by Mark Newman
As he approached his car, he became aware of a small group of three men huddled to the side of his vehicle, smoking and talking in hushed tones as he neared the Volvo. He recognised two of the group as the men from the cowshed, associates of Callaghan; he readied himself for a confrontation.
They were blocking his path to the driver’s door; getting in his car and driving away wasn’t an option without taking them on. He didn’t fancy the odds too well. The last thing he wanted to do was risk losing his six grand, the problem was they already knew he had it; they just had to take it from him.
Callaghan stepped in to the light from behind the Volvo, now there were four of them to contend with. Baxter considered turning around and walking back the way he’d come, but Callaghan had different ideas.
‘Hear you had a decent win tonight, Baxter, that’s good, I’m pleased for you.’
Baxter eyed Callaghan with suspicion, keeping the others in his peripheral vision, looking for any sudden moves to rush him. ‘I did okay.’
‘Off home already? Night’s young, thought you might want to go big on that win of yours, take the chance to capitalise on your good fortune? You’re on a roll after all.’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I’m calling it a night, another time maybe?’
‘Sure. I understand, no problem.’
Baxter took a step closer to the car, Callaghan and his associates making no attempt to move. ‘All the same, I’d like the chance to win that money back.’
‘It’s been a long day…’
Callaghan leaned back on the Volvo, scratching at his two-day stubble growth. ‘And there’s me thinking you were a gambling man. Or was that someone else who came to me earlier looking for a loan?’
‘You want your money, that’s what this about. You know I’m good for it, right?’ ‘Sure…we have an understanding, Baxter. This isn’t about me thinking you’re doing a runner.’
Baxter fought to control his temper. ‘So what it is then?’
Callaghan took his time to assess Baxter, careful in his choice of words. ‘I always had you figured as an all or nothing kind of guy. You put it all on the line tonight. I respect that. Took some balls.’
Baxter took a step closer to the car. ‘Even so, I’m going home.’
Callaghan raised his hand, holding it out in front of him, his palm raised flat. ‘Be in your interests to reconsider.’
Baxter kept his eyes fixed on Callaghan, aware the three were poised ready to strike, just waiting on the word.
‘All the same, I think I’ll pass.’
Callaghan nodded his head. ‘Okay, well, can’t blame a man for trying.’
Baxter moved forward, key in hand. Callaghan motioned for his associates to move aside, one standing each side of the door, the other loitering close to his boss. Reaching the door, Baxter inserted the key into the lock and pulled on the handle. He opened the door and began sliding in. When he was half-in and half-out, Callaghan gave the signal; the two standing either side of the door grabbed it, slamming it in to Baxter’s torso, wedging him between the car body and doorframe.
Callaghan stepped closer, inches from Baxter’s face. ‘I lost a lot of money tonight. Your friend Malone, well, let’s just say he’s got some peculiar ideas about loyalty. Should have listened to his trainers but he chose not to.’
Baxter’s arms were pinned to his side, unable to move. Struggling against the weight of the door. ‘I can see why you’d be pissed, but how’s that affect me?’
Callaghan took a deep intake of breath and sighed. ‘I don’t understand it, what makes a man like that risk everything and put it all on the line?’
Baxter needed to think fast, the dual pressure of the door crushing against his ribs and the car frame biting into his shoulder blades. ‘I don’t know, pride I guess.’
‘That maybe so, but you of all people should know by now, I don’t like to lose.’
‘I still don’t get what this has to do with me.’
‘You owe me.’
‘You want your money now? Fine. Let’s do it now, right here.’
Callaghan gave the signal for his associates to ease the pressure on the car door. ‘You’re not listening. If I wanted it, I could take that money right now; all I need to do is give the word. Look at this way, at least you’ve got a sporting chance. Who knows, you might even win big.’
‘I got a choice?’
‘Life’s about choices, Baxter. I could always leave you and my associates to get better acquainted if you like.’
Baxter knew he couldn’t walk away. If he resisted the offer, they’d beat him to a pulp and take the money anyway. If he played ball, the chances were he’d still lose everything but maybe get to keep his teeth and ribs intact. ‘You want a rematch?’
‘Malone - Dwyer. God no. He’ll not be dancing a jig any time soon, Malone’s seen to that well enough. No. We need a real contender, someone suitable. I reckon I might have just the person. But before that, you need to help me out Baxter. I have a theory; part of me can’t help but think you and Malone got something going. So if there’s anything you need to get off your chest, now would be the time.’
‘What, like we’re lovers or something? Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘Each to their own, Baxter, but I was thinking more along the lines that maybe you cut him in on a sweet little deal, told him to ignore his own corner’s advice.’
‘Why would I do that?’
Callaghan moved closer, almost intimate, and whispered in his ear, ‘I know you, Baxter. I know what you do. I know you better than you know yourself. You’re not scared of me, but you should be. If I find out you tried to screw me over, I guarantee I’ll return that favour tenfold.’
Baxter ignored the comment, focussing on the present. ‘There’s no way Malone can fight, his hand’s all busted up, and he can’t even breathe out of his nose.’
‘I disagree. We had a little chat a while ago, he’ll fight, he gave me his word. Swore on his honour. And you know what they say, a gypsy’s word is his bond. After all, he’s keen to make amends. How about you?’
Baxter let the information sink in, recalculating the odds of him getting through the night in one piece. ‘So what are you proposing?’
Callaghan took a step back. ‘That’s the Baxter I know. So here it is, Malone fights again right now. You stump up your six grand, and I’ll match it and raise it to ten. Double or quits.’
‘Twenty grand, I don’t have that kind of collateral.’
‘You’re good for it, Baxter, I know that. Never missed a deadline yet.’
Callaghan and his crew escorted Baxter back across the field to the shed. The crowd had scattered leaving the remnants, twenty or so bodies keen to stay, sensing that something special and unscheduled was about to take place.
Gypsy Boy Malone’s trainer escorted him in, his body and face a collision roadmap. His wounds had been cleaned and stitched, but it was clear that he was in no shape to fight. His right eye swollen purple and closed. His hands bound in new dressings. His torso a mixture of black, purple, orange, and yellow. He looked to be in worse shape than he’d been after the fight. He was a mess. Callaghan’s boys had worked him over, punishment for going against the boss’ wishes.
The second fighter stepped over the hay bale; he was young, mid-twenties, stripped to the waist, unmarked. A clean skin. He’d been brought in to make an example of Malone. To inflict significant damage, enough to render any notions of competing as a licensed boxer useless.
Baxter got up to leave, only to find his path blocked by two of Callaghan’s associates. He knew his money was as good as gone. Callaghan may as well have coshed him on the back of the head and robbed him right there. Either way, the outcome would be the same. This way, he got to humiliate him publicly, as good as stripping him naked and parading him through the street. Callaghan revelled in the sense of theatre, he liked to portray the illusion that it was an honourable agreement between two like-minded gambling men, Baxter allowin
g Callaghan a sporting chance to recoup his losses, but the crowd knew the truth of it.
Baxter was back to square one. Skint. And now Callaghan was in to him for 20K. You don’t pay on time, we cut you. You miss a second payment, we take your fingers. Miss a third, we discuss repayment options with your family.
Chapter 6
He put the phone down and squinted at the LED clock face 11:53pm. He rubbed at the corners of his eyes, picking away any remnants of sleep, his eyes adjusting to the low light neon glow. His head felt heavy, as if he’d been woken from hibernation mid-season. His body and mind craved sleep, but McAlister wasn’t someone who understood the word no.
It was odd but not beyond reason for him to call at this time; he didn’t exactly keep office hours. Baxter tried but failed to bullet point the conversation in his head, his brain struggling to recall the specifics, caught somewhere in no man’s land between sleep and wake. He needed coffee, the stronger the better. These days, it took three spoonful’s' just to fire up the engine.
McAlister had sounded hyped, almost manic on the phone, as if something imminent was about to take place; no doubt some foul deed he’d been plotting. He thought it strange the way he’d volunteered a sum of cash way above the going rate without attempting to negotiate. That wasn’t his way. It could only mean one thing, and it wasn’t good. It was going to get messy.
Baxter placed his head in his hands and cursed, fuck fuck fuck. Given their recent history, the last person he wanted to deal with was McAlister. There had to be an alternative, another way forward. Something or anything… In truth, he knew there wasn’t, and with Callaghan’s outstanding debt to repay, Baxter needed money fast.
Given the opportunity, with the right circumstances, McAlister could have kept it local. He wasn’t short on those he could call upon to rein in a favour. There were bound to be those who would be looking to impress; a chance to make their name, but still he’d chosen to go across the border. The question was why? Stepping outside the inner circle posed a significant risk. Above all else, McAlister was a tactician, like a master chess player, always thinking four or five moves ahead. He was a businessman, playing it shrewd; he’d have weighed up the odds.
At least he would have, had he had the chance and time to plan.
Baxter’s hair stood up on the back of his neck, his instincts screaming at him not to go. Drive, go south. But really, what choice did he have? Nowhere to run.
McAlister’s actions were reactive. Another piece of the jigsaw in a wider chain of events that had forced him to follow this path.
Reactive people made mistakes, they got emotional, they disengaged the rational thinking part of their brain in a blind attempt to get even or seek revenge. That’s how people ended up serving thirty-year sentences. The same people who focussed on the end product, choosing to ignore the other working parts, realising their mistake only when it was too late, and then they were left dangling to reap the consequences.
It could only mean one thing, McAlister needed to distance himself from the job. He needed to have a solid alibi, one that would place him above suspicion. Looking at it this way, Baxter could see that it made perfect business sense, bringing in an outsider lessened the opportunity for any comebacks. It also meant he was easier to get rid of, no questions asked. At the end of the day, there wouldn’t be too many locals asking probing questions about a missing Sassenach, the police included. McAlister would see to that.
He made his way through to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. It had little effect. He leant forward, placing his face deep in to the basin. Baxter turned the tap on full, rotating his head from side to side, letting the fast flowing, cold water wash over the back of his scalp. The coldness of the water numbed his head. He felt drugged, nothing seemed real. He steadied himself, one hand on the chrome tap, the other resting on the edge of the basin. He realised his leg was shaking; he placed the sole of his foot flat to the floor and pressed down hard, forcing the involuntary shaking to cease, taking back control.
The woozing sensation made Baxter’s head feel as if he was locked inside a washing machine on a fast spin cycle. Blinking his eyelids, he found his peripheral vision blurring then vignetting to the edges. He couldn’t operate like this. He’d never been a junkie, but this is how he imagined going cold turkey must feel. Baxter needed to take ownership. He shook his head side to side in an attempt to find clarity. It had little effect, leaving him with nothing more than a fuzzy reaction on the inside of his skull. He waited, deciding it was safer to let the moment pass in its own time. This, the fourth such episode, was becoming an irritating habit, one he didn’t have the time or inclination to indulge. A definite pattern had emerged, one he’d rather not confront, but still he knew it was there. He waited for it to subside.
When the moment had passed, he grabbed the shaving mirror off the windowsill and spun it round, the magnified oval glass greeting him with an obese distortion of his true self. It looked how he felt. He couldn’t help but smirk, asking himself, is this how they really see me? He flipped the mirror three-sixty, his eyes still struggling to focus. He loomed towards his reflection, pawing at his face. Was he dreaming? Was he sleepwalking? Or was this something in between? He guessed this was the nearest he’d get to being one of the undead, a husk living somewhere between the light and the dark.
It was difficult to tell these days, he’d lost track. What day was it anyway? Each day blended in to night, and each night was identical to the previous one. He craved sleep more than ever; he rubbed at his eyes, splashing more cold water over his face. He massaged his left temple, the dull throbbing sensation now ever present, it never seemed to take a break, always there niggling away just under the skin. He thought maybe it was his conscience manifesting itself in physical pain. It wasn’t helped by the fact that he’d downed half a bottle Napoleon and laced it with a sleeping pill just to send him on his way. It was all part of his ritual, his regime, anything to induce sleep.
The introspection over, his mind turned back to McAlister, he didn’t like it, any of it. Who the hell did McAlister think he was anyway? He didn’t react kindly to being summoned like some lowly employee. He didn’t work for anyone but himself. Nobody had exclusivity over him. That’s how it was and that’s how he intended to keep it. He could have signed his life over to an organisation years ago, could have being enjoying the benefits all these years, the security of belonging, but he chose not to. The only reason he was going back over the border was down to Callaghan, another arrogant fuck, cut from the same cloth as McAlister.
He should never have become mixed up with either of them, but his world was far from ideal. He didn’t believe in Utopia, just the here and now. That’s how it was; he needed the cash. He hated himself for it, but what could he do? Memories of that night stuck to him like a pair of wet drainpipe jeans, seeping deep within, causing an arthritic pain in his bones.
Chapter 7
He’d reached the border in a little over an hour, the prospect of doubling his fee spurring him on. His Volvo 240 accelerating along the M74. With one hour twenty remaining on the clock, he’d floored the accelerator, confident the police would be unmotivated to give chase in the dead of night.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the dark memories of that night at McAlister’s, the images forever content to linger in the blackest recess of his mind. He’d vowed then never to return, to distance himself from the Glasgow crime boss, his tastes a little too extreme for Baxter’s conscience to deal with.
Things change. Besides, McAlister was paying well, and he could sure as hell do with the extra cash. Anything to keep Callaghan and his crew at bay a little while longer, and give him the opportunity to come up with plan B. He needed some breathing space and the chance to work things out. The problem was people in his line of work got twitchy when sums of money were left unpaid. To some, his debt might have been loose change, the result of a bad night at the poker table. For him, it was different, twenty gran
d indebted. Callaghan wasn’t the type to wait either, he wanted paying, weighing in for the full amount. There was no way he was letting it slide; he had a reputation to uphold.
Baxter blinked hard, the glare of a solitary on-coming vehicle temporarily blinding him. His concentration was beginning to wane. Self-medicating had its drawbacks; then again, two hours ago he hadn’t planned on driving through the night to pick up a body. He wound the window down in an attempt to combat the onset of drowsiness and fatigue. The last thing he wanted right now was to end up in the ditch, having to be extracted from the wreckage by the local fire crew. Dropping off at the wheel could cost him dear, more than his own life was worth. There was no room for mistakes; the debt had to be paid on time and in full.
The cold air went some way to keeping him awake, like an icy slap across the face. He started to make plans; maybe it was time Callaghan checked out. He imagined what it would be like to pull the trigger, wrap the body and weigh it down with bricks. It wasn’t the first time he’d let the scenario play out. He knew the exact spot. A deserted fishing quay close to Tynemouth. He had the trawler and crew on standby, good folk, people he trusted with his own life.
Three hours, he’d mapped it all out. That’s how long it would take the trawler to make it far enough out to sea, dump the body, and make it back to the quay.
Callaghan Fish Bait, he liked the sound of that.
The act of killing would be the easy part. He had the motive and the incentive. Baxter knew if anything happened to him, the debt would pass on to his family; he couldn’t risk civilians getting caught up in his world. The difficulty was in getting Callaghan to meet him out in the open, alone. He had to find a way to make it happen.
