Devil's Knock

by Douglas Skelton

  But Bernadette did.

  She’d set the whole thing up – and other, subsequent attacks, which also failed – through contacts of her father. Rab knew nothing of this, but it had to be done. Of all the men Rab had dealt with over the years, Davie McCall was the one she feared most. There was no saying what he would do if he ever found out that Rab had betrayed him all those years ago. Bernadette had wanted him taken out of the game, but he had proved too much for every man she sent. So when he got out, she took another approach. She knew he was susceptible to female charms, so she paid him special attention, a smile here, a gentle touch there. It was easy, for she did find him attractive – those sad blue eyes would make any woman’s resolve wilt. For the first few years that was all it was – a smile, a touch, a glance – while she told herself that she would not take that final step because she loved Rab deeply. What she did, she did to protect her family. She would never take it that far.

  But when her old mammy coached her in the ways of men, she warned her never to under-estimate lust in man or woman. ‘We’ve all got it in us,’ she said in her County Cork accent. ‘Call it what you will – chemistry, hormones – it’s powerful stuff. Sure, the church tells us never to give into it, but that’s like the little boy with his finger in that Dutch wall. No matter how much you hold it back, lust, like emotion, will always seep through and sometimes that wall will come down.’

  Bernadette knew she was playing a dangerous game, but she thought she could control it. Until, one wet afternoon the previous October, the wall began to crumble. She and Rab had been fighting. They had periods when they each annoyed the other so much that the only way to ease the pressure was to argue over inconsequential matters, and she’d hit the wine at midday. She didn’t do that often, not having a head for drink, but this day she had. She blamed the alcohol, of course, but deep down she knew what happened was something she wanted, if only at that particular moment. That it didn’t go further than it did was not down to her.

  But Rab would need Davie in the coming weeks, so it was time she brought more pressure on Davie. It was a risk, given what had happened back then, but it was one she believed was worth taking.

  When Davie heard the doorbell, he thought it was Bobby back again. As he walked the length of the hallway, he wondered if he should give his old pal a key so that he could let himself in. He was smiling as he pulled the door open, an insult dying stillborn on his lips when he saw Bernadette. He looked beyond her for Rab, but she was alone. Guilt pulsed through him like a surge of electricity and he froze in the doorway, unsure of what to do or say.

  Bernadette smiled. ‘You going to ask me in, Davie?’

  Davie hesitated then stepped back. He didn’t know why she was here, but he knew it was a bad idea. He’d resolved never to be alone with her again. Not after last time. He followed her down the hall and into the living room. This was all kinds of wrong, he told himself, he should never have let her in. When she peeled off her coat and gloves, she wasn’t dressed provocatively – a pair of black jeans, boots and a loose fitting red sweater – but Davie couldn’t help himself from admiring her. As Bobby had once observed, Rab was punching above his weight with regards to his wife. She shook her long, dark hair loose and turned to face him.

  And in that moment he recalled the last time they’d been alone. It had been in the Bothwell house and Davie was supposed to meet Rab there, but he’d phoned just before he arrived to say he would be two hours late. Young Joe was at school, Lucia having a nap, so they had the house more or less to themselves. Bernadette seemed unusually buoyant, her eyes danced more than usual, she touched him more than ever. He should have left, said he’d come back, but he didn’t. He should’ve been stronger, but he hadn’t been. And when she leaned in to kiss him, he should’ve pulled away. But he didn’t.

  Within seconds, they were all over each other. She was wearing a white blouse and he clawed at the buttons while she did the same with his shirt. And as they kissed and caressed and fondled, a little voice in the back of his head told him to stop, to get up and leave. Rab was his mate, this was his wife. This was wrong. He tried to ignore it. He was only human. Bernadette was an attractive woman and she’d been flirting since they’d met. Right then, he wanted this.

  But then, just as Bernadette was working at his trouser belt, he heard a voice, far away, carried on a wind and he caught her hands. She raised her head, gave him a quizzical look, but all he did was shake his head. For a moment he thought she was going to argue, saw a flame blaze in her eyes, but it was doused with a sigh as she snatched her hands from him. She turned away, clutching her blouse across her nakedness.

  Nothing was said as he buttoned his shirt and left the house. There was nothing to say. And it was never mentioned again.

  Now, as she stood in his living room, he said, ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ It was the logical, loyal part of him talking, but another part was already aching with excitement. God, he was weak. He reminded himself she was pregnant, even though she was barely showing.

  She inclined her head a touch to tell him she knew she shouldn’t be there. ‘I need to talk to you. Rab’s told me about the Jarvis situation.’

  The Jarvis situation – a delicate way of putting it, Davie thought. His discomfort deepened at the prospect of discussing business with Bernadette. ‘What’s he told you?’

  ‘Enough to know that this is critical – and that you’re hesitant about what needs to be done.’ She moved closer to him and he caught the aroma of her perfume. It was the same one she’d worn the first day they’d met, right here in this room, just after he’d got out of jail. He wondered if she’d worn it specially. He wanted to step away, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. That’s what he told himself, at least. There was caution in his voice when he said, ‘Bernadette…’

  ‘Rab needs you in this, Davie.’ She took his hand and held it between them, allowing it to brush against the fabric of her sweater and he felt the merest suggestion of her body under the material. Her hands were cool and soft, her voice low and pleasant. ‘But more than that, I need you.’

  Davie forced himself to draw his hand back and pull away. ‘Bernadette…’

  ‘Not that way. Yes, there’s an attraction there, there’s no denying it. But that’s something I have to deal with – something we both have to deal with, because I know you feel it, too. But I need to know that you’ve got Rab’s back. I need you to support him. Of all the boys, you’re the one he trusts the most – the one I trust the most to keep him safe. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?’

  She had stepped closer again, as close as she could without actually touching him. Her scent caressed him, her eyes stroked his face. He thought about that day in October and he wanted to reach out and touch her, wanted to feel her hands on him. God help him, he felt himself harden at the thought of it. He was supposed to be the ice man, the thug with no heart and yet all it took was a pretty woman to smile at him and he lost the place entirely. Come on, McCall, show how tough you are. You’ve beaten men, you’ve damaged them, let’s see what you’re really made of – let’s see you push her away. You let Vari walk away, surely she meant more to you than your mate’s wife? You let Audrey die…

  He didn’t push her away. He didn’t dare touch her. Instead, with an effort, he stepped back and sat down on the settee. ‘I’d never let anything happen to Rab,’ he said, impressing the hell out of himself by keeping his voice steady. ‘But he’s talking about extreme measures.’

  Extreme measures. The Jarvis situation. Why were they talking like CIA agents in a spy movie?

  She nodded. He was slightly surprised at how unsurprised she was. Exactly how much did Rab discuss with her? ‘Extreme situations require extreme measures,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t be part of killing.’ Again, she appeared unfazed. Some­thing between them had changed and he began to see Bernadette with fresh eyes. She was no stay-at-home wife. She knew more about Rab’s business than he’d ever suspected. He r
emembered Bobby telling him her family were heavy back in Belfast, so she was no stranger to ‘extreme measures’.

  Her gaze was steady as she looked down at him and he held it, his earlier discomfort evaporating. The pressure on his groin had eased. Finally she shrugged. ‘Fair enough. We’ll keep you out of anything heavy.’ Davie couldn’t help but notice the ‘we’. Interesting, he thought, and disappointing. She retrieved her coat from the armchair, pulled it on as she walked into the hallway. Davie followed her, opened the door for her. She stopped before stepping out, faced him again. ‘The Jarvis clan won’t be so squeamish, Davie. They know you’re part of Rab’s crew and they’ll see you as a danger. You watch your back.’

  Then she turned and walked down the stairs. He remained in the doorway as she vanished from view, her perfume lingering like the echo of a sad song.

  The night brought with it a real tumble in the mercury and Davie’s footsteps crunched as he stepped on the frozen surface. The moon was full, but every now and then a heavy cloud passed across it. He hunched deeper into his coat and pulled the collar up around his neck with one hand, the other holding the dog’s lead. He loved the city streets at night, especially when he felt he had them all to himself. He liked the solitude, the emptiness. And it would help clear his mind completely of Bernadette.

  Except he wasn’t alone.

  He’d spotted the figure as soon as he turned out of Sword Street and into Duke Street. The guy had stepped out of a closemouth on the other side of the road and began to shadow him. Same height as Davie, long coat, something in his hand. Davie knew who he was, but didn’t let him know he’d seen him, just kept walking, as was his habit, both hands now deep in his pockets even though one still held the lead, boots leaving a trail in the deep and crisp and even.

  That man didn’t bother him.

  It was the other two who picked him up in Sword Street that he had to keep an eye on.

  Davie kept his usual pace along Duke Street until he reached the point where Millerston Street joined from the right and Cumbernauld Road jutted off left. He crossed the road and walked over the bridge, crossing the railway line, and turned left into Paton Street. He knew something was going to happen and he didn’t want to run the risk of anyone seeing. The railway line ran to the left and no tenements overlooked the street, just the edge of a large bakery. The site was illuminated, but there was no-one in view. He picked up his pace, keeping to the shadows created by bushes to the right, heading for the waste ground he knew lay at the upper end of the street. Beyond that was a factory unit and more open space, but there was a locked gate, too. If he had to, he could get over it, but he didn’t plan on needing to. The stretch of open ground was pitted by scrubby little bushes already cloaked in frost. The moon shone brightly, brighter than any street light, and the hard snow glistened with tiny dots of light. He hurried to the edge of a wall bordering the open ground and ducked behind it, the dog following him.

  Then he waited, the dog sensing something was happening and sitting quietly wedged against his leg. And as Davie waited, he felt that old familiar sensation rise within him and a roar grew in his ears. The dark thing was here.

  He didn’t wait long before he heard the crunch of footfalls growing closer and then the figure stepped into view. Davie grabbed him and jerked him behind the wall. He saw the object in his hand was a telescopic umbrella. He really hadn’t expected it to be anything more dangerous. Not from him. The other guys were a different matter.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He hissed.

  Michael Lassiter overcame his initial shock and answered, ‘Following you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Lassiter shrugged. ‘I don’t take no for an answer.’

  Davie glared at him, but this was not the time for a debate. ‘You alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s Mannie?’

  ‘Back in the hotel…’

  ‘Shit,’ Davie whispered then jerked the actor to the side, placing himself between him and the street. He could hear the double footsteps speeding towards them. He handed Lassiter the dog’s lead. The actor took it without a word and Davie flattened against the brickwork. Lassiter began to speak but Davie held up a hand. They were coming. They had been waiting for a chance to come for him and the move to the waste ground had been Davie’s gift. He was confident they would think like him, would not want to risk witnesses. It was late, but anyone could peek through a window and see. Davie also wanted to control the situation, choose his ground. Lassiter was a complication he didn’t need, but the American had something he could use. Davie snatched the umbrella from Lassiter’s hands and waited.

  They rushed round the corner of the wall too fast. They should’ve taken their time. They should’ve split up. Big mistake.

  The one nearest Davie had an automatic pistol in his left hand, the other unarmed. Davie went for the gun first, slamming the hard wooden handle of Lassiter’s expensive umbrella hard onto the wrist. When the gun didn’t drop, he whipped the umbrella upwards, cracking the handle onto the bridge of the guy’s nose. The man’s head snapped back, blood erupted and he staggered, his mate stepped forward so Davie swung his makeshift weapon again, jammed the curved handle into the man’s eye. The second man yelped as Davie lashed out again with the umbrella, hitting him so hard on the temple that the thin alloy connecting the handle buckled. The man spun around, stunned, and Davie dropped the brolly, his attention reverting to the gunman, who was the most dangerous at this point. The man’s eyes were streaming with tears and his nose gushed, but he was bringing the gun up again. Davie stepped in close, gripped the wrist, pivoted, then jerked his free elbow up into the man’s face. The nose was already broken, another blow would have been excruciating. A third loosened his grip on the gun but his mate was closing in again. Davie kicked out and cracked the heel of his boot into the man’s knee. He grunted but kept coming, so Davie did it again. This time the leg gave way and the man went down. Davie’s elbow connected with the gunman’s nose for the fourth time and he felt the hand relax enough for him to jerk the gun from between the fingers and throw it to Lassiter who, to his credit, caught it without thinking. Davie pushed the man backwards, spun and slammed his boot into his balls. The breath exploded from the man’s lungs with an audible groan and he slipped on the snow. Davie whirled again, because the second guy was getting to his feet, a knife in his hand, edging forward, cagier now, knowing that Davie was no pushover. The man slashed the air in front of him to keep Davie away from him. He was limping and wanted time to let the pain pass. Davie knew he would have to hit that knee again soon. He circled, drawing him further away from Lassiter but also bringing his pal into his line of vision. The guy was beginning to draw himself to unsteady feet, in pain, but still a danger. Davie would have to move fast. The man with the knife sidled closer, the blade swinging up and down. Davie kept his distance, keeping his eye on the weapon, gauging the speed and trajectory. Then, just as the knife was at its highest, he lunged, intercepting the man’s arm as it lashed down again, holding it tight with both hands while at the same time sending the toe of his boot flying into that weak knee. The man’s face contorted with pain, but he continued pushing with the knife, trying to reach Davie’s flesh. Davie held the arm steady and kicked again, putting every inch of power from his hip, thigh and calf into it and this time the man groaned in agony and began to slump. Davie knew he hadn’t shattered the kneecap, but it wasn’t far off it. He held onto the arm as the man slid, twisting and pulling until he heard something pop, and only then did the guy scream. Davie threw the knife to one side and launched himself at the disarmed gunman again, catching him full in the chest, the impetus of the charge carrying him back and up against the wall. The man pushed at Davie, trying to get away, but Davie grabbed him by the chin and thrust his head back, slamming it into the hard brick. Davie bounced the man’s head off the wall once more then jerked him to the side, throwing him to the ground, where he sprawled, fingers splayed on the snow. Davie was
n’t finished. The dark thing was in charge now and it would not be satisfied until both men were disabled. He stamped his foot onto the hand, grinding down until he heard the snap of the thin bones. A high-pitched screech burst from the man’s throat and he rolled away. Davie knew that would hold him for a time and spun back towards the other attacker, who was sitting up holding his injured shoulder, obviously in agony. That wasn’t good enough for Davie, who leaped closer, swinging with his foot again, this time to shatter the man’s cheekbone. The man’s head snapped to one side and he slumped into unconsciousness.

  Lassiter, the gun held at his side in one gloved hand, stepped forward, his eyes darting from the prone figure to the first man, who had propped himself against the wall to nurse his shattered fingers. ‘Jesus,’ Lassiter said.

  Davie shook his head to silence him, tented a tissue he’d taken from his pocket and used it to ease the gun from the actor’s gloved hand. He realised the dog had watched everything without move­ment. Abe would’ve pitched in. There was still ground to be gained between him and this dog.

  He stood over the first man and stared at him. He’d never seen him before. That didn’t mean anything, though. He’d been attacked many times by men he’d never seen before.

  ‘You’ve broken my fuckin hand, ya bastard,’ the man said, his voice thin with pain. East coast accent, Davie noted. Again, didn’t mean anything.

  Davie glanced at the first attacker, who was still out cold. ‘Yes, I did,’ he said, softly.