Red Mist

by Jan Swick

  The stairs turned right off a half-landing. On the next floor a thin hallway on the next ran past the stairs. Big wooden doors faced him, each with a cheap plaque boasting the name of a tree. He was after Elm, which was to his right.

  He found a light switch, was about to hit it when another door opened. Two camp-looking guys came out, chatting seemingly in fast-forward. Down they went without even a glance at Daz. Gone. He turned back to the light switch.

  The darkness wasn’t deep because of the light filtering up from downstairs, but it was enough to show him the glow from beneath Elm’s door. Armstrong was not yet asleep.

  There was a bathroom at the end of the hall, door open, light off, empty. Daz went in, turned to shut the door. He was ready for a wait to get his man. He was locking the door when he was grabbed from behind.

  An arm went around his neck, and another grabbed the wrist holding the stun gun, forcing it down, into his flank. He felt the sting, the painful flutter of contracting muscles. That all took half a second. By the next half of that same second, he was on the floor, out cold.

  When he woke, he was on a bed and two people were staring down at him.

  “You okay?” said the male. It was Armstrong, he now realised. But he didn’t know the woman.

  He sat up and was offered a cup of tea, which he took in trembling hands. It was lukewarm. “How long was I out? And what the hell did you do to me?”

  “Eighteen minutes,” Matt said. “Scared us. All this time and we never knew you couldn’t handle your electricity.”

  “Well I was never a little wimp like you arseholes, was I? Do me again. I need to know that was some anomaly one-off, going unconscious. Who does that?”

  “Maybe just little girls.” Matt actually reached for the stun gun, as if Daz had asked him to pass the sugar, but Lisa snatched it from him. “You children,” she moaned.

  Matt had told her all about Daz. He had been Matt's commanding officer in 3-para, the guy whose life Matt saved, who got him posted to Cyprus to finish his last six months serving the country without doing any such thing. And the guy who had kept tabs on the Armstrong clan after Matt left home to reinvent himself. Daz had not been asked to do this; he had offered because he knew Matt would cut all ties and would not even spend a few moments a day checking his loved ones' statuses on the various social networks. A Facebook post about Karen's death, sent by Matt's brother to an uncle, had been out there for two days before Daz saw it. Even then, he had known Matt would still not know of his sister's demise.

  The arrangement had been that Daz would only contact Matt if he had bad news, and only by text. It seemed wrong to offer such a tragic update so impersonally, but Daz had known Matt would not answer a call. So he had sent the text and gotten on with his life. But he had been well aware that he had set unstoppable wheels in motion and that a time would come when he'd get a text message or a call in return. Part of him had expected to hear that Matt had gotten himself arrested, or killed. He hadn't expected a text asking for help.

  “I told you to come tomorrow morning, but I expected some trick like this,” Matt said.

  He had also told her about the stun gun thing. A game played by the soldiers. Any man who managed to stun another in the back got rewarded with half a day without menial chores. It was Daz’s way of making sure his men stayed alert at all times. Daz had been the only man never to receive a shock. Even now, years later, Matt had figured that Daz would come early to their meeting and try to test Matt’s state of alertness.

  Daz put out a hand. “Can I have my toy back, please?”

  Lisa was about to hand it over, but Matt snatched. “No, he’ll do himself, he really will.” He put the gun in his pocket. Both men laughed. Daz rose from the bed and hugged his former subordinate. It was a show of emotion that surprised Lisa.

  “Good to see you, though, Daz. Been a long time."

  "Sorry about your sister, Matty."

  "It's fine. Don’t mention it. By that I mean, really don’t mention it again.”

  Daz nodded, understanding. Matt didn’t want to talk about his sister.

  Daz went to the window, pulled the curtain a chink and glared out. Turned back to Matt and said, “So, tell me what’s upsetting my old friend.”

  Lisa looked at Matt. “He’s here to help but you haven’t told him yet?” She had assumed Daz was in the loop.

  “I didn’t want to mention it until we were face-to-face.”

  Daz laughed. “What he means is he wanted to wait until I was here, so it would be harder to say no.”

  Matt winked at him. “Got me.”

  “No worry,” Daz said. “I’m in whatever, as long as this ain’t some madness about trying to hunt down your sister’s killer or something like that.”

  Matt’s face fell, but only for a second. That was as long as Daz could hold back his laughter. “Just kidding, Pal. I ain’t stupid. Soon as I heard the news, I knew you’d be on the trail. Five minutes after sending you the text, I was packing a bag.”

  “That’s very good of you, Daz,” Lisa said.

  “I wouldn’t be here if not for Matt, so I owed him. I still do. Always will. So, soldier, why don’t you tell me what shit I just volunteered for.”

  When Matt woke early the next morning, Lisa was already up and doing sit-ups. Daz had not stayed the night. They showered, separately, dressed, ate, and then drove to Daz’s tacky B&B. They were getting used to such places. He was waiting outside, smoking at a plastic table in the tiny garden. He waved, didn’t speak, tossed his butt into a plant pot loaded with them, and then led them upstairs.

  His room had only a single bed and an armchair, which Lisa took. Daz went to a single unit that served as a kitchen and put the kettle on. "I just left a luxury apartment for this, you know."

  "Much appreciated," Lisa said. "He's told me all about you, by the way."

  Daz raised his head to look at her. "Sniper bullet or chunks of carrot?"

  She got his meaning. She remembered the story of Matt saving a commander who nearly choked to death on his own vomit. "Sorry, carrots."

  "Yeah, cheers, Matt."

  "I didn't want to lie to her," Matt said. "It was years ago, in Cyprus, and I was trying to impress her."

  "You were trying to get your leg over, you mean. I should have sent you to Alaska.”

  They drank their tea and made idle chat about London, weather, good old days. The moment Daz’s cup was empty, the last mouthful barely settled in his belly, he turned the conversation to the plan Matt had outlined last night. Nudged it that way with a joke, at least.

  “All along I thought you brought me here for my skill and expertise, when really you’re just after my money.”

  Matt said, "If the Watchdogs decide to do some kind of check on you, they'll see a successful businessman with money and clout. Born and bred in Scotland. As long as they don't look back far enough to learn you were in the army with one Matt Armstrong, brother of one of their victims, it'll work."

  "So what's the score with the drug guy you say they set up as the killer?"

  Lisa spoke now. "It doesn't help these guys to have the police still looking into what they're doing. So when needed, they must send them a suspect. The boat thing in Haiti was meant to look like an accident, but when the police realised it wasn't and arrested someone, the Watchdogs had him killed so he wouldn't talk. But Karen's killing couldn't ever look like an accident, so they had a plan to give the police a suspect. The drug dealer they found."

  "And this name, Watchdogs, where did you hear that? Some newspaper advert they put out?" He was joking, of course.

  "Just something we came up with for them," Lisa said. "Maybe they don't call themselves anything."

  Daz stroked his beard. "Always knew you had the killer instinct, Matty. But shit, two dead guys now and more planned.”

  "Two?" Lisa said.

  “One, I meant,” Daz quickly said. But too late: he caught the funny look Lisa gave Matt, and the child-caught-being-nau
ghty look on Matt’s face. Last night Matt had told Daz all about the dead pimp in the underground station, and now Daz knew why that story had been delayed until Lisa was out of the room: she didn't know. After Matt had told the story of the "accidental" death of the guy called Hardy, Lisa had given him a disapproving look, clearly doubting his claim that he'd dropped the match by accident. It was obvious she didn't want Matt killing people, although Daz couldn't understand how she expected this whole thing to end any other way. Surely she didn't think Matt was planning to drag all the bad guys to the police station? He made a mental note to never bring up the dead pimp again, or to reveal the truth behind Hardy's death, which Matt had also afterwards admitted to him. He also vowed to find himself a girl like Lisa, because if murder got her boyfriend only a hard glare, she wasn't likely to kick off about unwashed pots or late returns from the pub.

  "Back to your plan, then," Daz said. "Which I find a bit extreme, by the way."

  "Backing out?" Matt said.

  "Hell no. Go back to my office and the daily grind? This is a holiday for me. A Thai massage, a scenic cruise, a bloody orgy on the beach. You ain't getting rid of me. So you better go ahead and tell me your thoughts."

  Matt went to the window, and spoke while he stared out at nothing. A habit Daz remembered well.

  "Maybe the Watchdogs got into this by fluke. They're in the business of making money, and maybe it became a matter of however, whenever. Makes sense to record and listen in to what people are saying down in the bars or at the tables in the casino. Helps them work out what freebies to give, or to see who's vulnerable. And people must moan about all sort of things to the barmen, to the people at their tables, to the people they're with. And the microphones and cameras catch what the staff don't. So one day they hear about some guy moaning about, say, his wife's ex-husband. The guy's always coming round, hassling her. Maybe the new husband has noticed that the guy drives a flash motorbike that's his pride and glory, and the new husband would love to see it go up in smoke one day. Orbach knows the guy has money, the way he gambles, so he thinks he can take some more of it. He sends a guy down to have a word. Hey, we overheard what you said. Tell you what, slip us five grand and we'll steal his bike and burn it up. If you pay double, we'll arrange for you yourself to burn the bike, and we'll make sure no one ever finds out. Ten grand, a couple of hours' work. So maybe they realise they're onto a winner here and do it again, and again, and the money rolls in. Some guy wants to sink a boat belonging to a Haitian film star because the guy's stolen his woman? No big deal. Some guy wants to rob a post office, always fancied it because he's seen it on TV shows, looks cool would be a good thrill? No big deal. The jobs get bigger. Their sales pitch gets better. Their morals shrink."

  Matt turned to face Lisa and Daz. "Maybe murder becomes no big deal in the end. So when they overhear an old man drunkenly moaning about some prostitute who ripped him off and how he'd love to strangle her, they see a big payday." He stared at each of them in turn. His face had grown grim, but he smiled now to ease the tension. "And then rich Daz here walks in with his girl and his bodyguard, and the cameras are rolling."

  Neither Lisa nor Daz spoke.

  "It's the only way to get into Orbach's office," Matt said.

  Daz sucked his teeth. "It seems like a long shot, Sergeant. We just walk around and talk and hope they choose us and come on over? What if it takes weeks?"

  "You run your own security firm, Daz. There's no boss to beg for time off. But if you can't spare the time, no problem."

  "I didn't say that. I'll hang around. But hey, am I doing this on my own? Maybe these people know your face. Checked out the family and all."

  "Doubt they did. Karen was just some lowly prostitute, remember?” He hated saying such words. “I'm with you, don't worry about that." Matt stroked his chin. "I'm getting some face fungus like yours. You still got that lovely artwork on your cheeks, by the way?"

  Daz glanced at Lisa. "Shrapnel scars or embarrassing ink?" he said to her, eyebrows raised. She just grinned at him.

  "Told her everything," Matt said.

  Casino. Daz had to join. Camera, no klaxon, temp card, enjoy the night and ornate doors. No problem for Matt and Lisa, either, so Hardy hadn't officially barred them. Done. They were in. Matt took the rear, playing the part of a bodyguard, while Daz and Lisa walked on slightly ahead. They walked amongst the slot machines, noting where the cameras were. Despite believing it would be too noisy here for microphones to pick up the sound of people quietly talking, they started their act.

  Daz wore a red suit and Matt a black one. From the same respectable high street retailer, Daz had also splashed out for a black dress with a slit up the thigh for Lisa. To pull this off, Daz had said, they needed to look like they oozed money. Or Daz did, at least. They certainly stood out amongst slots players in jeans, T-shirts, trainers, pullovers, and even baseball caps. Seemed the brass didn’t care what you wore, as long as you brought money in the pockets.

  Matt was supposed to watch Daz, as his professional bodyguard, but he could hardly keep his eyes off Lisa.

  "You two back on then?" Daz had asked as they watched her admire the dress in a mirror earlier.

  Matt’s response had been: "Honestly, I don't know. Not sure she could handle my emotional baggage."

  "Ye jest. She's watched you beat and torture and kill people. Knows you killed a guy. I don't think she's going to run because you live in your own head at times."

  "We'll see. I'd certainly like to maybe rekindle something."

  Now, Daz slapped his shoulder. “I’m a rich idiot with paranoia and you’re being paid well to make sure nobody mugs me, even in a flash London casino.”

  Matt got the point: act the part. He tore his eyes off Lisa. They swaggered around the casino. Daz took Lisa’s arm in his: they were supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Matt trailed behind. Daz had also paid for new haircuts and Matt’s head was shaved short, to emphasise his strong jaw, give him the mean look you wanted from a bodyguard.

  They left the slots area and headed down the slope to the table room, where the real money was to be lost. They pushed into a crowd near a table where some guy was pissing off the house by having some luck.

  "Well, some might think a million is enough money," Daz said to Lisa, and not quietly. "But once you've got that first mill, you just want another. And then more. Humans are greedy."

  They headed for one of the bars and sat, aware again of the proximity of cameras and microphones.

  "I get bored, you see. I always need a new adventure, something cool, not just crappy stock car racing. Not just holidays in the sun. I'm bored of that stuff. What’s the point of being so rich if you can’t buy fun and adventure with it?"

  A few minutes later they moved again. Table to table they went, spending a little here, a little there. Daz kept up his monologue, berating his boring jet-set lifestyle. Lisa listened intently, keeping up her act of being impressed by an older man with money. And Matt followed them like an obedient dog, head slightly down, not fully trusting that his shaved head and stubbly chin and cheeks would be an adequate disguise. They had discussed at length the possibility that the Watchdogs might know who he was, or that a facial recognition system might remember his and Lisa’s faces as a pair that had been evicted from the casino recently.

  After three boring hours, during which Lisa won six hundred pounds and Daz lost eleven hundred, they left the casino. Out in the car, now a flash Mercedes S-Class rental befitting Daz's jet-set lifestyle, they reviewed the night. They had seen seven or eight security guys, no bald boss-type, and they hadn't gotten the sense that anyone was worried about the disappearance of their head of security. Or that they'd been recognised. Matt had watched every face carefully, even the clientele, and his inner alarms hadn't jangled. And the guys Hardy had been with: no sign. Maybe not casino employees. Maybe they had heeded Matt's warning. Maybe they were still tied up.

  But on the negative side, no one had approached them, and they
put this down to one of three reasons.

  One, no one had been listening. Maybe they didn't listen every night.

  Two, no one had cared, because Daz was just some rich guy moaning.

  Three, there was nothing to intrigue the Watchdogs, because Daz hadn't specified what he wished to do.

  They decided to try again the next night.

  Daz had rented a suite at a plush hotel, just in case anyone was watching them. A high-roller couldn’t be seen renting a crappy B&B. There were two bedrooms, but all three of them stayed in the same bedroom. Daz took a comfy sofa while Lisa and Matt slept clothed in the bed, with Matt replaying an eight year-old memory of the contours of Lisa's body and wishing Daz had gone into the other room.

  Later, while both Lisa and Daz slept, Matt got up and went into the living room. He was finding it harder and harder to relax, his mind constantly turning back to the question of who had sent him the clue on the betting slip. And why.

  As well as the clothing, Daz had purchased groceries. Matt had specifically wanted a bag of apples, which he now retrieved. In the living room, he took the apples and a new belt he’d bought, and got to work. The tension soon slipped away.

  Night two was again unproductive. Daz and Lisa walked arm-in-arm and Matt trailed behind. He now wore sunglasses, but not to enhance his bodyguard image. His head remained still, but behind the tinted lenses his eyes roamed, seeking, analysing.

  Some guy at the bar was talking about his new car and Daz got chatting to him. Loud and brash so everyone heard. Daz expounded upon speed and power and how back home in the misty Scottish Highlands he often cruised at over a hundred miles an hour. Cursed down London and its CCTV and speedbumps and one-way streets and traffic jams. How anyone could enjoy driving in such a city was beyond him.