by Shaun Baines
Lily smiled at Eisha. "Are you going to give Daddy a kiss goodbye?"
Gathering her up in his arms, Daniel pressed his lips to Eisha's cheek, pained to be repeating old patterns.
His daughter held him tight. "You won't be gone forever again, will you?"
"Not this time, pet," he said. "I'll be back in a few days."
"Will you?" Lily asked.
Releasing his grip on Eisha, Daniel stood to his full height, holding out his hands in front of him. The skin was calloused with slivers of dirt he found impossible to remove. Most of all they were empty, having let go of the one thing he wanted to keep near. From now on, they'd only serve a purpose when they were bunched into fists.
Panwar motioned toward the door. "Shall we?"
The sky was grey, like the underside of a steel dome. Daniel and Panwar lingered on the doorstep.
"We'll look after her," Panwar said. "I don't want you to worry."
Daniel's legs were heavy and the first step to the van seemed like a moonwalk away. "So, I wanted to say…" The pavement outside of Lily's flat was as wonky as a British smile. Daniel kicked at a paving stone. First with the right foot and then the left. "Well, thank you. Lily and I…It's good you're helping me."
"You're welcome," Panwar said and grabbed Daniel by the arm. "And I don't believe a fucking word you said in there."
Daniel steadied himself on the uneven ground. His mouth dropped and he was speechless. He might have asked Panwar what he was talking about, but couldn't be sure.
"You heard me," Panwar said. "I read the news websites. I know who you are and I bet you've never said a true word to either of those girls in there. At war with the Maguires? From what I hear, they've already won."
"Not yet, they haven't," Daniel said.
"You know, I was a kid like Eisha. I had a difficult childhood," Panwar said. "My parents loved me very much."
"Sounds awful."
"And because they loved me very much, they worked in their shop for eighteen hours a day so I could have a better future."
Sharp, rapid hand movements. No blinking. Raised pulse. Panwar was telling the truth, but then, he had no reason to lie.
"I grew up on my own," he continued. "The white boys at school didn't like me very much. My parents were too busy loving me to notice. That's why I don't walk away from people like Eisha." Panwar jabbed a finger into Daniel's chest. "That's why Lily loves me. Not you."
The urge to beat Panwar was overwhelming, but Daniel had to think of Eisha. Fracturing any part of Lily's partner would be a deal breaker and he couldn't jeopardise his daughter any more than he had already.
Daniel pulled out his van keys. "Is that your Range Rover?"
"You think you can somehow steal it using the keys to your shitty van?" Panwar braced his hands on his hips and laughed. "It's more of a computer than a car. You can't force your way in."
Jogging over to the Range Rover, Daniel scraping his keys down the side. A thread of paintwork peeled away. He picked it up and brought it back to Panwar, jamming the van keys under his chin. "Open your mouth."
"I'll do no such - "
As he spoke, Daniel pushed the sliver of paint behind Panwar's teeth, clamping his mouth shut with his hand and pinching his nostrils shut. "Now swallow it or suffocate."
Panwar thrashed against him, his hands slapping at Daniel's chest, but Daniel was too strong. He kept a firm hold. Thirty seconds passed. Panwar's face was puce from lack of oxygen. When his Adam's apple bobbed, Daniel let go with a satisfied grin.
"Eisha prefers brown sauce to ketchup," he said, not looking back.
Driving away in his shitty van, Daniel checked the rearview mirror. Panwar was sitting on the doorstep retching, forcing his fingers down his throat in an effort to retrieve the paint fleck. He'd gotten off lightly in Daniel's estimation.
Daniel turned on the radio, changing channels before he was assaulted by any more music. He found a news channel. The presenter was detailing the murder of a woman's new boyfriend at the hands of a jealous ex. He switched it off and concentrated on the road.
Chapter Eighteen
"Is that...?" Sprout asked.
Bronson nodded. Clive Hawk was tied to the brackets of a shower hanging over the bath. His clothes were scorched. His blue dungarees were burned black and his white tennis shoes were soiled with bodily fluids. Had it not been for Clive's peculiar dress sense, he would have been unrecognisable.
Because the body hanging above the bath was missing a face.
Sprout rested on the doorframe, his eyes to the ceiling. When he turned into the bathroom, he shivered. "What did they do to him?"
"It's called a voodoo death mask. Can you see that thing around his neck?"
Sprout forced himself to look. "It's a collar or something."
"It's the remains of a sack, probably a potato sack. They soak it in petrol, place it over your head and – "
"Set it alight," Sprout said, finishing the sentence.
There was no love lost between Bronson and Clive. The drug dealer was a necessary evil in a dirty world, but staring at his charred face, Bronson imagined how he'd suffered. The bathroom tiles behind Clive were cracked where he had bucked against his restraints. The shower curtain had melted, coating his shoulders in a burning, plastic cape.
"Who did you double-cross this time?" Bronson asked the corpse.
Sprout retreated to the first room, dropping onto the sofa. "This is messed up, man," he shouted. "Imagine chaining someone to a wall and setting their head on fire? How much hate do you need to do something like that?"
"That's the problem with being king rat," Bronson said. "They grow old and get slow. There are always plenty of younger rats ready to take over."
On the other side of the bath was an array of oils and lotions. Bronson selected Lavender Mist and smeared it around his nose. He made a closer inspection of Clive's body, swallowing repeatedly in an effort to quell his nausea. There was nothing in the pockets and Bronson was reluctant to move the crisp corpse, reluctant to touch it at all.
Bronson stepped back, the Lavender Mist failing to mask the smell of burned flesh. Sprout was right. Petrol hadn't fuelled this fire. It had been hatred and the underworld didn't work like that. Hatred was about longevity and emotional investment. It got in the way of business and power, which was what real criminality was all about.
The gift of cocaine was slipping through Bronson's fingers. Whatever Clive had done, Bronson's deal had now gone up in smoke, literally, and finding a new buyer would take time. The Maguires were as bold as the rats Sprout was sitting on. It wouldn't take them long before they mounted another attack and maybe next time, the Daytons wouldn't win.
"Do you think this is the same situation as the gold teeth guy?" Sprout asked. "Someone trying to take over The Playground?"
Bronson studied the body, cupping his jaw in his hand. Acts of hatred were rare because they were pointless. This had taken time and panache. There had to be a point to it. Was it a message from the new king rat? Someone Bronson could do business with?
"Wait," Bronson said, watching Sprout wriggling on the sofa. "What did you say before?"
"The gold teeth thing?"
Bronson searched the bathroom, pacing the floor. "You said, Clive was chained."
Forgetting the Lavender Mist, Bronson wrenched the corpse from the wall. Underneath Clive's armpits was a chain securing him to the shower brackets. They were blackened like everything else. Bronson had assumed Clive had been tied with rope. It was cheap and easily available, but Sprout was right. Again. The perpetrator had used chains to bind his victim. The potato sack and petrol probably came from the makeshift shop, he reckoned, but where had the chains come from?
The answer came with a crushing blow. Bronson doubled-over, fighting the urge to be sick. He rushed out of the bathroom, startling Sprout.
"Get out," Bronson shouted. "Get to the car. Now."
Bolting from the flat, Bronson pounded down the corridor. He ricocheted off the f
iery metal bin, sending it skidding in a display of shooting embers. The stairway door slammed open and Bronson launched down the stairs to the floor below. Skating to a halt, he shoulder-barged another door and set off, his lungs burning.
Like the previous corridor, this one was empty and Bronson started to get a picture of what had happened. His footsteps echoed off the walls as he sprinted to room four-one-four, bursting inside with his heart hammering. Ignoring the first room, he went straight to the bedroom where his worst fears were confirmed.
Kerosene lamps and blankets were scattered over the floor. The bed was upended and there were empty syringes and dirty cotton balls everywhere. Bronson felt a breeze on his face. The window, no longer boarded, was smashed and a cool wind blew into the room, spiriting away the smell of decay that had resided there.
Clive's death was no message. It wasn't about hatred, either. It was both.
Scott had escaped. Only a Dayton inspired the kind of fear that emptied a tower block. He'd used his chains to punish the captor who had held him for months. Fear rose in Bronson's throat like bile. He bit down on a shaking finger because Clive wasn't Scott's true captor. He was the hired hand. Bronson was the man behind Scott's incarceration and Scott knew that.
If a voodoo death mask was Clive's punishment, Bronson gulped at what was waiting for him. And now that his lie was exposed, there was no way of hiding it from Daniel.
Chapter Nineteen
"I don't bloody believe this," Daniel said, stalking around the office in Five Oaks, his mobile phone growing hot on his ear.
He'd crawled along the driveway in his van, guided by the light of ornate Victorian lampposts. The vixen was by the lake, a cub gathered at her feet. Daniel and the fox watched each other while the cub gambolled along the shoreline.
Daniel parked with a yawn and rubbed his eyes. The night air was frosty, but it failed to rouse the tiredness from his bones. Tonight, he would sleep. He was sure of it.
He crossed the threshold and woke instantly, as if he'd been doused in lake water. He wandered empty rooms with ghosts at his shoulder. His dead father loomed at the site of his death. His brother roamed the passageways, floorboards creaking under his spectral feet. Even victims of his own crimes were there, faceless entities moving like draughts of cold air.
"Who killed Clive?" Daniel asked down the phone. "Do we know?"
He was sitting behind the desk where his father had ruled like a thirsty dictator. The walls were lime washed bare brick; fashionable, but unfeeling. There were paintings of the Tyne Bridge in oils and watercolours. Two Chesterfield sofas were covered in a thin haze of dust. The only window in the office was a porthole, which was lead lined in the form of a cross.
Bronson sighed on the other side of the line. "It doesn't matter. We need to focus on shifting this coke."
"Was it the Maguires? Maybe they knew we'd go to Clive and decided to cut him off at the knees before the deal went through."
"Whoever it was did a lot more than cut him off at the knees."
The voodoo death mask was medieval in its barbarity and a technique Daniel had never employed. It was too messy and too premeditated for him. The death mask was something his brother would do and Daniel looked to the spot on the floor where Scott had made his last, wrong decision.
"Forget about Clive," Bronson said. "The Maguires have taken this really personally. We need another buyer."
"What's your plan?" Daniel asked.
Bronson was interrupted by a keening noise, followed by scraping and the thudding of a fist against metal.
Holding his breath, Daniel leaned into his phone, listening intently. Over the static came the sound of muffled crying. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Where are you?"
"The old greyhound track."
Daniel checked the time on his phone. "I can be there in fifteen minutes."
"Don't bother. I'm not staying long."
"Stay where you are."
"I'm going to sort it," Bronson said. "You can trust me."
He ended the call and Daniel stared at the dead phone in his hand. He placed it on the desk, the blank screen reflecting his frowning face. His friend was gone. Perhaps it was an accident and Bronson would call back, but as the minutes ticked by, Daniel understood the call was ended intentionally.
Running his hands over the desk, Daniel's fingers stroked the striations in its surface. His father had had a habit of slamming his fist into the wood whenever he was angry, marking it with his signet ring. Daniel had scarred it too, once punishing a man for holding back money on a property scam. The dents from his two front teeth were still there.
Daniel pulled open the drawers and examined their contents. Little had changed since his last inspection. The rolls of money were long gone. His father's bottle of Glenfiddich remained empty. He flicked through dried pens and crumpled pieces of paper, finding a limited edition Zippo lighter with a heart drawn out in sapphires; a tacky gift from his so-called mother to his so-called father. Daniel took it from the drawer, rolling it around his hand.
Why did Bronson not want him at the track? Daniel scratched at the lighter, picking at the sapphires with a fingernail. It was the second time Bronson had assured him he could be trusted. It didn't bode well. Was Bronson hiding something? And why had he dismissed Clive's death so readily?
Daniel spun the lighter on the desk, the blue sapphires blurring into one. It had been a precious keepsake for his father, but his death made it junk at the bottom of a drawer. The lighter's value came from the appreciation bestowed upon its owner. Without that person, it was worthless.
Pulling himself from of his father's chair, Daniel left the office with his van keys jutting through the creases of his knuckles. It was a homemade knuckle duster and as effective as any of the ones he hid around his bedroom.
Bronson was making Daniel feel unappreciated.
Chapter Twenty
Bronson's father had been a regular when the greyhound track was open, winning and losing the housekeeping money several times over in a single week. It was Bronson's first visit. The sandy track was pitted with thistles and dock leaves, the wooden barriers rotted to stumps. Most of the pavilion was intact. The seats were concrete steps and impossible to steal and the roof was worthless. Of the six greyhound traps, two remained, but only one had its original barred opening.
There was whimpering coming from inside.
"Start talking or you'll be in there for Christmas," Bronson said, banging on the roof. "Santa doesn't visit people behind bars."
"Get bent," came the reply.
Dropping to his knees, Bronson peered through the bars. The boy in the Parka jacket was folded in a heap, his cheeks stained with tears. The skin of his knuckles was raw from hammering against the metal. He looked differently from the same boy who had threatened Sprout with a blade. He looked like every other frightened kid.
"Oh, for God's sake," Bronson said, unlocking the trap.
The boy pressed against the far wall, but Bronson grabbed him and yanked him onto the track.
The boy hid his face in the hood of his jacket. Bronson pulled it back and the boy blinked into the light. "I don't know anything," he said, touching a swollen lip.
"What's your name?" Bronson asked.
The boy's teeth chattered together. "T-Boy."
"Your real name?"
"Terence," he said, trying to stand.
Bronson helped him to his feet. "Who bust your lip?"
In the frenzy of the kidnapping, Bronson hadn't noticed the wound. The cut was barely healed and the swelling was purple. Bronson knew about bruises. They turned yellow and green when the blood cells died. That bruise was fresh.
"Tell me who hit you," Bronson said.
"A woman."
Bronson dusted the sand off Terence's Parka. "What woman?"
"She's been coming around a lot. Got us selling dirty crack, didn't she? She's there all the time."
"Who is she?"
"I dunno, man," Terence replied. "She's just a woman."
Bronson teased the end of his moustache. "One day, you'll realise how stupid that makes you sound. What does she look like?"
"Never lets us get that close." Terence scratched a dirt mark on his neck. "Say we're unwashed."
"Does she drive a Mercedes? Is that who you're talking about? The one we saw?"
Pulling up his hood, Terence zipped it to the end, burying his face in the fur lining, but his eyes gleamed through the shadows.
Bronson laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "She's just a bully, mate. You can stand up to her," he said, cringing at his own advice. How could Terence ever win in a place like The Playground? It was populated with users and predators. Bronson glanced at the trap where he'd imprisoned Terence and guilt rose up like a black wave. He tried not to look at the trap again.
"If you tell me who she is, I might be able to help," Bronson said.
Terence forced his face to the front of the hood with a hopeful smile. He winced when his swollen lip split wider and a trickle of blood curled around his lips. "Were you ever bullied?" he asked.
Bronson's hand shot to his face, fingers covering his twitch. "Of course not."
"Is that where you got that from?" Terence asked, pointing at Bronson's prancing scar.
When he was ten years old, Bronson had stolen a packed lunch at school. He didn't know it was stealing. He'd found it on a bench with the owner nowhere to be seen. Money was short in his house. Bronson was often sent to school with a slice of bread. He eked it out through the day to stop his stomach from rumbling in class. The packed lunch was a gift from God and he wolfed it down in hungry mouthfuls. It wasn't until Sean Strike, the sixteen-year-old school bully, came looking for his sandwiches that Bronson realised God had led him astray.
Bronson was small, but he was cornered. He knocked Strike on his arse three times before his opponent reached for the pencil in his school bag. In one swift movement, it was lodged through Bronson's cheek, its graphite tip piercing his gum. Both boys cried out. One in pain, the other in amazement. Strike ran and Bronson followed, his legs wobbly from shock. He headed to the school nurse, who took a photo with her Polaroid camera before calling for an ambulance.