by Shaun Baines
“I don’t want to tell you.” The old man backed away, yanking on the leash causing his dog to yelp.
“I like people who know how to keep quiet,” Fairbanks said. “If you see me here again, keep walking. I don’t like my down time interrupted.”
The old man fled, pulling the dog behind him. Fairbanks watched them go, rolling his earring between his fingertips. It was thanks to the local paedophiles that Fairbanks had grown to appreciate the loyalty of dogs. Old men, like the one scurrying away, would seek him out. He’d take their hand, skipping by their side as he was led somewhere secluded. Fairbanks preferred it that way and it didn’t take long for things to turn nasty. Sometimes it was probing fingers, sometimes exposed genitals. He allowed their confidence to go so far before he whipped out a pocket knife and sliced at whatever body part was closest. They begged him to call an ambulance as he ransacked their belongings. He never did of course and would go to his favourite restaurant for a pizza instead, sitting outside with the owner’s dog.
It wasn’t long before Fairbank’s reputation reached the ears of a street gang called Orphans’ Eleven, despite the fact there were only nine of them. They found him in Tipton Park where Fairbanks slept in the summer months. The park was around fifty acres with playgrounds and petting zoos for children to enjoy.
It was deserted at night, save for those who preferred the shadows. He was dragged from his hideaway and pulled to the edge of a boating lake. In front of him stood Marcus Dougherty. He was fifteen years old with a pig-like face encrusted with acne. His hand was forever down the front of his dirty tracksuit bottoms and he smelled of sour milk.
The rest of the gang formed a circle, jeering and tormenting from a distance. One of them held a Jack Russell on a length of rope. It yipped excitedly.
“Do it to him. Do it to him,” they chanted.
Dougherty pushed Fairbanks to the ground. A body sized mailbag was pulled over his head. For the first time Fairbanks could remember, he began to cry.
“Please let me go,” he asked between sobs. “Please. I’m sorry.”
The bag was briefly opened and the Jack Russell fell on top of him before it was sealed shut again. The animal, trapped and scared, howled against its incarceration. Fairbanks howled with it.
Hands nipped at him and he was towed along the ground. His stomach lurched as he was thrown into the air. He was weightless before he heard a splash. The cold water of the boating lake engulfed him. Desperate for freedom, the Jack Russell bit and scratched, scrambling for the last breath of air. Fairbanks held the dog by the throat, throttling it while its hind legs gouged at his throat.
The water swallowed them both. They kicked upwards, the dog frantic, digging its claws into Fairbanks’ face. He pulled at the opening of the sack, but his fingers weren’t strong enough to undo the binding. His head ached from a lack of oxygen. They sank amongst the sludge. The Jack Russell quietened its efforts and snuggled under Fairbank’s armpit. His lungs burned. It wouldn’t be long before he too drowned.
He heard splashes and his body sloshed around the bag as he was hauled out of the water. The bag was opened and he spilled onto the ground. The dead body of the dog rolled out ahead of him. He gasped for breath, drawing air into his tiny body, like he was a new born baby. Retching, he vomited dirty water as Dougherty’s gang laughed. He heaved until he was empty, but found enough strength to crawl over to the Jack Russell, cradling it in his arms.
Dougherty dragged him to his feet. “I want half of what you make from the nonces. You’re working for us now. Understand?”
Fairbanks nodded and Dougherty pitched him back into the icy waters of the boating lake with a sharp laugh. When he swam to the surface, the Orphans’ Eleven were gone.
The memory of it stung. For all of his achievements, for all the millions he had taken from gangsters, crooked businessmen and corrupt politicians, Fairbanks would always be the little boy in the lake. He carried the stain of its dirty water with him.
A chill settled over Wylam. There was no point in casting out again. He’d been disturbed too many times, firstly by a nosey old man and then by his own demons. He gathered his rod and landing net, kicked the dead fish back into the river and headed up an embankment to the warehouse.
Dougherty leaned against a chain link fence. His acne never failed to disgust Fairbanks. Though he was in his late twenties, it showed no signs of relenting. The spots were red and capped with yellow pus, as angry as the man they inhabited. “I was looking forward to fish fingers tonight,” he said.
“You know I don’t keep them.”
“Guess it’s another kebab then.” Fairbanks went to pass him, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” Dougherty asked with a sneer.
“My plans always work.”
“You’ve got a gift. I’ll grant you that, but this one seems dangerous. You might be the brains, but I’m the boss. You better remember that.”
Fairbanks shrugged his arm free. “Does everyone know what they’re doing?”
“I’ve gone over the plan with the boys a hundred times. We’re ready to go in at five am,” Dougherty answered, picking at a boil on his neck. “The Daytons won’t know what hit them.”
Chapter Eleven
He had been told he was in the Queen Anne’s Primary Care Unit. He was told not to move. He was told to relax and he was told it was serious. He remembered the female doctor speaking to him, but he couldn’t remember what she looked like. In his first few hours of consciousness, Scalper floated above his bed in a drug induced haze and waited for gravity to pull him back down.
A parade of strangers visited his room. Some examined him, others sat by his bedside and wished him well. Twice he saw Fairbanks leaning over him, a Stanley knife in his hand. When his visitors left, Scalper listened to the sounds of the hospital until he drifted off into a restless sleep.
When the haze was lifted, there was a terrible toll to be paid. Pain flooded his body, occupying the space left by the opiates. His left knee was shattered. He would never walk again without a stick. The cuts to his face were closed, but the wound to his stomach had become infected. Necrotising flesh was removed and the wound re-sown. The remaining scar was so deep, it would tie Scalper into a stoop and force him, together with his walking stick, to hobble like an old man.
The blow to the back of his head caused a fracture two centimetres in length. While the consultant was confident it would cause no long lasting side effects, it was also his duty to list them. Scalper counted ceiling tiles as the consultant rattled them off. He didn’t want to know. The injuries he’d sustained gave him nightmares. He didn’t need to know what horrors lurked around the corner.
The consultant was a professional and stopped when he saw the first of Scalper’s tears roll down his cheek.
He was lucky in lots of ways. The love he’d invested in his friends and family had been returned to him tenfold. He was in a private ward. He chose his meals from a menu of twenty different options. There were bouquets of flowers and baskets of fruit everywhere. When visiting hours came, his room wasn’t big enough, forcing people to wait outside, though there was always space for his beloved mother.
As the clock ticked to the first visiting hour of the day, his expectations rose and he welcomed a break from his worries. He kept his eyes trained on the door. When it opened, all expectations were dashed. Mosely ran a hand through his curly hair, looking over the beds. He spotted Scalper watching him and jumped, though Scalper didn’t know if it the shock of being watched or the state of his broken body.
He was overtaken by a patient on crutches as he made his way to Scalper.
“Private room, eh?” he said, taking a seat. “Ed’s looking out for you, I see.”
It was too painful to move, but Scalper’s eyes followed every twitch in Mosely’s face.
“I heard you can’t talk with the stitches in your face. Is that right?”
He waited for a response
and then slapped his forehead. “That was stupid. Sorry, mate, but it’s good for me, uh? I doubt you have very nice things to say about the way I acted.”
This wasn’t the Mosely Scalper knew. His hair was greasy and his suit was crumpled. Scalper saw stains on his lapel. As Mosely sat gazing at the flowers, he folded his thin arms and crossed his legs, as if he was trying to disappear into himself. He was the Dayton’s biggest drug runner. What had happened?
Mosely wiped his face with his hands. “This Fairbanks guy…Ed thinks that I…” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is I was a total dick...Smashing your radio...I mean, if you’d still had that, you could have called for back-up. You could have run those scumbags into the ground. You wouldn’t be lying here like some rotten vegetable.”
Scalper teared up, but fought hard against it, blinking rapidly. His vision of Mosely blurred and came back into focus. There was no way he was going to let the man who put him here see him cry.
“Everyone thinks I set you up,” he said, “and when I say everyone, I mean Ed. You can guess what that means. The only reason I’m alive is because I make him enough money to waste it. Shit, I bet I even paid for this room.”
Mosely’s hand went to the pocket of his favourite pink pills, but he stopped himself. Scalper saw him struggling with his urge. They were the same opiates Scalper was avoiding. He didn’t care if Mosely swallowed a few pills. At least there’d be a chance he’d choke on them.
“Maybe you don’t believe me, Scalp, but I wanted to clear the air. I don’t know how long I’ve got so while I am still here, I want you to know I had nothing to do with this.”
All he could do was watch the words come out of Mosely’s mouth. He was trapped in his body, unable to ask questions, unable to shout. He had never heard Mosely apologise for anything and Scalper was starting to believe him. Was it a trick? Was he being genuine?
Picking lint from his sleeve, Mosely suddenly remembered something. “How’s your friend doing, by the way?” he asked.
Scalper closed his eyes, shame washing over him. He hadn’t thought of Jackie once since being here. He was no better than Mosely. In fact, he was worse. At least Mosely was here trying to make amends. Had she made it? Was she dead? She could be lying in the same alley she’d been thrown in for all he knew.
Mosely shifted in his seat. “Ah, Jesus, sorry for bringing that up. Sorry, Scalper. How are you going to know? I’ll find out for you. I’ll let you know. How’s that?”
He opened his eyes. It hurt, but Scalper nodded slowly.
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Mosely said, slapping the palms of his hands on his legs. “I know you’ll have other visitors on their way – one’s you’d much rather see, so I just wanted to say sorry again. No-one should have taken the beating you did, but you took it and you’re still here. I feel terrible; a complete prize prick, Scalper.”
His chair scraped on the floor as Mosely stood to leave. He got to the bottom of Scalper’s bed before he turned back. “Let me know the minute you can speak. I’ll come back and you can give me a proper bollocking. Okay?”
Scalper hadn’t meant to, but he smiled and the pain rippled from his face to his spine.
“I wish I knew if you believed me or not,” he heard Mosely say.
The pain rolled on, spreading southwards to the angry scar in his stomach. One tiny gesture and his body was wracked in agony. He felt like throwing up, but he hardened his resolve. There was no way he was going back on those drugs. He’d have to ride this one out.
As the pain subsided, he caught the dejected look on Mosely’s face and realised he was waiting for some sort of assurance. Scalper hated to admit it, but he had a new found respect for him. His apology was clumsy and insensitive, but it came from the heart.
Mosely patted the bottom of the bed. “Listen, I’ve got to go. We can’t find this Fairbanks anywhere. You’re the only who can identify him and you can’t say a word, can you?”
Scalper tried to speak, but it was too painful. Resigned, Mosely nodded his goodbyes and left the ward. Scalper hoped his guilt wouldn’t weigh him down.
***
Outside, Mosely marched to his car, the fresh air washing away the medicinal smell of the hospital. It felt better to be out of there at last, but not better enough. He retrieved a pink pill from his pocket and gulped it down.
Finding his phone, he pressed speed dial and waited for an answer. “It’s me…No, he hasn’t given a description of you yet…because his mouth is sewn shut, for fuck’s sake…I don’t care what you said. You never said you were going to tear him up… Is everything still set for…? Okay, okay, just remember our deal.”
The line went dead. If the Daytons didn’t appreciate his work, then he’d go elsewhere, he thought as he slipped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.
Waiting for the numbing effects of his pill, he tapped the steering wheel. Mosely was in deep and he was very scared indeed.
Chapter Twelve
The gun was so close to Ed’s face, he smelled the grease of its innards. He rarely got this close to guns anymore. He was too well known to carry one and generally too powerful to have one pointed at him. It was an oddity of criminal life, he thought as he looked down the barrel. Although his career started with a gun, the longer he stayed alive, the less important they became. He’d forgotten about this one though. It was special.
“Why didn’t you come to your party?” he asked.
Daniel pressed the gun into his left eye. “I asked you a question.”
He made himself comfortable, breathing slowly through his mouth. “I asked you one back.”
It was painful to see the confusion in his son’s face, but not unexpected. The boy was an idiot. “Try and remember who you’re talking to. Things will move faster without that gun in my head. You have questions. I have them too. Let’s get on with it.”
The gun wavered in Daniel’s hand.
Ed forced a smile on his face. “You look healthy,” he said. “Scotland must have agreed with you. Why don’t you put the gun down?”
“Who hurt my daughter?”
“Damn it, Daniel. You’re my son and I love you, but think about what you’re doing. What’s your plan? Shoot me in the head and fucking ask me questions afterwards?”
Ed reached for a drawer in his desk. Daniel tightened his grip on the gun.
“I’m going to get a bottle of whisky. I have two glasses in here. Why don’t we have a drink?” Ed pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich. “Eighteen years old. Only the best.” He placed a crystal tumbler next to it and rummaged through the remaining contents of the drawer. “There’s another glass in here.”
“I don’t want to drink with you.”
“Wait a minute, will you? It’s in here somewhere.”
Ed emptied the drawer onto the floor. Notebooks, dead mobile phones, rolls of fifty pound notes. He took a silver framed photograph, standing it on the desk so Daniel could see it and continued his search.
“Oh, well. I can’t seem to find it,” he said, sitting back in his chair, but Daniel didn’t notice. He’d lowered his gun and was staring at the photo.
“Do you remember where we were when that was taken?” he asked.
Daniel nodded.
It was a beach in Marbella two minutes’ walk from their villa. Daniel and Scott were in their early teens. They stood side by side, their skin golden from the sun, their arms wrapped around one another. Ed and Liz stood behind them, hands on their shoulders. They were smiling, even Scott. It was the last holiday they took together as a family.
“It’s my favourite photograph in the whole world,” Ed said. “I don’t know what happened to us after that. It’s like the tide came in and washed us away.”
“I didn’t come here to stroll down memory lane, Dad.”
He sipped on his whisky, enjoying the smoky heat as it travelled down his throat. “I didn’t think you’d ever call me Dad again.”
&nbs
p; “It was a mistake. It slipped out. You lost the right to be my father a long time ago.” Daniel dropped into the sofa. “Are you going to tell me who hurt my daughter?”
“We’ve been chasing our tails here, but I’ve had time to think on it. If I tell you what I know, are you going to hunt this guy down for me?”
“Not for you. For Eisha.” Daniel’s face was hard, his eyes narrowed and piercing. Ed was glad. It didn’t matter who he did this for as long as the moron could finish what he started. Judging by the look of him, it wouldn’t be a problem.
“Honestly, the pieces didn’t start to fit until you walked in that door. How much do you know?”
“Nothing. A guy called Fairbanks is making a move on you. That’s all.”
“That’s pretty much all anyone knows, except me and like I say, I’ve only just figured out who this guy is.”
Daniel folded his arms, settling into the sofa.
“Power breeds arrogance,” Ed said. “I thought the Daytons were untouchable so I never saw the threat coming. Not long after you left, one of our guys was found dead. Can’t remember his name. Anyway, in his pocket was a note demanding ten million pounds. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t even have been told about it. Stuff like that happens all the time, but I think it was Fairbanks trying to get my attention.”
“Why?” Daniel asked, leaning forward.
“The guy had been shot, but he’d been left with a fish lodged in his throat. Pretty weird, right? It’s the sort of thing that requires extra consideration.”
“But you didn’t do anything about it, did you?”
Ed shrugged and swirled the dregs of his whisky around the tumbler. “I’m a busy man, Daniel. I can’t do everything.”
“What happened next?”
“One of our internet businesses was hacked. When the punters logged on to get an eyeful through the webcams, all they got were re-runs of M.A.S.H. We had an outfit knocking off post offices in Liverpool, but they went missing. The next thing I hear they turn up in an animal crate. Someone had posted them to Merseyside Police.”