” said Sellers. “That should cover the screaming.”
She cocked her head quizzically.
“Now, Forrest. Last chance. You will tell us those names, either after the left knee, or maybe the right. I’ve never known anyone get past the first elbow joint though.”
Forrest was sweating profusely. He shook his head.
“Come on Ma’am. You can’t be serious. I served my country for fuck’s sake.”
Sellers pressed the trigger of the drill and it burst into life, the bit just millimetres from Forrest’s kneecap. He began to struggle violently, but with Rick and me either side of him, our boots firmly on top of each of his feet and his wrists firmly bound, he had no chance.
“Please!” he shouted. “For God’s sake…”
Like a well-oiled machine. Lauren stepped into the kitchen and in one swift choreographed movement took Sellers place.
“Good evening, Michael,” she smiled. “My name is Lauren North. I’m not a soldier, nor have I ever served in any part of the military. I was a nurse, a sister to be precise and right now, I’m your stay of execution.”
She clasped her hands together as prim as any costume drama extra and rested them in her lap.
“So, like it or not, right now, as we see it, this sorry mess is all your fault. Because of you, a young boy who we were counting on to assist us, is dead and as a result, you are on very thin ice. Therefore, as they say, I’m going to read you your horoscope. The offer I’m about to make you is non-negotiable. It is a once in a lifetime deal. Let’s call it a life or death decision. I say this because, option one is, you carry on with your current stubbornness, Ms Sellers here drills into your kneecaps whilst I keep you alive long enough for you to tell us what we need to know, then we dump your sorry carcass in the Manchester Ship Canal for the fish to feed on.”
Forrest curled his lip. He was a brave boy for sure.
“And option two, is I get my head blown off by some fourteen year old in a tracksuit before the week is out.”
Lauren looked at Rick and he gave her the slightest of nods. The plan was about to work.
“Option two,” she corrected. “Is you work for us.”
I could almost see the boy’s mind working overtime. He examined us all in turn.
“What the fuck is this about?”
Rick stepped in front of him, teacup in one hand, his other casually pushed in his jeans’ pocket.
“So, now you know Ms North’s background. As for me and my Scottish friend there, Mr Cogan, we both served with 22. Ms Sellers, as you guessed was a Rupert…”
“Steady, Fuller,” said Victoria.
“Apologies… An officer,” corrected Rick. “With the Intelligence Corps. Matter of fact, she worked alongside your mob for a while.”
Victoria nodded.
“Yes, 152 DELTA Psychological Operations Effects Team, part of the PsyOps Support Element backup for 16th Air Assault Brigade in Helmand Province.”
“I’m meant to be impressed?” said Forrest. “Seems to me, you’re no better than them boys in the Flat Iron.”
Lauren cocked her head.
“Wrong, Forrest… we run a legit CP business, amongst other things. Occasionally, we get asked to complete the odd delicate task for the powers that be.”
“You mean black ops?” asked Forrest, suspiciously.
“Call it what you like,” said Lauren. “For the next few weeks, our job is to rattle some cages here in Longsight and the surrounding area. You can help us do that. Front an op or two. Make a lump of money. Then, when it’s all over, we’ll give you some body guarding work, w
ell paid jobs. You’d be tucked nicely away from prying eyes… Dubai maybe?”
Rick stepped forwards again.
“Look, pal. I know what it’s like to fall off the perch. I left 22 under a cloud and came here to Manchester. But I’ve been lucky. I made some money and I’m alive to tell the tale. Look, think about it… a week’s work, maybe two max… thirty grand cash.”
Forrest looked around the room. “Have you any idea what and who you are taking on here?”
“We will take on all comers,” said Rick. “But let’s start with the two shooters. That should send Arti Jonas the right message, and we’ll take it from there.”
“You are fucking crazy,” said Forrest. “They’re all connected.”
“If you are implying that I have mental health issues,” said Rick. “I think all in this room would agree with you. Also, I’m fully aware of Jonas’ antecedence.”
The boy took a deep breath. We all waited.
“Thirty grand you say?”
Rick nodded.
“In cash?”
“In cash,” said Lauren.
Forrest pursed his swollen lips.
“I don’t have any choice, do I?”
Lauren shrugged.
Forrest shook his head. “I must be fucking insane too, but… okay, I’m in.”
Rick Fuller’s Story:
Once again, Des stood in the back yard smoking whilst I stood at arm’s length. Through the kitchen window, he could see Lauren sorting out Forrest’s facial injuries.
“You trust him?” he asked blowing out smoke.
I leaned out of the way of his plume. “More than I trusted Sean Ryan… much more. At least he’s not an irritating little shit. Seems a handy lad, some combat experience, needs the money, and more importantly, isn’t stuffing charlie up his nose every five minutes.”
“So you’re bringing him along tonight?”
I nodded, “Like I said, we all stay together if we can. Besides, I’d rather keep him in my sight for the time being, just in case I’ve lost my touch when it comes to a judge of character.”
“You going to arm him?”
I shook my head.
“Not on this one, let’s just see how he goes.”
Des refilled his pipe.
“I can’t quite place his accent. He’s not a Manc that’s for sure.”
I shrugged.
“The Wirral, maybe even North Wales, I’d guess.”
At that, the back door opened, and Michael Forrest stepped into the yard. I’d caused him some damage. His left eye was almost completely closed, and he had a good sized egg on his brow. His top lip was badly swollen, and he dabbed blood from his mouth as he walked over.
He’d obviously overheard me.
“I was born in Huyton, Liverpool, but we moved to Queensferry when I was small…. and the name’s Mickey by the way. No one calls me Michael.”
Des held out a hand and he took it. Then Mickey turned to me and we shook.
“Sorry about the mouth,” I said. “Oh, and I wouldn’t expect Victoria to be calling you anything more casual than Forrest… she’s big into formality, that one.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said rummaging in his pockets for cigarettes. “We had a female Rupert in Kosovo. Hard as fucking nails.”
Forrest popped a fag in his mouth.
Unable to hide my disappointment, I shook my head. Forrest just shrugged and looked to Des for support.
“I like a man with bad habits,” said the Scot, defiantly lighting his dreadful pipe.
I took a couple more steps away from the evil smelling weed.
“So, the two boys?” I asked, as both my companions got on with their cancer regime.
“Cousins,” said Mickey. “Davie and Stevie Melons. Manchester born and bred. They’ll, work for anyone who will pay their fee. But, like I said, they’re protected, they’re in the Big C camp, just like Jonas. Word is, Arti didn’t want to deal with this particular problem himself. He’s trying to keep his head down for a while. Something to do with a big deal coming up. Anyway, he asked the Melons for a favour, you know, to sort out your boy, Sean.”
Mickey took a long pull on his cigarette. He sniffed and dabbed his lip again.
“The kid could still be walking around, but he virtually told Arti to go swivel for his money. To make matters worse, things are apparently tight right now. There’s a bit of a drought and cash flow is key. The kid signed his own death certificate. Within the hour, the deal was done to slot him. I got a call to say I’d been moved from my regular door, to the Flat Iron… you know the rest.”
“Sounds like we need to take a look at this Big C lot,” I offered.
Mickey looked me in the eye.
“In your dreams, Fuller. The place is all smoke and mirrors. Nice offices, pretty secretaries. You only ever get to deal with the legit faces of the company. For instance, I have all my papers in order. SIA licence, CRB check, the lot. I get paid through my bank, there’s no cash in hand work, well, not officially. You never meet the real power behind the firm. Maybe a visit from a nameless face giving you the hard word and shoving a monkey in your back bin for your trouble. But those faces are never directly associated with Big C. It’s like a parallel universe. These days, I get a call. Normally to watch for a particular crew walking into a venue to deal for an hour or two. I make sure they get in and out, all sweet like. When I get to my next job, there’s normally a brown envelope waiting for me. I’ll be honest, it never bothered me, just an extra tickle. I weren’t too happy about the young kid though, but once they have you, well, you’re in until they say otherwise. Know what I mean?”
I did.
“Anyway,” said Forrest. “As I told you, the guy that runs the Manchester operation is actually doing a twenty stretch in Strangeways. You ain’t going to believe this, but no one uses his real name. Even the screws call him by his street name, Jester. Funny really, he’s just about as safe as anyone in his profession could be. The cons are all scared of him, and the screws are on a tickle to turn a blind eye. The word is that he is part of an even bigger crew that control other parts of the country, but that’s just a rumour, I can’t back it up with anything. When the Jester knew I was getting out, he gave me a number to call, a guy called Edward Fisher. He’s the face of Big C, clean as a whistle, or so he would seem. Now, the moment you move to slot the Melons boys, you take on all this crew, and that is a very dangerous game, so what I want to know is, why? Was the kid related to you or something? I mean, otherwise, I can’t see that little coke head being so important that you want to bring the wrath of the Jester down on you.”
I took a good look at Forrest. He was younger than Des and me, by a good ten years. He was fit, well-muscled and despite his facial injuries, a handsome boy, and I could see from his hands, his damaged knuckles, that he’d dished a bit out in his time.
As a Pathfinder, an elite member of 16th Airborne, Forrest would have been trained to a similar standard to the boys in the Regiment. The Pathfinder Platoon Selection Course, known as ‘The Cadre,’ covers almost all UKSF Selection Course training grounds although, at just six weeks long, is much shorter. Pathfinder Platoon is made up of just forty men, an integral part of the 16th. The Platoon acts as the brigade’s reconnaissance force, locating and marking drop zones. Once the main force has landed, the platoon then provides tactical intelligence and offensive action roles for the brigade. All this meant that Forrest was a tough boy, and I couldn’t help but wonder what had sent him over the edge. Being medically discharged was a very difficult thing to cope with. The support for the men and women coming home from conflict was sporadic at best. Many, like Forrest, ended up on the streets, alcoholism was rife, as was the ridiculously high suicide rate. There were some charitable organisations who did excellent work, but it was no more than a sticking plaster for a much larger problem
.
I knew all about mental disorders. You only needed to look in my wardrobe to see that.
As if to prove my point, I couldn’t help but admire Forrest’s Timberlands as I considered my reply.
“The boy was the brother of our secretary.” I said. “She was worried about him, knew he owed money to the wrong people. We were going to pay his debt and he was going to front a couple of smaller jobs for us, a familiar face on the block always opens doors. Unfortunately, he was a silly boy and now, his job will be down to you. The powers that be want us to make waves, and quick. Once we start to make a bit of noise, they think our real target will come looking for us.”
“Arti and Big C will do that, mate, but I’m guessing there’s another face involved, an even bigger hitter,” said Forrest.
“That’s classified,” said Des. “A need to know basis.”
“Sounds like a gang fuck,” said Forrest.
“Aren’t they all? “ I said. “So, slight change of plan, we take the Melons boys first, then Jonas and his sidekick.”
Mickey raised his brows.
“Tony Jacket? Fuck me, you’ll need to watch yourself there, he’s a proper head case.”
I shrugged.
“Yes, that’s him, real name Gage Molnár, looks a bit of a handful in his picture, I have to say.”
“He is,” nodded Forrest. “But I’d still feel better if I knew who the real target is. I don’t like being in the dark, especially if they are coming looking for me, too.”
“Ye need to walk before ye can run, son,” said Des. “Let’s just see how ye get on, eh. Oh… and, for the record, if we end up confiscating any gear, it gets destroyed; nothing actually gets sold and none of our team use.”
Mickey stubbed his fag under his foot. “Same here, never touched the stuff… Okay, so you don’t want to tell me who the target is, but can I ask something else?”
“Ask away,” I said.
“Who’s picking up the tab?”
“The men in suits,” I said.
Mickey nodded slowly, “And if we get lifted?”
I just looked him in the eye.
“Thought as much,” he said.
* * *
The cousins lived in a block of maisonettes a stone’s throw from Salford Crescent railway station. Salford was, of course, a city in its own right and had been a haven for gangland activities for more than a hundred years. But, where a long line of Chief Constables had failed, simple human need had begun to change the landscape, and the ‘hood,’ was shrinking. Along with large swathes of Manchester, Salford was being changed by education. Not the education of the poor souls born and bred in the City, scratching a living and doing their best to keep their kids out of the hands of the dealers, but the education of students from all over Europe. Salford University was growing and, with it, the need for student accommodation. This meant that privately owned rented housing was in great demand. The owners and landlords of these properties quickly realised that they could earn far more in rent if they replaced the underprivileged people of Salford with students supported by rich parents or large loans. And now, with newly built bespoke student halls to house even more middle class teens, Salford was becoming almost trendy.