by Owen Mullen
He wouldn’t escape. I’d find him, if it was the last thing I did.
It was seven in the evening, with shadows lengthening in the room, before she was able, reluctantly, to describe what she remembered. At the end she said, ‘Going to that pub was a mistake. My mistake. The driver warned me. I was hurt and angry and wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘Danny was out of order. He’s to blame. And I should’ve done more. A lot more. I’ll never forgive him or myself.’
She reached for my hand and shook her head sadly, as if I was a child with a child’s understanding of the world. ‘No, Luke, he’s your brother. You had to be there. That’s just who he is. But when you do what I do, why should Danny Glass or anyone else respect me? I don’t deserve it.’
‘Nonsense. This is one 100 per cent down to him. When I catch up with this “Keith”, he’ll regret he ever saw you. It wasn’t about sex, it’s about power and inadequacy.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, Luke. What’s done is done.’
What was it like to have such low self-esteem? To think of yourself as unworthy? I hoped I’d never find out.
The television had been off all day. I knew what I’d see if I turned it on. I didn’t need that; there was already enough rage in me – I needed a clear head. Retribution would be measured, every blow from the heart. This low life couldn’t have come at a better time. I needed to vent – for Mandy, the tragedy at the Picasso Club, and the senseless vendetta Albert Anderson’s son was waging against me.
I was thinking like Danny. Maybe we weren’t so different after all.
The thought made me want to be sick.
Mandy examined her face in the bathroom mirror, relieved to drop the pretence that she had recovered. The attack, the way the man had treated her, talked to her, reinforced her low opinion of herself and made her want to cry. She gingerly touched her eye. It hurt. Given time it would heal; the pain she felt went deeper than the black and blue marks. She’d made a mess of her life and knew it. Luke was a good guy though there was no future down that road. She hadn’t worked since they’d got together and he hadn’t asked. No work meant no money – the reason she was doing what she did in the first place. There was always her old job, hairdressing; paying the rent and no more. Her bank account had a healthy balance. Night after night she studied the figures, taking strength from them. But it wasn’t enough. Still twenty thousand pounds short of what she needed to reclaim her daughter and run.
Time wasn’t her friend. Her little girl wasn’t so little any more. The questions had already started. In a year, two at the most, she’d be grown up enough to realise who her mummy was and what she did.
When that happened, Amy would hate her.
The alley where Mandy had been assaulted was a dark, forbidding place that might have been designed for men who wanted to take advantage. Just yards from the road but worlds away in terms of safety. Any woman who went down the unlit cobbles had to be sure she knew what she was doing. Mandy hadn’t been fit to make a decision.
The pub was Saturday-night busy and I had to push my way to the bar. The barman saw me coming and looked away. I was a strange face. Strange faces weren’t welcome in this boozer – unless, of course, they were female. He ignored me as long as he could, serving everybody who caught his attention, until he couldn’t avoid it any longer. He was pale and weedy, somewhere in his thirties, no taller than five-six, bony shoulders rounded inside the shirt carelessly tucked half in and half out of his trousers. Style wasn’t his thing. Apparently, neither was hospitality. He threw a curt nod in my direction then turned his back to drain whisky from an optic on the gantry, watching me in the mirror. An awful lot of hostility considering all I’d done was walk into his pub.
Before I spoke, I guessed what his response would be.
‘What time does Keith usually get here?’
He picked up a dirty cloth and started wiping the counter. ‘Don’t know anybody called Keith.’
‘Yeah, you do. Big guy. Was in last night.’
His eyes went to everything but me, suspicion falling like dandruff from his unwashed hair.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘What time?’
He shrugged and moved away – I’d had my chance and come up short.
‘Can’t help you, mate.’
I grabbed his arm. Surprise forced him to finally look at me. ‘I’m asking the questions. Seeing it’s you, I’ll make an exception and tell you. Glass. Luke Glass.’
I was a lot less famous than Danny. That didn’t matter. It would be impossible to find somebody south of the river who hadn’t heard the name and what it stood for. His eyes darted along the bar, searching for help. He could forget it. Nobody here would be up for taking on Danny Glass’s brother.
I tightened my grip; his eyes narrowed in fear as he tried unsuccessfully to shake me off. A couple of minutes ago he was just a surly fucker giving a stranger a hard time and there was no problem. Now, he’d got himself into something he hadn’t bargained for and wanted a road out.
Easy. I wasn’t difficult to please. All he’d had to do was be civil and answer a simple question. This guy had done neither. Scaring him would be fun.
‘Ever heard the saying “the customer’s always right”? Last chance. What time does Keith usually come in?’
‘Ten. He comes in at ten.’
People made things harder than they needed to be.
I smiled and let go of him. ‘Point him out to me.’
There was only one door into the pub. For twenty minutes I kept my eyes on it.
When the man who’d drugged Mandy arrived, I didn’t need the weasel behind the bar to finger him: Keith was a weekend Lothario, overdressed for a pub, even on a Saturday night. Most of the regulars were casual; he was wearing a suit and tie, as if he were stopping in for a quick gargle on his way up West. His aftershave would be overpowering, and in his pocket, he’d have the neighbour of whatever he’d slipped into Mandy’s drink. A couple of regulars grinned and clapped his shoulder, pleased to see him. Good old Keith was a popular guy. I pegged him at forty-five, a big hit for himself; a sleaze who was going home without his teeth.
The barman saw him and shot a nervous glance in my direction. Behind his pasty face he was considering his options.
I called him over. Everything about his body language said he didn’t want to go anywhere near me. ‘Tell Keith Luke Glass wants a word.’
‘Joking, aren’t you? Leave me out of it.’
That ship had sailed.
I turned the empty whisky glass in my hand as if I’d only just realised it was there and was thinking about breaking it and shoving it in his eye.
‘I’ll meet him in the alley.’
‘And if he says fuck off?’
I smiled slowly for effect. ‘Then we’ll do it here in front of everybody.’
From somewhere he found a scrap of defiance. Not much, though more than I expected from him. ‘Start anything in here and I’m calling the police.’
I fought an urge to drag him over the bar and break his legs. He hadn’t been so quick to take the moral high ground when a woman was being drugged in his pub.
‘Do that and you’ll be out of business in a week, believe me.’
He did.
I watched him call Keith over and whisper in his ear. This was the bastard’s local. He was in with the bricks and probably thought he was going to hear some gossip. The smile froze on his lips. He tensed, realising his past had caught up with him. Mandy was the latest, not the first. Predators like him started early and kept on until somebody ended their streak.
Tonight, that was my job and I was well up for it.
Keith threw back whatever was in his glass, said something to the bartender, and left. I waved a warning finger and mouthed, ‘Forget it.’
The alley might end up crowded if Keith’s request for reinforcements was answered. Plan B was tucked into the waistband of my trousers, under my jacket. Danny’s present would be eno
ugh to tilt the odds back in my favour. I didn’t intend to actually use it, but then, a lot of stuff happened that wasn’t intended.
Outside the air was cool. Keith was waiting for me, shuffling from one foot to the other as if he needed to go to the bathroom. In the street light, his skin was lined and unnaturally white; he was scared. He should be.
His opening line had nothing to do with anything.
‘Who are you?’
It didn’t deserve an answer. I gave one anyway. ‘A friend of Mandy’s.’
The name should’ve meant something to him – it had only been a day. The fact it didn’t told me everything I’d guessed about this guy was right. He was scum. Further along the road the door of the pub opened and two men came out, drunk as lords. I backed into the alley, feeling the darkness fall around me. Keith didn’t move. He hadn’t recognised Mandy’s name. He did recognise walking into the alley was the last walking he’d be doing in a while.
Keith took his eyes off me and looked up the street. No doubt wondering when the cavalry was going to arrive and beginning to worry: they were cutting it tight.
Keith came to the conclusion he was on his own and balanced on the balls of his feet, setting himself up to make a run for it. He could certainly try it. Nobody would blame him if he did. Wandsworth was good for me in some ways. I’d spent every hour I could in the gym and was fitter than I’d ever been. Keith pictured himself as a lover not a fighter. Me, I didn’t have a label, unless you counted being THE GUY WHO WAS GOING TO PUT HIM IN A FUCKING WHEELCHAIR.
Try fitting that on a hat.
I moved towards him. He edged away. The door of the pub opened again; false hope lit his face and died. The barman stood in the frame, conversation tumbling from inside onto the pavement. Curiosity had brought him out to check what was happening. That was as far as he was prepared to go. He’d made the right decision, after all. A part of me regretted it – the part that ached to hurt him too.
I said, ‘Ten point eight seconds.’
I’d lost him.
‘Ten point eight. For the hundred yards. I’ll catch you before you get as far as the pub. And you can have an audience hear you beg for mercy while I beat your fucking brains in. Up to you. My advice: Get it over with here. Take your medicine like a big boy. We both know you deserve it.’
It had been a night of choices.
For me. For the barman.
I was giving Keith a choice. More than he’d done with Mandy.
44
An orange light glowed from an upstairs bedroom. Not knowing if Lexie was alone didn’t bother Norrie unduly – if it got complicated, he’d deal with it. He had a talent – the ability to separate himself from his emotions and do what had to be done without getting bogged down in sentiment – the perfect temperament for the business he was in.
Norrie had liked Fergie. In the end, that counted for nothing. When he’d driven the knife into his gut and tipped him over the barrier, it hadn’t even been a consideration.
Lexie, on the other hand, he very definitely disliked. From the moment she’d turned up with Sharon at Central Station until they’d come out of the Greene Man on Euston Road, she’d been a giggly pain in the arse. A day in her company had been a day too long and before they’d got near the capital, Norrie had decided this would be her last job with him. Having said that, once it had kicked off in earnest, he’d had no complaints about her work. She’d carried out his instructions to a T: detached, professional and unaffected by the carnage they’d caused in the club. It wouldn’t be exaggerating to say she’d enjoyed it.
Sharon was the weakest link – there was always one. Fine on the train going down, and in the pub, taking her cue from Lexie, treating it like a day out, joining in the stupid girls-versus-the-boys crap. Driving home through the night, she’d hardly spoken. In the rear-view mirror Norrie had caught the look on her face and recognised that, with or without Danny Glass’s brutal instruction, they had a problem. Meeting the people in the queue put faces to the thing. Now Sharon was imagining the flames popping their eyeballs, licking the flesh from their blackened skulls, and remembering how young and trusting they’d been.
He waited until the moon went behind a cloud and crossed the road, walking quickly and quietly down the path to the back of the house. The conservatory was a surprise. An upwardly mobile cokehead; he’d never have guessed.
His elbow tapped the glass hard, once. It cracked, then broke, and he held his breath. This was the moment: if she’d heard, she’d be ready and Norrie would rather avoid a struggle. He reached in, turned the key in the lock and stepped inside. A wine bottle and two glasses sat on a cane table. All empty. She hadn’t seemed the boyfriend type. Maybe the crazy fuck-you persona was an act and underneath was a one-man woman, whose biggest ambition was to have a handful of babies.
Yeah, like hell.
This was Lexie.
The moon flooded the conservatory with light. Norrie moved further into the house, instinctively edging down the hall until he stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Unfamiliar music drifted towards him and he understood why she hadn’t heard the glass breaking. He tested his weight on the first step and started to climb, listening for voices, which would guarantee it would be messy.
At the top, he paused in front of three doors: two bedrooms and a bathroom. One of them, the one with music and an orange rectangle spilling from it, was ajar. Norrie’s plans were always straightforward. Complicated was a formula for failure. Thus far, he’d been right. In London, the biggest hurdle had been getting the petrol into the club without being seen. Guys could’ve handled that, no problem. But how much attention would four out-of-town guys attract in the queue? What if they didn’t get in? The whole thing would’ve been a bust before it even got started. Try telling that to Danny Glass. The solution was simple: pubs and clubs rolled out the red carpet for fine-looking women.
And it had worked. Yeah, plans were good.
So how come he didn’t have a plan for Lexie, beyond breaking in and doing her?
Norrie pulled the blade from his pocket, peeked round the edge of the door and swallowed: Lexie was naked on the bed, her head turned towards the window. A woman knelt with her face between Lexie’s spread legs. She was naked, too. Lexie arched, stretching like a cat and held her lover’s shoulders. Norrie felt himself grow hard. He folded the blade and put it in his pocket. All in good time.
The females then lay side by side, kissing and fondling each other’s breasts, their bone-white bodies grinding gently. Her partner moved down and took Lexie’s erect nipple in her mouth, sucking on it greedily. A black dildo appeared, the size of a baby’s arm. She strapped it on and lowered herself between Lexie’s creamy thighs. Lexie gasped and climaxed almost immediately. Then they went at it, both of them moaning and crying out, their shadows trembling as one on the wall in the half-light. Twenty-four hours earlier, she’d been a cold-eyed assassin, unmoved by the suffering she’d caused. Driving through an almost deserted Brent Cross on their way north, Norrie had seen her in the mirror, mouth open, eyes closed, asleep before they’d even left the city, and wondered what ran in her veins.
This was a different Lexie, compliant, obedient, eager to be dominated.
Watching them, Norrie reckoned this wasn’t their first time together. Later, there would be pillow talk. It might include what had happened in South London. Lexie came again, loud enough to wake the neighbours.
Danny Glass had been on the money.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Norrie hid behind the door. One of them would be here soon – it didn’t matter which. If it was Lexie, her lover wouldn’t die tonight. He heard footsteps on the stairs, his fingers closed round the knife and he held his breath. Lexie took out two mugs and filled the coffee machine with water. Her back was to him; he couldn’t see her face, but she had a good body: slim legs, tight arse. Not difficult to understand the attraction – for a man or a woman.
When he’d asked how Fergie felt about killing the girls, he
hadn’t needed to think about his answer. Lexie would be the same. Feelings, loyalty, all that guff, didn’t come into it. Up close the smell of sex was on her skin. At the last moment she sensed him behind her and tried to turn but he dragged her backwards with one hand and sliced her windpipe with the knife. Blood cascaded over her chest and breasts like the opening credits of a James Bond movie. Norrie cradled her to the floor. In moments, she’d be dead.
Lexie’s eyes were empty, the life force already leaving them. Would she hear if he told her he was sorry it had ended this way? Maybe. Maybe not. Except, he wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t sorry at all.
He left through the conservatory, crossed the road and walked to his car. The sky was clear, the cloud gone and the moon had been joined by stars. Back at the house, the orange light was still on in the bedroom. Norrie started the engine and pulled out into the street.
Onwards and upwards.
Two down, one to go.
45
The police car would still be outside so I came in the way I’d gone out. Tomorrow the copper would swear I hadn’t left the flat. An alibi wasn’t the point – plenty of people at the pub had seen me – but the policeman would’ve stopped me doing what I had to do. I’d hoped Mandy would be asleep when I got home. She wasn’t. She was sitting on the couch in front of the fire waiting for me: she looked awful. Lying wasn’t what I wanted to do. If there was a chance of getting away with it, I would.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I was worried about you.’
‘No need. I can look after myself.’
She didn’t know how to say it and hesitated. ‘Did… did… you find him?’
‘Yes.’
Her eyes went to my fists and she cried out.
