Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  Doyle liked the car, the new car smell more enticing than any perfume. The soft, embracing luxuriance of the leather interior and burr walnut veneer were pretty much the only things in his mind as he followed Bellini into the Malek’s inner sanctum and closed the door. He wasn’t the sort of man who was used to intellectual multi-tasking. At first he didn’t really pay much attention to what was going on but that changed suddenly as Bellini began to unfold events. What happened all seemed so unreal. It seemed like the slow motion sequence of an old film flickering before Doyle’s one good eye. Like Bellini, he took the role of both audience and actor. But not director though, Bellini reserved that august position for himself. Salim rose from his desk and crossed towards Bellini his hand outstretched in greeting, a welcoming smile playing across his lips. Without a word, without any warning whatsoever, Bellini reached inside the breast of his sharp Italian suit, pulled out his handgun and shot Salim dead. Doyle could barely take in what had happened, it was so unexpected. Neither could Asif but he made a sudden movement to his desk drawer. Doyle, still seeing this in slow motion, reacted instantaneously on pure primordial self-preserving instinct and before Asif could produce the semi automatic he kept loaded in his top right desk drawer, he too was already dead. For the first time in a long time, Doyle was stunned. He sort of knew what had happened, he had absolutely no idea why. It never even entered his mind to ask.

  “That’s why I wanted you along, Frankie. Well done.” Bellini sounded calm, although Doyle had never before even seen him with a gun, let alone commit such a calculated act of obviously premeditated, cold blooded murder. Yes, it was a shock but already Doyle felt his bond with Bellini growing yet more close. They had shared this, shared something special, something that was, in Doyle’s twisted psyche, beautiful – they were now brothers, bound together by a kindred bond of blood.

  Bellini too had shared Doyle’s sense of unreality. He hadn’t expected to feel this way. Right now, he knew that he could do anything. He was the king of the world. He looked Doyle straight in the eye. For the first time he could fully comprehend the powers of the evil demons, the avenging Furies, that possessed and tormented him, that drove him onwards and, like Orestes, haunted his soul. For the first time ever he truly respected Francis Doyle, for power like was accompanied, he felt, by great responsibility. The responsibility for the matter, the very fact, of existence. By a simple, single act, Bellini had become something greater than he had ever imagined he could be. He felt that he had become whole for the first time in his life and, with it, he had grown to be greater than the sum of his parts. He knew that people would be able to see it in him – his countenance radiated, he could feel it almost burning it was so intense. He was an irresistible force with an irresistible power. He had become. He crossed the room and placed his hand on Doyle’s head in what would looked like any observer a bizarre parody of a papal benediction. There lived within Don Bellini a bizarre madness which no-one had ever even suspected existed and it was as if it had now, suddenly, rather than gradually and insidiously, not just risen to the surface but had permeated his entire being. It was already dominating and controlling him. Although he was no stranger to violence, he had never before killed anyone. Not himself. That had always been left to the hired help, normally to Doyle. He felt now that he had been blooded, like children being made to confront the inexorable fact of death in the raw at their first fox hunt, their innocent faces being corrupted, in a bent ancient liturgy, by the blood of the innocent. Bellini knew that he would never feel ordinary, never feel mortal, again.

  He turned from Doyle and opened the door.

  “Gentlemen” he announced. There was an audible gasp as the Maleks’ hired hands looked beyond him into the room, over the carpet of blood to the lifeless bodies of their employers. Every one was a hard men, well used to the bloody realities of their modern lives, but even so the shock was almost overwhelming. Perhaps it was this that prevented them from opening fire immediately. Three of them pulled weapons from their waste bands and raised them shakingly at Bellini. His own men, Tommy and Nate, followed suit in north London’s version of a Mexican stand off. Bellini simply raised his hands out before him and lowered them again slowly, commandingly. He smiled benignly. It was as though he was a Roman emperor, or Alexander: the known world was at his feet and would hear his command and obey. Without a word being uttered, in fact almost hypnotically all the men, both the Maleks’ and Bellini’s, lowered their guns. No-one would have been able to say why they did it, but they all felt the insidiousness of his authority, and were impelled to respond to it.

  He slowly inclined his head, deliberately and at a slight angle, implicitly acknowledging their acceptance of his authority.

  “Gentlemen” he repeated. “As you can see, there has been a hostile take-over bid for your corporation. Asif and Salim have”, he paused, selecting his words with great care, “retired. With immediate effect you are in my employ. Welcome. Tommy, Nate, please dispose of these” he waved in the general direction of the bodies. “You gentlemen”, he addressed the new members of his organization, “please bring Mr. Robinson to me. And assure him that his employment is ….. secure. Then bring everyone here. I want to appraise all my new employees of their new terms and conditions of employment.” The thugs were not used to the stern formality of the language of the boardroom, but they thought that they understood the general idea and silently complied.

  * * *

  Kurtis Robinson sat opposite Don Bellini, the expanse of the desk separating them like protagonists. There was an almost tangible frisson of tension emanating from Robinson. He tried to suppress it and he could not imagine how Bellini stayed so cool. When he had received the summons and the quick précis of events, he too had to make an instant decision. Should he run? Fight back? Or play along? Every option was fraught with its own danger, that much was certain. Bellini had a bad reputation which had just got worse as he instantly just moved up a league. He was in the big time now – the biggest. Up until an hour ago Robinson had been the Maleks’ best boy, their number one lieutenant and if Bellini was serious about his ‘hostile take-over’ then, he thought, he would almost certainly need the infrastructure that the Maleks’ had built around them in order to continue ‘trading’. He would need him. Robinson was the only man still alive who knew the full scope of their business enterprises. This, so he hoped, would give him an element of job security, for the time being. With this he could buy himself a little time to decide what to do and how his own interests could best be served. At this moment Kurtis Robinson did not feel much like a company man, but he knew that he had to formulate a plan. Right now, he didn’t know what support he had within the firm. Or indeed, if he had any at all. All of this had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. He couldn’t believe the twins had been so stupid to get blown away in their own office. But how could they have been suspicious? They had met with Bellini a dozen times before, normally quite amicably. This wasn’t the way things were done here. Maybe in Russia but Robinson doubted even that. It belonged to the realms of fantasy. He was as seriously concerned about the long term effects of Bellini’s actions as he was about the short term. If he went on like this it could be the start a gang war. The whole fucking city would explode, he thought. It would be anarchy. Pure bloody anarchy. No-one could win, except maybe the police, with half the crime bosses in London dead and the other half to scared to venture outside of the security of their offices for fear of having their head blown off. This was twenty first century London for God’s sake, not Chicago in the nineteen thirties. It wasn’t the wild bloody west.

  By the time Robinson had arrived at the pool hall, both Bellini and the office had returned to some semblance of normality. Bellini’s self perceived glowing aura had seemed to fade as the corpses of the Malek twins had been hastily removed. He wondered if their very presence acted as a catalyst. Maybe that was what he needed. But for now they were safely locked away in the boot of Tommy’s car, ready for a trip to their f
inal sanctified resting place in a shallow grave that would be dug that night. Two bodies with a single soul, in death as it was in life. The largely unsuccessful attempts to remove the blood stains from the carpet had been tried and abandoned, and they were, for the time being, nearly hidden beneath a couple of gaudy scatter rugs that one of Bellini’s new boys had been sent out to buy. It was the businessman that Robinson saw, sitting at his boss’ old desk, and not the dark, avenging angel of death.

  “Mr. Robinson.” Bellini offered his hand and Robinson shook it. Robinson had surreptitiously wiped the sweat from his palm on his trouser leg so as not to betray his nervousness. His grip was firm and decisive. Bellini liked that. It was the handshake of a genuine man. The sort you could trust. Robinson knew that, right now, he could not afford to show the turmoil that was racking his brains and churning up his guts like a cement mixer. He said nothing, afraid that his voice might crack. Bellini continued, “Thank you for coming in so promptly. I’m sure that you must be feeling a little, erh,” he searched for the right word, “unsettled, following Asif and Salim’s unexpected retirement.” There was no hint of irony in his voice. “I want to reassure you that I plan no further changes in personnel. No staff cuts. Not yet. There will be no redundancies for the time being. I hope we can keep it that way. I want you on board with me and I want you to be happy. You’re very important to my plans, Kurtis, so I’ll give you the background to what’s happened here this morning. I’ve had a little deal going on with the Malek’s for some time. You know about that? The imports from Columbia.” Robinson nodded. “All of a sudden, without any warning, last night, they tried to move the goal posts. Tried to bypass me. I can’t accept that. You understand. They undermined my position and put me in a terrible position. If I had let them get away with that, my authority, my entire organization would be undermined. I had to take action. Immediate action and I had to be decisive. In our business you can’t show any weakness and you can’t let people shaft you.”

  Robinson knew bullshit when he heard it but began to relax a little. The Maleks had had no intention of stitching Bellini up, he was sure of that. It wasn’t their style. If they had, he would have known about it. Anyway, they had needed him more than he needed them. He was handling the import of the drugs, they were dealing only with the North London distribution. On this deal, they were his agents only, no more. But if Bellini was going to the trouble of making up a story, no matter how lame it was, Robinson felt that the odds of him getting out of the room with his head still attached to his neck were improving. Likewise, Bellini knew his story would be incredible to Robinson, but he didn’t really care, although he now wished he had come up with something better, a little more plausible. But, as he waited in the office for Robinson, he had been too occupied to give it much thought. The only thing that mattered was how he would respond to it.

  “Do you want me to show you around the manor? Introduce you to a few of the faces?” Robinson felt confident enough to speak now, without fear of his voice breaking down and betraying his insecurities. But more than this, he also wanted Bellini to stop spouting this crap. They both knew why he had done it. Greed. Covetousness. Avarice. Robinson didn’t much like playing these games.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Bellini seemed satisfied. “That would be very useful. You know my associate Mr. Doyle, of course.” Doyle stepped out of the corner of the room. He had been behind Robinson all the time, brooding and silently watchful. In his initial state of shock co-mixing with intense concentration, Robinson hadn’t even noticed him.

  Suddenly he was worried. Was that mad bastard still here? What for? “Hello, Frank.” He managed to stay calm. Robinson looked him up and down to make sure that none of the weapons Doyle was known to habitually carry was drawn and ready for use. They weren’t and Robinson steadied his nerves once more.

  “Kurtis” was his curt acknowledgement. Robinson was pleased to see that he remained motionless in the corner.

  Bellini continued and Robinson turned back in his seat to face him once more. “When we get back, I’d like you to arrange for me to see all the books. All the books” he emphasized. “And set up a meeting with the late Misters Malek’s accountant. It’s a Mr. Kellett, I believe?” Robinson nodded. “I have a few ideas for maximizing profitability.” Bellini was on familiar territory now and was beginning to feel very comfortable. The two men rose and accompanied by Doyle, the master led the way out to survey his newly acquired territory.

  Robinson assessment of Bellini had been somewhat less than accurate. This morning’s business expansion had been only incidental. He did not desire the Maleks’ local empire. It was almost as if it had been forced upon him. It was only at 3 a.m. that morning that his need to kill the Maleks had materialized. It was strong. A potent desire the like of which he had never felt before and it had to be satiated. . The planned meeting was going to be just what it purported to be – genuine, purely routine. The next heroin shipment was coming in next week. It was a big one and Bellini wanted to be sure that the Maleks were ready to move their share. Suddenly, as he lay beside his beautiful wife in their beautiful home, in a reverie somewhere half between sleep and sentience he was hit by a flash of inspiration. He felt blinded by it. It was only sensible to him, but it lit the room with a piercing golden glow and seemed to emanate from within his own consciousness. It was not something that he would ever be able to articulate. It had to be felt. Sensed. This was how Hieronymous Bosch or William Blake must have felt, he thought afterwards, as they created their visionary paintings and songs of innocence and experience. It was a revelation. He was St. John the Divine on his island cave of the Apocalypse on Patmos. He had seen God. Touched him. Felt him. God was revealing his mysteries to him, communing with him. Was he becoming God? He knew what had to be done and he knew how to do it. The question of why was irrelevant. It never even occurred to him. He had already ascended to a higher plane. Mere details could be left to mortal men, he was occupied with bigger matters than ‘why’. He didn’t know, what the future held for him. But it would soon be revealed to him, he had no doubt about that. And it would be, he was certain, magnificent.

  No-one had seen it coming. Not Bellini himself, not his wife or kids, nor his colleagues. They couldn’t have done. It was too sudden for that and he had always erected too many walls to allow anyone to ever get really close. It was the same with his heroin use. He’d hidden that from everyone, too. He’d even denied his growing dependence to himself; he refused to see how it had affected him. The walls he built grew ever higher. They kept himself out of his own psyche as well as others. He was a very insular man, he always had been. Self reliant. Even when was a child it was the same. He had never been able to articulate his feelings, his father had done his work well, in this he was far more English than Italian. As far as he could remember, he had only once told Natalie, Harris as she had been then, that he loved her and that was just to talk her into his bed. He didn’t know then what the word meant and he sure as hell didn’t know now. But it wasn’t the heroin that was changing him, he was able to convince himself of that. He could handle it. No trouble. Bellini had brainwashed himself well and in fact he was indeed partly right. There was more to his descent into madness than just the smack. Why do these things happen? How can a man fall so rapidly and so completely into vast abyss of insanity? It’s not just the opiates, that alone can’t explain it. He had suffered no shock. No trauma. No matter how many doctoral theses are written, or how many learned dissertations are delivered, no-one really knows how it happens or why it happens. To some extent, megalomania came with his job and, in any case, delusions such as Bellini’s are far from uncommon within the volumes of respected psychiatric journals and in the wards of secure hospitals its still not unknown to find Jesus occupying the next bed to Napoleon. Perhaps there are too many lapsed Catholics in the world. Certainly there are too many Bellinis and too many Doyles. In hospital they can be controlled. Treated, if never really cured. But what of care in the community whe
n it so easily degenerates into don’t care, and without the community? On the streets it becomes so different. On the streets you find smelly ranting old men you cross the road and brave the oncoming traffic to avoid. But they aren’t your problem, you can just pass by and forget them. It becomes your problem though, when the man with the delusions has real power. Not the sanitized, disinfected power of the boardroom or the political chamber but the real, blood stained power of violence, of fear, of manipulation, of extortion. Power over life and death.

  * * *

  Daniel Bungay was the managing director of South Essex Construction Services Limited, a wholly owned subsidiary of a Jersey based holding company, which itself was owned by a corporation based in the Cayman Islands, which, although his name appeared on no deeds, files or documentation, was ultimately owned by one Donald Bellini. It was one of many semi legitimate business that Bellini had created, bought into or, somehow or other, acquired. They served him well. The few he was openly associated with, allowed him to call himself a businessman and gave him some social status in his local suburban community. Generous donations could be freely made to charities and he could admire his picture in the papers, in the social columns rather than with the court listings. In this way, he had made many valuable contacts, some, even at the highest level of government. These corporations could be used to launder some of the vast profits made by his less legitimate business ventures, the drugs, the whores, the extortion, the racketeering. Some, like South Essex Construction, afforded him other advantages which he was able, from time to time, to exploit. The company had, thanks to Bungay, never won a tender legitimately. He had a rare talent for sniffing out who was open to bribery and could judge just how full a brown envelope needed to be, or how big an extension to a councillor’s house was required. More than one local authority executive and contracts director of major contractors had a lot to thank Bungay for. He didn’t consider that he was doing anything wrong. In his own mind, he certainly wasn’t a criminal although he had few illusions about the real source of his principal’s income. He lived in abject terror of ever upsetting Bellini.