Stone Cold

by Taylor, Peter

  Frank broke an extended silence, his voice sarcastic. ‘The old feller wanted to watch his golden boy perform but I refused to bring him. Boy did he kick off! Weak as he is, he’s still got a mouth on him. That’s how he got us into this, with his mouth and his faith in his golden boy.’

  ‘And you couldn’t stop him?’

  ‘You’ve seen him in drink. Once he shook hands there was no going back. Too much faith in you, like always.’

  Frank’s face was caught in a car’s headlights. Henry figured there should have been some obvious signpost in the features to indicate it was the face of a habitual liar. His father had learned the truth but far too late.

  ‘Gypsy honour was involved, eh! You’d know all about that, Frank.’

  His brother half-turned his head, ignored the barb. ‘Got to move with the times, kidda. The old ways are dying.’

  ‘Some things are worth preserving,’ Henry said.

  *

  The van swung off the main road, began to bounce and rock from side to side, jolting Henry’s muscles. He figured they must be close to their destination. His stomach muscles tensed involuntarily with the knowledge that soon he’d have to perform.

  Suddenly, like a ghost manifesting itself out of darkness, a man appeared in the main beam, his hands in the air. Frank braked hard, wound down the window as he approached.

  A pudgy face, topped by carrot hair, peered inside. ‘It’s yourself, Frank,’ an Irish accent declared. ‘Got the lad with you?’

  Frank leaned to the side, jerked a thumb over his shoulder. A torch beam lit Henry’s face, dazzling him. It inspected the interior of the vehicle, then withdrew.

  ‘Another hundred yards, left at the trees, and you’re there,’ the voice informed.

  Frank muttered something unintelligible and the van rattled off. The trees appeared in the headlights, the track curved sharply. A little further and three men holding lanterns appeared, beyond them an outline of buildings, one much larger than the rest. They drove into a yard where minibuses and cars were parked. The men with lanterns guided Frank into a space behind a row of minibuses.

  ‘Good turn out by the looks of it,’ Frank commented.

  When they got out the three men came to them. Henry could see they were all burly fellows obviously brought in to handle security.

  ‘You’re to follow us,’ one of them said.

  Henry forced a smile. ‘I always follow where beauty leads.’

  Their sullen looks told him they didn’t like his cheek. They made for the largest building, but before they got there a car door opened blocking their path. Daniel Jackson and his two sons got out of a Mercedes. All three were dressed identically in long coats, scarves coiled around their necks. The lantern light distorted their features, gave them a feral look, like vampires in a horror film Henry thought, voracious for blood — his blood.

  ‘Long time no see,’ Danny hissed.

  ‘Those coats were out of fashion before I went inside,’ Henry said. ‘Didn’t know they were making a comeback. Thought that was only me.’

  Danny smirked. ‘Smart mouth, eh! Just like your old man. And look where it got him.’

  Jet couldn’t hold back. ‘Chip will soon shut it for him.’

  ‘In this game,’ Henry said, eyeing him, ‘talk is cheap, especially when it comes from those who haven’t the guts to fight, the watchers of the world.’

  Terry muttered, ‘Taken you long enough to work yourself up to it.’

  Henry ignored him, held up his bag. ‘Need a place to get changed and to speak to you three alone.’ He pointed a finger at Frank, continued, ‘Alone means without him there.’

  Danny frowned. ‘What could we have to discuss?’

  ‘It’s a business matter, big money involved. And I mean big money.’

  Frank’s eyes were all over him, resentful. Henry knew he was keeping quiet only because the Jacksons had a hold over him.

  ‘Thought you had enough business to occupy you for one night,’ Danny said.

  ‘Life goes on after tonight.’

  Jet laughed. ‘And after tonight you might not be able to talk proper. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  Danny was quiet, weighing him up. Under his outward cool, Henry’s stomach was churning. Finally Danny made his decision, pointed to a smaller building.

  ‘We’ll talk in the barn. After we’re done you can change there. But let’s make it snappy. We don’t want the punters getting anxious.’

  They headed for the barn. After a few yards Terry turned on his heel, called back to Frank.

  ‘You hold on to that money, big brother. We’re going to let you hold all of it tonight. Show how much we trust you.’ He cackled like an old crone. ‘Downside is, it’ll be all the harder when you have to hand it over.’

  When Danny switched the lights on, Henry saw that the barn was a throw back, hay strewn haphazardly about the floor, rusting, antiquated farm implements lying everywhere. He walked ahead, dumped his bag on a bale of hay, unzipped it. Using his body to mask the movement, he removed the mobile phone from the bag, slid it under the straw. Slipping his jacket off, he laid that down on top.

  ‘We didn’t come to watch a striptease,’ Jet called out.

  Henry turned, walked back to them, concentrated his gaze on the father, ignoring his sons.

  ‘So what’s this about?’ Danny asked. ‘Big money, you said.’

  Henry inhaled deeply. So much depended on how well he sold it.

  ‘A drug deal is what it’s about — a big one.’ Henry knew the words were coming out of his mouth, but they sounded surreal, his voice seeming to belong to someone else. ‘It’s too big for me. I’ve asked around and people say you can handle it.’

  Danny raised a wary eyebrow. ‘Spit it out and we’ll see.’

  ‘In prison I made a contact,’ Henry began, drawing in a breath, ‘a big shot who has family in London. The family are looking to extend their business beyond the capital. They can provide regular loads of pure heroin worth a hundred grand or more.’

  Danny looked impressed. ‘That’s heavy. How regular is regular?’

  ‘Monthly, according to my guy. Their idea is to make the exchange somewhere halfway between here and London — at night — in a service station.’

  Henry could tell he’d piqued their interest. But they’d be fools not to be suspicious and they weren’t fools when it came to money. Far from it.

  Jet came back at him. ‘What’s in it for you?’

  ‘Five grand every time there’s an exchange. The guy was close to me in prison, wants me to be the go-between.’

  Danny puffed out his cheeks, let the air out audibly. Henry hoped his greed would get the better of him.

  ‘A hundred grand of pure heroin is worth a lot more on the streets. I got to be interested.’

  ‘How do we know this isn’t a set up?’ Terry chirped.

  Jet said,’ Yeah! They could take our money and run.’

  ‘Happened to us recently,’ Terry added.

  ‘Feller we gave a bit of rein fouled up. He’s suffering for it right now.’ He smirked knowingly. ‘You might even know him.’

  ‘My guy says his boss will meet with you beforehand, anywhere you want. That way you’ll know he’s up front.’ Henry waited, watched their faces, knew their greed was vying with their dislike of him. ‘So, what do you think?’

  Danny made a decision ‘No harm if we meet the guy. If we’re satisfied, we’ll do it.’

  Henry said gruffly, ‘Fair enough.’

  Terry pulled a face. ‘You got strange timing, Torrance. Doing this just before you’re about to take a hammering?’

  ‘Call it an insurance policy. It’s in your interest to make sure your man leaves me with all my faculties. I’ll need them to negotiate the deal.’

  Jet smiled. ‘So not so confident after all.’

  ‘Just covering all the angles. He might throw a lucky one.’

  Danny looked at his watch. ‘We’re done here. Let’s get
on with it. We don’t want to keep the punters waiting.’

  ‘Right then,’ Henry said. ‘Let me finish changing and I’ll be there.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  As they strode though the darkness, long coats flowing behind them, Jet Jackson voiced his reservations.

  ‘We’re doing business with a man who killed Bull. Ain’t that . . . disrespectful?’

  His father grabbed his arm. ‘Bull’s death was a freak happening, one of those things. People built Torrance up afterwards. That’s what irks — that’s the insult.’ He eased his grip. ‘Business is business, son. Sentiment is sentiment. Don’t confuse the two. Don’t never sniff at nothing if there’s money in it.’

  Terry said, ‘He’s right, Brother. That’s how we’ve made a pile, ain’t it?’

  They continued past the lantern holders to the main building. Before they stepped inside, Danny put his arms around his sons’ shoulders, drew them close.

  ‘If it works out, know who I’m going to insist goes all alone on that first exchange?’

  Both sons shook their heads.

  ‘Frank Torrance, that’s who.’

  ‘You’d trust him with that?’ Jet said, disbelieving. ‘After he tried it on?’

  Terry got the idea, mirrored his father’s smirk as he explained it to his brother.

  ‘We’ll be there though, won’t we, at a distance, mob handed, watching our money? Anything goes wrong, Frank’s first in the firing line. Right, Pa?’

  ‘Right, son!’

  Jet smiled. ‘I like that.’

  ‘Business is business,’ Danny said. ‘You can’t be soft. Frankie boy thinks after tonight he’s off the hook, but he ain’t.’

  Terry looked back at the barn. ‘You don’t suppose our new business partner has a chance against Chip, do you?’

  Danny shook his head. ‘Been out of it too long and he knows it. Tell Chip to work him over good, but leave him with his . . . faculties.’

  ‘Let’s get in there,’ Jet said. ‘I can’t wait.’

  *

  Henry put on an old pair of jeans, took his shirt off, slipped his jacket over his bare torso as protection against the night air. The phone under the straw was the latest in surveillance technology, had a built-in recording device, which had captured the conversation with the Jacksons, and a signalling device he’d activated as soon as they’d left the barn.

  The lantern holders saw him emerge, watched in silence as he headed for the main building. Above him, the moon was a perfect curve like a scimitar hanging over the earth. A feeling of loneliness swept over Henry. In the past, his father would have been behind him when he made his entrance, Frank next to his father, so silent you wouldn’t have a clue what was going through his head. It had been a family affair and in his youthful naivety he’d thought that meant something. This time he was alone as he approached the door. Behind him, one of the men found the courage to call out.

  ‘He’s gonna kill you, Torrance.’

  Henry ignored it. Once he was inside they’d be shouting worse things. He stepped through the door. After the darkness, the glare was like awakening into bright sunshine.

  His eyes took a moment to adjust. When they did, he realized the building was larger than he’d thought. Immediately ahead, stretching for a good thirty metres, was empty concrete floor. Beyond that, the crowd waited, making a low humming sound. Over the heads, as though it was the centre piece of worshipful attention, he could see a cage shaped like a bell. His anger stirred at the sight; cages were for wild animals. Nobody had mentioned he’d be fighting in one and he didn’t like the idea, that feeling of being trapped. It was too much like being in prison.

  As he started forward, the door slammed behind him, the noise echoing like a gunshot. The hum of the crowd died away. As one, the heads turned in his direction. He kept moving, hating those inquisitive gazes, the cool appraisal of his body as though he was an exotic beast bred for their pleasure, not a man.

  He could feel the excitement in the air like a charge of electricity. The hum started again, rose to new levels. Necks craned to get a better view. He was tempted to lower his head, avoid all those stares, but he held his chin high as they parted to let him through.

  He was conscious many of the men were well dressed, reeked of money, that the few women present could have been clones. They were long-legged and lissome, expensively dressed, dripping with jewellery and hanging on the arms of their partners a bit too enthusiastically, as though they felt that they were accessories, as easily disposed of as the losing fighter if they weren’t careful to please. Here and there, a voice called his name, but it meant nothing more to Henry than wasted sweat.

  At last he was through the crowd and the cage dominated his vision. He thought he could see bloodstains on the bars. Frank was with the Jacksons and beside them, bare chested, Chip Jackson stood like a young colossus. As Henry advanced their eyes locked and he saw his opponent was taller, probably a stone or more heavier. In the past, he’d fought heavier men but they’d invariably carried body fat, which ultimately taxed their stamina, slowed them down. Chip showed no signs of any excess weight; he was honed. Henry knew instantly he was a man totally dedicated to his fighting profession.

  As he came closer, he saw that Chip was younger than he looked from a distance. His hair was dyed blond, but all the Jacksons’ genetic features showed in his face. Just for a second, he thought he could see Bull Jackson staring out at him from Chip’s eyes and a cold tingling sensation crept down his spine as the memory of the night that had changed his life resurrected itself.

  Frank was holding the bag containing their father’s money. Now Danny handed him another bag to hold.

  ‘You’re the banker, Frank. That’s our bundle. I’ll be right next to you, sunshine, ready to take it back soon as your brother there is done for, so don’t get carried away.’

  ‘Rules!’ Henry snapped.

  Danny faced him. ‘No gouging, no hitting a man when he’s down. Fight’s finished when one of you can’t stand. Winner takes all.’ He pointed to a fat man in a waistcoat who had joined them. ‘Jack’s the referee. He’s known to one and all as a fair man.’

  ‘OK,’ Henry said, hoping nothing he’d just heard would be relevant anyway.

  ‘All bets are laid,’ Jet said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Let’s get it on!’

  Henry started towards the cage but Frank restrained him, leaned in close, spoke in a low voice.

  ‘If you win, we get out of here quick with the money. Things can turn nasty. I’ve seen it happen.’

  Henry took no notice, dismissed him with a look. He had other things on his mind. Besides, it wasn’t going to work out the way Frank was imagining, not the way any of these morons was imagining.

  The cage door swung open. Chip came up beside him, thrust his face so close to Henry’s he could smell garlic on his breath.

  ‘Tonight is for Bull,’ he rasped, spittle shooting from his mouth.

  Henry squared his shoulders, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Bull’s death was a pure accident, a bad piece of luck, nothing more. I can’t help what people say about it.’ He pointed at the cage. ‘Nothing that happens when we step in there will bring Bull back either and that’s a pity.’

  The regretful words and calm tone confused Chip, but it soon passed.

  ‘The man told me not to destroy you, but that still leaves me plenty of room to enjoy myself.’ He stepped to one side. ‘After you, Torrance.’

  They stood in the middle of the cage, facing each other. Like a classroom of kids who excitedly anticipate the playtime bell when all their pent-up energy can be released, the crowd turned up the volume. Most were shouting for Chip. Henry knew he’d been out too long for them to risk big money on him. Truth be told, he’d probably bet against himself.

  The referee stepped between them, stuck out his chest, repeated the rules, added a spiel of his own. Henry half listened, hoping he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his life. If that device
in the mobile did the job it was supposed to, everything would be all right and he’d only have to survive a minute or two. But he was well aware he was depending on others doing their bit.

  The referee signalled the start. Henry retreated, putting his mind in a zone where nothing existed except his opponent. Chip started circling. Henry thought he’d decided to wait for him to make the first move and that suited him fine. The longer he could string this out without coming to blows the better.

  The crowd was of a different mind. As both fighters danced and feinted, they called out for action. Chip reacted to their baiting, took a few preliminary swings, which Henry evaded easily. A germ of doubt came into Chip’s eyes, burgeoned into an angry gleam. Henry could see he was letting the crowd’s impatience affect him. How long would he wait before launching an all or nothing assault?

  ‘Pair of Nancy boys!’ someone called out.

  ‘Supposed to be a chip off the old block,’ another responded, creating a ripple of laughter.

  That did it for Chip. Enraged, he came at Henry, who parried a right, then a left. But there was no let up as the right came again, under his defences this time, hit his stomach like a hammer, doubling him up. Swallowing a mouthful of bile, he staggered back, forced himself to straighten up. Chip went after him, firing two blows at his head, missing, but catching his ear with a third blow. Then, changing tactics, he kicked out viciously, aiming for his Henry’s groin, but he was already dancing away. Henry risked a glance over the crowd, hoping the cavalry was on its way, but could see no sign.

  Buoyed by the crowd’s encouragement, Chip advanced. Henry ducked under a punch, jabbed at his jaw, connected and simultaneously brought his heel down hard on Chip’s toes. Chip reeled backwards, neither blow enough to do much damage, but enough in them to dent his confidence. He started to circle again, probing rather than rushing.