The Jump

by Cole, Martina

  Lewis nodded at the logic of what Sadie said. Her gift, as she put it, would be very handy, very handy indeed.

  ‘But why are you telling me all this really? Come on, Sadie, I know you. What’s really behind this? You was stuck up Brunos’s arse for ages, I thought you was his best mate.’

  Sadie threw back the scotch and coughed heartily, her eyes watering at the unaccustomed alcohol.

  ‘I was fucked rigid by them when I was twelve. They hurt me and they hurt me bad. I wouldn’t wish what happened to me on anyone, Mr Lewis. Especially not a small child - say a three year old. Even you couldn’t countenance that, surely?’

  Donald Lewis, psychopath, sociopath, cruel-minded and evil as he could be, mass of contradictions and twisted in his perceptions of right and wrong, could not, under any circumstances, countenance that. Not in prison anyway. The other men would never allow it, no matter who it was. It was this fact that Sadie was relying on.

  ‘You did well, Sadie love,’ he told her now. ‘And as you point out, your little gift will be an asset to me. I’ll look after you now, you’re under my protection. I’ll sort this out, don’t you fret your little head any more over any of it.’

  Sadie smiled. ‘Thanks, Mr Lewis.’

  She went back to the rec room and Georgio winked at her as she sat down to watch Emmerdale. She smiled gently at him and then turned her face to the screen. But she wasn’t seeing the pictures before her, she was seeing two men, a dark smelly room, could smell faeces and blood mixed with sweat, the men’s breath laden with brandy and cigarette smoke, and she was hearing a child’s crying, a child’s terror.

  The child was herself.

  Davey walked into his house at eleven-thirty. He was half-drunk and tired. He slipped off his leather jacket and placed it on the banister at the bottom of the stairs. Yawning slightly, he walked into the front room.

  Carol was waiting for him. She had on no make-up, a shock in itself to Davey, who rarely saw her thus, and she was wearing a towelling dressing gown. On the floor by the coffee table were two cases.

  ‘What? You leaving me again, Carol?’ His voice was half-jocular, half-bored.

  Carol stood up. Folding her arms, she smiled. ‘No, Davey, I’m not leaving you. I’m throwing you out.’

  She watched with pleasure the look of absolute shock on his face. Then she saw him grit his teeth.

  ‘Listen, Carol, I ain’t in the mood for all this tonight, love. In fact, I am that far,’ he put his finger and thumb together to make a perfect O, ‘from smacking you one. And if you persist with this load of old crap, I will not only smack you one, I’ll slap you black and fucking blue!’

  Carol faced him. ‘Oh you will, will you? Well, Davey Jackson, I am that far,’ she made the same perfect O at him, ‘from putting a knife right through your dirty stinking nonceing heart! Now take your bags and fuck off before I do just that. And another thing while we’re at it: I think you had better see a solicitor, mate, about access to Jamie and the other kids, because knowing what I know now, I don’t think I can allow you to see them without me or someone else present.’

  She was hurting him, and she was enjoying it. As she saw the dawning of realisation hit his face, she smiled wickedly, even though her heart was breaking inside her chest.

  ‘Carol . . . Carol love, listen to me.’

  He took a step towards her but she backed away.

  ‘No, Davey, I ain’t ever listening to you again. You dragged me into something that I would never, ever have dreamt you capable of. “A bit of old bluey”, you said. “Nothing too near the mark”, remember? “We even supply the Old Bill with the merchandise”, you said. You lying fucking scumbag! Now take your gear and get out. We’re over, Davey, finished. I put up with your abuse, your temper, your whoring and your prison sentences, but this little lot . . . That is the finish, mate, and I mean it. I take a fucking oath on it. Get out whoring again, go back to one of your silly little birds, do what the fuck you like - but get out of my house!’

  Davey looked at the woman he had been forced into marrying, a woman he had loved in his own haphazard way over the years. The woman who had brought up his children, washed his clothes, cooked his food and visited him in prison. The thoughts of earlier in the day came back to him in a wave of fear.

  ‘Carol, darling, listen to me, love . . . Please - let me explain.’

  Hearing the whine in his voice, observing the complete shock on his face, Carol snapped. She launched herself at him, seeing the pictures in the books in her mind’s eye, knowing that he’d made those books possible. As she attacked him the venom spewed out of her. She felt a strength born of hatred and resentment spill out and move into her arms. She dragged him, shouting and hollering, along the passageway and opening the front door, she slung him over the step on to the pathway.

  She could hear Jamie crying in the background, could hear the lonely sobs of her child as she stood at the top of the stairs, watching all that was going on, woken by the raised voices and frightened of what was happening. But Carol ignored her daughter.

  Stalking back into the front room, she picked up the cases and threw them out on to the lawn; Davey’s leather jacket followed suit. Then, with one last look, she slammed the door in his beseeching face and walked steadily up the stairs, where she picked up her youngest daughter and held her tightly.

  The child she had had at forty-one to keep Davey at home.

  The child she loved more than any of the others.

  And sitting at the top of the stairs with Jamie on her lap, she cried bitter tears.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Georgio was awake long before the rest of the prison stirred.

  He lay in his bunk thinking over the events of the day. Twenty-four hours from now, he would be on his way over to Ireland. Vida would be waiting for him, and he would disappear off the face of the earth, his money with him. He smiled in the dimness of the morning light that was trying to force weak tendrils through the curtains on his window. He felt the rush inside himself at the thought of what he was going to do; felt the fear and the excitement welling up inside him.

  He heard the clanging of doors that denoted the changeover from night staff to day staff, then the early-morning calls from different cells, the laughter and the coughing fits. The sounds of a prison - sounds he would never forget, and never experience again after today. Knowing this, he almost savoured the noises, capturing them in his memory to keep with him and replay when he was lying on a warm, sun-drenched beach.

  He was ready and waiting with his toothbrush when his cell door was opened, and as he ambled along to the shower he grinned pleasantly at Big Ricky, who grinned back, a wide, blank-eyed grin that gave Georgio a feeling of fear which he suppressed. In less than two hours, the day would be turned into a nightmare for screws and nonces alike. He couldn’t wait.

  Sadie watched him walk past her cell and pushed her face into the pillow to stem her breathing. She had half-loved Georgio, trusted him through all her grief over Timmy, allowed him the use of her lipreading gift. Now she would be used by Lewis, and knowing him he would use her to the utmost. But she was willing to take that chance to get her own back on a man who could use children, use his wife, use everyone around him. Even Timmy had been used. Sadie would avoid Georgio like the plague this morning. She would stay in her cell and wait the day out. In the shower, Georgio was singing at the top of his voice. He soaped himself liberally and washed his hair, scrubbing himself hard, wanting to wash off the stink of the prison. A stink he would not have to put up with for much longer. He was even looking forward to his breakfast. After rinsing himself off, he put a clean dry towel around his waist and strolled into the toilet cubicles. At the far end was a cupboard used by the prisoners who cleaned the floors. Opening it, the stench of urine and faeces hit him, making his eyes water. He smiled, and using a piece of wood, stirred the contents of the black bucket, grinning as he pictured the contents hitting the Governor full in the face.

  Closin
g the door, he strolled back towards his cell, smiling a greeting here and there. Young Benjy was standing outside his door and Georgio hailed him heartily.

  ‘Fuck off, Brunos, I ain’t in no mood for you!’ Georgio watched him, a smile on his face as the boy stalked away. ‘Who rattled his cage then?’

  Ricky stuck his head out of his own cell and said in a low voice, ‘Who knows, Brunos? Maybe it was you.’

  Georgio looked puzzled and Ricky smiled that smile of his again, showing immaculate teeth.

  Georgio laughed. The day was his, there was nothing that could phase him. Not today, the day he jumped.

  Whistling, he strode into his cell to dress before going for his breakfast.

  Nick’s eyes were bright with malice as he spoke to Albie over a breakfast of coffee and doughnuts.

  ‘Can you believe it, eh? Georgio Brunos a beast. A seller of children. A beast in all ways. I hate the nonces, God knows I hate them, but it’s the beasts, the people who supply the filth, that I really hate. Remember when I found you, Albie? How I looked after you? Took you to the hospital, visited you, brought you back to live with me? How old was you then?’

  Albie put up his hand, fingers outstretched, three times.

  ‘Fifteen, eh? Fifteen and abused and used. Hard to believe that in a country like this, a so-called democracy, there’s still that black economy, children for sale. Young men for sale, arses for sale!’

  Albie flinched at his words and Nick smiled sadly.

  ‘I always get upset about it, you know that, Albie. Now I have to decide what I’m going to do to Georgio Brunos. How best to fuck him up. I would call off Eric if I could, but as Alan Cox said, Eric doesn’t give a flying fuck either way. He’d jump Georgio if he was a rapist as well as a beast. He wants his dosh and he’ll only get that off Georgio once the jump’s over. No, it’ll be much better to see Mr Brunos for myself. Face to face like. In a knife-to-cheek situation, know what I mean?’

  Albie smiled knowingly.

  ‘You’d like that, Albie, wouldn’t you?’

  He made a noise in his throat, causing crumbs to spray across the table. Nick looked at him with distaste. ‘Wipe your mouth, Albie, you know I can’t bear bad table manners.’

  Albie wiped his mouth with a Kleenex and smiled again.

  Nick put another doughnut on his plate and wondered aloud, once more, what was the best way to pay back Georgio Brunos.

  Eric felt the calm excitement he always experienced when a job was in progress. He sat in the skip lorry waiting patiently for the other men to do their jobs. He wasn’t worried about them, they were good men, well-briefed and frightened of him. One thing he had learned in the Army: frighten the hell out of the men and they’ll respect you. The majority were in the forces because they needed the order and discipline. They wanted to be told when to eat, sleep, shit and do their overtime. He smiled as he thought it, checking his watch once more.

  A police car cruised past and he stared ahead of him at the paper perched on the steering wheel. He would not leave the yard with the skip lorry until he knew the sweatbox was on the ferry. Then he would move it to the spot at Devil’s Bridge. It was planned out perfectly. There were roadworks on the slip road near where the jump was to take place; Jonnie H. and the others would be following him in the Mercedes van, all dressed as workmen. A council logo painted on the side of their vehicle would ensure their passage without hindrance.

  All they needed was Brunos to do his job and they’d be on their way.

  He thought of what Alan had told him that morning. So Georgio was a beast. Big deal. What the fuck did he care about that? Alan Cox should have done a stint in Viet Nam, where the children were used to carry weapons and messages, and blow up fucking roads. They weren’t just used for sex out there, mate. They weren’t children in the European sense of the word, they were tiny old men and women, advanced enough at seven to barter their services. Old enough at eight to sell a sibling.

  He shook his head in wonderment at the world and the people in it. Alan Cox was like a big tart. Imagine expecting him to give up the chance of forty grand over a few kids! It was laughable. And as for insinuating that maybe Georgio wasn’t such a good payer of debts, maybe he wasn’t, but he’d pay Eric out all right. Because if he didn’t Eric would haunt him until he did, and Georgio knew that. Anyone who knew Eric knew that.

  He’d slit a throat for the price of a pack of fags if he was skint enough. That’s why he was where he was; that’s why he was called on by villains, terrorists and the like. He had no scruples and didn’t see the sense in gaining any at this late stage. Let Brunos carry on beasting when he got out, that was none of his business. All Eric knew was that once Georgio was out, he would be paid out in full. He would see to that himself.

  His mobile phone rang and he answered it.

  ‘Yeah?’

  He listened for a few seconds.

  ‘OK, Jonnie, make the break. See that the vehicles are ready and able in one hour from now. I’ll ring when I’m on my way.’

  He turned off the phone and went back to his contemplation of what he would do with his forty grand.

  First on the agenda was a little Somali woman he’d had his eye on for a while. With forty grand tucked away, he could buy her, her sisters, and the whole village if he wanted to. But she would do for starters.

  He needed a holiday, and had always liked the anonymity of Africa. It was like his second home. He smiled as he thought that. In reality, it was his only home.

  You could get lost in Africa. You could buy anything and live out there for a pittance, and live well. He had worked for most juntas, been involved in enough coups to write a handbook about them, and he had enjoyed every second of it.

  Yes, Somalia would be his first stop, then he might even take a trip to see one of his wives.

  South America was always good for a laugh.

  As he daydreamed, his eyes were taking in everything around him. Even while asleep Eric listened to the world around him. It was a habit that had kept him alive longer than any of his contemporaries.

  Maeve was reading the Sun’s problem page and drinking a cup of strong tea when the doorbell rang. Sighing, she went down the stairs to answer it, annoyed at the interruption to her morning break. The doorbell rang again and she shouted, ‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’

  Flinging open the door she was confronted by two policemen.

  ‘Mrs Brunos?’

  Maeve felt the fear a policemen at the door brings to all mothers.

  ‘Yes. What can I do for you?’

  The older policeman smiled sympathetically.

  ‘Can we come inside, love? We need to talk to you.’

  They followed Maeve up the stairs, their heavy boots making a loud noise on each step. Inside her small front room, Maeve faced them fearfully.

  ‘Is it one of my children . . .’

  The older man spoke again, his face regretful, his whole body language telling her that something bad had happened.

  ‘It’s about your son, Stephen Brunos. I’m afraid he met with an accident in Sri Lanka.’

  Maeve’s mouth moved a few times, but at first she couldn’t get any sound out of it.

  ‘What kind of accident?’

  The younger man put his hand on her arm. ‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea, eh? Is your husband around, love?’

  Maeve shook her head, allowing the policeman to sit her down on one of the worn armchairs.

  ‘What’s happened to my boy? Tell me what’s happened? ’

  A small voice in the back of her mind was relieved it was Stephen they’d come about, and not one of the girls, Mario, or Patrick. Patrick the womaniser, Patrick who came and went like a ghost. The policeman was talking once more, but Maeve couldn’t take in what he was saying.

  ‘The British consulate has established that it was indeed your son’s body. His passport was in his hotel room and the photograph was his. It seems he had rather a lot
to drink, and then went swimming. There’s quite an undertow apparently. A terrible tragedy . . .’

  Maeve wasn’t listening any more. She had heard all she needed or wanted to hear.

  The front door opened and Pa Brunos’s heavy tread could be heard on the stairs. The tears came then, because she felt so sorry for him, because she now knew what the police were going to say, and once Pa heard it as well it would be true.

  She’d lost a child of her body, he was never coming home again. Stephen, the least loved of her children, the one she found it difficult to love, had always found it difficult to love, was lying somewhere on a tropical island, alone, dead and cold. His handsome features never to age, his mother never to get over the loss of him, even though she was telling herself that she was pleased it was him and not one of the others.

  Pa took one look at his wife, and the police, and knew that death was stalking his family.

  Taking Maeve’s hand in his, he listened silently and without tears to what the older policeman was telling him.

  Jonnie H. was nervous. Sweat trickled down his back, even though the van was freezing.

  ‘You checked the bikes over?’ he asked yet again.

  The oldest McAnulty brother sighed heavily.

  ‘Will ye fucking calm down, Jonnie? Everything’s ready to go.’

  Jonnie lit a cigarette and drew on it heavily.

  ‘I hate the waiting. Never was any good at waiting, know what I mean?’

  Danny nodded. ‘It doesnae bother me. In Scotland waiting is a national pastime.’ He laughed loudly. ‘Especially on the Clyde. I’ve had to wait all my life.’