by Emmy Ellis
Leonardo stood, pushed the chair beneath the table, and blinked. “I’ll be in my office.”
“And you didn’t see or hear anything, that’s a given,” Greg advised him.
“Of course not. I’m not into signing my own death warrant.”
Leaving Leonardo to either work on his laptop or shit himself, George walked out of the place via the same door they’d come in and waited for Greg in the alley. George stared down it, only the back end of their BMW in view, and thought about what was in the boot. While Greg already had a gun on him, George didn’t, so he’d have to collect one.
This happening brought on a rush from the old days, when they used to work for Ronald Cardigan as his heavies, bursting in and blowing people’s heads off, cracking up laughing afterwards, warm blood spatter on their faces. Well, it was time to relive the past, and he marched down the alley to the car, making a mental note to contact their man in the CCTV place so this bit of footage could suddenly find itself corrupted.
He unlocked the boot and lifted the spare tyre, revealing a false floor beneath. He raised it and selected a gun with a silencer on it, plus took out another for Greg to attach to his weapon. George locked the boot and moved to the Mazda. He shone his phone torch inside. Three shotguns in the rear footwell.
“Dickheads,” he whispered, “leaving those in there.”
He fished for the pick set on his bunch of keys.
In the shadows of the doorway, a brick wall to the next building on one side, the metal shutters of the sweet shop on the other, which formed a squat tunnel, he slid the pick into the Yale and fiddled with it. A soft click, and they were in, quick, the door closed quietly behind them, presented with a claustrophobic sight. A small hallway around two metres square with a red patterned carpet. A set of stairs ahead, white-painted walls either side. At the top, a picture in a black frame, James Dean, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, a rebel without a cause. Significant? Did the people upstairs go by that rule, or did their cause involve Orchid?
George didn’t need to tell Greg the order things would go. They’d done it so many times it was the same as breathing.
Up the stairs, George first, careful not to put too much weight on each tread in case they creaked. Voices, male, getting louder the higher George went, his gun held up and ready, finger poised on the trigger. On the quadrangle of landing at the top, he turned, walking down a narrower rectangular one, a wall to his right, two padlocked doors to his left. A third stood ajar at the end, the pinkish light from the lamp in the window filling the gap. He glanced behind him at Greg, who nodded—I’ve got your back—and George crept closer to the door.
He pushed it the smallest amount, using his fingertip, and kept pushing by increments, the voices growing more distinct, a gap between the door and the frame growing bigger. He peered through it at five men, all sitting, three in the jeans and boots Leonardo and Orchid had mentioned, their bomber jacket zips drawn down, revealing black T-shirts beneath.
The other two—well now, one was some old fella in a lurid green shirt with paisley patterns in dulled yellow, his teeth just as ochre, a large overbite a canopy to his thin bottom lip. A moustache, as slim as a strip of liquorice, black with grey strands, belonged on a filthy paedo in George’s opinion, not some elderly duffer.
The remaining man had brown, blond-tipped hair, spiky, as if no one had told him the eighties ended decades ago, and the same went for his shiny two-tone suit, a darkish grey with undertones of red. Had the bloody things come back in fashion? His white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, reminded George of Leonardo, who probably sat in his office on pins and needles, waiting for rounds of gunfire. No tie for this bloke, though, no logo at its point.
All men stared in the direction of the red-shaded lamp, a lull in conversation giving them a moment to think, to reflect, on what, who knew. Whatever it was, they’d been here for hours. Plotting?
George moved his head to look over his shoulder at Greg, who pressed up behind him. George held up four fingers and his thumb to indicate the amount of people, then pointed to the room. He jerked a thumb at his own chest, and Greg nodded.
“So we go back to The Angel,” one of the balaclava men said, breaking the tense silence. “Is that what you want?”
George focused his attention on the room behind the slot.
Eighties Man nodded. “She was there, the night before, and I don’t believe she’s gone. All right, you said you’re sure she wasn’t there earlier tonight, but she’ll be back.” A Birmingham accent.
Fuck me. So one of them has come down for her. He looked too long in the tooth to be Orchid’s younger brother, Will, so was it one of the older two? Had her mother sent a son to London to take her daughter back? Or was it Anthony, the one Orchid had told them about? Had to be. He fitted her description.
“Will she, though,” Paedo Moustache said. Cockney, the definite East End of London vowels coming out strong. “Now these three have gone in asking for Orchid… And like I said an hour or so ago, maybe even an hour before that an’ all, is she likely to call herself Orchid if you know she likes them? Wouldn’t she be hiding that fact? They’re all flower names there, the slappers, so Orchid was bound to be one of them.”
“Look, fuck off.” Anthony dragged both hands down his face, stretching the skin, his lips pulled south, resembling those of a fish. “Those tarts you saw are probably too scared to tell her someone’s after her. Would you, if you had shotguns pointed at you?”
Murmurs in the negative.
“You three go back anyway, even if just to watch for a few days. Use the guns again, maybe shoot the fucking ceiling or something to get your point across if you end up inside the parlour.” Anthony slapped his thighs. “We’ve done nothing but talk in circles anyway, so it’s time to call it a day, get some kip.” He rose and approached the window. Hands on the sill, he stared across, maybe at Leonardo’s, maybe at the stationery place next to it, or maybe he saw nothing at all except the images of his thoughts.
George raised the gun, calculating who should be offed first. They’d all be dead in the end, but he needed some answers. The old paedo with the furry top lip could fuck off, and two of the balaclava men, but which one was their leader, the one Debbie said had done all the talking? The bald one, the blond, or the one with black floppy hair?
A balaclava fella stood—the bald gimp. “No amount of me getting menacing with them seemed to frighten that Debbie woman. She’s a tough one, I’ll give her that much.”
And there was George’s answer.
He tightened his finger on the trigger, aiming for the fucker with the floppy hair. He fired the shot, ignoring the outcome and the “Shit!” from Anthony, and shifted his sights to the blond, doing the same. A quick angle change an inch to the left, and Paedo’s temple sported a nice red hole dripping blood, the wall to his other side decorated with claret. Baldy dived for cover on the floor, while Anthony came storming towards the door, taking a penknife out of his pocket.
George shot him in the knee.
Anthony went down on his arse, his back walloping the deck, and Greg squeezed past George and into the room, gun pointed at Baldy. George followed him inside, aiming his at Anthony.
“Hello, gentlemen,” George said, “although that term’s loosely applied. More like scum. Now then, what do you want with Orchid?”
Anthony whimpered. “Knob off.”
“I don’t think so.” George glared. “Tell me what I want to know.”
Anthony’s eyes flicked about, him weighing up his options, which were limited—tell the truth and die, or bullshit and die. He sighed. “She just needs to go home, that’s it.”
“What, to face some prick called Benny?” Greg asked.
Anthony’s face paled, and he clutched his knee, grimacing, like an invisible Benny had kicked it to remind him where Anthony’s allegiance should lie. “How do you know about Benny?”
George chuckled. “We know a lot of things. Is he aware you’re here?”<
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“He sent me. I came down a couple of weeks ago. I had to keep an eye on the men who were finding her, and—”
“What, old manky shirt there?” George pointed at Paedo Paisley with his free hand.
Anthony nodded, panting out, “Yeah, as well as the others.”
“So how come this Benny trusts you?” Greg said.
“He just does, and he was making out to our gang that I’d gone missing so no one twigged what we were up to. I called this meeting because—”
“Playing about, are you?” George stepped closer. “Wanting to be the hardman, going over Benny’s head?”
Anthony choked out a strangled noise. “No, I had to work out how to find Rebecca, take her back now she’s not where they last saw her.”
Greg sighed as if bored. “So no one knows you’re here apart from those in this room and Benny?”
“No, I swear.”
George shot him in the head. “Fucking useless prick.”
He turned to look at Baldy, who lay on his side, watching them, eyes wide.
“What about you? What’s your role in this?” George demanded.
“My men were used to find her—him in the nasty shirt rang me. I told the others to stand down once we clocked her at The Angel.”
“So only you and the dead ones here were on that job then?” George stared at the fella’s head, the skin dark pink from the lamplight. “No one else is involved now?”
“No, just us three. The rest are on other jobs.”
“Who do you work for?” Greg asked. “Which patch?”
Baldy chuffed out air. “I don’t work for anyone but me, and I don’t have loyalty to any fucking patch.” He sounded disgusted.
George smiled at Greg. “On you go, bruv.”
Greg pulled the trigger. The bullet entered Baldy’s forehead and exited the back along with brain and blood and skull and hopes and dreams—and maybe all the sense he’d had in that mind of his.
Let’s face it, it was wasted in there if he didn’t see us two coming.
Chapter Eight
Will waited in the back of the nicked Transit outside the venue for tonight’s job. It promised big money, more than the golden dog had brought in, and that was saying something. Trev and Len sat opposite on the other bench seat, stuck to each other’s hips, as usual. Thick as thieves had never applied more. Mum was in the front with Benny, snogging him every so often if anyone walked past on their way from the nearby nightclub, making it seem like nothing untoward was going on.
Will couldn’t look, it turned his guts sour.
Everything on the other side of the windscreen appeared some shade of orange or dark brown, not only from the streetlamps, but Will fancied the daylight still lingered, as it seemed to do in summer, or perhaps with the absence of clouds, the moon had a chance to shine brighter.
Rebecca would have thought the same. It always felt weird without her on jobs, no matter how much time had passed since she’d last been with them, but it was weirder without the mouthy Anthony, who by now would have been ranting about getting cramp in his calves having to wait so long, and he’d be going on and on about what the plan was until Benny was sick of it and told him to shut up, they didn’t need him getting everyone more nervous, you absolute twat.
More money than the golden dog, though…
Thoughts of it filled Will’s mind, how Mum’s eyes had gleamed as much as those rubies when she’d felt the weight of the gold. Anthony had indeed gone to London and sold it, returning with a hundred thousand pounds, not the full worth, but Anthony said he couldn’t exactly press for more. Even back then, knowing the adults as he did, Will had secretly imagined Anthony pocketing some before he told Mum the supposed final tally.
Anthony had counted it in the kitchen at the table with Mum as if that proved he wasn’t lying, stacks of used cash, the pair of them whooping, smiles wide, Will wishing he was money so his mother grinned at him like that. Will and Rebecca had stood by the door, ready to let them know if Trev or Len came home through the front. They weren’t to know about the dog under any circumstances. Mum had said they’d tell Benny, effing grasses that they were, then they’d all be up shit creek.
Will and Rebecca had received fifty pounds each, a massive amount for two small kids used to having a quid or two to spend at the little corner shop. They’d been instructed to hide it, spend a bit at a time, and only up to two pounds in one go, otherwise, Benny would be onto them, asking why they were flush when Mum was so tight in the pocket money department.
For the rest of that year, Rebecca had been up to her eyes in comics, and Will had never eaten so many sweets. Mum had spent wisely, although not as discreetly—do as I say, don’t do as I do, her usual mantra. She bought a new bedroom suite, telling Benny she’d been saving for ages, the lies tripping off her acid tongue. Anthony said the same when he’d purchased a secondhand car, a Ford Escort in a nasty shade of yellow. “Gold,” he’d said, “just like the dog…” And he’d sung the song of the same name, saying he could have been in Spandau Ballet if he’d wanted—but it wasn’t bloody gold, more like American mustard.
“What are you thinking about, gormless?” Trev asked.
Will pulled himself out of the past and looked across at his brother. Apparently, he resembled his father, did Trev, but Will wouldn’t know, he’d never seen the fella. Nor had he seen Len’s, Rebecca’s, or his own. Benny was the only man Mum had stayed with for any decent length of time, and Will wished she hadn’t. He couldn’t stand the man. Thank God Benny didn’t live with them, instead remaining in his own house in Justice Road, right next door to Anthony. Benny could afford a bigger and better place, but he reckoned, as he’d been born there, he’d die there, too.
“Nothing is a tether like the family home,” he’d said.
And wasn’t that the truth? Will, Len, and Trev couldn’t seem to leave theirs, nor the witch of a woman presiding over it.
“Not thinking about anything,” Will said, loath to share something private with Trev, who’d only take the piss anyway.
“You’d better not fuck up tonight.” Trev fiddled with his gun, his thick gloves squeaking on it, the noise a rasp on the nerves.
“What, like you did by being drunk that time,” Len reminded him, tutting, which showed exactly what he thought of those who made mistakes.
One day, Len would make one, then he’d know how it felt to be ridiculed for it.
Out of the two, Will preferred Len, although given the choice, he wouldn’t associate with either. They were soulless bastards who looked at Will and Rebecca as irritations, siblings they wished Mum hadn’t produced, runts of the litter. Maybe them coming along had ruined the dynamic. Lately, Will had been leaning more and more towards finding Rebecca, creating a new life for himself in London with her. The day she’d nicked the golden dog, she’d said she’d never leave him, even when they were big and grown, yet she had anyway. He understood why, but it still hurt that she’d only ever sent one text then cut off all contact. Maybe it was for his benefit, so he wouldn’t be lying if he said he didn’t know where she was, but that was out in the open now anyway.
Trev scowled at Len. “Why don’t you just fuck right off, keep going on about that. I got the nights of the job mixed up, all right? Didn’t know I wasn’t meant to be drinking.”
“So you say.” Len slid gloves on. “Anyway, enough of that, it’ll soon be time to get this show on the road.”
Will’s stomach went over. He hated being the one to sit in the driver’s seat, waiting for this lot to do their thing, shitting himself in case someone came along and spotted him with the engine running, him so obviously a getaway driver, especially as they all put balaclavas on. Who wouldn’t think something was suss if they saw him with his face covered?
“Should see us right for about a year, I reckon,” Trev said.
“Six months,” Benny barked from the front. “The amount’s changed.”
Will didn’t shake his head in case Benn
y watched in the rearview, but it was always the fucking same. Benny told them the prize was so-and-so to reel them in, then on the night, he made out it was different. Will had an idea it wasn’t different, just that Benny took more for himself, same as his suspicions about Anthony and the golden dog. Still, Will would be fine with whatever he was given, always was, and if it was enough for him to live for only two months, that’d do. He could go to London, the money keeping him going until he found work. Rebecca would help him.
“Right, masks on,” Benny said.
Will wanted to be sick. He pulled the wool down over his face and got a jolt, as usual, at seeing his brothers with just their eyes and mouths showing. It was weird, how he’d be seen as a bad person in a mask, yet when he viewed his brothers, they were the bad ones. Probably because inside they were, yet Will liked to think he’d still retained the kindness of his youth, still had the potential to put all this behind him and be who he really was—someone who didn’t want to commit crime, or not this kind anyway.
Mum and Benny had their balaclavas on now, and both turned to stare at him.
Another jolt.
“Like Trev said, don’t fuck up,” Mum flung at him.
“I won’t.”
Will was never going to live that down, how he’d stalled the van once and they almost hadn’t got away. Just like Trev and the drinking, their faults would be brought up time and again, their downfalls churned out to remind them they weren’t good enough. Mum and Len had no such black marks on their cards, but Rebecca had a bloody great big one, and sometimes, they talked about that, too: “You don’t want to be like Rebecca, do you?”
Poor cow. No wonder she’d run.
Benny held his wrist up, his watch face glowing blue. He stared at it, then counted down from ten. Will squirmed—he fucking hated this bit so much.
