by Dc Alden
They attacked.
The first man in was the leader, fearless as a leader should be. Frank blocked the knife aimed for his chest and sunk his own blade deep into his attacker’s thigh. The man dropped to the ground screaming in pain. Frank brought his leg up and stamped on his face, feeling the crunch of teeth beneath his sneaker. He moved to his right, putting the casualty between him and the others, launching himself at a snarling kid armed with a screwdriver. Frank parried his blow, smashing his fist into the man’s jaw with his knife hand then sinking the blade into his shoulder in one fluid motion.
Two down, one of them the leader.
Adrenalin powered through his system.
The survivors shimmied around him, angry, hesitant. Another mistake. Frank sprang towards them, cutting the face of one and nicking another. Weapons clattered to the ground and they scrambled away, one kid pressing a flap of loose cheek against his blood-soaked face, the other surging past his injured buddy in an Olympian bid to escape.
The remaining two kept their distance, their defiant curses silenced. The cries of the wounded echoed around the houses.
‘Walk away, while you still can,’ Frank warned them.
He was breathing hard, blood pounding in his ears. The two men spun on their heels and raced towards the waiting cars. The vehicles reversed out onto the main road and sped off.
Suddenly the street was quiet.
Frank strode over to the leader. He was lying on his back, hands clamped around his leg. There was a lot of blood but none of it arterial. He hadn’t lost his ability to wound with discretion. He’d fought well here today, but now he had to move quickly.
The black man turned his head, looked up at Frank with pleading eyes.
‘Help me, bruv.’
He could barely form the words, his speech hampered by a mess of broken teeth and punctured lips.
‘Give me your hand.’ The man raised his bloody paw and Frank grasped it. ‘Promise me you’ll turn your back on evil. Promise me you’ll never do violence to another human being again.’
‘Yeah, bruv, whatever,’ the man spluttered, ‘just get me a fucking ambulance.’
‘Good, because the Lord is watching. And I’ll be watching.’ Frank glanced at the man’s crimson-wet fingers. ‘This is your knife hand, right?’
He turned the wrist over and wrenched it as hard as he could, feeling the snap of multiple bones, the hollow pop of the shoulder joint as it detached. The man’s head came off the ground, his eyes bulging wildly. He screamed, then slumped unconscious.
Frank dropped the shattered limb and looked around. The others were dragging themselves away from the madman in their midst. Frank ran for the alleyway.
In its shadows he shoved the baseball cap in his pocket. He flipped the reversible windcheater inside out and tugged a brown watch cap over his head.
Emerging on the other side he slowed his pace, conscious of the blood on his jeans and sneakers. He saw folk carrying bags of groceries, kids in school uniform. He kept his distance, criss-crossing the street.
He heard the faint wail of a siren.
A description would be circulated—white male, American accent, black baseball cap, dark coat, jeans. Frank was now dressed in a tan coat, brown hat, but the jeans were a giveaway.
He thanked God when found the footbridge over the river. On the other side he scanned the towpath in either direction. Halogen lights winked in the darkness, a lone cyclist, avoiding the rush-hour traffic. He whirred past at speed, oblivious to the man in the shadows. Frank followed him, towards Richmond town.
Fifteen minutes later he was safe behind the door of his hotel room. He pulled off a refuse sack from a roll, undressed, and dropped everything into it. The knife he kept, secure in its holster. He took a shower, ordered room service, then lay on the bed and channel-surfed. There was nothing on the TV news.
He decided to lie low, stay in his room. Later he’d drop the sack in a dumpster behind the hotel. It wasn’t clean but tomorrow morning he’d be gone. If anything the incident across the river had only served to speed up his timetable, which was okay with Frank. He was fully rested and acclimatised.
Now it was time to go to work.
He spread a map of the UK across the bed. The target installation was seventy miles away, deep in the countryside. He’d been there before, a favour for their guy in Iraq. He’d need transport, a car, something reliable. He had no UK documentation but the second-hand car market would offer up a few deals, made all the more attractive with Frank’s considerable supply of cold, hard cash. Afterwards he’d need another bolthole, a deeper, darker one.
He traced his finger along the map; there was another town to the south, one that hugged the river like Richmond, only this one was bigger, with a large mall, and lots of potential escape routes if things got tight.
It would suit him perfectly, because Roy Sullivan lived in the same town. And soon he would know the truth of his brother’s disappearance.
Chapter Nine
Roy stood outside his flat and cursed.
It was cold. The TV had warned of a weather front moving down from Scandinavia. Roy didn’t care; his own depression front had moved in a while ago and showed no signs of moving on anytime soon. That’s why he cursed. These days, he hated coming back home.
He let himself in, swearing again as he snapped off the lights in the hallway and bathroom. The flat was hot too, the radiator by the front door ticking on full blast. As well as electricity, Derek was also burning through Sammy’s money. Soon Roy would have to ask for more, a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to.
The smell of fried food filled the flat. Roy’s stomach groaned with hunger.
He found Derek watching TV in the living room, a tray on his lap, a delicious mess of chips and fried eggs on his plate. Roy loitered in the doorway, the juices running inside his mouth. All he’d eaten today was an overpriced tuna and mayo sandwich and a Coke in the staff canteen.
‘You’re out of eggs,’ Derek mumbled between mouthfuls, his eyes never leaving the TV screen. ‘Tea bags too. Put ’em on the list.’
‘Eggs and tea bags. Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Get me a fresh one.’ He tapped his empty whisky glass with a yolk-stained fork.
Roy went out to the kitchen and his heart sank. Filthy pans and crockery crammed the sink. The cooker was spattered with grease. Teabags spilled over a saucer on the sugar-dusted worktop.
Roy turned on his heel and marched into the sitting room, kicking the tray from Derek’s hands. He fell on top of him, raining blow after blow into the pleading Scot’s face until blood poured from his nose and mouth—
‘Where’s ma drink?’ Derek barked from the sitting room.
‘Coming.’
Roy gave him a silent finger and flipped open a cupboard. He grabbed a fresh bottle of Scotch, Derek’s third in less than a week. Roy was worried about the drinking, the way it was affecting Derek’s behaviour. As well as being up half the night watching TV, he’d chat endlessly on the mobile phone Sammy had given him, his raucous laugh leaking through the walls. Roy was exhausted. And becoming increasingly unnerved.
He took the bottle into the sitting room and plopped into a chair. Derek was watching a documentary about a prison that was supposedly one of America’s hardest. Roy thought the Scot looked like a prisoner himself, dressed in a white vest and navy trackies, his arms and shoulders covered in blue-ink tattoos that looked like they’d been drawn by an illiterate, semi-blind drunk. Roy could only take a wild guess at what they meant, except for the word ‘MAM’, inscribed on his right shoulder. She must be so proud.
‘Derek, can I have a word?’
‘What about?’
‘I just wanted to ask, you know, if you, er…’
Derek stopped chewing. ‘Spit it out, son.’
‘Well, any chance you could turn the lights off around the flat when you’re done? Maybe knock the heat down a notch? I’m thinking about the bills, really. The electrici
ty meter’s spinning like a bloody roulette wheel.’
His attempt at levity didn’t work. Derek stared at him for several long, uncomfortable moments. ‘I’m a sufferer,’ he finally announced. ‘SAD.’
Roy frowned. ‘You mean you’re depressed?’
‘SAD,’ Derek barked, ‘S-A-D, Seasonal Affective Disorder, ya thick twat. Means I can’t stand the winter, the long nights, no fucking sunshine. Sends me into one of ma moods.’
He swallowed a final forkful of soggy chips before sliding the tray across the coffee table. He lit a cigarette, exhaling a contented column of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I’m surprised you don’t have it yourself. It’s like a fucking tomb in here. What are you, son, a fucking bat?’
‘No, it’s just that the bills are—’
‘Sammy’s taking care of things, sort it out with him.’
Derek twisted the cap off the bottle and poured himself a large Scotch. He took a deep swallow and smacked his lips in satisfaction. He waved his cigarette over Roy’s shoulder. ‘What’s with the shrine?’
Roy checked the montage of photographs above the fireplace. All there, unmolested.
‘Nothing. Family stuff.’
He was worried by Derek’s growing curiosity. At first the Scot had been distant, barking orders then lapsing into silences filled with movies, newspapers and books, but things had changed. Derek was getting impatient, his restlessness manifesting itself in a variety of ways. At first it was a flurry of physical activity, jogging in the living room, push-ups and crunches, wild bouts of shadow boxing that left him breathless and sweating. That lasted a week, maybe two. Then Roy began to notice the long periods of inactivity, the channel surfing that continued until sunrise, the pacing of the flat, the heavy drinking. Sammy had warned him about that. Derek was chugging the booze to excess.
Roy was scared. He was living with a ticking time bomb, and now he’d begun poking around Roy’s personal stuff. As if on cue, Derek got to his feet, inspecting the photos above the fireplace.
‘You were a fat wee bastard when you were a nipper.’
Roy kept quiet as Derek peered at the pictures.
Who’s the squaddie?’
‘My brother Jimmy. He went missing in Iraq, three years ago.’
Derek leaned closer, smoke leaking from his mouth in a blue cloud. ‘What was he doing in Iraq?’
‘He was a security contractor.’
‘Missing, my arse. Your brother’s dead, son.’
Roy stiffened. ‘Actually, no one knows what happened.’
‘Bullshit. Someone knows. Someone always knows.’
‘Well, I’ve heard nothing in three years.’
‘Probably got his head hacked off in a Baghdad basement. Fucking animals.’ He sucked on his cigarette with a sharp intake of breath and crushed it out. He stood in front of Roy, rocking on his bare feet, his bony fists jammed into the pockets of his trackies. He had egg yolk on his vest, a greasy sneer on his thin lips. ‘What’s happening at the airport?’
Roy forced a smile. ‘I’m working on it.’
‘Well work faster, ya wee prick. I can’t stay cooped up in this shithole for much longer.’
Roy didn’t like the dangerous edge to Derek’s voice. He pushed himself off the chair. ‘I’m going to make something to eat. D’you want anything?’
‘You’ve no time. Tank’s picking you up in ten minutes at the bus stop downstairs. Sammy wants a progress report.’
Roy tried and failed to smother his irritation. ‘I’ve just got in, for Chrissakes. I’m bloody starving—’
Roy flinched as Derek shoved him against the wall, rattling the photos above the fireplace. He poked Roy’s chest with a stiff finger, the stink of booze and cigarettes on his breath. ‘You’ll do as you’re fucking told. And why didn’t you mention the drug dealer living next door?’
‘Who, Dwayne?’
‘You know who I’m talking about then.’
‘Dealing? I didn’t think—’
‘He’s at it,’ Derek spat. ‘A fucking blind man could see that. Now get yourself downstairs pronto. Sammy’s not happy.’
Roy beat a hasty retreat to the hallway. He pulled his coat on and stamped downstairs to the bus stop, cursing the day that Derek had darkened his door. If work wasn’t risky enough right now, he had to come home to a brooding maniac.
He waited for fifteen long, cold minutes before Tank pulled up in a dark Range Rover. Roy climbed in back, grateful for the warmth. A soulful R&B track beat rhythmically through the sound system.
‘Evening, Tank.’
Sammy’s minder said nothing. Instead she hit the accelerator and powered away from the kerb. They drove in silence, the dashboard lit up like the flight deck of an aircraft, casting deep shadows across Tank’s chiselled features. Conversation was clearly off the menu.
Roy’s mind drifted back to the MSNBC interview. He’d found it on the net, tucked away on the ‘World News’ page and already nearing the bottom of their Featured Videos list. The piece had been heavily edited with other voices, other opinions, quick fire sound bites that merged into one. His was a lone voice in an ocean of voices. Jimmy’s plight was ancient history. Other people went missing every day, women, children, babies. The news was a bottomless chasm of tragedy. The fight was fast leaving him. When it finally did, he hoped Jimmy would forgive him.
The traffic slowed as they funnelled down Putney Hill before turning left onto the Upper Richmond Road. Sammy’s place was called The Old Fusilier, a huge, expensively renovated Victorian building that dominated the corner it stood on. As soon as Roy climbed out of the Range Rover he could feel the thump of music from behind the blacked-out windows. A queue lined the pavement behind a thick red rope, eyed by a cohort of wide-shouldered doormen wearing long coats and earpieces. Tank cut the line and no one complained, the bouncers parting like the Dead Sea as Roy followed her through a set of heavy doors.
Inside the noise hit Roy like a wave, a bass-binned punch to the stomach. The crowd was packed wall-to-wall, a sea of faces lit by machine gun bursts of strobe lighting. They queued four deep at an enormous bar that took up half the club, a posse of curvaceous girls behind the brass pumps snatching money and cards from waving hands with practised efficiency. Business was booming.
Tank ushered Roy through a guarded security door and suddenly the madness of the club was left behind them. He followed her up a wide flight of stairs to a dimly lit passage that ended at a large door. Above, a camera eyed them in the gloom, red light winking suspiciously. A buzzer sounded. Tank shouldered the door open.
Roy was impressed by Sammy’s private office. It was all copper potted palms and brass lamps, dark wood furniture and oriental rugs. A red-coated soldier in oils watched him as he crossed the room to stand in front of Sammy’s impressive desk, as big as a snooker table and probably twice as heavy. Roy felt like a native, summoned to the governor’s office in some far-flung corner of Britain’s former empire. Sammy waved him into an antique chair that was far more comfortable than it looked.
He studied the huge painting behind Sammy’s head, a nineteenth century soldier posing against a backdrop of red hills.
‘A light infantryman of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers,’ Sammy recited from memory. ‘That’s Afghanistan, back in the day. No comfy boots or Oakley shades back then. No cushy air bases or Domino’s Pizza. They were hard bastards, fighting a real war.’
Roy smiled crookedly. He studied Sammy’s desk, the letters and papers scattered across its wide surface, the stack of receipts on a spike, a plate with a half-eaten sandwich. A MacBook glowed. A neat row of mobile phones lay within easy reach of Sammy’s fingers.
‘So, tell me about Dwayne,’ he began. He was dressed casually, an open-necked blue shirt, jeans, a gleaming silver and gold Rolex on his wrist.
‘I’ve never seen him dealing, I swear.’
He heard Tank chuckle behind him. Roy felt very uncomfortable. He had his back to a professional neck breaker.
‘I had no idea.’
‘So you said. The fact is, all this has made me look a bit of a mug. Implies that I don’t know my own manor. Derek feels his safety has been compromised. That’s put a lot of pressure on me.’
Roy raised a hopeful eyebrow. ‘Maybe you should move him, just to be on the safe side?’
‘Not an option.’
Sammy tossed a folded newspaper across the desk. Roy picked it up, smoothed it out on his lap. It was a Scottish newspaper, the Daily Record, and staring back at him from the front page was a police mugshot of:
Derek Niven, 62, a Paisley businessman, escaped from a prison van while travelling from the high court in Saltmarket, Glasgow, where he’d been remanded in custody on charges of attempted murder and conspiracy to supply Class A drugs. Niven used a concealed knife to threaten his escort then escaped into surrounding streets. A nationwide hunt is still underway. Police sources have confirmed that Niven has links to criminal gangs across Scotland, and should not be approached by members of the public…
Roy felt the blood drain from his face.
‘Now you know,’ Sammy said. ‘I first met Derek when I was banged up in Bedford. He was well connected back then, took a shine to me, funded several deals that got me started. That man has put a lot of money in my pocket over the years, but he got careless in his old age. Understandable I suppose, what with retirement just around the corner. Brief says he’s looking at eighteen to twenty-five. Derek can’t do that sort of bird, not anymore.’
Sammy took a slug of mineral water and smacked his lips.
‘Derek’s been on his toes for a while now, but he’s running out of options. That’s why he came to me. Jock plod has turned over every cave and mud hut north of the border and now they’re looking south, at previous addresses, past contacts and associations. There’s a possibility that somewhere down the line my name might crop up. I can’t have that, Roy. Our friend needs to be long gone before the Old Bill start sniffing.’ Sammy folded his arms and leaned on his desk. ‘So tell me about your plan.’