by KERRY BARNES
‘Nah, Ricky said he would be home at twelve. It’s well past one, now.’
Arty sensed the urgency in Mike’s voice; he knew he had to take it seriously. ‘Look, I tell ya what. I’ll meet you at the Daylight Inn. The pub may be closed, but they’ll have the cleaners in, and the landlord’s probably doing his paperwork as we speak.’
‘Nice one, Arty. I appreciate that, son.’
Just as Arty climbed into his jeans, his dad came through the door. ‘Dad, Mike’s just been on the phone. Ricky ain’t come home. I’m meeting him at the Daylight. Ricky went there to meet this Kendall, the barmaid. We need to find out where she lives.’
Staffie stood there with a look of concern. ‘Fuck, that’s all we need. Mike will be ripping his hair out. I’ll come with ya because Mike won’t be rational, I can guarantee ya that.’
***
Petts Wood Square was dead, with not a person in sight. Mike looked over at the pub, hoping to see a light on, but it was in total darkness, and his heart was in his mouth. Twenty times he’d tried his son’s number, with no answer. Ahead, bright headlights were coming from a car tearing along the road. It stopped just in front of him and out jumped Arty and Staffie.
‘The pub’s shut up. Jesus, Staffie, Ricky ain’t answering his phone, and he knows I’d be bleedin’ worried. He wouldn’t do that to me. Something’s fucking wrong.’
Staffie patted his back. ‘Listen, Mike, he’s still only eighteen, just a lad. He’s likely to be with a bird. You know how it is.’
‘Nah, something ain’t right. I can feel it.’
Arty rushed over to the pub and banged hard on the main door, but no one answered. Mike hurried around to the side of the pub and banged on that door. Suddenly, a light came on, and the door opened. Two men appeared – the landlord and one of the bouncers.
‘Kendall, the barmaid, where does she live?’ demanded Mike.
With a cocky leer, the bouncer, still in his stab proof vest, stepped forward. ‘We don’t give out addresses, mate. Sorry.’
Staffie appeared just in time to stop Mike throwing a deadly punch. ‘No, Mike, wait, mate.’
The bouncer realized he’d cocked up: the man asking the questions looked as though he would burst a vein in his temple. ‘Look. Sorry, but we have to keep information like that private. I mean, I don’t know who you are . . . ’
Mike was losing his patience; in one quick movement, he grabbed the bouncer with a hand around his throat. ‘I said, what’s her fucking address?’
The landlord’s face turned white; afraid, he reached for the phone on the wall, but Arty managed to pull him back. ‘And what the fuck d’ya think you’re doing?’
Shaken up, the landlord nervously replied, ‘I’m calling the police.’
Staffie gave a loud mocking laugh. ‘Yeah, mate, you do that, and we’ll tell them how you’ve let dealers in here to peddle this shit Flakka gear. Now, me mate wants Kendall’s address, so I suggest unless you wanna have this place shut down, you do as you’re fucking told.’
As Mike looked away from the bouncer and glanced at Staffie, the guy tried to throw a punch. But that was a big mistake. Mike flicked his head to the side to miss the contact, and with one almighty crack, he headbutted the bouncer and watched him hit the deck. Then, with a kick to the stomach, Mike stepped back. ‘Cunt!’ he spat.
Arty had heard how hard Mike was, but he’d never actually seen him in action. Arty was a Face and could ruck, just like his father, but Mike was on another scale. Arty would have needed a metal cosh to do the damage Mike managed with no tools whatsoever.
The landlord froze, staring at his toughest bouncer squirming around on the floor, with his head split open and his eyes bloodshot. ‘Shit! Look, just go, yeah? That Kendall bird lives over there, above the hairdresser’s. But you ain’t gonna hurt her, are ya? She’s a good kid.’
Mike growled. ‘Don’t be fucking stupid. I don’t hurt kids or women. I only want to find my son. He was with her.’
The landlord nodded. ‘Well, she lives up there.’
Wasting no time, Mike sprinted over to the back entrance of the flats. He jumped the stairs two at a time, and then he was faced with two doors opposite each other. He could see that the door to the right was smashed in. His mouth suddenly became dry as his nerves tingled all over his body. Slowly, he pushed the door open, and the sight before him made him fall to his knees. Staffie and Arty were behind, looking over Mike’s shoulders. At first, all they could see was Ricky’s lifeless body. Then they saw his white T-shirt covered in blood, and, more shockingly, a hessian sack tied over his head, which was stained in dark claret.
Mike let out a blood-curdling scream like a dying wolf, while he pawed at the sack to get it off Ricky’s head. ‘Noooo, please God, no, not my boy, please, not my boy!’ With his body shaking uncontrollably, he tried to remove the strangling cord that was knotted around Ricky’s neck.
Arty pushed past, shocked at the scene in front of him. On his knees next to Mike, he watched his dad cautiously remove Mike’s hands and make headway as he untied the cord.
‘Mikey, Mikey, he’s breathing. Look, he ain’t dead,’ yelled Arty.
Finally, they managed to pull the sack off. To their horror, Ricky’s face was unrecognizable – it was swollen like a medicine ball. His eyes were mere slits, his lips were like fat sausages, and his nose was smashed to pieces.
Gently, Mike cradled his battered son’s head and cried like a child. ‘Dear God, why? Why the fuck did they attack my boy?’ The tears plummeted down his face as he rocked his son. ‘Please, don’t die. Please, don’t leave me!’
Arty got to his feet and called an ambulance while Staffie’s attention turned to a prone shape partly obscured by the sofa. ‘Fuck! Is that Kendall?’
Arty was giving the emergency service operator details, but as he turned to see his dad leaning over Kendall’s lifeless body on the floor, he said, ‘Er, you’d better send two ambulances. There’s a girl here who looks like she’s been attacked too. Please, please, hurry.’
Staffie stared at the girl in horror and disgust. Arty slid past him and kneeled by her side, feeling for a pulse. Then he looked up. ‘She’s fucking dead. Oh my God, she’s dead.’
Staffie looked around for a sheet to cover the girl’s naked and bruised body. Unexpectedly, a tear trickled down his face. ‘What animals would do this?’
On the back of the sofa was a throw. Gently, he covered her body but left her face on show as if she were asleep. Arty peered closer and noticed the white powder all over her face and up her nose. His attention was taken away when he heard Mike’s haunting, desperate pleas.
‘Come on, Ricky, talk to me, Son. Please say something. It’s ya dad. I’m here.’ The sobs that left Mike’s throat would have had any grown man in tears. He just couldn’t face losing him – not now, not when he’d just got him back. All those years of pain believing Ricky had been dead was hard, but if his boy died now, it would rip his heart right out, and he wouldn’t want to live himself. ‘Please, God, please help him!’
Arty kneeled down with Mike and held Ricky’s wrist, feeling for a pulse; it was there, but it was very faint. He locked eyes with Mike. It was the first time in his life he’d witnessed the most powerful man he knew reduced to a soulless, vulnerable wreck; he looked a withered old man, expressing the essence of absolute grief. The sad sight of Mike seemingly alone in his desolation had Arty unable to speak. Tears tumbled down his cheeks. This bleakest moment of his life seemed to play out in slow motion.
Relief came when they heard the sirens. Arty got his act together and hurried downstairs to show the paramedics the way up to the flat. Then the police arrived – four carloads of them.
As the paramedics got to work, taking Ricky’s vitals and preparing him to be stretchered off, Staffie pulled Mike away. ‘Let them do what they’ve got to do, mate. Step back.’
Mike was as weak as a kitten, so consumed by torment. He looked to be in a trance. ‘His name’s Ri
cky. Please help him. Don’t let him die!’
The female paramedic with a kind face rubbed Mike’s arm. ‘He’s your son, then?’
Mike nodded with sad tears rolling down his face. ‘Tell me, he’s gonna be okay?’
She could feel his pain and nodded. ‘We’ll do what we can. We need to get him to the hospital. Do you want to come with us?’
Before he even had a chance to answer, two policemen bowled into the room. ‘Hold it. Sorry, sir, you need to come with us. We’ll need to ask a few questions.’
Staffie knew right away that Mike would rip their heads off without thinking through the consequences, so he decided to intervene. ‘Yes, of course, no worries. Look, officer, why don’t you let the boy’s father go to the hospital? My son and I will answer anything you want to know. We were all together, so we all saw the same thing as soon as we walked in.’ He tried to remain outwardly calm, but inside, he knew he would also have ripped the copper’s head off if he’d said no.
The police officer chewed his lip. He didn’t look at all happy. ‘I think we need to take all of you.’
Arty felt the need to get involved; he was sharper than his father. ‘Officer, we’ll help as much as we can. But I can guarantee you won’t get a sensible word out of Mr Regan all the while he’s worried about his son. Please let him go in the ambulance, and I promise you, we’ll be completely cooperative and then you can question him later.’
The officer nodded agreeably. ‘We’ll want to question you, sir, afterwards,’ said the officer to Mike. Mike wasn’t listening; he was watching his son being strapped onto the stretcher and seeing him have oxygen shoved up his nose. Suddenly, there was a glimmer of hope – Ricky’s eyes flickered.
The female paramedic leaned closer to his face. ‘Can you hear me, Ricky?’
A slow nod gave Mike the reassurance he needed. ‘Ricky, it’s me. It’s ya dad. You’re gonna be all right, Son. The paramedics are here. I’m right by your side.’
Within a few minutes, the police escorted Staffie and Arty out of the flat and watched as Mike went off in the ambulance with Ricky.
CHAPTER TEN
Staffie sat staring at the blank wall of the interview room, praying that Ricky would live. His injuries looked so bad, there was a risk he wouldn’t survive. He brushed away his wet cheeks as soon as he heard the door opening.
Detective Lowry, looking the worse for wear, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. With a clipboard in his hand, he sat down and leaned back on his chair. ‘What a fucking mess.’
Staffie was still reeling over the incident. ‘Any news on Ricky?’
Lowry shook his head. ‘No. Let me just take a quick statement and then we’ll call the hospital.’
Staffie felt more relaxed knowing that the detective wasn’t going to act like a jobsworth’s prick.
‘Mr Stafford, I’m working with the Commissioner. I know the set-up. I visited Mike Regan in the nick with Stoneham. So, you can speak freely. No tapes.’
Staffie nodded. ‘So, Detective . . . ’
‘No, call me Simon. Detective Inspector Lowry is too much of a mouthful.’
‘Yeah, all right, and you can call me Staffie. Everyone calls me that. So, do you know who’s responsible for beating the living shit out of Ricky and killing that girl?’
Lowry could see the hardness in the man’s eyes. He was told how the Regan crew were a force to be reckoned with, but he’d only met Mike Regan, and he was enough to shove anyone out of their comfort zone. He could guess that whatever he’d been told about the Regans had been watered down. Staffie appeared to have much the same attributes. Underneath that rubbery-looking face was a built-in temperament likened to a Rottweiler.
‘No,’ he sighed, forcefully, expelling a mouthful of air. ‘This is a fucking mess. I told Stoneham that it was a bad idea getting you lot involved.’
Straightening his shoulders, Staffie’s expression turned to ice. ‘I’ll tell ya this. If you’ve held anything back that could’ve stopped Mike’s son being hurt, then God fucking ’elp ya. Mike will hit this shit-hole like a tornado, smashing everything in its path. So you’d better make it clear right now why you told your chief it was a bad idea.’
Lowry didn’t flinch: he expected no less from Staffie, since his reputation preceded him.
‘This gang or gangs don’t play by the same rules. Firstly, no fucker knows who they are. Their general, boss, or whoever he is, has these runners. They’re streetwise little shitbags who have no morals. They think they’re hard because they’re blatantly taking out businesses from known hard-core villains. No one seems to be able to get a grip on them. We nick one, and within a day, there’s another taking their place. It’s like the film Mad Max. I ain’t seen anything like it in all my time in the force. Never have the streets been so out of control. My view, which I will share with you, is the powers that be should have taken on more detectives – a special squad – to track down the fucking head honchos who are importing or making this evil drug. Instead, they’re just locking up the runners. The streets will be run alive soon, with every kid hooked and willing to do anything for the shit . . . even kill. If I could print off every street crime in the last month, the fucking printer would run out of ink.’
Staffie was taking it all in, yet his focus was on Ricky’s attacker. ‘What I need to know is this. Do you think our involvement led to Ricky and that girl . . . ?’
Lowry nodded, and then he frowned. ‘Staffie, do you know who that girl was?’
‘Well, no, not exactly. She was a barmaid at the Daylight Inn. Our Ricky took her out on a date. Why?’
Lowry took a deep breath. ‘Jesus, that is one hell of a coincidence because Kendall, God rest her soul, is Stoneham’s niece. She’s Kendall Mullins, the MP’s daughter, no less.’
Staffie gasped. ‘What the fuck!’
‘So, my friend, Stoneham, as much as he’s the bigwig, feels he’s made a wrong move. I can only guess right now, as he comforts his grieving sister, that he’s feeling as guilty as hell.’
‘Christ, that poor kid. What the fuck those animals did to her, only she will know.’
There was a pause and a sigh before Lowry went on. ‘I guess the rules have changed now. I can only assume you lot won’t just be smacking a few heads together? And I know it was probably a bit of a game to you guys, a few rucks for your liberty, but I can bet my bottom dollar you’ll want blood now.’
Staffie stared into the man’s eyes, sussing him out. ‘And I assume you’ll turn a blind eye to a war that may well take place?’
Lowry nodded. ‘Your DNA and fingerprint records have been destroyed, so the world’s your oyster, therefore no worries on that score. I’ve been in the force for most of my life and never have the crimes been so disturbing. We don’t have the powers through the courts or the manpower needed to take all these scumbags off the streets for good. So, the cycle of nick and release continues while innocent people get hurt. I really don’t care anymore how these thugs end up, just as long as they aren’t in a position to fuck people over or sell that evil shit and build up a small army creating druggies willing to commit murder for their next fix.’
‘Simon, when we got released early, the truth was we were gonna threaten a few scallies like you asked us to and try and put a stop to the drug sellers’ pitches like the Daylight Inn’s gents’. But, honestly, and you were right, we weren’t taking it too seriously. Working with the law, it sort of goes against the grain. But now, it’s personal. We are in a whole different ballgame. So, I will promise you this. We won’t stop until we find out who the fuck is responsible for our Ricky’s injuries and that poor girl’s death. However, you have to be upfront with us and give us everything you have, and I mean everything. We may not be detectives, but we can get blood out of a stone.’
Lowry gave a snort of contempt, tempered with a wry grin. ‘No doubt, Staffie, you will. I know what you and the others got away with, even your fathers. They had a name back in the day, but y
ou never broke the rules, to the extent these druggies are doing, so do what you have to. If you or the others get stuck, take my number, and I will intervene. Now, let me fill out this statement. Just the facts will do.’
Staffie smiled. ‘Er, thank you, Simon.’ He never thought the day would come when he would be thanking a copper. Still, he never thought the day would come when the streets would be crowded with murdering druggies either.
***
Mike sat with his head resting on Ricky’s bed, holding his son’s hand. He had made a deal with God and even the Devil. Anyone, in fact, who would make his son better. Wired up to machines and with tubes coming from every part of Ricky’s body, all Mike could do was wait.
The surgeon had operated to stop a life-threatening brain bleed and hoped the swelling would go down soon. It was now just a waiting game. But all the while that machine was bleeping, Mike believed his son would recover.
The family room just outside the intensive care unit was full. Arthur was holding Gloria in his arms as she sobbed her heart out. Arty and Liam sat together whispering how they were going to smash the life out of whoever had hurt their mate. Willie couldn’t sit still; he paced the floor, and every ten minutes, he went outside for a smoke, to the frustration of Lou. ‘Willie, mate, sit ya arse down. You’re irritating me when you keep moving about.’
Willie didn’t argue or engage in banter; he sank into the chair next to Lou and placed his hands over his face.
Staffie arrived, looking totally drained. ‘How’s he doing?’
Arthur looked up and gave him a sympathetic smile. His face was racked with pain and sorrow. ‘We’re just waiting, mate. They’ll have a better idea, once the swelling goes down.’
‘Christ, he’s just a boy, a fucking kiddie. Who would do this?’ cried Gloria.
‘Well, whoever did won’t get away with it, I can promise you that,’ said Staffie, in a menacing voice.
An hour passed, and the side door opened. Everyone looked up, hoping to hear good news from the doctor. Instead, it was Eric. ‘I just saw the message. What the hell happened?’ he asked, in an overexaggerated, exasperated tone.
