‘I dunno about you, Steve, but I think we should call it a night. My stomach thinks me throat’s been cut. Let’s go and have a bit of Chinese or something. We’ll have a sit down, eh?’
Never one to refuse a meal, Steve agreed and the pair of them left the depressing streets of Barking and headed off to Chinatown in Ilford. As they tucked into a selection of dishes, they discussed what they should do next. Shovelling a succession of spare ribs into his mouth, Mickey spoke between mouthfuls.
‘I think we should give up the search, just for a couple of days. He’s obviously laying low somewhere. And the more he hears we’ve been hunting for him, the further away we’re gonna push him. I think we should concentrate on moving our stuff down to the house in the next couple of days. Adam Prior said we can borrow his transit van. Let’s get all our shit sorted and then we’ll worry about McDaid after.’
Steve had some ideas of his own. ‘Look, we know from when we was looking for McDaid before that he’s not the most popular of geezers. Why don’t we pop back to a couple of his locals and ask a couple of junkies to help us find him? These people are lowlifes, Mick, they’ll bite your hand off for a tenner. If we offer ’em, say, hundred quid for the right information, we’ll have ’em queuing up to help us.’
Sipping his beer while he mulled over the suggestion, Mickey decided that they had nothing to lose. ‘That ain’t a bad idea, you know, big man. Why should we do all the fucking hard work?’ he said, chucking some money on to the table.
Ten minutes later the pair of them were back in Barking, searching for suitable candidates.
Billy McDaid heard a noise coming from the landing outside and felt his heart-rate quicken. ‘Go and have a look through the spy hole, Andy, see if anyone’s out there,’ he whispered.
A stoned Andy informed him that it was the kid next door, playing football with an empty beer can.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Billy took out a Benson and Hedges and carried on chain-smoking.
It was six days now since he’d been given bail and he’d been stuck in Andy’s flat ever since. Not once had he set foot outside the door, nor even seen the light of day. He’d fully expected Mr Mickey fucking Bigshot to have come knocking on the door by now and had made preparations just in case.
Andy had a big broom cupboard in his one-bedroomed flat which had a decentsized loft above it. Billy had already moved the hatch aside and put the ladders in place, in case he needed to make a quick escape. Staying at Andy’s was fine on a temporary basis, but he was at a dead loss as to what he was going to do in the long run.
For obvious reasons, he couldn’t go back to his own flat and, apart from Andy, he had no other real friends who would risk their neck for him. Going back to Glasgow was a definite no go. Cuntsmouth Colin, his slut of a mother, and memories of his brother’s death were more than enough to stop him from returning there. One day he’d like to go back, but not now.
‘We’re out of cider, Bill, and I’m running low on fags. I’m gonna go down to the offie and get some. I’ll pop to the chippy as well. You hungry?’
Billy shook his head. He hadn’t eaten in days and, the way he felt at the moment, didn’t think he’d ever have an appetite again. Ordering his mate to be as quick as poss, Billy cracked open the last can of cider and stared listlessly out of the window.
He’d hated being banged up, it hadn’t suited him at all, and the thought of doing a long stretch, filled him with dread. Sitting in a cell on his own had given Billy far too much time to think. He’d thought a lot about the past during his time at Andy’s too, and all the shit he’d been through, but most of all he’d thought of Debbie and little Charlie boy.
Over and over again, he wished he could turn the clock back to Christmas morning. Why the fuck hadn’t he handled things differently? Billy felt terrible about the hiding he’d given Debbie, but that was nothing in comparison to the guilt he felt over what he’d done to his son.
Dangling his own flesh and blood out of a thirteenth-floor window was the action of the lowest of the low, and the memory of it would haunt him until the day he died. The only thing he could blame it on was the drugs, but even that was no excuse.
‘Nooooo, Daddy, nooooo!’ His son’s screams would live with him forever. All he could hope for was that in time Charlie would forget that his father had threatened to kill him, just to save his own sorry arse. Disgusted with himself, Billy sat on the floor, held his head in his hands and sobbed.
Mickey and Steve were lugging a sofa into their new abode when Mickey’s phone started to ring.
‘All right. Is that Mickey?’ said a drugged up voice.
‘Yeah, speaking. Who’s that?’
‘It’s Scott. You gave me your number yesterday and told me to ring you if I found out where Billy McDaid was. Well, I’ve found out where he’s staying but I want me money first.’
Nodding to Big Steve to chuck the sofa inside, Mickey made a meet with the kid and the pair of them shot off straight away.
They made Barking in eight minutes flat.
‘You Scott?’ Mickey asked the spotty-looking teenager.
‘Nah, I’m his brother Ricky. Scott’s waiting round the corner. He don’t want anyone to see him meeting ya. Follow me.’
Hoping they weren’t being arsed about, Mickey and Steve reluctantly followed the kid round to a row of disused garages. ‘You ain’t fucking leading us up the garden path ’ere, are you, son?’ Mickey enquired menacingly.
‘I’m not, honest,’ Ricky said nervously. As he let out a loud whistle, his brother appeared like magic. After a brief conversation, Mickey handed the kid a score.
‘We said hundred, where’s the other eighty?’ Scott asked in dismay. He was going to a rave later and was relying on this money to keep him in Ecstasy tablets for the evening.
Mickey smiled. ‘For all I know you might be lying. You’ll get the rest of your dough after I’ve found McDaid. Wait down the bottom of the flats and if your story rings true, I’ll slip it to you on the way out.’
Scott wasn’t easy with this arrangement. ‘What if someone sees me wiv ya? Grasses ain’t popular round here, yer know. My name’ll be shit if anyone finds out.’
Noticing an empty McDonald’s bag drifting across the pavement, Mickey picked it up and shoved eighty quid in it.
‘If all goes to plan, I’ll make sure I drop this on the floor as I come down the stairs, right?’
‘Okay,’ Scott said dubiously. He’d only ever dealt with druggies and thieves, and lived in a world where it was the norm to pull a fast one.
As he walked away from the garages, Mickey turned back towards the boys. ‘By the way, I forgot to ask ya. How do you know the cunt is definitely staying at this flat? You seen him with your own eyes?’
‘No,’ Scott replied truthfully. ‘My dad bumped into his mate, Andy, in the chip shop last night. He told him Billy was staying there and was gonna climb into the loft if anyone came looking for him.’
‘Good lad,’ Mickey said, as he broke into a run.
‘Slow down, for Christ’s sake,’ Steve said, falling behind his pal.
‘You need to lose weight, you fat bastard,’ Mickey informed him.
The pair of them entered the tower block like Batman and Robin. The lifts were working and it didn’t take them long to track down their destination. Tiptoeing up to the door, they listened in silence for a good couple of minutes.
‘I can definitely hear talking and music or something,’ Steve whispered.
Mickey knocked on the door, but got no joy.
‘Look, if they ain’t answering, it must mean the cunt’s in there. We’ll have to take a chance, Steve, kick the door down. If we’ve got it wrong, we’ll buy the poor bastard that lives there a new one and bung him some dosh for his inconvenience.’
Stevie boy was a big old lump and an expert at hurtling through locked doors. Within seconds they were in.
As Andy sat shivering on the sofa, Mickey stood over him. ‘All right
, lad, where’s your mate?’
‘I d-don’t know what you’re t-talking about,’ stammered Andy.
‘Oh, I think you do.’
Picking Andy up by his dirty Led Zeppelin T-shirt, Mickey shoved him against the nicotine-stained wall.
‘Where’s your loft, you junkie cunt?’
Petrified, Andy nodded towards the cupboard in the hallway and was relieved when Mickey dropped him on to the floor like a piece of old rubbish. Mickey nudged Steve and pointed at the ladder. Climbing up a few rungs, he pushed the hatch open.
‘Oh, Billy boy, Uncle Mickey’s here to see you. You do remember me, dontcha? I was once your friendly brother-in-law. Now, be a good boy and come and say hello to me.’
Billy sat huddled in a corner of the loft, knees pressed to his chest. He was scared beyond belief and felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
Mickey climbed up higher. He could see fuck all, it was pitch black up there.
‘Pass us your lighter, Steve.’
He handed over his Ronson and held the ladder firmly. Igniting the flame, Mickey smiled as he found what he’d been looking for.
‘Right, I can see you, McDaid, and you’ve got two choices here. Either you come down now or I’m gonna come up there and drag you down head first. The choice is yours.’
Billy felt as if he was having a flashback to his childhood. It was a reminder of being paralysed with fear every night as he’d listened to Colin’s footsteps getting closer and closer.
‘Right, you cunt, you’ve had your fucking chance! Now I’m coming to get ya.’
Pushing Billy out of the hatch, kicking him into the lift and slinging him into the boot of the Merc made Mickey feel on top of the world. Now he knows how my Debs must have felt, he thought as he smelled the cunt’s fear.
As he remembered the money that was due to Scott, he told Steve to start the car while he delivered it. There was no one about as he dropped the bag but he was sure the kids were somewhere close by, awaiting their payout.
Billy McDaid gasped for air as he lay squashed into the boot of the car. His life to date had been fucking shit. He prayed to God to take him now as that would still be better than what he had coming.
The last thing he remembered was the smell of his own diarrhoea and the feeling of it running down his legs before, overcome by panic, he lost consciousness.
SEVENTEEN
STEVE LIT UP two fags, passed one to Mickey and took a deep drag on the other.
‘What happens now then, Mick? Where we taking him?’ he asked.
‘Epping Forest, where no one will fucking well find him.’
Feeling a bit nervous, Steve fished for more information. ‘What we gonna do to him when we get there? We can’t do him in, Mick.’
Mickey threw him a look. ‘Well, what do you suggest we do then, Steve, take the cunt for lunch?’
Choosing his words carefully, Steve spoke slowly but thoughtfully. He might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but when it came to shit like this he knew the score. He was damned if he was gonna end up at the sharp end of some murder charge for a scumbag like McDaid.
‘Look, Mick, the whole of Barking knows we’ve been chasing around looking for this piece of shit, and if he’s found brown bread it ain’t gonna take one of them junkie scumbags five minutes to open their mouth. We only offered ’em a hundred quid and we got a result. I’m telling ya, Mick, you might wanna spend the next twenty years inside but I fucking well don’t.’
‘Stop worrying, will ya?’ Mickey said as he swerved the car into a lay by. ‘Get out and check the cunt’s okay in that boot. Make sure he’s breathing and that.’
Steve opened the boot and was greeted by the unadulterated smell of shit. Holding his nose, he prodded and poked a semi-conscious Billy.
‘Wake up! Oh, for fuck’s sake, are you all right?’ he shouted.
McDaid felt desperately weak, but managed to answer. ‘Not enough air,’ he gasped. Walking round to the driver’s side of the car, Steve told Mickey the score.
‘Pull the back seats down so he can breathe and you sit in the back. Make sure he don’t fucking move.’
Seconds after the seats were released, the stench of shit hit Mickey’s nostrils.
‘Dirty cunt,’ he muttered to himself as he weaved his way through more country lanes.
Finally satisfied he’d found a secluded spot safe from prying eyes, Mickey stopped the engine and nodded at Steve. ‘This’ll do. Bring that shovel and rope and I’ll bring him.’
Billy’s legs turned to jelly as he was dragged from the boot. Overcome by panic, he collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ he pleaded. ‘I swear, I’ll do anything you ask, but please don’t kill me.’
‘Get up, you cunt,’ Mickey shouted as he grabbed him by the elbow.
He dragged his prisoner along until he felt happy with their surroundings. Positive that they were now deep enough in the forest not be disturbed, he roughly shoved McDaid to the ground.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Billy sobbed. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt Debbie, I loved her so much … ’
‘Loved her? Loved her, you fucking mug?’
Mickey lifted his right foot and kicked Billy in the mouth as hard as he could. He smiled as he saw two teeth fly out and land amongst the twigs. Pleased with his precision, he booted him again, this time in the bollocks. Then, asking Steve to hand him the rope, he winked at his pal.
‘Right, I want you to start digging Billy’s grave for me, Steve.’
McDaid sobbed like a newborn. ‘Mickey, please, no … you can’t bury me. Help me … help!’ he shouted.
Mickey looked at him and laughed. ‘Shut up, you prick. You’re in the middle of a forest. Who the fuck’s gonna hear you out here, you thick bastard?’
‘I’m sorry, Mickey. I’ll move back to Scotland, never go near Debbie or Charlie again, I swear. I’ll do anything you ask, I promise. But please don’t bury me – not alive.’
Mickey was by now enjoying himself immensely, and was even more pleased when he saw that McDaid had pissed himself with fright. Pointing to the wet patch on Billy’s jeans, he chuckled loudly. ‘Ah, you done wee-wees, have ya? You should have said if you wanted a piss, Billy.’
Steve, who was busy digging the grave, took a break to join in with the banter.
‘Yeah, we’d have found you a toilet, Bill. Anyway, who said we were gonna bury you alive? You’ll be lucky. We’ll probably have to kill you first, won’t we, Mick?’
Roaring with laughter, Mickey took a packet of Benson’s out of his pocket and handed one to Steve.
‘Do you want a final fag before I wipe your life out, Billy?’ he asked, grinning at his victim.
Billy’s hand shook as he took the cigarette that was offered to him. Watching his tormentors puffing away happily, he plucked up the courage to ask for a light.
Mickey blew smoke into his face. ‘A light? You’ve got the cheek to ask me for a light? You might get your last wish on Death Row but not in Epping Forest, you cunt. The only light you’d get off me was if I decided to pour petrol over ya and set ya on fire.’
Fag break over, Mickey stood up. ‘Right, carry on digging, Steve, while I sort out our Scottish friend here.’
Pulling Billy up from the ground by his hair, Mickey marched him over to a nearby tree.
‘Take your clothes off,’ he ordered as he took a Stanley knife out of his jacket.
‘What you g-gonna d-do to me?’ Billy stammered, his eyes bulging like organ stops.
‘Just do it,’ Mickey replied viciously.
Standing there in just his boxer shorts, Billy shivered.
‘Take your shorts off,’ Mickey said, noticing he hadn’t removed them.
‘I-I can’t,’ Billy screamed, collapsing on to his knees.
Mickey crouched down beside him. ‘You either take them off yourself or I’m gonna cut them off with this.’
Scrambling around amongst the leaves, Bi
lly managed to get his boxers off. Mickey laughed, picked him up and chucked him against a tree trunk.
‘Well, well, well. ’Ere, Steve, come and ’ave a look at this.’
Steve stuck the shovel in the ground, glad of some respite.
‘What’s occurring?’
‘Not a lot, I just wanted your opinion. Have you ever seen a cock as small as our Billy’s?’
Steve walked over to the shivering wreck standing pinned against a tree trunk and glanced down at his John Thomas.
‘Christ, you’d never have made a male stripper, would you, Billy boy?’
As Mickey noticed that the slight drizzle of rain had suddenly become heavier, he ordered Steve to bring the rope over to him. Still holding the knife, he looked Billy straight in his beady little eyes and spoke clearly and confidently.
‘Right, you Scotch cunt. If I do you the favour of sparing you a burial, will you promise me you’ll go back to Scotland and never, ever return?’
‘I p-promise,’ Billy stuttered.
Mickey smiled at his obvious distress. ‘And will you also promise never, ever to contact my sister or her son again?’
‘I’ll d-do whatever you say, Mickey.’
‘Well, I’m gonna give you a reprieve then. Not ’cause I like ya. I’m doing it because you’re so fucking worthless, you’re not worth doing bird for. But I’m telling you now, Billy, if you ever break your word, I personally am gonna kill ya, do you understand me?’
‘Y-yes Mickey. Thank you.’
Gesturing to Steve to hold one end of the rope, Mickey walked round and round the tree, securing Billy to the trunk.
‘Right, Billy boy, I’ve tied you up. If someone finds you, you’ll live. If they don’t, you’ll starve or freeze to death, and be munched on by foxes.’
Billy McDaid felt weak, very weak, and knew that if he was left tied to this tree, he wouldn’t live to tell the tale.
‘Please untie me! I promise I’ll do everything you say. You’ll never see me again.’
Born Evil Page 12