Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  “I am led to believe that the police came to see you earlier.” Aitchison now accusingly looked at the nurse staff who this time studiously managed to avoid the hawk-like intensity of his gaze. “That was without my authorization. It should not have been allowed to happen. It’s very unfortunate and I apologize for it. Please be assured that I will take the matter up with the appropriate authorities personally. At a very senior level. I accept that, because of the nature of your accident, the police will need to talk to you but please be assured that they will not do so until you feel ready.” He glanced at his watch, best not to say too much and he had several more patients to see. He supposed in a way that he should be almost grateful, that fool from the Met. had, after all done the worst of his work for him. Micky hardly noticed as he ushered himself out of the room.

  He was gradually beginning to return to the harsh bitter reality of conscious thought. Why couldn’t he have been dead, he thought. This was his worst nightmare given substance.

  Perhaps it was the fear of living outside the norm that scared him most, of being different, not in other people’s eyes but in his own. All his life he had tried to fit in, run with the pack, although, like Francis Doyle, he had only ever succeeded in penetrating its periphery. He was a small time crook, no more, no less than that. A small time person as well. His marriage was a sham, they stayed together only out of apathy and he drifted from one meaningless, cheap, sordid affair to another. But now, even the ragged remnants of what remained of his life had been torn apart by Doyle. He’d paid a visit to Carole while he was running Micky to earth and he’d left his indelible mark on her as well. Right now, she was suffering nearly as much as her husband. Throughout his entire life, Micky had singularly failed to achieve anything even remotely worthwhile. He’d never made much of a difference to anyone or anything. Even when he finally managed to get some real money for himself, not a lot, but more than he had ever imagined he would have, it had gone badly wrong. He hadn’t thought it out, hadn’t made a plan. Just like him. He had simply drifted into defrauding Bellini, as he had drifted into just about everything in his life; crime, marriage, the affairs. And when it went pear shaped, when Bellini became suspicious, he had abandoned everything, leaving most of the cash in a suitcase under the marital bed, soon to be found by Doyle, and leaving his wife to face the consequences and to carry his can. He ran. But he couldn’t even manage to run far and lie low. He had only made it as far as Clapham and in little more than a week he had been spotted stocking up on vodka at a local off licence. At that moment, his fate was sealed. He was frightened. He didn’t know the minutiae of what Bellini had in store, that varied from case to case. But one thing was certain - it would not be pleasant. Even so, he had managed to convince himself that he would be able to talk his way out of it, as he had done with so many things in the past. Maybe he’d take a bit of a beating for appearance’s sake, and that would be that. After all, it wasn’t a lot of money to a man of Bellini’s means. He’d understand. He’s bound to. Reality had bitten home with a brutal vengeance when Francis Doyle forced his way into the room. Was it just yesterday morning? Was that all it was? It could have been a lifetime ago.

  The surgeon, Aitchison, had been as good as his word. A quiet chat over a long gin and tonic, with a Commander in the Metropolitan Force who happened to belong to the same exclusive golf club and Sergeant Morris had been hauled over the coals and back again at Scotland Yard by the head of his squad, Chief Superintendent Goodwin. Did he have any idea what the tabloids would make of it? Yes – it was a mistake, a bad one admittedly, but he thought the man already knew what they had done to him. He hadn’t realized. God knows he’s sorry. Had he never heard of tact, diplomacy, community relations? No, err yes – sorry. If he could turn back the clock he would. But at the end of the day Micky Johnston was no more than another little rascal who got his fingers burned by playing out of his league. That hardly his fault, was it? Did he know that his card was well and truly marked and that the only way he would get promotion now would be by bringing Osama bin Laden back from his cave, preferably handcuffed to Jack the Ripper. Yes, sir. Oh, shit. The last thing he needed was to have an official reprimand on his blameless if rather uninspiring record.

  Although no-one had asked him if he felt ready yet – it was obvious to anyone who showed the remotest interest that he wouldn’t feel ready for a long time to come – the following day, Micky Johnston received another, this time altogether more courteous visit from one Detective Inspector Charlotte Ashworth, Sergeant Morris’ immediate superior.

  His initial shock had subsided, and the tears were now limited to somewhat less frequent outbursts but still, the last people Micky wanted to see were the Old Bill. When Ashworth walked into the room, however, Johnston was impressed despite himself and the way he was still feeling. Just for an instant, she led his mind away from his troubles. She was, after all an extremely beautiful woman. But hers was no face that launched a thousand ships or made men immortal with a kiss. Behind the pristine crystal-cut clarity of her features, there lay a subtle suggestion of a harshness, brutality even. It was always apparent no how beautifully polished the exterior. It was something she had cultivated and it was very, very attractive. At thirty two she was still youngish for a D.I. Her Masters degree in criminal psychology from a leading redbrick University and graduation at the top of her class in Hendon had ensured that she was well and truly on the fast track. At first she had developed her attitude consciously, more to counteract the hostility of her colleagues than of the villains she daily squared up to. The Job was still very much a man’s world, it was always harder for a woman. Particularly for a clever woman,. Particularly for a clever, beautiful woman. One who was resourceful and starting to get a lot of good results. It was even worse for one with a small child. Nobody seemed to have noticed that she had taken only six week’s maternity leave. She could have taken up to a year and she still felt guilty about neglecting Alice. And Steve too. She thanked God that she’d married outside the job. Steve kept her anchored in the real world, the world where not everyone was a thief, or a murderer, or a rapist. Or a copper. Her colleagues saw her as favoured, as they, time servers to a man, were passed over for promotions that seemed to fall into her lap. These feelings remained still but were now largely buried, her growing authority saw to that, rising to the surface only behind her back in the local after work or in the patronizing comments of a more senior officer. Ashworth could live with that but this morning she wasn’t happy doing a public relations job just because Dave Morris had screwed up. She had better things to do with her time and this was getting to be a habit. Don Bellini had been a thorn in her side for the last two years and she wanted him put away more than anything else in the world. But this wasn’t the way. This was no use – it would never work. Micky Johnston knew the score. He wouldn’t grass, he’d be too shit scared to do that, no matter what Bellini had done to him. Still, she supposed she had to try and, besides, she was here now. Surveying her quarry, Ashworth, only too aware of her own beauty and the control it gave her over men and women alike, was struck by how pathetic he looked. Acting up with his cronies he was the type who would play the big man, the gangster. But here, dwarfed by the hospital bed it was as if he was nothing, his identity subsumed by the pain and grief of his situation.

  Physically, he was one of those unfortunate souls with over exaggerated facial features. Everything was slightly distorted, like in a hall of mirrors. Big, protruding red lips, a noticeably receding chin and a hooked nose that was way too big for his face. His Adam’s apple was enormous, it protruded further than his chin and seemed to sway almost, of its own volition, like an ensign at the stern of a ship. He looked she thought like a caricature of a man. Like an over coloured grotesque nineteenth century satirical cartoon from Punch or The Strand Magazine. He wasn’t real, surely.

  She sat on the moulded plastic chair next to the bed an slowly crossed her legs, deliberately allowing her knee length skirt to fall back a li
ttle too far. She was either unaware of the irony f doing this to a man in Micky’s condition, or she was simple cruel. “Good morning, Mr. Johnston”. The measured tones of her greeting met with a stony, cold silence. “OK I’ll cut the crap then, shall I? You know who did this to you and so do I. Just give me his name and I’ll make sure that he goes away for it. Look what he’s done to you. Surely you can’t let him get away with it? He’s gone too far this time. Just as a matter of interest, how much did you get?”. The story was rife all over the manor. “Twenty grand? Thirty? That’s petty cash to a man like Bellini. It’s nothing.”

  Johnston swallowed hard. Visibly. It hadn’t been that much. Nothing like it. For a moment he was tempted. But only for a moment. It would have been madness.

  “Who did it to you, Micky? Tell me his name.” Her voice was quiet. Gentle and coaxing now. “You don’t have to. I’ll tell you. It was Frank Doyle, wasn’t it? Bellini wouldn’t dirty his own hands on the likes of you. You’re not worth it.” The momentary coaxing had already ended and she was more suddenly aggressive. Ashworth realized that she was playing the old good cop, bad cop routine, but she was playing both parts herself and had to stifle a smile. “You’re nothing to Bellini. He doesn’t care what he does to you. He cuts you down and leaves you to bleed to death. He left you to die, Micky. He wanted you to die. He sent Doyle to kill you. And now you’re protecting him. I can’t believe it. How stupid are you? And what’s it all for? Do you think he’ll welcome you back into the firm with open arms? After you stitched him up like that? Never. Not in a million years. And you’re never going to work again, are you? What use is a crippled bagman who’s likely to hobble off with the bag and keep it for himself? Face it Micky, you’re a pariah, an outcast.” Johnston wondered what a pariah was but didn’t ask. “You’ve got no where to run. Not any more. No-one to turn to either. There’s only me. I’m your only fiend – the only one who can help you now. Without me, you’re on your own. And god knows you’re screwed.” She was in overdrive now, her tone pushing and bullying. She had long since abandoned the idea of there being a P.R. element to her visit and she was now beginning to enjoy herself. What was more she knew that whatever he would tell her, she couldn’t and wouldn’t help him. Micky knew it, too and met her harangue with the same still silence as before. She changed her tack.

  “OK, if you won’t finger Bellini, then give us Doyle. It was him that pulled the trigger, wasn’t it?” she invited. “He’s a mad bastard. You know that better than anyone. He should be in Rampton or Broadmoor. Maybe he could get help there. He doesn’t belong on the streets. Make a statement. He’ll go down and there’s no way he’ll ever get out. I’ve seen copies of his psychiatric reports from Parkhurst. I can’t believe they let him out last time.” Instantly she regretted saying that. The last thing she wanted to do was to sow a seed of doubt that he might be ever released.

  “Frank Doyle?” Micky’s voice was croaky; rasping and dry from the tubes and the drugs.

  “Yes.” She replied patiently, like a nursery school teacher explaining a simple sentence to a backward boy.

  “Wasn’t him.” He turned his face to avoid her intense blue eyes.

  She knew this was coming. You didn’t get men like Bellini, or even Doyle for that matter, that easily. She’d only been going through the motions really but she kept up the pretence. Sighing dramatically, she shook her head resignedly. “Well who was it then?”

  “Don’t know. Never seen him before. Wore a mask anyway. It was too quick.” He let the lies run from his mouth in a flurry. Too much and too quick to be credible. He knew it but he didn’t care.

  “You do surprise me.” They both knew it was a game now. “Was he black or white? Tall or short?”

  “Couldn’t tell. I told you it was too quick.”

  “What sort of accent did he have then? Local?”

  “Didn’t speak.”

  “Yeah, yeah, course not. What was he wearing?”

  “I can’t remember. I’m still in shock. The doctor said so. I’d like you to leave now. I’m very tired.”

  “Don’t worry, I going. You’re a silly bastard, Micky Johnston. You know that?” Her mock seriousness was still part of the game. “You’ve got a real chance to get even with them, put them both away for a long, long time and what are you going to do? Nothing – you’re just going to blow it, your only chance. Bellini and Doyle know that too. They haven’t even sent you flowers. They know you’re scum and so do you. Look at the way they’ve treated you.” With this she lent forward from the chair and sliding her left arm beneath his shoulders, she jerked him brutally to forward, with a strength she didn’t look capable of possessing, forcing Micky to address the reality of his situation, to confront the deformity that Bellini and Doyle had bequeathed to him. His left leg lay there in stark contrast to the right, which ended in a heavily bandaged stump halfway up this thigh. “Make them pay, Micky. They deserve it. Make them pay.” One last attempt at seriousness.

  The tears started to flow and Ashworth lowered him back to his helpless, prone position considerably more gently than she had raised him.

  “I fucking told you. I don’t know who did it.” His tone was desperate rather than aggressive and his hand reached up and fumbled aimlessly for the bell like a fly caught in a spider’s web, prepared to rip its own legs off to try to regain its liberty.

  The nurse duly came. A different one. She said in her attractive West Indian lilt “I think Mr. Johnston’s had quite enough for one day.” It was clear that she would brook no arguments.

  “Its alright, I’m going.” Ashworth had expected no better outcome than this and so she wasn’t disappointed. She rose imperiously. “Think about what I’ve said, Micky. Don’t let them take the piss out of you for ever. Here’s my card. Call me if you change your mind. In the meantime, I’ll send someone in tomorrow to take your statement.”

  The nurse escorted her brusquely out of the room and Micky noticed for the first time the alluring aroma of Chanel No. 5 as it lingered on the air. For just a moment he allowed himself to wonder why his wife never smelled like that. The answer was fifty quid a bottle. For a moment the sweet pastoral scent seemed to anaesthetize his pain and exorcize the room from her previously odious presence. I might be stupid, Micky thought – and he had plenty of evidence to back him up – but I’m not a bloody fool. Micky distrusted the police. So did everyone he knew, all the lads he had grown up with back in the sixties, in years when the likes of the iron fist of the likes of the Richardsons and Freddie Foreman had held London in the vice of their protection. If you had a problem, you didn’t run to the Old Bill. You sorted it yourself. That was the way of the world. Of Micky Johnston’s world, anyway. This was something that he would deal with, not the police. He didn’t know how. Not yet. But he knew he would with a certainty that he had never felt about anything in his life. Already the horror he felt at his amputation was metamorphosing into a bitter canker of hate and anger directed against Bellini and Doyle. Unbeknown to himself, he had already embarked, on a crusade that would consume his mind, his soul and what was left of body. He would have his revenge, his retribution. Bloody, black, murderous retribution.

  Chapter Four

  It had all the rich, textured vividness of a Renaissance painting of the Flavian Amphitheatre. The Christians away to the lions, with a result that could have been predicted by even the most clueless Pools Panel. Asif and Salim Malek lay dead in their office. Asif, the elder brother by some twenty minutes, was slumped forward over his desk and Salim lay prostrate on the floor of their office, a flow of blood continued to seep, now gently, from the single, perfectly positioned gunshot wound in the centre of his forehead and spread out to infest the rich, luxuriant pile of their new hand woven Wilton carpet. This was no amateur bodged job. It was clinical. A professional hit. Detective Inspector Ashworth had been wrong about Don Bellini or at least about the man that Don Bellini was in the process of transforming into. Hewoulddo the dirty work himself. He stoo
d, silhouetted against the harsh piercing glare of the early morning sun hammering on the recently washed window pane, surveying the scene. He revelled in the scene of carnage and mayhem that had played itself out before him. It seemed like he had been both character and audience in a play. Like Titus carving up the pie made of Tamora’s sons and feeding it to her. There was more than a little madness here too, despite the fact that Bellini had seemed so controlled. He suddenly felt like James Bond, sharp suited, caressing the silencer on his Beretta, inhabiting a world were there were no external consequences. No, he was more than James Bond, more than a carefully crafted sham of literary fiction. He felt more like a god. An Old Testament god of fire and retribution. He held the power of life and death in his hands, to be executed on a whim. His whim. He turned and faced the window. It was as if the sun shone for him alone. He stared straight into it and did not burn his eyes.

  Francis Doyle stood quietly, trying to comprehend the Noh play that had just been revealed to him. He still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. This wasn’t going to be anything out of the ordinary. Just a routine meeting like any other. A bit of business, that was all. Bellini had only wanted him and the other two heavies along to look menacing. That’s what he said. Just in case things got out of hand. It was to be an ordinary day. It was only him and Bellini who had walked into the Maleks’ office that morning but there was nothing unusual in that, men like the Maleks appreciated a little confidentiality in their commercial transactions. Tommy and little Nate had waited an outer reception room of the pool hall. There were no customers at this time of day and they passed away the time pleasantly lining up a few shots with the three or four local thugs who were waiting for Salim Malek to dole out and assortment of tasks suited to their disparate skills. They did not even notice the two muted little thuds emanating from the bosses’ office. Sure, Doyle had been surprised by silencer that Bellini had handed to him in his flat that morning when he picked him up. But that was just a new toy. Bellini liked toys and he thought no more of it after fixing it snugly to the sleek barrel of his matt black Russian Tokarev self loading pistol. He sat next to Bellini, in the back of the S Type Jaguar, resplendent in British Racing Green, that he had taken delivery of only the week before. The big cat purred her way slowly through the snarl of central London’s congested traffic and headed out towards Wembley, to what was, graphically but inaccurately, know among south London’s underworld low life as ‘Indian country’.