10
I get to Spinningfields early, my nervous energy too much for the hotel room to handle, prompting me to head out into the cooling, prickly, pre-evening air. It’s a crisp evening, the spots of rain from the afternoon having drifted off somewhere else, and the atmosphere retains that post-downpour clarity. If Manchester wasn’t so alive, I’m sure I’d hear a pin drop. I make the short walk along the backstreets from my hotel, keeping fixed in my eye line the upper floors of Manchester Civil Justice Centre - a huge, preposterously balanced, filing cabinet of a building that stands in the centre of Spinningfields, commanding tall in its new post-modern shell.
It’s not long before I am there, having passed the old, disused Granada Studios, previous home of TV greats such as Coronation Street. This city has transformed, the tired old in many ways making way for a brave new, with eager youth paving the way for ever-increasing steps to modernity. Business has flocked to Manchester, and I remember as I step into the plushness of the pedestrianized Spinningfields site, that within these smart tower blocks sit 64 of The Sunday Times Top 100 Companies, in a list they put together last year some time. I had read it in prison - I had always enjoyed keeping tabs on the outside world, unwilling to let Great Britain and its progress slip me by while I was working out what to do next.
The site is probably a square of 5 blocks, cut off from cars apart from service vehicles, adorned with plush bars and restaurants punctuating big business premises, like a Christmas tree of commerce, the former sparkling the latter, providing watering holes for the eager and the tired. In another lifetime, I may have enjoyed getting a nice easy nine to five, safe in the cushion of a regular income, and might even have had friends I could meet for a drink after work. So it’s with a little tug of jealousy that I watch the groups of bright young(ish) things cavort in their loosened ties and pretty dresses, as they mill about from bar to bar with ever-slackening tongues.
The firearm pressing against the outside of my right hip pulls me back to the present. I’m not one of those people. I don’t know whether I ever will be. At least not tonight.
I had struggled to work out how best to carry the silenced weapon, but I was damned if I was going to leave the hotel room without it. I had resorted to popping it down my waistband directly next to my right hand at standing rest, by my side. I feel a little like a wild west gunslinger, but I’ve never had to carry a weapon in public before, or carry one without permission. I have used them without permission, sure, but whenever it’s come to storing them on my person, I’ve always been in fatigues with a purpose-built pocket or a holster. So, for now, my waistband will have to do.
Coming into possession of it is a great piece of luck, and saves me a great deal of effort. It will come in very handy for my selected future, and would have been a real ball-ache to organize. If you want a firearm in this country, there aren’t a great many avenues to hand that don’t have the same effect as strapping a neon sign to your head announcing that you have bad intentions. You either have to steal it yourself, or cut a deal with an organized crime figure with a good connection, and considering I’m on the cusp of a tiff with Manchester’s organized crime, I hardly want to announce my possession of a tool of their destruction. No, the firearm is a great piece of luck, and I best look after it - and ammunition is so much easier to get your hands on than a piece itself.
The only other things on me, are my Swiss army knife, wallet and phone, the latter two of which are wrapped in sandwich bags I had borrowed from the hotel kitchen, to keep them safe and dry. I check them routinely.
The ice rink is ahead, framed in twinkling halogen, and it glassily cements the lavishness. In this quarter, Manchester is clearly thriving - but there are darker corners out there, and the man leaning against the ice rink railings on the left hand side looks like he has his head, heart and soul firmly preoccupied with one.
I approach Jack and take a position next to him. He looks transfixed, and charged with a crackling galvanism. He looks about ready to detonate.
‘Tell me about today,’ I instruct, without looking at him, pleasantries seeming pointless.
‘It was fine. Felix is a mess, it seems all the guys are,’ Jack replies, unblinking. He seems a man on a cliff-edge, a precipice he wanted but on arrival cannot fathom.
‘By guys, you mean the Berg?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, Michael and Leonard. They were the ones I saw.’
‘Michael picked you up didn’t he? And the other man was Leonard?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And how did the conversation go?’
‘Felix was in tears, he didn’t want to give me anything. Just a busted, broken old man. I told him if he didn’t give me a name I’d be forced to go out and see what I could do for myself. He didn’t seem unduly keen on that either.’
‘So he had to take the lesser option?’
‘Right.’
A moment of quiet, while an image comes into my head of Jack verbally sparring with a tearful old man. Jack continues.
‘I said that if he didn’t give me a name, or tell me what he knows, I would hold him responsible for whatever is to come next.’
‘And that did the trick?’
‘It did.’
I wait for Jack to finish and answer the question I don’t need to ask.
‘Sparkles Chu.’
‘Sounds like a Korean pop prince. Who is he?’
‘He runs the restaurant I told you about, as well as a criminal organization specializing in cocaine, a touch of meth, and arms.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘The Floating Far East appears to be their centre of operations. And that’s where we are going tonight.’
I remember my homework, a map of Manchester springing into my head, but on a zoom from the heavens right down to a riverside street 600 yards from where we stand.
‘I know it. Any special intel you have on it, that you can’t get from the internet?’ I ask.
‘Not really. Just that it’s a restaurant out front and there’s a room at the back that seems to be a meeting room. Michael told me.’
‘So far, so cliched. How do they know this? What’s their source?’
Jack actually lets his eyes circulate to check for anyone that might be in hearing range. ‘They used to do a little business together, although nothing too major. Or so they say. But Michael has been there a couple of times representing Felix and the Berg’s interests, and has seen Sparkles there holding court.’
‘But how do they know that this guy Sparkles was the trigger man?’
‘According to Michael they had recently tried to up the ante with Sparkles and his friends, collaborate on some higher profile business. This time it was Dad that made the approach, after Michael had opted out on the basis that he was unsure whether to work with them again. Dad thought it was a good idea. He went there, had a conversation, but it didn’t go as planned. He came back with a death threat.’
Icy hatred seems to sweep over Jack.
‘They didn’t like the manner of his proposal,’ I say, to bring Jack back to the here and now.
‘I suppose not.’
‘But that doesn’t irrefutably tie Sparkles to the hit. How is Felix sure?’
‘He’s not. But he’s the only name he has. He said Dad didn’t go around collecting grudges. On the contrary, he had a fair way of business that made friends rather than enemies. And Sparkles and the River seem to be the only party big enough to attempt it.’
‘The River?’
‘I just picked it up from them. Whenever they referred to the party that operates out of that floating restaurant, they referred to it as the River. A pet name, I guess.’
‘Hey, what self-respecting criminal gang don’t have one?’
My joke falls flat. I change direction.
‘Are this group of Eastern origin? And by Eastern I mean China?’
‘I would imagine so, yes. Although I’ve never laid eyes on them.’
‘This morning, just bef
ore I came to see you, a man tried to kill me in my hotel room.’
Jack’s eyebrows head for his hairline, his pupils going widescreen.
‘More specifically, it was a man of, I believe, part-Chinese origin. And he wasn’t trying to kill Ben Bracken, he was trying to kill Jack Brooker.’
Jack scowls with venom. ‘And you only mention this now?’
‘Figured you had enough on your plate, without thinking you are a marked man.’
‘They were trying to tie off loose ends. Those fucking bastards. Kill the father, kill the son who’s looking for answers.’
‘All I’m saying is, it seems to make sense that a powerful group with a far east connection does indeed want you taken out. Which is why you might be right.’
I don’t like giving Jack news like this, but it backs up his story. And in backing up his story, it will strengthen his conviction, and that conviction is what we need to take with us to that infernal restaurant. I take charge. ‘OK, if you want this... If you want to go down there and get answers, we are going to do it my way. I’m in on this at your request, so it’s my way or the highway. I’ve mapped the place out, entries, exits, all accounted for. You follow my lead, and I’ll explain on the way. You have your Dad’s piece?’
Jack nods grimly.
‘Good. That feeling you have, that spite, that outrage - let it spill up to here.’
I hold my hand up to my Adam’s apple.
‘Let it boil below there, but never past here. You let it get past here, you’ll start to fuck up. Your body needs to be ready to execute at all costs, but it needs to execute what a cool head tells it to. Keep it bottled, but don’t lose it. It’s your secret weapon. Let’s get going.’
With that, I start walking. I know exactly the narrow paths I want to take to get to the restaurant, which route will take us there the quietest. No point rattling the hornets nest when you want to stick your hand in.
11
We walk briskly while I divulge, the info coming out in a regimented, orderly, structured series of bullet points. My instructions are as clear and concise as I can make them. I even manage to surprise myself with how authentic it sounds, given that it is essentially a picture I have composed based on news articles, Facebook pages, google maps and satellite images. I applied a strictness to my search, but a broadness also. I wrote nothing down, and used the inside wall of my skull like a whiteboard, which I will keep referring to.
As we wind through the back streets from Spinningfields towards the high banks of the River Irwell, the lights of the contiguous city centre dimming on our backs, I feel a readiness sweep me. For the first time since Jack contacted me, I feel in control and prepared. There’s always an element of disorderly unpredictability to an altercation, however big or small, and I feel ready to roll with such a punch, such is the strength of my preparation. We are getting closer, our first foray into Manchester’s criminal lesion.
I have dragged us through the alleys and passageways, because there are often restaurant employees on the streets close to the river bank, where the restaurant is permanently moored, drumming up a bit of opportune business. If the restaurant is a family business, not to mention the secret business within the business, then this watchful street-side presence will probably have a fair idea who Jack is, and some may even already have an idea of myself as ‘that bloke who snapped cousin whatnot’s legs’. I don’t want attention and recognition. It won’t matter when we get in there, as that will play to our advantage, but it is important that we get in there unseen.
The river bank is now ahead of us, the water twenty feet below us, rippling moonlight back up at us. A little pocket of a quieter waterside life just on the edge of a bustling city centre.
‘There it is,’ Jack says, pointing off to our right. Sure enough 200 yards away, floats our destination. A huge pirate ship, fit for inclusion in any exotic armada, adorned with festive lights from the tip of the bow all the way to the highest point of the mast, touching anything and everything in between. It is quite the sight. The main cabin of the vessel seems multi-layered, and deep. Portholes stippling the hull spill a warm light out onto the river, which laps it up eagerly. If I had a woman to impress, I’d surely take her here. Oh well, I suppose a revenge-bent son-of-a-gangster will have to do.
There is a man on the door, which isn’t really a door, moreover a little covered shelter next to a sturdy broad gangplank, presumably under which reservations are confirmed. He is facing away from us, as a further short distance ahead from him is a road - the primary access point of the restaurant for diners. We approach.
‘You all set?’ I ask Jack, whose frothing ire has made way for a hostile calm, still just as intense.
‘Yes,’ he whispers.
‘The gun - you comfortable with it?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘You give me some bullshit about playing lots of X-Box, I’m turning around...’
‘I have held this gun before, yes. I know how it works.’
‘Heavier than you think, isn’t it? Makes you wonder how Steven Seagal didn’t manage to break his wrists in all those movies, the way he was holding it. Your conviction - keep tapped into it. You’ll get the hang of the rest.’
Jack doesn’t answer, and I think I may have ended up patronizing him a touch, but that’s fine - he’ll be desperate to prove me wrong.
Now, 100 yards away, I motion Jack towards the bank-side railing.
‘Hop it,’ I command.
Jack looks at me in confusion, but doesn’t question, and he does what I asked. When he is on the other side of the railing, his back to the river on the ledge, I check the doorman. Still facing down the river towards the brighter lights of the main road - from where a couple is approaching. Arm in arm, laughing with each other - blissfully unaware. But if they notice us doing something this suspicious this close to the restaurant, they are sure to alert the doorman.
I hop over also, steady myself, and look down below me. There it is. I had noticed it on Google Street View, using the road on the other side of the river as a virtual vantage point. A very narrow ledge, more an outcropping of brick about 7 feet below us. Whether it is there for a purpose, perhaps to measure the water level, or merely a 19th century cosmetic addition, it looks strong enough to support us. I lower myself, and drop slowly, using my arms to leverage myself. Jack does the same, presumably catching on to where my thoughts are headed. I grip the concrete ledge of the bank, and drop the last 3 feet with my breath held. I keep my stomach tight to the wall, and drag my toes along the wall - until they bump the ledge. I take the weight, and whisper to Jack ‘slowly’.
I glance down, without letting go of the ledge, and see the ledge is about 6 inches wide, and my heels are dangling into space. But it will be just fine. I look at Jack, who looks distinctly reluctant to look down.
‘It’s fine. Follow me,’ I say.
He nods, and I turn to my left - my nose brushing the moss-flecked wall and filling up with a musty, earthen aroma. I see the hulking vessel, and start edging along the ledge. I can hear Jack shuffling along behind me, and we make steady process, one step at a time below, one hand over the other up top.
It doesn’t take long, the rhythm of our short journey quite comforting, and I find myself directly below the gangplank. The air carries that woody, peat-infused odor only a running river can impart as it washes over something fixed and solid. The boat has clearly been here some time. I check on Jack, and he is just a yard or two behind me. He’s a quick learner, which is a great relief. If he was a blithering no-hoper this would be much more fraught. Happily, he is proving a most able accomplice.
The gangplank itself is made up of a series of sturdy wooden beams joined together, almost like a ridiculously thick horizontal ladder - complete with gaps between the beams in which to insert fingers and gain purchase. I listen hard, the last thing we would want being our fingers getting crushed by the feet of unknowing customers.
I wait for Jack to reach
me, then whisper to him, my breath forming into a slight pale mist.
‘One at a time,’ I whisper. He nods.
It is quiet above, and still below. The water moves quickly under us, but makes no sound at all. Even the boat is silent. I poke my fingers through the slats, grip, take the strain, and swing out into the murk. The edge of the wood is slippery, and for a horrible second, I think I’m going to lose my hold. I squeeze hard, and things settle. Like a big kid on scaled up monkey bars, I slowly swing my way the 10 feet to the boat.
There is a thick ornate rope surrounding the hull of the vessel, bowed intermittently, which will function as a step. I loop my left leg around it, straddle the thick coil and sit in the slack. It’s not the most comfortable thing I’ve ever done, but it will do for the moment. I gesture Jack to follow, and he reaches up to the makeshift bridge with trepidation. I crane my neck up to peek over at the doorman - he looks to the heavens, seemingly bored to tears more than anything else.
Jack makes steady progress, so I start the final stretch of the journey - navigating this thick rope around the front of the hull to the other side of the vessel, where I know the porthole to the gents toilets resides. I mean, really, who takes a picture of themselves in the toilets of a Chinese restaurant, let alone post it on something as banal as Facebook. Some cretin did, posing in the mirror, a demeaning bank of urinals behind him and over his right shoulder, a porthole and a view. He had taken a selfie in the toilets, uploaded it to the web to show his friends what he was up to, and Facebook’s location services had done the rest. Pillock is about the only word that can spring to mind. But if this works, I just might send that pillock a present.
I shift my weight over the drop, and grip the rope with hands, calves and ankles, then again, slowly, I start a gradual journey along the rope to the bow, taking care at the points where the rope bows up to it’s fixings. It strikes me, as my mind wanders as I go, that this has gone well so far. Planning. There is just no substitute for it. I check on Jack, and like a loyal hound, he is not far behind. Good man.
The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Page 7