All Or Nothing

by Ollie Ollerton

  Abbott tore his eyes away from the screens as Sweaty spoke. ‘This is your new enforcer, is it?’ he said, mouth still moving around the biscuit, already reaching for its replacement.

  ‘Meet Mr Flyte,’ said McGregor.

  Sweaty nodded in greeting at Abbott, taking the opportunity to give him a long, appraising look. Abbott could not bring himself to respond, even for the purposes of his cover. You helped kill my brother, he thought. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his Diesels, and he was digging his nails into his palms, trying to control his anger.

  ‘Business good, is it?’ asked McGregor.

  ‘Always good,’ replied Sweaty.

  ‘I see you got a new customer upstairs. I hope he’s been fully vetted.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He seemed a bit nervous to me, pal,’ said McGregor warningly.

  Sweaty nodded. ‘I make sure the boys have a word with him before he leaves,’ he said, and grinned, revealing black teeth.

  That was it. That was the extent of their interaction. Money changed hands and Abbott left, knowing that he had just stepped into hell.

  Knowing that he had to go back.

  He needed to pay a special visit to Sweaty.

  CHAPTER 26

  In his room he stripped and cleaned the Glock. He waited until around 1am, then took the Glock and the suppressor and left.

  He found a motor, hotwired it. He drove to the derelict tower blocks, located The Freemasons Arms, and parked.

  The front of the pub was dark, but as he watched, a figure arrived and a security light flicked on, illuminating a man in an anorak, who knocked on the door of the pub and then did what McGregor had done earlier, looked up and into the CCTV.

  He went inside. The light remained on for a few moments and then flicked off.

  Scanning the front of the pub earlier, Abbott had taken note of the security cameras. He’d also clocked the fact that there was a loading door to the pub cellar – a loading door that was bolted from inside. He skirted the pub, confident that none of the cameras could pick him up, and then took a direct line to the loading hatch.

  There he crouched, waiting. Around him the desolate urban landscape was still, tower blocks rising overhead, blotting out the moon. Only a tiny sliver of light escaped from the loading hatch.

  Was Sweaty down there? Just one way to find out. Gently, Abbott knocked on the hatch. Waited.

  From below came the sound of movement. A voice. ‘Hello?’

  Abbott knocked again. This time the voice was closer. Sweaty had climbed the stone steps to the door itself. ‘Who’s out there?’ he said, sounding as though he was speaking with his mouth full. Abbott remembered the Hobnobs. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘It’s me, Flyte,’ said Abbott. ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Well then, come through the front like everybody else.’

  Abbott fixed the suppressor to his Glock. ‘No. I don’t want them to see me. What I have to say is between you and me only.’

  From the other side of the hatch came a dry chuckle. ‘I get ya. See something you liked, did ya?’

  Abbott shifted a little, going down on one knee and bringing the Glock to bear two-handed. Around him the night was still and dark. The empty tower block cancelled the moon-light. ‘You could say that. Now are you going to let me in, or not?’

  There was the sound of a bolt being thrown back and then another. Abbott tensed. The loading hatch rose. The top of Sweaty’s head appeared, his forehead and then his eyes which found Abbott, adjusting in the dark and then widening at the sight of the gun. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ was what he started to say but didn’t finish.

  And he didn’t finish because Abbott pushed the suppressor of the Glock into his mouth.

  ‘Very carefully go back down the steps,’ whispered Abbott. ‘Don’t make a sound, don’t make any sudden movements.’

  Sweaty, his eyes wide, his lips trembling around a mouthful of Hobnob and Glock suppressor, inched carefully back down the steps as Abbott climbed inside the hatch and into the cellar, closing the door behind him. Reaching the stone floor now, Abbott positioned Sweaty back on his chair, swinging it around to face into the room. Behind Sweaty the monitors were on, disgusting images only serving to feed Abbott’s anger.

  ‘I’m going to take the gun out of your mouth. If you talk louder than a whisper, I’ll kill you. Do I make myself clear?’ Sweaty nodded. ‘Good.’ Abbott slowly withdrew the suppressor from Sweaty’s mouth. With disgust he noted the biscuit crumbs that clung to it.

  Sweaty gathered himself. Beady eyes fixed on Abbott, who watched him carefully. Abbott’s eyes flicked to the monitors and their catalogue of torture, and then back to Sweaty’s face.

  ‘You’re not really Flyte, are you?’ said Sweaty after a moment or so. He was keeping his cool. His voice was low. ‘You’re him. You’re Abbott.’

  Abbott nodded.

  ‘You killed Jason?’

  Abbott shook his head. ‘Flyte killed him. I didn’t come here to kill him, same as I’m not here to kill you.’ Sweaty relaxed a little. ‘As long as you tell me what I want to know. Answers. That’s all I want.’

  Sweaty nodded, jowly flesh wobbling.

  ‘You know who I am. Do you remember my brother, Chris?’

  Again, Sweaty nodded.

  ‘What did you want with him that day? And before you answer, don’t you dare insult my intelligence.’

  ‘What if it’s the truth?’ said Sweaty, a stammer in his voice.

  Abbott’s reply came in the form of a bullet that he put in Sweaty’s desk chair, right between his legs, making the fat man jump. The PVC split. Foam bulged from within.

  ‘OK, OK . . .’ said Sweaty quickly, less cool now. ‘You’ve made your point.’

  ‘Keep your voice down. Was it for that?’ Abbott indicated the screens. ‘Were you taking him for that?’

  Sweaty’s mouth worked. His face shone.

  ‘Answer me,’ said Abbott.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sweaty. ‘Something like that, yes. But look, not for us. Me and Jay, we were just drones, man. Fucking worker bees.’

  ‘Working for Doyle?’

  ‘Yeah. Doyle. That’s right.’

  ‘He into that himself, is he? Abusing kids?’

  Sweaty nodded.

  ‘Kids like my brother?’

  Sweaty shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what his tastes are.’

  ‘You would have put Chris to work somewhere like this? Put him on the payroll?’

  ‘Yeah. Or . . .’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or maybe he would have gone down south.’

  ‘South where?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘London? For who?’

  Sweaty shook his head. There were dark stains at the armpits of his England shirt.

  ‘Don’t tell me you can’t say,’ said Abbott. ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘They’ll kill me if I do.’

  ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t.’

  ‘You said you weren’t going to kill me.’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t kill you if I got the answers I wanted. Am I getting them?’ He shook his head. ‘Not right now I’m not. Tell you what, let’s get you started. Who’s Kilgore?’

  ‘You know Kilgore?’

  ‘I’ve heard the name once or twice. He in London, is he?’

  Sweaty nodded furiously. ‘He works for them.’

  ‘Works for who? Juliet? Is it something to do with a woman called Juliet?’

  A change had come over Sweaty now. Where before he’d been nervous but relatively composed, just about holding on, now he began to tremble. His hands went to the arms of the chair in which he sat, his eyes travelled to the bullet hole between his legs as though trying to make an assessment, attempting to calculate which evil was the greater, the one who stood before him holding a weapon in his face, or the other one – the one he couldn’t see but who clearly held him in his thr
all.

  Abbott watched his thought process with the interest of an anthropologist, knowing what Sweaty would decide. That however scared he was of this other unseen presence, it was the threat before him that was most imminent. And Abbott would leave here with the information he needed.

  His eyes flicked to the screens.

  Old and empty Hobnob packets. Images of child sex abuse.

  And at that very moment, he decided that before he left, he’d put one in Sweaty’s brain. He’d put a round in Sweaty’s brain and do so without a second thought or backward glance. He’d take no pleasure in it, but he’d do it for his brother Chris and every other poor kid who had suffered abuse because of Sweaty. And when he was done with Sweaty, he’d get Doyle. And when he was done with Doyle, he’d get whoever it was that Doyle answered to.

  ‘Who are they?’ he asked Sweaty. ‘Who is Kilgore? Who is Juliet?’

  The gun was held steady. Fear in Sweaty’s eyes.

  Abbott’s gaze went up. To the monitors. Seeing the rooms, the prisoner kids, the . . .

  Barman.

  The barman with the dreads was moving across the floor of the main pub upstairs. He was moving towards the cellar door.

  Abbott saw him on the monitor. He watched the guy’s hand reach out and saw the door handle on their side begin to turn. With a warning look at Sweaty and one finger to his lips, he shifted his position slightly, ready to take down the barman when he came through the door, eyes flicking to the monitors where he saw that the barman had stopped and his head had turned as he responded to something said to him from across the room. Abruptly, he let go of the door handle, turned and strode off to deal with whatever it was.

  Moment over, threat gone, Abbott breathed a sigh of relief and was about to turn his attention back to Sweaty when, seeing his chance, Sweaty launched himself off the chair and at Abbott, one outstretched, clawed hand reaching for Abbott’s Glock.

  Although his reactions had been dulled by the booze, and although he was, technically, out of shape, Abbott was still a lot, lot faster than an obese child trafficker in the dirty cellar of a near-derelict pub, and he stepped smartly to one side, expecting to reassert his authority as he levelled the Glock. But Sweaty wasn’t finished, and even though his hapless attempt to overcome Abbott had been an abject failure, he had one more trick up his sleeve, and the trick was to open his mouth and scream for help.

  He never got the chance. Abbott put a round into his open mouth.

  Sweaty’s head popped back as the rear of his skull blew out; his body tautened and then he fell in an almost crucifixionlike pose, blood beginning to pool like a scarlet halo around his head.

  Abbott shifted his aim to cover the cellar door in case the sound of the struggle had alerted anybody upstairs. Nobody came. Nor was there any sign of alarm on the monitors.

  His eyes went back to Sweaty. ‘I’m not a hitman,’ he heard himself say, but for guys like this he’d make an exception. You’ve done the world a favour, he thought. You don’t need to give this a second’s more consideration. In some tiny, tiny way you have reduced the sum total of human unhappiness.

  So why did he not feel better?

  He racked the slide back and with the breech exposed, ejected the mag, then plugged two new rounds into it before replacing the mag. He disengaged the slide release catch, pushing a round into the breech of the weapon.

  And then he turned and carefully, slowly, quietly climbed the steps, clambered out into the night, and replaced the hatch. He returned to his car, where he made a 999 call, informing the operator that a man had been shot and killed in the cellar of The Freemasons Arms and giving the address. He removed the battery from his phone and then waited, wanting to witness the moment when the cops arrived, and they marched out the guys inside. When the captive kids and girls were brought out and put into vans bound for safer places and happier times.

  He waited.

  And with a sinking sensation he realised that, of course, the local police, instead of getting in their cars to investigate, would instead have made a call to Doyle, who would have told them to stand down.

  Just as he was having that thought, the door to the pub opened and out poured three of the security men, including the doorman and the barman, the security light flicking on, sending light skittering down the blades of the machetes they brandished. He heard voices, shouting.

  With a heavy heart, Abbott fired up the motor, drove it back to where he had found it, and then returned to the Travelodge.

  Where, to his surprise, he found McGregor waiting for him.

  CHAPTER 27

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. McGregor was sitting in the driving seat of his Beamer.

  ‘You weren’t answering your phone,’ said McGregor, cheerfully.

  ‘So fuckin’ what? It’s the middle of the night. Anyway, how did you know I was here?’

  ‘I’ll tell you how I know, shall I?’ replied McGregor. ‘I know because there is very little that goes on in this city that we don’t know about. I know because you’ve taken somebody’s identity, haven’t you, ya cheeky bastard?’

  Abbott tensed, ready to draw the Glock . . .

  But wait, something wasn’t quite right here. If Doyle knew he’d been impersonating Flyte, they wouldn’t have sent the assistant to deliver the news. He’d either be dead or bundled into the back of a van by now. ‘That’s right,’ he said carefully.

  ‘What happened? You find Abbott’s hotel room key and decide that you wanted a free room, did you?’

  Abbott nodded, still feeling cautious. No way was he out of the woods. After all, a sharp-eyed receptionist might have put two and two together. On the other hand, it wasn’t as though he’d ever exchanged more than a word with anyone. Half the time he’d passed through reception with no one on duty. After dark, forget it.

  So it was quite possible that any receptionist would have been none the wiser and unable to shed any light for an enquiring member of the Doyle crew.

  And the fact remained that if they genuinely thought that he was pulling a fast one, then they would have taken action, wouldn’t they? They’d have come mob-handed.

  ‘You still haven’t answered the question of what you’re doing here,’ said McGregor.

  ‘Aye, well, that’s another story. There’s been some trouble at . . . Well, you remember where we were earlier?’

  ‘We were at two or three places earlier. Try being specific.’

  ‘The Freemasons Arms.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What sort of trouble?’

  ‘How about you hopping in? We’ll get over to the factory, let the boss man explain.’

  Abbott’s mind raced. Trying to work out what, if anything, the other side had in mind. All of a sudden his cover felt shakier than ever.

  ‘Where were you, then?’ asked McGregor as Abbott settled into the car.

  ‘I just took a walk,’ said Abbott. ‘Sleep doesn’t come so easily these days.’

  ‘That’s a hangover from combat, is it?’

  ‘You might say that.’

  ‘I see,’ said McGregor, nodding thoughtfully. Abbott turned his head to look out of the window, wondering if he should draw his weapon and take pre-emptive action. If they’d worked out that he wasn’t Flyte, then he was walking into the lion’s den. If not, then that meant they trusted him fully. And the more they trusted him, the closer he could get.

  He checked his watch. It was coming up for 3am. And yet, as they turned into Kemptown and approached the Doyle factory, he could see that the lights were all on, the place already buzzing with men.

  They parked, went inside, across the now-familiar factory floor and up the steps to the mezzanine. McGregor knocked on a door. Two of Doyle’s foot soldiers appeared from inside, but instead of ushering Abbott and McGregor through they stepped out onto the gantry.

  McGregor held out his hand. ‘Gun?’

  Abbott shook his head.

  McGregor waggled insistent fingers. ‘Listen, pal, it doesn�
�t look good, does it? You being out like that. At the same time as someone hits our operation. How about you just hand yer gun over, let me check that there isn’t a slug missing?’

  ‘I can tell you now that there isn’t.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind handing it over so we can check. You’ll get it back. Soon as I’m happy. Who can say fairer than that, eh?’

  The moment hung. Abbott knew that a refusal would invite more suspicion. The guards tensed as he reached behind to the waistband of his jeans. ‘Steady, lads. You said you wanted my piece, didn’t you?’ He plucked it out and with tweezer fingers gave it to McGregor, who handed it off to another of the men.

  ‘Careful with it,’ warned Abbott.

  ‘Don’t worry. My man Morris here knows exactly what he’s doing,’ said McGregor.

  As Morris left with Abbott’s beloved Glock nine, they made their way past the meat-grinding machine and into the main office. There the office was packed. Four men, all of whom stood with their hands clasped, the butts of their sidearms visible. All of them regarding Abbott with open hostility.

  And here’s you without your gun.

  Doyle was there, too, of course. Except that instead of being behind his desk smoking, he stood to one side while in the throne was his wife, Cynthia Doyle. She wore a scowl and Abbott wondered if he should read anything into that. Then again, from his limited experience of Mrs Cynthia Doyle, the scowl was her default expression. Knowing her husband’s proclivities, you could hardly blame her.

  ‘Flyte, good to see you,’ said Doyle, taking charge. He sounded a little drunk. Not as bad as the other night but getting there. There were pistols on the desk, too. A pair of his ’n’ hers Rugers.

  ‘Good to see you, too,’ said Abbott.

  ‘Mac tells me that you’re at the Travelodge, staying in the late Mr Abbott’s room. Is that right?’ said Doyle.

  Abbott nodded.

  ‘He also tells me that you weren’t there when he called to see if you could come out to play.’

  ‘Like I told him just now, I went for a walk.’