Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  “Now. Do it now.” This time his voice was even more imperative and commanding than before. More aggressive, too. She knew that she had no choice but to obey.

  Bellini closed Rosie’s legs and roughly pushed her feet off the bed. Her body twisted but she did not fall to the floor. He retrieved his attaché case from the corner of the room, from where it had witnessed such a bloody and complete twist from tenderness to terror. Sitting on the bed, once again nearly in union with his victim, he removed his mobile phone from the case and pressed number one on its speed dial. Tommy’s voice answered croakily as if he was barely awake.

  “Tommy, it’s me. I’m at the White Peacock. I need you over here right now. There’s a bit of a mess that needs cleaning up” he paused, hardly listening to Tommy’s vain attempt to extricate himself. “No, it’s got to be tonight. I don’t care if you have to shut the fucking club. You’d better bring my spare set of keys, I’ve told then to lock up. Come here first and then you’ll have to go an have a word with Maureen for me. Stress the need for her discretion.” He hung up. He didn’t want to give Tommy the chance to say another word. He couldn’t face being angry any more. He felt deflated, drained of all the power that had, only a few minutes before, coursed through his veins with the vibrancy of a Siberian tiger on the hunt. He had really liked that fucking girl. Maybe they could have even had something together. Something special perhaps and she’d just gone and spoiled it all. Fucking bitch. He pushed her onto the floor and she landed with a dull thud behind him. She was out of his sight now and he was grateful for that. Through the door, he could hear Maureen ushering people hurriedly out, towards the street. He imagined old men trying to do up their trousers as they ran down the road, wetting themselves if they heard a police siren. He smiled to himself and by the time he heard Maureen drop the latch and turn the key he had already pulled the belt tight around his bicep and was administering the hypodermic. Tossing it aside, he lay down on the bed and waited.

  Back at the Mount of Venus, Tommy sat and sighed, despite the fact that the phone call had conveyed the last vestiges of Bellini’s excitement and found it increasingly compelling. He didn’t know the details but he could imagine the sight that would confront him only too well. He’d seen it before. More than once by now. What the fucking hell was going on with Bellini? Still, it wasn’t his problem. Tommy had his own agenda and was starting to find it difficult enough to keep his own head above water without having to bother about anybody else’s. What did it matter to him what Bellini got up to, business was business after all, and if he kept quiet and did as he was told, he’d be alright. He’d make sure of that. One way or another, he’d be alright.

  Chapter Six

  “Its been over two months now, Frank.” There was the hint of a sigh in Kurtis Robinson’s voice as he returned from the bar with another two pints of carefully settled Guinness and passed one to Doyle. He stared intently into its warm inviting blackness, stroked the silky cream head oh so gently with the tip of the little finger of his left hand and delicately licked it before slowly, deliberately taking his first sip. The first one was always the best.

  “Two months since he hit the Maleks and he’s getting worse. I don’t know what the fuck’s the matter with him but he’s lost the plot. Surely you can see that. None of us are safe anymore. You included. I think he needs help, a doctor. The man’s gone psycho.”

  Doyle did not like this conversation. Not one little bit, but he had been expecting it, or something similar for weeks now. He didn’t know if it would come from Robinson or Tommy or little Nate even, or from one of the others. But he knew that it would come. Despite his fierce burning loyalty and his inbuilt desire not to accept the fact, Doyle shared Robinson’s concerns. Things had been getting seriously out of hand and Doyle had been doing his level best to keep as low a profile as he could. Bellini’s irrational spells seemed to be coming with greater frequency now and they were certainly lasting longer. Sometimes, he would lock himself up for days on end in the office. Alone. But with the sounds of his manic rage and frustration clearly audible to all. He felt better when he was alone. He felt blessed by the solitude. But it was the rages that even began to terrify Bellini himself in his more lucid moments. Even someone with the unflinching, unquestioning loyalty of Frankie Doyle could not ignore them. It seemed that when he was able to summon up the strength Bellini was able to control himself, just about. But it was as if there was usually a noticeable reluctance for him to even try to exert control over his baser, guttural self. Sure, he had his good days. Days on which Doyle hoped that just maybe everything was returning to normal. That everything would be alright, just like it used to be, and they could all get on with business as usual. There weren’t as many of these days as there used to be and, even then, out of the blue, something could simply click inside Bellini’s brain and he would turn. Like the time that Robinson himself had had a gun thrust against his temple for no reason at all and he counted himself lucky that the trigger hadn’t been squeezed. By thus time, six other people had not been so fortunate. All of them had been killed by Bellini himself. Not by Doyle. They were all low life, that much was true, Robinson accepted that. They were people who didn’t matter to society, let alone to Bellini, not that that was a reasonable measure because at the moment nobody mattered to Bellini. That made seven people in total if you include Salim Malek. That was as many as Doyle had accounted for in his entire life, professional and private. Overnight almost, Bellini had become one of the biggest serial killers in recent years, Fred Shipman excepted of course, but no-one outside his immediate circle even knew that any crimes had been committed. That is, until the last one. The whore in the massage parlour. OK it had been cleaned up. Covered up. Tommy was getting pretty good at that. After all, he was getting a lot of practice and by now there was a small entourage following discreetly behind Bellini to tidy up whatever gory mess he left in his inexorable wake. The old bird who ran the club wouldn’t talk, Robinson was certain of that. Neither would the girls. They weren’t that stupid. But they were frightened, it would be a cold day in hell before any one of them would go into a room alone with Bellini, again. Everyone knew that he was a madman but it took a brave man to bring it out in to the open. Kurtis Robinson was just brave enough and he knew that he’d never have a better chance to usurp Bellini. To do to him what he had done to the Malek twins and to assume control himself. Fear was spreading like a cancer through the Bellini’s empire. Rapidly. Insidiously taking hold in every dark, unseen crevice. Robinson could draw upon, nurture it and watch it grow. Soon it would reach out beyond Bellini’s insular little half-lit underworld and into the real world where ordinary people live. Then the shit would really hit the fan for them all. If there were any of them left by then. If Bellini hadn’t killed every one of them first.

  “Look at you, Frank” Robinson continued. He would have made a good psychologist. He was an adept at picking up on an individual’s needs and fears and he knew, through years of practice, how to exploit them. “He’s pushing you aside. How often does he use you these days? Hardly ever. It seems to me that as far as Bellini’s concerned, you’ve had your day. I’m really worried for you, Frank. I’m pretty sure you’re going to be next. There’s an awful lot of rumours going about.”

  “What rumours?” Doyle tried to sound unconcerned.

  “That you can’t be trusted anymore. That you’d sell him out.”

  “That’s bollocks. Who’s saying that?”

  “I know its bollocks. That’s why I’m talking to you” Robinson studiously ignored Doyle’s question. Like a seasoned politician the lies came easily to him “But does he? You’re more loyal to him than anyone but that doesn’t seem to count for much, these days, does it? Think about it, Frank. He’s gone too far. It’s not his fault, I suppose, but he’s not normal anymore. Not rational, not like you and me. Let’s cut the crap; he’s gone fucking mad and we’re all going to get it in the neck. And you’ll be first. Mark my words. We’ve got to do som
ething about it.”

  The conversation seemed strangely unreal to Doyle. He sat with Robinson at their table in the corner of the busy pub and he felt totally divorced from the Christmas revelry going on all around him. Businessmen in paper hats were having their once a year flirt with their secretaries; students, now on holiday were drinking far too much and becoming ever more raucous. Over the cheap P.A. system Roy Wood and Wizard were wishing it could be Christmas every day. Doyle didn’t. His principal Christmas wish was that Roy Wood would shut the fuck up. There was little seasonal festivity on his table. Peace on earth was an alien concept and goodwill to all men was a novelty that both Doyle and Robinson had long ago laughed into rejection. Doyle, like a latter day Ebenezer Scrooge, prayed sincerely that it would all go away. He wished that everything could be back to normal. But he didn’t think that it ever would be and, in any case, he didn’t know what he could do. Deep down, he felt that maybe Robinson was right. Don Bellini was in a downward spiral, accelerating towards his own destruction. It was just a question of who he would take out on the way and who he would take down with him.

  “I know he’s not been” here he paused searching his limited vocabulary for a suitable epithet, “alright for a while, now but maybe we can get him some help. Persuade him to see a doctor or send him away somewhere. Perhaps we could get in a shrink.” The idea was stupid, even Doyle knew that but he couldn’t just turn his back on Bellini without making some sort of an effort to save him. They’d been through so much together and hadn’t Bellini had always been there to support him? Although he wasn’t really all that much older than him, people used to joke that Doyle loved Bellini like the son he had never had – he certainly didn’t love him like the son he did have. People always took care that Doyle didn’t hear them.

  The irony of a psychopath like Francis Doyle giving advice on anyone else’s mental health problems was not lost on Robinson but he made sure that he didn’t let it show. “Get real, Frank. How are we going to do that? Even if we could get a shrink stupid enough to make a house call, Bellini would just tear him to shreds. And us, too, for calling him in. Youknowits true. He’s beyond help, now. It’s gone way too far for that.”

  Deep down inside, Doyle knew he was right. He nodded sagely, not knowing what else to do. He admitted his ignorance and desperation to Robinson. “What do we do then?”

  “We do to him what he’s going to do to us. You and me together. Only we do it first. I know you’ve been with the family a long time but, ask yourself this. Would his old man have wanted him to end up like this? That’s not what I’ve heard about Tony Bellini.” Doyle shook his head in tacit agreement and Robinson continued “We’ll be doing him a favour, really. He’s getting worse by the day. That little girl in the whorehouse was the last straw. She didn’t deserve die – not like that. She’s not even in our business or anything. Who’s it going to be next? Some old boy going to pick up his pension and Bellini doesn’t like the way he farts? Or a little kid in his push chair going down to the swings?”

  This appeal to sentimentality was lost on Doyle. He didn’t care about the O.A.P. or the child, and so he turned matters back to practicalities. “So, say we do him. What happens then?”

  “We step in. We do him, just like he did Asif and Salim”, his old loyalties still lay heavy with Kurtis Robinson however hard he tried to conceal them, “and then we run the show between us. I’ll deal with the business side of things and you take care of the sharp end, make sure there’s no hiccups or anything. We’ll split the profits. Eighty, twenty. That’s real money, Frank. Big money. You deserve it. With all due respect, Frank, take a look at yourself. Bellini’s been keeping you down. Everything you’ve done for him. For years and years. And what have you got to show for it. Not all that much by the looks of it. You haven’t got your own house, your own car. You’ve not even got your own bird. Nothing. You’ve taken all the risks for him. Its your life that’s been on the line, not his. Countless times. He’s been getting rich while you’ve just been getting by. Together, we can make things right, Frankie. All that you’re doing is taking what he owes you. Nothing more than that.”

  Robinson had heard that money, or rather the lack of it, had always rankled with Doyle. The trade on a man’s greed had long been a profitable one and he thought that this should clinch his argument. He hadn’t wanted to make the deal look too tempting, though. If he offered him too much Doyle would, no doubt, become suspicious and the last thing he wanted too do was to alert Frankie Doyle to the part he was really going to play in the master plan. Let’s get the dirty work over with first. Make Doyle a part of it and not some maverick on the outside, intent on revenging his only friend.

  “I don’t know Kurtis. Its one hell of a big step to take. I’m going to have to think about it.”

  “No, Frank, no.” The last thing Robinson wanted was for Doyle to think. “We can’t afford the time for that. We’ve got to act and it’s got to be now. Now or never. If we leave it any longer, Bellini’ll get wind. He’s bound to. You know he hears everything and I don’t trust that bastard Tommy. I think he’s suspicious of us already. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t the one stirring things up for you with Bellini.” Divide and conquer – another old trick. “He’s sharp though, I’ll give him that. He doesn’t miss a fucking trick. As soon as he gets a sniff Bellini’ll come for me. And then just being seen with me, is going to be enough to put the noose round your neck. You’re already guilty in his mind. You’re as good as dead now. Unless we take action.”

  Doyle could not see that this was exactly what Robinson wanted, binding themselves together in a common bond. Frank Doyle wasn’t scared. It had been a long time since he had felt the luxury of this or any other real emotion. But he was worried. It all seemed too quick, to him. Then again, he told himself, once the decision was made, why wait? In his experience Doyle had found that decisive, fast action always gave you the edge. Sometimes it could be an edge for life over death. But to kill Don Bellini? His boss, his friend – after all these years?

  “I don’t know , Kurtis. “When are you planning to do it?”

  Robinson hadn’t expected it to be easy, although he had hoped. If he wasn’t going to lose Doyle, he would have to push. Hard. “Now. Right now. It has to be this afternoon. Our lives aren’t worth shit to Bellini anymore. You’re nothing to him, Frank. Not any more. Granted, you used to be his best boy but that was a long time ago and he was a different man then. He’s right at the edge now, and one thing’s for certain, he’s going to pull us over with him. Unless we act first. Now. Today. He’ll be locked away in his office and it should be pretty quiet this afternoon. We won’t get any trouble from the boys. They mostly feel the same. They don’t know when they can expect a bullet in the back of the neck. For no bloody reason.” He spoke slowly now and emphasized every word clearly, deliberately. “It’ll be a relief for them all. Believe me, Frank, I don’t want to do it any more than you. But it’s him or us. Surely you know that. Deep down. You saw him with that shooter at my head. I’ve never been so fucking scared in all my life. You saw the girl, too. It’s not just outsiders he’s killing, it’s us too. We’ve all seen it happen before. Remember Matty Mason a few years back. Blew away half his own firm. And his wife and kids too. He’s in a fucking straight jacket in Rampton now. Padded cell. The works. He’s never getting out.”

  Doyle nodded at him and smiled wryly, of course he remembered Mad Matty Mason. Everybody did. When he went wild, on a rampage against his own firm with a sub machine gun that left the entire sub culture of the London underworld reeling. He thought that his mind was virtually made up now. “Let’s have another drink first” he said and he pushed his now drained glass across the table to Robinson. Looking at a frothy residue desperately clinging to the side of the glass but slowly and inexorably succumbing to gravity and falling hopelessly, helplessly to the bottom, Doyle thought he knew exactly how it must feel. He was a player in a game, always had been, he knew that. But now? Now
he felt more isolated and alone than ever. It seemed like he was on a roller coaster, almost. Racing faster and faster to its unavoidable predestination. Once it was in motion, there was no way to get off. Doyle felt that he had nowhere to turn. There was no-one to trust, no-one to put his faith in.

  * * *

  Robinson was right. Of course, he was right, he’d planned it all too well to make a mistake. This had been no spur of the moment idea, dreamed up over a lunchtime beer with Frankie Doyle. It had been conceived in the wake of the Maleks’ death and he had been biding his time, watching as Bellini’ insanity grew, enveloped him and became more apparent to his immediate circle, until it had finally reached the point where no-one felt safe any longer. Paranoia within the firm was growing daily – Bellini wasn’t alone in that. But Robinson’s timing had to be perfect. If he made his move too soon, Bellini might just get the benefit of the doubt and retain enough loyalty to survive, and to have Robinson presented to him, trussed up on a plate, like a stiffed turkey, dressed and ready for Christmas. If he acted too late, Robinson might get his own head blown off in one of Bellini’s irrational outpourings of hate and vitriol. This had very nearly happened, as he had just told Doyle. It was only thanks to Tommy distracting him that he was still alive, changing the subject as if there was nothing strange going on, as if replastering the walls with contents of Robinson’s skull wasn’t that important after all and could, perhaps, wait until tomorrow or the day after. He owed Tommy one for that. He wouldn’t forget, he promised himself. What he had said to Doyle about not trusting him was just a front, a smoke screen to make him feel even more isolated than he really was. Tommy deserved a promotion, he thought. There’d be no more cleaning up for Tommy when Kurtis Robinson was in charge.