by Jack Gatland
‘Look, I have some money. We could share it.’ The homeless man started to reach back to his pockets. The older man shook his head.
‘I don’t want a handout from you,’ he spat. ‘I lost my house because of you.’
The older man looked around the street now, still empty. And even if it had been busy, most of the people of central London would ignore two homeless men having an argument.
‘How much would The Sun give me for this?’ he hissed. ‘The Mirror, perhaps? Ex Government Minister on the skids? I reckon—’
He didn’t get to carry on as Shaun, pulling out a small flat head screwdriver moved in quickly, ramming it repeatedly into the older man’s gut.
Shunk. Shunk. Shunk.
Grabbing his bleeding gut and staring at the homeless man in shock, the older man staggered back to the wall of the Natwest, his legs giving out on him as he slumped to the floor. The homeless man, his face a mask of pure anger knelt down beside him.
‘When the police come, you’ll tell them that kids did this to you,’ he hissed, looking around to see if anyone had noticed the exchange. ‘You never saw me. You never met me. Understand?’
The older man, now terrified, nodded. The homeless man held up the flat head screwdriver, showing that the flat end had been sharpened to a razor-sharp edge.
‘You ever speak to anyone about this, no matter who it is, or if you even find yourself on the same patch as me, or if I see even a whiff of this in a paper, I’ll find you. I’ll find you and slit your throat and laugh as you bleed out.’
He wiped the screwdriver clean on the older man’s jacket.
‘Got it?’ he asked.
Once more the older man nodded silently.
The homeless man smiled; an actual warm, friendly grin as if talking to an old friend.
‘Good talk,’ he said, rising. ‘And, you know, sorry about the house and all that.’
And with that said, swiftly and with great care not to draw any more attention to himself, Shaun Donnal slipped his screwdriver away, slung his rucksack over his shoulder and walked off down the street, leaving the gut-wounded older man to scream for help.
5
The Last Temptation
Andy Mac’s expression was sombre as he stared deep into the camera’s lens. Just shy of fifty years of age, he wore a deep blue Ted Baker jacket over a pastel tee shirt and jeans, his jet black hair slicked back in the latest fashion and framing his suntanned face.
‘Our show was saddened this week to learn of the death of one of our most valued members,’ he said as the cameraman, standing behind a tripod and with a small but expensive SLR camera recording pulled back on Andy, bringing the studio set into clarity behind him, the LEDs lighting up a sign that read God’s Will Television – with Andy Mac. ‘A very sad loss indeed. For this week, we lost Someone else. Someone’s passing creates a vacancy that will be difficult to fill.’
The cameraman gave a silent thumbs up as Andy made his way to the set, sitting on a trendy pastel coloured chair as he turned and continued.
‘Whenever there was a job to do, a class to teach, or even a meeting to attend, one name was on everyone’s lips,’ he said calmly as he leaned closer slightly, lowering his voice. ‘Let “Someone Else do it”, people would say. Whenever leadership was mentioned, they would say “Someone Else can work with that group” and go on with their business.’
Andy held for a moment, letting the last line sink in. he knew that around the world, thanks to his YouTube channel, people would be hanging on his every word as he live streamed the message out.
It made him feel like God.
‘Someone Else left a wonderful example to follow, but who out there will follow it?’ he asked. ‘Who’s going to do the things Someone Else did? When you’re asked to help out this year, no matter for what or for whom, just remember... We can’t depend on Someone Else anymore.’
Andy stopped for a moment, letting the camera move in once more. Then, in the calmest, softest voice he could muster, he finished his sermon.
‘I’m Andy Mac, and this has been God’s Will,’ he said, allowing the screen showing the feed to fade to black. ‘Like, follow and subscribe.’
With the camera now off, the fake smile disappeared as Andy slumped back into the chair.
‘Christ, I need a croissant,’ he said to nobody in particular as a young man looking no older than twenty ran over to unclip his microphone. Andy watched him hungrily as the man’s hands brushed against his tee shirt, stroking his chest unintentionally. He was called Sebastian; he was a trainee runner and intern on the show and he was beautiful. An Adonis, slim and muscled, his youthful innocence shining on his face.
He was temptation, sent from the Devil himself to torment Andy.
Sebastian took the mic and smiled at Andy as he pulled away.
‘That was great today,’ he said with what seemed like utter conviction. He wasn’t a sycophant. He was a believer. ‘I truly felt the power of the Holy Ghost pass through me as you spoke.’
Andy fought down the urge to mention what he really wanted to pass through Sebastian and forced a smile.
‘As ever Sebastian, it’s not me,’ he said. ‘I am but a vessel for the Lord.’
Nodding, his smile brightening the whole room Sebastian left with the cameraman, heading downstairs to the main office and leaving Andy alone. Getting up off the cheap studio chair, Andy made his way over to a side table on the hunt for some uneaten pastries. The show over for the day, the studio was already emptying as the crew, mostly students and wannabe YouTubers were already making their way to their next event. Andy envied their youth. Their innocence. Their trust that everything would be all right when the whole world was screwed and their whole existences would amount to nothing.
Grabbing a glass, he poured some sparkling water into it and sat, drinking at the table. There was a newspaper beside him, so he turned it over absentmindedly, to see what the header was for the day. It was a Daily Mail.
MEET THE NEW BOSS?
The headline was plastered over a photo of Charles Baker; taken on one of the many times that he had left Number 10 Downing Street since becoming a member of the Cabinet. The puff piece below spoke of how respect was dropping in the Conservative Party for the current Prime Minister, and that Baker was one of three possible options for replacement.
Andy’s eyes expressed a complete lack of emotion as he read the article, but his body wasn’t as composed, as the glass in his hand shattered with the pressure of his tightening grip, the shards slicing his hand’s flesh as Andy rose with a start, swearing as he dropped the broken glass and ran to the sink, washing the now bleeding hand under the cold tap, ensuring that all the glass shards had been washed free and (more importantly), that he didn’t bleed onto his Ted Baker jacket.
As he was doing this, Sebastian walked back into the room. Seeing the blood, he ran over to Andy.
‘Mister Macintyre!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes… a shoddy glass broke,’ Andy lied. ‘Could you get the first aid kit…’
‘Sebastian.’
‘I know,’ Andy wrapped a towel around the still bleeding hand. ‘I just need a plaster or something.’
‘Let’s see about that,’ Sebastian fussed, taking the bleeding hand in his own, pulling the towel off it, turning it over as he examined the small wounds.
‘You’re lucky,’ he said with a smile. ‘I think we can wipe this down with an antiseptic wipe and then wrap it up. No stitches needed.’
He moved across the kitchenette area, rummaging around in cupboards as he searched for the first aid box. Finding it, he returned.
‘I don’t think we’ve really met before today?’ Andy said.
‘I’m usually in the main office,’ Sebastian replied, gently wiping down the wounds.
‘Ah,’ Andy looked away, wincing as the pain from the antiseptic wipe bit into him. Finishing the cleaning, Sebastian was already grabbing some gauze from the first aid box.
‘You’re doing this very well,’ Andy encouraged. ‘Did you learn this from school? Or maybe from your parents?’
‘First aid course at school,’ Sebastian replied modestly. ‘I never knew my Mum. She died when I was a baby. An accident. And my Dad… I was adopted.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Andy replied with mock sincerity, internally moaning as Sebastian’s fingers caressed his own. Sebastian shrugged.
‘I was a baby,’ he replied. ‘And besides, Moses had a similar start, and look at him.’
Andy genuinely smiled at this. Such resilience in the face of uncertainty. It made Andy want him even more.
‘Can I ask you something?’ Sebastian said.
‘Sure,’ Andy replied. Sebastian smiled, but it was a nervous, unsure one.
‘When did you know?’ he asked. ‘I mean, know that God wanted you to do all of this?’
‘You having some kind of crisis of faith?’ Andy asked. It wasn’t uncommon. Christ, even he had his moments over the years.
‘No. Yes… I’m not sure. I was hoping you could… Well, help.’
Andy nodded, grateful for anything to take his mind off the sensation of Sebastian’s fingers stroking his injured hand.
‘I remember the moment well,’ he said. ‘It was in the House of Commons. I can’t remember what session it was. Brown was Prime Minister then, and I remember watching him and thinking that I was lying to myself; that I wasn’t happy there anymore.’ He winced as Sebastian started to tightly wind a bandage around his hand. ‘That night, I found myself in the chapel in Westminster, asking God for help.’
‘What happened?’
Andy chuckled. ‘Two weeks later I lost my seat in the General Election. Took it as the sign I’d asked for, and started preaching God’s will.’ He waved around the studio. ‘Best decision that I ever made.’
Sebastian finished tying off the bandage and stepped back. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That helps a lot.’
He didn’t however move away from Andy, who was very conscious of the closeness of the intern. Licking his now dry lips, Andy placed his bandaged hand on Sebastian’s.
‘God will help you with any…’ he paused for a moment, ‘…desires that you may have. Just speak them out.’
Sebastian looked around, as if expecting others to be watching.
‘But what if I can’t?’ he asked. ‘What if I’m ashamed?’
‘There is no shame here,’ Andy smiled.
Sebastian looked to the floor.
‘It’s silly,’ he replied. ‘Nothing more than a dream.’
They were moving closer now.
‘God speaks to us in dreams,’ Andy said, almost too scared to continue, in case he’d misread the situation here. If he said the wrong thing, attempted the wrong thing and it came out in the press, he could lose everything. ‘So, what is your greatest desire?’
Sebastian moved in quickly, kissing Andy on the lips. And, once he realised that Andy wasn’t protesting he moved in again, kissing harder.
His bandaged hand forgotten, Andy pulled Sebastian closer, kissing hard.
He didn’t notice Sebastian’s hand reach into his pocket, pulling out a small Bluetooth clicker from it, holding it in his hand as he ran his other through Andy’s hair.
Andy certainly didn’t notice the smartphone, placed to the side of the counter, arranged quickly when Sebastian had gone for the first aid kit, now aimed directly at them, the camera app silently clicking continuously while Sebastian took picture after picture through the Bluetooth device…
6
The Last Chance Saloon
Declan hadn’t meant to stay the night in Hurley, but half a bottle of your late father’s best whisky will change many a plan. And so it was a hung over and slightly dishevelled DI Walsh who entered Inner Temple through a large, black wooden door at the junction of Fleet Street and The Strand the following morning.
Its full name was The Honourable Society of the Inner Temple and it was one of the four ‘Inns of Court’ in London; the four professional associations for Barristers and Judges in the city, and it had been around since the Knights Templar had set it up almost a thousand years earlier. Surrounded by walls and gated security, Inner Temple (and Middle Temple, situated beside it) contained some of the safest streets in London. Shakespeare had performed Twelfth Night for Queen Elizabeth in Middle Temple Hall; the legendary ‘picking of the sides’ in the War of the Roses was supposedly held in the garden outside. Much of both Inner and Middle Temple had been destroyed in the Blitz, but thanks to a large number of donations, they were both completely rebuilt in 1959.
It was also around then that the City of London Police had taken up offices there as part of a reciprocal deal for police security. The deal was long forgotten now but the premises, grandfathered into the deeds meant that in this maze of barrister chambers and dinner halls, of courtyards and of pillared walkways there were two floors of a small, red bricked building off King’s Bench Walk that were City of London Police property. It had almost been overlooked, used as nothing more than file storage for the last fifteen years; there were no upgrades to the networks or the wiring there and the furniture was two decades out of date, but when Alexander Monroe had created his crime unit nicknamed the ‘Last Chance Saloon’, this seemed to be the perfect place for them.
As Declan walked through the car park that led to the doorway to his new home, he saw that Monroe was already at the door, waiting for him.
‘Jesus, lad, I thought you looked like shite yesterday, but today you’ve reached a new low,’ Monroe said as he shook Declan’s hand warmly. ‘Is that your father’s tie?’
‘I ended up staying the night at the house,’ Declan admitted. ‘Too much whisky imbibed.’
‘At the wake, or alone?’
Declan shrugged. ‘I don’t like to drink with strangers.’ He looked around. ‘How did you know I was coming?
Monroe smiled. ‘Each entrance to the Inns of Court has gate guards, to keep an eye on the miscreants and ne’er do wells who come in and out. I gave them your photo when I came in this morning and, told them that if they called me when you arrived, I’d buy them a drink.’
‘So I’m a miscreant or a ne’er do well now?’
Monroe smiled. ‘Aye, laddie, you act like that’s new to you.’ He pointed off east, to another entrance. ‘I thought you’d be driving in, though.’
‘No car,’ Declan said. ‘I took a cab to Maidenhead station, changed at Ealing and took the District Line to Temple.’ He looked at the car park. ‘I assumed you had a pool of cars I could borrow from.’
‘You’re confusing us with a wealthy department,’ Monroe grinned. ‘We’re less expense cards and more Oyster cards. But surely you won’t need a car, unless you’re considering staying in your father’s house?’
‘Lizzie kept my actual house, so for the last year I’ve been in a studio apartment in Tottenham,’ Declan replied. ‘Nice area, but still a bugger to get anywhere. Even without driving, Dad’s place is just over an hour train journey. It’s slightly longer and more expensive, but I wouldn’t be paying an extortionate amount of rent anymore.’
‘So you’re considering it?’
‘I don’t know what I’m considering. I wasn’t even considering this until twelve hours ago,’ Declan replied honestly.
‘Well either way, I’ll sort you a car out later today,’ Monroe said, leading Declan into the building. ‘It might even have all four wheels. And you’d better keep some of the good whisky aside for when you invite me to your housewarming.’
The building was divided into sub sections; the lower floor was primarily held aside for forensics, the overwhelming smells of formaldehyde and bleach striking Declan as he passed a door leading to a wiped down examination table. There seemed to be nobody in right now; but as there didn’t seem to be anything to examine, Declan assumed the forensics team were somewhere else, probably seconded to another case.
Declan had a momentary flashback to Mile End, an
d pushed it to the back of his mind as he started up the stairs to the next floor.
The upstairs floor was open plan, with three closed off glass offices on one end, each with solid walls dividing them. The first was obviously Monroe’s office, the middle was a briefing room and the third was a single desk, with two chairs; probably an interview room of some kind. All the rooms had ceiling to floor blinds that could open or close when needed.
The remaining open space was set in rows of desks; seven in total, with an eighth desk loaded with printers. But although there was space for six detectives, only three other people, two women and a man sat in the room.
‘Not up to full quota yet?’ Declan asked. Monroe snorted.
‘I’m picky with who I choose,’ he replied, leading Declan into the room, ‘and forensics are on a course. Come on everyone, gather closer for the new freakshow! Meet Declan Walsh! He’s joining us today!’
The elder of the two women nodded at Declan. She was Indian and in her thirties; her dark hair cut into a trendy bob, while her suit was charcoal grey and off the peg. She seemed every inch the professional female officer that wanted to not stand out in a man’s world.
‘Alright,’ she said.
‘Declan meet Detective Sergeant Anjli Kapoor,’ Monroe said, indicating the woman. ‘Straight from Mile End.’
Declan froze. He’d had enough issues with Mile End police recently.
‘You worked for Ford?’ he asked.
Anjli nodded.
‘You like Ford?’ Declan continued.
Anjli smiled.
‘Until I realised what a lying bitch she was,’ she said. ‘You’ll get no issues from me on what you did there.’
‘Then it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Declan said, finally warming up.
‘And next to her is Detective Constable Billy Fitzwarren,’ Monroe continued, motioning towards the male officer, who didn’t look a day over twenty. He had pale blond hair cut into a hipster style and wore a well-tailored three piece suit, most likely from somewhere like Savile Row.
