by Jack Probyn
HOPES AND DREAMS
The Head of the House was busy for a Tuesday night. Knots of drunk punters occupied the chairs and booths that ran along the longest wall to Jake’s left, while smaller groups stood swaying from side to side as alcohol raced through their bloodstreams, craning their necks towards the television screens that hung from the wall. Football. As ever. UEFA Champions League – Tottenham versus Inter Milan, apparently. Jake hadn’t watched nor been to a football match in years. His father had been a physiotherapist for Chelsea FC, and after his tragic passing in a car accident when Jake was fifteen, Jake couldn’t bring himself to go.
As soon as Jake and everyone from MIT and a few of the guys from Missing Persons on the floor below set foot in the pub, the atmosphere dropped until there was nothing, save for the sounds of the stadium bellowing from the TV sets. All heads turned to face them. Even though they were dressed in plain clothes – consisting of suits and ties and blazers and waistcoats – everyone in there knew who they were and what they represented.
‘Don’t worry, guys,’ Liam called, raising his hands in the air as he advanced to the bar. ‘We’re not here to arrest anyone. Not unless you give us a reason to. We just wanna enjoy our pints like the rest of you.’
The bartender didn’t waste any time in serving him.
‘Evenin’, Liam,’ she said with a thick East End accent. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘The usual for me please, Maggie. What you having, Jake?’
‘Foster’s please, guv.’
Liam grimaced. ‘Forgot you drank that. Pint of piss for him, and I’ll let the rest of these fuckwits order what they want. They don’t need me holding their hands. Put it on the tab when you’re done. I’ll pick up the bill later. Come on, kid. Let’s find ourselves a seat.’
They waited until Maggie poured their drinks and then moved around the bar into the back room. The bar was in the centre of the building, and it curved round 270 degrees, while the other ninety was occupied by a kitchen. Jake climbed a small step and found himself a seat in the most secluded part of the bar: the furthest right-hand corner. There were no television screens here, and so there were no angry and pissed punters screaming at the wall, yelling at the players, chiding them for being shit and profusely telling the screen that they could do a better job. Ten times out ten, it was evident they couldn’t; otherwise they already would have.
‘Sit,’ Liam ordered, pulling a chair out from the table.
Jake eased himself into the one closest to him.
‘Now, quickly, before all the others get here, there’s something I wanted to tell you…’ Liam hesitated, and then as he opened his mouth to speak again, Garrison arrived, holding a beer in his hand. The DC’s stance and demeanour suggested that he’d already downed several.
‘Nice little mother’s meeting?’ Garrison asked, slipping himself down on the seat beside Jake. Garrison was a big man – taller than he was wide – and, in the cramped confines of the booth, Jake fought for shoulder space.
‘Should have brought yours along,’ Liam jibed.
Garrison ignored the comment, lifted his hand, hovered and then lowered it. Jake knew them well enough to know that Garrison was contemplating giving Liam the finger. And Jake supposed it was warranted; when it wasn’t Drew, Garrison was usually the next target in line for all the jokes in the office. Outside duty hours, there was no professional divide between them – they could do and say whatever they pleased.
Garrison swallowed a third of his beer in one go and set it down hard on the table. Wiping the leftovers from his mouth, he said, ‘Congrats, pal. I’m proud of you. We’re proud of you. You’ve really proved yourself these past couple of months. Want me to give you some advice? How old’re you?’
‘Twenty-five. Same age as last time you asked.’
Garrison nodded with his mouth open, his tongue searching for a piece of food in his teeth. ‘Good age. Not too young, not too old. Y’see, when you get to my age, you’ll start thinking about things differently—’
‘How old are you?’ Jake asked, realising that he’d never asked the question before.
‘Fifty-eight.’
‘Fifty-eight?’
‘Fifty-eight. Soon I’ll be at retirement age, then I’ll be out of here.’
‘He’s already started preparing,’ Liam interjected, nudging Jake’s shoulder.
‘Oh?’
Garrison removed his phone from his pocket and loaded a picture of a car on the screen. ‘This, soon, will be my new baby. My only baby. My retirement toy. A Jaguar XKR Coupe. I’m picking her up in a coupla days’ time.’
‘Hope you requested that as holiday,’ Jake said.
‘No need. I’m going down there before work. They’re opening early just for me.’
‘How much did that set you back?’
‘Seventy big ones.’
Jake eyed him suspiciously. ‘How’d you get the money to pay for that?’
Garrison tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ve got a few investments in a few places. Fingers in pies and all that.’
All that.
‘I’m sure it’ll be a nice retirement treat for you,’ Jake added.
Garrison smirked. ‘I can’t wait to piss off out of here. Don’t get me wrong… the job has been the love of my life, but eventually, that can run out of steam at some point – and you have to find something young and exciting that’s going to keep you on your toes and stop you from killing yourself. Shame I never listened to my own advice. But you… you’ve got your whole life ahead of you – is this what you wanna do for the rest of it?’
‘Yes,’ Jake replied almost instantly; it didn’t require much thought. ‘For as long as I physically can. We make a difference to people’s lives, and nothing’s gonna stop me wanting to do that.’
‘I like your spirit, pal. But I’m counting the days. Just… keep your options open. I wanted to become an F1 driver back in the day. Even started training as an engineer and working my way through Mercedes. That was, until I got kicked out for sleeping with the boss’s wife – the woman I now share a bed with… reluctantly. So then I joined this place instead. Every day I miss what could have been, my passion. Don’t let this place make you forget about your dreams.’
The small table fell silent as Jake contemplated Garrison’s words of advice. It hit him that he didn’t have any big dreams or aspirations like that. He didn’t even want to win the lottery or own the flashiest car. He didn’t want to live in a mansion or climb a mountain. Sure, those things would have been nice, but they were materialistic, fake. He was a simple guy with simple requirements. He was happy with his job, and so long as he could continue to provide for and support his family, and give them everything they wanted – and needed – then he was content.
They were his dream.
They were his aspiration.
CHAPTER 4
PIT
They called him The Farmer. Real name, Georgiy. To colleagues, he was George. To friends… well, he didn’t have them. He made it his business not to. The moniker was a homage to the meaning of his name in his native Russian, and, more figuratively, he was known for ploughing through everyone that got in his way. It was never personal; it was just his job.
Georgiy pulled the black Transit van into the London Olympic Stadium. The vast structure and surrounding area were still under construction, and looked almost complete – the sheer size of it dwarfed the van and everything in the vicinity. They were well into the early hours of the morning, and they were enveloped in darkness. A light persistent drizzle – the kind that was barely visible to the naked eye yet managed to render everything in sight soaked – descended on the city.
Georgiy killed the engine, stopping the wiper blades mid-swing and turned to his side. ‘Where is she?’
Vitaly, the youngest member of the crew, and also the most inexperienced, shrugged. With a body that was almost twice the size of Georgiy’s, it was difficult to understand how they were related. Distant cousi
ns from an uncle Georgiy had never heard of, yes, but they were family nonetheless. Vitaly was a hard worker, a listener and a learner, with a lot of promise. His only shortcoming was his choice in nickname; he insisted on being called The Lion. Under no circumstances was Georgiy prepared to call him that. It was a ridiculous name, and if Vitaly wanted people to respect him, then he should let other people choose his name for him. That was the way it worked. All he needed was a stern mentor and a guiding hand to make that possible.
Georgiy twisted his body and looked into the back of the van. The backboard had been cut out, revealing the entire cabin. Situated inside were two men – one friend; one foe. The friendly’s name was Nigel Clayton, dressed in a black hoodie and balaclava that bore a silhouette of a skull on the front by the mouth, standing beside sacks of gravel, sand and cement that lined the walls of the van. Meanwhile, at the back, was the foe – a figure lying on its side with its hands behind its back, face covered, wriggling and groaning.
Georgiy nodded at the figure. ‘Any issue?’
‘Nah, none yet,’ Nigel replied in a quintessential British accent.
‘Good. Where the spot?’
‘Just over there.’ Vitaly pointed out of the window to a large stretch of tarmac that ran around the stadium.
As Georgiy turned round to look where Vitaly had pointed, his eyes refocused. A woman, tall, slender and slight, prowled towards them like a jaguar in the night. She walked with speed and vigour – purpose. Tatiana, he thought wistfully.
Georgiy opened the door and hopped the short distance to the ground. ‘Where you been?’
‘Making sure you lot weren’t followed,’ Tatiana replied in almost impeccable English despite her thick Ukrainian accent. She was a polyglot, one of those intelligent people who had the enviable ability of adopting and speaking several languages. It was her biggest skillset – among many.
‘Everything clear?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,’ she snapped. ‘And neither would you.’ In the low light, her dark eyes sparkled, but he knew that, behind them, a fire of determination burnt.
Tatiana strode towards the back of the van, and he struggled to catch her. She came to an abrupt halt by the handle, unlocked the rear doors and pulled them open. The man on the floor recoiled and retreated, gasped and panted heavily, groaning excessively with fear and confusion. Tatiana pointed at the bag on his head.
‘Seriously?’
Georgiy ignored the remark and grabbed the man under the arm. Heaving the body out of the van, he replied, ‘Don’t tell me how to do job.’
The man was heavy, like a dead weight in his arms – a dead weight that was very much alive and kicking.
But not for much longer.
Georgiy dragged the man to his feet and scanned his surroundings, studying the pockets of holes in the earth that ran around the perimeter of the stadium where work was still incomplete.
‘This way,’ Tatiana said, and by the time Georgiy paid attention to her, she was already heading in the opposite direction.
Vitaly and Nigel disembarked the van and were in the process of lugging the cement mixture out as Georgiy followed her, dragging the man in his arms with him. A hundred yards later, they came to a stop by a large ditch. Six feet deep, three feet wide. Beside the hole was a large concrete mixer. A long metal tube protruded from the top of the machine and was pointed at the ground beside Tatiana’s feet.
Georgiy’s eyes fell on the hole. ‘What this supposed to be, swimming pool?’
‘A garden patch. Somewhere for trees to grow. They were supposed to fill it in a couple of days ago, but the plan was scrapped, so now nobody knows what’s going on with it.’
‘Is it big enough?’
She turned to him. Shrugged. ‘Find out for yourself.’
Georgiy tightened his grip on the man’s body and ripped the piece of cloth away from his head.
As clean oxygen flooded his lungs, the man gasped and choked on his breath. It was a wheezy, raspy noise that sounded like it caused physical pain. He opened his mouth to speak, but doing so only made it worse.
‘Shut it,’ Georgiy said.
‘Pl-Pl-Pleas—’
Georgiy shoved the body into the ditch and watched as the man tumbled in, his face catching on large rocks and pieces of dirt and gravel. He let out a little yelp, his voice carrying across the stadium walls, and for a moment Georgiy panicked – loud and abrupt noises were unsavoury dealings in this business – but then he realised there was nothing to worry about. The site was uninhabited. Nobody would be there for the next couple of hours. Which meant they had plenty of time to finish what they were there for.
Georgiy disregarded the man in the ditch and turned his attention to Vitaly and Nigel standing beside him. He gave them the nod, and they instantly began funnelling the bags of sand, gravel and cement into the mixer. Vitaly grabbed the tube and moved it closer to the edge of the hole. Behind him, the machine started, producing a low, rhythmic hum as the barrel rotated and mixed the contents together.
Georgiy jumped into the pit and grabbed the man by the neck. All hope had left his eyes.
‘You have three minute until concrete mixture ready,’ he said, tightening his grip. ‘Which mean you have three minute to tell me all information I need hear. After that, we bury you alive. Understand?’
‘Pl-Pl—’ the man babbled. Tears formed in his eyes, saliva foamed at his mouth and a lump swelled in his throat.
Georgiy couldn’t believe it. One of the country’s most prolific and notoriously violent armed robbers – or ‘blaggers’, as they were called in the criminal world – was crying like a baby. It was embarrassing. Pathetic.
Georgiy punched the man across the face. ‘Less than three minute now, and you want spend time fucking beg? Use time wisely, otherwise, you have no left.’
The man spat out a globule of blood. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Who have you been talking to?’
‘Nobody, I swear.’
Georgiy cracked a smile. ‘Funny. My employer say otherwise.’
‘I have money.’
‘So do my employers.’
‘Who are your employers?’
‘Two minute.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about – honestly.’
Georgiy shrugged. ‘If that the case, we bury you anyway.’
‘No!’ the man’s eyes widened. ‘No!’
Georgiy punched him around the face again. This time his fist landed hard on a cheekbone, sending a flash of pain up and down his wrist. He ignored it.
‘Who was you talking to? What was reporter’s name? Simple question. Name. Tell me what you told them. That information is worth your life, no?’
Another globule of blood, this time bigger than the last, lined with pieces of gravel and dirt. The corners of the man’s lips rose and he smiled, baring blood-stained teeth. ‘They’ll find you, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘My employers.’
Georgiy’s skin prickled. ‘What you talk about?’
‘They’ll find out you paid to get me out. They’ll find out you brought me here. They’ll find out everything. And then they’ll get rid of you. Just like you’re tryna do to me. We’re all pawns in this fucking game. You’re dispensable. Like the rest of us. And by the time you realise it, it’ll be too late.’
‘Who else you tell information?’ Georgiy continued.
‘Someone who’s gonna do something about it.’
Georgiy raised his fist again. As he prepared himself to swing it down on the man’s face, Vitaly called from behind.
‘It’s ready.’
A thin trickle of concrete dribbled from the end of the tube. Georgiy reached his arm out and grabbed it. He kneed the man in the stomach, grabbed the back of his head and then shoved the tube into his victim’s mouth.
Within seconds, the stodgy mixture filled his mouth and spilled out the sides. The man choked and gagged, spitting some of the
contents onto the floor and Georgiy’s arm.
‘That’s enough!’ a voice came, but he paid no attention to whomever it belonged to.
‘I’ll decide when is enough!’
He was the voice of authority, and he didn’t mind reminding people of it. They all had a job to do, information to extract. And there was only one way they were going to get it.
Georgiy smacked the man on the back, forcing him to choke the concrete mixture onto the floor.
‘Give me name!’
‘Wa… Way…’
‘Name! Now!’
‘Wa… Wanker…’
Georgiy lost it. Gritting his teeth, he poured the concrete over the man’s face, smothering him in it. The dense, coarse contents wetted his hair and quickly filled his eyes. Screams erupted from him as the salt and grit burnt them before it crept down his throat.
‘Name!’ Georgiy screamed.
The man shook his head violently, flinging flecks of cement onto the ground and Georgiy’s legs and hands. He continued to gag. Coughing. Choking. Spitting. Spluttering. Drowning. Rapidly cutting off the circulation to his brain.
Georgiy glanced at the floor. A small pile of cement had landed beside him and was lined with blood. The mixture was destroying his victim’s insides. It wouldn’t be long until he was dead.
Georgiy decided to speed up the process.
He grabbed the back of the man’s head and pulled down until his airways were straight. Then he held the tube over the mouth and watched as the mixture poured in as if he were filling a hot water bottle. At first, the man gagged and shook violently, but it was no use. The cement was working its way down his body and the flow was too much for him to overcome.
After a few seconds, his latest victim had drowned in cement and his own blood. His body became rigid.
For a while, the atmosphere around them froze. The only thing Georgiy could hear was the sound of his breath. Even the hubbub of London in the distance became muted and silent.
‘Eto pizdets,’ Tatiana said, her voice suspended in disbelief.
‘What?’ Georgiy retorted. ‘We had instruction. You knew it going to happen. You knew he going to die this way.’