by Shaun Hutson
Carer regarded Drake malevolently, watching as the other man continued to wipe blood from his lip.
'You heard me,' Harrison insisted.
Drake took a step forward, reluctantly extending his right hand.
Carter hesitated then took it, squeezing it in an iron-hard grip.
They finally parted, both turning back to face Harrison.
'All right. For now we wait,' he said. 'We wait and see what happens but I'll tell you this, if the time comes for war then we'll be ready. I'm not having some fucking wop or scouse or bloody mick walking all over me.' His breath was coming in short gasps. 'It took me a long time to build what I've got and I'm not giving it up. I'm certainly not giving it up without a fight. And if anyone wants what I've got then they're going to have to take it by force. And I'll bury any fucker who comes after me.'
Fourteen
The place stank of urine as usual.
The dirty tiles were puddled with the substance and close to one of the ticket machines lay a pool of vomit. From the smell rising from it, Adam Giles guessed that it was fresh.
A uniformed policeman was talking to a drunk who had wet himself, the dark stain spreading across the front of his trousers even as he spoke, making exaggerated gestures with his hands. Finally the policeman took him by the arm and led him away. Adam heard a stream of abuse as the drunk was escorted from the underground cavern.
Late night travellers passed the scenes of filth and degradation with scarcely a second glance.
It was business as usual in Piccadilly Circus tube station.
And business was what Adam was looking for.
He'd had a good night so far, nearly one hundred and fifty notes were stuffed into the pockets of his jeans and his leather jacket. He'd managed to find more than enough willing punters tonight. It wasn't always like that. Especially since the AIDS scare, business had slowed down but, nevertheless, there were always customers to be found if you looked hard enough. Adam had been working the area around Piccadilly for the last three months and he knew where to look. At nineteen he was tall and thin, his face pock-marked, his lips swollen, almost repulsively large. He thought they were one of his best features and he glanced at his reflection in the glass of a ticket window as he passed. The man inside saw him and looked away swiftly. Adam smiled to himself. He had been a customer on more than one occasion. Fifteen quid for a blow job and the ticket seller was more than happy. Most of the punters wanted blow jobs now. They were frightened of AIDS too. Adam was frightened but he had to make a living so he continued playing the game of sexual Russian roulette, sometimes pulling in up to three hundred pounds a week.
Of course there were others working his patch. Many others and some had resented his intrusion. During his first week he'd been beaten up by two older youths, one of his fingers broken and two front teeth chipped. But it hadn't deterred him. He had sworn from the beginning that, once he had a thousand pounds saved, he'd give up the racket. But he seemed to fritter his money away and the time when he'd be able to leave this particular way of life behind seemed a long way off.
His parents never asked him where he went at night. He'd told them he had a cleaning job in one of the West End's top hotels and they didn't ask questions. He gave his mother fifty pounds a week and lent his father enough to keep him in drink, so they both kept quiet. It probably wouldn't have bothered them if they had known how he spent the hours of darkness but, for now, he had chosen to live out the charade.
As he strode through the underground station towards one of the exits he decided that it was time he made his way home, back to Leytonstone. He was carrying too much cash. If one of the other rent boys should decide to have a go at him then he had too much to lose.
It was as he was approaching the exit that he noticed the man standing at the foot of the staircase.
Adam glanced at him, at the dust flecked overcoat, the hat pulled down tightly over his head, the scarf wrapped around his face so that only his eyes showed.
The man caught Adam's eye as he passed, his head turning only fractionally to follow the path the youth was taking.
Adam was half-way up the stairs when he glanced back.
The man was staring up at him.
However, as Adam saw him looking he ducked back out of sight. The youth smiled and turned, heading back down the stairs. Well, maybe just one more job before he went home. He reached the bottom and walked past the man once again, smiling at him this time.
The man remained motionless, his eyes never leaving the youth.
Adam pulled a stick of chewing gum from his pocket, careful not to dislodge a bundle of ten pound notes, and pushed it into his mouth. Then he walked back towards the man in the dusty overcoat and smiled up at him.
`You looking for someone?' he asked.
The man nodded slowly and Adam took the chance to run appraising eyes over him, over that faded overcoat, the hat and the scarf which was wrapped so tightly around his face. What hair he possessed was swept up beneath the hat. His hands were dug deep into the pockets of his coat.
`I don't do business here; Adam told him. `Have you got a hotel room or a car where we can go?'
The man nodded once more and turned and walked away towards the exit steps. Adam scuttled along beside him. As they reached the top of the stairs he thought he detected a strange odour, like bad meat, but it faded as a gust of cold wind swept over him.
Adam was about to speak when the man pulled one hand from his pocket and signalled to someone across the street.
His hand, Adam noticed, was encased in a glove.
A Datsun glided across towards them, the driver hidden by the gloom within the vehicle. He reached over and pushed open the back door.
Adam hesitated.
`If there's two of you it's going to cost you more,' he said.
The man in the hat merely held the door open for him and, shrugging his shoulders, Adam slid into the car, scooting across the back seat. His companion clambered in beside him, slammed the door and the car moved away.
The driver did not turn.
The smell which Adam had noticed earlier now seemed particularly powerful and he wound the window down slightly, happy to breathe the traffic fumes. Happy to breathe anything other than the rancid air which filled the car.
The man in the overcoat was gazing straight ahead, as if Adam weren't even in the car.
Perhaps he was nervous, the youth surmised.
`Look, mate, what do you want?' he asked. `If you've got the money you can have what you like. Wank, suck or anything else. That's what's on the menu.' He chuckled. `A wank will cost you a fiver, a blow job fifteen, anything else the price varies.'
The man turned in his seat and looked at Adam who, again, recoiled from the vile stench. He glanced quickly at the driver and saw that he too had a scarf wrapped around his face and most of the back of his head. The youth felt slightly uneasy. He also felt sick. The smell was growing stronger by the second, filling his lungs, forcing him to wind the window down to its lowest extent.
'Shall we just get on with whatever you want?' he said irritably.
The man began to unbutton his coat and Adam smiled. At last, he was beginning to lose patience with all this mucking about. He placed one hand on the man's thigh.
The gloved hand shot forward with the speed of a bullet, the fingers fastening around Adam's throat, pulling him forward.
He struggled against the vice-like grip, beating at the hand which held him.
'Get off me you bastard ...' he hissed, fighting for breath, seeing that the man was slowly unravelling his scarf to reveal his features.
It was like unwrapping an open wound.
Adam felt the bile fighting its way up his throat as he caught sight of the man's features.
Where there should have been a mouth there was just a gaping hole which seemed to stretch from the remains of the nose to the point of the chin. It was surrounded by wisps of grey hair and strands of rotting skin which hung down like obscene raffia curtain
s over the gaping maw. The lips were little more than pieces of shrivelled flesh which slid back to expel a blast of air so foul Adam almost passed out.
And, from the centre of that reeking hole, a tongue emerged. Blackened and covered by thick yellow sputum which dripped like mouldering pus, it writhed like a bloated worm with a life of its own, twisting and turning in that putrescent gap, flicking in and out.
The gloved hand squeezed Adam's throat more tightly and, despite himself, he opened his mouth.
The intended scream of revulsion was smothered as the tumefied tongue filled his mouth and his body bucked and jerked uncontrollably as he felt the cold appendage tracing patterns inside his mouth, stirring the warm wetness there, ignoring the traces of vomit which had leaked up from his heaving belly. The tongue plunged deeper until it seemed to caress the back of his throat and then the gullet itself.
Locked together in an obscene french kiss, the two figures on the back seat were almost invisible in the gloom.
The driver glanced into the rear view mirror and saw the tableau. Saw that Adam's body had stopped jerking.
`Don't damage the flesh,' he said softly, watching as the youth's lifeless body slid to the floor of the car.
On the back seat his companion nodded and hauled the dead boy upright once more.
The car drove away.
Fifteen
The hinges of the attaché case creaked slightly as it was opened.
The smell of leather mingled with the smell of money.
Nestling in the bottom of the case, in bundles of twenty and fifty pound notes, was close to fifty thousand pounds.
Malcolm Dome glanced indifferently at the money for a moment then closed the case and locked it, slipping it down beside his feet.
Beside him, Steve Joule guided the Astra through the traffic, his eyes fixed on the other cars which clogged the night-shrouded streets. The clock on the dashboard glowed green and Joule looked at it, seeing that it was almost 10.30. They had one more call to make before they were finished for the night. He saw a gap in the traffic and stepped on the accelerator, narrowly avoiding a Metro which was attempting to turn out of a junction. The driver hit his hooter but Joule ignored him and guided the car into a gap further down the queue of traffic.
Saturday night in London was always busy but tonight seemed to be worse than usual. Usually their calls around Frank Harrison's clubs took them less than two hours. They started their rounds at about seven in the evening and by nine they were back at the Mayfair casino where the cash was counted and then taken to be banked. They began with a different club every week, never using the same routine to move from place to place. Both men had worked in the underworld long enough to know that routine was a dangerous thing.
Dome had been employed by Harrison for six years, Joule a few months longer. Both men had served short terms in prison, Dome for assault, Joule for carrying a concealed weapon (something which he was doing at present) but, upon release, they had found work with Harrison as money collectors. They knew that it was a job which required trust on Harrison's part but also one which, should the takings be light, might well result in them learning to walk with sticks. But Harrison paid well and neither had been tempted to dip into the vast sums of money which the boss's clubs yielded.
As they reached Piccadilly Circus the traffic became even more perilous but Joule sped across the thoroughfare and down Piccadilly itself, past Fortnum and Mason until he came to Duke Street. He swung the car into the turnoff, cutting across the path of a bus.
Neither he nor Dome noticed the Sierra which had been following them since they left the club in Holborn.
Joule slowed down, looking for the yard at the back of the club. He spotted the entrance and swung the Astra in, narrowly missing two pedestrians who had been trying to cross.
The Sierra parked a few yards further down the street on the opposite side of the road.
Waiting.
'I won't be long,' said Dome, picking up the attaché case and hauling himself out of the car.
Joule nodded, lit up a cigarette and watched as his companion headed for the set of metal steps at the rear of the building.
The lower floor was a restaurant, also owned by Harrison, but the top floor was an unlicensed gaming club and it was from there they were to make their last pick-up of the night. Then it was back to Mayfair.
From where he sat, Joule could smell the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. He climbed out of the car and leant against the side of the vehicle to drink in the delightful smells which wafted to him on the breeze.
High brick walls curtained the yard from the buildings on either side and the car was barely narrow enough to fit. A cat rummaged hopefully amongst the half dozen dustbins outside the kitchen's rear entrance. Joule glanced at his watch then looked up at the top of the metal steps towards the doorway that led into the club. The doorway through which his companion had disappeared a moment before.
The Sierra passed slowly, coming to a halt directly opposite the Astra which looked as if it had been jammed into the small yard.
Joule glanced round and looked at it but paid it no heed, content instead to clamber back inside the Astra. He fumbled under the seat and pulled out a newspaper, flicking disinterestedly through it. He paused at a photo of a half-naked girl and murmured `Filth' under his breath. He folded the paper and stuck it back under the seat.
The cat was still scrambling about amongst the bins and Joule watched in amusement as the animal tried to tip one of the lids off. It eventually succeeded and the top crashed to the ground with a loud clang, frightening the cat which promptly lost its footing and fell inside. Joule chuckled, not noticing that Dome was emerging from the entrance at the top of the stairs.
He also failed to notice that the Sierra was swinging across the street towards the yard.
Dome raised the case and nodded in silent affirmation that the night's work was complete.
He was half-way down the stairs when the Sierra came hurtling across the road and slammed into the back of the Astra.
Joule felt his head snap forward and he was momentarily stunned as his forehead connected sharply with the windscreen.
The impact of the two cars crashing together shunted the Astra towards the rear of the building and sent it smashing into the row of dustbins.
The cat, still trapped inside one of them, yowled in fear and surprise.
Joule spun round to see men clambering from the Sierra.
Two of them.
Dome, momentarily frozen on the metal steps, was the first to see that they carried guns.
Should he try to help his companion or run back up the steps towards the club?
He was still trying to decide when a burst of automatic fire struck the wall beside him. The staccato rattle of a submachine gun filled the night as one of the two men from the Sierra tightened his finger around the trigger of an Uzi. The 9mm slugs, travelling at a speed in excess of 1,280 feet a second, spattered the stonework and ricocheted off the metal steps with a high pitched scream.
Bright, blinding muzzle flashes lit the night, turning the yard into a stroboscopic nightmare.
Dome, still clutching the attaché case, finally turned and ran back up the stairs. The next burst caught him in the legs, one of the bullets scything through his thigh, another blasting away one testicle. He screamed in agony and fell forward, rolling over, pulling the .38 from his shoulder holster but finding that his hands were trembling badly both from the intense pain and from fear. His lower body was on fire, searing agony tearing through his legs and groin. He felt blood pouring from the wounds, smelt the rich coppery odour in his nostrils.
Joule was trying to get out of the car, trying to force open the buckled driver's door but he found that it was wedged up against the toppled dustbins.
There was a thunderous blast and the rear window was blown in, showering him with glass which cut his face. He pulled the Beretta from his belt and fired back at the attackers, forced to duck d
own again as a blast from the Uzi drilled across the stricken vehicle. The driver's seat was riddled with bullets, two of them erupting with sufficient force to smash Joule's left radial bone. A portion of the shattered bone tore through his flesh and he screamed in pain, the pistol dropping from his grasp.
He tried to duck down; to keep clear of the volley of fire which was drawing dotted lines of death across the yard.
Up on the steps, Dome was hauling himself agonisingly towards the door of the club.
It was a shotgun blast which caught him.
The fearful impact exploded the attaché case which he still held beside him and then powered into his side, smashing three ribs and rupturing a lung. He felt the breath torn from him and blood suddenly filled his mouth.
The second blast caught him squarely in the face, slamming his head back against the wall. His features were obliterated by the powerful discharge. The concentrated buckshot stove in his forehead and pulped his eyes before pulverizing the bones at the top of his skull. A huge portion of scalp was blown away, sticky gobs of brain splattering the wall behind him.
Joule decided his only chance was to try and ram the Sierra, to push it back into the road. He started the engine and stepped hard on the accelerator but, before he could complete his desperate manoeuvre, two 9mm bullets hit him in the back, one exploding through his chest, punching an exit hole large enough to hold two hands. Blood and portions of lung spattered the windscreen and, as blood jetted from the gaping wound, he slumped over the wheel.
The Astra shot forward, crashing into the back of the kitchen, the front of the car folding up like a concertina. The steering wheel came back at Joule like a thick javelin, crushing his already shredded chest, cracking bone like matchwood.
Pinned in the devastated car he tried to scream but blood filled his throat.
The two men were running back towards the Sierra which was reversing out into the road, the driver ignoring the curses of passing motorists.
The two men leapt in and the driver put his foot down hard on the accelerator but, as the car sped away, another burst of fire from the sub-machine gun hit the Astra, rupturing the petrol tank.