Below him, the bustling dots of city-centre shoppers and dominosized cars signified the city’s many decent folk going about their business. Scanning further, the Manchester Ship Canal and the River Irwell were like arteries leading to the heart of the city, the motorway network the veins, and the many rail-tracks the capillaries. The friendly Manchester folk were undoubtedly the blood running through the city, keeping it forever vital. However, one wrong turn from a naive visitor into the suburbs, and their experience of the so-called ‘friendly city’ would likely be one of hours spent at the local nick, telling a cop how they were beaten up for their possessions.
Surrounding the tower, numerous old red-brick warehouses - a reminder of the city’s past as a leading powerhouse in world textiles - were now converted into snazzy designer outlets, coffee shops and apartments, including Steve’s beloved Hacienda, where he’d met Lucy all those years ago. Lucy and the kids kept him going these days. They were the only antidote to the memories of comrades blasted to pieces, that sometimes brought him to the brink of suicide.
Steve ran a hand across the side of his heavily scarred neck, a constant reminder of the day he’d crawled from that burning tank... leaving his mates... screaming...
He shook those haunting screams away. He wasn’t surprised to see a woman beside him gawping. He vaguely recognized her: about forty, wearing a pinstripe suit and more make-up than Coco the Clown. Embarrassed, she swiftly diverted her gaze, pretending to look out of the window. Steve wasn’t too bothered; he’d got used to the staring years ago, and the name-calling - “Turkey Neck” being their favourite, not his. He followed the new direction of her gaze.
Outside, on a billboard, a huge poster, one half red, the other blue, advertising “United v City”, epitomized the passion of this football-mad city. Unfortunately, on derby day the red and blue often represented blood and bruises, especially the evening after the match, when beer-fuelled exuberance could erupt into violence.
A tram caught his attention, faintly rumbling the girders of a bridge to his left, a mass of tiny commuters exiting like scurrying insects as it stopped at Deansgate station, bringing him back from his musings.
Inside the conference room, everyone was dressed formally, clutching their respective folders, briefcases or handbags. A group to his left were also taking in the view, debating whether they could see Blackpool Tower in the distance through the Majorcan blue sky. One know-it-all chap with a fake tan and designer suit raised a few eyebrows, suggesting that from the top you could see Jodrell Bank Observatory and even Snowdonia in Wales!
By now, everyone was vying for the best seats - not too near the front, mind, in case the spotlight was on you, such was the nature of these sales-training days. However, never one to shirk a challenge, Steve had already placed his suit jacket around a chair, front centre.
As the others took their seats, Steve looked around for a familiar face, checked his watch and then shook his head. He’s late as usual - typical! He returned to his seat at the front, seeing that the big guy wearing the puffy jacket was actually sitting in the chair beside his.
Steve ignored the uneasy feeling again, and began flipping through one of the brochures that had been left on each seat. Apparently, the Hilton owned the first twenty-three floors, including 285 bedrooms, a restaurant and even a swimming pool. The floor above was Manchester’s only “sky-bar”, and from there up to the forty-seventh floor at the top were 219 privately owned apartments and sixteen penthouses, making the Beetham Tower the tallest residential building in Europe.
A gunshot blasted out, changing everything.
People screamed, some hitting the floor; others just froze, staring agog. Steve ducked and pivoted, seeing a skinny, olive-skinned chap running to the front of the room brandishing a revolver. He seemed pretty pissed off, his face contorted. Steve spotted the headband with the Pakistani emblem, and the uneasy feeling within him escalated. The screaming around him evoked unwelcome memories, but he shook them away again. Not now!
Steve hoped this was just a daring mass robbery but doubted it, wondering, Why the headband?
A few seconds later, the big bloke beside him tied a similar headband around his head and stood up, shrugging off his puffy jacket. The crowd gasped in unison. The man glared manically, holding up one clenched fist containing a detonator button, attached by dangling wires to a mass of explosives strapped to his ample body via ...a suicide vest.
IED...Improvised Explosive Device...probably packed with ball bearings, nails and screws, for maximum shrapnel effects on detonation...
Steve was now thinking, 9/11.
He was two metres away, witnessing the sheer madness in Bomb-man’s wide eyes and the sweat dripping from his brow. Steve bowed his head, picturing Lucy and his kids, as Pistol-man started barking out orders in broken English.
“Pass mobile phones to end. Anyone tries make call... I kill!”
It was surreal. People just did as they were told, but little involuntary bursts of sobbing and yelping from the crowd prompted Pistol-man again.
“Shut the fuck up! No noise. Phones now!” he shouted, training the handgun on the stunned crowd.
After taking his Nokia from his trouser pocket, Steve motioned to pass it along to a pretty girl of no more than twenty. He noticed her hands shaking, her face paler than the moon, her eyes tearfully pleading with him. As he gave her the phone, he gently squeezed her hand, softening his hard features as best he could in a bid to reassure her.
Biting his lip, he saw discreet movement to his left and spotted the woman who’d been staring at him earlier. She skulked low, dialling on her mobile, probably calling the cops.
Bad move.
“No, no...bast-aaard!” yelled Pistol-man, running past Steve. Without hesitation, he blasted out two slugs. The first triggered a loud, splintering crack in a window; the second hit the woman in the forehead. She jerked back momentarily before slumping forward in her chair. Shocked sales reps nearby were showered crimson, Steve feeling a light spray on his own neck. He gently ran a hand across it then looked at his palm, seeing the red smears. He clenched his fist tight, fighting to control his instincts. The girl to his right held her hands to her face, blocking out the madness while stifling breathless sobs.
Steve heard a faint mumbling directly behind him and briefly turned to see a balding, bespectacled chap with sad, red eyes. There was an unpleasant whiff and he saw that the man had pissed his pants.
The man whispered, desperately, “Please...no...I have children... they need me...” A bearded bloke beside him shuffled sideways in his seat, distancing himself from the stench of urine while wearing a look of confused dismay.
The shrieks and crying intensified from further behind, and the unwanted memories pumping through Steve were now strangely fuelling him.
An athletic-looking man in his early thirties tried to make a run for it towards a door at the front. With a grimace, Pistol-man shot him in the back. The man collapsed on to the plush carpet like a discarded rag doll, face first, arms outstretched.
“No more! You fuckin’ hear me?” spat Pistol-man.
Everyone was still, silent but for the occasional burst of weeping. Think! Steve kept sneaking glances around him, from his bowed position. Not yet.
Bomb-man looked very agitated, sweat dripping down his face. His raised fist began to shake, the detonator protruding below his thumb.
Pistol-man tossed all the mobiles into a pile, the odd one bleeping, having not yet been silenced for the meeting. He climbed three steps on to the stage, and began a speech.
“Listen... you fuckin’ infidels!” he shouted, pausing to spit at the crowd.
Interrupting him, U2’s “It’s a Beautiful Day” chimed, and Pistol-man snapped, firing two more shots into the pile of phones. People winced, jumping in their seats. Defiantly, the tune only finished when it was good and ready.
Subtly edging his body sideways and trying to keep his head still, Steve
scanned the extremes of his peripheral vision, absorbing his surroundings. His eye-line eventually found the man he’d searched for earlier, sitting at the back. They knew each other well, and exchanged a brief, yet telling, glance and imperceptible nods.
Ignoring the rest of the bullshit speech, he managed to slip the photo of his kids out of his wallet. He gazed at the snapshot then kissed it, tears welling, heart leaden.
Amid Pistol-man’s fragmented words ... “avenging... jihad... paradise... infidels...” Steve’s mind drifted back to Kabul ... Mad-dog Maguire ... Johnny Bartlett ... Davy McPherson... and then he sprang from his seat, charging like a bull on speed.
His right fist impacted with Bomb-man’s nose, bursting it, crushed tomato-style. Steve’s momentum carried him on and he grabbed the stumbling Bomb-man’s wrists. Pistol-man’s cursing was now irrelevant, as he fumbled bullets from his pocket to reload the handgun. Steve and Bomb-man stumbled towards the windows, the detonator wire swinging between them. A cacophony of screams, both in the room and in Steve’s head, drove him on.
He felt the terrorist’s strength as they grappled face to face, two metres from the windows. The stench of his sweat, the taste of his blood, was sickening. But adrenaline and focus carried Steve forward, bundling Bomb-man nearer the glass with an encouraging headbutt.
They parted momentarily and Bomb-man took hold of the detonator. Steve lunged at him, thrusting him into the cracked window, shattering it. Giant shards crashed down and the would-be killer toppled backwards, his arms clutching frantically at nothing.
Time seemed to stop... then, as if in slow motion... Steve felt himself falling...
...the wind rushed noisily in his ears... distant screams... the beautiful blue sky somersaulting in his vision, alternating with the rapidly approaching streets... face-up, Bomb-man plummeted, just below Steve... a flash of an evil grin... a deafening blast... forever silencing those haunting screams...
~ * ~
Bill brushed a hand through thinning grey hair and gazed into little eyes that were bravely fighting back tears.
“Okay, guys?”
Nods of acknowledgement.
“That day twenty-two people died, most of them shoppers below. If it weren’t for your daddy, the death toll could’ve been two thousand...and twenty-two.”
First to speak was Holly, her voice faint, crackly. “So...my daddy...was a hero, Uncle Bill?”
“Yes, darling. Your daddy...IS...will always be...a hero.”
Holly hugged her uncle tightly, her head resting against his paunch.
Jake spoke next, swallowing before clearing his throat. “But... what happened to Pistol-man, Uncle Bill?”
“That revolver only had six bullets, lad. Your daddy knew that too.”
Bill smiled, and held up his own sturdy fist.
<
~ * ~
NAIN ROUGE
Barbara Nadel
R
itchie was as drunk as a sack when he first saw it out of the corner of his eye. Shuffling down Selden towards Woodward Avenue, it was talking and laughing to itself and knitting its tiny fingers in a nervous sort of a way. Ritchie’s first thought was that he was seeing things. It had been a long time since he’d put away anything apart from the odd bottle of Bud, much less nine...or was it thirteen?...beefy great shots of vodka. His body was clearly in some sort of revolt at the violence he had done to it, but Ritchie’s attitude was just simply, “Deal with it, bastard!” If his body didn’t like the booze he’d tipped into it, then that was its problem. He had much bigger issues to deal with than whether or not his guts wanted to tolerate spirits, or whether his arteries were hardening every time he put a cigarette into his mouth. Now he was seeing the freaking Nain Rouge, which could only mean one thing. He’d lost his mind.
Through all of Detroit’s many and various vicissitudes, Ritchie Carbone had always managed, somehow, to cling on to his business. It wasn’t much! It hadn’t been much. A Coney Dog joint on 2nd Avenue. Detroiters loved Coney Hotdogs. What wasn’t to like? Nothing! So a lot of people had moved out of the Cass Corridor over the years? So there was a reason for that, namely drug-fuelled and gang-sanctioned violence, but, hey, it was Detroit! Tough city, tough crowd.
But then as Ritchie knew very well, that only worked up to a point. When some little shit who called himself ‘Da Man’ had pumped a bullet into old Freddie’s head, that had been enough for Ritchie. That had been it...through, finished, gone. No more Coney Dogs on 2nd and a whole heap of trouble about how he was going to explain how he voluntarily made himself unemployed to Welfare. And now, to top it all, a crazy little mythical freak laughing at him from underneath a lamp post. Instinctively he put one hand up to his face so that it wouldn’t be able to recognize him. But it was probably way too late.
~ * ~
Of all the many badasses that Detroit had endured over the centuries, the Nain Rouge, or Red Dwarf, had to be the baddest. It was just legend, of course, but it was a legend that went back a long, long way. A small, child-like creature with brown fur, red boots, blazing eyes and rotten teeth was said to have attacked Detroit’s founder, Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac, in 1701. Shortly afterwards, Cadillac, a wealthy French businessman, suffered a downturn in his fortunes from which he never recovered. His altercation with the Nain is said to have rocked Cadillac to his core. But then the Nain Rouge was a creature that he would have recognized from his native country. A variety of lutin, the Nain Rouge was a common figure in the folklore, myths and legends of Normandy. Ritchie Carbone knew of it from the annual Marche du Nain Rouge, an old Detroit custom that had been revived in 2010.
His buddy, Jigsaw, had told him about it first. Jigsaw had been a Ford employee back in the day; now he made his living ripping copper and other metals out of derelict buildings to sell for scrap. He’d walked into Ritchie’s place almost a year ago and said, “You heard they gonna banish the Nain this year?”
Ritchie had frowned; he remembered it well. “What? You mean they gonna have that march where everyone gets dressed up so they can fool some thing that don’t even exist into walking into a fire?”
“That’s the thing.” Jigsaw had had his usual; a large dog, fries and a bottle of cherry pop. “Hey, Ritchie, this what you think they call gentrification?”
Reviving the old Marche du Nain Rouge was something that, to Ritchie, certainly smacked of middle-class people amusing themselves. Although most people with money had moved out of the city years ago, a new type of urban elite was trickling back into pretty old buildings like the Fyffes place on the corner of Adams Avenue and Woodward. They liked old customs like the banishing of the Nain Rouge every springtime. It was said that if the Nain could be banished on the nearest Sunday to the Vernal Equinox, the city would be safe from misfortune for another year. Heaven knew it needed it!
Ritchie Carbone, in spite of having a father from Italy, was Detroit through and through. His mother, Agnes, could trace her ancestry back to Cadillac’s French compatriots and her folks, the Blancs, had stayed in the city ever since. At fifty-eight, Ritchie had seen the riots of ‘67, the many vicissitudes of the automobile industry, the urban ruins, and, more latterly, the first little flickers of possible city renewal. He knew that the place needed every bit of help it could get, and if that included banishing an evil fantasy figure from its streets then so be it. But that had been before that little shit Da Man had taken over large swathes of 2nd; before he’d put a gun to Freddie’s head and pulled the trigger without Ritchie even having a chance to consider his offer of “protection”.
Still with his hand in front of his face - to let the Nain see you was dangerous, lest it come back sometime to take its revenge - Ritchie yelled at the creature. “Hey, you!” he said. “Get out of my city! Don’t you think we got enough problems, huh?”
But the little bastard just laughed, bared its rotten teeth at him and then began to scamper off at speed towards Woodward. Why Ritchie Carbone deci
ded to stagger off after the Nain wasn’t really clear to him at the time, apart from the notion that he was generally angry. But this was actually at Da Man as opposed to the mythical Nain. Not that that mattered a bean! Ritchie drained his last shot of vodka down to the very last drip and then he got up and ran.
~ * ~
Laughing all the while, the little freak quickly got to Woodward and then turned right. It was, or appeared to be, heading back into the city. Ritchie, adamant that that shouldn’t be allowed to happen, followed. So, it was just some supernatural fairy or whatever - if it meant to sock what remained of Detroit in the guts once again, he was going to give it a hammering it would never forget. His mind had clearly gone, what the hell did it matter if he smacked around some bastard that wasn’t really there! What did he have left to lose anyway? The business had gone, his wife had left him, the freaking gangstas had even shot his freaking dog, for God’s sake!
Apart from the odd bus, the cars on Woodward seemed to fall into two categories: junk wagons just about held together by rust, and great big gleaming gangsta mobiles, brimming with blacked-out windows, guns, and the odd diamond-encrusted finger just glanced through the windshield. Someone like Ritchie couldn’t relate to any of that! Apart from his friendships with junkies like Jigsaw and Black Bottom Boo, he’d always been a straight-down-the-line, middle-of-the-road kind of person. Being white in a majority black neighbourhood had never bothered him. He’d got on with everyone, just like he had when Cass had been largely white. God rest her soul, his momma had even had him take Coneys up to the hookers on Cass Avenue when he was little more than an infant.
The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10 Page 9