Shredder

by Niall Leonard

  “I’ve another dozen like that at home,” he sneered.

  “Go and fetch one then, and try again. I’ve got all week.”

  “Get inside, clean yourselves up,” the new arrival grunted at Little and Large. Both men stumbled meekly back into the pub, Little wiping his hands on his polo shirt, making the stains worse. Ignoring me, the new arrival turned to Cardigan with a scowl of contempt. “What did I tell you about playing vigilantes, Eric? You too senile to remember, is that it?”

  Odd, I thought. I’d expected him to challenge me first and let the old man have it in private later, but the new guy must have really hated Old Cardigan—Eric.

  The old man was shaking now, with rage rather than age, and I saw his fingers twitch for his razor before he remembered I’d disarmed him. His rheumy old eyes blinked. “Don’t you talk to me like that, you little prick,” he protested. “I was sorting out proper hard men when you were still pissing your britches.”

  The big guy leaned in and fixed the old man with a steady stare from icy-gray eyes that didn’t water or blink. “Eric, you can’t even bloody shave yourself anymore, so stop trying to scare people with that razor, it’s embarrassing.” I’d seen that stare before: it looked like I was in the right place. Eric’s saggy jaw was working away in furious humiliation, and his fingers twitched again, longing for the feel of the blade. But he said nothing more, and the younger guy turned to me. “And what do you want?” He was my height, but heavier, and his cold stare was drilling into me in a way I remembered all too well.

  “The name’s Finn Maguire. I have a message for your dad.”

  It was a gamble, but it paid off. McGovern Junior smirked, intrigued. “What message?” he said.

  “I’d rather deliver it in person.”

  “I’m sure you would.” Junior frowned, as if my name had rung a bell. “Hold on—Finn Maguire?”

  “I used to work for your dad. In that restaurant in Pimlico.”

  Another gamble, with higher stakes. In that restaurant I’d seen the Guvnor’s second-in-command murder a cop, a fact I’d never admitted to anyone. I was pretty sure the Guvnor wouldn’t have talked about it either: everybody in his clan would be curious to hear what had really happened. Curious enough to take their time and ask nicely, I hoped, rather than by shoving needles up my fingernails until I was screaming the truth to anyone who’d listen.

  I saw calculation flicker in McGovern’s eyes, then he grinned like a wolf and squinted up at the sun.

  “It’s hot out here,” he said. “And it stinks. Eric, go change your Y-fronts, I think you’ve shat yourself again.” He turned back and offered me his hand to shake. “I’m Steve,” he said. “Let’s get a pint.”

  —

  Steve made a quick muttered call on his mobile in a quiet corner of the pub, his glance flicking over to me every so often, while I stood at the bar gulping down lemonade. I’d expected him to make a joke when I asked for a soft drink, but he’d merely nodded to the barmaid, who went scurrying off for my pint of lemonade. The lager I’d abandoned earlier sat on the bar getting warmer and flatter still, but I left it there—I wanted to keep my wits sharp, or at least not blunt them any further. Old Eric had followed us in, and now he clambered back onto his stool at the bar and lit himself a new cigarette, squinting into the smoke. Young McGovern returned, tucking his mobile phone away, apparently satisfied, and started telling me what a player Eric had been in his prime; about how much the Krays—or was it Jack the Ripper?—had feared that razor, and how Eric had slashed faces to order and got paid by the length of the wounds. “Three farthings a stitch, wasn’t it?” snorted Steve.

  The old man sipped at his lager, stony-faced. I felt a twinge of pity for him, having to sit there and be sneered at by the boss’s son, when all he’d been doing was defending their turf. Then I remembered the vicious old bastard approaching me with his razor open. He probably deserved all of it, and worse.

  Eventually Junior grew tired of baiting Eric and turned back to me. “So how’d you find this place, then?” I’d expected him to lower his voice, but he didn’t seem to care who heard him.

  “I asked around,” I said.

  “Who’d you ask?” Young McGovern’s grin had hardened.

  “It’s in The Good Pub Guide,” I said. Junior laughed, as I’d hoped he would, and I tried to steer our conversation in a less risky direction. “I need to speak to the Guvnor. I have a message for him.”

  “Yeah, you said,” said Junior.

  “So can I meet him?”

  “What’s it about, exactly?”

  Why don’t I tell him? I wondered. Let him give the Guvnor the message, give him the Turk’s phone number, let them sort it out between themselves?

  Because as appealing as the impulse was to blurt out the Turk’s demands and do a runner, I didn’t trust anyone to deliver the message but me. Yes, it was dangerous getting involved, but Zoe and I were already involved; I was alive right now because the Turk wanted to use me as an envoy, and if I wanted to stay alive I had to deliver the message in person and see how the Guvnor reacted. The more I knew about each side, the more clout I’d have with the other, and with Amobi.

  “The Turk” was all I said.

  It was all I needed to say. Junior nodded thoughtfully. Picking up his pint, he sank the rest of it in one gulp, then slammed the glass down. “Turn out your pockets,” he said.

  It didn’t take me long: a handful of change, a wallet with a bank card and a travel card, my house keys and my phone. McGovern slid the phone across the counter to where the blousy barmaid rematerialized.

  “Lose that for us, Michelle,” said Junior. Wordlessly she picked up the handset, flipped the back off and lifted out the battery, then started to work the SIM loose.

  “Oi, that’s my phone,” I protested.

  “Tough,” said Junior. He was flicking through my wallet, feeling in the seams and corners—for bugs presumably—while Michelle wrapped up my mobile in a sheet of foil.

  “Don’t I even get the SIM back?”

  “Phones can be traced, SIMs can be traced,” said Junior. I felt a flash of hope: if they were taking me somewhere I couldn’t be traced, maybe it was to meet the Guvnor. Then it struck me how incredibly naive that was. Maybe Junior was just humoring me so I’d go quietly; maybe the Guvnor already knew what the Turk wanted and wasn’t interested in talking, in which case I was surplus to everyone’s requirements. I wondered how many people had entered this pub and never been seen again: somehow I didn’t think Amobi would bring a National Crime Agency unit to raid this place, kicking over tables, roughing up the customers and demanding to know what had become of me; more likely his department would just look for a new snitch and start over.

  “Derek, frisk him,” said Junior. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Large looming behind me, but he waited until I’d placed my hands on the bar and spread my legs a little before he started patting me down. Large Derek was cautious—probably worrying that if he did find anything I’d elbow him in the face—but he was thorough. Down my arms, all over my torso, my front pockets and rear; from the tops of my trouser legs all the way down to my ankles. I was wearing light trainers with thin soles, where it would have been nearly impossible to conceal anything, but he kneaded each foot in turn.

  Junior slapped my wallet back down on the bar. “Properly,” he grunted to Derek. What the hell. I sensed Derek hesitate, before his big beefy right hand cupped my balls and gave them a good kneading. My eyes watered and I nearly did slam an elbow into his face, but I held back: better to be groped than forced to drop my trousers and show everyone that the only weapon I had tucked away in there was standard issue.

  “I usually don’t go this far on a first date,” I said.

  Derek snatched his hand away, more embarrassed than I was, and I saw Junior catch his eye, nod and turn to Michelle.

  “Is he there yet?”

  “He’s just bringing it round,” she said.

  “You’re l
ucky I called in today.” Junior smirked at me. “I don’t normally. Prefer places with a bit more life, to be honest. And a lot more fanny. It’s like a geriatric ward in here, except the food’s worse.”

  I saw Michelle’s glance flick to him, in her eyes a tiny spark of resentment that she snuffed out instantly. Her overpainted face resumed its bored, vacant expression. She was scared of Junior, I could tell, and I suspected his jolly, sardonic exterior was a thin layer of hardened lava over a volcanic temper; the same temper I’d seen in his father.

  “Oh, and I’ll need a carrier bag,” Junior told her, as an afterthought. Michelle rooted around under the counter—I got the impression she was rummaging in a dustbin—before she finally produced a thin plastic carrier bag, the sort you get from all-night no-name supermarkets. She shook some dubious liquid off it and handed it to Junior. I thought he’d insist on a clean one, but he didn’t seem bothered, and when he rolled down the rim and turned to me with the bag held in two hands I understood why.

  “You’re not going to suffocate,” he said. “It’s only until you’re out in the car.”

  “I could just shut my eyes—” I started to say, but he’d already started pulling the bag down over my head and neck, so I couldn’t even see out of the bottom. I heard Eric pipe up, with a snort of sarcasm, “You going to spin him round and round as well? Like in Blind Man’s Buff?”

  “No, I’ve got a better idea,” I heard Junior say, an instant before his fist crashed into the side of my head. I staggered, lights flashing behind my eyes, and my knees went a little. Or rather I let them go a little, so Junior wouldn’t feel it necessary to hit me again. He’d been aiming for my face, I knew, hoping to knock a tooth loose or split my lip, but as soon as he’d spoken I’d heard his intentions and turned my head. It still felt like I’d been whacked in the skull with a frying pan, and the cut to my temple had opened up again, but the blood trickling down my neck below the bag’s rim seem to satisfy Junior for now.

  A hand under my armpit hauled me upright and dragged me forward, back towards the passage that led to the toilets, and out again into the hot still air of the stinking yard. I heard an engine running, a quiet purr of power, and knew I was being dragged towards the boot of a big car before my thighs collided with a rear bumper, the tow hook nearly taking my kneecap off, and a hefty hand between my shoulder blades pushed me forward and bent me down.

  I let my balance go and fell into the open boot, raising my fists and pushing my chin into my chest to shield my face as I landed. Somebody hauled at my legs and I pulled them in only a moment before the boot lid slammed shut, locking me in darkness. Instantly I felt like a spud left to bake in a slow oven. Sweat gushed from my pores, soaking my shirt, and I tasted the blood from the cut to my temple as it changed direction and trickled down into my mouth.

  Well, at least I’m getting somewhere, I thought. And my hands were free. I hooked the rim of the bag with my thumbs, pulled it off my head and gasped for air—I’d been running so low on oxygen even the hot stuffy boot was an improvement. The Guvnor’s people had locked me in a trunk once before, but that car had been a rustbucket in a breaker’s yard, and this one was luxurious by any standard—thickly carpeted, with a tiny cool air-conditioned breeze leaking in from the passenger compartment. Rumpled underneath me was what felt like a woolen picnic blanket.

  I tried listening for conversation from the passenger compartment, but if anyone was in there they weren’t talking. I had nothing to eavesdrop on, no idea where I was headed or how long it would take, and nobody to call, now that my phone was sitting at the bottom of the Horsemonger’s trash bin. I shifted my feet, my hip and my shoulders in turn as I pulled the picnic blanket from underneath me, rolled it up into a long, squishy pillow and tucked it under my head. It smelled of stale wine and rancid strawberries.

  After ten minutes or so the car was stopping and starting less, making fewer turns, and it had picked up speed. That suggested we were on a main road heading out of the city—from the regular thump of the tires one of those concrete roads with seams every hundred meters; soon that noise transitioned into a quiet smooth roar, and we picked up more speed. We were on a motorway, and it occurred to me that if I counted one beat a second I could maybe work out the distance between junctions…but then it might be twenty minutes to the next junction, and I didn’t know if I could count that high. I decided to take a nap instead.

  —

  I was woken by a jolt, a speed bump or something. I’d been out for an hour or so, but I couldn’t be sure. Since my last place had burned down with most of my belongings in it, I’d been using my phone for a watch, and that was gone now. But beyond the stale blanket and the smell of the leather seats I could now smell something else—freshly mown grass, and the faint whiff of cow dung. We were in the countryside, on a narrow twisting road that must have had a problem with speeding traffic, judging by the frequent speed bumps. The commuter belt around London?

  Abruptly the car slowed again, swerved to the left and pulled up, the engine running. I heard a faint electronic tinkle and a distorted voice—an entry-phone. Then an electric whine and the metallic rattle of automated gates opening. The car moved forward, gravel crackling under the tires for thirty seconds, then a gentle turn to the right, and suddenly the sound of the engine was folding back on us, echoing off hard walls up close—we were in a garage. Two doors opened, the car eased up on its springs, and the lid of the trunk popped open. I looked up, only to be dazzled by a strip light on the ceiling high above, and two bulky silhouettes appeared, one from each side. On the right was McGovern Junior; on the left, so massive he made Junior look like a flyweight, was Terry, the Guvnor’s driver and minder. Last time we’d met had been at that bloodbath in Pimlico.

  “Terry!” I flashed him a grin, absurdly relieved to see a familiar face. “Long time no see.”

  I should have known better than to expect a response. Terry just stared down at me, huge and impassive as an Easter Island statue. Come to think of it, had I ever heard him talk? Maybe the Guvnor had had his tongue cut out.

  Junior jerked his chin at the thin plastic bag lying crumpled behind me. “Put that back on.”

  I obliged, then felt Terry’s massive paw grasping my arm, and I scrambled to get out of the car on my own two feet in case Terry dropped me face-first onto the concrete floor. He kept one massive paw under my armpit as he hopped me, not especially gently, through a doorway along a hall with cream carpet underfoot—I could just see it under the rim of the bag. I hoped my shoes were clean. This was going to be a delicate enough interview without me trampling dogshit into the Guvnor’s rug.

  Through another door, and now I could smell a slightly acrid, old-fashioned tang—mothballs? Suddenly Terry was walking me backwards, and I felt the backs of my legs hit a low couch. I sat, my hands by my sides, and felt the smooth shiny leather of a deep-buttoned cushion. A fist closed on my scalp—I grunted in pain—and the plastic bag was yanked off my head, taking some of my hair with it. I looked around, blinking.

  “Christ, what a mess,” said Junior.

  I rubbed my cheek and realized the trickle of blood from my temple had dried in a streak down the length of my face. Between that and the fading bruises it must have looked as if I’d been dragged behind the car rather than carried in the boot.

  Junior clicked his fingers at Terry and held out his hand. Terry turned to him—was that a flash of irritation on his scarred face?—and looked blank. “Fetch him a hanky, or some tissues or something,” snapped Junior. Terry turned to a low wooden coffee table behind him, picked up a box of tissues and handed it to me. I pulled one out, spat on it and started to dab the dried blood off my face while I checked out the room.

  I remembered the Guvnor’s house up in North London. Modern, sleek, if a bit busy. This place looked like it had been furnished by his auntie—lots of thick, expensive fabrics, heavy curtains and ornate old-fashioned chairs with curved, knobbly legs, all in fussy patterns that didn’t quite
match. Unlike the Guvnor’s lounge, this room didn’t center on a huge TV, but on a massive marble fireplace that looked old but wasn’t, with an empty hearth concealed by a tapestry screen in a curly wrought-iron frame. The whiff of mothballs was getting right up my nose, but underneath that smell the air was stale anyway, as if the windows hadn’t been opened for years. It was a hideout, I realized; a mansion owned by someone with too much money that had been sitting empty until the Guvnor had rented it under a fake name. Out here in the commuter belt, sandwiched between golf courses, big cars with tinted windows came and went all the time, high fences and electric gates were commonplace and no nosy neighbor would ever pop round to borrow a lawn mower or suggest a carshare for the school run.

  “Finn Maguire, back again. You’re worse than herpes, you are.”

  The Guvnor had emerged from a door behind me, and his greeting sounded almost affectionate. He was casually dressed in chinos and a sweater, the only hint of gangster bling a chunky gold watch on his wrist. Two men had followed him in, both in their thirties, muscular and grim; one had thinning red hair shaved close to his skull and a nose squashed flat against his broad pale face; the other was taller, tanned and windburned like a gardener, with greasy black hair and bulging eyes. McGovern didn’t introduce either of them.

  The Guvnor had lost a little weight; maybe Russian food didn’t agree with him. He was slimmer than his son, but his blue-gray eyes were as piercing as ever, and he had lost none of the menace he radiated even when he smiled. Especially when he smiled. He was smiling now, extending his hand to shake. I stood and shook, and his grip was familiar—muscular and cool. But when he saw my face close-up his face darkened and he turned to Junior. It was the first time I’d seen Steve McGovern blink. He stood his ground, but I thought I saw the flicker of a sulky teenager expecting to get slapped, and when he spoke he sounded like one.

  “He was like that when he turned up.”

  “It’s true,” I said. I glanced at the blood and spit mingled on the tissue in my hand. “This was the Turk. His minders, anyway.”