THE FIX_SAS hero turns Manchester hitman

by Robert White

  I felt really uncomfortable being in possession of a gun. Although I’d done lots of shooting with Des the last couple of months, it was always a fun thing, punching holes in tin cans and stuff. This was very different. I was being carried along by an energy that I couldn’t, or didn’t want to fight. I checked my watch and saw I had half an hour before the scheduled meeting at O’Shea’s.

  I couldn’t decide whether to take the SIG with me. I eventually decided against it, and concealed the box of ammunition and the pistol in my suitcase. I tucked my new phone in my jeans pocket, pulled on my anorak and walked to the lift.

  I could hear O’Shea’s before I could see it. Banging Irish tunes bounced off the office blocks opposite, before disappearing off towards the canal and Manchester’s infamous gay village.

  I stepped into the tiled hallway of the bar. Two large shaven-headed bouncers looked me up and down, issued a polite ‘good evening’ and pushed open the interior doors.

  I was hit with a wall of cigarette smoke, clinking glasses and a boisterous crowd. There were half a dozen booths to my right, filled with a mixture of student types and Celtic football fans. Obviously a televised game had recently ended, and judging by the mood of the Catholic side of Glasgow, Celtic had been victorious.

  The bar then crooked left and I faced a stage, occupied by five guys and a lone female sporting guitars, fiddles and whistles. The backdrop announced the band as ‘The Bogtrotters.’ They were just starting a rousing rendition of Black Velvet Band.

  A large group of green and white hooped shirts were gathered in front of the band, and clapped and cheered every move.

  Finally, I saw Des sitting at a table to the left of the stage. He waved at me and smiled. Rick sat to his right, he didn’t acknowledge me; he simply checked his watch implying I was late. I wasn’t.

  “Drink?” asked Des above the din.

  “Bacardi and Coke please,” I shouted as the band got to the chorus.

  I sat opposite Rick. “You okay? You look pissed off.”

  He pointed toward his half empty glass of what appeared to be water. “When we’ve had this we’ll move on, it’s too noisy here.”

  Des returned with my drink and a pint of Guinness for himself. He’d read the situation. “I like it in here, there’s no point in moving now, mate. Let’s just organise the morrow and have a few beers eh?”

  “Were not on a fuckin’ jolly here, Des, these bastards we’re going after are serious players, we’re not here to have a fuckin ceilidh. Getting pissed and having a good night out is low on my priority list, my old son.” Rick bared his teeth. He looked as scary as hell. “I’ve a feeling about these fuckers. These guys are big, massive. They can do things the fuckin’ CIA have difficulty doing. But I’ll tell you this, the bastards are going to pay.”

  Des shot me a reassuring look. He leaned over the table toward Rick.

  “Dinnae get shirty now, pal. We’ve all given up a lot to see this through.”

  “You,” Des pointed a finger, “said not to check our accounts. But if I were a betting man, I’d say you have, and you are cleaned out, just as I figured when we tried your card three fuckin months ago. I also reckon,” Des pointed between us, “that we are in the same boat. Wouldn’t you? I’d wager that Lauren and me here haven’t a pot to piss in either. I know something’s no right. I knew as soon as that bomb went off in Moston. We’re not here to get legless, we’re here to sort out what happens next. So wind yer neck in, big man.”

  I thought Rick was going to explode but Des faced him without a hint of fear. I’d seen fights before. We all had. My heart was in my mouth. I knew if these two went off, it would take a lot more than the two bruisers on the door to stop them.

  “For God’s sake, you two,” I heard myself say. “You’re like two big kids. Des, go to the bar and get Rick a proper drink.”

  I thought Rick was about to punch me, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  I slid in next to him, so close I could smell his cologne. I gripped his wrist and leaned in his ear. It was the closest I’d ever been to the man and his sheer presence scared me. It was too late to back down. I went for him with both female barrels.

  “It’s all been about you for a long time, hasn’t it, Rick?”

  He turned. His eyes burned into me. He didn’t speak. I sensed we were alone at the table. Des must have gone for that drink. I couldn’t look to check. I was simply mesmerized by his gaze. I took a breath and persisted.

  “You haven’t a thought for anyone, have you? All these years you’ve been alone, the solitude, it’s eaten your heart. There’s more to life than cash, and cars, and women.”

  I gestured toward Des. “What about him? He’s put his arse on the line for you more times than you can remember. He can’t go home. I can’t go home, and all you can think about is your fucking Paul Smith wardrobe.”

  I knew I had already gone too far, but it just came out.

  “We didn’t kill your wife, Rick.”

  I had found his Achilles. I saw his expression change. The rage fell from his face and his eyes lost their fire. It was replaced by the most incredible pain. He no longer saw me. No longer heard the music or complained about the smoke.

  He was alone with his sorrow.

  Des came to my rescue and sat. He slid a large single malt whisky across the table. Rick turned his head and stared at the drink. A moment passed. He took the glass and downed the golden liquid.

  He stood.

  “I’ve parked a Black Vectra on the NCP on Hulme Street, opposite the Salvation Army hostel. That’s the RP, four a.m. I’ll brief you both then. Don’t get pissed.”

  And he was gone.

  Des Cogan's Story:

  My train journey had been torturous. It was my own fault. I’d missed my connection at Carlisle and ended up on the Blackpool to Manchester Airport train. Jesus, they never changed. They still had filthy carriages, with not enough seats to go around, noisy engines and a jarring ride. The table in front of me was covered in graffiti and inhabited by a woman and two kids who all smelled of vomit. I’d travelled on trains all over the world. Ours were slightly better than Sri Lanka’s.

  I just knew Rick and Lauren would have made their timetable and would be sitting pretty in their respective hotels by the time I’d made Oxford Road. It didn’t help that the train stopped every fuckin’ ten minutes. Chorley, Addlington, Blackrod and God knows what other one horse towns.

  Finally, just before midday, my rust-bucket attempt at a train pulled into Manchester and I stepped onto an equally grubby station platform. Oxford Road was a grand sounding place but in comparison to its neighbour, Piccadilly, it was very much the poor relation. Its overgrown railway tracks to the north and a filthy pale green fence to the south set the scene, and three aging platforms awash with disgruntled passengers told the story. Oxford Road was in pretty poor shape.

  I’d been dying for a brew since Preston, but ignored the station coffee shop as it looked similar to the station itself. Instead I walked a few yards down the station approach and found Java.

  It was a little independent coffee house, not connected to any chain, like Nero or Starbucks. Best of all, it still allowed lepers like me to smoke inside.

  I ordered a cappuccino and a cheese toasty, grabbed a gratis copy of the Daily Mirror and lit my wee pipe. Two young guys behind the counter insisted on calling me ‘mate’ every other syllable, but the coffee was good and the sandwich did the trick.

  I read the paper, drained my pot and walked the couple of hundred yards to the Novotel. I stowed my kit, had a shower and by the time I’d fannied around looking for Phones 4U and bought the obligatory item, I was ready for a pint.

  Rick hadn’t said anything about keeping a low profile, but it wasn’t in my nature to stand out. I decided to go straight to a pub I knew.

  ‘The Monkey’ was as quirky as its name suggested, just a short walk from where Rick was staying.

  I had a couple of pints of average Guinness, smoked
a little too much and allowed my mind to wander. My conscience spent its time chastising me for my sins in the graveyard in Moston. The little boy with the stomach injury sneaked into my head and wouldn’t leave me alone, and then for some reason I was transported back to the Sudan and a village massacre we came across whilst patrolling with the local recruits.

  More young lives snuffed out, horribly mutilated by murderous tribesmen.

  I drained my pint and ordered a large whisky. I rubbed my face with my hands and wondered why I tortured myself, best not to think too much eh?

  I left The Monkey and made it to the Irish pub, O’Shea’s, and was hoping for better vibes and company.

  I should have known Rick would kick off.

  Rick Fuller's Story:

  “Rick! Rick!”

  I could hear Des shouting after me, despite that fucking music. The tourists and the Celtic fans might go for that shit, but to me, Paddy rebel songs weren’t entertainment. Once you’ve seen your wife with the side of her face missing, Irish music in general loses its quaint charm.

  Why arrange the meet in an Irish boozer then?

  Because, normally, I could take it. I’d lived with it for years. I was better than it. It was convenient.

  “Rick! Fer fuck’s sake, hold up.”

  I couldn’t stop walking. I passed the doorman and knocked his shoulder with mine. He gave me the evils. If he’d said a word at that point, I’d have blown the whole job and slotted him.

  “Rick!”

  I was on the street walking fast and the cold hit my face. The area around my new scar tingled as the air played with brand new skin. I strode on across the junction toward Piccadilly bus station and my hotel. Two obviously gay men held hands in front of me.

  I turned to the right into Canal Street and the music changed to Kylie and Shirley. Despite the cold, the street was busy with revellers. Straight couples mixed with transsexuals. Shaven-headed lesbians laughed with suited Japanese tourists, it was a smorgasbord of humanity, all bent on having a good time.

  I heard Des, he hadn’t given up, “You stubborn bastard, stop.”

  A guy, my size with a number one crew cut, dressed in nothing but leather chaps and a waistcoat, took one look at Des chasing me and called out,

  “If I were you, darling’, I’d slow down a bit. He’s just gorgeous!”

  I stopped. REM blasted from the bar on my left. Two pretty young girls staggered from the doorway and snogged passionately yards from me. I was in another world.

  My anger subsided; the Irish music no longer haunted me.

  I turned to see Des walking through the crowd. He’d left his coat in the pub. He sported Levis, a white, cotton Lacoste T-shirt and a whiter smile. He thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of O’Shea’s.

  “Get back in the bar, yer bollocks.”

  He stopped inches from my face. I lowered my voice as much as I could in the din of Canal Street.

  “Look, it’s got nothing to do with you and Lauren. I’m going to my hotel, Des. That’s all. There’s no hidden agenda.”

  Des gripped my forearm. There was no revulsion at his touch. I welcomed it.

  “Come on, just one more beer.”

  I stalled. I knew what I’d become. I knew Lauren was right. What was the true worth of my recent loss? How could it compare? It was cash, dirty money too. Des would give his life for me. He had, once again, saved my arse. I put my arm around him.

  My brother in arms.

  “Come on then, let’s fuck off.”

  We walked down the remainder of Canal Street to cheers and wolf whistles from the balcony bar. We knew how it looked but I kept my arm around Des all the way to O’Shea’s.

  Lauren North's Story:

  It was good to see the boys relaxed.

  We had denied ourselves all alcohol during our three-month stay in Scotland. The punishing fitness regime we had all completed had been at the expense of any form of R and R. I knew my body had changed shape. The jeans I wore were slack around my waist but tight on my thighs. I had biceps and triceps for the first time in my life.

  I looked at myself in the grubby mirror of the pub toilets. I was still Lauren, but a fitter, stronger Lauren. It was my first real comprehension of what I was about to become.

  A crowd of teenage girls bounced into the room behind me, full of attitude. One pushed me roughly to get a look in the mirror. Without warning, adrenaline hammered its way around my body and I felt the rush. Better than sex, they say.

  I turned toward them, instantly on my guard. All four fell silent and looked at me. Then I saw it. I saw the fear in their eyes. They were actually frightened of me.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” I said as they parted like a sea. I pushed open the toilet door and walked back to our table, smiling.

  Despite all Rick’s posturing we had a ball in O’Shea’s. We drank and we danced. We laughed, yes actually laughed.

  We became close that night; something unsaid; something immeasurable; something exceptional.

  If you were to ask Des or Rick about the defining moment in our relationship, I reckon it would be the night in O’Shea’s.

  Sometimes, it is the smallest thing that makes you realise you have made the right choice. It can be something as simple as a look, or a shared joke. I felt at home. I suddenly realised just how lonely I’d become before meeting these two men. There is a song. I can’t remember who sang it or anything else about it other than one line. It went, ‘I’m tired of being alone and calling it freedom.’

  There’s nothing free about planning your life around a shift rota and the television pages; nothing liberating about cruising singles bars with people as sad and alone as you in the hope of some fleeting excitement; and nothing healing about taking a beating for expressing an opinion in your own home. No, walking into the canteen and sitting opposite Des had been liberating, healing and exciting. All the very things I had sought, the very things I had promised myself as a young woman were now in my hands and the beauty of it all was the men in my life wanted nothing more from me than trust.

  Before we all knew it, the lights in the bar were raised and the band was packing away their instruments. I checked my watch and saw it was one a.m.

  Rick raised his glass.

  “To the three of us.”

  “To the three of us,” we mimicked.

  Des had a glint in his eye. He was the happiest I’d seen him.

  “Here’s tae us,” he proposed. “Them that’s like us. Damned few, and they’re all deed.”

  We all drained our glasses. I felt like part of the Three Musketeers. Little did I know what being part of the team would mean, and what difficulties were to come.

  The RP remained the same. Four a.m. at Hulme Street car park. No allowance from Rick or Des for the late hour. I lay in my bed and stared at the anonymous ceiling. I couldn’t sleep; part fear, part excitement.

  We were to pay a visit to Joel Davies’s house.

  Was he still alive? Was his house in the same state as Rick’s flat? Or had Stern gone through the whole of the Manchester drug scene like a plague of locusts, devouring all in his path, taking anything of value and wiping out all living things in his way, carving his own path to fantastic riches and power?

  This action could put our heads above the parapet for the first time since Rick and Des’s return from Holland. Once we started this operation our cover was blown and we would be visible. If you were an enemy of Mr. Stern it appeared to be a very unhealthy state of affairs.

  It was the only lead we had. Let’s face it. Everyone else connected the Amsterdam job was probably dead.

  At three a.m. I gave up any idea of sleep and took a long hot shower. I scraped back my hair and dressed quickly. Finally I removed the Sig from its hiding place, took thirteen rounds from the box of ammunition and carefully filled the magazine as Des had taught me. When the last bullet was loaded, I pushed the magazine into the butt of the gun and slid back the mechanism. This action chambered the fir
st round and made the gun ready to fire. I applied the safety and pushed the weapon into the waistband of my jeans.

  Once again I found myself in front of the mirror. Half of me felt like Al Pacino, the other half, like a delirious fool.

  With one last deep breath, I pulled on my coat and headed for the lift.

  Rick Fuller's Story:

  I got just two hours kip before the receptionist called my room at three-thirty a.m.

  For the first time in years, I felt really alive and ready to do business again. Somehow, the scene in the pub had cleared my mind.

  I’d become a man who owned everything, but had nothing. I used to look at rich guys, driving around in their flash cars, and say, fuckin’ hell Rick, one day, that’ll be you there, mate.

  Manchester made that little dream come true.

  I’d started out with the intention of making a quick buck, and maybe doing one to Asia. Running away from my problems seemed a good idea at the time. But I stayed in Manchester, and made more money than I could have ever imagined.

  Now, I had a big hole where a five-hundred-pound gold tooth once lived, and legs that looked like the surface of Mars. Suffice to say, I hadn’t a pot to piss in, but if I was honest, I wasn’t fucking arsed about any of it. None of it really mattered anymore, all I knew was at last I was around people of substance. People who genuinely cared about the same things as me.

  I don’t know if it was the bullet from Stephan’s gun, that selfless care that Lauren brought to me, or Des just being, well, Des, but I felt good.

  Really good.

  I’d packed everything I could into a small holdall. Entry devices, camouflage, recording equipment and spare ammunition, anything that we might need for a covert entry to the house.

  If we could get in and out without drama it would be a Godsend, although from what I’d seen earlier, it would be a miracle.

  I kept that little gem to myself.