by Lee Stevens
There hadn’t been a police investigation into Mark Dainton’s disappearance because, as planned, nobody had reported him missing. After freezing his corpse McCabe had cut the body up into manageable pieces and with the help of Howden had scattered them throughout the woodland not far from where Riley now stood. The animals would have taken care of most of the evidence by now and if any part of him turned up it would take the best pathologists and anthropologists weeks to identify him. The two girls who’d been with him that night had obviously heeded the warning and kept their mouths shut and Anderson had made the Audi disappear. And his uncle Lenny had also remained quiet about the little package he’d received which blatantly meant he was going to keep the police out of this and take matters into his own hands. Things weren’t over. Not by a long shot.
Riley said one more mental goodbye to his parents, turned away from the trees and trudged back across the soaked grass to the hard shoulder on the motorway where his car was parked. He changed into his clean shoes and tossed the muddy ones into the boot. Then he fired up the engine and waited for a gap in the traffic before pulling out and heading back to the city centre.
It was time for more death.
30
Riley guessed that there were over three hundred people at the church. Strange how Michael junior should have more people mourning his death than celebrating his twenty-first. But then again, the shooting had been in all the local papers and the obituaries in last week’s chronicle had taken up two full pages. A lot of people would have read the story, seen the heart-felt messages and, for some reason, felt compelled to attend the service today. Most of them had probably never even met Michael before but still wanted to pay their last respects. Why anyone would choose to come to a funeral was beyond Riley. If he had a choice he could think of a hundred different places he’d rather be today, maybe even the dreaded hospital. But he had no choice but to be here. Every who worked for Nash had turned up today. It was to be expected.
He shook hands with a few of the boys as he joined the queue outside the church. Harry Knight and Tony Devlin were there. So was Danny Atkins. Alan Anderson, the garage owner, was having a coughing fit as he sucked on a roll-up by the side of the building. Riley spied numerous other doormen and bar staff and many more casual acquaintances dotted throughout the line of mourners. Finally, he found Purvis, standing by himself amongst the crowds, looking suitably glum.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” Purvis said, looking at his watch. “You’ve cut it fine.”
“I didn’t fancy the idea of hanging around here waiting,” Riley replied, quietly. He didn’t mention that he’d spent the last hour at the site of his parent’s deaths. Even Purvis, his closest friend, had no idea about his past. “Besides, why would anyone want to turn up early to a funeral? It’s not like a wedding or a christening where you can soak up the atmosphere and have a laugh, is it?”
They both turned to the road where five hearses were pulling into the courtyard.
“No, it certainly isn’t,” Purvis said.
Suddenly the very air seemed to gain weight and become oppressive. The crowd fell into a deathly silence, punctuated only by the odd sob from one of the mourners, or a brief explosive cough from Alan Anderson. The noise of background traffic and falling rain seemed subdued and less intrusive. Birds seemed to stop chirping. The branches of the trees lining the nearby graveyard seemed to stop blowing in the breeze as time appeared to come to a stop for several brief seconds.
The coffin was visible through the glass partition in the back of the first hearse. As expected, the flowers spelled out SON. Behind it, from the first black limousine in the procession, Nash and Sandra climbed out onto the pavement, little Wendy with them, looking innocent and lost in the occasion as she clutched her mother’s hand. When a pallbearer dutifully appeared and held a black umbrella above them, Nash didn’t even acknowledge him. In fact, he didn’t look like he was aware that anyone else was here or even if he was aware of where he was or what was going on himself. He looked lost and moved slowly, like someone hypnotised or drugged. The dark glasses he wore didn’t hide his pained expression and as he waited for the pallbearers to unload the coffin he looked like he had aged ten years since the death of his beloved son.
That’s probably how Jamie Hudson’s father looked at his son’s funeral, Riley mused. How does it feel now Nash? Can you remember how you didn’t care when you heard the news of the boy’s death? How you laughed and joked and got on with your life with one less problem person in your way. Can you finally sympathise with the boy’s parents, Nash? Have you thought of them since losing your own son? No, of course you haven’t...
Several more people climbed out of the following cars, including Nash’s elder sisters and their husbands and Michael junior’s cousins. Several young men climbed out of the following car; some of Michael junior’s best friends who had been at the party. Turner, McCabe and Howden climbed out of the final hearse. They obviously considered themselves important enough to warrant a car in the procession along with the others. Both Riley and Purvis had been asked to ride with them but both had politely refused. Riley said he didn’t feel he had the right as he had only been with the firm properly for a few years and had only met Michael junior on a handful occasions. Purvis had said that funerals didn’t agree with him and he’d be spewing and running to the toilet all morning and so it would be best that he made his own way here. Riley guessed that had been a lie. Purvis just didn’t want to act so close to Nash on this day as he planned on running off with Sandra soon.
When everyone was ready, the coffin was walked towards the open doors to the church and the crowd of mourners stood silently and respectfully as it passed before following it inside for the most depressing of shows to begin.
Riley wished he could have waited outside with the hundred or so that couldn’t fit into the auditorium. Instead he sat in the third row beside Purvis, along from Turner, McCabe and Howden, and directly behind Nash and Sandra and several of Michael junior’s family and friends.
Nash wept throughout the seriously long service, his head buried in his hands and he only looked up at his son’s closed casket on the platform beside the alter once before breaking down again as the priest droned on about God and Heaven and asked the congregation to join him in prayer or hymn.
Even though the thought of praying to a God who allowed so many terrible things to happen both amused and disgusted him, Riley mumbled along to The Lord’s Prayer and said his Amen’s in respect of the occasion.
Then, the service over, it was time to carry the coffin out to the cemetery at the back of the church for the burial with only family and close friends gathering around the grave whilst most of the mourners waited in the churchyard. Riley and Purvis had no excuses this time and trudged along with fifty or so others to a freshly dug pit at the far end of the bone-yard.
After standing around the grave in the rain for another fifteen minutes, the coffin was finally lowered and a distraught Nash, aided by Sandra’s strong hand on his elbow, tossed the first handful of dirt onto the lid. Sandra did the same. Then Nash’s sisters and other family members. Then Michael junior’s friends. Then Turner. Then McCabe.
Riley eyed him suspiciously, thinking, Are you really grieving? Or are you just gutted that the wrong person is in the ground? What’s your game, McCabe? Whose side are you on?
Soon all the formalities were over and that was the end of Michael junior’s funeral; the end of a life. More tears were shed, people blessed themselves, the priest shook a lot of hands and then everyone headed back to their cars. Riley and Purvis walked together, Turner, McCabe and Howden just behind them. Nash, still in that somnambulistic state, walked back to his limo with Sandra and Wendy in tow. There was no planned gathering back at his mansion. He just wanted to be alone. Nash’s sisters had booked a function room for the guests to celebrate Michael’s life and mourn his passing but none of the boys from the firm would be attending. It wasn’t their scene. Inst
ead, Turner had organised a little drink at a private club for them to say a proper goodbye to the deceased by getting hammered, and private meant private. No outsiders, not even Nash’s family. The club was owned by Turner but didn’t make any money to write home about. It was mainly a front for his other activities and at the very least gave him a job title. Today there would be no one on the bar and all the drinks would be free. Nash had given Turner his blessing but hadn’t wanted part of it. Said the funeral itself would be too much for him and would head straight home afterwards. No doubt he wanted to be alone. And despite the fact that Sandra and Wendy were going back with him, he may as well have been by himself today. He hadn’t even acknowledged the two of them the whole time, as if the death of Michael junior had made him feel guilty at having any remaining family.
Riley and Purvis watched Nash climb into the passenger seat of the limo. He moved like a man suffering from some dilapidating ailment and again Riley was sure the death of his son had aged Nash a great deal, both mentally and physically. Sandra helped Wendy into the child seat in the back and closed the door. She looked back at Purvis briefly. There were tears in her eyes. Then she climbed in and the hearse pulled away.
Before Riley could ask if Purvis was alright, Turner tapped him on the shoulder.
“See you two at the club, right?” he said as he McCabe and Howden headed towards their black limo.
Riley nodded and gave a thumbs up. Then when they were out of ear-shot, he whispered to Purvis, “I suppose we have to go. Pay our respects.”
“I guess,” Purvis replied, staring after the limo carrying his daughter.
“Come on,” Riley told him. “I’m driving, so you can get shit-faced.”
“Sounds good.”
Together, they headed out of the churchyard for the Merc.
31
“I’ve been in touch with that bloke about the passports. We’re leaving as soon as we can.”
Riley shot Purvis a look and then set his eyes back on the road. They’d been driving for close to ten minutes and were back in the city centre. Not much had been said until now, only small talk, but Purvis obviously decided he needed to get things off his chest and this was the only chance he’d get today. They’d be at the club in a few minutes, surrounded by people who kept their ears peeled at all times.
“That’s good,” Riley replied. “Michael junior’s in the ground. Things will start to get heavy quickly and you and the girls are best off out of it. How soon you talking?”
“A couple of weeks maybe. I have to pay half the money up front. I’m waiting to hear back from him to tell me where and when to meet him.”
“So I take it Sandra’s ready to cut loose from Nash. No more guilt?”
“I saw her yesterday – at the house.”
“Your house? Your secret house?”
“Where else?” Purvis forced a smile, as if remembering the times he and Sandra had spent together there. “Nash has made it obvious that he wants nothing to do with either her or Wendy. I think that’s what’s made Sandra’s mind up that now’s the time. She’s tried to stand by him until he recovers from his loss but he doesn’t want her. So why should she stay?”
Riley couldn’t argue with that.
“The sooner the three of you go the better,” he said. “Go far away. Start a new life. Be happy. Be safe.”
Purvis’s smile grew.“Thanks, Riley.”“For what?”“For understanding.”“Yeah, I’m all heart.”Purvis laughed for the first time in ages as Riley found a parking space just off the high street. They couldn’t park any nearer to the club than here and would have to walk the rest of the three hundred yards on foot. You got to it by walking down the alley between the supermarket and the off-licence and if you weren’t a member of the firm, a postman, a drayman or a pissy-smelling tramp who searched for food or slept in the alley then you probably wouldn’t even know the place existed. It was a small, one-roomed place that used to be an out of hours drinking den until a change in the licensing laws made it legit, and it was now a favourite members-only haunt for a lot of doormen who didn’t like to socialise in the bars and clubs that were their places of work.
As he climbed out the car Riley could see a few of the boys already heading towards the alley and the sight of so many big men in black suits was bringing a number of startled stares from the passers-by hurrying through the rain. The two of them soon followed.
The light dimmed considerably once inside the alleyway and the rain eased. Riley could see the group of about ten men approaching the door. Turner and the others hadn’t arrived yet but that wasn’t a problem. Most of the lads had keys to the place so they could access it when they liked, a real perk of working for Nash. Harry Knight was at the head of the group and he was reaching into his pocket for his key as he chatted with Terry Atkins. Tony Devlin was walking with three other doormen and it was he who actually stopped and pointed at something down by the door. Riley and Purvis were a good fifty feet behind them, but because of the echo they heard him clearly say, “Look at this.”
Then Knight replied, “What the fuck’s that doing here?” as he pointed the key at the lock.
Then Atkins, looking over Knight’s shoulder asked, “What’s what doing where?”
Devlin reached for whatever it was. Said, “It’s a wreath.”
“A wreath?”
“Yeah.”
“Who from?”
“The notes says...” and that was as far as Tony Devlin got. Those were the last three words to leave his mouth.
The alleyway lit up as he lifted the wreath from the ground and even though Riley and Purvis were still fifty feet away the explosion threw them backwards onto the cobbles.
The noise came a second later, a great boom, like thunder followed by the dull clanking of debris as the remains of the club door scattered in all directions.
Riley ignored the dizziness in his head and got to his feet. Purvis was on the floor, holding his ears. Behind them, several people were running up the alley from the high street. Turner, McCabe and Howden were among them, mouths open in shock.
Riley looked back to where the club door should be, and through the gloom and smoke saw that it had been blown off its hinges and that a small fire had erupted in the lobby. Several men lay writhing on the floor, moaning and screaming due to burns or shrapnel injuries. Three other men were clearly dead. Harry knight was blackened, smoke rising from his still body. Terry Atkins was lying further up the alley, a lump of brick embedded in his face where his left cheek should be. Tony Devlin’s body was badly burnt and his face horrendously disfigured. He’d also lost both arms below the elbow, his corpse leaning against the far wall of the alleyway.
Turner, McCabe and Howden ran past Riley to get to the survivors. Because of the ringing in his ears, Riley couldn’t hear what they were yelling at each other. He felt like he was in a dream. Shock had left him disorientated.
A bomb. Someone planted a fucking bomb!
He began to check himself for injuries but couldn’t see any. Then he felt a hand tug at the corner of his coat and looked down.
Purvis stared up at him. He had a deep cut to his forehead and blood was running into his eyes and down his face. His mouth moved, forming words.
“What?” Riley said, and barely heard himself. God, his ears were ringing so bad. He worked his jaw to see if it would help. It did, but only a little.
Purvis then pulled out his mobile phone and thrust it in Riley’s direction.
“Call Nash!” he shouted.
“We need to help people here first,” Riley said as he dragged Purvis to his feet.
“The girls!” Purvis yelled and shoved the phone into Riley’s hand.
Riley suddenly understood. If this had happened here, who was to say that something hadn’t been planned at Nash’s mansion too?
After all the praying he’d had to do earlier, he didn’t expect to be doing it again so soon.
But as he dialled Sandra’s number, he prayed she wo
uld answer.
32
Sandra played with Wendy’s hair as the hearse passed through the gates of the mansion and crawled slowly up the driveway towards the front of the house.
The journey back from the cemetery had only taken twenty minutes but for Sandra it had felt like twenty hours, the three of them sitting in silence, Nash opposite Wendy and herself, travelling backwards, gazing out of the window at the rain with eyes that were as damp and gloomy as the weather. It was like he was alone. It had been this way since the shooting. He’d just locked himself in the bedroom and cried and drank brandy and watched old home movies and drank more brandy and looked at old photographs and then cried and drank some more. Sandra had slept in Wendy’s bed this last week. It was as if Nash had forgotten that the two of them even existed. She’d always known that Nash could never love either of them as much as he had his son, but she’d never expected him to shut them out this much, not at a time like this. But, then again, people grieved in different ways. Some needed company, a hand to hold or a shoulder to rest their head on. Others needed space. Maybe the way he was acting was just a normal part of the grieving process. He’d snap out of it in his own time. He’d-
-Don’t start to feel sorry for him, a little voice inside warned. He doesn’t love either of you. You don’t love him. Wendy won’t miss him. Let him ignore the two of you and it’ll make it easier for you to walk away...