It was the financial crisis that struck the first blow. Each country struggled to balance its homeland cashbook, taking more credit and lending out money until the value of currency plummeted. When the system fell apart civilised government started to crumble, unable to compromise political greed and public integrity. The people revolted, seeing big cats in the big cities squandering money while their families starved in the suburbs. In France and Britain the rioting lasted five years, erupting into a burst of devastating civil war. Places like Red Forest and further north became impassable trenches of conflict that even the militia couldn't conquer.
The civil unrest was brought to a temporary halt when disease started to spread through Yorkshire and Lancashire. Birth deformities, viruses, and contamination concerns separated Britain into two halves and all who could fled south to escape the troubles. Northern Britain was abandoned and even Wales and Cornwall found themselves lost in isolated beacons out of London's reach. Disease spread, terrorism battled prejudice, and before anyone had realised it, aid packets were being flown over from Germany and the Australians were holding rock concerts for British kids in poverty. Most of the country slummed, counties broke off, and suddenly all that anyone seemed to care about was the thriving capital, where business men still wore Armani and sipped espressos. And that was the hardest pill to swallow; despite what was happening less than a hundred miles away, London was still thriving in a modern utopia.
People fled to the great city; their safe haven which grew like a tourniquet around London. Looking to fill the rumoured jobs and sample the last remnants of the good life, most found, when they got there, that London was walled off with wire fences as tall as the buildings they were enclosing. The cops kept watch and if you couldn't pay, you weren't coming in. The gathering crowd clustered and culminated, and eventually Safe Haven, or S'aven as the locals called it, became a city in its own right; a city with rulers as powerful as any of the fat men sitting in parliament square, and just as ruthless.
Pinky Morris had been one of those men, or at least his late brother Frank was. Pinky was more of the Deputy Prime Minster, to cover the summer holidays. They arrived in S'aven, when it was still a town of tents and ramshackle buildings, to sell hooch and marijuana to the refugees. People were starving but they could all afford a couple of joints. Business grew rapidly and one day Pinky blinked and the Morris brothers were at the top of the pecking order with an entire city underneath them. Frank was the boss, all smiles and threats, and Pinky was always there to back his little brother up with brawn and attitude. Together they could do anything. And they did.
That was more than a decade ago, before Pinky lost his empire, lost his respect, lost his brother. He was about to turn fifty-five, he'd lost most of his hair, his stomach was starting to sag, and he was back to running a small drug cartel in the back of his wife's club like he was just approaching twenty. His life had circled and he was pinning everything he had on it starting again.
The walls of his office were plastered with photograph after photograph; a memorial to the good old days. The little frozen moments captured a time Pinky could barely believe had happened. Hundreds of historical faces stared at him from his cramped office at the back of the bar, scrutinising the state he was in. And why wouldn't they, they were from a time when he was on top and meant something in S'aven. Those glossy faces that surrounded him in his youth were gone now, mostly dead or hovering in the vicinity as haggard and as old and as spent as he was. What did they think of him now? It was a question he'd try to avoid asking himself. The answers only ever made him angry. After all it wasn't his fault he was fighting for space at the bottom of the sewers again; he was just a victim of circumstance.
But all of that was about to change. He could feel a ball vibrating in the pit of his stomach. It was ambition and it had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to dream. The depression was almost over.
His eyes fell on the face that occupied every single picture: his brother, Frank. Pinky had tried to change things when he died. He had to. Frank had left them penniless with a reputation as worthless as their bank balance. Pinky had watched Frank's demise, and he had decided to do things differently. He didn't want to rule the city in fear, watching his back in every reflection. He let things slide now and again. He let the Russians move closer to his territory. He went easy on his boys. And he watched as it all came apart. Frank would never have let it happen, Pinky could see that now. His brother wasn't perfect, but he was right for the city. S'aven needed a man like Frank Morris, and Pinky just regretted it had taken him seven sorry years to realise those shoes needed filling, not replacing.
The man sitting opposite him coughed, clearing his throat rather than trying to attract Pinky's attention. He used to be called Donnie Boom and his face was scattered across the wall beside nearly every picture of Frank, not that anyone would recognise him. Most of Donnie's face was melted away, scarred from the explosion seven years ago. Even Pinky had to second guess himself when Donnie first made contact again.
That was four months ago, and Donnie's grey eyeball still made Pinky's stomach churn. But even before the scars, Donnie was enough to give a grown man nightmares. Now he just looked like the monster he had always been inside. And after all this time apart Pinky had forgotten just how crazy his late brother's best friend actually was.
“You blew it up,” Pinky stated with impatience. He rapped his fingers against the desk. His nails were bitten to the pinks of his fingers, the skin on his knuckles cracked and sore. They were the hands of an old man.
“I did what needed to be done.”
“Under whose authority?”
Donnie eyed Pinky with intense frustration, that grey eyeball pulsating in its scorched socket. “Your brother's. That bitch killed him, she needed to be taught a lesson.”
Pinky lifted his thick rimmed glasses and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. Donnie didn't understand the situation in S'aven anymore, or he just didn't care. Blowing up the most reputable brothel in S'aven was like starting an underground war and he didn't have the man power or the money to fight it. He was beginning to regret allowing Donnie back into the fold despite all that Donnie was promising him.
“You need to lie low for a while.”
“I can help with–”
Pinky raised his hand sharply. “You want to fucking help, you keep your bombs out of my city!” Pinky yelled, surprising himself.
He sat back in his chair and stared at Donnie. His temper was starting to get the better of him these days. He couldn't remember Frank ever yelling. He never had to; Frank commanded respect without it.
Pinky calmed himself and lowered his voice. “Enough buildings are going up around this place without you helping. People are going to be asking about you now, Donnie. My people are going to be asking about you.”
“Then let them know I'm back. I don't get all this cloak and dagger shit.”
“You don't get it. You put a bomb under my brother's table and blew him half way across S'aven!”
“I didn't mean to kill them. I told you, the instructions were from Frank's phone. I was set up.”
“Exactly and you want the people who set you up on to us, do you? Whoever it was I want them with their guard down, do you understand me? You stay off the grid and don't come around here anymore. I'll call you when I need you.”
“What about when you get the girl?”
“I'll call you. Once we have her, we have everything. But we have to play this carefully, Donnie. Frank pissed off a lot of people. We can't just assume it was Lulu Roxton that killed him. When we have the girl, we'll know.”
Donnie nodded. He was crazy but he wasn't stupid.
“I appreciate what you're doing,” he said running what was left of his hand through his matted red hair. “You didn't have to believe me.”
“You took a risk coming back here, I figured you were either suicidal or telling the truth,” Pinky told him.
“I had to,” Donnie assured
him. “I have to know who did it, Pinky. I loved Frank. What they made me do to him…” Donnie shook his head, close to crying – it was an unsettling sight. “You're right, I shouldn't be here. Sometimes it's hard for me to think. My head gets kind of messed up, from the explosion. I'll get out of your way.”
He reached the door before he turned around. “You remember you said I'd get to finish them?”
Pinky nodded; he did remember. With that, Donnie left. There was no way Pinky was going to let some deranged, half mad pyromaniac finish anything.
“What did he want?” Pinky's wife stood in the open doorway.
“Revenge,” Pinky replied.
Riva swayed into the room. For a woman in her forties she was still turning heads. She smiled at Pinky, it was a natural smile, unblemished by silicone and cosmetics like the rest of the wives he knew. Sometimes Pinky would look at her and wonder what the hell she was still doing with him. He wondered if she asked herself the same question.
“Any news on the girl?”
“They think they have her.”
“Do you want me to send someone to get her?” The question set Pinky on edge. He still had men, not as many as the old days, but there was still an entourage. Only now his wife had her own money from the club and she was investing it all in a legal security firm which was making his own boys look like school kids. Using them would be better, but they were Riva's boys, Riva's bodyguards, Riva's heavies, Riva's assassins. Not his. He didn't like it.
Pinky shook his head. “I'm going to send a couple of the old guys.” He didn't say 'my' guys for her benefit.
“What about those brothers?”
“We'll deal with them when she's safely locked away. This time it's going to be different, Riva. I'm going to get my city back.”
4
Eight block towers bulged against the wilting greenery of Nelson Square. Each building a soaring twenty storeys of congested apartment spaces, squeezing families into single rooms with three foot square bathrooms and a water system that rivalled a third world country. Eight concrete hives, buzzing with an overzealous shot of electricity that flickered and shorted every time someone tried to boil a kettle. This was home for the people with jobs, where they could return for a few hours' sleep and be grateful they had a roof and a hundred other families over their heads. If safety came in numbers, this was the safest place on Earth.
Rachel's apartment was on the eleventh floor, not high enough to escape the smell, but, with the lift broken, it served as a free gym. She ran up the stairs, reached her door and struggled to unlock it in her panic. As she closed it, the second explosion shuddered through the room. The power cut out. Rachel stood in the dark and counted to ten. Nothing. She edged forward into the blackness, reaching for the bed, then the step up to the counter that pretended it was a kitchen. When she finally reached the sink she opened her curtains.
The power cut had taken out the whole square and the surrounding buildings. In the distance an orange glow marked the carnage she'd walked through. Blue lights flashed against the road; a strobe effect for the siren disco shrilling through the night. It gave her just enough light to make out the rest of her apartment. Not that there was much to see. The bed, the kitchen area, a chest of drawers and her boyfriend's pride and joy: the battered old television. The lights suddenly flickered back on. The electricity board was getting quicker at sorting out the shortages, but then they were having to do it four or five times a day.
Her head was throbbing. She massaged her temples and felt a gash in her forehead. It wasn't deep but she'd been face down in whatever shit had built up on the road. If she didn't clean it there'd be a cardboard box and incinerator with her name on it. She ran through her chores as she made her way to the shower room. She needed to wash, to eat, and to sleep. She desperately needed to sleep.
Her private time was regimented like a military operation. She showered under a trickle of icy water in the dark, washing away the blood and rubble. Ignoring the shivers, she dressed herself in as many layers as she could find and searched the kitchen until she found her supply of protein bars. She ate a single bar on the bed, chewing it into a manageable paste and washing it down with half a cup of the stale water she had boiled before her shift started. It had taken her twenty minutes, leaving her just over five and a half hours for sleep.
It didn't matter what had happened. Instinct claimed her body and she wrapped herself up in the duvets. Her eyes dropped before her head hit the pillow and for the final moments of consciousness all she could see was the stranger's face. He was nothing like what she had expected, looking more like a male model than a peeping tom. The weight of his hand still pressed into her shoulder, protecting her or controlling her, it was hard to tell.
“Rach', are you awake?”
Something clattered onto the floor–it sounded like dishes. She blinked in the dull light while her hand patted the floor to find the small alarm clock under the bed. Three hours sleep – just great. She groaned and sat up, there was no point trying for a fourth. Mark was rummaging through the cupboards, trying to be as quiet as he could and failing miserably.
She sat up and watched him creaking open the cupboards, shuffling their pans around in an idle, fruitless search until he found the tin of protein bars which she always kept on the same shelf, in the same cupboard. Four years and he still couldn't remember–four long, miserable years.
“Hey, you're awake!” It was a mixture of surprise and delight, Mark's default mood. He was always happy, always smiling like a simpleton while the world around him fell apart.
Rachel couldn't repay the sentiment.
“I am now,” she grumbled. “Are you still on duty?”
Usually Mark changed at the police station. She rarely saw him in full uniform–a status quo she preferred. There was something about it–the armour, the badge, something about the whole persona of a cop that turned her stomach. Mark wasn't a bad looking guy but in his padding and helmet he was repulsive. Cops were different in S'aven. They didn't solve crime, they didn't keep the streets safe. Cops in S'aven made sure nothing bad got into the city and nothing good got out. “Protect and Serve” was embroidered into every jacket; they just overlooked the “Ourselves” clause to their oath.
“Yeah, there was this big explosion–did you hear it?”
Lying to him came more naturally than telling the truth. “No, must have slept through.”
“It's bad. Really bad. Seven dead. Can you believe it?”
Seven? That couldn't be right. There had been so many bodies wedged under that rubble with their arms and legs poking out in a gruesome game of lucky dip. She stared at Mark totally confused, then she realised; he was talking about cops. All cops care about are other cops. Dead vagrants are as good as litter; blow them to pieces and they're easier to clean up. But cops, well they're as precious as gold in the city, never mind that most of them are dirtier than S'aven's mob cartels.
“Do you know who was responsible?”
“Terrorists.”
It was always terrorists. Hundreds of anti-government groups in S'aven alone and they're all lumped together as terrorists. The city would broadcast what to look for: foreigners, dark skinned, religious. They could be Muslims, Jews, Sikhs, even the white Catholics were the enemy. The fact they'd just as well blow each other up along with the police didn't matter. The government didn't negotiate with terrorists, no matter how many families were scattered in bite-sized pieces across the slums.
Rachel shook her head; there was no point reasoning with Mark. He believed what the Sergeant told him and he'd uphold his beliefs until someone bludgeoned his thick skull. Sometimes she wondered if that someone would be her. Sometimes she fantasised about it.
“Gary will be here in a minute,” Mark said as he crammed a protein bar into his mouth.
“What? Why?”
Cops made her uneasy, but Mark's partner Gary made her skin crawl. London's police force reclaimed their position as law enforcers from the arm
y more than two decades ago when the worst of the country's troubles had passed. But the boys in blue were easily susceptible to bribery and corruption. Most cops were just hired thugs in uniform who roamed their beats, happily abusing their power and authority. Scotland Yard was under direct control from the government, the only body more corrupt than London's hand of justice. But the surplus police force that took watch over S'aven and other backwater towns were generally ignored by Parliament and instead were on the payroll of the gang lords that controlled the territories. If there was ever a caricature for how bad the police could actually be it was PC Gary Willis; the poster child for all things wrong with S'aven's law enforcement.
“He had something he needed to sort out. We were supposed to be first on the scene, Sarge is going to want to know why we weren't there. We need to get our stories straight.”
It was only then Rachel realised that the second explosion was intended for him. If he'd been doing his job properly his body would be one of the seven and she'd still be asleep. It was a strange thought.
“Why weren't you there?” She asked before her mind started to run away.
“I was running the patrol as normal, but couldn't show up without Gary. They'd haul his ass up for investigation. He's already on two strikes.”
There was no point asking where Gary was, Mark wouldn't know and Rachel could take too many unpleasant guesses.
“You're going to get three strikes if this keeps going on, never mind Gary.”
“I'll be fine. It's not like the hospital, Rach', we look out for each other. It's cool.” He turned to her and frowned. “Hey, what happened to your head?”
He sat beside her and brushed the dark strands of hair from her eyes. She felt a pang of guilt. He didn't deserve to be splattered over the street with the rest of his colleagues.
The Running Game (Reachers Book 1) Page 2