by Shaun Baines
Lunging at the transit van, Angel flung open the back doors, finding a metallic briefcase. Her fingers skipped over a digital keypad, entering a six-digit code. A jet of pressurised air hissed from the hinges and the locks snapped open.
"Everything your bosses asked for," she said, stepping to one side.
Nestor spat his cigarette to the ground where it sizzled in the wet. He used his gun to lift the lid of the suitcase and grimaced at the contents. "Is that it?"
Hope's hand hovered by her pocket. "What were you expecting? Stacked bills?"
The memory stick was an inch long, as shiny as a beetle's carapace. He lifted it into the air and examined it in the dull light. "I don't understand things anymore."
Angel pushed the briefcase to one side, clasping her hands in front of her. "It's thirty-two gigabytes of information hacked from companies all over the world. Everything your bosses wanted."
"You did this?" Nestor asked.
"It's what she does instead of having a life," Hope said with a smirk.
Seaspray dripped from Angel's hair. "This is better than money, Nestor. It's a licence to print it. Trust me."
Rolling his eyes, he put the memory stick in his pocket, but raised his gun at Angel. "If that is what my bosses want, then fine, but if you're lying in any way, I have to tell you – I have a licence to kill."
A seagull whirled in the sky. Nestor pretended to shoot it, making gun noises from the corner of his mouth. Laughing, he put the gun away and lit another pre-rolled cigarette, his eyes straying to Hope as he gulped his blue smoke.
"This is good news," he said, "but it is not all deal."
"What are you talking about, you Trotsky prick?" Hope asked. "Coke for info. That was it."
"It's special merchandise," he said. "Who is in charge here?"
Angel coughed into her hand. "I am."
"Then we had another deal. For special merchandise. Nestor makes money, too."
Hope pulled out the Smith and Wesson handgun from her pocket. It had been a thirteenth birthday present from Mam and Hope never left home without it. Angel had begged her not to bring it, but even as she made her pleas, she'd known they'd fall on stony ground.
The gun was levelled at Nestor's face and Angel struggled for breath.
Keep calm, the voice said.
"Don't let this weather make your Russian brain go soggy," Hope said. "There was no other deal."
Angel rushed between the sparring parties, sliding on the cobbles. She righted herself and placed a hand on her sister's shoulder.
"Please stop fighting," she said with a whine. "We're almost done. Don't spoil this for me."
The fog horn blared, deep and mournful, echoing in the chambers of Angel's heart.
She looked into her sister's angry face. "This isn't just coke. It's mixed with amphetamines, opium, spice. It's five times more addictive and half as damaging. Our customers need more, live longer and spend the house. Supply and demand, get it?"
"If it's so bloody good, how come it's your deal?" Hope asked. "The whole family should be involved."
Seaspray landed on Angel's eyelashes giving the illusion she was about to cry. "Nestor approached me. Not Mam. Not you. This is my deal."
Hope shook her head, her blue fringe whipping like a blade. "I understand what you're saying, but you're not ready yet. You can't trust the Russians, baby sister. They're always out for more. When are you going to grow up?"
"I want all deal," Nestor said to Angel. "You promised."
Angel pressed the palm of her hand against the muzzle of her sister's gun. "Don't shoot him. He's my only contact."
"You can't trust him," Hope said.
"But you can trust me. Give me your weapon. Let me talk our way out of this."
Nestor sucked his cigarette to ash and flicked it into the waves. "This is taking too long. Time to go."
Angel ran her fingers over her sister's gun toward the handle. "Please do as I say. For once. We'll be fine."
The frown on Hope's face wavered. "Oh, for bugger's sake."
She groaned and offered up the gun. It almost slipped from Angel's wet hands, but she held tight and pointed the gun at her sister.
"Thank you," she said. "Now, get in the boat."
The foghorn sounded again. To Angel, it looked like the sound had come from Hope's gawping mouth.
Angel darted a look at Nestor. "Put the coke in the van."
"I am getting the full deal?" Nestor asked.
"Yes. Do as I ask."
Nestor grinned and for the first time, Angel noticed his incisors were plated with gold. He jumped down the stone steps and into his boat.
"Just what the hell is going on?" Hope's lips trembled, but her legs were tense. There was a flex to her arms. She was preparing to fight.
Against her own gun and Angel's staggering betrayal, her sister didn't stand a chance. And Angel loved it.
"You're going with Nestor," she said. "He wouldn't courier my drugs unless I sweetened the deal."
Nestor scurried onto the pier, his arms laden with silver packages. He hurled them into the transit van and shut the doors. Pulling out his gun, he circled behind Hope.
"What are you doing?" she asked Angel.
The gun was alien in Angel's hand and surprisingly heavy, but she kept it raised, shaking water droplets from the barrel. "You'll keep him company on the trip back to wherever he is going and – "
"Then I sell you to my customer," Nestor said, pressing his own gun into the back of Hope's head. "He is a very nice man. Very rich."
He nudged Hope forward.
"I don't care how rich he is," she shouted, "I'll rip off his balls. And yours, Nestor. If you have any."
"Please don't do anything silly," Angel said.
Hope sprang forward, eyes blazing, her hands reaching for Angel's throat, but her feet skated on the cobbles. She careened to the ground, her head bouncing off the surface with a crack. Nestor was on her in an instant, delivering a second blow with the handle of his gun. Her eyelids flickered shut and Hope lay still.
"I told you I could do it," Angel said to no-one in particular.
The last she saw of Hope was her being dragged by her fashionable clothing into the mist. She didn't stay to witness the details.
Climbing into the van, she attempted an eighteen-point turn, cursing at the sticky gears and slippery cobbles.
The boat coughed into life, its engine belching black smoke. It chugged away from the launch and set a course for the horizon, taking one of Angel's problems with it.
She stopped by an amusement arcade called Funderland. Checking the van was locked, she ventured inside. The carpet was a busy soup of brown and orange hexagons. Lights flashed from various machines, emitting the occasional jingle or beeping noise. It was an assault on the senses and Angel held onto her stomach. She was more seasick in Funderland than she was out on the pier.
The arcade was mostly empty. Rock sat on a stool in front of an old fashioned slot machine, feeding it pennies. His large buttocks spilled over the seat, threatening to engulf it. A mossy beard grew from his double chin while his pallid face was bathed in green from the arcade lights.
Angel cleared her throat and Rock spun slowly in his seat. "Where's Hope?" he asked.
"Somewhere else," she answered. "Now I want you to listen to me, please. The van is outside. You go straight to Heaton. Have the cocaine tested."
"Straight there. No problem." Retrieving a packet of Space Raider crisps from his pocket, Rock slipped three into his mouth at once. "And this is the plan, is it?"
The crunching made Angel wince and she slapped the crisps from his hands. "I said, now."
Rock waddled to the exit and Angel waited until he was out of sight. Standing alone among the flashing lights, a smile spread over her face. She'd done it. After everything they'd said, Angel had completed her first drug deal. Not just any drug deal, but one that would put her on the map. After the Dayton empire had imploded, Newcastle was wide open an
d Angel was ready to make her move.
Blizzard would hit the streets in time for winter.
Chapter Seven
On the pitted door of the Silver Lining's maintenance room was a hastily written sign. 'Out To Lunch.'
The room on the inside was cramped, filled with bottles of cleaning products, their labels faded with time. A collection of rubber gloves dried on a clothesline. Nailed to the wall was a topless calendar from the eighties where the hairstyles were as big as the breasts. Daniel tore it down, dropping it into a tin bucket of scummy water. He didn't want his daughter to see anything like that.
He seated Eisha behind a metal desk. "Sit still and keep quiet."
"Are we going up to see Great-Granny soon?" she asked.
Daniel glanced into the corner. "I doubt it."
Eisha scrambled onto the desk. She made it halfway before Daniel grabbed her, placing her back in her seat.
"I know this isn't ideal," he said, "but I need you to behave."
Eisha struck the desk with her hand. "I want to see Great-Granny."
"Do as I say." Daniel thrust his phone at her. "Here. Play on this."
He turned to Fred in the corner of the room. He was standing in a broken toilet destined for the skip. Stripped to his briefs, his arms were tied behind his back. He wriggled, but he was bound fast. Next to him was a bottle of industrial bleach.
"Daddy?"
"What now?" Daniel asked.
Eisha presented his phone, the screen lighting up Daniel's face.
"Jesus," he said, snatching it from her. "How did you get on this website?"
"You didn't put the child lock on." She puffed out her cheeks, allowing the air to pass through her lips. "Men show funny things on websites, don't they?"
He went to settings and searched through the options, his head beginning to ache. "Where is the bloody child lock?"
Eisha took the phone and pressed a button. "No problems, Daddy. I've done it."
She lowered her eyes to the screen, her thumbs working madly. Soon the phone made bleeping noises he recognised as a game called Newcastle's Canny Crush.
In reconnecting with his family, Daniel was drawing Eisha closer to what it meant to be a part of it. She was better than him. This wasn't the place for her and on some level, Eisha understood that. But where else could she be?
He knew what he needed to do. He simply didn't know how to do it.
Taking the bottle of bleach, Daniel shook it, assuring himself there was enough for the job in hand.
He turned to Fred. "I wanted to leave, you know? I wanted to take my daughter home, but you piqued my interest."
"I wasn't following you."
"You should get security cameras for this place. It was too easy to get back in."
"Sharon will hear me," Fred said. "I'll scream."
"In maintenance rooms, no-one can hear you scream."
A squeaking noise came from the toilet as Fred shuffled his feet.
"The skull tattoo on your face," Daniel said. "You used to work for the Maguires?"
"Used to. I told you, not anymore."
"My Dad told me it was Old Man Maguire's idea. Using a skull mask as an insignia. You must have been pretty devoted to have one tattooed on your face."
"For all the good it did me. I got sent down and they didn't want to know."
Loyalty flowed up the criminal pyramid, not down, but it wasn't loyalty. It was sycophancy paid by the lower orders to the higher-ups. When it came to jail time, all ties were cut and a former employee survived or not. The upper echelons, the people like Daniel, didn't care either way. Those were the rules and everyone obeyed them.
He opened the bleach, his nose wrinkling at the astringent aroma. "Why the interest in my family?"
"I work in a place where Ma Dayton lives. Scott Dayton turns up. You show up." Fred swallowed, working his dry throat. "It pays to be attentive."
"Who were you calling? Who called you?"
"It was the Maguires," Fred said. "It was an urgent job. It couldn't wait, apparently. If they were calling me, they must be desperate."
"So you are in contact with them," Daniel said. "What's the job?"
"I don't know. It's in the next couple of days."
He waddled in the toilet bowl, his bare feet folding on top of one another.
"Not a sandal wearer?" Daniel asked.
Fred looked into the toilet with a frown.
"You're going to tell me what I want to know," Daniel said, swirling the liquid. "No matter how white something is, a little drop of bleach always brightens it up. And your feet haven't seen sunlight in years."
The chirping phone stopped and Daniel looked back to his daughter. "Keep playing your game, pet."
"I don't know anything," Fred said, his voice catching.
Daniel breathed deeply. The truth was like a seam of coal. Layers had to be stripped away. It was a process of elimination. Daniel needed to get to the bones of the problem.
His eyes travelled over Fred's face. Pinprick pupils. Thudding jugular. Beaded upper lip. White ears with red tips. They were all signs, all telling Daniel one thing.
Fred was lying.
"I suppose you want me to wait outside, Daddy." Eisha was already off her seat and looking toward the door. Her skin was as pale as Fred's. She had probably guessed her father's intentions. When Daniel was a child, experiences like this were a rite of passage and there was always more than one. Perhaps Eisha had figured that out and decided to draw a line.
He kissed her on the forehead and opened the door. She was smarter than him, he thought. And braver.
Daniel took a pair of rubber gloves. The yellow material stretched white over his large hands. "We could have avoided this," he said to a trembling Fred. "If you'd told me the truth."
After fifteen minutes, Daniel's eyes were red. The fumes from the bleach were too much. His nose watered and he was forced to stop halfway through to get a glass of water. It had been a difficult interrogation and his ears hurt from Fred's screaming. He was looking forward to a shower. Maybe he'd take Eisha to the chip shop.
The toilet bowl had upended when Fred passed out, his bare feet trapped behind the U-bend. He'd convulsed on the floor and gone silent, but Daniel suspected he'd be fine. The bottle of bleach was empty. Most of it was on the floor where Daniel had splashed it to get Fred's attention. None of it had reached Fred's feet.
Pain was useless in an interrogation, but fear of it was invaluable. Someone in agony would say anything to make to stop. Most people confessed before it began. Yet another lesson Daniel's father had taught him. Thanks Dad, Daniel thought staring at Fred's prone form.
The handyman had told him all he knew, which unfortunately was precious little. When he revealed the reason he'd been sent to prison, Daniel had almost used the bleach for real. Only the thought of his daughter on the other side of the door had stopped him.
Wiping his face with a damp cloth, Daniel stared into the shiny surface of a filing cabinet. His reflection was mutated, twisted into the howling visage of a Dayton. He threw the cloth to one side and left the room.
"What's your high score?" he asked Eisha.
The bleeping from his phone was piercing. At some point, Eisha had turned up the volume of Canny Crush to drown out the wailing of a frightened man.
"Two hundred and thirty," Eisha answered, "and I got the golden Brown Ale. What did you get?"
They kept their heads low as they passed a narrow-eyed Sharon on reception. Stepping outside, Daniel and Eisha were greeted with an autumn wind. It nipped at their cheeks and hinted at rain. Orange leaves danced around their feet as they made their way to Daniel's van.
Eisha returned his phone and Daniel called for an ambulance. Fred had hit his head hard. It bounced off the concrete floor as he slipped into unconsciousness. The man hardly deserved it, especially after revealing his disgusting past, but Daniel wanted to set a good example.
"There was no high score for me, pet," he said, opening the v
an door and looking back at Silver Linings. At the end, Fred was a gibbering mess. He gave out names, crimes, but none of it made sense. Daniel was getting rusty. "All I got was another question."
While he'd been hiding his daughter from the world, other creatures like him had crawled from the sewers, showing their faces to the light. One in particular was making a move on his city. Daniel knew his enemies and they knew him.
But now, there was a new monster in town.
Chapter Eight
Pallion was a suburb in Sunderland, tucked into the crook of the River Wear's bulging arm. It was once a port and shipbuilding area, populated by hard men with grim wives.
Bronson was dressed in a dark suit and bright green tie. He was short and squat, more muscle than man. His handlebar moustache was an attempt to camouflage the twitch in his cheek. It didn't work and the twitch danced relentlessly, flagging up its presence to all who cared to watch.
"I haven't heard anything," he said into his phone. "This guy works in a retirement home. Are you sure he wasn't pretending to be all gangster? Just to impress you?"
"Not after what I did to him. I'm telling you something is going on." Daniel's voice sounded tired. "Are you being followed?"
Bronson drove by the site of the old Pineapple Club. The place had been infamous for its drug use, with more pills between its four walls than the local chemist. After its closure, it had been knocked down and rebuilt as a carpet warehouse.
Bronson checked his rear view mirror. "Nothing here, but memories," he said.
Further along the road was the latest out-of-town shopping precinct and a patch of waste ground that had once been terraced housing. Things were changing and Bronson feared he wasn't changing fast enough to keep up.
He heard a growl in his ear and Daniel ended the call. Cursing, Bronson threw his phone onto the back seat and picked up speed onto European Way.
The gates to Marvin's Scrapyard were twelve feet tall, consisting of rusting corrugated sheets. Curls of barbed wire were nailed to the top, like a brutal tiara on an ageing prom queen. His beloved BMW vaulted the potholes in the yard and he scowled against the stones pinging off the chassis.