Marked for Death

by Tony Kent

  Michael glanced down at his hand. At Draper’s. He hesitated for a moment, then slid his own away.

  The sounds from the corridor outside of the room caught both barristers’ attentions. They looked towards the door just as Simon Kash was brought through. For once he was not dwarfed by his escort. The usual burly guard had been replaced by a stocky woman of average height, no taller than Kash himself.

  ‘That was incredible, Mr Devlin. Incredible!’

  Kash was wearing a broad, happy grin. Something Michael had never expected to see. He was also more talkative than he had ever been, with his excited praise starting before the new jailer had uncuffed his wrist from her own.

  ‘That’s got to be it, hasn’t it?’ He was speaking fast, his words falling over each other as they tumbled from his lips. ‘You showed everyone that Terry was lying. Everyone saw it.’

  ‘Sit down, Simon.’ Michael indicated to the two metal chairs ahead of him. ‘Please.’

  Kash moved quickly. Climbed across the first chair and into the second, his excitement undiminished. On any other day it would have brought a smile to Michael’s face.

  ‘So you think that’ll be it?’ Kash began speaking again as soon as he was seated. ‘I mean, they’ve got nothing more, have they? There’s no more evidence about me?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Michael lifted the fingertips of his right hand to his right temple. It had been a long day. ‘And yes, it went very, very well for us. But it still isn’t over. We still have to go through the process.’

  ‘But what about a submission of no case to answer?’

  The words felt strange as they hit Michael’s ear, catching him off guard. It was not an expression he ever expected Simon Kash to use.

  ‘Where have you heard that term, Simon?’

  ‘Just . . . just in prison. From some of the other inmates.’ Kash looked from Michael to Draper. Then back. He seemed suddenly nervous. ‘Why?’

  ‘It just isn’t something we’ve spoken about, that’s all.’ Michael made an effort to smooth his tone. To put Kash back at ease. ‘But since you ask, I don’t think we have scope to make a submission of no case. They get made when there is no evidence against you that a jury could use to convict. Or when the evidence that did exist has been so discredited that it can’t be believed.

  ‘We’re not at that point in your case. There is evidence. The phone material and cell-site, for example. OK, one interpretation helps you. But the other interpretation doesn’t. Same as Colliver. He stuck to his guns. He still says that you did it, with O’Driscoll. Now, he might be a bad witness. We might have made the jury think he’s probably lying. If I were a betting man I’d say that we had done. And I would be placing a lot of money on you walking out of here at the end of this trial. But that’s not the same as a submission of no case to answer. There is still evidence for the jury to consider and, although they will probably find in your favour when they do that, the judge can’t just assume they will. It’s for them – the jury – to do. So no. You don’t have a submission of no case.’

  Kash sat in silence for a moment as Michael’s explanation came to an end. When he spoke again his voice was quiet. Considered.

  ‘So that means there’s still a chance the jury could convict me. If it gets that far.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Michael looked at Kash again, surprised to find him so engaged. He seemed more mature, more able to grasp what he was being told. It was probably natural, Michael thought. Few things would age a person more than facing a murder charge in the Old Bailey.

  ‘And you need to bear in mind, Simon, that things are good now,’ Michael continued. ‘As good as we could have possibly hoped for. And that there’s no more evidence to come from the prosecution. But Darren O’Driscoll still hasn’t given his evidence, and what he says could still be damaging to you. It could change things. You understand that, right?’

  ‘Darren won’t testify,’ Kash said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, I don’t think Darren will give evidence. It’s his temper. He loses it so easy, and after he’s seen what you did to Terry? I just don’t think he’ll risk it, Mr Devlin.’

  ‘Do you know that for sure?’ This time it was Draper.

  ‘No. I don’t know anything for sure,’ Kash sounded less confident now he had been challenged. Michael regretted that Draper had asked so quickly; the new, engaging Kash had been an improvement. ‘But you know, I just don’t think he’ll risk it. If he loses it with Mr Devlin he’ll be making himself look like a killer.’

  Michael nodded his head. Not entirely sure if Kash was right, but by now too tired to really care. Enough was enough. Michael rose to his feet without warning.

  ‘It’s getting late. It’s Friday, which means you’ve got two days now before we see you again. Just remember that things have gone better than we ever thought they would, OK? And you’re in a better place than we could have ever expected. It’s not the end of the road yet and there are no guarantees, but I want you to head back tonight happy. OK?’

  Michael thrust out his hand. Kash got to his feet and took it. A firmer grip than usual. A stronger shake.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll do that.’

  ‘Good lad. Now sit yourself back down and we’ll send a guard back to collect you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Michael walked out of the door. He turned right and headed towards the metal gates that formed the first of the three sequential secured exit points. Draper was a step behind him, rushing to catch up.

  She drew level as they reached the gate.

  ‘Are you OK, Michael?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m fine.’ Michael held his temple as he spoke. As if to press down his growing headache.

  ‘It’s just that, well, that seemed a little strained in there. You both seem . . . off.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Michael replied. ‘Probably just all this crap that’s running around my head. Ignore it, Jenny. Ignore me.’

  It really is nothing, Michael thought to himself. My head’s all over the place and right now there’s only one cure. I need a drink.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  The journey from the Old Bailey to Smithfield Market was not a long one. Even on foot. With his bags and court dress left in the court building, it had taken Michael barely five minutes to reach the block-length warehouse that sat in the centre of the market. Not far enough to qualify as a good stretch of the legs, and certainly too short a distance to shake Draper, who had insisted on joining him for his much-needed post-court drink.

  Once the home of London’s meat trade, Smithfield had long ago transformed into one of the City’s most exclusive districts. The warehouse at its centre held what was left of the butchery shops, while the streets around it now possessed something far more valuable: prime location and late-night alcohol licences. Almost every building housed a bar or a restaurant, each one packed to bursting with big-spending customers. Men and women from the nearby City and stock market. Blowing off steam after another day of playing with the world’s billions.

  ‘So, where do you think?’ asked Draper.

  Michael was leading the way, along the short road that led through the central warehouse and to the busier of Smithfield’s two streets beyond.

  ‘The Malmaison at the top of Charterhouse Square,’ Michael replied. ‘I’m staying there.’

  ‘You’re staying there?’ Draper was confused. ‘Why? What’s wrong with home?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’ Michael did not look across as he spoke. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve got to stay there and I’d rather drink there too. If that’s OK?’

  ‘Hey, you’re paying.’ Draper’s tone was light. The confusion gone. ‘Means you choose where you buy them.’

  Michael smiled, purely from politeness. His headache was growing. A perfect combination of grief, stress and anxiety, manifesting as physical pain. The conversation Draper was trying to instigate was not welcome. At least not until Michael had managed to med
icate with some whisky.

  They turned right as they exited the central market warehouse and passed a string of exclusive drinking dens and eateries. Michael had visited most of them in his twenties and early thirties, during his single years. They had probably changed hands time and again in the intervening years. New names. New branding. But basically the same food and drink.

  ‘It’s just a little further up ahead,’ Michael said as they crossed the junction with St John’s Street. ‘There’s a good bar in the basement, and a—’

  Michael stopped speaking abruptly, mid-sentence. The restaurant that sat just north of the junction was new. An expensive, modern design. It included a sheer glass window across its entire front, with a glass door built in. The effect was an impressive statement of the venue’s desirability. What it also was – whether intentional or otherwise – was a mirror.

  ‘You OK?’ Draper asked.

  Michael did not answer. Instead he took Draper by the hand without explanation and increased his pace, Michael could feel Draper’s confusion in her grip; first unresponsive, then tightening in enthusiastic agreement.

  Hand in hand with him, Draper had no choice but to match Michael’s speed, at first without complaint. Then it increased again.

  ‘Michael, slow down. There’s no hurry.’

  Draper pulled her hand away as she spoke. They had turned left while speed-walking, onto a side street that led to Charterhouse Square and the hotel. It lacked the restaurants, the bars and the traffic of the main road.

  A street where they were practically alone.

  Michael turned towards Draper as they came to a halt. The intent and passion in her eyes could not have been clearer. It was not a surprise. From the moment he had taken her hand he had known that Draper would misread his action. But he had had no choice. No chance to explain. Even now they had just moments.

  ‘Jenny, get in the doorway.’ Michael’s voice was firm. Commanding. His words were plainly not what Draper had been expecting and her confusion caused her to hesitate.

  ‘There’s no time for this.’ Michael grabbed Draper by the upper arms and manhandled her to the nearest recess. ‘You need to stay out the way of this.’

  As Michael spoke he detected the movement in his peripheral vision. He span round to face it and was confronted by the three men he had seen following them in the restaurant window. Patrick O’Driscoll and two others Michael did not recognise had stopped just feet away.

  ‘What did I warn you about going after my brother in there?’ O’Driscoll demanded. He was primed to fight, opening and closing his fists as he eyed Michael.

  The men on either side of him were larger than O’Driscoll. Larger than Michael, too. At least width-ways. They seemed more calm, too, showing none of the obvious nerves O’Driscoll was displaying. For them, this was work.

  So they’re the enforcers, Michael thought. Less dangerous. They’ll do some damage, sure. But that wired bastard’s here to kill.

  ‘What did I tell you, eh?’

  Michael looked from man to man. Three against one. Not odds he was fond of. Not back in Belfast in his youth and certainly not now.

  But it is what it is.

  ‘Listen, lads. If we’re gonna do this then let’s get on and do it, eh?’

  Michael took two steps back as he spoke. Shrugged his jacket back on his shoulders. As if he were about to remove it.

  ‘But I’m warning you. The week I’ve had? You’ve really picked the wrong fucking day.’

  The guy on the right moved first. As Michael had expected. Someone had to and he was closest. He moved fast, covering the few feet to Michael in less than a second. There was no hesitation in him. No doubt. Which was exactly what Michael had counted on.

  Michael’s shoulder shrug had done what he intended. It had brought the attention of all three to his jacket. Made them think he was going to let it drop, where it would momentarily restrict his arm movement.

  The perfect time to strike.

  At least it would have been, if the impression Michael had given were true. At the same time, the movement had diverted their eyes away from Michael’s lower body and so no one saw him carefully place and plant his feet, to allow for as much one-punch power as he could muster.

  Michael’s two-hundred-pound bodyweight conspired with the first attacker’s own two-twenty to shatter the bigger man’s jaw with frightening ease. He crumpled at Michael’s feet, forming a barrier.

  O’Driscoll was less than a step behind as the first punch landed. Over-eager to get to Michael, he had no time to avoid stumbling over his suddenly falling friend, exactly as Michael had intended. O’Driscoll’s nerves made him dangerous, but they also made him predictable.

  Michael stepped aside and used O’Driscoll’s careering momentum against him. Grabbing the flailing man’s jacket as he crashed past, Michael span him in a semi-circle, gaining speed and directing him head-first into the oncoming legs of the final man.

  The impact with his cohort’s right knee stunned O’Driscoll, sending him to the floor and keeping him there. At least for now.

  For the last of the three, the collision could have been just an inconvenience. Sufficient to unbalance him for just a moment. But a moment was all Michael would need.

  His childhood on the streets of Belfast had taught Michael many things. It had made Michael hungry. Ambitious. And it had made him mentally sharp. Able to spot a con – or a threat – a mile away. But right now only one lesson mattered: never, ever let an advantage pass. No matter how fleeting.

  Michael Devlin had learned that lesson over thirty years ago. And he had learned it well.

  The distraction of O’Driscoll had lasted no longer than a heartbeat. Nothing more. Yet as that heartbeat passed and his attention returned to Michael, the attacker could do nothing about the blonde head that was now just inches from his face and moving fast. The impact came nanoseconds later, with every ounce of Michael’s weight once again brought to bear. This time through his forehead instead of his fist.

  Not that it mattered. The result was the same.

  Michael heard the sickening crunch as the bone and cartilage in the man’s nose crumbled into his face. But the damage did not stop there. Michael’s momentum sent his head further forward. The speed and with which Michael’s head had connected also shattered the bigger man’s cheekbone, with the momentum from the blow sending them both crashing to the floor.

  Michael was back on his feet in an instant, fuelled by the massive adrenaline rush that had started just seconds ago. The other man stayed down, as motionless as the guy who had gone first. It had been a while since Michael had last fought. Almost two years. And although he wasn’t supposed to admit it – although he was supposed to be civilised – Michael could not deny the truth.

  This feels bloody good.

  O’Driscoll was not having the same experience. Slightly dazed from the impact with Guy Three’s knee, he did not regain his footing as cleanly nor as quickly as Michael. Halfway between horizontal and upright, his head was just beginning to clear when it was impacted by another, much more deliberate knee-strike.

  The momentum Michael had built up in just four steps smashed O’Driscoll’s front teeth. The impact threw him backwards, into a doorway where he missed Draper by inches. His head landed heavily on the concrete step inside. The thud was sickening.

  Michael approached slowly, his heart racing. Something inside – something primal – was hoping that O’Driscoll had some fight left in him. That Michael could be justified in punishing him further. But one glance told him otherwise.

  Like his two friends, O’Driscoll was finished.

  And Michael’s fight was done.

  *

  For all of Smithfield Market’s exclusive bars and restaurants, many butcheries remain. And where there are butcheries there are vans. Parked. Driving. Loading. Unloading.

  Karl Hirst’s van was parked less than one hundred yards from where Michael Devlin had just dispatched his three attacke
rs in seconds. And, for the first time in a long time, Hirst was impressed.

  He had not realised that Michael Devlin was quite so capable. Certainly more of a handful than the others; it might even require him rethinking a few minor details of what would happen between them. Luckily, he knew exactly how to deal with that problem: the woman with whom Michael had been walking hand in hand. The woman who was not Sarah Truman.

  You dirty bastard, Devlin, Hirst had thought. You dirty, unlucky bastard.

  She would be the perfect leverage to keep him under control. Of that Hirst was certain.

  SIXTY-SIX

  ‘What’ll it be?’

  Jenny Draper turned to face Michael. Indicated to her hands as she spoke. She had a different miniature bottle between each finger. Six choices. The full selection available in the suite’s minibar.

  A broad smile told Michael that Draper was at least amusing herself as she wiggled the bottles in his direction.

  ‘Whichever malt whisky looks best.’

  Michael could not recall the brand selection from the previous night. And after what had just happened he was past caring. Any alcohol would do.

  ‘Gotcha.’

  She was still smiling. Still upbeat. She had been terrified by the fight at the time, Michael knew. But, now it was over, those ten seconds seemed to have excited her more than anything in her life.

  Michael had seen the effect before.

  For him it was the polar opposite. An intense high during the action. A shuddering low when the deed was done.

  The fight had ended as most real fights do; almost as soon as it began. Satisfied that none of the three were moving, Michael had grabbed a shell-shocked Draper and dragged her towards the hotel. He had then called Levy, to ensure that none of the three men would wake up free.

  The bar beneath the hotel had been Michael’s first destination, until he noticed the blood dripping from his battered knuckles. Those injuries would require immediate attention; he knew that from experience. And with Draper yet to switch from paralysed shock to her current semi-euphoria, Michael had little choice but to bring her with him.