Brick

by Conrad Jones

  “You’re very welcome, my friend. It has been empty for some time but it warms up quite quickly, I’m sure you’ll be fine there for now.”

  “We’re fine. Mum and dad are out of harm’s way, that’s the main thing. How is Bryn?”

  “He was sleeping when I left him,” Jacob sounded disturbed. “He was putting on a brave face before that. I have a funny feeling that they’re going to move him sooner rather than later.”

  “What about his cheekbone?”

  “I get the distinct impression that there are much more pressing priorities than his fracture.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “There’ve been some very secretive phone calls to the sergeant in charge here. He’s not giving much away but I heard him mention that the Chief Constable was very uncomfortable with the situation here. It would appear that his concern is for the safety of the hospital, the patients and the staff and he wants your brother out of here quickly. It is shift changeover at eight o’clock and I’m inclined to think that they will move Bryn to Altcourse before that. There are armed officers all over the place; much more than earlier on.”

  “Well, if they move him, he’ll be safe there,” Simon tried to convince himself. Jacob remained quiet. “Do you think so?”

  “Look, Simon there were some developments after you left.”

  “What developments?”

  “Through the course of the night, over a dozen funeral wreaths have been delivered to reception, all from different florists, all from different areas of the city and all addressed to Bryn Evans.”

  “Shit,” Simon sighed. “He doesn’t know does he?”

  “Of course not but it tells me that the Farrells have the sympathy of a lot of other people in the same business. Keeping Bryn and your family from harm is going to be more difficult than I first anticipated,” Jacob said, the concern in his voice clear. “I have made some calls to some people who carry influence and their initial reaction was positive, however Eddie Farrell is not known for his sense of fairness or balanced point of view.”

  “We need to get Bryn released and get him somewhere safe until Farrell calms down. In the meantime, I’ll tell mum that he’s asleep and everything is fine for now. When will you see him again?”

  “I’ll see him tomorrow, wherever he is. If he’s in Altcourse then I will arrange a visit as his brief, if he is still at the Royal then I’ll see him there. Either way I will call you. You need to keep your parents there until we have no other choice but to move them.”

  “Thanks again, Jacob. Get some sleep.”

  “You too, my regards to your family.” The call ended with a beep and Simon kept the phone to his ear for a moment. He could sense his mother behind him.

  “Was that Jacob?”

  “Yes, mum,” he turned to face her with a tired smile. “He said that Bryn is sleeping, he’s safe and there’s no news on them moving him yet. There are more police officers there now, so he’ll be fine.”

  “I should think so after what they did to that wall,” she tutted. “I mean who would paint something like that and in a hospital too,” she shook her head trying to make sense of everything but struggling. “It was disgusting, he’s a boy. They are the ones that should be locked up, not our Bryn.”

  “The police will make sure he is safe, Mum.”

  “They shouldn’t have to,” she said, sadness creeping through her. “What is wrong with these people? I mean who do they think they are threatening people like that?”

  “You should go and get some sleep, Mum. Things might look better in the morning.”

  Mark walked into the kitchen from outside. He pulled the door closed and bolted it before locking it with the key. “All done out there,” he said clapping his hands against the cold. “We need to turn some of these lights off. This place is lit up like a Christmas tree and it stands out from the road.”

  “Surely you don’t think anyone would bother following us all the way here?” Robert said with a huff. Barbara looked at her sons, her hands on her cheeks as if the thought had never crossed her mind.

  “Nobody followed us, Dad,” Simon said reassuringly. “And there is no way that they can find us either. Now let’s go to bed and get some sleep.” The Evans family looked relieved by his words but tired. They nodded and headed for the bedrooms. As they undressed and climbed between the crisp cotton sheets, they had no idea that the first vehicle belonging to Eddie Farrell had already crossed the Menai Bridge.

  24

  Braddick climbed into the Evoque and picked up the phone to call the MIT office. He wanted as much information as they had on the Tuckers and had called a briefing to include DI Cain and the Drug Squad. Bringing in the Tuckers would be difficult and dangerous. They had financial clout and access to quality legal representation and from what he had gleaned in a short space of time, they had influence and muscle across the city. He didn’t want to panic them into responding with violence. Actually getting a warrant would be difficult enough. All Braddick had at the moment was the verbal identification of their voices from a heroin addict, who had specifically stated that he would not testify against them. The crime scene wasn’t yielding anything to identify them. DNA would prove that the Johnsons were there but not much more; the rest was supposition. He doubted if he would be granted an arrest warrant with what they had at that point. The thought of trying to convince Cookie to testify crossed his mind briefly but he could see how that would work out. As an ex-employee of the Tuckers with a grudge against them, twenty years of opiate abuse and sleeping rough, he wouldn’t have much credibility with the CPS, let alone with a jury. He turned on the engine and switched on the lights. A movement to his left caught his eye but when he focused on it there was nothing there. He pushed the Evoque into gear and drove across the deserted car park towards the drive thru and the main roads beyond.

  Cookie watched the black detective go. As far as coppers went, he was a good one. When the headlights had moved off, Cookie slipped out of the shadows and ducked underneath a wooden hoarding into a narrow alleyway. He picked his way over the rubbish and debris, being careful not to trip. It was a route that he had taken dozens of times but it was still laced with danger, especially at night. He was in a rush, excited about his purchase and keen to inject it. The detective had given him enough money to buy some really good brown. Not the crap they sold for ten quid a wrap in the shithole pubs around Rathbone Road but the good stuff, stuff that would make his entire body feel like one huge erogenous zone during a twenty minute orgasm; the stuff that he couldn’t stop thinking about, ever. He had enough brown in his pocket to keep him high for days. It was an amazing feeling that he rarely had. Having enough money in his pocket to actually get high, not just take the craving away, was a rarity, one that had the power to make life feel like it was worth living. His monotonous existence, stealing and begging to feed the craving was soul destroying but for the next few days he could hide away and get high without worrying where the next hit was coming from; for a few days he didn’t need to stress or worry. He had all he needed in his pocket. Life was good for the first time in a long time. His belly was full, he had class gear to enjoy and a safe dry place to relax while he drifted through the beautiful opium clouds, flying free of the world and its shit.

  Cookie reached the end of the alleyway and waded through waist high nettles to a rusting skip. He stepped onto an upturned shopping trolley, climbing onto the skip before pulling an extractor vent cover off and sliding inside the building. The ducting inside had been salvaged for scrap years ago making the vent nothing more than a solid window. He pulled the vent back into place and checked that it wouldn’t fall off. Cookie dropped down onto a stack of pallets before climbing down onto the floor. The carpet warehouse was one storey, a vast open space the size of a football pitch. Metal columns supported the vaulted ceiling, which was still intact, keeping the interior dry. Cookie walked quickly across the wide warehouse, heading for the far right corner where he had built
a makeshift tent from some rope and old carpet remnants that he had found in the skips. His bed comprised of an old mattress, that he had dragged from a house clearance over a mile away, covered with a rug and some underlay. The removal men didn’t want it and turned a blind eye when he asked if he could take it. He couldn’t wait to get to his space and cook up his first shot, the anticipation was mind bending; pure oblivion was within his grasp. The drugs in his pocket were the keys to a magical kingdom, a place that he could only visit for a while, where everything felt incredible but he wasn’t allowed to stay for very long. Whenever he returned to reality he always left a piece of him behind; he was never quite the same as he was before. It was as if each visit had a price, a slice of his humanity, a piece of the person that he was died each time. This time he had a weekend pass for an all-inclusive visit. He didn’t care what price he would have to pay when he came down, he just wanted to get there and stay as long as he possibly could.

  When he reached his camp, he grabbed for his works and lit a candle, watching the flame flicker and dance. The orange glow seemed to fill him with warmth and joy, his brain associating the light with the drugs that would come. Every nerve ending was twitching, burning like white phosphorous in his brain, desperate for the soothing opiate to quell the pain. The brown would feed the craving, satisfy it and then propel him out into heroin heaven and beyond. The monster inside him needed feeding and it was hungry, so hungry. He lined up his works in a methodical way like a surgeon preparing his instruments, metal spoon, cotton-wool, foil, syringe, bottle of mineral water and rubber tubing before reaching into his pocket for his heroin. He opened a wrap and mixed it with the water until all the powder had dissolved and then warmed it gently over the candle. Using the cotton-wool as a sponge to absorb the brown liquid, he sucked the mixture into the syringe ready to inject. His mouth was watering, his hands shaking slightly; his heartbeat was elevated in anticipation of the hit. The only thing that mattered was flushing the contents of the syringe into a vein.

  Cookie took off his hoodie and picked up the rubber tube, tying it tightly around his forearm. The blue veins in his hand stood up. He tapped the syringe and inverted it and pushed an air bubble out. Then he pricked the biggest vein with the needle sucking blood into the mixture to make sure that he was in properly. He paused for a millisecond before pressing the plunger, removing the needle and releasing the rubber tube allowing the drug to course up his arm and into his brain. Cookie felt the warmth, the rush, the overwhelming feeling of ecstasy spreading through every molecule of his being and he leaned backwards, his head resting on the carpets. As the drug took him and he closed his eyes, a voice spoiled the effect, tried to drag him back but he ignored it. He wouldn’t listen, not now, not at the exact moment that his nerve endings were experiencing delight like never before. His eyes rolled backwards and he flew upwards towards the bluest sky ever, the colours mind blowing.

  “I see you’re still a junkie, Cookie,” the voice said. “You always were too weak to know what was good for you. I guess you couldn’t leave it alone.” Cookie’s eyes flickered for a moment; the voice triggering some memories from the far reaches of his mind but he ignored them, soaring higher still. “Fancy seeing you after all these years.” A flicker of his lids then his eyes closed tightly once more. “Tucker sent me back to clean up the bowling alley and to my surprise, I see you getting out of a Range Rover skipping off into the night like a kid with a balloon. Do you know what I thought to myself?” Cookie couldn’t hear him; he was away with the fairies now, floating, flying, feeling magical. “I thought, bless my soul that is Cookie, and he looks happy and he’s going somewhere in a hurry. Now when you see a happy junkie in a hurry it is because they have got money in their pocket. So I think to myself, how has Cookie got money? So I decided to wait a while and guess what? The place is swarming with police.” The man searched Cookie’s pockets and he took out three wraps of heroin. He mixed the contents of all three wraps with water and warmed it over the flame, before sucking it into the syringe. “I wondered how the police knew about the bowling alley and so I put two and two together and figured that you told them. Now, when I told Tucker that the police had beaten me to it, you can imagine how pissed off he was. You remember how angry he used to get. He said I needed to sort it out.” He wrapped the rubber tube around Cookie’s arm and tapped the back of his hand until the veins stood out. “Now you can go to wherever it is that you useless junkies go to. Enjoy yourself, Cookie, you fucking idiot; nice knowing you.” The needle slid into the vein and he sucked blood into the syringe before plunging the heroin into his arm. He took the rubber tube off allowing the drug to be pumped up his arm into his brain and sent Cookie further into the magic place than he had ever been before. This time, he was never coming back.

  25

  Bryn Evans had hardly slept at all; his thoughts were full of the nightmare that his life had become. He wanted to go home, he wanted his family around him; he wanted the smoke filled living room and the comforting drone of daytime television. He wanted the smell of bacon and fish and chips, the Staffie following him around like his shadow. He wanted his life back as it was, boring and normal. His mind was drifting when the door opened and the sergeant walked in followed by the doctor. Behind them were three men wearing different uniforms to the policemen. He didn’t recognise them but he guessed that they were something to do with prison. They seemed a little embarrassed by the fact that the sergeant was arguing with the doctor. Bryn hadn’t heard what he was saying before he walked into the room but whatever it was, he certainly wasn’t happy with the policeman.

  “I am not signing him out under any circumstances,” the doctor stood at the bottom of the bed protectively, folding his arms defiantly. “He’s fourteen for heaven’s sake and he may need an operation to weld that cheekbone.”

  “He’s under arrest. We don’t need your permission to move him, doctor,” the sergeant said calmly. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

  “I’ll make it as difficult as I possibly can.”

  “Being awkward isn’t going to change anything. My senior officers want him out of this hospital. We’re moving him for his own safety and for the safety of your staff and your patients.”

  “Oh come on!” the doctor snorted. “That is a gross exaggeration.”

  “I don’t think you understand the mentality of the people that we are protecting him from.”

  “He is perfectly safe here.”

  “They put a window through and breached our security to vandalise a wall. That means that they were in the hospital. Bryn, your staff and your patients are in danger.”

  “Vandalise a wall?” Bryn asked confused. “Has something else happened? I’m in a bit of a bubble here in this room so I don’t know what has been happening.”

  “It’s nothing for you to worry about, Bryn,” the sergeant said. “We can’t watch all the entrances and exits in this building and guarantee the staff’s safety so my superiors want you moved to the vulnerable teenagers’ unit at HMP Altcourse. We can be certain that you will be protected there. I’m sure your brief explained all this to you.”

  “Yes,” Bryn nodded.

  “This isn’t right,” the doctor insisted.

  “It is the best thing for Bryn right now, doctor,” the sergeant unfastened Bryn’s cuff. “Take my word for it that your patients and staff are in danger as long as Bryn remains here.”

  “Is it that bad?” Bryn asked quietly.

  The adults blushed and looked at each other. “Look, Bryn,” the sergeant said looking him in the eyes. “Anthony Farrell is from a big family and they’re all very angry at you. They blame you for everything and are not prepared to see the possibility that you didn’t mean to kill him. We can’t protect you in here.”

  “I understand,” Bryn said calmly.

  “This is ridiculous,” the doctor snapped. “He’s a kid.”

  “And that is exactly why we’re moving him.”

  �
��Don’t worry, doctor. I’ll be okay.”

  “What if he needs that operation doing?” the doctor clutched at straws.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” the sergeant nodded to the G4s guards, who handled prisoners in transit. He handed Bryn a baseball cap and gestured towards a wheelchair that was being pushed by one of the guards. “Put this on and sit in the chair and we will cover you with a blanket.” Bryn frowned, unconvinced by the disguise. “I’m not just concerned about the Farrells, Bryn. It’s to keep the press from slowing you down on the way out. We need to move quickly. It is only until we get you to the rear entrance. The ARU will be with you all the way and they’ll escort the van to Altcourse.”

  “Okay,” Bryn shrugged. His stomach was twisting in knots. The thought of being taken outside and locked in a van and taken to prison scared the living daylights out of him. All the prison documentaries that he had watched came spinning back across his mind; bare-chested gang members with tattooed faces, dead staring eyes, makeshift shivs in their hands. The ever present fear of being attacked or raped, predators and prey locked in the same buildings. It all flooded back to him and he felt weak with fear. Fear of being incarcerated, fear of being alone away from his family, fear of being assaulted, fear of never getting out, fear of dying and the fear of fear itself. The anticipation of what could happen was crippling. He sat in the chair, put on the hat and covered his legs with the blanket, pulling the peak down to hide the tears in his eyes. He wanted his mum. He didn’t want to be a murderer anymore.

  Three guards, two armed officers and the sergeant flanked the wheelchair as they sped through the ward towards the lifts. The group were silent as they travelled down to the ground floor. When the doors opened they shielded him as they stepped into the reception area, a large brightly lit area surrounded by shops and cafes. It was deserted now but for a few homeless people trying to steal an hour in the safe warmth before being tossed out by security. They headed through the quieter corridors towards the rear exit. The pack of paparazzi that had been there all day had grown tired of waiting and drifted home to bed one by one. Bryn stared into the newspaper shop and caught the headline of an early edition of the Liverpool Echo.