by Ted Tayler
Wednesday, 16th July 2014
“It wasn’t the same, was it?” said Rusty, as he emerged from the lift.
“No, but get used to it,” sighed Phoenix. “Trips to the armoury for a few minutes of idle banter with Bazza and Thommo are finished. Since they came back above ground to join the training teams, Dad’s Army has moved in. It’s efficient if slower these days.”
“Where did these two guys come from?”
“Somewhere in Africa. A former colony where the existing government is only clinging onto power by using excessive force. Our two agents had got too long in the tooth to keep an effective lid on things out there in the hot sun. Two younger agents selected from the London teams have replaced them.”
“Nice work if you can get it,”
“I recall your training sessions mentioning posts in exotic locations four years ago,” said Phoenix, as he turned the radio to his favourite station. “Yet, here I am heading for Bradford. Apart from the Irish mission, I haven’t made it out of the country.”
“Your fault, not mine,” Rusty replied, turning the volume down on the radio to give his ears a break. “First, you made yourself irreplaceable while Erebus was in charge, then you married the boss. Even if your halo slips, she won’t send you on an overseas posting. Leave that volume alone; we’ve got four hours before we hit Bradford.”
Phoenix concentrated on the road ahead. To negotiate the junction between the M4 and M5 was always a nightmare. The journey up, and across the country to the M1 would get them to their destination by one o’clock if they didn’t make a stop.
“Did you have a good breakfast?” he asked.
“Only managed to grab a slice of toast as I dashed out; I cut it fine.”
“I only had a bowl of cereal. Maybe we can stop at around eleven for a bite to eat. Would you check out the nearest service station on our route that fits our schedule?”
Rusty consulted his mobile phone.
“There’s one not long after we join the M1,” he said.
In the end, they arrived in Bradford at half-past two. The all-day breakfast and a mug of coffee at the service station had set them up for the day.
“Let’s use the NCP car park in the town centre,” said Phoenix, “it’s expensive, dirty, and crowded.”
“As good a way of hiding in plain sight as any,” replied Rusty, “and these scruffy clothes you told me to wear will help us fit in with our surroundings.”
Phoenix and Rusty spent the afternoon sightseeing. They weren’t enjoying the local architecture, or the parks and gardens; their targets were local pubs and cafes. The afternoon haunts of their targets; the Ferris brothers.
“What’s going on over there?” asked Rusty, as they passed a construction site.
“This is the hole in the ground development that’s been inching forward at a snail’s pace for fifteen years,” Phoenix replied. “Until January they had a temporary park here. In eighteen months it will be ready for business, with around seventy-five shops planned.”
“I remember it now,” said Rusty. “Protesters staged a sit-in a few years back because nothing ever seemed to get sorted.”
“A common theme this far north, they’re always complaining at being at the end of the queue. Let’s drop into a bar for a while. I need a rest. What’s this street called?”
“We’re on Cheapside,” said Rusty, “it sounds a place our men might while away an afternoon.”
The first bar they visited was chrome and glass, with high stools and prices to match. They didn’t stay long.
“Why don’t we move up towards Manningham Lane?” asked Rusty.
“It’s a hike back to where we parked the vehicle,” groaned Phoenix.
“Fair enough, but the closer it is to hand the better when the time comes.”
They fetched the people carrier from the car park and switched to St Thomas Street.
“This is near the mosque,” said Rusty. “Are these guys brazen enough to keep drinking in this district, after what they did?”
“Yeah, the Ferris brothers have enough neck to return to the scene of the crime,” said Phoenix, as they strolled up the pavement in the late afternoon sunshine. “They don’t believe they did anything wrong.”
“The graffiti has gone, and the glass replaced,” said Rusty, looking around him. “I doubt if the mosque was so easy to get tidy.”
“The faithful have a choice of religious buildings close by,” said Phoenix, “they’ll be alright. The loss of Farhad Kirmani would have hit the community harder than a mere building.”
As they approached a road junction, they both spotted the pub on the opposite corner.
“Bingo,” they echoed.
“This must be Bradford shabby chic,” muttered Rusty as he pushed the door open.
“Or Eighties’ retro,” whispered Phoenix.
The interior was dark and unwelcoming. A door had been propped open at the rear, and the agents could see a small group of smokers gathered in a courtyard. The barman waited thirty seconds before he glanced up from his newspaper.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Two pints of lager,” Phoenix replied.
“Not from around here, are you?” said the barman.
“Does it make a difference to the lager you serve us or the price you charge?” asked Rusty, leaning on the counter.
“Only making conversation,” the barman shrugged.
Phoenix stared over the barman’s shoulder. The smokers had returned to their seats.
The reflection in the mirror behind the bar showed three large figures. All scruffily dressed, middle-aged, and loud. It wasn’t hard to spot the family resemblance. Gary, Terry, and Duncan Ferris spent their leisure time together it would appear. The laughter and crude language suggested they had been in this bar, or another one close by, throughout the afternoon.
“Stick the telly on, Shaun,” Gary shouted. Shaun, the barman found the remote by the till and pointed it at the screen.
The TV showed racing from a nondescript trio of courses across the country and the first race on the various evening cards was underway. The weather on the screen looked sunny and bright in the parade ring as the riders and runners prepared to do battle.
Inside the bar, it was dark and smelled of stale smoke, cheap spirits, and sweat. Rusty had to admit Phoenix’s choice of old, casual clothes had been the right call. They looked unremarkable, the same as their drinking companions. A perfect look to blend in with the crowd.
The Ferris brothers drank steadily while watching the action on the wide-screen television. Several empty spirit glasses and imported lager bottles sat on the table in front of them.
When the horses left the starting stalls, the conversation hushed. As the race entered the final two furlongs they became agitated and shouted encouragement. At the winning post, Gary was half out of his seat, punching the air. His brothers thumped the table in frustration.
“Get in,” cried Gary, “that’s the way to do it. Get us a round of our usual shots, Shaun.”
Shaun did as he was told.
Phoenix and Rusty stayed where they were, seemingly ignorant of what went on around them. The pint of lager they were drinking had been a pound cheaper than they would have paid in the south, and they savoured every drop. Their minds needed to be sharp when the time came to act.
Phoenix looked again in the mirror towards Gary Ferris. Good to see he was enjoying his last day on this earth.
Shaun delivered a tray of shots to the table. Phoenix learned that the Ferris brothers enjoyed a Redheaded Slut. The crude comments that followed five seconds later as the drinks disappeared had nothing to do with the alcohol. These three were vile creatures, who didn’t deserve to live. Phoenix had to hold himself in check and not turn around and shoot them where they sat.
“Time to drink up,” said Phoenix. “We need to get out of here.”
Shaun didn’t look up when they left. He was studying the newspaper. Another race had started, and once again
the brothers had money on it. As the agents left the bar and emerged into the sunlight, they could hear their braying voices getting louder and louder.
“Gary, Terry, and Duncan,” said Rusty. “Any idea which football team their father supported?”
“Daft question,” said Phoenix.
“My bet is Leeds United, not Bradford City. There have been several Gary’s and Terry’s wearing the white shirt, but only one Duncan McKenzie.”
“You never cease to amaze me with your knowledge of sporting trivia,” said Phoenix, “but that’s not important. We need to find a vantage point where we can keep an eye on the front of the bar. We have to see them leave.”
“There’s a restaurant over on the other side of the road. Let’s cross over and check out the view. I’ll order food, you grab that table by the window.”
“You had better make it a slice of cake, or a roll,” said Phoenix. “We may need to take it with us if they drink up and make a move.”
“They have a dozen more races to watch yet. They won’t quit until nine o’clock at the earliest. I’m ordering a hot meal. This Caribbean menu sounds tasty.”
Phoenix groaned. He loved the food but killing people after jerk chicken wasn’t a great idea.
Their food tasted as good as Rusty predicted. The bar door opened and closed several times during the evening, but the Ferris brothers never appeared. The restaurant closed at ten. Rusty paid the bill at five to ten while Phoenix visited the toilets.
“Keep an eye on the pub door, while I pay a visit,” he said to Phoenix when he returned.
As soon as Rusty left, the street came alive with people. Men, women, and children emerged from the side-roads, from flats above closed-up shops and restaurants. The Muslim community was on its way to the closest mosque.
The numbers told Phoenix that this was no ordinary occurrence. This was linked to the murder of the popular imam. The bar door opened, and three drunken louts staggered into the street. It was the Ferris brothers.
The insults spewed from their mouths. They spat at the men and women as they passed. It turned Phoenix’s stomach. Rusty appeared on his shoulder.
The restaurant owner joined them by the door.
“They have walked this road each night since last Thursday when the mosque was set on fire and the imam was killed.”
“Has this abuse been happening every night?” asked Rusty. “Why weren’t the police informed?”
“It has been very peaceful until tonight. Those men hate all foreigners. When they drink too much, they cause trouble. Time for you to go,” he said. “I have to lower my steel shutters to protect my windows.”
Once they stood on the pavement outside, Gary Ferris spotted them. He recognised them the strangers in the bar earlier.
“What are you looking at?” he yelled.
“I’ll fetch the transport,” said Phoenix, “you keep them from killing anyone,”
The crowds had thinned, and only a few stragglers hurried past Rusty. They sensibly stayed on the opposite side of the road from their abusers.
Rusty walked across and joined the brothers.
“We were just heading out,” he said, ignoring the way the brothers circled him.
Rusty wasn’t intimidated. He could see the looks of confusion spread on their faces. Their macho display was always enough to cause people to back off or to run. It was three to one. What was wrong with this guy?
“Where are you heading?” asked Terry Ferris, standing chest to chest with Rusty.
“Out towards Shipley, that’s where you want to go, isn’t it?” replied Rusty, without taking a backward step. He stood calmly, with his hands in his jeans pockets.
“How the fuck did you know that?” asked Duncan.
“Well, you wouldn’t live in Heaton or any of the other no-go areas, would you?”
“Not a chance,” said Gary. “Those streets have been taken over by immigrants. Even the school I went to over that way doesn’t have an English kid there these days. They get taught by their own kind, spreading their message of hate. We’re aliens in our own city, mate. The country has turned to shit, and it’s time we fought back.”
It surprised Rusty that Gary Ferris had even been to school. He showed no sign of having learned a thing. A horn beeped a few yards away that told Rusty Phoenix had arrived.
Once inside the people carrier at the car park, Phoenix had pressed the button that raised the glass partition. The rear passenger compartment was now sealed off from the driver and passenger seats. He opened the rear passenger door and lowered the nearside window.
“Hop in, lads,” he shouted, “we’ll save you the taxi fare. Just give us a shout when we get to where you need to get out.”
The three brothers looked up and down the deserted Manningham Lane. The Muslim worshippers were praying in a nearby building. There would be no fun to be had, without hanging around until they walked home. The taxi fare was dearer if they left it until midnight. This was a free ride. No contest. The three men clambered inside.
Rusty got into the passenger seat. Phoenix locked the rear doors and set off up the Lane.
“The transport section did a nice job,” Rusty said.
“The first part worked okay,” said Phoenix, “let’s see how this bit works.”
He pressed another button on the fascia.
As they headed out of the city towards Shipley, the sound of snoring came from the back.
“They would have nodded off anyway, with all the booze they’ve drunk,” said Rusty, as they slowed to a halt at the rear of the abandoned cinema.
“We won’t get a peep out of them for an hour, according to Henry,” said Phoenix. “Let’s get them secured, and then move them indoors.”
Fifteen minutes later, the Ferris brothers had been transferred and gagged; they were bound hand and foot and sitting on the balcony floor. Here and there, lay sections of rusted seats whose fabric cushions had rotted away long ago. The musty smell of the building, together with the stale beer, cigarette smoke, and sweat provided by the Ferris brothers resulted in a potent mix.
Rusty looked to see if their prisoners were still unconscious. The electricity to the building had been disconnected years ago, and the only light came from a lamp on the helmet Phoenix wore.
“The last film to be shown here was over fifty years ago,” said Phoenix.
“What did they use the building for after that?” asked Rusty.
“A casino, for a while, and then it was a bingo hall, of course. Entertainment for the masses.”
“A sad place to end your days,” said Rusty.
“For the bingo players, or these three?” asked Phoenix with a wry grin. “I’ll be back in a tick.”
He left Rusty alone in the dark. He returned holding a large canvas bag. Phoenix set it on the balcony floor, where it made a loud thud that echoed around the empty auditorium.
“Don’t get sentimental, they don’t deserve any sympathy. Farhad Kirmani’s death was no accident, nor was it unlucky because the fire brigade was slow to react to the emergency call. They’ve got it coming to them. I want them to be awake, so they know what’s happening, and why they will die.”
“What have you got planned? Nothing too quick, or painless, I hope?” asked Rusty.
“The plan is for them to have time to contemplate the error of their ways,” said Phoenix. “Let’s leave it at that.”
The two agents waited until, one by one, the three brothers recovered from the effects of the drug. They struggled against their bonds. They tried to hurl threats and abuse at their captors, but the gags prevented any reaching Phoenix or Rusty.
“Welcome back,” said Phoenix, when the brothers were wide awake. “I imagine you’re too thick to have worked out why you’re here?”
The struggling and muffled words encouraged Phoenix to continue. He hadn’t heard any objections. He asked Rusty to put the brothers in a seated position, so he could look them in the eye, and they could see what lay in store.<
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Phoenix unzipped the bag.
Rusty watched the reaction on the three faces as Phoenix removed the staple gun.
“Time to test it out,” he said.
Phoenix walked across to where Gary Ferris sat and kicked his legs apart. He pointed the gun towards Gary’s crotch. He could see the raw terror in the man’s eyes. A slight adjustment sent the nail deep into the wooden floor two inches from any flesh. Gary screamed anyway.
“Not so much fun when you’re on the receiving end, is it Gary?” he asked.
The three brothers squirmed on the floor, wondering what was coming next.
“Your father was a racist. He poisoned your minds. Ever since your teens, you have been in and out of trouble with the law. Violence is your stock in trade. A good man hopes that when he dies, he leaves behind a legacy. Something worthwhile he did while on this earth. Gary, your son has been poisoned by you and your brothers. What you will leave behind is a brown stain. We will try to correct the path your son, Jack is following, so he can still do something good with his life. I only pray we’re not too late.”
Phoenix checked the staple gun was fully loaded. This was only for show. He knew it would need only two or three shots each to achieve the result he wanted.
“I won’t lie,” he said, “this will hurt like hell. In the medical books I’ve read, the blood loss from your injuries will be fatal. But where’s the fun in that? These nails will damage your liver, and major arteries in such a way it will take you twenty to thirty minutes to bleed out. Time for you to think about what you’ve done. Time to work out what you’ll say in your defence when you meet your maker. If indeed you do.”
The squirming and muffled yells continued. Phoenix stepped forward. He delivered three well-directed shots into each man’s side. After the noise had quietened, and the echoes had died, he and Rusty could only hear the whimpering.
Phoenix placed the staple gun back in the canvas bag. They walked to the staircase leading to the ground floor, and as they neared the bottom Phoenix switched off the helmet lamp.
They emerged from the abandoned cinema onto a moonlit street. The two agents sat in the people carrier until dawn broke. Phoenix went back to the cinema alone.
