by Kane, Paul
Not as much as him, apparently.
In a strop, he’d given up. Closed all his accounts and walked away from the whole scene. Then another one of those damned emails had arrived in his inbox. From Date-a-Match, the one site he must have overlooked – perhaps one of the first he ever signed up to, way back when. ‘Gina’ had read his profile and wanted to chat. She was new to the area and it seemed like they might have things in common. Nicholas’ finger had hovered over the delete button, but something made him click ‘open’ instead. To his amazement, he then found himself clicking on the link to her profile.
No picture, but his eyes scanned over the words: ‘Honest and loyal’ (yeah, he’d heard that before), ‘looking for that special someone’ (doesn’t exist) and ‘have been hurt in the past’ (hasn’t everyone?). In spite of the fact that last line rang warning bells, said she might be on the rebound just like Julie, Nicholas mailed her back and they struck up a conversation. Like him, she was giving it one last try. Fresh city, fresh start and all that. Nicholas found himself warming to her. They actually did seem quite compatible, and eventually she gave him her mobile number. He rang it and they ended up chatting for three hours, about everything and anything. Forgetting himself, Nicholas found a huge grin appearing on his face as they revealed more and more of themselves, the guards slowly dropping. What he was hearing in Gina was a kindred spirit. Someone who appeared to have suffered just as badly as him on the dating scene.
‘I can’t explain it,’ she told him. ‘None of this makes any sense to me.’ It could have been him talking.
Now they’d arranged to meet, at a local wine bar one Saturday afternoon. Gina was late and Nicholas feared the worst. That was what set him thinking about the ‘baggage’ problem. Whether Gina would see it, just like the others – realise he was a bad bet and just walk back out through the door. He hadn’t even thought about how she might look yet. She’d seen his picture on his profile, but he hadn’t seen one of her.
Thankfully, when she arrived, apologising for being late – she’d been doing some more unpacking and lost track of time – she was exactly how he’d pictured her.
Her beam when she sat down at the table lit up the whole room, and when she kissed Nicholas on the cheek he felt tingly all over. Again, they sat and talked, and the afternoon fell away. Nicholas found himself opening up to her about his previous attempts at dating, even laughing at some of the most painful memories.
‘Sometimes I worry,’ Gina said, playing with her long, chestnut hair and taking a sip of the Chardonnay he’d bought her, ‘that nothing will ever work out all right. Don’t you?’
Nicholas nodded, having a drink of his lager. Then he looked at her, concerned he was putting out those vibes again: that she’d see he was carrying too much baggage; that he was damaged goods. But she said it first: ‘I’m always being told I hold on to too much from my past. You know, from the guys who hurt me.’
And that was it. That was the moment he knew Gina was the woman for him. A female version of him, in fact.
That was when he began to fall for her.
Before they knew it, the barman was calling last orders and Gina looked at him, a little the worse for wear after her wines. ‘I don’t usually… I’m quite a cautious person, but, well, my place isn’t too far away if you want to come back for a coffee…maybe?’ She smiled again, but it was a nervous one.
Don’t do it, he thought to himself. Don’t ruin things by asking if she’s sure. He remembered Julie, and although it had probably been a good thing in the long run he still thought to himself ‘what if?’ But he was a different person now, why shouldn’t he go back with Gina?
‘Look, it doesn’t matter,’ she said, smile fading.
‘Yes,’ he replied, a bit too quickly. ‘That would be lovely.’
The smiled returned.
So they got a cab back to her home, a rented two bedroom that was slightly further away than she’d implied. ‘Ignore the mess, won’t you? I’m still getting straight,’ she said, leading the way inside. He would have said ‘What mess?’ but it was pretty cluttered. Gina had been right when she said she was still in the middle of unpacking stuff. There were boxes and bags everywhere.
She told him to wait in the living room, while she fixed that coffee. He hadn’t expected an actual drink, but was glad when she went off to the kitchen. It gave him time to calm down a little. He knew things were going way too fast, but for once in his life he was willing to take that chance.
For Gina, only for her.
When she sat next to him on the sofa, the tentative kiss that followed felt natural. Like something that was meant to happen. ‘Hmm, that was nice,’ he said. Then Nicholas suddenly realised he really needed to pee; the coffee mixed with lager had gone right through him. ‘Hold that thought,’ he said, excusing himself with another kiss. Gina nodded, relaxing back on the sofa.
Looking for the bathroom, he made a wrong turn, stumbling into another small room instead. He’d flicked the light on before he realised, noting more bags and crates. The spare room obviously, where Gina had dumped the worst of the detritus from the move. He was about to flick the light off again when Nicholas caught sight of something. One of the holdalls closest to him was open a fraction. Maybe it was his imagination, or the drink, but he thought he saw a finger sticking out.
Nicholas frowned, moving forwards. Wanting to reassure himself that it couldn’t be, then needing to see more when he realised he was right. His own fingers shook as he reached out for the zip, but before he could pull it down he looked past the bag to another one beyond. There was the tip of a foot emerging from that one, toes clearly visible. Next to that was a closed suitcase, but there were tufts of hair trapped where it had been closed.
He didn’t need to open that first zip now, because he knew what was inside. The sickly-sweet smell of air freshener alone, which Nicholas was suddenly aware of, gave it away. Masking another smell entirely. It made him cough. Now he knew why Gina was usually such a cautious person.
‘I told you to ignore the mess,’ he heard from behind. ‘What a terrible shame.’
Whirling around, he saw Gina with a kitchen knife in her hand. Then suddenly she was plunging it into his chest. He looked down, mouth open. All he could think was, at least it wasn’t in his back.
‘I knew it was too good to be true, that sooner or later you’d discover just how much baggage I was carrying from my past. It’s probably just as well, Nicholas; they all end in disasters, my relationships. Better to strike first, before I get stabbed in the heart. Too bad. I was beginning to like living here, as well.’
Nicholas shook his head as he stumbled backwards and fell. It could have been different for them. Might have worked out.
Christ, what was he saying?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, blood dripping from her knife. There were genuine tears in her eyes, but no trace of that smile. ‘I really, really am. I honestly thought…no, it doesn’t matter.’
Nicholas’ eyes, conversely, were bone dry. From the floor where he lay, staring up at her, one thought was nagging at him: still he was wondering what might have been.
If he could find anything positive about the fact that he was dying, it was this: Gina, it seemed, was fated to live with all of her previous encounters. Couldn’t part with them, no matter what. And he would soon add to her burden, his body crammed into a bag, suitcase or crate. Ironically, it would probably be the longest relationship he’d ever had or would have with a woman…especially now.
Gina had so much baggage, but she’d actually done him a favour.
Because now, as the darkness took him, Nicholas realised he had finally, at last, been freed from his own.
Forever.
Graffitiland
When it happened, it was quick.
Dean had always prided himself on being pretty aware of what was going on around him. Even when he was pissed, even when he’d taken blow in the past, he was always one step ahead, could tell when things
were about to turn in a club or bar, when trouble was brewing. It was one of the things that had kept him alive all these years; kept him one step ahead of the law as well. And he’d known when to move on, when he’d outstayed his welcome – just as he had down South, when he’d cut and run. When his bosses were looking for someone to take the heat for that armed robbery which had gone oh so wrong. That’s when he’d done a runner and made his way here, to Granfield. Here there was even a chance to be a bigger fish in a smaller pond, as opposed to a tiddler that was going to be first on the hook when the time came.
Here there was an opportunity to start afresh, to re-invent himself. And that’s exactly what he’d done – got his feet well and truly under the table. In fact life couldn’t have been going better really; he had money to burn, had a girl who loved him; had trust and respect. Then this…
Quick and professional – no calm before the storm. No moment of clarity when you knew the wind was going to change, or the tide would turn. As he stepped out of the casino in the wee small hours, about to lock up as he often did, they’d come out of nowhere. He’d not had a chance to fight back before the men in ski-masks had hold of him in a vice-like grip. Dean figured they were here for the money, the takings that were in the office; might have been better waiting until the end of the month if so, rather than a slow Tuesday at the beginning of it. ‘Y-You’re making a big mistake,’ he managed. ‘D-Don’t you know whose place this is?’
They said nothing, made no demands that he take them to the safe, that he give them the cash. They’d simply placed a bag over his head, before securing his hands behind his back with a plastic tie. Had taken his phone and wallet, then wrestled him towards the sounds of a vehicle pulling up, its tyres screeching. Next he’d heard a door being yanked back on rollers – and he was shoved inside what he assumed was the back of a van. At least a couple of the men who’d done the deed piled in there with him, before the van took off again.
‘Hey…look… I don’t know what this is about, but I’m sure we can figure something—’ the blow to the face shut him up immediately and Dean tasted the familiar coppery flavour of his own blood. They didn’t want him to talk; fair enough. It had been a lie anyway when he’d said he didn’t know what this was all about; he had an idea, definitely. He had enemies – in this line of work, who didn’t? – and so did his employer. One especially, they’d heard about: a guy called Malcolm Rains who was up and coming in their field, fancied himself as pretender to the throne…like there was ever any chance he’d snatch that.
They drove for what seemed like hours, but was probably no more than about fifteen, twenty minutes. Dean’s heart was racing – he had no idea what was going to happen to him at the other end of this ride. Maybe they’d just want a ‘nice little chat’ as they said in this business. Maybe they wanted to send his employer a message. Maybe they just wanted to recruit him, although they were going about it a funny way if so. Grabbing someone off the street and smacking them in the mouth was not a good way to get on somebody’s good side.
When the van finally pulled up, it did so with a jerk and Dean was pitched forwards. Then hands were there, strong hands picking him up again. Not just to right him, but when the side door slid back again, to drag him outside and deposit him on the ground. Dean fell over sideways, but was soon lifted up once more, so that he was on his knees – hands still firmly tied behind his back. It was a stance he’d seen often on the news, usually followed by the person being executed by terrorists in some foreign land.
He knew he was risking another punch, but felt the urgent need to speak again. ‘Hey…hey fellas, listen. You can still let me go, I can walk away from this and there’ll be no retaliation. I haven’t seen your faces, I don’t know who you—’
‘Shut the fuck up, pretty boy,’ said a gruff voice, ‘before you get another slap.’ Beneath the hood, Dean frowned; even though the person speaking was trying his hardest to disguise this voice, there was something very distinctive about that rough Geordie brogue.
If he hadn’t been earlier, now he was really crapping himself. Before he could say anything else that might land him in hot water, he heard another vehicle in the distance. It sounded smaller, the engine more efficient. Having grown up around cars and been able to hotwire them before he was even out of nappies, Dean recognised the noise an expensive model made. It was a noise he’d heard before. A noise that caused him to swallow dryly.
It brought back memories, that sound. Of an afternoon when he’d been chauffeured around Granfield, taken on a tour of the ‘sights’ – the old parts and the new, with very little in-between. A guided tour of an empire, of places owned – of people owned, as well. This had been back even before he’d been put in charge of operations like the casino, trusted with a certain level of responsibility within the organisation. ‘You see all that?’ the man he’d been with, sat next to in the back while they were driven around, had said. ‘It’s mine. It belongs to me.’ Then he’d grinned a chilling grin.
Wasn’t an exaggeration, and wasn’t just ego (although he had a healthy one of those); the man doing the talking did have this town pretty much sown up. There wasn’t a pie that was baked here the guy didn’t have his fingers in before, during or after the fact. It was why Dean had gone to see him straight away when he hit Granfield – or at the very least requested a meeting. It had taken a while and some persistence, but he’d finally got past the barriers and been invited to one of the clubs for a drink. Thankfully, the man had taken a shine to him, seen something in him – regardless of the fact he couldn’t go into details about where he’d worked before.
‘There was some…unpleasantness,’ Dean had explained. ‘Not my fault, but I was going to end up taking the fall.’
‘So you got out? Very sensible… Not very loyal.’
Dean had nodded. ‘I’m extremely loyal, sir. Just not a patsy. Nobody likes being a patsy.’
‘Agreed,’ had come the reply. ‘Neither am I… But I am a damn good judge of character, and I like you Dean. I might be able to find something small for you.’
Dean had been delighted, had nearly shaken the man’s hand off – almost kissed it in fact for giving him this break. ‘I won’t let you down, I promise.’
Except he had, hadn’t he. After so long, almost seven years, Dean had let the man down spectacularly. Which was why, when the car pulled up nearby and the hood was taken off Dean’s head, causing him to blink rapidly to focus, he hadn’t been shocked at all to see the man getting out of the back of that Jag. To see the driver, Roberts, and another large man Dean didn’t recognise wearing glasses, climbing out of the front seats, too – flanking him:
Danny Fellows. Self-appointed mob boss of Granfield. His boss… Some called him The Kingpin, after the comic book character, though never to his face – mainly because he was sensitive about his receding hairline and he would probably severely damage you for the comment. He wasn’t as stockily-built as his two-dimensional counterpart either, but you certainly wouldn’t have called him weedy. Danny worked out quite a bit, mainly in that private gym located in the basement of his house – sorry, mansion – just outside the city. Dean also knew for a fact that although he was more often than not surrounded by bodyguards, the man could also take care of himself; there was even a rumour that he was highly trained in several martial arts.
More because he didn’t want to make eye contact than anything, Dean looked about him now at his surroundings. It had indeed been a van that delivered them all here, a dark transit with a door on the side which was still open. The men who’d snatched him – three of those, too – had all taken off their masks. Dean recognised a guy with a beard called Crouch, who he’d seen around but never really spoken to that much, and was now sitting half inside the van smoking. Another man nearby, with a square jaw, was called Haggard – one of Danny’s bodyguards. And the Geordie voice he’d recognised belonged to Milburn, a real nasty piece of work by all accounts – muscle Danny used to demand protection money from
people.
Dean tore his eyes away from the group and looked in the other direction, trying to gauge where he was. The light wasn’t great, which was making identification that much harder, but he saw the remains of a few buildings – their windows put through – grass that hadn’t been cut in an age, and an iron bridge that looked like it would barely hold one person’s weight without buckling. But it was the lettering and art covering absolutely everything that really gave it away; spray-painted legends like ‘Sweet Dreamz’ and ‘Growlers Rule’ (which was Granfield’s Hockey team) competed for space with pictures of dragons, a young lad in a baseball cap and a devil with a pitchfork.
Not a foreign land at all. This was the deserted patch of town – well, deserted as far as the ordinary population was concerned; there were people living here, they just didn’t show themselves…mostly – that had come to be known as Graffitiland, for obvious reasons. This was where the wannabe artists came to ply their trade, and where the disaffected youth of today blew off steam. Countless people had lost their virginity in Graffitiland; many more had almost certainly lost their lives. But what was he doing here?
Dean had a horrible feeling he was about to find out.
Danny, Roberts and the man he didn’t know had covered the distance between them in the time it had taken Dean to figure out his location. Danny was wearing a burgundy suit that would have cost most people’s wages for the year, and jewellery that would have kept the average family afloat for many more. He pulled his matching long coat tighter around himself against the cold. In contrast, Roberts and the other guy were dressed head to foot in black, which was also coincidentally the uniform of the men from the van.