Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  Izzy was fuming. The broken wing mirror wasn’t going to be cheap to fix, and now she had a parking ticket; not to mention she still didn’t have her story yet, and her deadline was fast approaching, she thought, as she stomped back across the road to finish her interview with the less than communicative Captain Caveman.

  As she entered the cafe once again, she got a round of applause, which - as she headed back to her table - she chose to acknowledge with her middle finger pointing skyward.

  She came to an abrupt halt.

  I don’t believe this, she thought, as she looked across to the empty table where she’d been sitting only moments before. He’s gone. ‘Where’s the man who was sitting here?’ she asked the Waitress, who was clearing the table.

  ‘Harry? Gone, luv,’ she replied, without taking her attention away from her task.

  ‘I can see that, sister,’ said Izzy, ‘but where has he gone?’

  The Waitress straightened up and gave Izzy a well practised look of world-weary contempt, before walking away.

  ‘Well, at least tell me his full name,’ she called after the retreating Waitress.

  Feeling utterly defeated and deflated, she collapsed onto the still-warm bench seat recently vacated by the man called Harry. She slouched across the table, forehead resting on her arms, and idly wondered if it was too early to drink wine. She noticed the Waitress had not cleared the man’s newspaper, along with his cutlery and crockery. Maybe it belongs to the cafe, she thought, and not the man himself.

  If there was one reporter’s trait that Izzy did have, it was that of being curious. At a glance, she noticed he had completed the crossword. She unfolded the paper and turned to the front page, to be mildly surprised to see it was one of the more ‘highbrow’ broadsheets. Maybe he isn’t such a Neanderthal. It was just at that moment when Izzy thought there might be a God, after all. There, in the top right hand corner of the newspaper, written in pen, was an address - and it certainly wasn’t the address of the cafe she was sitting in.

  ‘Hallelujah,’ she said out loud, not caring who heard, as she scooped up the newspaper and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  He watched as his driver hammered his fist loudly against the locked door of the snooker club. He wondered why he was there. What it was he’d done to be summoned at that late hour.

  Minutes passed.

  The lock was turned, the door opened, and a wary face peered out. It looked at the driver, then at him, then back to the driver, before giving a twitch of the head.

  They entered.

  His shift had barely finished when the driver had turned up to collect him, sent by their employer: the Boss. Not told why or where they were going. Still wearing his work clothes of nightclub doorman: black suit, white shirt, black tie. Hair closely cropped to his skull. Black overcoat and black leather gloves to ward off the night’s winter chill.

  He followed the driver through the dimly lit snooker hall. The room was hot and stuffy, filled with cigarette smoke. There was murmured conversation, occasional outbursts of laughter, and coarse language. Dark shadows were gathered around a dimly lit bar in the far corner of the room. A jukebox could be heard playing. Ghostly figures moved around and amongst the tables, physiques and features looming suddenly into sharp contrast under snooker table spotlights. The features of hard men. Dangerous men. Men to be feared. Gangsters, villains, and a few off-duty Old Bill.

  The Doorman recognised a few of the faces.

  As he passed, comment was made. Laughter followed. He heard a voice, but not the comment. Saw a shape, but not the face. He walked on. Followed the driver.

  He entered a large room that smelled of stale alcohol. Crates and barrels were stacked:the cellar room.

  Elegantly dressed and perched on the edge of a beer barrel, legs crossed, hands clasped around his knee, sat the Boss. Standing next to him was a man he didn’t recognise. He was similar in stature and age to the Doorman. He had a maniacal look in his eye. He shifted from foot to foot. Agitated. Full of nervous energy. Excited. Eager.

  A few feet away, sat a third man. Young, strong, and heavily tattooed. He was also agitated. But with fear and apprehension.

  All three turned as the Doorman and the driver entered. The driver stayed by the door. The Doorman approached the Boss, who greeted him by his given name. The Doorman responded by calling him ‘Sir’. His employer explained why he had been brought. His employer had a problem, and he felt sure the Doorman was the man to resolve it for him.

  The problem was the heavily tattooed man.

  He’d been caught doing ‘some business’ outside his ‘manor’. On the Boss’s manor. And without permission. That was showing disrespect. Dishonour. And that could not be allowed. He had to be taught the error of his ways.

  The man with the maniacal stare took a step forward, holding out his hand. His smile was cruel and twisted. His eyes mocking. He dropped an object into the Doorman’s gloved palm, gave him a wink, then stepped back.

  As the Doorman approached, the tattooed man quickly stood. Legs braced, shoulders back, chest out. Expectant. Fists clenching and unclenching. Jaw set. Expression fierce and defiant. Ready.

  Their eyes met. Faces searched. Judging, weighing-up, deciding.

  The Doorman opened his palm. Studied the object that lay there. His thumb pressed a button on the narrow handle. A faint ‘snick’ was heard, as six inches of spring-loaded steel shot out, breaking the hushed silence. A blade dulled by time, its edge keen, and covered with the microscopic scratches of regular honing.

  He looked back at the tattooed man, whose expression was now less fierce and less defiant. He weighed-up what he was about to do. What was expected of him. He then asked of himself:

  How do I feel?

  Do I care?

  No!

  Do I care that I don’t care?

  Why should I care?

  The Doorman knows he’s at a turning point. He knows he’s about to be judged by his next action. He knows he’s being tested - initiated.

  Over his shoulder, he hears the soft yet persuasive voice of the Boss. Encouraging. Asking to make him proud. Justifying the guilty man’s punishment in that his business had been selling drugs to children.

  He again looked into the eyes of the tattooed man. Defiance had been replaced by realisation. The need for survival. Fight or flight.

  He tells himself he doesn’t care.

  Is there a reason for him to care?

  Life was not fair. That was a fact. It was every man for himself.

  He weighed-up what he had to do.

  He retracted the blade on the knife and slipped it into his overcoat pocket, to then withdraw a dulled brass metal object which he slipped over the fingers of his gloved hand.

  He taught the tattooed man a lesson.

  The Boss looked on with interest and with curiosity. Silent.

  The man with the maniacal stare. Disappointed.

  The driver. Bored.

  When he’d finished, the soft voice thanked him. Then dismissed him.

  The driver left. He followed.

  Back through the hall, past the tables, low conversation and enquiring eyes. The jukebox was playing a song that sounded familiar.

  A comment was made. Derisive laughter followed.

  His stride slowed.

  From out of the dark, head and shoulders loomed into spotlight view. Palm flat on table edge, fingers forming a bridge for the tip of the cue. Polished wood handle caressing stubbled chin. Gaze focused on the table’s contents, lining-up for a shot.

  Lips moved to utter yet another insulting comment. More derisory laughter. Gaze momentarily lifted to look out into the surrounding darkness, mocking eyes, locking onto intended target.

  The Doorman.

  A sneer crossed the face, before returning its attention back to the table.

  The Doorman recognised the man. A gangster from another manor. A right hard bastard. Rumour had it he usually carried a shooter.

>   This time he heard the insult. Didn’t understand it though. A leery comment about who his natural father was. Made no difference. A piss-take was a piss-take. End of story. Disrespect had been shown.

  An expectant hush had fallen around the table.

  He remembered it was a Rolling Stones song, ‘Sympathy for the Devil’.

  “Please allow me to introduce myself

  I’m a man of wealth and taste

  I’ve been around for a long, long year

  Stole many a man’s soul and faith”

  A faint ‘snick’ sound was then heard, immediately followed by the soft thud of metal being embedded into cloth and wood, followed a heartbeat later by the cry of agonised pain.

  He told the gangster he should’ve ‘played safe’ and gone for the blue, before casually and confidently walking-on towards the exit, with a swagger that belied his youth.

  In the car park, the driver got back into the car. The Doorman paused for a moment before doubling over and retching, acrid bile burning his throat as he vomited. He wiped his mouth, regained his composure, then climbed back into the car.

  The driver told him he’d get used to it.

  A new order had begun. The Doorman had now become the ‘Enforcer’, setting the tone for what was to come: money, cars, women, violence and self-respect, all in equal measure.

  And tomorrow would be the Enforcer’s nineteenth birthday...

  CHAPTER 5

  Patrick was in the hallway of his large detached home in Hampstead, searching through an antique bureau, and becoming increasingly annoyed by the fruitless results of his search, until the sound of someone knocking at his front door caused him to pause for a moment, before then continuing.

  Minutes passed.

  More knocking. This time louder, drawing his attention to the door and its adjacent window, where two large shadows were attempting to peer through the closed vertical blinds.

  He watched as the door handle turned. Locked.

  The shadows eventually moved away.

  The mobile phone in Patrick’s back pocket started to softly ring. Removing it, he then frowned, perplexed, as he looked at the caller display, indecision on his face. He chose not to answer, but to turn it off and replace it back into his pocket. As he resumed his search, he heard the sound of a car engine start up and then drive away, fading into the distance.

  ‘Who was at the door?’ asked his wife, Maggie, as she came down the stairs.

  ‘Nobody,’ said Patrick, without looking up.

  ‘“Nobody”, makes that much noise knocking, you thick paddy.’

  ‘It was the Jehovah Witnesses.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say that,’ she said, going over to where he was standing. ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked, leaning in to see.

  ‘Mind your business and watch your mouth, woman,’ he said.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she replied, turning away. ‘I’m going to Mollie’s. I’ll be back later.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Maggie picked up her coat and bag, and went out the front door.

  Patrick eventually found what he was looking for: two Yale keys tied together with a bit of string, which he put into his shirt top pocket. He then moved on to the next drawer, but as he did so, Maggie burst back in through the front door.

  ‘It’s gone! The BMW has gone!’

  Patrick continued searching.

  ‘Patrick. The car has been stolen! Phone the police!’

  ‘In a minute, woman. Can’t you see I’m busy,’ he said, over his shoulder.

  ‘What do you mean, in a minute? It’s been stolen for Christ’s sake,’ she shouted at him.

  Patrick spun around. ‘Look, if it’s gone, it’s gone. Another few minutes won’t make any difference,’ he said, his face flushed.

  Maggie took a step backwards. ‘How am I supposed to get into town, then?’

  ‘Take the Range Rover, it’s parked out the back.’

  ‘I don’t like driving that thing, it’s too big.’

  ‘Then walk. I really don’t give a fuck!’ he said, raising his voice.

  ‘Can’t you run me in?’

  ‘I’m busy,’ he answered, turning back to his search.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I’m going for breakfast.’

  With an exasperated groan, Maggie snatched up the keys to the Range Rover, reminded him to phone the police and the car leasing company, and then strode through to the rear of the house, slamming doors as she went.

  Patrick pulled out a bundle of papers. Sifting through them, he then selected a small single item. After studying it for a few seconds - which brought a smile to his face - he placed it in his pocket along with the keys. After casting a glance at the front door, he picked up a copy of the North London Gazette, from off the bureau, to then also go through to the rear of the house. He crossed a large garden, quietly slipped through a gate to an access road at the rear of the property, to then walk down to the main road and hail a taxi cab.

  Patrick got a coffee from the counter, before then going over to the table and sliding his big frame onto the red faux leather bench seat. ‘Morning,’ he said.

  Harry looked up at the big ruddy faced man sitting opposite him, then glanced around the half empty cafe, before returning his attention to his breakfast and newspaper.

  ‘Nice day,’ said the big man.

  Harry did not look up, he merely grunted to acknowledge the man had spoken. Two thoughts popped into Harry’s head: one, it was anything but a nice day - it was pissing-it-down; two, he must find a cafe where he could have his breakfast in peace.

  ‘My name’s Patrick,’ said the big man.

  This time Harry didn’t even bother to grunt.

  ‘And you must be Harry Windsor,’ said Patrick.

  Harry’s head snapped up to fix the big man with a stare.

  Patrick now had Harry’s full attention.

  Harry’s gaze wandered over the big Irishman. He took in the ruddy complexion and the thread veined nose that indicated a love of strong spirits - probably Irish whiskey - the thinning hair, the cruel eyes, and the faint aroma of stale tobacco and aftershave, before gently placing his knife and fork onto his plate, to then sit back, palms flat to the table.

  Patrick took a sip of coffee and grimaced.

  Harry smiled inwardly before saying, ‘And how would you know that, Patrick?’

  ‘I hear you’re the sort of man that helps people,’ said Patrick, getting straight to the point. ‘And I need help.’

  Seeing a look of puzzlement cross Harry’s face, he pulled a newspaper from his jacket pocket, laid it on the table, and after smoothing it flat, pushed it towards Harry.

  Looking down, Harry saw it was a copy of the North London Gazette. His attention was drawn to a large article de-crying the cut in funding for a community sports centre. Below that article was a smaller one titled: ‘Have-a-go-hero foils knife-wielding thugs’. With anger building inside him, Harry skimmed through the story, ending with the name of the reporter: Isobelle Harker.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Harry, still staring at the newspaper.

  ‘You’re obviously a man of principles and morals,’ said Patrick, indicating the article.

  ‘You couldn’t be further from the truth,’ replied Harry, looking up at Patrick, anger in his eyes.

  Tension hung heavy in the air. Patrick took another sip of his coffee, the coffee mug lost in the cradle of his big hands. ‘Coffee tastes good,’ he said, simply. He looked back at Harry. ‘I need help.’ He then said, ‘I need your help... to find my daughter. She’s missing.’

  ‘The coffee’s shit.’ Harry was annoyed. He was annoyed with Isobelle Harker for printing the story. He was annoyed with the man sitting opposite for intruding on his privacy, and he was annoyed with himself for the question he was about to ask and where it might lead. ‘What do you mean by missing? Lost? Runaway?’

  ‘Missing. Gone. We haven’t heard from her in over a week, which is unusual.’<
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  ‘You need to go to the police.’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘No, can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because my wife doesn’t yet know she’s missing.’ Patrick could see Harry looked sceptical. ‘My wife is under the impression that Mollie, our daughter, has gone to stay with a girlfriend who’s helping her get over a recent split with her latest boyfriend,’ he added.

  ‘Where... or from who,’ asked Harry, ‘did your wife get that impression?’

  Patrick hesitated, before then saying, ‘From me.’

  Harry didn’t comment. He waited. Patiently.

  ‘We had an argument - me and Mollie,’ said Patrick, uncomfortably. ‘I struck her... gave her a bit of a slap. We haven’t seen or heard from her since.’

  Harry had a very low opinion of men who physically abused women and who had no respect for family. ‘You need to tell your wife,’ he said, disgusted.

  ‘My marriage is shaky as it is,’ replied Patrick, ‘and this would finish it. I’m sure Mollie’s fine. That nothing bad has happened to her, and she’s only doing this to punish me. She’s always been independent and strong willed. Done her own thing. But she’s always kept in touch. Her mother’s getting suspicious. I need to find my daughter, and quickly.’