by Andy Wiseman
She realised she was still sitting with her mouth agape; stunned. ‘How rude... How bloody rude!’
Harry made his way up the stairway to the first-floor. His plan - such as it was - was to surprise Cutter. Getting through Cutter’s front door was his first big obstacle. Cutter was a seriously dangerous individual. Lightning fast with a knife, not afraid to use it, and with no regards to the unspoken laws of the street. Total surprise was Harry’s biggest weapon.
In the thick leather jacket and helmet, Harry was sweating profusely. He could feel it running down his torso, sticking his shirt to his body, and soaking the waistband of his jeans. It trickled down his face, stinging his eyes. He blinked hard to clear his vision. He still felt like shit. And this was not a good time to feel like shit.
He reached the first-floor. Just the one door, with the letter ‘B’.
He lifted the visor slightly to get some air. Would Cutter recognise him by his eyes, and what little of his face could be seen? He then recalled when he’d looked in the mirror, earlier that morning; he’d barely recognised himself.
He knocked on the door, and braced himself. He thought he heard a muffled shout come from within. He stared hard at the painted door, and the dull brass letter ‘B’. He noted there was a spyhole.
No answer.
Harry rapped on the door again, longer and harder.
‘Fuck sake!’ came an angry reply approaching the door.
There was a pause - Harry sensed he was being watched through the spyhole - before he heard the latch being turned, and saw the door handle move. The door was violently thrown open to reveal Cutter. ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he asked, his eyes wild and menacing.
Cutter was a couple of inches shorter than Harry, but other than that, they were of a similar build. Cutter’s hair was long and lank, down to his shoulders. He wore blue jeans, tee-shirt and cowboy boots. A bottle of lager hung loose in one hand.
Harry’s gaze was drawn to the ugly, yet familiar scar, above and below Cutter’s right eye. Story went he’d got it in a knife fight, his opponent’s blade narrowly missing his eyeball, leaving a deep wound which, as the story goes, Cutter stitched up himself. Harry knew differently.
‘Well?’ said Cutter.
‘Pizza,’ mumbled Harry, lifting the box up for Cutter to see.
‘I didn’t order pizza, you fuckin’ moron.’ Then, almost in the same breath, ‘What sort is it?’
As Harry started to lift the lid, he took a step forward. Cutter’s gaze instinctively dropped down. Harry saw a look of confusion cross the scarred face when it saw the partially eaten pizza. Harry eased his weight onto his back leg, tensing the muscles. Ready.
‘What the fuck...’ said Cutter.
As his gaze came back up to look at Harry, Harry pushed the pizza box into Cutter’s chest, who in turn automatically raised his hands to grasp the box. As he did so, Harry’s whole upper body whipped forward at lightning speed, to then headbutt Cutter full in the face. Even through the thick motorcycle helmet, Harry heard and felt the crunch of cartilage as Cutter’s nose was spread across his face, smearing blood across the helmet’s visor.
From a young age, Harry had learnt that the secret for an effective headbutt was to put the weight and force of the whole upper body behind it, to maximise the damage to the opponent while minimising damage to oneself. The motorcycle helmet helped considerably, of course.
The force of Harry’s attack threw Cutter backwards, crashing him into the wall of the hallway before he slumped into a heap on the floor. For a moment, Harry thought he might have killed him, but a groan confirmed he was still alive.
Harry pulled off the helmet, and stepped over Cutter. He had to be quick. He only had minutes before Cutter would start to come around. He quickly searched the flat, going from room to room. He really didn’t expect to find Mollie, but was hoping for a sign she might have been there, confirming Cutter had had a hand in her disappearance. Finding nothing, he returned to the hallway. ‘Shit!’ Cutter was gone. All that remained was a pool of blood, a crumpled pizza box, and a bottle of lager, leaking its contents onto the carpet. Harry whirled around, expecting an attack. Nothing. The only sign of Cutter was a trail of blood, leading off. Harry followed it into the lounge. There, he found Cutter, leaning against a large, solid marble fire surround, one hand gripping the mantelpiece for support, the other reaching for an ornamental samurai sword that was mounted on a wooden block; until it occurred to Harry that it might not be ornamental; it might be ‘the real McCoy’. Either way, in Cutter’s hands, it was a lethal weapon.
In three long strides, Harry reached Cutter, grabbed a handful of lank hair, and jerked him backwards, away from the sword, propelling him across the room, and crashing him into an armchair near the French doors.
Negotiating a solid looking timber chest that served as a coffee table, Harry approached Cutter. On the chest, he noticed a variety of small plastic bags. He recognised Cannabis Resin, some white powder which he assumed was Cocaine, and some brightly coloured pills - of what, Harry had absolutely no idea.
Cutter had dragged himself into a sitting position, knuckles white with effort, as he gripped the arms of the chair, breathing heavy and laboured, caused by the inability to breathe through his nose and the blood that was filling his throat, which he periodically spat out onto the floor, while blinking rapidly as he tried to focus on the man standing before him. Harry saw his eyes go wide in shock and recognition.
‘Harry Windsor, you’re a fuckin’ wanker,’ he screamed.
‘Nice to see you too, Wayne,’ said Harry, using Cutter’s given name purely to piss-him-off further.
‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘The girl,’ said Harry.
‘What fuckin’ girl?’
‘Mollie Dolan.’
Cutter didn’t answer. Just stared back at Harry.
‘You know who I’m talking about,’ continued Harry. ‘The daughter of the big Irishman who owes Mr Solomon money.’
Cutter started to laugh, having decided to give up on feigning ignorance, just so that he could torment Harry. ‘I thought you’d given up being the Jew’s lap dog, Windsor,’ he said, spitting more blood onto the floor.
Harry found himself wondering how difficult it would be to get the blood out of the carpet, which in turn reminded him he had to take his rug to the dry cleaners.
‘So, you’re looking for daddy’s little girl, eh?’ grinned Cutter. There was something about that sentence that struck a chord with Harry, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. ‘You won’t find her,’ said Cutter. ‘I sold her.’
‘What the fuck do you mean, you sold her?’ said Harry, stunned.
‘When it became obvious her old man didn’t have the money he owed, I sold her to a gang of Eastern Europeans,’ he grinned. ‘A guy has to make a living somehow, and it would’ve been a shame to waste such a valuable asset - especially one as talented as she is.’ Seeing Harry frown, he then said, ‘She’s a dirty little bitch who loves sex, and who likes it rough.’
Then Harry remembered: the diary. Mollie had mentioned that a man she’d had violent sex with, had referred to her as “daddy’s little girl”. It’d been Cutter. Harry had had suspicions her father had been sexually abusing her. He’d been wrong. He’d misjudged Patrick Dolan. Cutter had groomed the girl from the very start. If she wasn’t a drug addict when she’d first met him, she certainly would be by now.
‘Was it the Russians?’ asked Harry.
‘Russians, Albanians, Poles... fucked if I know, and fucked if I care.’
Harry looked up and over the head of the seated Cutter. He saw his own reflection in the darkened glass of the French doors. He sighed heavily. He wasn’t going to get anything of use out of Cutter. Harry had known in his heart that this visit would be futile. He could beat Cutter to within an inch of his life, but he wouldn’t tell Harry what he wanted to know. Cutter was also a compulsive liar, so even if he did, Harry couldn’t be sure how muc
h would be true.
A sudden movement caught Harry’s attention. He looked down in time to see Cutter pull a sheathed knife from his boot, whip the knife from its scabbard, and then lunge at Harry, all in the blink of an eye.
Harry quickly back-pedalled to get out of range and give himself some space, but he backed into the timber chest, stumbling, feeling himself teeter, his arms flailing desperately as he tried to regain his balance and avoid crashing to the floor, because if he did Cutter would be on him, and he would be finished.
Cutter’s blood smeared maniacal face leered up in front of Harry as he slashed the knife across Harry’s upper body. It was a big knife with a matt black handle, and a blade so shiny the overhead light danced off it as it rose and fell, momentarily captivating Harry.
Once, twice, three times, Harry felt the knife’s impact.
He saw a look of consternation cross Cutter’s face when he realised his slashing action wasn’t penetrating the thick reinforced leather. This was the reason Harry was wearing the motorcycle jacket: to give him an element of protection from Cutter’s knife skills - certainly not as a fashion statement.
Having managed to regain his balance, and avoid falling over the chest, Harry, who was still holding the motorcycle helmet in his left hand, now used it as a weapon, to swing it in an arc towards Cutter’s head. But Cutter saw it coming, and skipped out of the way. But not before changing his knife action from slashing to stabbing.
At first, Harry thought he’d just been punched in the arm, seconds later, came the searing hot pain.
Cutter howled with laughter at the look of agony on Harry’s face. Harry fought the urge to look down and check the damage. Taking his eyes off Cutter once was stupid; twice would be fatal.
Harry warily watched Cutter, who was balanced on the balls of his feet, legs braced, weaving the knife back and forth; hunched, poised, and ready to strike. Fully recovered. Fully composed.
Harry, on the other hand, was bleeding badly. He could feel the blood running down his arm, dripping from the ends of his fingertips. This carpet is going to be in hell of a mess, he thought.
As the blood slowly drained from Harry’s body, so did his energy levels. He felt tired, so, so tired. He felt dead on his feet - and dead was exactly what he would be if he didn’t end this, and end it soon.
‘I’ve gotta say, Wayne, I’m surprised.’
‘About what?’ replied Cutter.
‘Why a girl like Mollie, would be interested in a low-life scum like you.’
The leering grin on Cutter’s face, disappeared in a flash.
‘I’m guessing you spiked her drinks the first time you met her, and then you introduced her to drugs. Because there is no way an attractive woman like Mollie Dolan would want to have sex with a rancid little turd like you.’
Harry could see he’d hit the mark.
‘We’re not all God’s gift to women, Harry. Some of us have to work at it. Use what means we have.’
‘I’m guessing it was you who went to Mollie’s flat and packed an overnight bag for her.’
‘That was me. So what? A girl has to have clean underwear before going off on her hols to Albania, eh?’
Harry was trying to wind Cutter up, to get him angry enough to make a rash move. But he wasn’t falling for it. ‘Do you know how I found you, Wayne? I made a visit to your good friend, Tricky Dicky.’
‘How is dear Richard?’ asked Cutter, without the slightest trace of interest or sincerity.
‘Toasty,’ replied Harry, to which Cutter frowned. ‘He was very talkative. Apart from telling me where you lived, he told me about your passion for young flesh. Both female and male.’
‘We all got our vices, Harry. Our secret pleasures. And I know what you’re trying to do. I know you’re trying to wind-me-up to make a mistake. But it ain’t going to happen,’ he said, the knife weaving, mesmerisingly back and forth. ‘There are skeletons in your closet too, Harry, whether you know it or not. And let’s not forget your stay ‘at Her Majesty’s pleasure’, for drug dealing.’
‘That’s common knowledge,’ replied Harry, ‘and I was innocent. I was fitted-up.’
‘Correct on both counts, Harry. Correct!’
This time it was Harry’s turn to frown. ‘You know who framed me?’
Cutter grinned. ‘The answer to that, matey, is closer to home than you think.’
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
‘Family secrets, Harry, family secrets,’ taunted Cutter.
Harry’s mind raced back to the conversation he’d had with the old man the day before. Had the old man told Cutter his secret?
‘Did you know, Harry, your dear departed mother, Lillian, the lovely Lillian - I bet she was a ‘looker’ in her day, hey Harry? Did you know, the woman you adored and worshipped was friends with Solomon? That they were good friends? I mean really good friends?’
Anger sparked in Harry’s eyes, his nostrils flared, and the muscles in his jaw clenched.
‘Some people would say she was his mistress.’
Harry felt the rage sweep through him like a tsunami, washing away the fatigue and the pain.
‘Personally,’ said Cutter, grinning, knowing he’d hit the mark, ‘I think she should be described for what she was - the Jew’s whore!’
The words were barely out of his mouth when Harry threw the motorcycle helmet at him. Cutter raised his arms quickly enough to deflect the helmet, but in doing so, took his eyes off Harry. Harry launched himself forward, executing a skip-in side kick, his knee snapping up to waist height, before then shooting his leg out horizontally, his foot landing square in the centre of Cutter’s chest. Two hundred pounds of muscle and momentum lifted Cutter off his feet, propelling him backwards, to crash through the French doors, and over the balcony to the street below.
Izzy’s fingers drummed irritably on the armrest of the car door; her foot tapped a similar beat. Her gaze flicked from the surrounding commuter traffic, up to the light in the first-floor flat. From her position she was unable to see if anything was happening, so she waited. And she waited. Why was she waiting? She didn’t know. What she did know, was that she was annoyed. How dare Harry talk to her like that!
‘Sod this for a game of soldiers,’ she said, yanking on the door handle and throwing open the door, almost taking-out a pedestrian as she did so. She stepped out of the car, briefly apologised to the pedestrian, and then weaved her way through the traffic towards her car, glancing up at the flat as she went. Still no sign of activity. She pulled her coat tighter against the rain and increasing wind. She was going home, she decided: home to a hot scented bath, and a large glass of chilled Pinot Grigio.
She paused in the middle of the road, waiting for a break in the traffic, before crossing the remaining short distance to her car. She was about to step out when she heard the unmistakeable sound of breaking glass. Her head jerked upwards in time to see a dark shape coming over the balcony of the first-floor flat. The shape hurtled towards the ground, only to hit the roof of a soft-top car with a resounding thump, the car’s fabric covered metal structure then imploding under the body’s weight, closely followed by the side windows exploding outwards.
A strangled scream of surprise escaped Izzy’s mouth, which then turned into a scream of dismay when she realised the car in question was hers. Other than a protruding arm and leg, the body wasn’t visible. She noted the wing mirror and duct tape were still in place.
She looked up. In the shattered doorway, framed by the bright light of the flat, stood a tall dark figure who appeared to be looking down to the street below. The strong backlight made it difficult to see his facial features, but she recognised Harry’s posture. And, if she wasn’t mistaken, he was smiling.
CHAPTER 26
It was early Tuesday morning, and Steve was back at work. He stared dejectedly at the pile of new case files that appeared to have been unceremoniously dumped on his desk for his attention.
His long weekend had turned o
ut to be as uninspiring - though somewhat enjoyable - as he’d anticipated. He’d spent a large part of it in the garden, cleaned the house from top to bottom, and had even attempted some DIY - though with disastrous results. But by Monday evening, with the prospect of returning to work the following day, the good feeling had slowly disappeared, only to be replaced by a feeling of gloom, which had turned into despondency by the time he’d got up that morning. He briefly pondered the idea of asking his doctor to increase the strength of his medication, but then dismissed the idea almost immediately. That would not solve the root cause of his problem: he hated his job - Christ, he hated his life, if he were honest with himself.
On entering the station earlier, the Desk Sergeant had given him a handful of paper telephone messages, all from the same person - the female reporter for the North London Gazette - asking Steve to call her as a matter of urgency. Past experience of this reporter told him it was unlikely to be anything urgent, but more likely to require Steve’s time and probably information. He put the slips to one side to deal with later. He turned his attention to the first three case files on his desk. All three had a Post-it note stuck to the front cover. One read, “Important!”, the second, “Not so important!”, and the third, “Don’t-waste-too-much-bloody-time-on-this!!!”. All care of his beloved D.I., and his truly amazing communication skills.
