Fragmented Evil

by Craig Wrightson

  Soiled and bloody, Rob looked up. He drew his hand across his face and saw that it was thick with blood. He flung his hand out, sending droplets into the direction of the gang.

  ‘Have some Aids, you wankers!’ he screamed, thoroughly beaten.

  The leader, the one who had initiated the assault, let out a growl of anger and grabbed Rob by the hair, lifting him almost upright. Before Rob or any of the others realised what was happening, he had dragged him to the edge of the platform and launched him wildly into thin air.

  His wet skin and damp clothes had dramatically reduced his body’s resistance. As he landed heavily on the six hundred and thirty-volt live power rail, he was promptly electrocuted. He slipped into unconsciousness and his heart stopped as the DC current pulled him directly into the circuit where he stuck fast to the rail as his dead body convulsed wildly.

  As the current continued to surge through Rob, the convulsions gradually subsided, and his body became still. The clatter of his attacker’s feet could be heard disappearing into the distance. A charred odour ascended from the tracks and filled the platform above.

  Chapter 3

  Matty stood on the pavement of Osborne Road and hailed a passing taxi. It was late in the afternoon, and the traffic was not so heavy. In another hour the streets would be bustling as, rain or no rain, Jesmond had that pull; it was the place to be and the place to be seen. He instructed the driver to take him into the centre of Newcastle and sat back to enjoy the short ride.

  He jumped out of the taxi at Blackett Street, close to the side entrance of the Old Eldon Square, and made his way through the crowd of ever-present goths loitering in small groups, around the war memorial, a grand statue depicting St George slaying a dragon. Entering Old Eldon Square, he walked to the closet McDonald’s restaurant and went inside. With his head tucked into his chest, he made his way to the gents’ toilet to dry off. Safely inside a toilet cubicle, he emptied out all the cash that had been stuffed in his pockets throughout his past few days dealing. He smiled as he tallied it all up. Nearly four grand, not bad at all considering the current climate. He separated three thousand pounds and rolled the notes into a bundle, securing it tightly with an elastic band. The twenty-pound note was tucked away under the first few notes. The remaining thousand pounds, his cut, he placed in his wallet.

  He walked to the counter in McDonald’s and ordered a cappuccino and a cheeseburger. The cheeseburger was handed over in a brown food bag and the coffee in a drinks’ holder. He asked for a second bag for the coffee and the server obliged. Making his way outside he located a table in the far corner, unoccupied and partially hidden from prying eyes by the close proximity of the standard condiment, serviette and straw stand. He deftly placed the roll of money in the empty brown bag and pushed it towards the end of the table.

  He bit into his cheeseburger and sat patiently, observing everything around him. As he was finishing up on his last bite, a tall, stocky man, dressed in smart nondescript clothing with a dark baseball cap perched on his head, approached the condiment dispenser. He too was clutching two brown McDonald’s food bags. Placing one of his bags on Matty’s table, he pulled out a straw from the holder. He then reached down and picked up Matty’s bag, all very innocent to the untrained eye.

  Matty looked up at the stranger and spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘There’s three grand there, Jamie. Been a canny few days.’

  Jamie Cooper nodded slightly and replied, ‘The boss will be pleased. I will call you tomorrow,’ before turning his back and walking away.

  The whole exchange had taken just under two minutes.

  Finishing off his cappuccino, Matty picked up the bag left by Jamie and left the restaurant. After hailing another taxi to take him back home, he looked into the bag and grinned. There was enough cocaine and heroin inside for him to hit the streets again if he wanted, but after a few minutes’ consideration, he decided he had earned a night off.

  #

  Once home, Matty chilled for a few hours with the decks he had just bought to pursue his dream of becoming a world-famous DJ. Later he was going to order a takeaway and watch a movie on his huge fifty-inch television.

  With a chilled bottle of beer in hand, Matty experimented with his kit, mixing tunes and dropping in his own prerecorded beats. Stood in his living room, Matty’s body swayed to the music.

  Oblivious to everything, with his headphones fully encapsulated around his ears, Matty suddenly twitched his nose as he detected the pungent smell of marijuana. He turned his head to the direction of the source and froze as he saw a six-foot Jamaican leaning against the wall casually smoking a joint with a holdall lying at his feet.

  His insides knotted as a second Jamaican, smaller and wearing thick-rimmed glasses came out from the bathroom, zipping up a white paper suit to his chest which was layered with heavy gold chains. Matty pulled the headphones clear and let them fall to the floor where the track he was working on still played out.

  He recognised the first guy and could easily guess the identity of the smaller man who was now smiling at him menacingly.

  The word on the street was that Curtis Stead was the leader of a dissident yardie gang that had originally set up an operation in Teesside a few years before. They had used young black females as mules and sent them up north by taxi with tens of thousands of pounds of crack cocaine from the capital stashed on their person. Rumour had spread how Curtis had then coerced the mules into working in his shebeens dotted around Middlesbrough and Sunderland. He offered them lucrative positions as hostesses, only for them to find themselves instead working in brothels, servicing men all day and night like a production line of flesh. The yardie bosses, although totally ruthless, took exception to what Curtis and his crew were doing to their fellow Jamaicans and word had been passed to Curtis that it was time for him to move on, to seek pastures new if he wanted to continue breathing.

  Now they were here in Newcastle, testing out the waters in Jesmond. Junior Campbell, his ripped number two who was stood facing him now, had pulled Matty up in Osbornes’ Bar twice in the last few weeks and told him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted to deal, he would deal exclusively for Curtis, and deal in crack, their crack, not any of the white-boy pussy drugs. There hadn’t been any violence, but the threat had been there as clear as day.

  Matty had not taken the threat seriously. He knew, like everyone else, that Newcastle was run by the infamous Frankie Allan and would be for a long time yet. He had humoured Junior and hoped to be there when he and his boss got their well-deserved comeuppance. Reflecting on his current situation Matty doubted this was going to happen any time soon, at least not in his lifetime.

  Curtis Stead spoke in a strange mixture of English and Jamaican.

  ‘Wah gwaain, white bwoy. You been spotted on dem streets again.’

  Absolutely petrified and with no idea of how to correctly respond to the two menacing-looking yardies stood in his flat, Matty tried to bluff his way out.

  ‘I’ve already told Junior that I can’t work for you. I work for Frankie Allan. He runs Newcastle.’

  Curtis and Junior exchanged bewildered looks, and Curtis clicked his tongue against his teeth.

  ‘Kibba ya mouth,’ Curtis shouted, rocking on the soles of his shoes, working himself up to a frenzy. ‘I say you work for me; you work for me!’

  The colour drained from Matty’s face. He could sense he was getting nowhere with the conversation and remained silent.

  ‘Mr Allan is a dead man, I tell ya.’

  ‘Mr Allan won’t let you take over Newcastle. please, Curtis, I’m telling you,’ spat back Matty in desperation and false bravado.

  Curtis looked at Junior again who merely shrugged; he had not spoken once during the whole exchange. Curtis nodded to the holdall on the floor and turned to address Matty one last time.

  ‘We are dun, bumbaclot. Time to leave a message for the great Frankie Allan, da king of Newcastle.’

  J
unior unzipped the holdall and pulled out a machete. He handed it to Curtis who grasped the handle with two hands. He stepped forwards and swung it loosely in the air, a practice swing. Before Matty could comprehend what was happening, Curtis took another step forwards and ferociously swung the machete again. It sliced through Matty’s jugular and windpipe before it became embedded two-thirds of the way through the side of his neck. Curtis grunted as he withdrew the machete. Blood sprayed from the wound, hitting the walls and peppering Curtis’ white suit which had been brought along specifically for that purpose.

  Matty dropped to the floor. Curtis callously walked around the fallen body, amused. Before Matty had the chance to bleed out, Curtis took deliberate aim and crashed the machete down and down again, hacking through the exposed cartilage and sinew of Matty’s neck completely.

  With unblinking eyes and his mouth shaped into a letter O, Matty’s severed head rolled slowly across the floor and came to rest at an obtuse angle where it stared back towards his fallen corpse.

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 4

  Annoyance was clear on Frankie Allan’s face as he pulled over his black, brand spanking new Range Rover under the deserted railway arches at Manors station, which was less than a mile from the main Newcastle Central station. Apart from a smattering of homeless people dotted around with their cardboard boxes and sleeping bags, the area was deserted.

  He was not amused to be collecting his own bag of money himself. He was the boss, and as such he paid hefty sums for others in his gang to perform the menial tasks that needed to be carried out daily to keep the business ticking over to meet the continuously increasing demand for his drugs. These tasks came with their own high risks and stiff prison sentences for anyone caught. The regular collector for this run had called only thirty minutes ago, dropping him right in the shit. Some lame excuse about his mother-in-law taking seriously ill. He would deal with that another day.

  It could have been worse, he thought. All he was doing tonight was collecting money, and his own stash of untraceable money was dwindling in his apartment, so a few grand here and there wouldn’t go amiss. He stopped the car under one of the bridges above, hidden away from any prying eyes by the shadows.

  As the ignition was turned off, a shape secreted in a recess in the aged stone wall emerged, carrying a plastic bag, and stepped forwards. Jamie Cole glanced in both directions before he climbed into the passenger seat.

  Recognising the driver, Jamie Cole had to quickly compose himself. Since leaving prison, he had only been working for the gang for three months and was, as yet, to meet his infamous boss. He hoped to quickly travel up the ladder and was worried that his attendance signalled that something was not to his boss’ liking.

  Stuttering, he said, ‘Sorry, Mr Allan. I was expecting Tony to do the pickup.’

  ‘Something came up last minute. Anyway, I wanted to meet you in person. I’ve heard some good things about you, Jamie.’

  Jamie visibly relaxed in his seat.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, Mr Allan. I can’t thank you enough for giving me a chance.’

  Frankie nodded and looked at Jamie solemnly.

  ‘Please call me Frankie. Now, do you have everything?’

  Opening the plastic bag, Jamie allowed Frankie to peer inside.

  ‘Ten grand, Frankie. It’s all there. I have counted it myself.’

  Taking the bag from Jamie, Frankie reached in and pulled out a handful of notes before tossing the bag onto the back seat.

  ‘Here’s a little extra for you; a thank you for traipsing around in the pissing rain. Come and see me in a few days and we will discuss giving you some extra work.’

  A few moments later, a delighted Jamie exited the car after declining the offer of a lift back into town. He stood by the roadside, waiving to Frankie Allan as he slowly drove away, leaving the darkened back street silent once again.

  #

  ‘Why me? Why fucking me?’ cursed Harry Robertson as he weaved his work’s van around the streets of Newcastle that were already congested with rush hour traffic.

  Sat next to him, Ryan Shaw remained silent and glared out of the window. He knew Harry was royally pissed off with him, and he didn’t want to infuriate him any further. Today had been a nightmare, a real eye-opener for Ryan. No matter how hard he had tried, he kept making mistakes, stupid mistakes, and every time he had ballsed up he had informed Harry with a dreaded weight in his chest, knowing full well the older man would berate him yet again. He didn’t know if he could carry on with this for much longer.

  Harry looked at the time displayed on the dash and shouted again at the motorist in front. He cursed inwardly; he was going to be late for his wife’s anniversary meal, which meant that the night was going to be ruined from the start. It wasn’t often he asked his bosses for a favour. All he had asked for was permission to finish thirty minutes earlier to allow him plenty of time to get ready and for him to take his wife to a wine bar before surprising her with a table at her favourite Italian restaurant, Marco Polo’s. It was their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary after all.

  Harry was a lift service engineer and had been for as long as he could remember. In his younger days, he had travelled all over the country, installing and checking lifts in hotels, shopping malls and apartment blocks. For the last ten years he had worked for Lift Life, a local company which covered the North East of England and Scotland, ensuring that he was home every night to his beloved wife.

  This morning his heart had sunk when his bosses had told him it was his turn to have the new apprentice for a week. He had heard about young Ryan, all the guys had. No one had anything positive to say about him. He was one of the managers’ nephew, so he was here to stay, no matter what. Hopefully, they would see he was no good on the tools and move him into the office where he would be better suited, but until that day came, Harry was stuck with him.

  It wasn’t that Ryan was stupid or annoying, he was actually a nice enough lad to chat with. It was because he had no go in him. None of the younger generations had, it seemed. If Harry had his way, he would put a rocket up all their arses. His concentration level was shocking; no matter how many times Harry had taken a deep breath and repeated simple instructions, Ryan would nod like a simpleton and go and do the exact opposite.

  Twenty minutes late for their last job of the day, Harry pulled the van into a side street next to a ten-storey block of residential flats whose lifts were due their annual thorough inspection. Exiting the van to collect his tools, Harry spoke to Ryan.

  ‘Now listen, son. This is an easy job. We can be in and out of here in thirty minutes if we work as a team. I’m going to quickly check the service lifts and the main control room. I want you to make a start on the passenger lifts. Just take your time. Do everything I’ve shown you. There are only the three of them. Are you OK with that?’

  Ryan nodded and said it was fine. He mentally ticked off what Harry had taught him through the day and was confident he knew what to do. He was desperate to turn this week around.

  ‘Good lad. Just take your time. I’ll be with you as quick as I can,’ Harry replied, none too confident, before hoisting his tool bag over his shoulder and making his way to the rear of the flats.

  #

  Jamie Cole stood in the kitchen of his third-floor flat, relaxed and happy. His meeting with Frankie had gone well, and he was sure the boss had been impressed with his work so far. Why else would he have given him the bonus and the offer of extra work.

  For once, life was looking up. He wasn’t legit, he was never going to be, what with his upbringing and qualifications, but at least now he was working for a major firm where he would be protected and treated with respect. He had been out of prison for three months now and he had loved every minute of it. There was no way he was going back. Not now, not ever.

  The money Frankie had given him wasn’t a huge amount. It was lying on Jamie’s dining table. It totalled about five hundred pounds a
nd had been very welcomed indeed. Jamie knew he had been lucky to get this job; it had been handed to him on trust, and he was not going to mess things up. Still, he thought, the money had been unexpected and had lifted his mood tremendously so there would be no harm in having a night out on the town to celebrate his progression of late.

  He had rung a few friends and had arranged to meet them in Barluga for a few ice-cold Moretti’s before moving onto the Buddha Lounge for food. He was buzzing. It had been a long time since he had been out with his friends; lately, he had been working non-stop for Frankie, trying his best to cement his place within the gang.

  All dressed, he picked up his cash and mobile phone and left his flat, summoning the lift in the foyer.

  #

  At preciously the same moment, Ryan stood in the reception of the flats and looked at the opened control panel on the side of the wall adjacent to the three lifts. He had immobilised the first lift easily enough, and it was now ready for him to start working on. The second lift was currently on the fourth floor, and the final lift was in use and sitting on the top floor.

  He bent down to his tool bag and rifled through its contents, cursing as he realised his lift override key was missing. It must be in the back of the van, he thought. He rummaged deeper into the bag and pulled out a screwdriver which he jammed into the controls, effectively disabling the entire system. Crude, highly illegal and dangerous. Ryan knew this went against company protocol, but after the day he had had with Harry, there was no way he was going to tell him that he had forgotten the most important tool and had delayed their finish time even further. With the improvised tool in place, he went to work on the first lift, eager to get the job completed as quickly as he could.

  #

  Waiting for his lift, Jamie’s mobile rang. It was another one of his friends looking for an invite to the night’s catch up. He answered the call and paced around the small, carpeted area, chatting away without a care in the world.