by KERRY BARNES
‘Well, where ’ave ya been?’ she demanded, standing there swaying with her hands on her hips. Even the sleep hadn’t sobered her up.
‘Fuck off, Jackie, and leave me alone, will ya!’
‘You don’t know what it’s like for me to be stuck in this place all fucking day with that brat whining!’
Mike felt his blood rushing through his veins. If she’d been a man, he would have leaped from the bed and smashed her head straight through the window. He clenched his fists and flared his nostrils.
‘Leave it, Jackie, and go back to bed,’ he said calmly.
Jackie wanted a row; she needed to vent her anger, but he wasn’t having any of it.
‘Oh, that’s it, Mike. You just bury ya fucking head in the sand . . . Look at ya. Think ya better than me, acting like I don’t even fucking exist.’ With her face screwed up, she egged him on, eager for a fight. Anything to get his attention – any attention.
‘I’m warning you, Jackie. Go back to bed, or I’ll forget you’re a fucking woman.’
His deep raspy voice would have turned her on a few years ago but not anymore. She hated him – she hated everyone. Now she saw a change in his expression; it was a coldness that crept across his face. She hadn’t seen him like that before and thought perhaps she’d pushed him too far, but the drink fuelled her on and she lashed back again. ‘Oh yeah, fucking hardman. Well, you lay a fucking finger on me and you just watch. You’ll be seeing that kid of yours from behind bars, and only if I fucking say so. I have so much on you, Mike, that you’ll go down for a long time.’
That was the last straw. The thought that she could grass, and even worse have control over their son, incensed him, taking him to a pitch that would see the red mist come down. In one fluid movement, he leaped from the bed and lunged towards her, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her to the floor.
Her cheek caught the corner of the bedside cabinet, causing her to let out a dramatic scream.
Sucking in a deep lungful of air, he slowly calmed down and glared at his wife, who was squirming around on the floor.
‘You bastard!’ she yelled with a wilful jeer.
He sighed with relief that he hadn’t killed her. But when he clocked her malevolent expression, he wished he had. No woman had ever pushed him as far. Wife or not, no one would make threats concerning his son. Yet hitting her went against everything he stood for. Things would have to change.
He had only been with Jackie for seven years, having met her at his twenty-seventh birthday bash. She was stunning back then, a natural beauty. Her confidence was what had attracted him to her. The party was a big affair with friends and wannabe mates all trying to buddy up to him. He had money and a reputation, but he wasn’t stupid; he kept only a handful of close friends who were his business colleagues.
Then Jackie arrived with his brother’s girlfriend. Tall and slim, with blonde waves tumbling down her back and shrouded in assurance, she swanned over to him and gave him a birthday kiss. He remembered the sweet smell of some expensive perfume, and how he’d decided to engage in conversation. Little did he know that all the bull she plied him with that night was just to get that fucking great diamond on her finger. She was a wild spirit and had no intention of sticking to one man. Her subtle make-up and sweet expression were deliberately aimed at getting what she wanted. She wasn’t sweet at all, but by the time he realized what she was all about, he was up the aisle saying ‘I do’ and little Ricky was on his way.
He should have listened to his head when he saw the subtle changes; after all, no one can hide their real persona for very long. Perhaps it was the age gap, for she never settled down, always wanting to party and get pissed. But he was firm and put a stop to her antics with frustrating consequences. So she turned to drinking indoors during the day.
She got to her feet and shot him an acid glare. ‘You, Mike, will wish you’d never done that.’ She wobbled away, back to their bedroom, leaving him wound up and needing another stiff drink.
As he made his way down the stairs, his phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He checked his watch; it was 2.30 a.m.
It was Eric, his brother. ‘What’s up? It’s fucking early doors, mate.’
‘You best get back over to the lock-up. We’ve discovered something you might wanna see.’
Mike ran his big thick hands through his loose waves and then scratched his bristles.
‘Okay, mate. Give me half an hour.’
He didn’t ask what. He didn’t like to talk too much on the phone, just in case. He dashed back up the stairs two at a time and retrieved his shirt from the back of the chair in the spare room. Jackie was quiet, her mumbling and cursing having died off, so he assumed she’d gone back to sleep. Outside was deathly quiet. There wasn’t even a sign of a breeze. So, when he clicked the key fob to his Porsche, the sound of the locks releasing, although expected, still made him jump. He was tired, the lack of sleep taking its toll on his nerves. As he drove towards the entrance, the gates automatically opened. Deciding to have one last look in the rear-view mirror, he gave a sigh of relief. Apart from the outside lights, the house was in total darkness.
Good, she was still asleep.
His lock-up was in the middle of West Kingsdown in Kent, cleverly hidden in a place called Knatts Valley.
Centuries ago, the area had been divided up into plots of land for smallholdings. Over the years, the residents had turned the dwellings into large houses with stables or workshops, and some even had log cabins for holiday retreats. Through the middle ran a narrow lane, hardly wide enough for two cars, so if any police vehicles travelled along it, the residents, most of whom lived on the wrong side of the law, would be instantly notified. The lane was dark and just up ahead was the turning onto his land. From the front it looked like two large log cabins, and behind was a workshop cleverly disguised as an average-looking garage. Smaller cabins surrounded it, and so for anyone passing through, it would appear as a holiday let. However, it was a carefully secured place of business that only a very select few knew about.
He turned off his headlights and parked behind the first log cabin and slowly crept towards the side door of the workshop. He had a gun in his hand, in case this was a set-up. But then he saw Eric appear and look around. Eric spotted Mike and waved his hand, beckoning him to come in.
From the outside, the lock-up looked small, but once inside, the space seemed to open up. In fact, it was large enough to house twelve cars, a small office, and a kitchenette. The building was lined with steel shutters inside and almost impossible to break into.
There in the middle of the room, under a spotlight, bound and gagged, was Travis, their new recruit. Surrounding him were overwhelmingly daunting men. Willie Ritz – tall, lanky, mean, and hard-faced – Ted Stafford or Staffie for short – who looked as though he was made of plasticine, with a bobbly nose and oversized biceps, and Lou Baker – who looked a little like Johnny Depp – greeted Mike with a nod. Then they looked at Eric to announce the news.
Mike put his gun back inside the belt of his trousers and kept his eyes on Travis. In a firm and controlled voice, he said, ‘So, Eric, what’s all this about?’
Eric was livelier than Mike, but being only ten months apart, they could have passed for twins when they were younger. Mike, the eldest, commanded more respect and his cool demeanour earned it. Whilst this six-foot-seven giant, weighing around twenty-five stone, was an intimidating sight, it was the intensity of his eyes that could strike terror into anyone who was brazen enough to front him out. Eric, though, didn’t have the same presence about him, being slightly shorter and with a body that had once been muscular but had now turned to fat. Even his voice lacked authority, and when he spoke, he did so in a less measured way, often allowing his mouth to run away with him.
History was repeating itself. Like their parents, who had created the Regans’ firm, Mike and his friends were also inseparable. As close as brothers, they worked together, played together, and more importantly truste
d each other. Their criminal activities had earned them enough to move away from Bermondsey and they now lived in the cleaner surrounds of Kent.
By the time the boys reached adulthood, they were notorious. Living the straight road, paying taxes, and working for a boss just didn’t appeal, not when they saw how their parents could earn a banker’s annual salary from a single overnight job. So, it stood to reason that they would all follow in their fathers’ footsteps – and what better teachers than parents? Like being an apprentice, they learned the art of safecracking, ballistics, reading architectural drawings, and negotiating. As for understanding the tools of the trade for crafting their work, they were masters at extracting information and handing out punishment.
It was a rule that they had each other’s backs, come what may, like their fathers before them. They wouldn’t trust anyone outside the firm, especially once they were taking on bigger moneymaking crimes, like the import and export of firearms. Inexplicably, however, their activities had somehow come to the attention of the authorities.
‘I think I’m right in assuming you’ve found the grass then, Eric?’
Eric gave his brother a cocky smirk and a nod. ‘Oh, Mikey, my dear bruvver, I’ve found a lot more than that.’
Mike was intrigued. ‘Oh yeah, and what’s that then, Eric?’
‘Well, ya see, we were under the assumption that there was a little spy in the camp, an informant for the Ol’ Bill. But we were wrong, Mikey. See, Travis ’ere, ain’t working for the Filth . . . ’ He kicked Travis’s chair. ‘Are ya, Travis?’
Mike inclined his head and stepped closer. ‘Oh, is that so?’
The others were holding their breath, waiting to see if on this occasion Mike would lose the plot and rip Travis limb from limb. But they should really have known that was unlikely, given his track record. Mike was a strategic thinker, rarely losing his cool. He had twin gifts. Whilst there were not many men who could take Mike on one-on-one, he also had an innate craftiness about him. It had eased them out of trouble on many occasions, enhancing their firm’s credibility.
Even his father and so-called uncles saw him as a force to be reckoned with. He’d always been the same. As a ten-year-old, he seemed to have more balls than the others and was lethal with his fists or any weapon at hand.
Nevertheless, their new venture took them into the realm of possible breaches of national security – it was Mike and his firm’s biggest challenge to date – and their major concern was MI5 becoming nosy.
Their latest worrying matter was one of their more secure lock-ups in London getting turned over by the police. The cars were ready to be stripped and refitted, with all the gun parts carefully concealed in every orifice inside the car panels, before they were shipped to Ireland. But, two days ago, the police had surrounded the lock-up and turned the place over.
So there had to be a snitch. Luckily for Mike, though, his own inside man, DI Evans, had tipped them off. Mike was livid because that little tip-off had cost him more than the poxy guns were worth. Nevertheless, it had saved him from serving a big lump inside. But there was still a problem. There was a grass. And it wouldn’t be the Irish buyers because they had no idea where the lock-ups were. And in any case, why would they want to sell the Regan firm down the river? It was a complete head-scratcher.
‘So, who are ya working for, then, if it ain’t the Filth?’ asked Mike, in a menacing tone that would put the wind up any grown man.
Travis knew he was small fry in comparison to the men surrounding him. Right now, he was shitting himself. He knew it was over: there was no mercy showing on Mike’s face. Those icy, emotionless grey eyes made his bowels move of their own accord.
It was true. Mike did have a look that was like death calling, a deadpan steely expression that unnerved many a man.
Staffie, the shortest of the five men, at five foot seven, with no neck, and a goofy, childlike grin, stepped forward holding a torque wrench. ‘’Ere, Mikey, ya don’t wanna get ya hands all messy, now do ya, mate?’
Mike put his hand up. ‘Hang on a minute. Before I smash the granny out of this geezer, I wanna know all the facts.’
Staffie nodded, chuckled, and then placed the wrench back on the tool rack.
‘Take that gag outta his mouth. I think he wants to talk.’
Travis’s eyes glistened as he nervously clocked the blowtorch that was resting on the long wooden bench. Terrifying thoughts pierced his mind. Jesus! A childhood memory of catching his arm over the steaming kettle reminded him of the pain, but he knew that would be nothing in comparison to a naked flame. He swooned and felt the warm liquid run down his leg. Totally consumed by fear, his muscles became flaccid and his bowels relaxed. He wasn’t cut out for this work and stupidly he hadn’t looked beyond the actuality of getting caught. However, now he was facing the consequences head-on.
Willie Ritz, the big meathead with the scar that ran from his forehead down to his chin, cut the gag from Travis using his diver’s knife, his favourite tool. None of the firm ever understood why it was still his weapon of choice, even after an older gang of thugs had taken it from him in a street brawl and run that evil-looking jagged blade down his face. But Willie still turned that knife around in his hand and even kissed the blade. As tall as Mike, but with less meat on his bones, Willie liked to snort cocaine, especially if any violence was to be had. It raised his level of anger and sent him screwy and a little unpredictable. Whenever Willie’s eyes were like saucers, and glared a piercing blue colour, Mike knew his friend had gone over the top, and so he would remove the supply that Willie kept in a pouch shoved down the front of his trousers. Only Mike could get away with it – no one else would dare.
With trepidation, Travis took a few deep breaths and stared wide-eyed, waiting for the inevitable.
‘I think you’d better tell me what you’ve been up to, and, more importantly, who the fuck for.’ Mike didn’t shout or even raise his voice.
Travis looked at Eric and then back at Mike. ‘No, listen, please, ya got me all wrong. I, er . . . I was just taking pictures for meself, no one else, I swear.’ He knew it sounded stupid. Really, he had no excuse.
Mike looked at his brother. ‘Well, Eric, this prick ain’t playing ball, so you’d best tell me what happened.’
‘Gladly. We all thought that the Ol’ Bill were tipped off, yeah, and I dunno, I just had this sneaky suspicion that it was this little weasel, and so I followed the rat to his house. But, see, Mikey, Travis, ’ere, ain’t too clever. He left his phone right there on the dashboard of his car with the doors unlocked. So, I thought I’d just have a little butcher’s, ya know, to see if the little fucker had any numbers that I would recognize. Well, fuck me, lo and behold, on the screen was a photo of the London lock-up, and so, after ’aving a mooch through the other pics, I found what I can only describe as incriminating evidence. So, I ran in through his back door and there he was in the kitchen, taking his boots off. The shit-licker only had one of our guns tucked inside his fucking Timberlands.’
Mike looked back at Travis, who, in turn, looked as though he was going to pass out. ‘So, how do you know he ain’t working for the Filth, Eric? ’Cos I’m guessing you ain’t completely sure on that score.’
Eric smiled confidently. ‘I ripped the shirt off his back and he wasn’t wired. I tied him up, and the boys and me ransacked his pad. There was no sign of the Ol’ Bill being involved. So, we shoved him into the boot and brought him back here.’
Mike shook his head. ‘Eric, Eric, you have a lot to learn. I dunno, I still think he’s an informant, but I’ll let Travis tell me the facts.’ He turned back to Travis with a sneer. ‘You will, won’t ya, Travis? You’ll be only too pleased to tell me bruvver ’ere exactly who you are working for, eh?’
Willie sniggered. He knew exactly how Mike worked and braced himself for claret flowing everywhere when Mike set to work on their captive.
Travis watched through eyes of terror, as Mike removed his own shoes, his shirt, and then hi
s trousers. ‘Hold me clobber, Eric. I’ve just had them dry-cleaned, and, well, I don’t want them stained, do I?’
Like a boxer ready for the ring, Mike stood in just his underwear. His legs were as thick as tree trunks and his chest was as wide as a standard doorframe.
‘Staffie, hand me a screwdriver. It’s only fitting, since this prick wants to screw me to the fucking wall.’
Travis let out a high-pitched scream like a girl. Then he began to wriggle and writhe about as if he’d been electrocuted. Mike looked at the others and laughed. ‘Fuck me, I ain’t even touched the knobhead.’
‘No, no, all right, I’ll tell ya. Please don’t hurt me, pleeaasse,’ he begged. The tears were streaming down his face and snot was bubbling from his nose.
‘Getting covered in claret, it’s pretty disgusting, don’t ya think?’
Travis nodded furiously. ‘Please, Mike. I’ll tell ya everything ya want to know. Just don’t torture me.’
‘Torture? Who said anything about torture? No, Travis, it’s called negotiation. Or do I mean interrogation? Well, let’s hear it, then. Who’s paying you?’ He tilted his head to the side and gave a sarcastic grin.
Gulping back the fear, Travis thought about the firm he was just about to grass up. Either way, he was a dead man. If only he hadn’t dated the sister. But how could he not? She was such a good fuck he couldn’t get inside her knickers quickly enough. And then he’d had to prove himself worthy of her affections. Really, though, it was her brothers he needed to impress. He was sucked in; before he knew it, they had him planted in among the Regans’ firm. He wasn’t cut out for all this hard-core bollocks.
He stared at Mike’s lifeless eyes, took another gulp of air, and said, ‘Harry Harman.’ Then he lowered his head and waited for the backlash.
