At his feet, Cox groaned. His arms moved, hands clawed the concrete, trying to roll himself onto his back. Failing.
Demarcus Williams still hadn’t moved.
Delinquent pointed to his fallen buddies. “How’d he do that, d’you reckon?” He had to speak up over the rain sluicing in the blustery wind.
Coulthard shook his head and clapped Delinquent on the shoulder. “The coward must have taken them by surprise. He no longer has that particular advantage, mon ami.”
The Frenchman started forwards, swaggering towards Kaine, who remained motionless, sizing up the opposition and finding them wanting.
After a momentary hesitation, Delinquent fell into step beside and slightly behind his leader. The one called Red sidestepped to his right and hung back, watching.
“Don’t look like no coward to me,” Delinquent said. He spoke under his breath, but loud enough for the wind to carry the words to Kaine. “Cowards run, and this guy ain’t runnin’.”
Coulthard shot him another look, this one revealed pure derision. “Who is the coward here, putain?”
The Goons closed the gap to ten metres. Kaine released the Sig’s handle and covered both the gun and its holster with the tail of his jacket. No need for a weapon with these clowns. He raised his right arm, hand open, fingers up, a policeman halting traffic.
The moment Kaine moved, Red froze, shock and fear written in his bulging eyes. He started nibbling on his lower lip.
“Hold it right there,” Kaine said, his tone clear, decisive.
Coulthard halted. Delinquent bumped into the side of him, and mumbled an apology. Coulthard’s furious scowl cut twenty percent from his good looks.
Kaine bared his teeth in a sneer, and continued to speak harshly. “I got one question for you, dickhead. Answer it proper and you might survive the night wi’ all your teeth intact.”
Delinquent frowned in confusion. He shot the Frenchman a sideways glance before returning his gaze to Kaine.
Red stopped his lip-biting, but it only made his chin tremble.
Coulthard’s answering grin returned the looks scale to a full-wattage one hundred percent. He dug his right hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pearl-handled butterfly knife.
The Frenchman disengaged the knife’s safety catch with his little finger. Lightning fast, he flipped the top handle to expose the blade and flicked his wrist to rotate and close the two halves of the handle. Simultaneously, he turned side on, slid his right foot forwards, and raised the razor-sharp blade, pointing it at Kaine’s throat.
Kaine nodded in false appreciation and clapped his hands three times, slowly.
“Nice work, Coulthard. Impressive. Looks like you practised that move for hours. Prob’ly in front of a mirror, right?”
Delinquent’s eyes gaped wide. He stared at Kaine as though he’d lost his marbles. He’d undoubtedly seen people faint clear away at the sight of Coulthard’s silky method of opening a butterfly knife.
For his part, Coulthard growled, his face darkened, and a vein bulged on his forehead. It looked close to popping. This time, he turned from catwalk model to snarling beast.
Leading with the outstretched knife, the Frenchman moved forwards, keeping his right foot ahead of the left, in a shuffling, sliding dance of aggression.
Kaine smiled, balling his right hand into a fist, but keeping it behind the left and a little lower.
Coulthard screamed and lunged, aiming for a body strike. Stainless steel glinted under the spotlights.
Kaine shimmied and ducked right, stepping inside the thrusting blade. Keeping Coulthard between himself, Delinquent, and Red, he twisted, shot out his right hand, first knuckles of the index and middle fingers extended. The knuckles connected with the soft tissue inside Coulthard’s exposed right wrist, crushing blood vessels and pinching the nerve bundle. Still circling, Kaine followed with a left hand clubbing blow to the same target.
Coulthard screamed. The knife flew from his limp, paralysed hand, clattered to the concrete, and skittered out of the halo of light and into the dark.
Kaine danced back and away, maintaining his balance.
Delinquent stood still, mouth open and eyes bugged wide enough to pop.
Apart from shaking his head and opening his mouth, Red didn’t move.
Coulthard trembled and stood, cradling his damaged wrist against his chest with his good hand.
Resorting to first defensive position—left arm held out in front of the right, left foot leading, maintaining perfect balance—Kaine raised his left index finger.
“Sorry ’bout that, Coulthard,” Kaine said with no hint of a real regret, “but I don’t like wankers with flashy knives.”
“Merde, mon poignet,” the Frenchman spat. “My … my wrist—”
“Tough titties, arsehole. What you got there is a crushed median nerve and bruised carpals, I reckon,” Kaine said, scrunching up his face in mock sympathy. “Trapezium and trapezoid, to be exact. Maybe the scaphoid too. Doubt you’ll be able to use the hand again for a while. Definitely have to forget that fancy move with the knife. Shame that. Maybe try practising with your left hand? Can’t do no worse.”
“Qui est-tu?” Coulthard gasped.
“Never mind that, Coulthard. My name ain’t gonna do you no good.”
He slid half a pace closer.
Delinquent backed away.
Without looking where he was going, Red shuffled backwards. He tripped over one of Cox’s trailing legs and fell in a heap, cracking his head on a raised piece of concrete. He squealed, scrambled to his feet, and took off running away from the school and into the night.
“Oops,” Kaine said, still scanning the scene in case some interlopers chanced their arm while he was being kept occupied. “No stomach for a rumble? Shame. I were just gettin’ warmed up.”
Delinquent leaned forwards at the waist, as though making ready to attack.
Kaine pointed at him. “Stay right where you are, sunshine. One more move out of you and I might lose my rag.”
The baby-faced Goon swallowed hard and raised his hands in submission, but otherwise, stayed locked in place, balancing on the flat of one foot and the ball of the other.
“Right,” Kaine said, smiling again and reverting to his original conversational style. “Now I got your full attention, I’ll ask my question. You ready?”
Pale and sweating, Coulthard stared at his damaged, trembling hand. It stood out light against the dark jacket. The wrist had already started to swell.
Delinquent stood mute, gawping at the Frenchman’s back.
“By the way, that weren’t the question, but you can answer it. You bozos ready?”
He danced two paces forwards, flicked Coulthard’s damaged wrist with his middle finger, and returned to his safe distance.
Coulthard screamed, jerked away, fell. He continued screaming as his backside and elbow hit the concrete, jarring the wrist once more.
“Non, s’il vous plait. Stop,” he pleaded. “Ask your question. If possible, I will answer.”
“Alphonse, no,” Delinquent warned, “TM’s gonna—”
Kaine silenced him with a raised index finger and a quick shake of the head.
Coulthard glowered at Delinquent and grimaced as he used the elbow to push himself into a seated position, in the middle of a muddy puddle. “My hand. J’ai besoin d’un docteur. Ask your … question, monsieur.”
“It’s very simple. Did you kill Glenmore Davits?”
Coulthard’s gaze lifted from his mangled wrist and met Kaine’s steady glare. Confusion added to his pained expression.
“Quoi?”
Kaine repeated the question, adding a little more volume and speaking more slowly.
Coulthard closed his eyes for a moment longer than necessary for a blink. When they opened, the pain remained and the confusion had deepened. Still sitting in his growing puddle, he shook his head.
“Qui? Who?”
“Glenmore Davits.”
&n
bsp; Recognition slowly dawned. The Frenchman’s mobile face failed to hide his emotions.
“The old man in the wheelchair?”
“Yep, he’s the one.”
Coulthard’s instant and plaintive, “No, monsieur. Please believe me. I-I did not kill the old man,” made Kaine inclined to believe the Frenchman, whose bluster had disappeared the moment his butterfly knife hit the concrete.
“In fact, monsieur,” he continued, “les keufs, the police, they say it was an accident. The old man fell and hit his head, n’est-ce pas?”
“What about you?” Kaine asked, ignoring the Frenchman’s question and turning his attention to the youth.
Delinquent shook his hands in front of his face. “It weren’t me. No way. Why would I kill a cripple? No need. Like Alphonse said, the bacon reckoned the old guy fell down the stairs. Shame an’ all, but I didn’t kill him, honest.”
Kaine shook his head sadly and added a heavy sigh. “Trouble is, Delinquent, whenever I hear a moron say ‘honest’, it makes me think he’s lyin’ through his rotten teeth. Are you lyin’?”
The youthful-looking man shook his head vigorously. “No, no. I ain’t lying, honest … I mean, no. No way. I didn’t do nothing to old man Davits. In fact, I even liked the geezer. He had balls. Stood up to people, he did. Apart from him not being able to actually stand, like. But you know what I mean, yeah?”
Nerves were giving the kid verbal diarrhoea.
“Okay, let’s say I believe you’re telling the truth. Makes the next and final question even more important,” Kaine said, adding a dramatic pause. “Who did kill Mr Davits?”
He waited. Neither Goon made a move to answer.
Kaine stepped closer to the Frenchman and kicked him gently on the leg. “Coulthard?”
“Je ne sais pas. I-I do not know, monsieur. C’est vrais. It is true. This I swear,” Coulthard answered and braced for another blow.
“Delinquent? What about you?”
The man lowered his head and stared at Kaine through hooded and bushy eyebrows. “No idea who’d want to kill him, man. Old guy never did no one no harm. Mouthed off a bit about the way the area was going to hell an’ all, but he weren’t no danger to nobody. ’Sides, TM told us to back off the locals. More trouble than they’s worth. Said it would bring the filth down on our heads.”
As if the man himself had been listening, the screech of electronic feedback echoed through the courtyard, bouncing off the brick walls and concrete ground.
“Are you three having a fucking picnic? No one killed the old man. At least no Tribesman did. Unless I sanction a death, it doesn’t happen. Do I make myself clear?”
Kaine cast a look around for the microphone. TM couldn’t have heard his quiet interrogation of the two Goons from inside the Hub.
In the eaves above his head, a small black box gave him his answer. He spoke directly into it.
“Hello TM,” he said, reverting to his normal accent, “I seem to have your undivided attention at last. Who are you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Yes, which is precisely why I’m asking.”
“Why the ski-mask, arsehole? Too scared to show your face?”
“Who’s the pot and who’s the kettle.”
“What?”
“Never mind, old man. Not important. Thing is, I don’t believe your claim not to know who killed Glenmore Davits. From here on in, I’m making it my life’s ambition to find out who you are and where you live”—he saw no value in letting on he knew TM’s current whereabouts—“and, when I do, I’m going to beat the answer out of you in person. I’ll be taking my time to do it, too.”
TM’s electronically manipulated laugh sounded maniacal. Which, presumably, was the intention.
“And when we meet,” Kaine added, “I’ll tell you my name, and show you why I needed the ski mask. Cheerio for now.”
Keeping a weather eye on Delinquent, Kaine moved closer to the school wall, heading for the outer edge of the floodlight’s arcing beam.
A sash window on the top floor, third from the left and directly below the east chimney, screeched and slid upwards. The muzzle of a large calibre rifle poked through the gap.
Kaine dived forwards into the blackness, rolling as he hit the deck. The crack of a gunshot exploded in the night. The bullet hit the concrete metres from where Kaine had been standing. Sparks flew and the bullet ricocheted harmlessly away towards the railway tracks.
“Oh dear, that’s not at all sporting,” Kaine called from the deep shadows.
“Fuck you, shithead!”
The muzzle wobbled and another explosion rocked the night. The bullet whistled into the darkness way to the left of Kaine’s new position.
“Be seeing you, TM!” he shouted.
Sticking close to the brickwork, Kaine slipped away.
And sooner than you think, sunbeam. Much sooner.
Chapter 27
Sunday 19th February – Barcode
Walthamstow, NE London
21:52.
Barcode slinked deeper into the shadows, biding his time.
The lights in the Hub shone bright in the darkness.
Even though Palmerston School was the best-maintained building in the crappiest part of the hood, the shithole still looked in danger of falling in on itself. On the other hand, most of the internal walls were solid enough, and dozens of builders’ props held up the parts that weren’t. The shell was shitty and, apart from the daubs of purple on the woodwork, it looked as derelict as the rest of the street, which was the whole point. If a building stood out as new, it would draw attention to itself, which was the last thing TM and the Tribe needed.
If the filth didn’t take no notice, it was fine and dandy with Barcode. He had his plans and they didn’t include the strong arm of the law.
For the millionth time, he checked his watch—nearly five to ten. TM would be winding up his bullshit soon enough, and Barcode could do his business in time to make the Parkside run. He’d be cutting things close, but if everything went according to plan, he’d do the first deed, then the second, and no one would be any the wiser—least of all TM.
Barcode had TM’s blessing for the second part, but not the first. Definitely not the first.
To pull it off, both actions had to be perfect. Fuck-all room for error. If he screwed one thing up, there’d be no way back. Barcode would be fucked up and fucked up good and proper.
Sure, he could have waited to deal with Weasel later, but doing the deed right under TM’s nose was too sweet an opportunity to miss. In fact, it was fuckin’ brill. One act would balance the other—if he got them right.
After another fifteen minutes’ waiting, the school’s front doors opened and the Tribesmen started filing out, pushed by two of the Goons. The little ones were quieter than normal. Most often, they’d be bubbling after TM finished one of his speeches that were designed to motivate the crews.
Normally, the younger Tribesmen would fuck off back to wherever they called home, high as kites on a touch of free product and TM’s bullshit, but not this time.
This time, they moved quiet and quick, either looking straight ahead or down at their feet. One of the softer ones, a sweet young thing no more’n thirteen, was crying her little eyes out. A couple of the boys were pale. Something must have happened in the meeting. Fuck knew what, and Barcode certainly weren’t about to step into the street and ask. No fuckin’ way.
If he stayed put and listened, he might overhear something interesting but, if not, he’d find out soon enough.
As they all trooped past his hiding spot, one of the middling ones said something like, “Rhino’s fucked.”
Interesting.
It weren’t like Rhino to stick his head out—not that he could do nothing like that since his neck were so stiff on account of the shit-ugly scar. But he had been acting weird since the fuckin’ betty dumped Barcode on his butt. What had old scar-neck gotten hisself involved in this time? Knowing Rhino like h
e did, it prob’ly had something to do with his squeeze and the spawn she was about to birth. Fucker wouldn’t stop banging on about “Ariel and the baby this” and “Ariel and the baby that”. Twisted Barcode’s melon the way Rhino had turned so soft all of a sudden.
So what if the be-atch was going to pop out a little Rhino? It didn’t have to change nothing ’bout how the world worked. If anything, it should’ve made the scarred fucker work harder. If he did more graft and turned over more product, it would feed directly back into his pocket. TM and Barcode would be happy, Rhino would be happy, and, in turn, Ariel and the baby would get fed and clothed.
That was the way the market worked. Meet the demand and turn a profit. Simple as fuck. Not necessary to complicate nothing.
“C’mon, Weasel,” he muttered. “I don’t got all evening.”
The front doors opened again and the next load of Tribesmen appeared, backlit by the lights in the entrance hall.
Yeah. There he was, the son-of-a-ho weasel, Benjie. Wearing a shit-eating grin like he’d just seen something entertaining. Standing in a huddle with Dylan, Spook, Lil’ Aran, and the rest of Barcode’s crew. Behind them stood seven others, the Loring crew. The crew what would merge with Barcode’s after he’d highjacked the Parksider’s delivery and collection.
Sherpa Loring, the leader of the crew, wouldn’t enjoy playing second string to Barcode, not after leading his own crew, but he’d get used to it. He had to, or Barcode would tear him a new asshole—assuming TM didn’t do it first.
The two groups merged at the top of the steps, stood around for a few seconds in a more-or-less downcast silence, then separated. TM always insisted they spread out after leaving the Hub. Large groups of Tribesman drew too much attention. Separate quick and keep it quiet, TM ordered. And, for this coming task to work proper, Barcode wanted the self-same thing.
Loring and his people headed east along Palmerston Road and split into three units, each slipping down a different side street.
Lil’ Aran keyed the lock securing his bike to the railings and rode off without his usual cheery wave. The rest of Barcode’s crew turned west and strolled away.
Ryan Kaine: On the Money: (Ryan Kaine's 83 series Book 5) Page 23