by Shaun Baines
Getting to her feet, Sharon leaned over the desk, making a show of searching the empty reception area. "It's just us, Mr Dayton. Would you like a cup of tea and a nice sit down, perhaps?"
The vertebrae in Daniel's spine cracked as he straightened to his full height. "I'm not one of your old codgers, love."
Sharon smiled. It was practised and without charm. "Then maybe you'd like to visit your grandmother for the first time? This is your first visit, isn't it?"
Eisha tugged on Daniel's trouser leg and pointed down a corridor. "I think it's down there, Daddy. That's where the smell is strongest."
He looked to Sharon for confirmation.
"Room Eight," she said with a nod. "Enjoy."
The deeper they walked into the retirement village, the warmer it got. Daniel tugged his shirt from sweating skin. Televisions on different channels blared through closed doors. Radio songs clashed, mixing fifties swing with seventies rock. The Rolling Stones duetted with Conway Twitty. There were voices everywhere, some in conversation, some in monologues of their own.
By the time they reached Ma Dayton's room, Daniel was dizzy. Like the other doors, hers was closed, but with the addition of a sign reading 'Keep Out,' as if she was a moody teenager.
"Can I do it, Daddy?"
He nodded and Eisha knocked on the door. Inside was a woman known as the Dayton Dragon, the last of the clan. She was all Daniel and Eisha had left, but the idea of forming a cosy family unit was laughable. Still, he was here and couldn't dispel the flicker of hope in his chest.
Eisha knocked again and looked up at him. No-one was answering.
He tried the handle, finding it unlocked. Daniel searched the corridor, stiffening when he saw Fred watching them from afar. Eisha yanked the door open and squeezed through the gap. Daniel barrelled in afterwards, quickly closing the door behind him. He leaned against it, his brow knitted into a frown, staring at an empty room where his grandmother should have been.
"Look at these," Eisha said. She stood next to a chest of drawers made of oak. The top was studded with photographs in silver frames. None of them featured Ma Dayton.
Daniel came forward for a closer look. There was one of Ed as a schoolboy, another of his wedding day with Liz by his side. Ma Dayton had a rare photo of another wedding, Scott and Lily on the stone steps of the registrar office. Scott was dour and Lily looked uncertain.
Daniel's heart raced at the sight of her.
Standing on her tiptoes, Eisha reached for the photo closest to her and presented it to Daniel. "Is that me?"
Eisha had been three months old when it was taken. Daniel hadn't seen the photo in years. She was sleeping, wrapped in a coddling blanket knitted by Ma Dayton herself.
He ran a finger over the chest of drawers. There was no dust. The photographs were polished regularly.
The rest of the room was bare. There was a wooden wardrobe, a well-made bed and a single chair facing the window. Next to it was an ashtray and an empty packet of cigarettes.
He replaced the photograph and took Eisha's hand. "We better go. She isn't here."
"We can wait, though."
"We'll invite her to Five Oaks. Get a take-out," Daniel said, casting a last glance at the photographs. "Maybe she can explain…all of this."
Eisha dug her heels into the carpet. "I want to wait, Daddy."
"We'll see Ma Dayton soon."
"No."
He dragged Eisha to the door, opening it with his free hand. Fred was standing outside, swinging a monkey wrench. Instinct kicked in and Daniel's hand shot forward, fingers digging into the flesh of the other man's throat. With a jerk, he heaved Fred into the room. The wrench dropped from Fred's hand, bouncing off the floor. Eisha scrambled out of Fred's way as he fell against the bed, his nose connecting with the bedpost. Red sprayed over the sheets. Daniel wrapped the duvet over the man's head and punched him repeatedly to the same rhythm his daughter had used to knock on the door.
"Daddy, stop," Eisha pleaded.
His fist paused mid-air and Fred slewed the duvet from his face.
Eisha ran forward, swinging her baby picture toward the man's jaw. "My turn."
Daniel deflected the blow, knocking the frame from her hands. It broke against a wall. Eisha's baby face shined through the splintered glass.
"Not today," Daniel shouted.
But Eisha came again, weaponless, her tiny hands bunched into fists. Daniel held her off, one hand on her chest, the other holding Fred by the throat.
"Stop it," Daniel said.
The low cadence of his voice woke Eisha from her fury. She blinked and stared around the room.
"Okay, Daddy," she said, retreating to the chest of drawers.
Fred's eyes flitted between them, his lips wet with bloody saliva.
"What do you want?" Daniel asked.
"The toilet," Fred said, spitting bloody saliva onto the bed.
"You want to go to the toilet?"
Fred shook his head. "I'm here to fix it."
Reaching into his mouth, Fred retrieved a loose tooth. "I'm the handyman. I unblock sinks and there's a leak in the cistern I need to look at." He flicked the tooth toward an opening door. It pinged off Sharon's leg as she came to a halt in front of them.
"What is going on here?" she asked. "Fred? Are you okay?"
The handyman looked at her, wiping the blood from his face. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Sharon answered. "I'm calling the police."
"It's just a misunderstanding," he said.
Daniel's eyes focused on the skull tattoo by Fred's eye. "Who are you? Why were you following me?"
"I wasn't following you." Fred eased himself further onto the bed, rubbing his swollen face. "I work here."
There was a hollowness to Fred's cheeks. A rawness to his skin. It reminded Daniel of junkyard dogs surviving alone, trapped in the smallest of worlds. They never left their confines. They experienced the world at the end of a chain, captured forever.
"How much time did you do?" Daniel asked him.
Sharon straightened her name tag. "Fred's been here since he served his sentence." She looked at her shoes. They were scuffed and well worn. "I'm sure men like him do little jobs on the side, if that's what you're here about, Mr Dayton, but I don't want to know about it. It's not my fault he's on half pay. Some crimes shouldn't be forgiven."
Raising his finger, Daniel pressed it into Fred's tattoo. The skin went white under the pressure. "Who did you work for?"
"He works for us," Sharon said. "No matter what he did in the past."
Fred swatted Daniel's finger from his face. "I worked for the wrong people, but I'm straight now. You look like him, that's all. Your brother."
The ground shifted beneath Daniel's feet. "Scott was here?"
"More than you."
With a breath, Daniel zoned in on Fred's derelict face. Downcast eyes. Clenched hands. Slumped shoulders. Exposed neck. The truth leaked out of him.
"My brother was here?" Daniel asked again. "He was visiting Ma Dayton?"
"Haven't seen him for a while, though."
"Mr Dayton, it's time you left," Sharon said, scratching at a stain on her name tag. "And you won't be welcomed back."
The fact Scott had been visiting Ma Dayton was surprise enough. It revealed a side to him Daniel hadn't known existed. He tried to reconcile the cold-hearted brother he knew with the doting grandson, but the images didn't fit, like overlapping photographs of different people.
"Where's Ma Dayton?" Daniel asked Sharon. "You said she'd be here."
Her eyes narrowed as she took in the room. "Despite Fred's presence, this isn't a prison, Mr Dayton and I'm not the warden."
"So, you don't know?" Daniel turned to Fred and folded his arms. "You're wrong about Scott. My brother never came here."
"You don't look like him, but you carry yourself in the same way." Fred got to his feet, bracing his hands on his knees. "What happened to him? Where did he go?"
A phone rang from th
e folds of Fred's overalls. He panicked, answering it with a whisper, turning away from Daniel's suspicious gaze.
There was an impatient cough from the doorway and Daniel grabbed Eisha's hand, leaving under a cloud.
"Scott's dead," he said, stepping around Sharon. "Scott's dead."
Chapter Five
The room was on the fourth floor of a high-rise known locally as The Devil's Playground. Scott Dayton lay on a soiled mattress, his arms manacled to a bedpost above his head. The walls were daubed in red and the carpet had once been orange. Warped plywood was nailed to the window, the knots in its surface looking like the demons of his sleep. The sun hit them in the morning and he woke to their blazing faces every day.
The door to his room finally creaked open and with it came the wailing of The Playground inmates. Scott blinked into the light, catching the silhouette of Clive Hawk standing in the doorway. Clive's hair was spiked into horns, his veined skin stretched tight over a skeletal face. He wore faded denim shorts and a Hawaiian shirt; a dress code at odds with his satanic appearance. He carried with him the smell of heroin cooked on a spoon. It was a sulphurous odour, making Scott's heart quicken in anticipation.
Clive waved a set of bolt cutters and set them by the door. "Medication time," he said, perching on the side of the bed. "Do you remember how we do this? Are you going to be good this time?"
Before waking in the Playground, Scott had worked with Clive on a couple of projects. The first was a simple heroin sale. Clive was king rat, dealing to a high-rise of addicts. Scott had supplied the goods. Money was exchanged and they had parted company. The second was more ambitious, involving single shot syringes embellished with cartoon characters.
"Start them early," Clive had said through his rotten teeth.
Scott had almost been seduced by the potential return on his investment, but there were lines even he would not cross. Clive lost money and was enjoying his new role as jailer. It was revenge, something Scott understood.
But Clive wasn't the reason Scott had been imprisoned.
"We'll have a little taste first," Clive said, running his bony hand up the man's thigh. "Then we can have some fun."
Scott knew the type of fun that was in store for him; the kind where Clive showed him a set of bolt cutters and placed them out of reach, taunting him with the prospect of freedom.
Clive dropped the rock into a spoon and heated it with a lighter. Scott watched with wide eyes, his skin burning as the liquid bubbled. He'd been sick this morning, bringing up bile, scarring his dry lips. His stomach churned and his bowels were loose, but what made him ill made him better.
Picking a used syringe from the floor, Clive drew brown liquid through the needle. "Do you want it, baby?"
Scott, the rightful heir to the Dayton empire, nodded like an eager child.
The chain around one of his wrists was released. His forearm was mottled with puncture wounds, but Scott offered it up immediately.
"Me first, silly." Clive slipped off a frayed moccasin and found the least infected gap between his toes.
Scott rattled the headboard in protest. His body was weak, but his urgency was strong.
"You'll get the big hit later," Clive said, sliding in the needle. "This is just to take the edge off."
Clive threw back his head with a gasp. The heroin squirrelled through his veins. His face went slack, his eyelids drooped and ropes of saliva fell from his bottom lip.
"I've given myself too much," he said, the words heavy in his mouth. Clive swayed and Scott grabbed him by his shirt, yanking him further onto the bed before he fell. The drug dealer was oblivious, his body as responsive as a sack of wet sand. Straining, Scott reached for the syringe sticking from Clive's foot like a sixth toe. His bed sores burst open, but he pulled as far as his chain allowed. His fingers grazed the plunger. The bedpost groaned, giving a fraction of an inch, enough for him to tease out the syringe.
He cleaned the needle on dirty sheets before sinking it into his arm. It was instant relief. His sickness lifted and he sank into the mattress. His shakes went to sleep and euphoria washed over him. Closing his eyes in bliss, Scott listened to the wails of his fellow addicts crying out in torment.
But Clive had taken the lion's share. There wasn't enough left. Scott needed more.
Pulling the dealer closer, he searched for another wrap. He took the lighter and found a ball of tin foil. Carefully, he peeled back the edges to reveal a glassy rock. Scott almost cried. He reached for the spoon, but stopped when he saw a green light shining through the thin material of Clive's shirt. Reaching into the pocket, his trembling fingers found a mobile phone. It was barely charged, but there was a signal.
Scott counted the needle tracks in his arm, like a prisoner counting scratch marks on the walls of his cell. How long had he been there? Weeks? Months? Time didn't exist in The Devil's Playground. It was more like a state of being. He was dead, languishing in purgatory with brief glimpses of hell. Scott existed between heavenly satisfaction and cavernous black holes. Getting from one state to the other was all he cared about.
The phone represented his first chance of escape.
His hand spasmed and it slipped from his grasp. He had little time. His cravings were building. Scott picked up the phone and dialled a number he knew by heart.
The call went to voicemail. He hadn't spoken a word in months, but there was a name repeating in his head like the never-ending beat of a drum. It kept him awake at night when the nightmares came. It lulled him to sleep when the chains bit into his wrists. It filled him with hate when Clive sought his company. The name had sustained and now it was going to set him free.
It was the name of the man who had left him there to perish.
The phone beeped before recording his message.
"Bronson," Scott said.
The line went dead. His face twisting, he hurled the phone against the wall and reached for his hit. The lighter hovered under the spoon, but his thumb didn't strike the flame. Clive rolled over in his stupor, an unconscious effort to prevent himself from choking. Scott considered killing him, but Clive was not only his captor. He was his guardian. Clive fed him and gave him water. The desperate inmates of The Playground would never enter Scott's room while he was protected by the king rat.
It made him sick, but it was a deal he was prepared to make. For now, at least. A time of renegotiation would be coming soon.
Scott gathered the drug paraphernalia and tossed it aside. Clive might force it on him later, but he wouldn't do it to himself. Not anymore. Help was on its way and he'd have his revenge.
Scott Dayton had been dead for too long, existing outside of a world he used to own. As the tremors juddered through his body, he welcomed them, reminding himself that pain could only be felt by the living.
Something Bronson would learn soon enough.
Chapter Six
The boat engine spluttered to a stop at a set of stone stairs. A rope was thrown to the pier, landing on the cobbles with a splat. Hope rushed to secure it.
Another rope landed in front of Angel. She moved forward, but her eyes found the grey sea. It roared in her head, beckoning her into its embrace. Her mouth dried and she thought of the car on dry land.
Hope picked up the second rope and said nothing as she tied it to an iron cleat.
"We do the deal on board," shouted the Captain from the boat.
Angel staggered to the van, steadying her hands on its wet bonnet. She closed her eyes and willed her legs to stop shaking. "We do it up here," she shouted back.
"My boat is nice. You'll like."
Hope leaned over the railing. "Get your arse up here, Nestor. You've had us waiting all day. Stop messing about."
They heard clattering and what appeared to be Russian expletives. Footsteps scurried up the stairs.
The Russian captain strode onto the pier. Nestor was a short man, but powerfully built, somewhere in his thirties, though it was hard to be sure. His face was puckered in burn scars, masking
his age. He stuck out his lower lip. "Why you not like my boat? She's beautiful."
"She's about as beautiful as you are," Hope said. "You know how owners are supposed to look like their dogs? That's you and your ugly boat."
Drumming fingers against his leg, Nestor frowned at Hope through his scars. His lined face became an angry cross.
Hope didn't flinch from his stare. She moved subtly to her left, flexing her legs. One hand moved to her pocket while the other formed a fist.
"We have what you want," Angel said. "Are you ready to trade?"
"I recognise that voice," Nestor said with a sudden smile. "We talk on phone, yes?"
Angel nodded and Nestor pulled out a package from his coat. He tossed it at her. Before Angel had time to respond, Hope plucked it from the air. It was hand-sized, waterproofed in transparent film. Underneath was silver foil marked with a skull. Angel snatched it from her sister and unwrapped it, sheltering it from the damp air. She gasped as she lifted the last flap of foil.
"What you asked for?" Nestor asked, lighting a hand rolled cigarette.
The similarities to cocaine were remarkable. The powder was white and glossy, compressed into a two-hundred-gram brick. Men like her father would take it and cut it with talcum powder or flour to stretch out its worth. Street value directly corresponded to how much shit had been added, but this cocaine was different. It was called Blizzard and it represented every penny Angel owned.
"Where's the rest of it?" she asked.
Nestor drew on his cigarette and shot blue smoke into her face. "Five kilos in my hold. More when you request it."
Hope walked to the stone steps, stopping when Nestor produced a gun.
"Payment first," he said. "My bosses insist."
"Put your pocket rocket away," Hope said.
Nestor grabbed his crotch, his cigarette sagging from his mouth. "You want to see real pocket rocket?"
"Can everyone relax please?" Angel asked. "The deal is still good."
"All of deal?" Nestor's eyes glinted at Hope.
Hope turned her back on the sea. Her hand went back to her coat pocket and it wasn't difficult for Angel to guess what was in there.