by Peter Boland
“Sounds like an episode of Red Dwarf. But this is the real world. People can’t steal luck.”
“I know, the film’s also about gambling. Underground, illegal betting. You see, in the film, to test people’s luck, they concoct more and more bizarre betting games, like the one we’ve just seen.”
“You think what we’ve just seen is an illegal betting race?”
“Could be.”
“And that’s why Archie was there. They need participants. Nobody in their right mind is going to do something like that unless they’re desperate and need the money. The kind of people who live in Wellington’s HMOs, who have an addiction to feed.” Savage thought of Archie and his array of whisky and the fact that he always had something to give Vlad and Truck. And how he apparently disappeared for days on end. How the last time he had returned with a plaster on his forehead. Clearly that wasn’t from a drink-related injury—it was where he’d hit his head on a tree in one of these races.
Tannaz took a slurp of coffee. “We’ve been thinking of Wellington as a sadist, making people suffer. What if it’s more than that? What if he’s running this highly illegal gambling ring? Remember what Jenny Hopkins said? That he used to note down how long she’d stay locked in the cabinet. He wrote the times down in a little book. Statistics. Odds. People who bet are obsessed with odds. I don’t think it was about being sadistic. He liked collecting the stats in case he could use them in a bet.”
The world shifted. Savage’s mind was still playing catch up. Tannaz was onto something. It was the first time since investigating Dave and Luke’s deaths that something made sense. Apart from one thing. “What has this got to do with Dave and Luke hanged in the forest?” he asked.
Tannaz thought for a moment, blew on her hot coffee and then said, “Maybe it’s got nothing to do with it. Maybe that was just a scare tactic. Maybe Dave didn’t want to participate, and they couldn’t leave him alive with that knowledge. Did it as a warning to others, a highly visible warning. Don’t do what Wellington asks and you end up hanging from a tree in Dead Maids.”
“Dave went and got the Nembutal by himself, nobody forced him.”
“We’ve only got a couple of potheads’ word for that. They could be lying.”
Savage stretched his arms out and yawned. “Well, at least we have some idea what Wellington’s up to, and that makes him vulnerable. And we have another advantage over him.”
“What’s that?”
“Unlike everyone else around here, we’re not scared of him.”
“No. So what now? How do we use this?”
“We need to catch this asshole, and my bet, excuse the pun, is that he’ll keep his hands clean. So we need hard evidence of his involvement; to find out more about his bizarre betting games. We need to catch him doing something a lot worse than making grown men race through the trees at night. We need something to put him away for good. Can you go on a fishing expedition on the dark web to see if his weird gambling games are on there, and anything else we can use? If he’s organising this he’ll need wealthy participants, people with lots of disposable cash, cash that can’t be traced, Internet currency. So the dark web seems like the most likely place to look.”
“Yep, I’m on it. What about you?”
“Don’t know, I’ll see if I can figure out these damn numbers.” Savage pulled the printout from his coat and unfolded it. “You had any luck yet?”
“None. I’ll keep trying.”
“No, concentrate on seeing if Wellington is set up on the dark web, that’s how we’ll get him.”
Savage stuffed the numbers back into his pocket, fired up the ignition and drove back towards Tivoli Gardens. Six a.m. and a dirty, grey morning light illuminated a corner of the sky, chasing the night away. As they headed through the once-empty streets, more cars began to join them. They stopped briefly at a greasy spoon to drink more tea and coffee and eat bacon sandwiches. Being out all night in the cold forest, staking out the enemy had made them ravenous.
Savage walked the rest of the way back to Tivoli Gardens, while Tannaz drove the VW van back to her hotel room by the airport.
Savage liked to walk, something about the monotony of it helped him slot things into place. Rationalise everything he’d witnessed. It was still trying to snow. Dusty little snowflakes landed on the pavement in front of him where their short lives ended as they melted into nothing. April was still firmly in the grip of winter.
By the time he reached the front door of Tivoli Gardens, the time on his phone informed him it was seven thirty. He put his key in the lock and as quietly as he could, gave the door a shove. He’d rather that no one saw him entering the house at this time so they didn’t ask any questions, though he thought there’d be little danger of that at Tivoli Gardens. Apart from Rosie and Grace, the earliest any of them got up was well after ten o’clock.
He was wrong.
Every occupant in the house stood in the hallway, some of them arranged up the stairs like a wretched version of the Von Trapp children in The Sound of Music, watching what was going on below. Archie was there, back from his nocturnal activities. He looked sad and worried, a fresh Elastoplast on his forehead. Looking around at the collective tenants of the house, Savage noticed they all looked unhappy, including Jezza the pervert.
Then he saw the reason. Vlad the Inhaler and Truck were standing sentry at the door to Rosie’s room, grinning at the assembled audience, clearly relishing what new concoction of misery they were inflicting. Through Rosie’s open door, Savage could see her and Grace busily stuffing their belongings into black bin bags. Both of them were sobbing uncontrollably.
Savage sidled over to Dink. “What’s going on?” he said.
Dink had tears in his eyes. “Section twenty-one. They’re throwing Rosie and Grace out on the street.”
Chapter 34
“Why?” said Savage.
Dink shook his head, wouldn’t answer.
“Dink, why are they throwing them out?”
Still, Dink would not answer, chewing his lips together, like he always did when he didn’t want the truth to accidentally escape.
Archie appeared by his side. His eyes looked tired and Savage noticed the dirt under his fingernails.
“Archie,” said Savage. “Why are they throwing Rosie and Grace out?”
Archie took his arm and led him outside through the front door, away from everything going on inside.
Savage repeated the question.
“Are you sure you want to know?” Archie said.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Archie swallowed hard, cleared his throat. “You know how, those two, Vlad and Truck skim stuff off us, money, booze and ciggies.” Savage nodded. “Well, Rosie doesn’t have anything to give them so, she has to…” Archie struggled to find delicate words to describe it. Savage knew what he was going to say. “… She pays them in other ways.” Archie said, eyes downcast.
“She has sex with them and in return they don’t throw her out?”
Archie nodded.
Savage should have known. A pretty woman like Rosie down on her luck. Easy to take advantage of. That was the secret the voice in his head was trying to tell him. Savage’s anger flared and his fists clenched. “Well, we’ll see about that,” he said, making towards the door.
“Wait,” said Archie. “There’s more.”
Savage spun around.
Archie looked at the ground. “The reason they’re throwing her out is because they changed the deal.”
“What do you mean?”
Archie looked unsure how to answer, words forming at his lips but not making them out. Eventually he said, “They upped the cost of her deal.”
“Archie, spit it out. What does that mean?”
“They wanted to have sex with her daughter.”
“She’s barely fourteen!”
“I know,” said Archie. “Rosie refused, so they’re kicking her out.”
Savage marched towards the front door of Tivoli Gardens. He was supposed to be undercover, investigating the death of his friend and his son, but he couldn’t let a single mum and her daughter get thrown out on the streets by two foul deviants.
Time to put away the grey man.
Time to hurt bad people.
Savage kicked open the front door with such force it slammed against the inside wall. Everyone in the hallway swung their gaze onto Savage, including Rosie and Grace. Eyes red-rimmed, they stood in the hallway clutching bulging bin bags in each of their hands, their entire possessions in the world kept together by flimsy black plastic. Truck and Vlad stood behind them, in the process of escorting them out.
“Rosie,” said Savage. “You and Grace go back to your room, you’re not going anywhere.”
“Hey,” said Truck. “Shut up or we’ll throw you out too.”
Savage pointed at him. “The only two people leaving this place will be you two clowns.” A gasp came from every one of the tenants watching, shocked that Savage would say such a thing to these two backstreet bullies. “Now you can either walk out, or you can crawl out with both legs busted. It’s up to you.” Savage then spoke to Rosie. “Take Grace back inside, and lock the door. I don’t want you seeing this.”
Vlad threw back his head and laughed, a big put-on theatrical laugh. Rosie and her daughter quickly retreated into their room and closed the door behind them.
“You!” Vlad sniggered. “You’re going to throw us out? An old man with no job and no money and shit clothes is going to throw us out? How do you figure that’s going to happen?”
“I have the law on my side, and I have a ton of witnesses.”
“Law’s on our side, pal,” said Truck. “Section twenty-one says we can throw people out whenever we want. Don’t need a reason.”
“True. When did you ask her to leave?”
“Just now,” Truck said, folding his thick meaty arms.
“Then under section twenty-one she has two months’ notice. You can’t just turf her out onto the street. You have to give her two months to find new digs.”
Vlad’s smile didn’t diminish. He was enjoying this. Enjoying someone standing up to them. Probably liked the drama. It was safe to assume that when things like this normally happened, everyone kept their heads down, didn’t make a scene. For a thug who thrived on being a bully and seeing people suffer, it probably became very boring. Everyone always capitulating.
“Not going to happen,” he said with glee. “If she doesn’t like it she can hire a lawyer. Oh, wait. She hasn’t got enough money to feed herself, so I don’t think that’s going to happen. She goes now. Today.” Vlad turned to the assembled tenants of Tivoli Gardens. “Let this all be a warning to you. Piss us off and you’re out on the street.” He turned back to Savage. “Your move old man.”
No, Vlad wasn’t enjoying the drama. That wasn’t quite accurate. He was getting high off the power, knowing that he held the fates of everyone in Tivoli Gardens in his grubby hands. Knowing that he could have anyone out on their ear whenever the mood took him. Power always goes to people’s heads, thought Savage. Well, that power was about to be challenged.
Savage took a step closer to Vlad. Met him eye to eye. “Like I said. The only two people leaving are you two clowns. Actually, I take that back, you’re too dumb to be clowns. You’re slower than dial-up Internet.”
“No, ’cos I just bought a WiFi booster,” said Vlad smugly. “Who’s stupid now?”
Savage rolled his eyes. “You know, Vlad, your brain is like the TARDIS in reverse. Smaller on the inside than it is on the outside.”
Truck sniggered.
Savage turned his attention to Truck. “I don’t know what you’re laughing at, Truck. You’re as boring as Vlad is stupid. Listening to you droning on about Gladiators. No one cares. It’s like listening to a broken hand dryer in a public toilet that won’t switch off. Actually, I’d rather listen to the hand dryer, at least it’s useful, has a purpose.”
The dopey grin left Truck’s face.
“What are you going to do, old man?” asked Vlad. “Breathe your stinky old-man breath on us and make us pass out?”
“I thought I might break something of yours, Vlad. Something important that you use a lot—obviously not your brain. Maybe your opposable thumbs. Seeing as that’s about the only thing that separates you from a squirrel.”
Vlad sobered up. Got serious. “Play time’s over, old man.”
He went for Savage, grabbed him by the neck and shoved him up against a wall, pressing his thumbs deep into Savage’s windpipe. “What you gonna do now, old man?”
Savage gasped for air, tried to speak.
“What’s that, old man? I can’t hear you.”
Savage spluttered.
Vlad released his grip very slightly to let him talk.
In a gurgled whisper, Savage said, “Changed my mind. Going to break your little fingers.”
With both hands, Savage reached up and grabbed Vlad’s little fingers that were still clasped around his neck. Being the weakest digits of the hand, their grip was negligible. He prised them away easily. Savage wrenched hard, bending them back on themselves, snapping them like a couple of chicken bones.
Vlad screamed. Savage still held his little fingers tightly, using them to pull his arms down by his sides, then he headbutted Vlad on his big, long nose. The thin nasal capillaries had no option but to rupture, sending torrents of blood out both nostrils.
Savage wasn’t finished with the rapist yet.
He reached down and grabbed Vlad by his manhood, squeezed and twisted as hard as he could, like he was wringing out a flannel. “That’s to make sure your raping days are over.”
Savage felt a movement nearby. He didn’t need to look round to know that in the couple of seconds it took to disable Vlad, Truck would be coming after him. Savage spun Vlad around and shoved him into the path of the oncoming Truck.
The two collided. Truck merely threw his colleague to one side, just an object in his way. Savage had known fighting Vlad wouldn’t be a problem. The guy was all mouth. Truck, however, was a different matter. Solid and beefy. An unstoppable force.
With his thick, muscly arms raised in a boxing stance, Truck edged towards him. Though he’d had his fifteen minutes of fame as a TV gladiator, Truck was clearly no stranger to the ring. Savage could use this. He raised his hands, mirroring Truck’s posture and movements. Familiar ground for Truck, this would make him relaxed and comfortable, just another opponent he needed to knock out with his powerful fists. Trouble with boxing, if you do a lot of it, is you expect an attack to come from the waist up, a body or head shot. Truck wouldn’t be expecting an attack from below, and Savage was planning something really low.
Truck shuffled in, ready to launch a volley of punches to Savage’s head. Before he had the chance, Savage kicked him with all his fury on his right shin, his leading leg.
The strike sent an electric shock through Truck’s body. Nothing hurt like a kick to the shins, especially if you weren’t used to it. With no muscle or fatty tissue in front of the tibia bone to cushion the blow, the kick had a direct line to thousands of nerve fibres, which right then would be lighting up Truck’s brain like a Christmas tree.
A brief wave of pain shot across Truck’s face, but he still kept coming.
Savage took a step back and fired another kick at the other shin.
Truck’s body shuddered. The brute kept on advancing. Soon, Savage would run out of space, his back would be against the wall and he’d have no more room to launch kicks. Then it would become a fist fight, which Savage knew he wouldn’t win.
He had to find another way to stop this Truck. If shin kicks wouldn’t do it, Savage had to resort to something more brutal.
“Come on, old man,” said Truck. “Fight properly.”
Savage took two steps back, then suddenly launched himself at Truck. It took Truck by surprise. He managed to jab Savage in the face. Savage kept on moving, dodging past the guy’s thick, slow frame, shoving him as he went. Truck barely moved, like shoving a standing stone. Savage made it to the stairs and ran down to the kitchen. He could hear Truck’s thundering steps behind him.
“Coward”, he yelled.
Savage liked to think of it as a tactical retreat, no, more like withdrawing to find a better defensive position, and better weaponry.
Making straight for the rotten back door of the dingy kitchen, Savage threw his shoulder against it. The ancient, decaying wood gave way under Savage’s weight. He didn’t stop, using the momentum to carry him out into the back garden—a dumping ground for piles of bin bags that had burst open, disgorging food wrappers and takeaway cartons the local foxes had picked clean.
Savage made a hard left, sprinting along the side of the house, hurdling an old rusted pram and a satellite dish that had given up clinging to the side of the house long ago.
There was a crash of footsteps behind him. Truck was out in the garden, giving chase.
As Savage rounded the front of the house, he saw what he wanted. A weapon to stop a Truck.
Bending down by the drain, he snatched up a handful of the dirty syringes. Holding them up high, like tiny daggers, needles pointing outwards, he waited at the apex of the front corner of the house.
Seconds later, Truck came charging by.
Thrusting out his arm, Savage stabbed him in the face with the dirty needles, sending them deep into the flesh of his left cheek.
Truck came to a halt. The shock of what was sticking out of his face distracting him from the chasing Savage. The hypodermics protruded from his skin, making him look like a foul pin cushion.
One by one, Truck plucked them out in horror, glaring at each grimy needle, before letting it drop to the ground.
He looked at Savage, all fight gone out of him. Then swore. “What’ve you done?” he said. “What have you done?”
