by Paul Finch
“I was wondering if I could book some time off?” Skelton asked.
He’d just provided Jervis with a pint, so he didn’t expect a reply in the negative.
“Should think so,” Jervis said. “Next contract doesn’t start ’til a week Monday. When were you thinking of?”
“Next week.”
Jervis shrugged and took a swig of beer. “Sounds good. You’d only be sitting round the warehouse otherwise.”
The weekend passed for Skelton in its usual desultory fashion. He window-shopped most of Saturday, then in the evening went for drinks in a couple of city centre bars, but, meeting no-one he knew, eventually headed to the cinema to take in another movie. This one wasn’t an action-fest, but neither was it especially memorable. Halfway through, Skelton found his attention had wandered and that he’d lost track of the plot. He wasn’t concerned; he had other, more important things on his mind.
On Sunday morning, he caught a bus to Hawkley Wood, and knocked on the door of Mary’s semi-detached two-up-two-down, keen to see his daughter. It was a bright autumn day, and the bubbly four-year-old was coated and bonneted in preparation for his visit. Curly blonde ringlets hung down either side of her pretty face; she had woolly tights on and smart, knitted mittens. She looked about as cute as a little girl could, which was more than could be said for her mother. Mary appeared behind her, looking haggard and hungover. She was still caked in make-up from the night before, and her once lustrous golden hair was a lank, unwashed mess. A half-smoked fag drooped from her mouth, and her dressing gown only partially covered her once voluptuous but now hefty nakedness. Skelton got the impression she was in a hurry to get back upstairs, where someone no doubt was waiting for her.
“We’ll be back at five,” he said, as Trixie took his hand.
“No later,” Mary replied. “It’s getting dark early now.”
Skelton felt like asking why darkness should pose a problem when Trixie was with her father, but he let it go. He didn’t see any point in upsetting the child with yet another row blown up over absolutely nothing.
The first place they went to that morning was St George’s parish church. Skelton had been raised a Catholic, and though he wasn’t practising he felt the things it stood for were inherently decent and should therefore be passed on to children if at all possible; they could make their own minds up about its doctrines when they were older. Mary didn’t care either way – she was nominally Church of England, though the truth was she had no religion at all. She’d hardly ever visited a church, but she didn’t mind Skelton taking Trixie to one because she didn’t expect anything of consequence to come of it; it certainly hadn’t done where he was concerned.
As usual, they stood at the back during the Mass, Trixie more fascinated by the various statues and stained glass windows than the actual service – especially the towering figure in the porch. It was an armoured knight, St George himself, a red cross on his flowing white tabard, his long steel spear thrust cleanly through a hideous black dragon writhing beneath his foot. Her father was less easily distracted, though he too tended to struggle to stay interested, depending on how monotonous the priest’s delivery might be. On this occasion, there was a distinct droning quality to the overlong sermon, and, despite his best efforts, Skelton’s attention drifted. He found himself glancing through the titles of the Church newspapers in the rack next to the font. The Tablet was present, The Universe, The Pictorial – and The Catholic Echo. Despite all the mayhem of moving week, Len Hoggins and his team had still managed to get a paper out. That was professional of them, Skelton thought grudgingly.
He picked up the Echo and flicked through it. Hoggins had always been sufficiently motivated to get things done if it suited his purpose, Skelton recalled, but how he’d ever got to become editor of a religious publication was a total mystery. They’d known each other well at school, but Skelton remembered Hoggins as a political firebrand – a left-winger, it went without saying – even as early on as his third year at Secondary Modern. Later in life, Skelton heard that Hoggins had got arrested as a hunt saboteur, and several months after that had been hauled in again for throwing stones at police lines during an anarchist rally. Surely all these things were on the militant atheist’s agenda? Or had Hoggins mellowed as he’d grown older. Had he genuinely found God?
Skelton had skimmed through the Echo numerous times in the past – this wasn’t the first occasion he’d been bored at the back of a church – but now he actually read a few articles, just to put himself in the picture. The first one he came across dealt with the inner city disturbances following the recent death in police custody of a suspected heroin-dealer. Skelton had heard about the incident – it had been all over the popular press – but, as far as he was aware the prisoner had choked on his own vomit while asleep in a cell. There were no suspicious circumstances, though this was not the line The Catholic Echo was taking. In their version, police spokesmen were largely ignored, while the deceased’s solicitor, plus his grieving mother and father, were quoted at length, their angry tirades dotted with explosive words and phrases like “killed”, “cover-up” and “those responsible”.
Further down, the column moved away from specifics into the more general area of public disorder and the sociological reasons behind it.
“In many urban ghettos there is now a siege mentality thanks to heavy-handed policing,” read one inflammatory extract. In case that didn’t make the point firmly enough, it added: “Stopping and searching, aggressive questioning, the detaining of youths for no reason other than it is late at night and they have criminal records, is a clear infringement of human rights and a misuse of police powers.” Just to finish off: “If this sort of behaviour continues from the police, then one can’t help admitting that inner city communities will feel justified in venting their frustration on the streets.”
“They will if this fucking rag has anything to do with it,” Skelton said under his breath.
He remembered his own experience of an urban riot. It was quite a few years ago. He’d only been a young constable at the time, but he and various others who’d been on the Tactical Support Group training course had been bussed as reinforcements down to Wolverhampton, where it was really kicking off because a drugs raid had emptied a few squats.
Skelton didn’t think he’d ever forget the sights that met his eyes that night. Entire rows of shops and the flats above them were blazing out of control; rubbish of every description littered the streets – trashed cars, overturned dustbins. The mob itself had been well-organised, its frontline soldiers wearing scarves or ski masks, and heavily armed with bricks, pipes, bottles, Molotov cocktails and even jars of acid pillaged from the local, now wrecked and burned, comprehensive school. They’d barricaded off certain access-ways, and from the gantries above were bombarding anyone who tried to get through. They’d laid rivers of petrol down, threatening to ignite them if the police tried to advance up the central street. They’d formed grenades out of twisted nails, to throw at the dogs and horses, and had scattered tacks and broken glass to hamper any attempt to rush them in armoured vehicles. And behind it all, in that vast swathe of rundown city which they’d declared their own, crimes of every description were in progress: robberies and beatings, aggravated burglaries, rapes, woundings, arson and vandalism on an unprecedented scale, and of course wholesale drugs-dealing. For all of the rest of society’s navel-gazing, for all the academic reports and public enquiries, and the deluge of guilt-driven sociological discourse, that had been the real reason behind the riot – crime, defiance and rampant do-as-you-will!
Of course, Len Hoggins and his cronies wouldn’t know anything about that.
Or on the other hand, perhaps they might – and just didn’t care.
That wouldn’t be very public spirited of them, Skelton thought, as he folded the paper and shoved it back into the rack. Just as it wasn’t very public spirited to use religion as a wooden horse for politics. He noticed a foul taste in his mouth as he gazed at
the Echo’s front sheet; wanted to hawk up a wad of phlegm and spit it at the thing. But of course he couldn’t because he was in a church. You didn’t do things like that in churches. Just before he went out, though, when the Mass was over, he glanced again at the cyclopean figure of St George. The saint’s armoured foot clamped the dragon’s neck with crushing force; the lance transfixed its flesh with merciless precision; from beneath his raised visor, the holy warrior stared down at the impaled beast with a look of vengeful glee. Doing the Lord’s work wasn’t necessarily all grin and bear it and turn the other cheek.
After Mass, Skelton took Trixie for a McDonalds, then spent the afternoon with her in the nearby park, where she played on the swings and fed the ducks. Long before five o’clock, she was bored and wanted to go home. He’d been separated from his wife and daughter for two years now, and the child was starting to grow away from him. It hadn’t helped that he didn’t have the money or imagination to treat her the way other divorced parents treated their estranged kids, and this day in particular, cold and damp from mid-afternoon onward, made things especially hard. But for once Skelton wasn’t too concerned. He walked his little girl home early, and said goodbye to her with a simple wave from the gate at the end of the path.
His ex-wife looked at him, puzzled, wondering why the usual cuddles and kisses were absent. Skelton said nothing to her. Preoccupied, hands deep in his jacket pockets, he wandered away.
*
John Pizer represented the new breed of mid-range gangster. The sort who lived at home with his wife and kids, and even had a legitimate job, but about whom the trappings of extra income were always visible: he drove a BMW, his coats were sheepskin, his jewellery exclusively gold and of the chunky variety. To all intents and purposes, his daily life was perfectly normal: he gave his children lifts to and from school, walked his dog, sent flowers on anniversaries, and cards and presents at Christmas. But if you looked a little closer, all the signs were there: the words ‘LOVE’ and ‘HATE’ were tattooed on his big, notched knuckles – they’d faded a little over the years, but they were still visible; his broad bullet-head was always shaven to the bone, his only facial hair a trim tuft of beard and a small, neat moustache; his frame was squat and square, hinting at excessive brawn behind the civilised façade; and if you perhaps got your order in before him at the bar, a glint – just a glint – of ice-cold menace might appear in those steely eyes as he fixed them on the back of your head, in which case, you’d be well advised not to turn around.
As a former cop, Skelton knew John Pizer of old; at least he knew about him. He knew for instance that Pizer – who’d begun his illustrious career offering protection to hotdog vendors outside football stadiums, but who then served time for GBH and later progressed as muscle for larger, wealthier outfits – now dabbled in smack, ecstasy and illegal steroids, and ran sections of the red-light district, providing outlets where the hardest of hardcore porn was available, and controlling the dozens of goodtime girls who waited in the salons and parlours, or if they were drabber, skinnier and more visibly damaged by the life, in the roach-ridden alleys and backstreets where only the most desperate punters would seek them out. Pizer had now attained that relatively secure underworld status where he continued to reap the rewards but rarely got his own hands dirty, instead having numerous fall guys, or in his case girls, to take the rap.
“Hey, John!”
Pizer halted. It was just after eight, and he was taking his normal morning walk with his young pit bull, Ivan. He was dressed in a snazzy designer running suit and flash trainers, but, as always, was distinctive with his gold-encased hands and his pink, shaven dome. Even so, he hadn’t expected to meet anyone he knew. He was cutting through a narrow ginnel to the park when he heard the voice. He turned – a tall, heavily built man, wearing jeans and a denim jacket, with a shock of black hair and dense black sideburns, was approaching.
“Who are you?” Pizer asked.
Beside him, Ivan started to growl.
Skelton smiled. “Got a message for you.”
“Yeah?”
“From God.”
Pizer looked puzzled. “Uh?”
Skelton jerked his right arm forward, the monkey wrench shooting out from his denim sleeve, landing neatly in his right palm. “But this white-trash ornament gets it first.”
He smashed the heavy tool down on the pit bull’s head. There was a sickening wet crack, and the dog collapsed in a heap before going into violent convulsions. Pizer stared at the dying animal with disbelief, then turned on Skelton in a screaming rage.
“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”
He yanked out the Browning nine-mil he always carried for protection – but Skelton was prepared, lashing down again with the wrench, sweeping the gun across the alley. Pizer gasped as the fingers on that hand broke, but he hadn’t earned his criminal corn with a meek and retiring nature, and before his assailant could strike another blow, he’d lowered his head buffalo-style and charged. He caught Skelton in the belly and drove him into a tottering retreat. The ex-cop felt his balance give, and the next thing he knew he was toppling over. The alley wall came hard against his back. It knocked the wind from him – and the wrench from his grasp.
Pizer was now butting and clawing, hacking in punches. “YOU’RE DEAD … FUCKING DEAD!”
Skelton knew he’d lost the initiative. Even with his superior strength and size, he’d been pinned down efficiently. Only by forcing his forearm into Pizer’s throat and pushing as hard as he could, could he lever the hoodlum up into a position where he could slam home a punch. His aim was true, and even at short range his knuckles connected firmly to Pizer’s mouth, drawing out globs of blood and broken teeth. Stunned by pain, the gangster loosened his grip, and Skelton was able to thrust him away with his knees.
For a split-second, they separated – panting like racehorses, rising painfully to their feet. Then Pizer launched himself forward, head lowered again, barrelling into Skelton’s midriff. This time Skelton was ready, and with both fists clenched together in a bone mallet, bludgeoned Pizer on the back of the neck. The gangster wheeled drunkenly away. Skelton followed and kicked him in the belly, then in the face, his steel toe-capped boots making maximum impact. Now it was Pizer who staggered into the wall, cross-eyed. His guard had dropped, and Skelton caught him with a massive right hook, and then with a left. There was a snap of jawbone, and blood spurted over the brickwork.
“How do you like it?” Skelton gasped, as the gangster fell senseless at his feet. “Not much fun when you’re on the rough end, is it!”
The steel-capped boots flashed in repeatedly, dealing crunching blows to body, limbs and head – especially head. Again and again, Pizer’s skull rebounded from the wall. When Skelton had finished kicking, he started stomping – one foot at a time, then both feet together, all of his considerable weight behind them.
Of course, it couldn’t go on indefinitely. When a minute or so had passed, reality came swimming back. All at once Skelton felt the chill of the autumn morning, heard the bustling traffic in the next street. He looked around for witnesses. There was no sign of anybody at either end of the alley; the windows above, belonging mainly to offices, were still blank and in darkness. Mopping the sweat from his brow, he scooped up the monkey wrench and pistol, and stuffed them out of sight under his jacket. He was about to set off walking when he spied the dog. It was still alive – barely; its tongue lolling out, its body lying flat, chest rising and falling in a panicky rhythm. Skelton gazed down at it, feeling his first pang of regret. From mercy rather than cruelty, he lifted the wrench and hit the animal a second time. This one did the job.
*
Skelton only felt his bruises later on, when several hours had passed and the adrenalin had finished coursing through his body. Not that he could afford to sit around and recover.
The first thing he did when he got back to his flat was strip naked, then put on a pair of work gloves and wrap every item of clothing he’d worn in plastic bin-liners
, including his old boots. After this, he took a long, very hot bath, washing his hair and scrubbing his fingernails. Once he’d dressed again, this time in smart casuals, he put his gloves back on, picked up the bundles of clothes and the wrench, and set off on foot. He walked for several miles, wending his way through the ginnels and backstreets, every so often tossing a package into a skip or dumpster. The wrench, he deposited in the canal. Only when he’d done this did he return home and assess the situation. As far as he knew, there wasn’t a print left which even the best SOCO team would be able to read. The DNA, of course, was another matter. Skelton knew his DNA would be all over the crime scene: blood, saliva, fragments of skin, hair, earwax. Theoretically though, it didn’t matter. There were no samples of his DNA in the databank, as he’d left the police long before it had been required of every officer to provide one. At the end of the day, none of it mattered – so long as his precautions gained him sufficient time to do the things he had to do.
It was early evening when he got round to plastering his cuts and rubbing antiseptic ointment into his grazes. Then and only then did he settle down in front of the TV and relax – and slowly tear to strips the photograph of the congenitally-deformed prostitutes.
*
Phil Barton was Labour councillor for the city’s large Wilberton ward, and though he had ambitions to go much higher, for the moment he was content. Regularly quoted in the local press, and easily recognisable in the district for his green three-piece suits, he was a popular and respected man who was fully prepared, for a short time at least, to enjoy his little corner of empire.
